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vingtetunmars · 2 days ago

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Hot Off the Press

Pairing: Johnny Storm X F!Reader

Summary: You were just supposed to cover the press conference. Write a clean, professional piece. Get in, get the quote, and definitely not fall for the city’s most flammable superhero.

You swore you were the one woman in New York who wouldn’t fall for the Human Torch.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Tags: Fluff, witty banter, “I Swore I Wouldn’t Fall For Him”, Johnny is a loverboy at heart, she doesn't know he had her at first interaction, getting together, no spoilers for FF:FS. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: I'm back!! And as expected Johnathan Lowell Spencer Storm has infiltrated my head and living in it rent free. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 10.7k

masterlist

The cameras clicked like cicadas on a summer night, all chirping in rhythm to catch the perfect angle of the Fantastic Four. You stood near the back of the Baxter Building’s press room, notebook in hand, heels clicking softly against the polished floor as you edged closer.

This was your first time covering them — the Fantastic Four. Three years into their rise, and still, they looked like they’d stepped out of a comic strip and into technicolor reality. The press called them explorers, heroes, geniuses. You called them your assignment.

Reed Richards, ever the picture of precise intellect, adjusted the microphone like he was recalibrating a telescope. Beside him, Susan Storm stood poised in light blue, all calm and practiced charm. Ben Grimm, rock-skinned and stone-faced, gave the occasional grunt that counted as a full sentence in his world. And then — of course — there was him.

Johnny Storm leaned back, with his arms crossed. He didn’t even blink. He looked like he belonged in the sky — or maybe just on the front cover of a magazine. Probably both.

You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself.

“Thank you all for being here,” Reed began, his voice clipped and professional. “We’re happy to report that the Mad Thinker has been officially turned over to the authorities, along with his robotic enforcers and classified tech. As of 0600 hours this morning, he is in custody.”

A round of polite applause followed, tinged with the kind of awe that only came with the phrase “Mad Thinker neutralized.”

You took notes. Clean, detached. That was your job. You weren’t here to fawn or flirt or feed the fandom. You were here to write a clean feature for The Daily Observer. One that made your editor forget that this was your first major assignment. One that didn’t give the Human Torch a single ounce of the attention he so obviously craved.

Except, when it was time for questions, and Johnny finally leaned forward to speak, your pen hesitated mid-stroke.

"Guess he didn't think that far ahead," Johnny said with a smirk, referring to the Mad Thinker. A few reporters laughed. His smile deepened — satisfied, but not smug. “Not even his big brain could predict the Human Torch flying through his security grid at Mach 2.”

You didn’t laugh. But your eyes flicked up, just for a second.

And he caught you.

His gaze landed on yours like sunlight through a magnifying glass — warm, focused, too sharp for comfort. He cocked his head slightly, curious. Amused. Like he already knew you didn’t like him, and he found it funny.

Your spine straightened. You looked down, scribbled something unimportant, and didn’t look up again.

Not even when he said, “We’ve got time for one more question,” and Reed nodded.

Not even when he added, “Let’s hear from the new face in the back.”

You froze.

Oh, you hated him already.

You lowered your notebook slowly. The entire room turned toward you, the chorus of murmurs dying into anticipation. Damn him.

You cleared your throat, standing straighter. “Johnny Storm,” you began, deliberately skipping the title, “your maneuver through the Mad Thinker’s drone grid — you mentioned flying through it at Mach 2. Given the adaptive AI those drones are equipped with, what was your contingency plan if the AI recalibrated mid-flight and blocked your exit trajectory?”

Silence.

It hung in the air like static — thick and heavy with implication.

Johnny blinked once.

Then leaned into the mic.

“Well,” he drawled, grinning, “I figured if it came to that, I’d just punch through the wall and make my own exit. Y’know, big flamey boom — very cinematic.”

A few people chuckled. You didn’t.

Reed, however, stepped in without missing a beat. “To clarify — the team ran multiple simulations prior to Johnny’s entry. I programmed a counter-scrambler pulse that temporarily blinded the AI’s recalibration process. It wasn’t just a brute force plan. Johnny was operating with full sensor override and two automated failsafe routes if the main trajectory failed.”

You nodded, polite. “Thank you, Doctor Richards. But the question was for Mr. Storm.”

Reed hesitated — just long enough for you to feel the ripple of surprise move through the room. Then he nodded once, stepping back from the mic.

Johnny leaned forward again, that lopsided grin creeping back onto his face like it lived there.

“Well,” he said, voice lower now, just for you, “guess I gotta brush up on my tech lingo if I wanna impress the press.”

“You could start with not dodging questions,” you replied, just loud enough for him to hear.

The smallest twitch touched the corner of his mouth. Not offense. Not irritation. Just interest. Huh.

“Duly noted…?” He dragged the word out like an invitation.

You flipped your notebook shut. “You’ll read it in the byline.”

And with that, you sat back down.

You didn’t see him watch you as the next question was called — but you felt it. Like heat from a fire you weren’t supposed to enjoy.

The morning after the press conference, the Baxter Building’s kitchen smelled like burnt toast. Johnny lounged in the living room, flipping through the day’s stack of papers.

Reed was already dissecting a gravity anomaly from the upper stratosphere, Sue was reviewing her own quotes with the cool detachment of someone used to headlines, and Ben was elbow-deep in a bowl of protein-enhanced cereal. Johnny skimmed until his name popped out.

“Fantastic Four Thwart Thinker’s Terror Once Again!”

One paper described Reed’s leadership as “flawlessly calculated.” Another hailed Sue as “a vision of grace and tactical finesse.” Even Ben got a glowing paragraph about “raw strength tempered with loyalty and control.”

Then came his part.

Johnny’s jaw moved a little slower as he read.

“—while Johnny Storm, ever the Human Torch in name and temperament, played his usual role of chaotic spectacle. Though undeniably brave, one wonders how much longer recklessness can be mistaken for confidence.”

He blinked. Re-read it. His chewing stopped altogether.

“Hey, Stretch,” he said, lifting the paper and squinting at the byline, “you remember that new reporter? The one with the notebook and the spine made of steel?”

Reed didn’t look up. “Hmm? The one who cornered you about the AI drones?”

“Yeah. She wrote this.”

Ben grunted without looking. “What, she get your flame-retardant undies in a twist?”

Johnny folded the paper and tossed it onto the counter. “Just funny how I save the day in a ball of fire, and all I get is ‘reckless spectacle.’”

Sue took a sip of her coffee. “Maybe she’s not wrong.”

He turned. “Et tu, sis?”

She shrugged. “She didn’t say you weren’t brave. She just said you’re the kind of brave that forgets plans exist.”

“She called me a ‘spectacle.’ That’s basically ‘show pony’ in journalist speak.”

Reed finally looked up, adjusting his glasses. “She also made you sound like you belong in a pulp serial. That kind of language sells papers.”

“Thanks, that really soothes my ego.”

But he wasn’t angry.

If anything, he was... annoyed that it got under his skin at all.

He'd been flamed before, literally and figuratively. But something about the way she wrote it — so clean, so sharp, like she wasn’t trying to insult him… just calling him out — it stuck.

Johnny leaned back, arms folded behind his head.

“All right,” he muttered to himself, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “game on, byline.”

The Daily Observer newsroom buzzed with the usual mid-morning chaos — the clack of typewriters, hum of fax machines, and cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling like it had deadlines of its own. Reporters darted between desks, arguing over column space or chasing coffee that tasted like burnt despair. Your desk was tucked near the back, wedged between the city beat editor and a storage closet that had mysteriously started leaking toner last week.

You were rereading your latest draft when a shadow fell across your notes.

You didn’t even need to look up.

The air smelled faintly of fire.

You sighed, set your pen down, and slowly lifted your gaze.

Johnny Storm stood there — in the middle of the bullpen — like he hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den with zero clearance and a ridiculous amount of self-confidence. Dressed in a bomber jacket and aviators pushed up into his hair, he looked more like someone on his way to a photoshoot than a surprise visit to a newsroom.

He gave you a smile that probably melted at least three interns behind him. “Hey.”

You stared at him for a long beat.

Then: “You’ve never had PR training, have you?”

He blinked. “Wow. Not even a good morning?”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing slowly. “You think walking straight into the bullpen of the city’s most stubborn newspaper — unannounced, by the way — is the best idea to change my opinion of you?”

“Maybe not best, but I’d say boldness counts for something.”

You tilted your head. “So does common sense.”

His grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of hesitation behind it now. Just a second. Just enough to tell you that he didn’t come here only to be charming — he actually cared about what you wrote. That stuck with you more than it should have.

“I just figured,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice so only you could hear, “since you already called me a reckless spectacle in print, maybe I should live up to the part.”

“You know that wasn’t personal, right?” you replied, quiet and cool. “That was professional observation.”

“And here I thought journalists were supposed to be unbiased.”

“I am.” You pointed to the article. “You think I wrote that to get under your skin?”

“Mission accomplished,” he said, with a smirk.

You studied him — really studied him this time. The golden-boy posture was still there, but something else simmered underneath. Less flame, more... frustration? Not anger. Not arrogance. Something genuine.

“Sit,” you said, motioning to the empty chair across from you. “If you’re going to try to argue your way into a rewrite, you’ll need better lines.”

He looked surprised for a second. Then he pulled out the chair and sat down like it was a negotiation table at the Future Foundation.

You picked up your pen again, tapping the end against your notepad.

“Start talking, Torch.”

He sat down like he’d just won something. Legs spread, arm slung casually over the back of the chair — like he didn’t just march into a den of cynical columnists with a mission taped to his chest.

You raised a brow. “So. Talk.”

Johnny opened his mouth… then closed it again.

You watched him falter, just slightly, like the words weren’t lining up the way he rehearsed them. The bravado dimmed by a notch, the way a flame might lower when the wind shifts.

“I guess I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, expression almost sheepish. “I thought maybe you misunderstood me.”

“I quoted you exactly.”

“Right, no, I mean—not the words. Just… what they meant.” He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice. “I’m not trying to be some reckless hothead out there.”

You didn’t say anything. Let the silence stretch.

He looked down at your notebook, like maybe it would help him organize the jumble in his brain.

“You write like someone who actually thinks before they speak,” he said. “And the way you wrote about the others — you got them. Sue’s calm. Reed’s brain. Ben’s grit. It was… fair. It was real.”

You tilted your head. “And you didn’t feel represented?”

He hesitated again.

“I didn’t feel seen.”

That surprised you. Not because it was dramatic — but because it wasn’t. There was no fire in his voice. No defensive snap. Just quiet truth. Like he was finally saying something he didn’t let out often.

You watched him carefully. “So you came here to… what? Change my mind? Charm me into writing a nicer paragraph next time?”

He met your eyes. “No. I came because I don’t want to be a punchline in the press just because I don’t talk like a science textbook.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

“Maybe stop acting like one, then.”

That made him laugh — a real laugh. Not the smug kind from press conferences or photo ops. This one was low, quick, and caught him off guard.

“I walked right into that,” he said.

You finally leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen once more before setting it down.

“I’ll say this,” you murmured, voice softer now, “you care more than you let on.”

Johnny looked at you — just looked — and for once didn’t smile. He just nodded.

“I care about the mission. I care about the team. And yeah,” he added, eyes flicking to your notepad again, “I care about how we’re remembered.”

You sat with that for a moment. Then picked up your pen.

“I’m not rewriting the article,” you said flatly.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“But…” You met his gaze again. “If you’re really not the guy I described, then prove it next time you’re out there. Show me something I have to write about.”

He stood, slower this time. “You got it, Byline.”

“And for the record,” you added as he turned to go, “you’re lucky none of the editors saw you walk in. A man literally on fire would’ve caused less panic.”

He grinned, one foot already backing toward the hallway. “Then I’ll save the fire for next time.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time… you were smiling too.

The streets still smelled like scorched pavement and ionized air.

Broken glass glittered on the sidewalks, cordoned off by bright orange pylons and the occasional floating police drone buzzing around like oversized flies. The Red Ghost had made a mess of Midtown with his intangible tricks and hyper-intelligent apes — again. But the Fantastic Four had driven him off before anyone was seriously hurt.

Now the smoke was clearing, the crowd was thinning, and your notebook was nearly full.

You were crouched beside a frazzled street vendor whose hot dog cart had been overturned by an invisible monkey. She spoke with a tremble in her voice but kept glancing down at her half-burnt umbrella like she wasn’t sure what to be more upset about.

You nodded, murmured something comforting, and jotted down the last of the quotes. Then you stood, brushing soot from your pants and squinting up through the haze.

That was when you felt the heat before you saw him.

“Careful,” a familiar voice called above you. “Your shoes are standing in the middle of a melted bike rack crime scene.”

You turned slowly, not surprised in the slightest to see Johnny Storm hovering just a few feet above the street, his body still faintly glowing with post-battle embers. He landed with a soft thud beside you, steam curling from his shoulders like breath on a winter day.

You stared at him.

He grinned.

“Hey, Byline.”

You raised a brow. “Are you gonna keep calling me that?”

“Only when you’re working,” he said, brushing soot from the sleeve of his uniform. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here this fast.”

“I’m a journalist. You lot punch holes in buildings, I show up to document it.”

“Fair.” He looked around at the half-destroyed plaza, then back at you. “So… I was thinking. If you’re not too busy cataloguing melted lampposts, maybe you could do something different.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Different how?”

He gave a small shrug, more casual than cocky. “Interview me.”

You blinked. “You’re asking me to interview you?”

“I figured I owe you one good headline before you make me the villain in another paragraph,” he said with a half-smile. “Besides, Reed’s great, Sue’s diplomatic, and Ben’s Ben. I’ve got stuff to say, too. Might as well say it to someone who doesn’t let me off the hook.”

You studied him for a moment, then flipped open your notebook to a fresh page.

“All right,” you said, uncapping your pen. “What are the team’s plans on catching the Red Ghost? Or are you just going to wait around until he crashes another brunch hour?”

Johnny’s posture shifted, just slightly. Straighter. Focused. His grin faded — not into a scowl, but something serious. Intent.

“We’re triangulating the residual energy signatures from the primate phasing tech,” he said. “Sue’s helping Reed map out a possible pattern in the Red Ghost’s movement based on his prior attacks. It’s not random — he’s testing different types of tech defenses, seeing what reacts to his phase modulation. He’s not just stealing — he’s scouting.”

You blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone. It wasn’t over-explained, but it was technical. Clear. Strategic.

“So this wasn’t a one-off.”

“No,” Johnny said, meeting your gaze. “He’s escalating. And next time, we won’t just be reacting. We’ll be ready.”

You stared at him a beat longer than you meant to, then jotted the words down — slower this time.

“Well,” you said, a touch more genuine than you’d planned, “you obviously came prepared.”

He gave a crooked smile, but didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence settle.

Then: “Told you I wasn’t all spectacle.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “One quote won’t change my mind overnight.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep giving you better ones.”

Then, casually — too casually — he said, “Maybe… we could talk more. Over some coffee?”

You looked up at him. Not sharply. Not cruelly. Just… professionally.

“No.”

And just like that, the moment cracked.

He blinked once, fast, and straightened a little like he’d been bracing for impact. There it was — the end of the attempt, the polite rejection. You could see it settle behind his eyes.

But before he could nod, turn it into a joke, or retreat behind the easy charm—

“Maybe ask me,” you said, sliding your pen behind your ear, “while I’m not at work.”

His head tilted slightly. Brows lifted.

The faintest flicker of a smile returned, slower this time. A little stunned. A little boyish. Like the fire hadn’t gone out, just dimmed long enough to make room for surprise.

“Oh,” he said. “Right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of boundaries, haven’t you, Storm?”

“Vaguely,” he said. “I’m trying this new thing where I respect them.”

You hummed, not fully smiling — but not hiding the twitch at the corner of your mouth either. “Let me know how that goes.”

He took a step backward, hovering just an inch off the ground now, arms crossed like he was resisting the urge to take a victory lap.

“I’ll see you around,” he said, warmth curling into his voice.

“Not if I see you first.”

He laughed — short and surprised — before blasting off into the sky, a streak of orange light burning through the last of the smog.

The city hummed in low light as the workday dissolved into evening. Neon signs flickered to life, casting their glow on chrome bumpers and damp sidewalks. The Daily Observer office emptied out one tired body at a time, heels clicking and shoulders loosening under trench coats and rolled-up sleeves.

You stepped out the glass doors with your bag slung over one shoulder, rubbing the back of your neck as you finally — finally — clocked off.

And there he was.

Johnny Storm, leaning against a deep blue Pontiac GTO parked just outside the building like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread. The headlights were off, the street quiet. He wore a bomber jacket over a white tee, no flame in sight — just a casual confidence, hands in his pockets and a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

You stopped on the last step and stared at him.

“You’re really persistent, aren’t you?”

Johnny pushed off the car with a shrug that was almost bashful — almost. “I waited until you were off the clock, didn’t I?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s dangerously close to ‘stalking.’”

“I prefer the term ‘timed entrance,’” he said. “And before you accuse me of another headline-worthy stunt — this isn’t an ambush. It’s an invitation.”

“To what?”

He nodded toward the passenger door. “Coffee. Conversation. Possibly a slice of pie so good it makes you rethink your whole evening.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You drive around with a backup pie plan?”

“Wouldn’t you, if you were trying to win over someone who called you a cocky spectacle in print?”

You exhaled through a quiet laugh, surprised even at yourself. The part that would’ve bristled, retreated, shut the whole thing down — it didn’t speak up this time. Instead, you glanced at the car, then back at him.

This was definitely a date.

And surprisingly, you didn’t mind.

You stepped forward and opened the passenger-side door. “Just so you know,” you said as you slid into the seat, “if the pie is bad, I’m writing a review.”

Johnny grinned as he rounded the front of the car and climbed in. “That’s fair. But you’ll probably be too impressed to hold a grudge.”

You shot him a look as he started the engine. “Don’t push it, Storm.”

He just chuckled, the engine rumbling to life beneath the neon skyline, and pulled away from the curb like he had all the time in the world.

The diner Johnny picked wasn’t flashy. It sat tucked between a laundromat and a 24-hour flower shop, its windows fogged just enough to make the neon signs outside blur like watercolor. Inside, it smelled like coffee, butter, and cinnamon — a place where time moved slower. A place you didn’t expect Johnny Storm to know about.

You slid into the booth across from him, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a joke or some bet he’d made with Ben Grimm. But then the waitress came over, already knowing his order. You raised a brow at him.

He just shrugged. “Told you. Great pie.”

The first few minutes were casual — light teasing, a few too many glances at the menu you weren’t actually reading. Then your reporter instincts kicked in.

“So,” you said, leaning forward a little, “why hero work? Out of all the paths someone could take after getting hit with cosmic radiation—”

Johnny cut you off with a grin. “Hold up. Nope. Not tonight.”

“What?”

“I’m not letting you interview me,” he said, pointing his fork at you. “You do that with everyone else. I wanna flip it this time.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “You wanna ask me questions?”

“Exactly.” His smile softened. “I mean… if that’s okay.”

You blinked, surprised. “Fine.”

He took a sip of his coffee like he was preparing for something important. Then:

“Where are you from?”

You blinked again, not expecting such a normal question. “Syracuse.”

He nodded like he’d guessed right. “Upstate. Cold winters, right?”

“Brutal,” you said with a slight smile. “Scraped ice off windshields half my life.”

Johnny laughed softly. “Okay. And what’d you study?”

“Journalism. Minored in international studies.” You glanced at your pie, cutting it slowly. “I thought I wanted to be a foreign correspondent. Cover wars, revolutions... real stories.”

“Is that why you became a journalist?”

You hesitated. It was rare someone asked that and actually wanted to hear the answer.

“Sort of,” you said. “I guess I liked the idea that people could read something and understand the world differently. That I could help make sense of the chaos, even a little. Shine a light on things people didn’t want to look at.”

Johnny watched you closely. Not in that performative, flirty way he had in front of cameras. It was quieter now — like he’d turned something off and let something else show through.

“That makes sense,” he said. “You’ve got that kind of presence.”

You smirked. “What kind?”

“The kind that gets people to talk. Even when they weren’t planning to.”

The conversation had drifted to music by the time his watch beeped.

It wasn’t loud, just a sharp beep-beep that cut through the low hum of the diner. Johnny glanced at it with a sigh, and just like that, you saw his posture shift. He was still sitting in front of you, but something behind his eyes had already left.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“You have to go,” you finished for him, not even mad—just… mildly surprised. “Right. Saving the world and all that.”

He looked sheepish, standing up, pulling out his wallet to toss a few bills on the table. “I really didn’t want to leave. Not now. This was—” he paused, then grinned. “Fun.”

You tilted your head, fingers tapping the side of your coffee mug. “Is this gonna be a pattern?”

You didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But his smile turned lopsided, cocky in that infuriatingly charming way.

“So there’s gonna be a next time?”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s not what I said.”

“Didn’t have to.” He took a step back, right before pushing out the door. “I’ll make it up to you, Syracuse.”

You shook your head, watching him flame on in front of the diner and fly away with style.

You didn’t know what surprised you more — that he had to leave… or that you kind of hoped there would be a next time.

You were halfway through transcribing your notes from a city council hearing when a voice called out from just beyond your cubicle wall.

“Someone’s got fancy mail today,” the mail guy sang, leaning over the divider with a mischievous grin. “Baxter Building, huh? You got friends in high places or something?”

You blinked, reaching for the envelope he held out. Thick, expensive stock. BAXTER printed in bold navy lettering at the top.

“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath.

“Is this what happens when you write about superheroes? They write back?” he teased, laughing as he walked away.

You tore it open. Inside was a folded card—of course it was glossy, and of course there was fire-printed trim on the edges. Typical.

Lunch? Saturday? Baxter Building. Noon. Dress code: Something pretty.

– J

You scoffed. But your lips tugged into a smile before you could stop them.

It was so Johnny.

Ridiculous. Dramatic. Bold.

…Charming.

You tucked the note into your drawer before anyone could sneak a peek, and returned to your typewriter, trying to remember what the deputy mayor said about parking enforcement while your brain was already halfway to Saturday.

The Baxter Building loomed as impossibly tall and sleek as she remembered—though it felt different this time, somehow. Less like the intimidating center of scientific innovation and more like… a place she was invited to.

You approached the security desk, where a man in a dark suit stood behind a glass panel. He looked up, not unkindly.

“Can I help you?”

You held up the invitation. “I—uh. I have an appointment. With the Human Torch.”

He arched a brow, then glanced at the envelope in your hand. The moment he saw BAXTER in bold font and the ridiculous fire-themed trim of the invitation, something flickered in his expression. Recognition. Amusement, maybe.

“Name?”

You gave it. He checked his screen, nodded.

“You’re on the list. Elevator to your right. It'll take you straight to the top level. Enjoy your… lunch.”

The pause was deliberate. You didn’t blame him.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

As you stepped into the elevator, the doors closing around you, you took a breath and tried not to think about the fact that you were on your way to have lunch—with Johnny Storm.

Not an interview. Not a headline.

Just… lunch.

And maybe that was what made your pulse skip a little.

You stepped into the living quarters, still holding onto the last remnants of skepticism—because no way Johnny Storm had actually cooked anything himself.

But there he was.

Dressed in a now-spotted white shirt, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel hanging off one shoulder like he was hosting a cooking segment instead of whatever this chaos was. The smell hit you first—something tomato-based, maybe? It wasn’t awful, just... suspicious. A sleek robot you recognized from news clips—HERBIE—stood beside him, handing over utensils with mechanical grace.

Johnny turned when he heard your footsteps. His face lit up immediately, a little too brightly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You’re early!” he said, then caught himself. “I mean—you’re right on time. Totally on time. I just thought I had, like, five more minutes to make this less of a disaster.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms folding across your chest as you took in the scene—the splatter on the stovetop, the open container of sauce, the cutting board with... were those strawberries?

“You call this cooking?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, Ben’s usually the one who handles the food part. But I thought I’d try.”

HERBIE beeped and rolled over to you, offering a glass of water. You accepted it without breaking eye contact with Johnny.

“At least someone here knows what they’re doing,” you muttered.

Johnny put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Herbert’s just following my lead, thank you very much.”

HERBIE beeped again—this time, with a tone that sounded oddly like an apology.

You bit back a smile. This was already ridiculous.

He finally declared the meal done—with an exaggerated “Ta-da!” and a proud look at his slightly overcooked but still recognizable pasta dish. Then he pointed at his stained shirt, muttered something about “presentation,” and jogged upstairs to change, leaving you alone in the sleek Baxter kitchen with HERBIE watching over the food like a judgmental sous-chef.

You leaned against the counter, eyeing the plates. The food didn’t smell bad, but you weren’t getting your hopes up. Still, the thought of Johnny Storm actually making you lunch—not catered, not restaurant takeout, but his own clumsy, messy attempt—made something flutter in your chest. You pushed it down.

He came back ten minutes later in a clean tee that hugged him in ways that felt a little unfair for lunchtime. He moved like he hadn’t just nearly set the place on fire twenty minutes ago, sliding into the seat across from you like this was just a regular Saturday. Maybe it was.

You took your first bite, preparing yourself for the worst.

It was... edible.

Actually, kind of decent.

You blinked at him across the table. “Wait—this isn’t terrible.”

Johnny grinned, leaning forward like he’d just won a bet. “High praise. I’ll take it.”

“Did HERBIE actually cook it while you stood nearby and took credit?”

He put a hand to his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.”

You both laughed. It came easy. Effortless.

The conversation flowed just like it had at the gala. He asked about your week, what stories you were working on, and you asked about his latest mission—though he kept it vague. The banter was there, the teasing, the gentle nudges. It felt like another date, not that either of you had called the first one that out loud.

He never made it feel like he was showing off. Not the apartment, not his name, not the security you had to pass just to sit across from him. He just looked at you like he genuinely wanted to be here. With you.

You hadn’t expected that. But here you were.

And you weren’t rushing to leave.

Somewhere between the last few bites and your second glass of water, the conversation drifted into quieter, more thoughtful territory.

“So,” you started, poking at the last piece of garlic bread with your fork, “what was it like… the first time you went to space?”

He blinked, caught off guard—not because you asked, but because of how gently you had. You weren’t asking for the spectacle or the news headline. You really wanted to know.

And something in him shifted.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, eyes softening, mouth tugging into a quiet smile that wasn’t showy or flirtatious. Just real.

“It was… insane,” he said after a beat. “But not in the way people think.”

You tilted your head, curious.

“I mean, yeah, it was loud and chaotic. Reed was spouting numbers no one but him understood, Sue was trying to keep everyone calm, and Ben was yelling about how the thing looked like it was held together with duct tape. And maybe it was.”

He laughed a little to himself. His gaze wandered—not away from you, but somewhere just behind your shoulder, like he was watching a memory replay.

“But then we broke through,” he said. “Past the clouds. Past the blue. And it just… opened.”

He gestured vaguely with his hands, like he was trying to shape the size of the universe.

“It was the quiet that hit me. The kind of silence you can’t even describe. And the stars—they weren’t twinkling or cute or whatever. They were alive. Like watching a fire that never went out. There were so many of them, and I felt like I was just… nothing. A spark. A breath.”

You stared at him, almost forgetting to blink.

“I’ve never felt so small in my life,” he continued. “And I loved it. That kind of smallness—it humbles you. And then…” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Then we got hit with cosmic rays and everything changed. But that moment—that first break into space—that still lives in my chest.”

His voice had softened by the end. He looked at you again and found you watching him with quiet awe.

You’d seen Johnny Storm smirk and pose for cameras. You’d seen him flirt and laugh and play up his reputation.

But this—this was the fire.

And it had nothing to do with his powers.

After lunch—surprisingly edible, despite your doubts—Johnny wiped his hands on a towel, told HERBIE to “clean up,” then he offered his arm dramatically and said, “Madam Journalist, would you care for the grand tour?”

You tried not to smile, but didn’t stop yourself from accepting.

He led you into the common room first—the one you’d seen in pictures but never expected to step foot in. The sunken lounge area was a cozy crater of plush teal seating, curved like a spaceship’s command deck. A fireplace on the center, doubling as a TV console. The tables were sleek white, dotted with forgotten magazines and half-eaten snacks. The walls arched in warm wood panels that made everything feel strangely futuristic and homey.

Johnny jumped over the back of the couch to land beside one of the yellow stools, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “This is where Ben and I fight over the TV and Sue pretends not to be watching.”

Then it was the lab—less cozy, more “ANSA meets mad scientist.” He showed off a few gadgets he claimed to have helped build, tossing around science terms like he actually knew what they meant, you suspected he did, but exaggerated for flair. He hovered near buttons he didn’t press and screens that blinked codes you couldn’t read.

When you raised a brow at one of his particularly grand gestures—something about a neutrino stabilizer—he caught it.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me like that,” he teased, nudging your arm as you walked. “You know I’m impressive.”

You rolled them anyway. But it came with a quiet little smile.

Eventually, the tour wound back to the elevator near the front. You checked your watch, sighing. Time to go.

“Thanks for today,” you said as you stopped at the elevator, bag slung over your shoulder.

He leaned on the frame beside you, arms crossed casually, looking every bit the boyish hero with too much charm for his own good. “Anytime. Seriously. I mean that.”

You nodded, reaching for the elevator button. Then—impulsively—you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Just a soft touch, a flash of warmth.

By the time he turned toward you in surprise, you were already stepping into the elevator, calm as ever.

“See you around, Storm,” you said as the doors started to close.

He stood there stunned, his hand drifting up to where you’d kissed him, the faintest smile blooming on his face like it couldn’t help itself.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “See you.”

With every date, the walls came down.

Not all at once, of course. You still rolled your eyes when he got too smug, still shot down his more ridiculous one-liners with a well-placed look. But the lines between professional skepticism and personal affection blurred a little more each time.

Eventually, you exchanged telephone numbers. Written on the back of a matchbook you kept in your purse, and his scrawled on a napkin that lived pinned to your corkboard.

You told yourself you were just getting to know him better.

You told yourself someone needed to stay objective around all that fire.

You told yourself you were the only woman in the city who wouldn’t fall for Johnny Storm’s charm.

Oh, how wrong you were.

You got spotted together a handful of times. First, coming out of a downtown restaurant, laughing at something he said. Then again in the park, sharing a hot dog under the early autumn sun. And then at a late-night movie, when he tried to wear a hat and sunglasses as if that would stop anyone from recognizing him.

The headlines started coming fast after that.

“The Human Torch’s New Flame?”

“Johnny’s Got a Girl—But Who Is She?”

“Blazing Romance!”

Your name appeared in fine print under photos where your face was slightly turned, or blurry, or hidden by sunglasses—but that didn’t stop it. A few gossip rags even tried to dig through your background. One misspelled your name. Another called you “plucky.” You were still mad about that one.

Your coworkers had a field day.

Every time you walked into the newsroom, at least one person would clear their throat and hold up the morning paper like it was a trophy. The whispers weren’t cruel—just amused. Wide grins. Wiggling eyebrows. A few wolf whistles when you passed the bullpen.

Even your editor joined in once, muttering, “Better make sure our fire alarms are up to date.”

You’d sigh, flick your press badge onto your desk, and mutter the same thing each time, fighting a smile.

“Mind your own business.”

Of course, that only made them laugh harder.

But in the quiet moments—when the tabloids were silent, and the crowds were gone—it was just you and Johnny.

Talking on the phone late at night, your voice low as you curled the spiral cord around your fingers. Sitting close on your couch, listening to one of his records crackle while he tried to explain how a rocket launch works in too much detail. Sneaking glances at him across diner booths, thinking about how stupidly warm he always was, like he was made to be held.

Each date stitched the two of you closer together.

You, the no-nonsense journalist. Him, the fireproof heartthrob.

And even if the whole city had their opinions, you knew the truth of it:

You hadn’t fallen for the idea of Johnny Storm.

You’d fallen for him—messy, loud, brilliant, kind.

And there was no denying it now.

You were supposed to be covering a gala.

That was the entire reason you were here—tucked into a sleek, borrowed dress, notepad and micro-recorder hidden neatly in your clutch, playing polite while industry bigwigs talked about progress and philanthropy like they weren’t drinking champagne that cost more than your monthly rent. The venue gleamed, all chrome and glass, bathed in soft light from floating chandeliers and robotic servers weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. You were halfway through mentally drafting your opener—“Progress is plated in gold and served with a smile.”—when the windows rattled.

It started with a low boom.

Then a tremor.

Then screaming.

The crowd moved like a single, terrified organism—heels clattering, glasses shattering, voices rising in chaos. Someone yelled about the Red Ghost. Someone else screamed about the apes.

And that was when you saw them.

Out past the crushed cars and fractured pavement, under the strange glow of the city’s skyline, the Red Ghost stood like a specter reborn—gaunt, furious, with that deranged spark behind his eyes. His super-powered apes crashed through structures with terrifying ease, one of them ripping a streetlight from its socket and flinging it toward the building like it weighed nothing. The gala crowd surged again, pushing toward emergency exits and shattered doors. You tried to follow, but something caught your eye—a child, maybe six or seven, crying near the base of a toppled sculpture.

You didn't hesitate.

Your heels cracked against the marble as you ran toward him. You scooped the boy up and covered his head with your hands just as another explosion ripped through the street outside. The blast knocked you clean off your feet, sending you tumbling across the floor. Marble crumbled beneath your palms. The child wailed and clung to your arm, but he was alive. You were alive.

Barely.

Smoke filled the air. Your ears rang. Somewhere above you, the ceiling groaned.

And then—

A streak of fire tore through the sky.

The building's front cracked wide open in a burst of light, and figures descended like gods. Sue’s forcefield shimmered in the dust, Ben’s voice boomed as he barreled into one of the apes, and Reed stretched across the wreckage, directing civilians to safety.

Then came Johnny.

He flew in a comet of flame, banking hard through the ruined archway, flames licking at the smoke. His expression was tight—focused—until his eyes swept across the wreckage.

And landed on you.

There was a flicker of disbelief on his face, then something sharp—panic, maybe—cutting through the bravado. He dropped the flame mid-air, landing hard in front of you. You could see the moment he registered the dust on your face, the scrape on your brow, the child clinging to your side.

“You?” he breathed, stunned. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You blinked at him through the dust, chest rising and falling.

“I was working,” you rasped, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t exactly plan for gorilla warfare.”

Johnny swore under his breath. Then he knelt beside you, his hands checking your arms, your side, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing major.”

He looked at you like that wasn’t good enough.

Another crash echoed from outside. He flinched, eyes flicking toward the chaos, then back to you.

“Stay behind the barrier,” he said, rising to his feet. “Reed’s pulling people out. I’ll be back.”

You nodded, still holding the child.

Then Johnny turned, and with a roar of flame, shot back into the smoke.

You didn't have time to process the way Johnny looked at you—not when the building groaned again, not when another blast from outside shattered the last intact window. He was gone in a flash of flame, and the child in your arms whimpered as you stumbled to your feet.

“Come on,” you whispered, voice rough as you tightened your grip. “We’re getting out of here.”

Smoke swirled in thick waves as you made your way through the ruined lobby, weaving past debris and toppled furniture. Your heels were long gone, left somewhere in the chaos, and your knees stung with every step, but adrenaline kept you moving. Emergency responders were beginning to push through from the far side—drones first, scanning for vitals, followed by medics calling out over the noise.

You passed the boy to one of them, ignoring the sting in your palms as you steadied yourself against a cracked column. You were shaken, bruised, and probably inhaling a lifetime’s worth of concrete dust—but alive.

Outside, the air was sharper, colder. The sky above the city flickered in orange and red, lit not by the neon lights of the skyline but by fire. You joined the crowd of survivors gathering at a safe distance, behind hastily raised barriers and the metallic hum of a forcefield dome deployed by ReedTech units. People clutched each other, crying, coughing, whispering in disbelief. Cameras from hover news drones blinked red as they hovered, broadcasting the chaos to every home in the city.

And there, right in front of it all, they stood.

The Fantastic Four.

Ben charged first, unstoppable in a suit that barely held together over his rocky frame. He tackled one of the apes—a massive one with cybernetic implants along its spine—sending both of them crashing through a concrete wall like it was paper.

Sue moved like light itself, her shields flaring in perfect synch with every attack. She pushed back rubble with invisible force, guided civilians to safety, protected a pair of officers pinned under a crumbling awning without breaking stride.

Reed extended high above the scene, body arcing and twisting as he flung some kind of tech device toward the Red Ghost—a trap, maybe. A pulse erupted from it, briefly flickering through the air, but the Red Ghost phased just in time, his form flickering like static. His maniacal laugh echoed across the block.

And then Johnny.

You spotted him above the others, a streak of fire trailing behind as he looped through the air, darting between attacks, drawing the apes’ attention like a comet refusing to fall. Every burst of flame from his body lit up the street like fireworks—controlled, precise, nothing like the chaotic flair you remembered from the first time you saw him in action. This wasn’t showmanship.

This was war.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

He banked hard to avoid a projectile, then scorched down the side of a building to protect a group of people still trying to flee. He shouted something to Ben—then flicked a blast of flame so fast and sharp it seared the ground in a line, forcing one of the apes to retreat.

A woman near you gasped. Someone whispered, “That’s the Human Torch,” like they were seeing him for the first time.

And for some stupid reason, your heart skipped, and you smiled.

You swallowed hard and stayed behind the barrier, watching the chaos unfold with a journalistic eye—but this time, it wasn’t just about the story.

It was about him.

And whether or not he made it out in one piece.

It last longer than you'd hope.

The Red Ghost had fallen, neutralized by one of Reed’s devices. The apes—what was left of them—were either tranquilized or subdued, dragged into containment pods that sealed with a heavy hiss. Emergency lights painted the scene in flashes of blue and red as more responders arrived, swarming the wreckage with stretchers, scanners, and press drones.

You stayed where you were, arms crossed tightly against your chest, watching the dust settle with a hollow thrum in your ears. Your dress was torn at the hem, your knees scraped, and your hair probably looked like you’d crawled through a wind tunnel. But none of that mattered.

You scanned the sky for flame.

And then you saw him.

Johnny dropped out of the air in a smooth arc, landing just beyond the emergency barrier with his suit still smoking faintly around the collar. His hair was tousled, soot streaking across his cheek, and his brow glistened with sweat. But he was upright. Whole. Breathing.

Your heart punched your ribs in relief.

He looked around—eyes darting past crowds and medics and shattered architecture—until they landed on you.

You didn’t hesitate.

You shoved past the barrier and met him halfway, the momentum pulling you forward until your arms wrapped around him, solid and warm and alive. You didn’t care that he was sweaty or scorched or smelled like smoke. Your cheek pressed against the fabric of his suit, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.

He hugged you back instantly, arms winding around your shoulders like muscle memory. “You’re okay,” he murmured, half to himself, half to you. “God, you’re okay.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him, checking for injuries, burns, bruises—anything. “Did you get hit? Broke anything important? I swear if you—”

Johnny grinned.

That maddening, familiar grin.

“You were worried about me,” he said, smug and sing-song.

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t let go of him. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You care,” he teased, voice warm and soft now. “That’s cute.”

You gave him a gentle shove, but your fingers curled back into the sleeve of his suit like they didn’t quite want to let go. “You almost got vaporized, Torch.”

“Almost is the key word,” he said, then added with a wink, “Besides, can’t die before we make it official.”

You gave him a look.

He wiggled his eyebrows.

And despite yourself—despite everything—you felt your lips twitch upward.

The office buzzed in that usual midday lull—typewriters clacking, phones ringing, someone two desks down arguing with a source who apparently “didn’t say it like that.” You sat hunched in your cubicle, half-finished coffee going cold beside your elbow as you typed out a rough draft for an exposé that had nothing to do with supervillains, collapsing buildings, or fiery superheroes.

You were almost grateful for the normalcy.

Almost.

Then a shadow loomed over your desk.

“‘A blaze of brilliance—controlled, focused, the Human Torch proved himself more than just a hothead that night.’”

You turned, already cringing a little.

Johnny Storm stood there in a leather jacket, tousled hair, and the unmistakable smirk of someone who knew they were being quoted.

Tucked under his arm: a folded copy of The Daily Observer. Your paper.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You read it fifteen times and had someone frame it already?”

“Twenty-three, actually. And I’m still waiting on the frame,” he replied, pulling the paper out with a flourish. “But really—‘a blaze of brilliance’? You’re gonna make me blush.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “I was being professional.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That was professional?”

“Yes.”

“Because it read more like someone with a slight crush.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I could’ve just called you ‘reckless’ again and left it at that.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, stepping into your cubicle like he owned the place—which, technically, he did not, but Johnny had never let small things like boundaries stop him. “You called me focused. Smart. A hero. That’s basically poetry, coming from you.”

You grabbed your coffee, took a sip, and made a face. Cold.

“I call it ‘objective reporting,’” you said.

“Right,” he said, tapping the paper. “Totally objective. Nothing at all to do with the fact that I saved a bunch of people, including you—and maybe looked insanely cool doing it.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him twitch.

Then you smirked. “You did look cool,” you admitted.

He blinked.

“Oh my God—say it again,” he said, clutching his heart like you’d just proposed.

“Don’t push your luck, Storm.”

Too late. He was beaming now, folding the paper carefully like it was a love letter. “I’m getting this laminated.”

“Great. Hang it in your bathroom.”

“I was thinking above my bed, actually.”

You rolled your eyes. “You came all the way here just to fish for compliments?”

“Nah,” he said, shrugging. “I came to ask if you’re free for dinner. But the compliments are a very nice bonus.”

You paused. Your fingers curled slightly around your mug.

“You’re asking me out. Again.”

He tilted his head. “You gonna say yes?”

You studied him—still smug, still cocky, still every bit the firestorm he’d always been—but underneath it, there was something softer in his eyes. The same look he gave you after pulling you out of rubble, after promising you he was okay.

You set your mug down.

“What time?”

The knock came at exactly six-fifteen.

You were still smoothing down the fabric of your dress, glancing one last time in the mirror, when it sounded—two sharp knocks and a pause, like he was trying to be both confident and considerate. You opened the door with a breath caught halfway in your throat.

Johnny Storm stood there in a white tee and charcoal jacket, hair slicked back just enough to pretend he hadn’t spent five minutes tousling it right after. He held a bouquet in his hands—vivid, almost comically large, all fire-colored blooms in reds, oranges, and golds.

You blinked.

He beamed. “You like them?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you rob a botanical garden on the way here?”

“They’re thematic,” he said, holding them out proudly. “Like me. On fire. But in a romantic way.”

You took them, fighting a smile as you buried your nose in the blooms. They smelled like summer evenings and warm hands. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that every time you see me.”

“Because it’s still true.”

He offered you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Your ride awaits, Byline.”

Dinner was surprisingly quiet—tucked away in a retro-style rooftop restaurant with soft jazz humming from corner speakers and skyline views so clear it looked like the city had paused just for the night. You picked at a dish you couldn’t pronounce. Johnny ordered something with way too much heat, then insisted it was “barely spicy” until he nearly choked on it.

You laughed. A lot.

And when the check came, he insisted on covering it—said it was his turn, said it like he genuinely meant it, like it wasn’t some macho gesture but just… him wanting to give you something.

Afterward, neither of you were ready for the night to end.

So you walked.

Central Park stretched quiet under the early evening stars, its pathways lit by the soft golden glow of vintage lampposts. Leaves rustled gently, and the buzz of the city felt like a distant hum.

Johnny walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, jacket open to the breeze. Every now and then, your fingers brushed as your arms swung—and each time, he didn’t pull away.

“Y’know,” he said after a few minutes, glancing sideways at you, “I think this is the longest I’ve gone on a date without being interrupted by a supervillain, a fire, or Reed needing me to hold a wrench.”

You smirked. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I won’t. But if a portal opens up and a robot army marches out, I just want it on record that I tried to have a normal night.”

You laughed—soft and real.

Then it got quiet again, but not uncomfortably so.

Just enough quiet to notice the warmth in your chest, the way your steps slowed, the way you wanted to say something before the moment passed.

You stopped near a bench, looking out toward the pond where the moonlight shimmered against the rippling water. He stopped beside you.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Johnny looked at you, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Yeah?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a sigh, you said, “I didn’t think this would happen.”

His brow creased. “Dinner?”

You gave him a look. “This. Us. You.”

Johnny tilted his head, curious but quiet.

“I thought I had you figured out,” you continued, voice low. “Thought you were just ego and fire and headlines. I told myself I wasn’t gonna be the type to fall for that. For you.”

He was silent, eyes fixed on you now.

“And I don’t know how it happened,” you added. “But… I really like you, Johnny.”

Your words hung in the air—bare, brave, and terrifying.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

He took one hand out of his pocket, stepped closer, and said, so quietly it made your heart stutter, “Good. Because I’ve liked you since the moment you called me reckless in front of a hundred reporters.”

You let out a breathless laugh—half-relieved, half-overwhelmed.

Then he cupped your cheek gently, eyes searching yours. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even answer.

You leaned in.

And the kiss that followed was warm and slow, more tender than either of you expected. It tasted like rooftop wine and burnt pepper, like all the things you hadn’t let yourself feel until now. His hand slid to your waist, anchoring you gently. Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket like maybe you’d melt without something to hold onto.

When you finally pulled apart, your forehead rested against his, and for a second, the world stopped spinning.

Then you smiled—soft, teasing, fond.

“Well,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “The Flaming Hearts is really gonna hate me now.”

He laughed, arms looping around your waist. “They already do. I read the forums.”

You snorted. “You read your fan forums?”

“I like to stay informed,” he said with a wink.

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “God, I’m dating a dork.”

“You’re dating this dork,” he corrected, smug as ever, resting his chin atop your head.

You stayed like that under the Central Park sky—wrapped in warmth and something that felt like maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.

It had been a few months since that first kiss under the quiet glow of Central Park.

Since the night you let your guard down and finally let him in.

Now you were his. Officially.

Not that the tabloids had let you forget it. Every coffee run, every blurry sidewalk kiss, every slightly windblown post-battle cuddle was plastered across newsstands like you were part of a pulp serial. You’d stopped reading them after “The Torch and the Truth-Teller: A Love Story in Flames” hit the stands.

But today wasn’t about that.

Today, the city was nervous.

The Frightful Four had made themselves known in a very public, very destructive way the day before—leaving Central Avenue cratered, several civilians injured, and even the Fantastic Four pushed to their limits. The new villains weren’t just chaos for chaos’s sake. They were calculated. Aggressive. Dangerous.

So, of course, the press conference at the Baxter Building was standing room only.

You stood near the back, arms folded around your notepad, trying not to feel weird about covering a press event for a team you technically had dinner with twice a week. Your press badge still held weight, but now it hung alongside a relationship that blurred lines more than you liked to admit.

Still, you kept it professional. You always did.

Even if Johnny winked at you the second he spotted you in the crowd.

The conference began like any other—Reed detailing the attack in his usual clinical tone, outlining the measures they were taking to analyze the threat, reinforce the city’s defenses, and “neutralize the ongoing presence of the Frightful Four.” Sue followed up with diplomacy and calm reassurance, while Ben added something about “clockin’ that wizard wannabe next time he shows up.”

Then came the Q&A session.

You didn’t plan to raise your hand. Not at first.

But the question burned at the edge of your tongue, and when Reed nodded to the press corps, your hand lifted almost instinctively.

You saw a few heads turn.

So did Reed.

He gave a tiny smile. “Yes, you—go ahead.”

You stood tall. “In light of the Wizard’s tech matching several known Fantastic Four signatures, is the team considering the possibility of a breach in security—or worse, that the tech was reverse-engineered from a previous mission?”

The room went silent.

Tough. Fair. Pointed.

A few reporters turned toward Reed, pens poised. Reed, after all, was the one who usually answered tech-related questions with a thousand syllables and no punctuation.

But then—

Johnny stepped forward.

He didn’t wait for Reed. Didn’t look back for a signal.

Just shifted to the mic, adjusted it once, and looked straight at you.

“We’ve already considered that,” he said, voice steady—not cocky, not performative. “And Reed’s running diagnostics through every system in the Baxter Building as we speak. We’ve seen tech imitation before—it’s not new. But this was something else. The Wizard wasn’t just copying us—he was testing us. Learning our limits.”

He paused. The room leaned in.

Johnny continued, hands relaxed on either side of the podium. “That’s why we’re not just going back to old defenses. We’re adapting. Evolving. If someone wants to play smart, then we play smarter. That’s what we do.”

A flicker of surprise rippled through the crowd.

You felt your lips curve, slow and warm.

He wasn’t improvising. He wasn’t trying to steal the spotlight.

He was stepping up.

And it wasn’t just about being brave. He was prepared. Thoughtful. Clear.

God, he really had been listening all those nights you stayed up editing stories and picking apart soundbites. He’d absorbed it all.

When he stepped back from the mic, Sue gave him a quick side-eye that was both impressed and suspicious. Reed nodded, faintly approving. Even Ben muttered something like “Look at Flamebrain, gettin’ all articulate.”

Johnny didn’t look at them.

He looked at you.

And when he saw you smiling—really smiling—he smiled back like that had been the only audience he was trying to impress.

You shook your head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock disapproval, but your grin didn’t fade.

You didn’t leave when the press conference ended.

While the others packed up their cameras, chased quotes, and filtered toward the elevators, you lingered near the edge of the Baxter Building’s main hall, pretending to reread your notes. In truth, your pen hadn’t touched paper since Johnny spoke. You just stood there, professional façade cracking at the edges, watching the crowd thin and the team scatter toward their usual post-briefing routines.

Eventually, the lights dimmed to their usual state and the last guest reporter filed out. The hush that settled over the room felt different—less urgent, less public.

Just quiet.

And then you heard footsteps.

Booted, sure, and too familiar by now.

Johnny appeared from the side corridor still in his white and blue suit, the chest insignia slightly scuffed from yesterday’s battle. His hair was tousled, his cheeks still a little flushed from the heat of the day, but his eyes—those troublemaking, earnest, too-honest eyes—found yours instantly.

You didn’t wait.

You crossed the space between you and your arms looped around his neck before you could stop yourself, pressing your lips to his without a word.

He kissed you back just as easily, as if he’d been holding his breath through the entire press conference and this was the first time he got to exhale. His hands rested gently on your waist, grounding. Warm.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his for a moment, both of you breathing slow in the dimming room.

“You really gotta stop asking me the hard ones,” he murmured, his voice low and a little playful, but still soft around the edges.

You smiled, brushing your thumb lightly along the seam of his suit at his shoulder. “It’s my job.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle your temple once, “remind me to start bringing a flashcard with smart-sounding words. Just in case.”

You laughed quietly, still close. The suit was warm under your fingers—not from his powers, just from him. Being near him always felt like this now. Like a space you didn’t realize you needed.

Then, softer, you said, “You did a great job.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, and for a second, all the cocky charm vanished. What was left was raw and real.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

He smiled at that—not his usual smirk, not a teasing grin, but something gentler. Something that belonged only to you.

“You looked proud,” he said. “When I answered.”

“I was proud,” you whispered.

Johnny leaned in again, kissing you this time with less urgency—just warmth. Familiarity. Gratitude.

You let your hands slide from his collar to the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the edge of his hairline.

“You keep doing things like that,” you murmured when the kiss broke, “and I’m gonna run out of critical things to write about you.”

He laughed against your cheek. “Guess I’ll just have to do something reckless again. For balance.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already full.

taglist: @purplefluffycows

#kar's fics ☆#johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x you #johnny storm x fem!reader #johnny storm fanfic #johnny storm #fantastic four x reader #fantastic 4 x reader #fantastic four #fantastic four first steps #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fanfic

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science-hoes · 3 days ago

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Imagine you find one of Robby’s old photo albums from the late 90s/early 2000s. It’s filled with pictures of his med school, residency, and early attending years.

You’re giggling at the photos of him, clean-shaven, baby-faced, bright-eyed. None of the things that he is now.

“Robby, you were gorgeous. Holy shit.”

The words don’t sting. Not at first anyway. But you keep fawning over how pretty he was as a much younger man. And soon, Robby starts getting jealous of his younger self.

“Yeah, well, the man in that picture wouldn’t have been able to make you come like I can.” He finally huffs in annoyance.

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the escalation, before a smug grin slithers across your face. “Is that so? You sure look like a heartbreaker in these photos. I’m sure you knew what you were doing.”

Robby grunts a laugh, like he always does when he’s getting frustrated.

Your smirk lingers as you pointed at one of the photos. “I mean look at your hair. You could’ve been a 90s model. And the earring? That’s just hot.” You continue. “You look like the king of one-night stands.”

He shakes his head, arms now crossed over his chest. “I had my nose in a book for 10 years straight after college. My gross anatomy class in med school was the only reason I knew where a woman’s clit was.”

You toss the photo album on the coffee table and crawled back onto the couch, settling comfortably in his lap, straddling his hips. “I don’t believe it. You were too pretty.”

“If you want a pretty boy, the med school is only a five minute walk.” His voice isn’t angry. It’s that fake nonchalant tone that he uses when he’s getting frustrated at the residents.

You grab him by the chin, letting his beard prick your fingertips. “Michael…” You warn.

“What? I’m just saying. You’re clearly enamored by those pictures of me. When I was much younger. And-“

You cut him off with a kiss. A sweet but deep kiss that gets him to shut the fuck up. Robby makes a sound of surprise and delight, and you know you’re reeling him back down to earth.

“I don’t want a younger man. I want you.” You mumble against his lips.

He lets out that unamused grunt again. “Then why are you obsessed with those pictures?”

You pull away to roll your eyes, smacking him across his broad chest. “Because they’re pictures of you, dumbass.”

A beat of silence passes. Then he smiles slowly, and his eyes crinkle with love. In that moment, he actually does look just like the boy in those photos.

“So, you don’t care that I don’t look like that anymore?” He questions.

You shook your head, a brooding pain your chest when you realize he’s genuinely worried. “I fell in love with this man, right in front of me.” You reply, poking the space above his heart gently. “Not that baby-faced virgin.”

Robby chuckles and swats at your hand. “Hey, I wasn’t a virgin. I just had no fucking clue what I was doing.”

You furrow your brow and nod condescendingly. “Sure, sweetie.”

Your teasing is met with a tackle of kisses and warmth from Robby, laughter filling the room, snuggling deep into the cushions of the couch, hands starting to move under clothes, hips beginning to grind, the photo album long forgotten on the coffee table. He sure knows what he’s doing now.

“Is there any way I can convince you to start wearing an earring again?”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #dr robby #doctor robby #noah wyle #michael robinavitch x reader #dr Robby x reader #doctor Robby x reader

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smutmind · 1 day ago

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Innocent Idol Turned Secret Slut — Cheating Her Way Into Silence With Her Boyfriend’s Best Friend

Winter X Male OC

“Minjeong, open the door.”

Taehyun’s voice was flat—tired, edged with amusement. She hesitated at the buzzer, the chill of the marble floor rising into her bare feet. She wore only a cropped white tank top and matching joggers, her long hair twisted up in a loose bun. Her nipples peeked dark under the fabric, flattened by thin patches, but not hidden.

A stylist would’ve screamed.

She pressed the button. “Is he okay?”

“Dead drunk. Open before someone gets pictures.”

Minjeong buzzed him in. The elevator whined, and she waited with her arms wrapped tight around her chest, heart already pounding in the wrong places. When the door opened, Taehyun was hauling Junho’s limp body on his back, one arm hooked under his knees.

Minjeong’s stomach dropped.

“Jesus,” she muttered, stepping aside. “You carried him like that?”

“Didn’t want him pissing in my car again.” Taehyun’s voice was dry, his eyes tracking her body before glancing back down at his cargo. “Didn’t know your dress code for emergencies was… this.”

She flinched, pulling her tank down. “I was already home.”

He grunted, dropping Junho gently onto the couch. Her boyfriend groaned, rolled, then passed out hard, face buried in a decorative cushion.

“I thought he was cutting back,” Minjeong murmured.

Taehyun tossed his jacket over the armrest. “He was. Until he wasn’t.”

She stood there, awkward, thumbs brushing the edge of her waistband.

Taehyun stretched his arms behind his head, shirt riding up to expose the sharp lines of his waist. He caught her looking and smirked. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring any reporters.”

“Not funny.”

“You sure?” he stepped closer, eyes locking on hers. “You’re the one who told him you couldn’t be seen at clubs. No holding hands, no rumors. You’re a whole nation’s sweetheart.”

Minjeong’s jaw tightened. “I’m not an idiot. I know the rules.”

Taehyun’s voice softened. “But sometimes the rules want to break you first.”

She didn’t answer.

They stood in silence for a beat. The kitchen light glowed pale, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones. Her skin still glistened faintly from her shower—clean, scented like rose water and lemon shampoo. Not even the baggiest sweater could hide that from someone who looked too long.

Especially him.

“Thanks for bringing him,” she finally said, folding her arms again. “I’ll get him water.”

“You don’t have to act like you owe me anything.”

“I don’t,” she said, walking toward the kitchen. “But I’m not rude.”

He followed—slow, measured steps behind her.

She filled a glass at the sink, the noise of water masking the quiet stretch of tension. He leaned against the counter, fingers drumming lightly on the granite.

“He loves you,” Taehyun said after a moment. “You know that?”

Minjeong paused. “He tries.”

Taehyun’s smile was crooked. “And you clean up the pieces.”

She handed him the water without looking. Their fingers brushed. She flinched again—too late, too obvious.

Taehyun tilted the glass but didn’t drink. “You ever wonder if you picked the wrong one?”

She looked up sharply. “Don’t.”

“I’m just asking.”

Minjeong’s voice dropped. “You’re his best friend.”

Taehyun stepped forward once. Close. “And I’ve seen how he treats you.”

She backed against the fridge, pulse hammering in her throat. “Stop.”

“You called me, Minjeong.”

Her breath caught.

“I was the one who showed up. Who carried him up five flights. Who watched you press your hands over your chest so the neighbors wouldn’t stare.”

She shook her head. “You’re twisting it.”

His voice turned gentle. Dangerous. “Am I?”

He stepped into her space fully, towering. “I watched you rehearse that first year. Your ribs poking through dance jerseys, eyes bleeding sleep. But you smiled. You always smiled.”

Minjeong’s back hit the fridge hard. Her fingers curled.

Taehyun leaned in. “You could’ve picked anyone. You picked the boy who forgets your call times and leaves you stranded outside your own showcases.”

He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

Her voice broke. “Stop. Please.”

He didn’t move.

“You were never invisible to me, Minjeong.”

Silence stretched again. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint rasp of rain against glass.

“I’m going to make hot chocolate,” she whispered.

He stepped back slowly, lips curved.

“Make me one too.”

She nodded, turned away, heart in her throat, thighs aching with guilt.

Behind her, he sat down in her clean white kitchen like he belonged there.

Like this wasn’t the beginning of something she’d never come back from.

The milk hissed when it hit the hot pot, steam curling up into Minjeong’s face like breath she couldn’t release.

She stirred slowly, spoon tracing figure eights. Behind her, Taehyun sat at the counter, legs spread wide, arms resting on the chair back like he owned the room.

She hated that he looked so at ease. Hated more that she wanted to keep him there.

“You always make it this way?” he asked, voice smooth.

“Yeah,” she said, quiet. “Same since trainee days.”

“Junho never drinks it.”

“No,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder. “He doesn’t like sweet things.”

Taehyun tilted his head, eyes drifting down her back to where her joggers hugged tight against her hips. “He doesn’t like sweet things. Ironic.”

She turned back to the stove, ignoring the heat building in her cheeks. The tank top clung to her spine, sweat beading between her shoulder blades.

“You used to bring it to the studio at 2 a.m.,” he said. “That’s how I knew you weren’t like the others.”

Minjeong poured the chocolate into two mugs. “You were a smoker then.”

“I quit the day you asked me if the smell made me lonely.”

She blinked. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

She placed a mug in front of him. Their hands brushed again. His fingers grazed hers—lingering longer this time.

He took a sip, moaned low. “God, this is dangerous.”

She looked up. He was watching her. Closely.

“Dangerous how?” she asked, voice catching.

“Because it tastes like you.”

The room went silent again. Just the clink of the spoon, the hum of guilt.

“Stop saying things like that,” she murmured, sipping her own drink.

“Why?” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Because I mean them?”

“Because they make it hard to breathe.”

He stared at her. “Good.”

She looked away.

“You ever wonder?” he asked.

“About?”

“Me. If you’d said yes instead.”

She didn’t answer.

He stood. Circled the counter. Stood behind her again, not touching—but close enough that his heat ghosted over her back.

“I was going to ask,” he said softly. “That night after showcase. You wore that oversized hoodie and pink socks, remember?”

She nodded. Slowly.

“But then he said he liked you. And I backed off.”

Her hands clenched the mug. “You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

Taehyun leaned closer. “You always looked at me like maybe.”

“I was scared,” she whispered.

“Still are,” he said, moving beside her. His fingers lifted the mug from her hands. Set it down. Then slowly, deliberately, he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

He kissed each knuckle. Then the inside of her wrist.

She trembled.

“You smell like roses and cocoa,” he murmured.

She couldn’t look at him. “We can’t do this.”

“You can tell me to stop.”

He was so close now—nose brushing her cheek, his breath warming her neck.

“Say stop.”

Minjeong’s breath hitched. Her head tilted slightly.

Taehyun's hand rose to her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her lip. “Chocolate,” he said softly.

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Full. His lips were warm, and hers opened before she could stop them.

Their mugs clinked as her hand slid up his chest, finding purchase in the cotton of his shirt.

He pulled away first.

Her eyes fluttered open. Guilt flooded them.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“I’m terrified.”

He leaned down again, brushing their noses. “You should be.”

Then his mouth found her neck—tongue tracing her pulse, lips sucking softly until her knees buckled.

She moaned, one hand gripping his wrist.

His other hand slipped under her tank. Not greedy. Just resting against her ribs, fingers splayed wide.

She gasped, chest rising into his palm.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered.

“You’ll ruin me.”

He kissed her collarbone. “Only if you let me.”

The hot chocolate sat forgotten on the counter, steam curling toward the ceiling as her morals slid toward the floor.

They didn’t speak when they passed the living room. Junho’s body still sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor. A soft snore rose from him like a cruel joke.

Minjeong walked ahead, tank clinging tighter with each step, her bare feet brushing polished floorboards. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Taehyun followed. Silent. Watching the way her white joggers hugged her hips, the subtle line of her spine visible through damp cotton.

In her bedroom, she paused. The room smelled faintly of lavender and warmed linen. The sheets were still folded back from when she’d crawled into them alone last night—before everything began unraveling.

“You always sleep cold?” he asked from behind.

She turned.

Her tank had risen slightly, exposing the soft curve of her lower belly. The fabric stretched over her small chest, the faint outline of nipple patches visible in the light.

Taehyun stepped closer, fingertips brushing the hem. “You used to be so shy in the practice rooms.”

“I still am,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “You’re just scared of wanting.”

He pulled the tank up slowly, revealing inch by inch of pale skin. Her ribs. The delicate flare of her waist. And then—her breasts.

Petite. Barely a handful. But perfect.

He sucked in a breath. “Fuck.”

Minjeong flushed scarlet.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, cupping one breast in his palm. “Soft like satin.”

She gasped when his tongue met her nipple, licking around the tender peak before sucking gently. Her knees buckled. He moved to the other—tongue flicking, mouth open and greedy now, tongue flat and hot against her flushed skin.

She held his head there, trembling. “Taehyun…”

“You taste like sleep and sugar,” he breathed, dragging his mouth down her chest. His lips brushed under her arms, where she’d forgotten to dry properly. “Even your sweat smells clean.”

“Don’t—”

He kissed the hollow beneath her arm anyway, lips soft and deliberate.

Minjeong’s breath hitched. “That’s—too much.”

Taehyun looked up, lips shiny. “Everything about you is too much.”

She stepped back, eyes wide. “I’m going to hell for this.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re already there.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in her tank. Her thighs pressed together, chest still rising and falling with shallow gasps.

“You’re not gonna let me carry this alone, are you?” he asked.

Her eyes flicked up.

He undid his jeans, pulling them down just enough. His cock sprang free—long, hard, flushed deep at the tip. Thick veins ran along the shaft, wet already from how turned on he was.

Minjeong stared. Her lips parted.

“I don’t want to be this person,” she whispered.

“Then don’t be,” he said. “Just be here.”

She stood. Moved between his legs.

Her hand touched him first—fingers feather-light, almost unsure. Then firmer. She leaned down, breath trembling.

He didn’t guide her. Didn’t press.

Her mouth opened. Her lips wrapped around the head.

She sucked softly at first—slow, almost tender. Her brows furrowed like this was a confession, not a blowjob.

Taehyun groaned, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “That’s it. Use your mouth like you mean it.”

She did.

Not because she wanted to please him—but because if she was going to fall, she wanted to own it. Her head bobbed slowly, her small mouth stretching around him, saliva slicking his cock inch by inch.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“You’re so small,” he breathed, looking down at her. “So goddamn perfect.”

She took him deeper.

Her eyes stared up—wet, glassy, not begging—but searching. Searching for something to feel clean again.

Taehyun’s breath caught.

“You think this makes you dirty?” he whispered, pushing her hair back. “This just makes you mine.”

She moaned around him, lips sliding faster now. The sounds filled the room—wet, quiet gasps, the twitch of his cock against her tongue.

He pulled out before he came.

Not yet.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her hard. Deep. Their mouths smeared with guilt and spit and craving.

“Window,” he said into her mouth.

She nodded.

Minjeong was naked now. Skin flushed, trembling, damp in all the places she used to hide. Her tank top and joggers lay crumpled on the floor like excuses. Her hair clung to her cheeks. Cold glass kissed her breasts when she leaned forward.

Behind her, Taehyun stayed half-dressed—shirtless, but still in his sweats. The contrast made her ache. He still belonged to the world. She’d already given herself away.

“Bend more,” he murmured, guiding her hips. “You look better when you break a little.”

She whimpered but obeyed.

His cock dragged against her slick folds once. Then again. Teasing. Savoring.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, too calm.

“No,” she whispered.

But she didn’t move.

He slid in slowly—inch by inch—filling her until her spine arched. She gasped. Her forehead hit the window with a soft thud.

“Oh—fuck…”

Her reflection stared back—flushed, mouth open, eyes wide and wet.

He gripped her waist, thrusting deeper, harder. Skin slapped against skin. Her breath fogged the glass.

She whimpered, turning her head sideways against the window. “He… he sleeps just down the hall…”

“You mean the drunk who didn’t notice you creaming on my fingers twenty minutes ago?”

“Stop,” she moaned. “Stop saying it like that.”

“You want me to lie?” He thrust hard. She jerked forward, chest smearing against the cold pane.

“Tell me you don’t love it,” he growled.

“I—don’t—” Her words cracked with each thrust.

He reached around, slipping two fingers into her mouth. She moaned instantly, sucking them deep—grateful for something to quiet herself.

“Just like that,” he hissed. “God, you were made for this.”

Her tongue curled around his fingers. Her body bucked into each thrust. Her thighs trembled.

She sucked harder, moaning into his hand.

Tears ran hot down her cheeks.

“I shouldn’t like this,” she choked. “This is wrong.”

“You taste wrong. Feel wrong. Moan wrong.” He pulled his fingers out and slapped her ass. “But you keep fucking back.”

She slammed against him, face stuck to the window now, hips jerking with every thrust.

“Say you want it,” he demanded.

“No.”

He slammed harder.

“Say it.”

“Please…” she sobbed. “Just don’t stop.”

The glass was slick from her breath. Her nipples dragged against it with every thrust, hard and burning.

She moaned louder, voice cracking. “I’m not supposed to feel this good—”

“But you do,” he groaned, gripping her hips so tight she’d bruise. “You fucking love it.”

She came suddenly—hips locking, body shivering. Her scream muffled by the window. Her pussy clenched hard around him, soaking his cock.

Taehyun held her there, letting her ride the waves until her legs gave out and she sagged forward, breathless.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re incredible like this.”

She whispered, “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“You’re mine,” he said simply, still buried inside.

She turned her face. Her cheek pressed flat against the cool glass, her voice broken. “You’re still wearing your pants…”

Taehyun chuckled, slow and dark. “Because I don’t need to get naked to own you.”

She sobbed once—half guilt, half pleasure.

Then she whispered, “One more.”

He pulled out, and she gasped at the loss. He guided her back to the bed.

Minjeong straddled him slowly, knees digging into the mattress, her naked body trembling above his still half-clothed one. Taehyun’s hands slid up her thighs, thumbs circling gentle patterns against her hipbones.

“You okay?” he murmured.

She nodded, breath shaky. “I think so.”

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Open. Real.”

Her face flushed. The room felt too quiet, too intimate. She leaned in, chest brushing his, small breasts warm against his skin. His hands rose to cup them, thumbs grazing across her nipples.

He kissed her slowly—mouth soft, teasing, almost tender. She kissed back harder.

For a moment, she forgot.

Forgot where she was. Forgot who was asleep just outside the room. Forgot she wasn’t supposed to feel this.

Their foreheads touched. Their breaths mingled.

Minjeong moved her hips, letting him slide back in—deep, full.

She gasped, nails raking his chest.

“You feel everything, don’t you?” he asked, hands gripping her waist.

She moaned. “I’m falling apart.”

He looked up at her—eyes soft, lips parted.

“Then fall into me.”

She did.

Her hips rocked in a slow rhythm. His cock filled her again and again, stretching her open, making her gasp with every bounce. She held his shoulders, her breasts swaying, lips catching soft cries of guilt between thrusts.

“I wanted to hate you,” she whispered. “But now I…”

Taehyun’s smile was faint. “What?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s real.”

“Then feel it instead.”

She rode him faster. Sloppier. Sweat trickled down her back, her hair stuck to her temple. She pressed her lips to his again—hungry now, not romantic. Her moans grew louder.

Then—

The bedroom door creaked open.

She froze.

Junho stood in the doorway, squinting into the dark, shirt half-off, hair wild.

“Min… jeong?” he mumbled.

Her whole body locked.

She tried to rise. “Get off—stop—”

But Taehyun held her hips firmly. Didn’t pull out. Didn’t move.

Just waited.

Junho blinked. Rubbed his face. “Shit, this room’s spinning.”

He stumbled toward the bed.

Minjeong’s heart hammered.

Taehyun looked her dead in the eyes—and thrust upward, slow.

Her lips parted in silent horror.

Junho didn’t seem to notice. He collapsed face-first onto the bed—right beside them. His body didn’t even shift as he passed out, snoring.

She stared at him. Inches away. Her thighs still around Taehyun’s cock.

Her voice cracked. “Please…”

But Taehyun grinned. “He didn’t even see.”

Then he fucked her.

Hard.

She tried to cover her mouth. Tried not to scream. But every thrust knocked a cry out of her lungs.

She clung to him, tears spilling. Her orgasm built again—shame twisting inside it.

“You’re crazy,” she whimpered. “This is insane.”

“But you’re still fucking me,” he hissed into her ear. “Even with him right there.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “You hate that I know what you really are.”

He slammed into her once more, and she shattered—body convulsing, breath stuttering. She bit into his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He came inside her again, thick and deep.

They both lay still.

Junho snored beside them, arm dangling over the edge of the bed.

Minjeong pulled off slowly, sticky and limp.

She slid from the bed, legs shaking, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon. She grabbed her joggers, her tank—everything that used to be hers before tonight.

As she dressed, Taehyun leaned on one elbow, watching.

“You’re quiet now,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“You thought I was different, didn’t you?”

Her eyes flicked to him.

“You thought I loved you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

He sat up. “I just wanted to fuck the girl who everyone else thought was too pure to touch.”

She swallowed hard.

“You were never special, Minjeong. Just available.”

He grabbed his cock, still slick with her.

Slapped it once—wet—against his own thigh. Then looked her dead in the eye.

“Turns out idols moan just like everyone else.”

She woke alone. Her mouth tasted stale and metallic. Her thighs ached. Her sheets smelled like sweat, old fabric softener, and sex.

Junho’s body lay beside her, curled under the blanket, still fully dressed from the night before. He snored gently, one hand flopped over her pillow, like he’d been there all along.

But Taehyun was gone.

Minjeong stared at the ceiling, blinking against the raw pulse between her legs. Her breath came shallow. Every shift in her hips sent a ripple of soreness through her core. Her nipples still felt tender. Her lips cracked from the night’s heat.

She hated it. Hated that she couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Hated that her body remembered more than her heart wanted to.

And worst of all—

She missed him.

The realization hit her in the chest like a slap. She sat up too fast, dizziness flashing behind her eyes. Her tank top from the night before clung to her like a second skin. Her panties were still on the floor. She didn’t reach for them.

Instead, she stood slowly and padded into the bathroom. She rinsed her face, brushed her teeth twice. The reflection that met her in the mirror looked blank-eyed. Pale. A little swollen at the lips.

An idol. A product. A fuck.

She wiped her mouth slowly.

Back in the bedroom, Junho groaned, stretching.

“You’re up?” he mumbled, eyes puffy.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. “Shit… last night was brutal. I didn’t puke in here, did I?”

“No.”

He smiled faintly. “Lucky you.”

Minjeong looked at him. Hair sticking up, breath sour, voice too loud. This boy she defended in every interview. Protected from every scandal. Who never remembered her call times, who made her wait in lobbies, who loved her the way a dog loves a warm spot on the floor.

She had tried. Over and over.

But trying didn’t keep her from being undone.

The doorbell rang. Junho groaned again. “You get it?”

She did.

She opened the door and Taehyun stood there, holding two iced Americanos and a bag that smelled like toasted brioche and butter. He smiled like a fucking angel.

“Breakfast.”

She froze.

“Relax,” he said smoothly, brushing past her. “I’m just being a friend.”

Junho perked up when he saw the coffee. “You’re a lifesaver, bro.”

“Always,” Taehyun said, handing him a cup. “There’s jam bread in there too. Eat something. You look like death.”

Junho laughed and shuffled toward the bathroom. “Shower first. My mouth tastes like an ashtray.”

The door closed. Water started.

Silence returned.

Minjeong turned, face pale. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Taehyun stepped in close. “Delivering breakfast.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t act like this is normal.”

He reached out, brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “I told you I wasn’t going to stop.”

Her body flinched.

He leaned in, his breath warm and cruel. “You still sore?”

She turned her head, but her thighs betrayed her. She was already clenching.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

He backed her into the kitchen island, slow, without force. Just confidence. The kind that made her knees weak.

“You want me to leave?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“You want me to stop?”

Still nothing.

He pushed her tank up, baring her from waist to ribs. His palm slid under—warm, familiar now, cruel in its ease. He pinched her nipple once. She gasped.

“Shh,” he whispered. “He’s just in the shower.”

He turned her gently around, bent her slightly over the counter. Pulled her joggers halfway down. No panties.

“You came twice on this cock last night,” he murmured, dragging the head of his dick through her wetness. “Let’s see if you even need foreplay now.”

She opened her mouth—but all that came was breath.

Then he entered her.

Fast. Deep. Full.

Her hands slapped the counter, knuckles white.

He held her hips steady, fucking her in slow, brutal strokes.

She shook her head. “Please—he’s right there—”

“Then keep quiet,” Taehyun whispered, lips to her neck.

Each thrust forced her up on her toes. Her moans became gasps—silent, broken hiccups of pleasure.

Junho’s voice rang from the bathroom. “Hey! Where’s the shampoo?”

Taehyun paused, still buried deep.

Minjeong stared at the counter, chest heaving.

“In the cabinet!” she called, breath shaking.

The water rushed louder.

Taehyun chuckled in her ear. “You’re getting good at lying.”

He pulled out, spun her around.

She gasped—confused—until she saw him stroke his cock.

Still hard. Red at the tip. Slick with her.

“Open,” he said.

She blinked.

“Now.”

She dropped to her knees.

He pushed the head into her mouth, deep. He didn’t thrust—just held her there. Let her suck, slow and deliberate.

He tilted her chin, watching her.

“You still think you’re the victim here?” he murmured. “You chose this. You wore that tank. You looked at me with those big eyes and whispered thank you.”

She whimpered, sucking harder.

He groaned.

“Keep it in your mouth,” he said, voice darkening. “Don’t swallow.”

He came. Hard.

Hot pulses flooded her tongue. She kept it all, cheeks hollowing.

He pulled back, smeared the last drips across her lips.

“Now hold it,” he whispered.

She sat back on her heels, mouth full, eyes wet.

Taehyun crouched to her level, cupped her chin.

“You taste like regret,” he said.

Junho’s voice called again. “You guys eating without me?”

Taehyun smiled. “Swallow. Smile. Be his good girl again.”

She swallowed slowly, tears rolling.

He stood, zipped up, grabbed his coffee.

Minjeong stayed on her knees, shirt half-off, mouth wet, eyes blank.

As she reached for a napkin, Taehyun leaned in one last time.

Voice low.

Cruel.

Satisfied.

“Let me know when you're ready to cheat for real.”

#winter smut #winter polo #aespa smut #female idol smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #smut #male reader smut #kpop idol smut #male reader

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mrsfancyferrari · 2 days ago

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You're Cute

Summary: Being George's twin sister, you get a lot of advantages: VIP paddock passes, meeting celebrities on the daily but there is one rule: don't date any of the drivers and you took that as a challenge.

Song: Reed Wonder, Aurora Olivas · The Machine

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 14.2k

MASTERLIST - F1

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yourusername your favourite doctor 💙

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georgerussell63 please come watch me race 💙

yourusername nope 💙

mercedesamgf1 Hello Dr Russell, please come support us in the British GP (George made us write this) 💙

yourusername Hello mercedes, unless you can offer me a job there I will not be going (Tell George to leave me alone) 💙

user1 I didn't know George had a beautiful, successful and better twin sister 😍

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your_bestie Can't wait to see you at work! 💙

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Thursday

The rumble of a go-karting engine was a sound you’d grown up with, as familiar as your own heartbeat. It was the soundtrack to your childhood, the background to family dinners, and the persistent hum of your twin brother, George Russell’s, entire existence.

And thanks to him, it was also the gateway to a world of VIP access, celebrity encounters, and an unspoken, iron-clad rule: no dating the drivers.

You, Dr. Y/N Russell, had always taken that rule as less of a prohibition and more of a personal challenge.

Life as George’s twin sister in the world of Formula 1 brought a unique set of advantages. Paddock passes materialized in your inbox like magic.

Celebrities, from pop stars to Hollywood actors, were just ‘people’ you might bump into at a hospitality suite, often introduced with George’s signature, slightly awkward charm.

You’d mastered the art of polite small talk with anyone from supermodels to team principals, your comfort level with fame remarkably high, perhaps because, in a way, you were adjacent to it.

For the past few years, however, the F1 circus had been a distant echo. Your world had shrunk to the sterile gleam of operating theatres, the hushed intensity of consultations, and the demanding schedule of a newly qualified doctor.

Your education and burgeoning career had become your singular focus, pushing childhood crushes and the thrill of the racetrack to the farthest corners of your mind.

But some things, like persistent twin brothers, were impossible to shake off.

“Please, Y/N! It’s Silverstone! Our home race! You have to be there!” George’s voice had been a constant barrage of pleas, texts, and increasingly dramatic voicemails for weeks.

He’d even resorted to guilt-tripping you about how long it had been since you’d truly experienced a race weekend, not just watched it on your tiny hospital breakroom TV.

Eventually, you caved. The allure of the British Grand Prix, a rare break from your demanding schedule, and the genuine desire to see your brother in his element, won out.

Besides, you missed the roar of the crowd, the smell of burnt rubber, and the electric tension that only F1 could deliver.

Stepping into the Silverstone paddock was like stepping back in time, yet everything felt new. The vibrant colours, the buzz of activity, the mingling of high-octane sport and high-society glamour.

George met you at the entrance, a wide grin splitting his face, his arm immediately slung around your shoulders.

“Look everyone, my favourite twin is here!” he announced, louder than necessary, as he navigated you through the throng.

And so began the ‘Y/N Russell, Trophy Introduction Tour.’

“Lewis, this is my twin sister, Y/N! She’s a doctor, you know. Proper smart.”

“Toto, meet Y/N! She literally saves lives on a daily basis. My twin sister, a doctor!”

“Marcus, this is Y/N. My twin. She performs surgeries. For a living!”

You’d roll your eyes good-naturedly, offering a polite smile and a firm handshake, often adding, “It’s lovely to meet you, George’s sister who is also a doctor.”

You were proud of your profession, of course, but George’s exaggerated pride often bordered on presenting you as a scientific marvel rather than a human being.

Yet, you were comfortable. You exchanged pleasantries with celebrities and team principals, discussed the weather with sports commentators, and even briefly chatted about the latest medical breakthroughs with a surprisingly knowledgeable film director.

This was your comfort zone, the bizarre circus you’d been born into.

You were currently settled in the Mercedes hospitality suite, a sanctuary of cool air and gourmet food amidst the paddock heat, catching up with George.

He was detailing the nuances of tyre wear and DRS zones, his eyes alight with passion, as you listened with a half-attentive ear, sipping your sparkling water.

You loved seeing him like this, raw and unfiltered, away from the media glare.

“...and then I had to explain to Marcus that the rear end was just –”

“Hey George!”

The voice cut through George’s impassioned monologue, light, familiar, and carrying a warmth that sent a jolt down your spine. Your head snapped up, turning almost before George could respond.

And there he was.

Alex Albon.

Your heart, which had been beating steadily just moments before, performed an immediate, dramatic lurch, then seemed to stop altogether.

It wasn’t a poetic metaphor; it felt genuinely like your entire circulatory system had slammed on the brakes.

He was taller, broader in the shoulders than you remembered, his race suit accentuating a physique honed by years of intense training.

His dark hair was just a little longer, falling boyishly across his forehead, and his smile… his smile was still the same, genuine and infectious, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Those eyes. They still held that mischievous spark you remembered from muddy go-kart tracks and shared bags of chips.

Oh, hell. The crush hadn't just been put on hold; it had been simmering, dormant, waiting for this exact moment to reignite with the force of a super nova.

George, oblivious to the internal earthquake you were experiencing, stood up, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Alex! Mate! How’s it going?”

They slapped hands, pulled each other into a quick, solid bro-hug, their camaraderie palpable, a testament to years of shared childhood dreams and competitive rivalry.

You remained seated, frozen, a silent observer in your own body, waiting.

You waited for George to turn, to make the introduction – “Alex, this is my twin sister, Y/N,” probably followed by the inevitable, “She’s a doctor, you know.”

You braced yourself for the polite nod, the brief handshake, the re-learning of each other’s names, the awkward small talk that came with meeting someone you hadn’t seen in over a decade.

But it didn't happen like that.

Alex pulled back from George, his gaze sweeping over George’s shoulder, and landed directly on you. His smile softened, a knowing glint entering his eyes. He didn’t need an introduction. He didn’t hesitate.

“No way,” he breathed, a genuine, joyful surprise in his tone. He took a single step closer, his eyes twinkling. “Y/N Russell! Is that really you? Look at you! Last time I saw you, you were… well, you were still trying to beat George at Mario Kart.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up from your throat. “Well, some things never change,” you managed, your voice a little shaky, a flush creeping up your neck.

The fact that he remembered, instantly, without a prompt, without a beat, bypassed all your careful professional composure. You suddenly felt like that awkward, gangly thirteen-year-old with a hopeless crush again.

George, meanwhile, just blinked. “Wait, you guys remember each other? Really remember?”

He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he’d simply assumed your childhood tagging along to karting events had been a blur of faces.

Alex chuckled, his eyes still locked on yours. “Remember her? George, how could I forget? She was always the smart one, the one who actually figured out the strategy for the team when you two just wanted to crash into each other.”

He winked at you, and your heart did a clumsy flip-flop. “And she was the one who stitched up your scraped knees more times than I can count, remember? The original doctor, long before the fancy degree.”

You felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of being truly seen, truly remembered, not just as George’s doctor sister, but as you.

“Someone had to keep you two out of trouble,” you countered, a playful note returning to your voice. “And George was always the one who needed the most band-aids.”

George scoffed good-naturedly. “Hey! I was just… committed to the bit!” He then clapped Alex on the shoulder. “Alright, alright, enough reminiscing. Alex, it’s good to see you, mate. I’ve got debrief in ten, actually. You got a minute?”

Alex glanced at the time, then back at you, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. “Yeah, just about. George, you mind if I just… properly say hi to Y/N? It’s been ages.”

George, ever the somewhat oblivious brother, just shrugged. “Sure, sure. Don’t get lost. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he was off, heading towards the inner sanctum of the Mercedes garage, leaving you alone with Alex.

The sudden silence, save for the ambient paddock noise, was charged with an unspoken tension. Alex turned fully towards you, his hands in his pockets, a relaxed yet intense air about him.

“Seriously though,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “it’s really good to see you, (Y/N). You look… incredible. Dr. Russell, huh? I always knew you’d be something amazing.”

Your cheeks felt hot. “And you’re a Formula 1 driver. Never doubted that either, Albon. Though I hear you still can’t beat George at Mario Kart.”

He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that sent shivers down your arm. “Ouch. Some things never change, as you said. But I’m working on it. So, how’s life outside the F1 bubble? I bet it’s a lot less… high-speed.”

You found yourself relaxing, the familiar easy banter flowing between you as if no time had passed. You talked about your work, the long hours, the rewarding moments.

He listened intently, asking surprisingly insightful questions, his gaze rarely leaving your face. He shared glimpses of his life on the road, the challenges of a new team, the relentless pressure.

“So, George finally dragged you back, then?” he asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I saw he was practically begging you on Instagram.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s persistent. And it is Silverstone. Besides, I needed a break. My brain was starting to fuse with my textbooks.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Alex said, and the way he said it, quiet and sincere, made your stomach clench.

He paused, then tilted his head slightly. “Are you around all weekend? I was thinking, if you’re free after the qualifying on Saturday, maybe we could grab a proper drink? Catch up properly? Away from all this madness.” He gestured vaguely at the bustling paddock around you.

Your heart leaped. The rule. The unspoken, iron-clad rule. No dating drivers.

Especially not one of George’s best friends. This was George’s Paddock Rule #1. And here was Alex Albon, challenging it immediately, unintentionally.

But looking into his warm, hopeful eyes, the crushing nostalgia of a childhood crush meeting the undeniable spark of an adult connection, you found yourself smiling. “I think I could make time for that, Alex. It’s been way too long.”

He grinned, a flash of pure delight. “Great. I’ll text you. George usually has my number, so…”

“He’s got mine too,” you said, feeling bold. “Just… tell him it’s for a medical consultation, maybe.”

Alex chuckled, shaking his head. “A medical consultation, right. Something tells me George would be a little suspicious about that kind of consultation.”

His eyes held yours for another beat, a silent conversation passing between you. The challenge was accepted. The game was on.

And for the first time in years, the hum of the F1 engine sounded less like a distant echo and more like a prelude to something wonderfully, deliciously forbidden. . . .

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Friday

The following morning, the Silverstone paddock thrummed with a different kind of energy. The initial buzz of arrivals and reunions had settled into the focused hum of a race weekend.

Today was about Free Practice – the raw, unpolished testing of limits, the fine-tuning before qualifying.

But for you, the morning brought with it a different kind of hum, a persistent, joyful vibration beneath your ribs that had little to do with horsepower.

You’d woken up with Alex Albon’s laugh echoing in your mind, the memory of his eyes locking with yours, the casual ease of his invitation for Saturday.

It was a sensation you hadn’t felt in years, not since your early teens when the mere sight of him leaning against a go-kart, helmet in hand, had been enough to send you into a silent, internal meltdown.

You’d spent the last decade diligently building a career, meticulously acquiring knowledge, and carefully constructing a life that was stable, predictable, and distinctly free of heart-stopping romantic complications. And now, here he was, dismantling it all with a single, knowing smile.

George, bless his oblivious heart, was already in his usual pre-session mode, a whirlwind of focused energy, meticulously reviewing data on a tablet as you both walked through the garage.

The air was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel and hot tyres, overlaid with the sharp tang of ambition. Mechanics moved with purpose, engineers spoke in hushed, urgent tones, and the collective anticipation of the track coming alive was almost a tangible thing.

“Alright, Dr. Russell,” George said, without looking up from his screen, “you ready for a day of me complaining about understeer and then miraculously pulling a lap out of nowhere?”

You nudged him playfully. “I’m ready for a day of you forgetting to hydrate and then needing me to tell Toto you’re just ‘focused’.”

He finally looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s a valid medical diagnosis, isn’t it? Extreme focus leading to temporary dehydration?”

“I’ll write you a note,” you promised, but your mind was already drifting.

You scanned the faces in the crowded paddock, a nervous energy building as you wondered when, or if, you’d see him again. It felt both impossibly soon and agonizingly long since yesterday.

The first Free Practice session officially kicked off, and the roar of the engines became a constant, exhilarating presence. You found a spot in the garage, observing George’s telemetry, occasionally offering a quiet comment or simply absorbing the atmosphere.

It was a world you knew well, one that felt like home in its own chaotic way.

The familiar faces of team personnel, the shared language of lap times and sector analysis – it was comforting. Yet, something new had entered the equation, something that made every passing driver, every glimpse of a different team’s colours, a potential trigger for your pounding heart.

And then you saw him.

He was walking back from the pit lane, helmet under his arm, his race suit still smudged with track dust. His gait was easy, confident, and every muscle seemed to move with a coiled grace.

You noticed the way his team members greeted him, the respect in their voices, the innate leadership in his posture.

He was no longer just the scrawny go-kart kid you remembered; he was a formidable F1 driver, commanding his space, demanding attention.

Your breath hitched. He was still a few yards away, deep in conversation with his engineer, but something in your core recognized him, felt the pull.

You were trying to look casual, to pretend you weren’t subtly tracking his progress, when he suddenly lifted his head.

His eyes, as if drawn by an invisible thread, found yours across the bustling garage.

A flash of that genuine, infectious smile. A quick, almost imperceptible nod. A silent acknowledgement that sent a warm rush through you, bypassing all the noise and chaos of the paddock.

It was brief, merely a second or two, but it was enough. Enough to confirm that yesterday hadn't been a dream, that the spark was real, and that he remembered.

George, who had been engrossed in a discussion with his race engineer, suddenly paused, glancing in the direction Alex had just walked.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, a hint of brotherly suspicion in his voice.

You quickly diverted your gaze, focusing intently on a random screen. “Oh, nothing! Just… admiring the aerodynamic precision of Daniel’s rear wing.”

George scoffed. “Right. ‘Aerodynamic precision’. You and your doctor’s eye for detail, eh?”

He still looked mildly unconvinced, but thankfully, his attention was quickly pulled back to his own car’s setup. You let out a silent breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

The rest of the morning session passed in a blur of near-misses. You’d find yourself just a few metres from Alex in the canteen, or passing him in the narrow corridors between garages.

Each time, your eyes would meet, and a small, private smile would be exchanged – a secret handshake in the very public world of Formula 1.

It was thrilling, nerve-wracking, and utterly addictive.

During the lunch break, you found yourself needing a moment of quiet, slipping away from the usual Mercedes team huddle.

You leaned against a barrier, watching a group of fans pressed against the fence, their excitement palpable.

Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, heart giving a hopeful thump. It was an unknown number.

Hey, is this Y/N? It’s Alex. Hope George gave you the right number and hasn’t swapped phones with Lewis again.

A genuine smile bloomed on your face. He remembered the old trick. You quickly typed a reply.

It is! And thankfully, he usually keeps Lewis’s phone after the pranks, not before. You survived FP1?

The reply was almost immediate.

Barely. Car’s a bit of a handful. But hey, at least I got to see a friendly face. Still on for Saturday after the qualifying? I was thinking a quiet restaurant outside the track? Away from the madhouse.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. George’s rule. Your career. The very public nature of his life. Everything screamed caution. But the pull was undeniable. The memory of his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the sheer comfort of his presence.

Definitely on, Alex. Sounds perfect. Just don’t tell George it’s for anything other than a ‘medical consultation’ about your chronic Mario Kart addiction.

You sent the text, feeling a delicious mix of rebellion and anticipation. A moment later, his reply came, accompanied by a laughing emoji.

It’s severe. I’ll need extensive treatment. See you. And good luck to George today.

You chuckled, tucking your phone away. The world suddenly felt brighter, more vibrant.

The afternoon rolled into FP2, and the intensity ramped up. George was flying, pushing the Mercedes to its limits, and you found yourself genuinely absorbed in his performance, the doctor in you analyzing his every move, the sister in you cheering him on.

But even as you celebrated a strong lap from George, a part of you was still aware of Alex, his name occasionally flashing on the timing screens, his car a distinctive blur on the television monitors in the garage.

As the session drew to a close, George was debriefing with his engineers, looking exhausted but satisfied.

You were gathering your things, preparing to head back to the hospitality unit, when you heard a familiar voice.

“George, mate! Great pace out there today, seriously.”

You turned and there he was, Alex, leaning against the doorway of the Mercedes garage, a casual grin on his face. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, but you suspected he’d been waiting for an opportune moment.

George turned, beaming. “Alex! You too, mate, looking quick. Bit of a handful for you, though, I heard?”

“Yeah, still wrestling with it,” Alex admitted, then his gaze flickered to you, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “Anyway, just wanted to say hi before I head off. And thanks again for the… medical advice, Y/N.”

He said "medical advice" with just enough emphasis to make it sound perfectly innocent to George, but like a shared inside joke to you. You felt a blush rise, but you met his gaze evenly.

“Anytime, Alex,” you replied, a slight smile playing on your lips. “Always happy to provide professional counsel.”

George, surprisingly, just nodded, preoccupied with his thoughts. “Right. Well, good luck tomorrow, mate. We’ll see you out there.”

“You too, George,” Alex said, then his eyes lingered on you for a fraction of a second longer, a silent message passing between you. Saturday.

As he turned to leave, George finally looked at you, a half-frown on his face. “Medical advice? What was that about?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, you know, just driver wellness. He was asking about… sports nutrition. Very important for peak performance.” You gave him an overly earnest nod.

George narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced but too tired to fully probe. “Right. Sports nutrition. You sure you’re not prescribing him some new Mario Kart strategy?”

You laughed, a little too loud, then quickly sobered. “No, no, absolutely not. Purely professional.”

George just grunted, turning back to his engineers. You knew he wasn’t buying it entirely, but he was also too focused on the weekend’s performance to connect the dots. Not yet, anyway.

As you walked away, a lightness in your step, the thrill of the chase, the excitement of something new and deliciously forbidden, filled you.

The Silverstone weekend was just beginning, and already, it was clear that your return to the F1 paddock was going to be anything but a quiet break.

Free Practice might be over, but for you and Alex, the real race had just begun. . . .

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Saturday

The cool, crisp air of a British summer morning greeted you as you stepped out of your Silverstone accommodation on Saturday, qualifying day.

Unlike yesterday’s gentle hum, today the paddock thrummed with a palpable current of electric anticipation.

Every team member, every driver, every fan seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the moment the cars would roar to life, not for practice, but for the ultimate test of speed and nerve.

You dressed differently from how you usually would – a casual, yet professional dress, definitely not to impress Alex on your 'date' later on.

George was already up, a focused intensity in his eyes that only appeared on qualifying and race days. He was in the zone, and you respected that, offering a silent nod of encouragement as you grabbed a quick breakfast.

Making your way through the rapidly filling paddock, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel, burnt rubber, and the distant, muffled roar of engines being fired up.

You exchanged greetings with familiar faces – mechanics, engineers, other team personnel – but your gaze, almost unconsciously, swept towards the Williams garage as you passed.

There was a brief glimpse of Alex, head down, talking to an engineer, his posture radiating a quiet, determined focus.

You felt a familiar flutter in your stomach, a small internal cheer for him, before you redirected your attention to your own team's preparations.

The Mercedes garage was a hive of controlled chaos. Data screens glowed. Tools clinked with precision. George, already kitted out in his race suit, was deep in conversation with his race engineer, Marcus.

Qualifying began, and the tension was a physical entity in the air. Q1 was a blur of early laps, the gradual elimination of the slower cars. Your eyes darted between the live timing screens and the car on the circuit, even as the commentary whispered through your earpiece.

You saw Alex's name pop up, confidently clearing Q1, then Q2. He was truly performing, extracting every ounce of potential from the Williams.

You felt a surge of pride for him, a quiet, personal cheer that no one else could hear or see.

Then came Q3, the pinnacle. George, ever the perfectionist, pushed the Mercedes to its absolute limit. The car danced on the edge, a symphony of power and control.

You held your breath as his final lap flashed across the screen – green, green, green. The garage erupted. Cheers, fist bumps, a collective exhale of relief and triumph.

George Russell, P1. Pole position at his home race. You clapped, a genuine, joyful smile on your face, your brother’s success a shared victory.

As the dust settled and the final grid order solidified, you scanned the results board. George, P1. And there it was: Alex, P7. A fantastic result for Williams, a testament to his talent and the team's hard work.

You felt a quiet thrill for him, a thrill that was entirely separate from the Mercedes celebration around you. You knew what that meant for his race, for his morale. And for your evening.

Later, as George was being swarmed by media, still buzzing with the adrenaline of pole, you made your excuses, citing the need to check on some of the junior drivers after their strenuous sessions.

He waved a hand dismissively, caught up in the high of the moment. “Yeah, yeah, go on. Catch you later, Y/N. Long night of celebrations ahead!”

You offered a supportive smile, but your mind was already elsewhere. Slipping away, you found a quiet corner near the hospitality unit bathrooms to reapply your makeup.

You tucked your hair behind your ears, applying a touch of lip gloss.

Your phone buzzed. It was Alex.

Meet you by the parking lot in 15? My car’s outside the back gate.

Your heart gave a little flutter. On my way. you replied, a smile playing on your lips.

The walk was quick, your steps light with anticipation. You saw his car, a discreet black SUV, waiting patiently. He was already inside, a cap pulled low, his phone in his hand.

As you approached, he looked up, and the smile that spread across his face was genuine, warm, and entirely for you.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over to unlock the passenger door. “Perfect timing.”

You slid into the comfortable leather seat, the interior a quiet sanctuary from the noise of the track. “Hey yourself. Congrats on P7, Alex. Seriously impressive out there.”

He chuckled, pulling away smoothly. “Thanks. P1 for George, though, eh? He’s flying. Must be the home crowd energy.”

“Or maybe,” you teased, leaning your head back, “he just listens to his sister's professional medical advice.”

He laughed, a genuine, easy sound that filled the car. “Ah, yes, the legendary advice. Will it help me tomorrow?”

“Only if you consume the right amount of performance-enhancing nutrients,” you replied playfully.

The conversation flowed effortlessly as he navigated the winding country roads away from Silverstone. You talked about the nuances of the track, the struggles of the Williams car, the sheer intensity of qualifying.

But then, almost imperceptibly, the conversation shifted. You found yourselves discussing life outside F1. His love for his animals, your passion for indie films, the ridiculousness of social media trends, the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly cooked meal.

He’d chosen a small, charming gastropub nestled in a tiny village about twenty minutes from the track. It was exactly as he’d described: quiet, intimate, a world away from the bright lights and roaring engines.

The lighting was soft, the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations providing a gentle backdrop.

You sat opposite him, bathed in the warm glow of a nearby lamp, and for the first time all weekend, you felt truly relaxed.

“So,” Alex said, swirling the wine in his glass, his eyes twinkling. “This ‘medical consultation’ is going rather well, wouldn’t you say? I feel my chronic Mario Kart addiction symptoms… lessening.”

You laughed, a genuine, full sound that surprised even yourself. “Excellent. The treatment protocol seems to be effective. Though, I might need to prescribe a follow-up session.”

“I’d be happy to comply,” he said, his gaze lingering on yours, a warmth in his eyes that sent a shiver down your spine.

As the evening progressed, the food was delicious, but it was secondary to the company. You learned about his childhood in Thailand, his early racing dreams, the struggles and triumphs that had led him to Formula 1.

He listened intently as you spoke about your life as a doctor, the challenges and rewards of your profession, the occasional craziness of being George’s twin.

He asked thoughtful questions, genuinely interested, not just politely waiting for his turn to speak.

You found yourself captivated by him. His self-deprecating humour, his quiet intensity, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he truly smiled.

He wasn’t loud or flashy, but there was an undeniable magnetism about him, a genuine kindness that shone through.

You noticed the small things: the way he offered you the last bite of bread, the respectful way he spoke about his competitors, the subtle shift in his posture when he was truly engaged in a topic.

At one point, as you were discussing a particularly dramatic hospital case, you gestured animatedly, and your hand brushed against his on the table.

It was a fleeting, accidental touch, but a jolt went through you. His fingers subtly shifted, just enough to graze yours for a fraction longer, a silent acknowledgment that sent a blush creeping up your neck.

You quickly pulled your hand back, trying to appear nonchalant, but your heart was doing a frantic little dance.

The easy conversation continued, punctuated by comfortable silences, shared glances, and genuine smiles. You found yourself leaning in a little, drawn to his easy charm, his thoughtful responses.

The fact that he was a Formula 1 driver, a colleague of your brother, faded into the background. Here, he was just Alex, and you were just you, two people discovering an unexpected, delightful connection.

As the evening wound down, and he drove you to your apartment, the air in the car felt different, charged with unspoken feelings. The comfortable ease of the drive earlier had deepened into something more profound.

“Thank you for tonight, Alex,” you said, turning to him as he parked. “It was… perfect. Exactly what I needed.”

He turned off the engine, plunging the car into a soft, quiet darkness, save for the distant glow of the paddock lights. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

He reached out, his hand gently touching your arm, his thumb stroking softly. “I really enjoyed it, Y/N. More than I thought I would.”

Your breath hitched slightly. The touch was light, yet sent shivers down your arm. You looked into his eyes, and saw a depth there that confirmed everything you had been feeling.

It wasn’t just a pleasant evening. It was a connection, undeniable and strong.

“Me too,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

He leaned in, just slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you. Your eyes fluttered closed, anticipation coiling in your stomach.

But then he pulled back, just enough to hold your gaze, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

“I should let you get some rest. Big day tomorrow, for both of us.” His voice was laced with an undeniable regret, but also respect.

You nodded, a little breathless, your heart still hammering. “Right. Big day.” You opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air. “Good luck tomorrow, Alex.”

“You too, Y/N. And tell George I said good luck as well.”

You closed the door softly, watching as his car slowly pulled away. As the tail lights disappeared into the darkness, you let out a long, shaky breath.

Climbing into your bed, the scent of the evening still lingering on your clothes, you replayed every moment of the date. His laugh, the way he looked at you, the warmth of his hand on your arm.

George’s rules. Your career. The complexities of the F1 world. All of it was there, a looming shadow. But tonight, none of it mattered.

Tonight, there was only one undeniable truth: you liked Alex Albon.

More than you dared to admit, even to yourself. You liked him a lot.

And the thought of Sunday, of seeing him again, of the quiet, hopeful promise of what might be, filled you with a thrill that dwarfed even the drama of the race ahead. The real race, you knew, had only just begun. . . .

Sunday

The distant rumble of engines was your morning alarm on Sunday. You woke with a nervous flutter in your stomach, a mix of race day jitters for George and a quiet hum of anticipation for seeing Alex again.

The air in the Silverstone paddock, even at this early hour, crackled with an electric energy.

You chose a sleek, navy blue dress that morning, a colour that subtly nodded to your brother’s team while still feeling distinctly you. It was practical yet elegant, fitting the dual role you played – supportive sister and discreet specialist, always ready for the unexpected.

Your parents, older sister, and younger brother were already gathered in the Mercedes hospitality suite, the usual pre-race buzz filling the air.

There were shared anecdotes from Saturday’s pole position, good-natured teasing of George, and predictions for the race. You offered a quiet smile, participating in the family banter, but your gaze kept drifting towards the Williams garage.

A few minutes before the drivers’ parade, you saw him, walking with his engineer, a casual intensity in his posture. Your eyes met across the bustling paddock for a fleeting moment.

He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a private acknowledgment that sent a warmth through you. You returned it, a secret smile playing on your lips, before George clapped you heartily on the back, pulling you into a conversation about tire strategy that instantly grounded you back into the reality of the day.

The grid was a kaleidoscope of colour and noise. You stood with your family in the garage, the tension palpable. The roar of the engines as they completed the formation lap vibrated through your chest.

George, alone at the front. Alex, a respectable P7 – a fantastic starting position for him. You clutched your hands, a prayer on your lips for both of them.

And then, the lights went out.

The world erupted into a frenzy of motion. The cars bolted away, a blur of speed and precision. George's MP4-36 shot off the line, its engine screaming in protest as he coaxed every ounce of power from it.

You watched, heart in your throat, as he held off Max Verstappen's charging Red Bull into the first corner.

The crowd around you roared as the two titans of the track battled for supremacy. You felt the heat from their cars, the thunder of their engines resonating in your very soul.

For the first few laps, it was a dance of steel and rubber. Max, relentless, tried every trick in the book to unsettle George. But George was on fire, holding his line with a confidence that was awe-inspiring.

You could feel the energy of the team behind you, the collective will to win pulsing through the garage. The adrenaline was intoxicating, a symphony of passion and power.

Alex, meanwhile, was a force in the midfield. Every time his car flashed across the screen, you felt a burst of pride.

He was fighting, clawing his way through the pack with a tenacity that defied his youth. Each pass met with a cheer from you and the others in the Mercedes suite.

As the race unfolded, George's dominance grew. The gap between him and Max widened, and the tension in the garage began to ease.

You allowed yourself to breathe again, the smile on your face growing genuine. The sun glinted off the sweat on your skin as you leaned against the wall, the coolness of the concrete a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

The sweet scent of burning rubber and hot asphalt filled the air, a heady cocktail that heightened every sensation.

In the midst of the chaos, you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder. You turned to find your mother, her eyes shimmering with excitement.

"This is his day," she shouted over the cacophony, and you nodded, the words resonating deep within you. The bond between you and George was unspoken but palpable, a silent pact of support and understanding.

Then, the collective gasp.

It happened in a fraction of a second, a sickening crunch of carbon fibre and a plume of dust. Into Maggotts and Becketts, Max had gone for an audacious move, clipping George’s rear tyre.

George’s car, the pristine Mercedes W14, was sent spinning, airborne, flipping twice before slamming into the barrier with a devastating impact.

“Russell! Can you move? George! Are you okay?” Marcus, George’s race engineer, practically screamed into the radio, his voice cracking with desperation.

Silence. Only the faint crackle of static.

Your mother’s hand found your shoulder, squeezing so hard it almost bruised. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. Your father stood rigid, his jaw clenched.

Your siblings were frozen, their faces reflecting the same horror you felt.

You saw the marshals reach the car, the cameras zoomed in just enough to show George’s helmeted head lolling against the headrest, his body almost limp as they tried to extract him.

The professional detachment you usually maintained as a doctor, even when watching racing incidents, shattered into a million pieces. This wasn’t just a driver. This was George. Your twin.

But you knew you had to keep it together. You couldn’t sprint out there, not without compromising his care. Instead, you bolted for the med center, already calling ahead to prep for his arrival.

Your legs felt like jelly, your heart racing faster than the cars on the track. The pitlane was a blur as you sprinted, the cacophony of the race a distant echo.

By the time the medical car screeched to a halt outside the medical center, you were already there, scrubbed up and ready.

The doors flew open, and George was lifted out on a stretcher, his eyes glassy with pain. You stepped forward, voice firm. “I’ve got this.”

The paramedics looked surprised but nodded, recognizing the authority in your tone. You were a doctor first and foremost, and even in the high-pressure world of Formula One, your expertise was unquestionable.

They swiftly transferred him to the exam table, and you began to assess his injuries. His right arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and you could see the swelling around his knee.

But it was his head that concerned you most, the slight tilt telling a story of potential trauma beneath the confines of the helmet.

You worked methodically, each touch of your hands on his body sending a tremor of concern through you. The scent of burnt rubber clung to his overalls, mixing with the coppery tang of blood and the faint smell of fear.

His breaths were shallow and rapid, but his pulse was strong beneath your fingertips. You ordered a series of tests and scans, ensuring that no stone was left unturned.

The medical staff moved with silent efficiency, reading the urgency in your eyes, the unspoken promise that you would do everything in your power to ensure George's well-being.

Even as the adrenaline coursed through your veins, you knew that the race was still on. The screens around the med center flashed with the chaos unfolding on the track, the commentators' voices a distant murmur in the background.

But here, in this sterile bubble, the only race that mattered was the one for George's recovery. The cacophony of the circuit faded away as you focused on the soft whirr of the MRI machine, the beep of the monitors, and the steady rhythm of George's pulse.

You were so thankful they had made you in charge of this operation. The trust the team had placed in you was a balm to your frayed nerves. You knew George better than anyone – his pain thresholds, his medical history, his quirks and tendencies.

This knowledge made you an invaluable asset, and you were determined not to let anyone down, especially not your brother. You had seen his eyes as they wheeled him in, the silent plea for you to fix him, to make him whole again.

As you worked, you could feel the weight of the team's collective gaze on you. The air in the med center was thick with their unspoken prayers.

You had to be the rock, the one who could navigate this medical storm with precision and calm. Every tap of the keyboard, every beep of the machines, was a symphony conducted by your steady hand. The adrenaline was a drug, pushing you to be sharper, to move faster.

The scans revealed what you had feared most - a fractured collarbone and a severe concussion. You took a deep breath, the taste of antiseptic lingering on your tongue.

he surgery to fix the collarbone would be straightforward enough, but the brain was a delicate dance. You conferred with the neurosurgeon, a man you had worked alongside countless times, but today his usual confidence was tinged with a hint of doubt.

You knew George's career was in your hands, and you had to be the one to make the call.

The anesthesia was administered, and George's eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm.

You took a moment, just one, to lay your hand on his forehead, whispering a silent promise that you'd do everything to get him back on the track.

Then, you donned your scrubs and stepped into the operating theater. The coolness of the room washed over you, a stark contrast to the heat of the race outside.

The smell of alcohol and antiseptic washed away the last traces of the paddock, leaving only the sanctity of your work.

The surgery to repair George's collarbone was a symphony of scalpels and sutures, your hands moving with the grace of a pianist playing a favorite sonnet. The bone was set, the incision closed with meticulous care.

Each stitch was a note in a melody that would soon have him back behind the wheel. The surgery was successful, but it was the concussion that lingered like an unwelcome guest.

You ordered an overnight stay for observation, knowing that George would be fighting you every step of the way.

When the race ended, the air was filled with the sweet victory of another driver, but for you, the most critical race was still ongoing.

You stepped out of the theater into the waiting area, the stark lights jolting you out of the tension-filled bubble of the operating room. Marcus, Toto, and Lewis were there, their expressions a tumult of relief and anxiety.

They had come to check on George, their own race now a distant memory as the fate of their friend and rival weighed heavily on their minds.

Marcus looked up as you emerged, his eyes searching yours for any sign of news.

"How is he?" Marcus asked, his voice taut with concern.

You took a moment to compose yourself, the gravity of the situation still pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. "He's stable. The surgery went well, but he's got a concussion. We're keeping him overnight for observation."

Toto nodded solemnly, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a steely resolve. "We're here for whatever he needs."

Lewis' gaze was distant, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features. He was the calm in the storm, his presence a reassuring constant in a world of chaos and speed.

"We've got to keep him safe," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

Lewis stepped closer, his eyes searching your face. "How bad is the concussion?" His voice was low, his British accent thick with concern.

You took a deep breath, the cool air of the hospital a stark contrast to the sterile air of the operating room. "It's serious, but he's strong. He'll pull through," you assured them, trying to infuse your voice with a confidence you didn't quite feel.

Toto's eyes searched yours, his jaw tight. You knew he was holding back a flood of questions, a torrent of worry for his driver.

"I'm glad you did the operation," Lewis said, his voice a low rumble. His words hung in the air, a quiet affirmation of your skills. The way George talked about you had clearly painted a picture of a doctor who could handle the most daunting of challenges with a steady hand and a cool head.

The weight of their trust settled over you, a warm blanket of reassurance that you'd do everything to ensure George's recovery.

Marcus and Toto nodded in agreement, their expressions a mirror of the relief that had washed over you when George's pulse remained strong despite the chaos.

"He's lucky to have you, Dr. Russell," Toto said, his German accent clipped with stress. "Your work today was nothing short of remarkable."

Lewis, however, remained silent, his eyes never leaving George's still form. "He talked about you a lot," he murmured, his eyes finally meeting yours. "He said you had the touch of an angel. That you could fix anything."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, heat rising in your cheeks. The compliment, especially coming from Lewis, was unexpected.

You had heard the rumors, the whispers of the deep bond between George and Lewis, and the idea that George had spoken of you so highly to his closest rival was both flattering and unsettling. "I just did what was necessary," you replied, trying to downplay your role.

"Nonsense," Toto interjected, his voice gruff with emotion. "You did what none of us could. You kept him safe." His words were a balm to your soul, the validation you needed in that moment.

You had always been in the shadow of George's racing career, the quiet sibling who supported from the sidelines. But today, you had taken center stage, your medical prowess shining through the gloom of his accident.

"Thank you, George is still unconscious but you can come tomorrow to check on him," you said to the trio, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging within. They nodded, their expressions a blend of relief and determination.

The three men looked at you with a newfound respect, their eyes speaking volumes of their gratitude. Marcus nodded solemnly, his hand squeezing yours for a brief second.

"Thank you, Dr. Russell. We'll leave you to it, but we'll be here tomorrow, bright and early."

As the door to the hospital room clicked shut, you allowed yourself to lean against the wall, feeling the tremor of exhaustion run through your body.

The room was a cocoon of soft beeps and hums, the monitors keeping vigil over George's slumbering form. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the hiss of the oxygen mask a stark reminder of the battle he had faced.

Max, his rival, had sent a bouquet of flowers and a heartfelt note, filled with genuine apologies for the accident. You felt a pang of something - pity, perhaps - for the young man.

The weight of guilt had to be heavy, especially for someone like Max, whose career was built on a foundation of aggressive driving. The camaraderie between drivers was a complex tapestry of respect, rivalry, and mutual understanding of the risks they took.

Lando had visited earlier, his eyes red-rimmed and his usually cheery disposition subdued. He had whispered his regret, his voice thick with unshed tears. You had patted his hand, offering gentle words of comfort.

"It's not your fault, Lando," you assured him. "These things happen in racing. George knows that better than anyone."

Lando's eyes searched yours, desperate for absolution. "But I saw his car… I knew it was bad." His voice cracked, the reality of the situation sinking in.

"Lando, focus," you said firmly, squeezing his hand. "We need to be strong for him."

He nodded, wiping at his eyes. "I'll do my best."

As the door closed behind Lando, you were left with your thoughts, the silence of the hospital room a stark contrast to the chaos of the track. You took a moment to let the gravity of the situation settle in, the weight of George's condition a heavy burden on your shoulders.

What if he didn't wake up? What if the surgery hadn't gone well? What if you had missed something? The what-ifs danced like shadows in your mind, taunting you with the possibility of failure.

You had seen the accident unfold in slow motion, the crunch of carbon fiber on metal, the sickening flip of the car, the way it had come to rest against the barriers.

Your stomach lurched at the memory, the smell of burnt rubber and the metallic tang of fear still lingering in your nose.

You felt your heart race, the thud of it echoing in your ears as you approached George's bedside. The guilt was a living creature inside you, clawing at your insides, whispering that maybe, just maybe, you had made a mistake.

But no, you had done everything by the book, you had been thorough, you had been careful. You had to trust in your abilities.

But then, you heard it. The softest of knocks, almost imperceptible in the cocoon of the hospital room.

You turned, expecting a nurse or perhaps another concerned team member. But there, in the doorway, stood Alex. His eyes searched the room, taking in the scene before settling on you, a silent question in his gaze.

You could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the remnants of the race still clinging to his skin, the scent of adrenaline and fear.

Your heart skipped a beat. He had come, even after the race.

Alex pushed the door open gently, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked like a man who had just survived a war, his race suit still bearing the scars of the day's battle.

The sight of him filled you with an inexplicable warmth, a feeling that was both comforting and unsettling. You had always kept your distance from the drivers, maintaining a professional detachment that was crucial in your line of work.

But there was something about Alex that made you want to throw caution to the wind.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice a caress that sent shivers down your spine. The tension between you was palpable, a silent question hanging in the air.

You nodded, unable to find the words to articulate the turmoil of emotions that churned within you. The race had ended, but the adrenaline still hummed in his veins, a potent cocktail that seemed to amplify his presence.

"Are you okay?" he asked again, the concern in his eyes genuine.

You nodded, the words sticking in your throat like a dry mouthful of sand. "Yeah, George is stable. The surgery went well, but he's got a concussion. We're keeping him overnight for observation," you repeated, the words becoming a comforting mantra in the face of the uncertainty.

Alex took a tentative step forward, the weight of his concern etched into the lines of his face. His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth beyond the medical jargon.

"Y/n?" he asked, the question hanging in the air.

You nodded, the gesture feeling more like a reflex than a deliberate response.

Your eyes remained locked on George, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. You were acutely aware of Alex's presence, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through your body.

"Are you okay?" Alex repeated, placing the bouquet of flowers on the small table beside George's bed. His gaze was gentle as it met yours, the question in his eyes more than just a formality.

He walked slowly towards you, his movements deliberate and cautious, as if you were a wild creature that might bolt at any sudden noise.

You looked down at your hands, clutched together so tightly that the knuckles had gone white. "I'm fine," you lied, your voice a thin thread of sound that barely made it past your trembling lips.

You hadn't thought about yourself, not once since the accident. Your entire being was consumed with George's condition, the fear of what might happen, the dread of what could have been.

Alex took another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You don't look fine," he said softly, the concern in his voice cutting through the fog of your own terror. "You look like you're about to break."

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, and suddenly, you realized that he was right.

You weren't okay. You were terrified. The tremor in your hands spread to your entire body, and you felt the first hot tears spill over your lashes, tracing a path down your cheeks.

You hadn't allowed yourself to feel, not since the moment you had seen George's car spin out of control. You had been a doctor, a sister, a rock for everyone else to lean on.

But now, in the quiet of this hospital room, with the man who had shared your most intimate secrets, you felt the dam of your emotions threaten to crumble.

Alex gently pulled your arm into a hug, his touch a warm embrace that seemed to envelop you in a cocoon of safety.

His arms were strong, his grip firm yet tender, as if he knew that you were teetering on the edge of a precipice and he alone could hold you back from the abyss.

The scent of him – a mix of sweat, engine oil, and a faint hint of the cologne he favored – was a grounding force, bringing you back to the present.

You were shaking, uncontrollably, your body releasing the pent-up tension in a series of tremors. Your heart felt like it was racing to escape the confines of your chest, and your breath came in shallow gasps that seemed to echo the erratic rhythm of George's monitors.

The tears fell in silent rivers, staining the collar of your surgical gown, the fabric sticking to your skin as you leaned into Alex's embrace.

His arms tightened around you, his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your cheek. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had been the last few hours, a beacon of calm in the storm.

You felt his warm breath against your ear as he whispered words of comfort, his voice a soothing balm to the rawness of your nerves.

"He'll be okay," Alex said, his voice filled with a certainty that you desperately needed. "You're the best, Y/N. You're going to get him through this."

You nodded, the words a prayer that you hoped would come true. You knew that George's recovery was uncertain, the concussion a shadowy specter that could claim his career, his very essence.

The thought was unbearable, a weight that threatened to crush you.

But as Alex held you, something inside you began to unravel. The tightly wound ball of fear and anxiety that had been coiled in your stomach since the accident started to loosen, the threads unspooling as he whispered sweet nothings that didn't mean anything and everything all at once.

You felt the tension in your muscles begin to ease, the trembling subsiding as his warmth seeped into your bones.

His hand found the nape of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the electric connection that had always been between you.

The air was thick with it, a silent current that seemed to hum in the quiet hospital room.

"You shouldn't touch me," you murmured into his arms. "I'm sweaty and you probably came from a shower."

Alex chuckled, the vibration of his chest rumbling through your cheek. "You think I can't handle a little sweat?" His voice was a warm caress that seemed to melt the tension in the air around you.

His thumb brushed against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

You pulled back slightly, wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand. The look in his eyes was a mix of concern and something else, something that made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the fear of George's condition.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, despite the coolness of the hospital room. “It’s… it’s been a long day,” you mumbled, pulling your arm free from his gentle grasp, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you.

You were a mess, truly. Your scrub top was damp with tears and sweat, your hair was probably plastered to your forehead, and your face felt blotchy and swollen.

This wasn’t how you wanted him to see you, not when you constantly strove to project an image of unwavering professionalism.

Alex watched you, his gaze unwavering. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a profound, almost aching tenderness. He didn’t push, didn’t try to embrace you again.

Instead, he simply reached out, his calloused thumb brushing against the tear track on your cheek, a ghost of a touch that sent shivers further down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s been a long day for all of us. But especially for you. You were the first one there.”

“I just… I just hope I did everything right,” you whispered, the fear tightening its grip around your throat again. “Every step, every decision… what if I missed something, Alex? What if there was a better way, a faster way, a way to prevent… this?” You gestured vaguely towards George, lying pale and still in the bed.

Alex stepped closer again, his proximity a tangible warmth in the cool room. “You’re the best, Y/N,” he reiterated, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “Everyone in the paddock knows that. If anyone could have done it, it was you. You saved his life, didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard, the compliment a small balm to your frayed nerves. “I did my job,” you corrected, the familiar mantra of professionalism.

“More than your job,” he countered, his eyes holding yours. “You’re more than a doctor, Y/N. You’re… family. To George, to Lando, to me.”

The word hung between you, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with each shared secret, each shared victory, each shared heartbreak.

The paddock was a family in its own right, a dysfunctional one, perhaps, but a family nonetheless. You had watched George and Alex rise through the ranks together, their friendship a testament to the resilience of those who dared to dream.

Now, in the sterile quiet of George’s hospital room, the rules seemed to dissipate like mist. The raw fear of the accident had stripped away the polite veneers, leaving only the truth of your emotions.

Alex reached out again, this time taking your hands. His fingers were long and strong, lightly calloused from gripping a steering wheel for hours on end, yet his touch was incredibly gentle.

He turned your hands over, tracing the lines on your palm with his thumb. “You’re allowed to break, Y/N,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on your hands. “You’re allowed to feel this. We all are.”

You pulled your hand from his, the warmth of his skin lingering even as the chill of the hospital air seeped through your thin scrubs. “We’re different, Alex… I’ll be outside.”

Your voice was a strained whisper, barely audible above the quiet hum of the life support machines and the frantic beat of your own heart.

You didn’t wait for a response, didn’t dare to look back, just turned on your heel and practically bolted from George’s room.

The antiseptic scent of the corridor seemed to choke you, a stark contrast to the familiar smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel that usually defined your world.

You walked quickly, blindly, until you found yourself in the small, sterile waiting area.

Collapsing onto a hard plastic chair, you buried your face in your hands, the tremor in your fingers betraying the composure you prided yourself on maintaining.

No dating drivers. The rule. George’s rule. Not just for him, but for you. It wasn't an official team policy, no HR memo, but it was an unspoken boundary, a line drawn in the sand by the very people you called family.

You remembered the day George had first laid it out, half-joking, half-deadly serious, over lukewarm coffee in a sterile hospitality unit. You were then a fresh-faced junior doctor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, utterly thrilled to be working with one of the most prestigious motorsport teams.

George, a rising star, had already established himself as the witty, charming, fiercely loyal pillar of your small group of friends.

“Look, Y/N,” he’d said, stirring his sugar packet with meticulous precision, “this paddock… it’s a bubble. And we’re all stuck in it. We have each other, right? Lando, Alex, me. We’re family. And family doesn’t… complicate things.”

He’d winked at you, but his eyes were serious. “Especially not with one of us. It’s too messy. Too high stakes. We need you sharp, rational. No distractions.”

You’d laughed then, dismissing it as George being George, ever the big brother. But over the years, the wisdom in his words had seeped into your bones.

You’d seen the casual flings, the intense, short-lived romances that bloomed and died within a race weekend, leaving jagged edges and awkward paddock encounters in their wake. You’d seen the toll it took on performance, on mental health.

Your role was to keep your patients at peak condition, both physically and mentally. Emotions were a liability you couldn't afford. You’d seen it play out for other medical staff; a few had left the sport entirely after messy heartbreaks with personnel, or worse, drivers.

George’s rule was a shield, protecting not just your life dynamic, but you.

And yet, here you were. George, your friend, almost certainly still unconscious, hooked up to a life support system.

And Alex… Alex, who had looked at you with such raw, undisguised concern, who had held your hand and offered you permission to break.

The very man who, despite your best efforts to maintain professional distance, had somehow burrowed his way beneath your carefully constructed defenses.

You closed your eyes, picturing the way his strong fingers had traced the lines of your palm. The callouses, a testament to his life’s passion, yet the touch so feather-light, almost reverent.

It had sent a shudder through you, a warmth that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with a burgeoning feeling you’d tried desperately to ignore.

In the sterile quiet of the hospital, the rules had dissipated. The raw fear of George’s accident had stripped away the polite veneers, leaving only the truth. And the truth was, you were terrifyingly, undeniably attached.

You spent the rest of the night alternating between George’s bedside, monitoring his vitals with a hawk-like intensity that bordered on obsessive, and the waiting area.

Alex was a constant, unsettling presence. He didn’t push, didn’t speak of what had happened between you just hours ago, but his eyes followed you, a silent question in their depths.

He brought you terrible hospital coffee, a stale sandwich, and for a fleeting moment, as he placed the cup in your hand, his fingers brushed yours. A spark, a jolt, that made you jerk back as if burned.

Two days later, and George woke up. The moment was a blur of beeping machines and the rustle of starched sheets. His eyes fluttered open, the green of his irises a stark contrast to the stark whiteness of the hospital room.

The first thing he saw was you, and his face broke into a lopsided smile, a flash of teeth and relief.

When George finally opened his eyes, a hoarse groan escaping his lips, you were the first face he saw.

A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled your knees, washed over you. “Y/N,” he mumbled, his voice raspy. “What…?”

You patiently explained, your voice calm and steady, outlining the extent of his injuries – significant, but thankfully not life-threatening – and the long road to recovery ahead.

As you spoke, you were acutely aware of Alex, standing silently in the doorway, his own relief palpable.

He caught your eye, a small, weary smile playing on his lips. You gave him a curt nod, a professional acknowledgment, and turned back to George.

The days that followed were a blur of medical jargon, pain management, and physical therapy. Thankfully, it was summer break, and George had the luxury of time to heal.

The Mercedes team rallied around him, offering support and privacy, and you were granted a rare leave from your duties to oversee his recovery in Monaco.

The moment you wheeled George into his luxurious apartment, with its sweeping views of the Mediterranean and the twinkling lights of the Principality below, you felt the weight of his vulnerability.

The apartment was a stark contrast to the high-octane world of Formula One, a sanctuary of quiet opulence that was as much a part of George as the racetrack.

The air smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood, the scent of his favorite candles, a soothing balm to the sterility of the hospital.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. "How do you feel?" you asked, your voice a gentle whisper in the quiet room.

George's eyes searched yours, the pain and confusion in them a stark reminder of the ordeal he had just been through. "Sore," he replied, his voice a gruff rasp. "But alive."

The smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth was a reflection of the relief that flooded through you. "That's what matters," you said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

The warmth of his skin, the solidity of his grip, was reassurance that he was still here, still fighting.

As you settled into the rhythm of George's recovery, the days grew into a dance of pain and progress. Each day was a battle, a marathon of rehabilitation exercises and medical checks that left you both exhausted yet hopeful.

The first time he managed to sit up without wincing was a victory, a tiny step towards the podium of health. You watched him, the fierce determination etched into his face, and felt a swell of pride.

This was George – your brother, your patient, your hero.

Alex visited daily, bringing with him a tapestry of emotions that was both comforting and confusing. His eyes searched yours with a hunger that went beyond friendship, a question that made your heart race.

You tried to keep the boundaries firm, but the accident had shattered the illusion of control. You felt the electricity in the air when he was near, a charge that made your skin tingle, your pulse quicken.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over Monaco, George’s voice was stronger than it had been in days.

He sat propped up in bed, the soft light of the lamps playing on the planes of his face, highlighting the shadows of his beard. "What's going on with you and Alex?" he asked, his eyes searching your own.

You stilled, the question hitting you like a surprise pit stop. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice too high, too bright, a poorly concealed shield.

George's gaze was knowing, a hint of amusement in his eyes despite his pain. "You know exactly what I mean, sis. The way you two look at each other when you think no one's watching. It's like watching a Formula One race where only you two know the real prize."

Heat flooded your cheeks, and you swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "It's… complicated, George."

He leaned back into his pillows with a sigh, his eyes never leaving yours. "You know the rule, Y/N. No dating drivers."

You nodded, the words like a knife twisting in your gut. "I know. But it's not just about that."

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. "It's about keeping my head in the game, making sure I'm always there for you."

George's smile was soft, understanding. "You don't have to explain it to me. I know you better than anyone. But maybe it's time to consider that sometimes, the rules are there to be broken."

Your heart stuttered at his words, hope and fear mingling in a dizzying cocktail. Could it be possible?

You'd spent so long pushing away the very idea of a relationship with Alex, convincing yourself it was for the greater good. But now, with the world outside the hospital walls feeling so distant, the lines blurred.

Alex's visits grew more frequent, and the tension between you grew more palpable with each passing day. The air in the apartment was charged with unspoken words, every glance a silent conversation.

You felt the weight of his gaze on you as you moved around the room, the brush of his hand against yours as you passed a water bottle or adjusted George's pillows.

One evening, after George had finally fallen into a deep, pain-free sleep, Alex found you on the balcony, staring out over the twinkling cityscape.

The night was warm and still, the scent of the sea mingling with the faint echo of distant laughter from the marina. He approached slowly, his footsteps silent on the cool stone.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet.

You turned to face him, the breeze playing with the loose strands of your hair. "I'm just… processing," you replied, your eyes not quite meeting his.

The air between you was thick with unspoken feelings, a current that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Alex stepped closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cool marble beneath your bare feet. "We all are," he said, his voice low and soothing. "But George is going to be fine. You know that."

You nodded, the tightness in your chest loosening just a fraction at his words. "I know." But it was more than George's recovery that had you on edge.

It was the undeniable pull between you and Alex, a force that had grown stronger with every shared look, every whispered conversation, every heart-wrenching moment of fear and hope.

Alex stepped closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, a comforting presence in the still night.

He reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, a jolt of sensation that made you acutely aware of every inch of space between you.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. You wanted to lean into his touch, to surrender to the comfort he offered, but years of disciplined self-control fought against the impulse.

Your role, your duty, your brother – they were the anchors that had always kept you grounded, kept your focus laser-sharp on the track, on George, on the meticulous dance of performance and recovery.

Now, those anchors felt like chains, holding you back from something you instinctively craved.

“Y/N,” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper, a low vibration that seemed to resonate through your very bones.

His thumb gently stroked just below your temple, a feather-light touch that promised both solace and a simmering intensity. “You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”

Your eyes finally met his, and in their depths, you saw a reflection of your own vulnerability, a depth of understanding that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

There was no judgment, only a raw, open concern that pulled at something deep inside you. The cool night air seemed to thicken, charged with an electricity that hummed between you.

“I… I’m supposed to,” you confessed, the words barely audible. “It’s my job. To be strong. For him. For everyone.”

You gestured vaguely towards the apartment, towards the sleeping figure of your brother, the silent testament to the life-altering event that had brought you to this precipice.

Alex’s hand moved from your face to cup your cheek, his touch firm but tender. “And who is strong for you, Y/N?” he asked, his gaze unwavering. “Who looks after the person who looks after everyone else?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, unwanted and unexpected. The sheer exhaustion of the past weeks, the constant vigilance, the fear, the relentless push of rehabilitation – it all threatened to spill over.

For so long, you had been the rock, the unshakeable force. To have someone see past that facade, to see you, felt like a dam cracking under immense pressure.

“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling. The admission was a profound relief, a burden lifted that you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

Alex’s gaze softened further, a warmth spreading through you from where his hand rested on your skin. “Let me,” he simply said. It wasn’t a question, but a quiet offering, a promise. “Let me be that person.”

The air crackled, the unspoken heavy between you. You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness of the night.

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to pull away, to maintain the professional distance, the carefully constructed walls that had protected you.

But another part, a deeper, more primal part, yearned to collapse into him, to finally release the tension that had been building for what felt like an eternity.

You thought of George’s words: “Maybe it’s time to consider that sometimes, the rules are there to be broken.”

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

Your brother, the very reason for the rule, was now giving you permission to consider breaking it. And in this moment, looking into Alex’s eyes, the rules seemed impossibly distant, irrelevant.

“Alex…” You started, your voice barely a whisper, unsure what you were going to say.

To confess the truth of your feelings, the way your stomach did flip-flops whenever he entered the room, the way your thoughts drifted to him even in the most intense moments of George’s therapy, felt like stepping off a cliff.

He didn't wait for you to finish. As if reading the tumultuous storm within you, he leaned in, his eyes dropping to your lips. "I can't pretend anymore, Y/N," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Being here, seeing you every day, seeing what you do for George… it's just amplified everything. I've tried to deny it, to push it down, but I can't. I'm completely, hopelessly in love with you."

The words hung in the air, potent and raw. In love. The sheer audacity of it, the overwhelming truth of it, stunned you into silence.

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring slightly as your own emotions, long suppressed, surged to the surface.

It wasn't just physical attraction, not just a fleeting spark. It was something deep, something that had been quietly growing beneath the surface of your professional interactions, nourished by shared anxieties and unspoken understanding.

"Alex," you breathed, the name a shaky confession on your lips. Your hand instinctively reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath your touch. The vulnerability in his eyes mirrored your own.

"I know the rules," he continued, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I know your dedication to George, to your career. But what if… what if it doesn't have to be a choice? What if we could have both?"

Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your ribs, echoing the urgency in his voice. The rational part of your brain screamed warnings, reminding you of the complexities, the potential pitfalls, the wrath of the team principal and the media.

But the other part, the one that had been starved of personal connection for so long, yearned for the solace Alex offered. It yearned for him.

"I…" You trailed off, unable to form a coherent sentence. His words had unravelled the tight knot of your self-control.

The truth, long buried beneath layers of professionalism and familial duty, demanded to be acknowledged. "I think… I think I'm in love with you too, Alex." The admission was a floodgate, releasing a torrent of emotion.

A soft gasp escaped his lips, a look of profound relief washing over his face. The tension that had held him taut for weeks seemed to melt away.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours for confirmation, for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, a slow, tender smile spread across his face, eclipsing the worry that had resided there for so long.

"Y/N," he whispered, your name a prayer. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.

You met him halfway, your eyes fluttering closed as his lips finally, blessedly, met yours. It was a kiss born of shared fear and newfound hope, of unspoken longing and raw tenderness.

It wasn't fiery or passionate at first, but soft, hesitant, like two weary souls finding an unexpected haven. His lips were warm and gentle against yours, a soft exploration that spoke volumes of respect and reverence.

As the kiss deepened, a wave of profound relief washed over you, a feeling akin to finally breathing after being underwater for too long. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

Your hands found their way to his hair, clutching at the soft strands at the nape of his neck as the kiss grew more urgent, more consuming.

The scent of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body pressed against yours – it was overwhelming, all-encompassing.

For a moment, the world outside the balcony, the sleeping city, the still-recovering George, even the very rules that had governed your life, faded into the background. There was only Alex, and you, and the intoxicating reality of this moment.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your chest, mirroring your own.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking in the soft glow of the city lights. His eyes, when they opened, were dark and full of wonder, a raw emotion that stole your breath.

"Wow," he breathed, the single word a profound understatement. A small, shaky laugh escaped you. You felt lighter, yet intensely grounded, as if a missing piece of your soul had finally clicked into place.

"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice still thick with emotion. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, still disbelieving that this was real, that you had finally allowed yourself to step into this terrifying, beautiful unknown.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "So… what now, Y/N?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful apprehension. "Rules broken and all."

You couldn't help but smile back, a genuine, unburdened smile that felt foreign yet exhilarating. "Now," you said, glancing back towards the quiet apartment, towards George. "Now we navigate life one at a time."

The phrase, so familiar from your world, took on a new, deeply personal meaning. You had both just taken an unimaginable risk, a dive into the unknown.

The road ahead was undoubtedly fraught with challenges, with the complexities of your shared professional lives and the inevitable scrutiny that would come.

But as you looked at Alex, at the hope and tenderness in his eyes, you felt a surge of courage. For the first time in a long time, the prospect of the future, with all its unpredictability, didn't feel daunting. It felt like an adventure, and you were ready to face it, hand in hand.

The days that followed the quiet, stolen kiss on the balcony were a delicate dance of newfound intimacy and the continuing, demanding rhythm of George’s recovery.

George, ever the astute observer, seemed to notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere. He caught you and Alex exchanging knowing glances, lingering touches that lasted a fraction of a second too long, and conversations that hummed with an unspoken energy.

He would simply smile, a knowing twinkle in his eyes, and occasionally offer a cryptic, “Looks like you’re finally considering that rule-breaking, sis.”

You and Alex became experts at discretion. Your stolen moments were brief: a shared glance across George’s bed, a hand brushing yours as you passed in the kitchen, a quick, hushed conversation in the hallway while George was napping.

The balcony, once a place of confession, became your sanctuary for whispered words and fleeting kisses under the vast Monaco sky.

Each touch, each glance, was charged with the thrill of a secret, strengthening the bond that had so suddenly, so dramatically, blossomed between you.

George’s progress was steady, a testament to his formidable will and your unwavering dedication. The frustration of his limited mobility slowly gave way to the satisfaction of incremental gains.

The first time he managed a short walk around the apartment with only minimal assistance, you and Alex exchanged a look of profound relief and shared pride.

Later that evening, after George had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Alex found you weeping silently in the kitchen, not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief and joy of seeing your brother reclaim his body, step by arduous step.

He simply held you, letting you cry into his shoulder, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions.

“You did good, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice soft against your hair. “You always do.”

His unwavering support, the quiet strength he offered, solidified your feelings for him. It wasn’t just the thrill of a forbidden romance; it was the deep, resonant connection with someone who understood the pressures of your world, the sacrifices, and the unique challenges you faced.

Alex, himself a racer, knew the relentless pursuit of perfection, the gnawing anxiety, and the profound love for the sport that defined your lives.

He saw you, not just as George’s sister or his physiotherapist, but as a woman with her own desires, fears, and strengths.

As summer waned and the distant hum of the F1 season slowly began to pick up again, George’s recovery reached a critical point. He was cleared for light training, his strength returning with impressive speed.

The initial shock of the accident had given way to a quiet determination. One afternoon, as you were helping him with a new set of exercises, he paused, looking at you with a serious expression.

“You and Alex,” he began, his voice firm but gentle. “I’ve seen it. Don’t think I haven’t.”

Your heart hammered, and you braced yourself. “George…”

He held up a hand. “No, let me finish. I meant what I said on the balcony. I know my rule, and it’s there for a reason. But I also know you, Y/N. And I know Alex. He’s a good man. And you deserve to be happy.”

He looked from you to the doorway, where Alex was just entering with a fresh batch of protein shakes. Their eyes met, a brief, silent exchange passing between the two drivers.

Alex stepped forward, placing the shakes on the table. “We know it’s complicated, George,” he said quietly, his gaze resting on you for a moment. “We’re being careful.”

George scoffed playfully, a ghost of his usual cheeky grin returning. “Careful, huh? You two look like you’re starring in a rom-com, all stolen glances and secret smiles.”

He sighed, a more serious look returning. “Look, I love you both. More than anything. But this life, it’s… intense. If you’re going to do this, you have to be ready for what it means. For us.” His gaze swept between you, a silent plea for understanding.

You walked over to George, taking his hand. “We know, Geo. We’re not stupid. And nothing, nothing, will ever come before your well-being or my commitment to you. That’s a promise.”

Alex nodded, stepping closer to stand beside you. “She’s right. This isn’t about being reckless. It’s about… finding something real, something worth fighting for, even within the craziness of our world.” He squeezed your shoulder, a reassuring gesture that spoke volumes.

George looked at the two of you, a long, searching gaze that seemed to weigh the sincerity of your words. Finally, a small smile touched his lips.

“Good,” he said, a hint of his old authority returning. “Because if I see either of you jeopardizing my racing career with some sort of dramatic relationship meltdown, I’ll personally make sure Toto puts you both on simulator duty for the rest of your lives.”

You laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. “Duly noted, boss.”

As George slowly but surely transitioned from the apartment to the gym, and then to the hallowed grounds of the F1 team’s factory, your world began to shift.

The intense, insular bubble of Monaco began to expand. You resumed some of your other duties, albeit with a new perspective, a lightness in your step.

Alex’s visits to the apartment became less frequent, replaced by rendezvous at private cafes or quiet corners of the team’s hospitality suites at pre-season testing.

The ‘rules’ were still there, unspoken but hanging in the air. Yet, after the terror of the accident and the raw honesty that followed, they seemed less like rigid constraints and more like guidelines to navigate.

You and Alex were treading carefully, respecting the boundaries necessary for your professional lives, but also nurturing the burgeoning love that had blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances.

One crisp autumn evening, with George back in top form and focused on the upcoming season, you found yourself on the balcony of George's apartment once more, the city lights twinkling below like scattered diamonds.

Alex joined you, wrapping an arm around your waist. The air was cooler now, a promise of winter, but the warmth between you was undeniable.

“Remember that night?” Alex murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You leaned into his embrace, a contented sigh escaping your lips. “Every detail.”

“We broke all the rules that night, didn’t we?” he chuckled softly.

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, your hands resting on his chest. “Maybe,” you admitted, a smile playing on your lips. “Or maybe, we just redefined them.”

He smiled back, a deep, knowing look in his eyes. “To us, then. To new rules.”

He leaned down, and under the vast, star-dusted sky of Monaco, he kissed you again. It was a kiss of quiet promise, of shared courage, and of a love that, against all odds, had found its starting line.

The journey ahead was long, but for the first time, you felt ready to face the race, knowing you weren't running it alone. . . .

538 notes · View notes

barnesonly · 3 days ago

Text

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 12k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Nine — “Home” | Previous

The house was still. Quiet in that fragile way it sometimes is after a storm. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, pale and soft, catching on the edges of furniture and highlighting the mess you’d left behind—an abandoned mug, a dish towel crumpled on the counter, Becca’s rabbit lying facedown on the floor where she must’ve dropped it when you carried her back to bed.

You sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea you didn’t remember making. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was thick. Unresolved. Your ears almost rang from it, as if the echo of the last night’s fight still lived somewhere in the walls.

You hadn’t slept.

You’d spent the night replaying every word. Every raised voice. Every time his eyes met yours and it felt like you’d been gutted all over again. Every time you’d almost said something and swallowed it back. The moment Becca interrupted—thank god, honestly—and the way James had left to his room after you tucked her in again, barely meeting your gaze as he murmured a goodnight.

Now your head ached from the weight of everything unsaid. From the way your chest still throbbed with that horrible mix of shame and love and anger. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel. All you knew was that something inside you had cracked deeper than it had in years—and no amount of pretending was going to patch it up.

Not after what he had told you.

You stared into your mug, eyes unfocused, hands gone cold.

Going back to the States.

The words played in your mind like a loop, James’ voice still raw in your ears, the way he’d said it—sharp and exhausted and desperate. Like it was the only thing left he could offer.

Maybe he was right.

You hated the thought. God, you hated it. Because if he was right, then all this—years of scraping your life back together, of carving out a home here, of doing your best with what you had—maybe none of it was enough. Maybe you weren’t enough.

But wasn’t Becca what mattered the most?

You looked over your shoulder instinctively, toward the hallway where her bedroom was. You could picture her still curled under her blanket, the one with stars on it, her little fists balled near her face, her stuffed rabbit cradled against her chest. Safe. Loved.

But was that enough?

James had said she deserved more.

A childhood that didn’t feel like exile. A father who wasn’t just a distant, half-familiar visitor every couple of weeks. A life with roots, with support, with people who could help you carry the weight.

And the truth was—no matter how much it hurt to admit—you were tired.

Tired of holding it all by yourself. Tired of pretending like you didn’t wish someone would hold you for once. You hadn’t moved here to punish yourself, but it had started to feel that way. Somewhere between fighting for James and fighting to be a mother, you’d stopped asking what you needed.

Maybe it was time to swallow your pride.

To stop seeing compromise as defeat. To stop needing to be right so badly it cost you everything else.

Becca deserved more than your stubbornness. More than the silence between her parents. Maybe—just maybe—she deserved a chance to grow up where she could look at her father and not just see a stranger walking through the door every few weekends.

And maybe, you thought, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes—

Maybe you deserved another start too.

The soft creak of the floorboards made you look up.

James stood in the doorway, still hazy from sleep, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. His eyes found you, then flicked quickly to the countertop, to the mug in your hands, to anything that wasn’t too direct. His voice, when it finally came, was rough and low.

“Morning.”

You swallowed. “Morning,” you answered quietly, rising from your chair almost automatically.

You moved to the kettle, reaching for another mug—his mug, the one he always used when he was here, still in the same cupboard spot it had been for years. You tried not to think too hard about what that meant. Habit or hope—you weren’t sure anymore.

The silence settled like dust. Heavy. Still. You poured the hot water and turned slightly, not quite looking at him.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice just above a whisper.

He nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You both stood there, the quiet stretching out like a thread you didn’t dare pull. You handed him the mug, and your fingers brushed for a second—just a second—but it was enough to remember everything from the night before. The shouting. The cracks in both your voices. The entire fucking truth.

You sat back down slowly, fingers curling around your own mug as you stared into it, watching the surface tremble from the faint tremor in your hand.

The silence dragged for a few moments longer. After a moment, quietly—barely above the hum of the kettle still cooling—you spoke.

“I’ll talk with Mike.”

James looked up, brows knitting. “What?”

You finally met his gaze, steady this time despite the tightness in your throat. “I’ll talk with him. About going back.”

His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to question it—but you cut him off before he could speak.

“For Becca,” you added, voice firmer now. “If there’s even a chance that it’ll be better for her… then I’ll do it.”

He blinked, clearly surprised. You watched his expression shift, the tension in his jaw flickering into something unreadable. He looked like he didn’t know whether to argue or thank you.

“I don’t know if I can convince him,” you murmured after a moment, eyes dropping to your hands. “So I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try.”

The words sat between you like something fragile. You weren’t sure why it felt like a truce. Maybe because for once, you weren’t fighting. Maybe because it wasn’t about the two of you anymore.

James watched you for a beat, his face unreadable in the soft morning light. Then, finally, he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said.

———

A few days passed—slow and heavy and tangled in everything unsaid.

It was always like this when James visited. Intense. Strange. Familiar in ways that hurt.

He’d thrown himself into time with Rebecca like he always did, and she soaked it up like sunlight. They went to the park, made pancakes, watched movies on the floor like they used to—like things were easy. And maybe, for her, they still were. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered.

You stood back a lot, observing. Half grateful, half aching. He was so good with her. Effortless. Natural. Like he’d never left.

But you hadn’t forgotten what he said that night. About trust. About moving on.

About how he still loved you but couldn’t forgive you.

And he hadn’t brought it up again. Neither had you.

Instead, the days crawled by in a blur of small things—cups of coffee in tense silence, brushing past each other in the hallway, folding laundry while he read to Becca on the couch. You caught him watching you once, expression unreadable, and he looked away before you could say something.

But through it all, you kept thinking about what he said. About going back. About Becca’s roots. About giving her something solid.

And you knew you had to talk to Mike.

You just… couldn’t yet.

Not because you weren’t willing. Not because you hadn’t made up your mind.

But because the idea of asking Mike—to even suggest going back to the States, even just for a short visit—felt heavier than it should. You weren’t planning on moving back overnight. You didn’t even know if that would ever be possible. But a visit… a few weeks, maybe. Let Becca see where you came from. Let her feel close to something that’s part of her.

Still, you doubted it.

Not your decision—him.

You doubted Mike would say yes. You doubted he’d trust the idea or you. And even if he wanted to help, maybe he wouldn’t be able to. Maybe getting you back there—even temporarily—was more complicated than either of you realized.

And that scared you.

Because if he said no… if he couldn’t manage it… if it all fell through… what would you even tell James?

So you waited until James came back to the States. You told yourself you were preparing. But really, you were stalling—afraid of what might happen if you tried.

Or worse… what wouldn’t.

It took you another full day. Another restless night of turning over everything James said. Another quiet dinner with Becca where she asked when Daddy would come back again. Another moment of sitting in the dark with your thoughts spinning so loud you couldn’t even hear yourself breathe.

And then—finally—you called Mike.

You didn’t script it. You didn’t even know how to begin. But when his voice came through the line, casually gruff as ever with a, “Hey, you alive?”—you almost hung up.

Almost.

Instead, you inhaled and said, “Hey… I need to ask you something. And I know it’s a lot. I know it’s… maybe impossible. But I need you to listen.”

There was a pause. “Okay…”

You told him. Not everything—God, not everything—but enough.

That you wanted to go back. Just for a short visit. That you thought it might be good for Becca to spend some time in the States, to see what life with her dad could feel like. That maybe things could shift if—

“Are you kidding me?” His voice was sharp, stunned, already laced with frustration.

“You want to go back?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard right. “After everything I’ve done to keep you out of that mess? You want to just go waltzing in for a little vacation?”

“No—Mike—please.” You swallowed down the panic, your voice cracking. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you pressed on. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for Becca.”

Silence.

“I know how it sounds. But she deserves to know him, not just wait around for visits when he can manage to fly across the ocean. She deserves to feel like she’s not being raised on scraps. Please. Just… help me figure out how.”

You waited.

And waited.

The line buzzed faintly between you, static and tension twisting together.

And then finally, Mike sighed—long, slow, and exhausted. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You let out the smallest breath of relief. Not a yes. But not a no.

“Take one,” you said softly. “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t laugh. You weren’t sure if you expected him to.

There was a rustle on the other end—movement, a sigh, maybe the clink of glass. Then quiet again. Until—

“You know what you’re asking me, right?” he said, more measured now. “You’re asking me to undo every firewall I’ve set up. Every contact I’ve burned to keep you safe, off the grid. And for what? A week-long visit with the man who shattered your fucking life?”

You closed your eyes. “He’s still her father.”

“And I was the one who picked up the pieces when he told you to leave.”

You flinched. It wasn’t fair—but it wasn’t wrong either.

“I’m not asking to move back. Not now. I just…” You paced, one hand pressed to your forehead. “I want Becca to have something real. Some idea of what it could be like to be around him more, not just look at pictures and wait for scheduled holidays. I need to see if this is even something that could work before I offer it to her like it’s an actual choice.”

“You think a week’s going to answer that?” he asked, skeptical.

“I think… I have to try.”

Mike sighed again, longer this time. “And if I say no?”

You were quiet.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask James for help,” you said eventually. “But I’m asking you because I trust you. I’m not doing this behind your back, Mike. I’m trying to do it right.”

That struck something. You heard it in the silence that followed.

After a long beat, he said, “I’ll try.”

You smiled to yourself at that.

“And I’m not promising anything until I see if it’s even possible. Flights, papers, logistics—hell, even you getting through a border checkpoint is a risk.”

“I know,” you said again, quieter. “But if anyone can make it happen… it’s you.”

That made him snort, bitterly amused. “Flattery? Now?”

You cracked the tiniest smile. “Desperation.”

He was quiet again. Then he sighed. “Alright. Give me a couple of days. I’ll call you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. “You might not like what I find.”

You swallowed. “I’ll take my chances.”

And when the call ended, your hands were still shaking.

———

It’s been two days.

It was late afternoon. Becca was running around the park in circles, her giggles ringing out as she chased butterflies with her stuffed rabbit tucked firmly under one arm.

You sat on a bench, arms wrapped around yourself despite the warmth. You hadn’t told her anything yet—how could you, when you didn’t know if it would even be possible? You didn’t want to put another maybe into her world. She’d had enough of those.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Mike.

Your stomach turned instantly.

You hesitated, watching Becca a moment longer, grounding yourself in her small, delighted movements—before swiping to answer.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “Tell me you have good news.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” Mike said. “That depends on how you define good.”

Your heart dropped, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “Tell me everything.”

“I pulled every favor I had left in that hemisphere,” he said, voice clipped. “Got a temporary route lined up. It’s not official, it’s not pretty, and it won’t last more than a week before the door closes again. But it’s something.”

You stopped walking. “You’re serious?”

“I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t.”

A long exhale passed your lips. You felt dizzy.

“But you’re gonna need to move fast,” he added. “I’ve arranged a soft clearance window for next Friday—eight days from now. You’ll have to be back before the following weekend. No extensions. No risks.”

“Mike…”

“I know.”

“You’re a goddamn miracle.”

“I’m a stressed-out criminal, who’s gonna need a bottle of whiskey and a new identity if this blows up in my face,” he muttered. But even then, you heard the faint smile in his voice. “You sure about this?”

You glanced at Becca, at the way she twirled and pointed and smiled like the world hadn’t broken her heart yet.

“I’m sure.”

“Then pack light,” he said. “I’ll text you instructions later.”

And with that, he hung up.

You stayed frozen for a moment, phone still in your hand.

Becca ran up to you, breathless and bright-eyed, cheeks flushed from the sun.

“Look, Mommy!” she beamed, opening her tiny fist to show a crushed daisy. “I picked this for you.”

You lowered to her level, heart so full and aching you could barely breathe.

“Thank you, baby,” you whispered, pulling her into your arms.

You held her close, her warmth pressed against your chest, and whispered into her hair.

“We’re going on a little adventure soon.”

———

Next couple of days passed in a blur.

You didn’t tell Becca right away. Not out of fear, not really. But because once you said it out loud, it would all become real—and you still needed a little more time to steady yourself. To believe this wasn’t a joke.

But once you started preparing, it all came fast.

You dug out the old duffel bag from the back of your closet. It still smelled faintly like dust and long roads, and it felt heavier than it should’ve when you unzipped it.

You packed light. Like Mike told you to. Just the essentials. Clothes for the week, documents. A small emergency kit of Becca’s meds and snacks in case something went wrong. One of her dresses with the pink flowers she loved.

Becca watched you silently from the hallway at first. Quiet and curious.

Until finally, she asked, “Are we going somewhere?”

You sat on the floor, looking up at her. “Just for a little bit,” you said gently. “A short trip. But it’s a special one.”

Her eyes lit up, suspiciously fast. “Is Daddy gonna be there?”

You hesitated.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Are you happy?”

She nodded, rabbit clutched tight to her chest. “He said he would take me to the zoo next time he sees me.”

You smiled faintly, throat tight. “Then maybe he will.”

That night, after Becca went to sleep with her bunny under her arm and her shoes placed neatly by the door—just in case you left early in the morning—you sat alone on the couch, staring at the boarding instructions Mike sent.

Your heart thudded unevenly. Part excitement. Part panic.

You were doing this.

Not for James. Not even really for yourself.

But for her.

Again, you were stepping into the unknown not to run away this time—but to try. Even if it meant getting hurt again.

You took a deep breath, reached for your phone, and typed.

You | 9:27PM

Hey. Just wanted to let you know… we’ll be flying in this Friday. Just for a week. Mike pulled the strings.

You stared at the message a second longer, then hit send.

Your phone buzzed almost instantly.

James | 9:27PM

Really? Is it safe, though? Do you need any help?

You stared at the screen for a long beat.

God, it hit something in you. That immediate concern. The disbelief edged with something softer. Something that said he hadn’t actually expected you to go through with it—but now that you had, he wanted to make sure you were okay.

You could picture him reading the message, standing in his kitchen or maybe still at work, thumb hesitating before pressing send, because he didn’t want to push. But he still wanted to know.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before typing back.

You | 9:28PM

You don’t have to worry. Mike made arrangements. I’ll be careful.

You paused, then added…

You | 9:28PM

We’ll be alright. He’s gonna take care of us. Just wanted you to know.

Another pause. And then…

You | 9:29PM

She’s been asking about you. A lot.

You didn’t expect a reply right away. But after a few minutes, it came.

James | 9:32PM

Tell her I miss her, yeah? And that I’ll see her soon.

And then, one more.

James | 9:33PM

And… thank you. For doing this.

You read that last line twice. Then you locked your phone, leaned back into the couch, and exhaled.

The decision was made. The bags were packed.

Now all that was left was to go.

———

The airport was loud in that sterile, disorienting way that always made your head spin—too many bodies moving at once, too much noise bouncing off the high ceilings, the dull ache of jet lag sitting like a weight behind your eyes.

Becca was half-asleep in your arms, her head resting on your shoulder, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it was her only anchor in the chaos. Her hair smelled like airplane air and apples from the juice box she barely finished hours ago.

You stepped through the sliding doors into arrivals—and there he was.

Mike.

Same tired eyes, worn black hoodie, unreadable expression. He looked older. Maybe because of the beard or maybe because of everything you’d dragged him through this week. You hadn’t seen him in months.

He spotted you and gave a small wave, then quickly came forward to take your carry-on.

“You look like hell,” he muttered as a greeting, but his voice was quiet. Careful.

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “Good to see you too.”

He looked at Becca, sleeping in your arms, and his expression softened a little.

“She did okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Better than I expected. But… yeah. She’s tired.”

Mike didn’t say much after that. He just led you both to the car, helped get your bag in the trunk, and opened the backseat for you to slide in with Becca still curled up against you.

Only once the car was moving—only once the silence between you stretched into something too long—did he finally speak again.

“You sure this is what you want?” he asked, eyes on the road.

“I’m sure I have to try.”

He didn’t nod. He didn’t argue either.

“…It’s not permanent,” you added after a beat, almost like a shield. “Just a visit. I need to see if this even makes sense. If it’s something that could work.”

Mike’s grip on the wheel tightened for a second. You saw it from the corner of your eye.

“You know it’s not just up to you,” he muttered.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But I couldn’t not try, Mike. For her.”

That silenced him again.

You glanced down at your daughter, tucked safely into your side.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion and uncertainty and nerves… you felt relieved.

The ride was mostly quiet after that. Becca stirred once or twice, but stayed curled into your side, her hand still wrapped tightly around the rabbit’s ear. The city moved around you outside the window—familiar and not. You hadn’t been back in so long that it almost felt imagined, like walking back into a dream you’d sworn off years ago.

Mike pulled into a narrow side street eventually, the buildings getting more residential, more faded. He slowed near a dull brick complex with cracked steps and a rusted fence, tucked away between a laundromat and a shuttered grocery store.

“This is it,” he muttered, putting the car in park. “Second floor. Back corner. No one will bother you here.”

You looked up at the building. It didn’t look like much—definitely not the kind of place you imagined bringing your daughter to—but it was safe. Discreet. Temporary.

He shifted in his seat and glanced back at you before you opened the door.

“Head low, please,” he said, quiet but stern. “And don’t you do anything stupid.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

He gave you a look. “Like contacting him before I say it’s clear. Like forgetting what this man is involved in.”

You swallowed and nodded, reaching for the door handle. “I won’t.”

He didn’t soften. He just held your gaze for a second longer, then stepped out and went around to get your bag from the trunk.

You gathered Becca in your arms again—she whined sleepily but didn’t wake up—and followed him inside. The stairs creaked with every step, the hallway smelled like dust and old paint, and the door to the apartment stuck before it finally opened with a loud groan.

It was small. Two rooms. A mattress on the floor. A folded blanket on the couch. A kettle on the stove. Clean, but bare.

“It’s not much,” Mike muttered, setting your bag down near the wall. “But no one knows it’s under your name. Or mine.”

You nodded, adjusting Becca’s weight on your hip. “Thank you.”

He looked at you for a moment longer—longer than necessary. Like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he still didn’t believe you were really here.

But instead, he just nodded.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” he said.

———

The next day dragged like wet paint on cold walls.

You sat by the window for hours, barely blinking, barely moving, just… waiting. Waiting for Mike. For a knock. For a sign. For anything. You hadn’t even let Becca open the curtains out of your own paranoid. The apartment felt like a box—airtight, silent, stale. The only sounds were the ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the wall and Becca’s increasingly dramatic sighs as she flopped from the mattress to the couch to the floor.

“Is he coming soon?” she asked for the third time that hour, her voice whiny as she clutched her rabbit by the ear again.

“He said he would,” you murmured, glancing at the door again.

“But you said that last time,” she groaned, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed her. “This place is boring. There’s not even any TV.”

You couldn’t blame her. The apartment was nearly empty aside from a few things Mike had stocked for your stay. No toys. No books. Just a couple of blankets, dry cereal, and whatever was in Becca’s backpack. You’d tried distracting her with drawing on paper napkins and telling her stories from memory, but she’d quickly grown tired of both.

Becca crawled across the mattress and laid her head on your lap dramatically.

“I miss our home,” she whispered. “And the backyard. And the neighbors’ cat.”

You brushed her hair back gently, fingers lingering in her tangled curls.

“I know, baby,” you said. “Just a little longer, okay?”

She pouted. “Are we gonna see Daddy now?”

Your heart squeezed. You didn’t know how to answer. Not yet. Maybe. Hopefully. You leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll see.”

Another hour passed.

And then—finally—three quick knocks on the door.

You stood up so fast Becca nearly tumbled off your lap. You told her to stay where she was and crossed the room, heart in your throat as you peeked through the peephole.

Mike.

You opened the door just a crack.

“Is it safe?” you asked immediately.

Mike gave a quick nod, scanning the hallway behind you out of habit before stepping inside. His eyes swept over the apartment, then to Becca curled up in there.

“Yeah,” he said. “For now.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone—cheap, matte black, already powered on.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Use this. Only this.”

You blinked at it, confused. “What—?”

“Don’t use your number,” he cut in. “Don’t use anything tied to your name, your past SIM, nothing. If you’re gonna contact Barnes—do it from this. No exceptions.”

You swallowed thickly, staring at the burner in your palm like it weighed more than it should. The screen was blank, clean. New. It didn’t have a single trace of you on it.

Mike’s voice lowered, firm. “I’m not just being paranoid. There’s been eyes on him for years now. You wanted to play it safe—so play it safe.”

You gave a small nod. “Okay… okay. I got it.”

He looked at you a beat longer, then let out a quiet breath. “Good.”

Behind you, Becca sat up slowly, her little face curious but wary, holding her rabbit tight as she whispered, “Hi, uncle Mike.”

Mike softened for a second. “Hi, Becca.”

Then he glanced back at you, jaw tight. “That would be it then. Please, stay safe…”

You nodded, heart hammering beneath your ribs, and watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed felt strange—thick with anticipation, with nerves. But mostly, it felt like a new beginning.

You turned back to Becca slowly, kneeling by her side.

“Well…” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We can finally call Daddy and see him.”

She lit up immediately, eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”

You smiled, even though your throat was tight. “Really.”

———

After you talked to James he had sent the address with a simple text.

James | 3:11PM

See you soon. Tell Beccy I can’t wait.

And now you were here.

You stood in front of the gate, Becca’s small hand clutching yours tightly. The air smelled like pine and pavement still hot from the sun. The house—or villa, really—was just beyond the sleek, modern gate, nestled in a quiet stretch of land just outside the city. Stone and glass, muted beige tones, and ivy climbing up one side. There was even a goddamn fountain in front.

You swallowed hard. This wasn’t the apartment you remembered. This wasn’t the city life he used to complain about hating but never left. This was new. Clean. Detached. Rich.

“Wow,” Becca whispered, eyes wide as she tilted her head back to look up at the house. Her bunny’s ear was dragging in the dirt, but she didn’t care. “Is this… Daddy’s house?”

You nodded slowly, tightening your grip on her hand. “Yeah, baby. This is where he lives now.”

You didn’t know how you felt. Like something had shifted beneath your feet and hadn’t settled yet. You hadn’t even rung the doorbell yet, and already your heart was racing like a warning.

The gate clicked, unlocked.

The front door opened.

And there he was—stepping out in a dark t-shirt and jeans, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it too much. He looked tired. He looked handsome. He looked like everything that still hurt.

Becca let go of your hand and ran forward.

“Daddy!”

He caught her mid-run, lifting her into his arms with a soft, choked laugh. “Hi, baby girl,” he said, holding her close. “Missed you so much.”

You stayed by the gate for a second longer, your heart somehow both splintering and softening all at once.

Then, finally, you made yourself walk toward them. James looked over Becca’s shoulder and met your eyes.

His expression softened.

“God,” he said, shifting her a little in his arms, “thank you so much for doing this.”

You gave a short shrug, arms crossed over your chest even though it wasn’t cold. “I don’t even know if it’s safe being near you with her,” you said honestly, voice low. “It’s probably the most stupid thing I’ve done in a while.”

His jaw tensed, but he nodded like he expected that reaction. “It is safe,” he said firmly. “A hundred percent. I’ve taken care of everything. No one knows. No one’s watching. And I wouldn’t have asked you to come here in the first place if I wasn’t sure.”

You looked at him hard for a moment, searching for a crack, for a hesitation.

There wasn’t one.

“I wouldn’t risk her,” he added, gentler now. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know…” you murmured, eyes flicking down to Becca, who had her cheek pressed sleepily against his shoulder now, her rabbit squished between them.

James gave a soft sigh, then shifted his stance. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

You followed him up the steps, glancing around at the place as he unlocked the door. The house was massive—tucked away behind gates and trees, all sleek lines and quiet wealth. It looked like something out of a magazine.

“Fancy,” you muttered under your breath as you stepped into the cool, pristine entryway.

James chuckled, just a little. “Well… business has been going great recently.”

You huffed, not quite a laugh, but close.

You stepped further inside, your shoes soft against the hardwood floors, the scent of something clean and woodsy lingering in the air.

“It kinda feels good to be back in America,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “Even if it’s just for a while.��

James closed the door behind you, locking it with a soft click. He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, watching you take it in.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Really.”

You managed a weak smile, your fingers absently brushing the strap of your bag as your eyes lingered on the two of them.

Becca still hadn’t let go of James.

If anything, she clung tighter now—her little arms around his neck, her face nestled close to his, as if to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again. And god, she was talking so much—rattling off every little thing she’d wanted to tell him over the phone but couldn’t.

“Daddy, I saw a bird on our way here and it looked like the one from the book, remember?—and oh, I brought Bunny, look, she came too! Do you think Bunny missed you? She did, I think she did—”

James chuckled, a sound so soft and foreign in all the tension that had filled the past weeks it almost made your chest ache.

He shifted her slightly, holding her with one arm while gently brushing her hair back with the other. “I missed Bunny too,” he said seriously, humoring her. “And you. So much, sweetheart.”

Becca beamed at that, proud and giddy. She rested her head on his shoulder, still babbling about everything and nothing.

You watched quietly, the sight equal parts comfort and ache—like watching something beautiful you weren’t sure you had a place in anymore. But still, your heart tugged.

Maybe this really was worth it. Even if it was only for a week.

———

Some hours later, the sun was starting to dip low behind the trees outside his window, casting long golden shadows across the floor of the living room. The house was quiet now—peaceful in a way that made the day feel heavier, fuller.

Becca had finally dozed off, curled up on the big couch under a light blanket, her rabbit tucked securely beneath her arm. She hadn’t stopped talking the entire afternoon—her excitement bubbling over like she didn’t want to waste a second of her time here. But now, her energy had finally given out.

You sat down on the couch, just watching her. There was something about seeing her like that, small and soft in a space that wasn’t yours, yet didn’t feel entirely foreign either… it did something strange to your chest.

Behind you, in the kitchen, James was quietly cleaning up. He’d made dinner. Offered, actually. You’d sat at his table and tried to eat even though your nerves were all over the place. It was awkward, yes—but not tense the way it had been before. There was something easier about it. Calmer. Like you both were too tired to keep up the weight of old fights, at least for today.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked now, his voice low, careful not to wake her.

You turned a little, arms crossed, unsure. “Tea’s good.” A pause. “If it’s no trouble.”

He shook his head, already reaching for the kettle.

You sat at the edge of the couch, your eyes drifting to Becca again. “She was so happy,” you said softly. “It’s like she didn’t even know where to start.”

James glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah… I noticed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, almost under his breath, “Thank you again.“

You didn’t answer right away. You just… stayed quiet, watching the soft rise and fall of Becca’s chest, her little hand fisted around the rabbit’s ear.

The silence hung for a moment longer, thick and hushed. Then James’s voice came from behind you—low, careful.

“I’m sorry. For our last fight.”

You turned your head toward him, brows lifting slightly. Disbelief flickered across your face before you could hide it.

He met your gaze, exhaling slowly. “I should have apologized earlier but… Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a coward.”

Your gaze softened before you could stop it.

“I didn’t mean that,” you said quietly. “You’re not a coward, James. I was angry. That wasn’t fair.”

He shook his head. “You weren’t wrong.”

Your voice was a little steadier now. “Still. I shouldn’t have said it. I… I was lashing out.”

James sat down on the arm of the couch, rubbing his hands together like he needed to do something with them. “We both were. And Becca—” his voice cracked slightly “—she shouldn’t have seen that.”

“No,” you agreed, chest tightening. “She really shouldn’t have.”

You both looked over at her then—so small, so peaceful now. You felt the weight of it all settle heavy in the quiet between you.

James shifted on the couch, voice low. “You know… it’s my birthday next week and…”

Of course you knew.

How could you not know?

Even though you never gave a fuck about birthdays—not before Becca—his was etched somewhere inside you, whether you wanted it to be or not.

You looked up at him slowly, and he was already glancing at you, hesitant.

“Well I… There’s gonna be a birthday party,” he said. “Here. I mean… Nothing big, just… my sister and… a few friends…”

You raised a brow, lips twitching. “That doesn’t sound like you,” you said, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I thought you liked the quiet.”

He let out a short breath of a chuckle and looked down for a moment, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. “I do… It’s just… Sharon insisted.”

Right. Sharon.

He glanced at you again. “But I’d like you to come. With Becca. She could… get to know my family and… all…”

Your mouth opened slightly, then closed. The request sounded simple. Harmless, even. But it wasn’t.

Still, something in his voice gave you pause. The way he said my family, like he was hoping maybe… just maybe… you’d still fit in that frame.

“She could meet my sister,” he added, quieter now. “My niece’ll be there too. She’s just a little older than Becca. They might get along.”

You studied his face, the quiet tension around his eyes, the barely-hidden nerves.

“James, I…” you started, then trailed off, rubbing your palm over your thigh. “I’m not sure if this is a good idea.” You huffed, half-laughing at how stupid it sounded even saying it out loud. “I mean—don’t they all take me as some traitor?”

Your voice had a slight edge now, defensive before he even said a word.

He looked up sharply, eyebrows furrowed. “No. That’s not—”

You shook your head. “Come on. Your sister? Sharon? Your friends? You think they don’t take me as one? I lied to you and then ran off while being pregnant with your kid.”

“You didn’t run off,” he said firmly. “You left. Because I told you to.”

“James, please—” you snapped, then caught yourself. Becca was still sleeping right next to you. You softened your voice. “They only know what they were told.”

James exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second. “And they know the truth,” he said. “Yes, you betrayed me. But they know how things are.”

Your stomach twisted. That word—betrayed—still landed like a dull blade, even now.

He looked at you again, more gently this time. “They know I wasn’t perfect as well.” A beat passed, and then, more quietly, “They know I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.”

You swallowed. “That still doesn’t mean they want me at your party.”

“I do.”

You blinked at him. The quiet weight of those two words made your chest ache.

“I want Becca there,” he said, “and I want you there. You’re her mother. You’re part of this. Whether anyone likes it or not.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Your fingers idly smoothed over the edge of the cushion, needing something to do, something to ground you. James was still looking at you, quiet and steady. Not pushing. Just… waiting.

“I don’t know if I belong in that part of your life,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

His brows pulled together. “You do.”

You let out a soft laugh—dry and tired. “Do I? Because sometimes it really feels like I’m just this… memory you don’t know what to do with.”

James leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low. “You’re not a memory.”

You didn’t answer right away. Becca shifted a little in her sleep, her tiny fingers curling tighter around the rabbit’s ear. You glanced down at her. “It’s not just about me,” you murmured. “I’m used to people not wanting me around, but I’m not dragging her into that.”

“You’re not dragging her anywhere,” he said. “And nobody’s going to make her feel unwanted.”

You looked at him again.

“I want her to know she’s part of something,” James added. “That she has people. That she’s mine, and I’m hers. And that… you and I, even if we’re not—” He stopped, jaw tightening a little. “Even if we’re not what we used to be, we still made something good.”

Your chest ached.

You whispered, “I’ll think about it.”

James nodded slowly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

———

It had been three days.

Three days of the three of you trying to soak up every minute—like time was something you could store up if you tried hard enough.

James barely let go of Becca, carrying her when she got tired of walking, lifting her up to point at buildings and birds and traffic lights like it was all magic. You showed her the city—not the one you’d once run from, but the one she could remember now with joy in her steps. The park with the street musicians. The zoo with the butterfly room that made her gasp and press her nose against the glass. The rooftop café where you sat all three together, sharing a warm pastry, Becca perched on James’s lap, powdered sugar on her chin.

She laughed. God, she laughed so much.

And you did too, sometimes.

Not the bitter, tired sound you’d gotten used to—but real laughter. Like maybe for once, the world had nothing sharp to offer.

And now… it was his birthday.

You stood in the little bathroom of your temporary apartment, hands shaking just enough to make brushing Becca’s hair a slower process than usual. The cheap plastic comb snagged in a knot, and she winced.

“Sorry,” you whispered, gently easing the tangle out. “Almost done, baby.”

She nodded, her rabbit tucked under one arm, her legs swinging off the closed toilet seat where she sat like a princess being readied for a ball. You’d found a soft, pale yellow dress for her at a shop down the street—the kind with little puffed sleeves and a satin bow at the back. It made her glow. She looked almost like the sun itself.

Your own dress was folded carefully on the bed in the next room—simple, soft fabric, clean lines, something that made you feel like yourself and not a ghost haunting someone else’s life.

Still, your heart was pounding. Your palms kept going clammy. You couldn’t stop glancing at your reflection in the mirror above the sink—fixing a strand of hair, smoothing your face like it might hide the nerves crawling under your skin.

You had never met his family or friends.

You hadn’t seen any of his people.

And tonight… you’d walk into that house as the mother of his child…who once broke his heart.

Fucking great.

Why did you agree?

You swallowed hard, fingers stilling in Becca’s hair. She looked up at you through the mirror.

“Mama?” she asked softly. “Are you okay?”

You met her eyes, your lips pressing into a trembling smile. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m just… a little nervous.”

“Why?”

You crouched down, eye level with her now, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because tonight’s important,” you said. “And because I want it to go… really well.”

She blinked, then reached out and patted your cheek with her tiny hand, completely serious. “It will,” she said.

You melted. Just like that.

Your shoulders dropped, tension unwinding in a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. A watery smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in and kissed her forehead, resting your hand gently over her tiny one on your cheek.

“I love you, Beccy,” you whispered, voice catching just a little.

She beamed. That scrunched-nose kind of smile that could undo the hardest days.

“I love you too, Mama,” she said with conviction, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the best.”

You let out a soft, teary laugh. “No, baby… I’m really not.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, swinging her feet again. “You buy me dresses. And you let me eat strawberries for dinner sometimes.”

You grinned. “Ah, so that’s the bar.”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

———

You arrived a little late.

Fashionably, maybe, though that had never been your style. Really, you’d just stood frozen after you left the cab for a few minutes longer than necessary, heart racing like a warning bell.

Becca’s tiny hand was wrapped in yours the whole time—and you hadn’t even realized how tight your grip had become until she let out a quiet—

“Ow… Mama, auch.”

Your eyes snapped down. “Shit—sorry, honey.” You crouched quickly, rubbing the spot you’d squeezed too tight and brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just a little nervous, okay?”

She nodded, unfazed, already distracted by the lights strung up around the house. “It’s okay. It looks pretty.”

You tried to smile. “Yeah. It does.”

The front door opened before you even reached it. James. In a soft linen shirt, sleeves rolled, collar relaxed—but his shoulders still squared like he’d been pacing. And his eyes… they went soft the second they landed on you both.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping forward. “You made it.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

He leaned down to Becca, and she squealed a quiet “Hi, Daddy!” before throwing her arms around his legs.

James scooped her up effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her temple, and then looked to you again. “Come on. We’re outside—in the garden.”

You followed him through the house, the click of your shoes feeling too loud on the floor, your throat dry. You could hear voices ahead—easy, mingling laughter, music drifting on the warm air. You could already feel the stares even though no one had seen you yet. You weren’t ready.

God, you weren’t ready.

You stepped outside and the light changed—golden and dappled under the canopy of trees, paper lanterns swaying above a long wooden table, half-filled glasses and shared plates and soft music spilling from somewhere discreet.

And James reached for your wrist, just lightly. Not to stop you. Just to anchor you.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You swallowed hard.

No. But you nodded anyway.

Almost instantly, someone noticed you.

A woman—tall, radiant, warm-eyed—was crossing the garden with a look of unmistakable recognition, glass of wine in one hand and the other already outstretched in your direction. She was beautiful in that effortless way—a little bossy, a little overfamiliar, but all heart.

James’ sister.

You didn’t have time to brace before she reached you.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, eyes flicking between you and the little girl in James’ arms. “This is her, isn’t it? This is the little Becca? Named after me?”

She didn’t wait for a response before she stepped forward with a grin, gently ruffling Becca’s curls. “Well, aren’t you the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

Becca blinked up at her, rabbit still in hand. “…You have the same name as me?”

“I do,” Rebecca said proudly. “Well, I had it first, but I’m very happy to share.”

Becca giggled, just a little, and your shoulders finally dropped half an inch.

“She’s even cuter than the pictures,” Rebecca added, turning to you now—eyes sharp, but not unkind. “And you. You must be absolutely terrified right now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Meeting the everyone. All the judging eyes. The awkward small talk. Don’t worry. I’m the worst of the bunch—and I already like you.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from relief. You managed a shaky, grateful smile instead.

“Thanks,” you murmured. “Really.”

James was still holding Becca, watching quietly—a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

Oh, he was enjoying it.

His sister clapped her hands. “Alright, party mode activated.”

Then she glanced at your daughter again, eyes sparkling. “Hey, listen. My daughter’s upstairs playing with her mountain of toys and getting glitter in places it absolutely shouldn’t be. I bet she’d love a new friend—what do you say, Becca? Want to come play for a bit?”

Beccy looked up at you, her expression shifting from uncertainty to growing interest.

Rebecca softened. “Only if it’s okay with your mom. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the strap of your bag. You weren’t sure what exactly you were afraid of—maybe that you’d lose her in this unfamiliar house, or maybe just the idea of letting her out of reach. But then you felt James watching you.

He put Becca down and your eyes met his. And for a second, the noise of the party faded behind you.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, like a quiet promise saying it’s okay.

You exhaled slowly and looked back at Becca, brushing a thumb across her temple. “Yeah… fine. But only if you want to, okay?”

Becca gave a tiny, eager nod.

Rebecca grinned wide and reached for her hand. “Come on, kid. I’ve got juice boxes and chaos upstairs.”

You crouched a little, whispering in Becca’s ear as she clutched her rabbit. “Be good, Beccy. I’ll be right here.”

She nodded again and then let her aunt lead her away, small feet padding up the steps.

And just like that—you were standing in a garden party, alone.

You stood there, stiff, trying to ground yourself in the warm air and the distant hum of laughter. But the minute Becca disappeared up the stairs, it was like your body forgot how to function.

This was stupid.

You shouldn’t have come. Not here, not to this house, not to this party. You were surrounded by his world, and even though no one was looking at you funny—yet—you felt the weight of it on your skin, like it could peel you open.

The cutlery clinking, the soft jazz in the background, the smell of grilled meat and champagne—none of it matched the twist in your gut.

You were about to take a quiet step back—find a corner and sit until the room stopped spinning—when you heard his voice again.

“It’s okay.”

You turned your head. James stood beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could hear the calm in his voice. See the way his hand hovered like he almost wanted to reach for yours but didn’t.

“Come on,” he said gently. “There’s some people I want you to meet.”

You blinked. “James—”

“I promise. It’s gonna be fine.”

And before you could come up with an excuse, he was already walking you through the garden.

Two men stood near the drink table, laughing about something. One of them—blond hair, broad-shouldered, blue eyes. The other, with a disarming grin and sharp gaze that almost cut through you.

James motioned toward them. “Guys, this is—”

“Oh, I know who she is,” Sam interrupted with a surprised smile.

Steve looked over with an unreadable expression, but when his eyes landed on you, they softened… just a bit.

You tried to smile, but it faltered before it reached your eyes. “Hi.”

As they chatted, friendly and casual, you felt the walls close in. You weren’t just standing here with James’s friends—you were standing in a room full of people who had to know what you did.

They probably whispered about you behind closed doors. Judged you silently in their own way. You could almost hear the unspoken questions:

Can she be trusted?

Will she hurt James again?

Is she spying on us right now?

You swallowed hard. The laughter around you felt distant and hollow, like a soundtrack to a scene you didn’t belong in.

How could you face them? How could you face anyone when you were carrying so much guilt, so much shame? When every glance felt like it pierced through your carefully built walls?

James’s voice broke through the storm inside your head, but you hardly heard it.

Because all you could feel was the heavy weight of the past—how everyone here must see you as the woman who betrayed the man you still loved.

James continues talking beside you—something light, probably teasing—but you just nodded along, gaze unfocused. It all felt like static. Laughter. Music. The occasional cheer from the kids playing upstairs that you could hear through the open window. Voices that blurred together.

And then—

A hand on James’s arm.

You blinked back into yourself.

A woman you’d never seen before was suddenly by his side. Tall, blonde, stunning in a way that made you feel like you’d been punched in the gut. Her dress clung to her like it was made for her alone. She didn’t look at you right away. She just leaned in and kissed James on the cheek like she’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t mean to grimace—but it happened. Reflex. It was subtle, but sharp. Your jaw clenched, stomach flipping, a cold rush settling beneath your ribs.

So that was her.

Sharon.

Of course it was. You just… never thought you’d see the moment play out in front of you. Never thought it would hit this hard.

Then her eyes flicked to you. She didn’t smile.

“Hi,” she said, curt and tight. Her gaze dipped quickly to your dress, then back to your face. “You must be… her.”

Her.

You gave a small nod, trying to find your footing, your voice. “Yeah. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she cut in, already glancing away. Not cruel. Just… uninterested. Awkward. Cold.

An empty silence followed. You weren’t sure if you were meant to say something else, or if she was. But she didn’t make an effort. Didn’t try to break the tension.

Eventually, Sharon looked back to James. “I’m gonna check on the drinks,” she muttered, already stepping away before either of you could respond.

You stood still, the weight of it all settling again. The air sharp around you. Like you’d stepped into a life that kept going without you—and maybe never wanted you back.

Your stomach turned, the air suddenly too warm, too tight against your skin.

It wasn’t about Sharon. Not really. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all about her—about watching her kiss James’s cheek like she belonged there. About the way she said you must be her like your name was too much to acknowledge. Like you were a chapter better left unread.

You stared past the garden lights, past the gentle hum of chatter and music, and all you could hear was your own breath. Quick. Shallow. Your thoughts spiraled fast—too fast to hold onto just one.

Of course they all hate you. Of course they think you don’t belong here. You don’t. You lied. You left. And now you’re back—like you get to want anything. Like you get to hope.

“Hey,” James said, voice low as he stepped beside you. You hadn’t noticed him watching you. “She’s… not usually like that.”

You let out a bitter laugh before you could stop it. It caught in your throat like smoke.

“Sure she isn’t,” you murmured, eyes still fixed on nothing. “Just a coincidence she’s rude tonight.”

He winced. You could feel the tension ripple off him—like he wanted to fix it but didn’t know where to begin.

You didn’t continue.

You could—God, you wanted to. Part of you was itching to snap, to demand clarity, to say something just cutting enough to sting but not enough to start a war.

But the other part? The tired part? The one who held herself together with fraying thread in his garden? That part knew exactly how it would end. A fight. An echo of every old argument—the ones that had left you shaking and hollow.

So instead, you just nodded, your jaw tight, and shifted your eyes back toward the crowd.

Except you couldn’t help it. Your gaze drifted, almost on instinct. Muscle memory from another life. And there she was—Sharon.

You watched her the way you used to watch high-value targets.

She wasn’t mingling like the others. Not laughing, not sipping a drink, not even standing anywhere close to James. She was… focused. Brows slightly drawn, posture alert but not tense. You followed her line of sight but she wasn’t looking at you. Not anymore. Her eyes flicked to the side—toward the house maybe. Or someone.

Still, she was distant. Not just with you, but everyone. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was like she was only half there. Preoccupied.

You forced yourself to look away before it became obvious. Before someone noticed.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just awkwardness. Just the presence of an ex in a place where no one expected you.

But something itched beneath your skin. You told yourself it was harmless. A habit. Like breathing. But the truth was, it was deeper than that—burned into your brain from years of survival and secrecy. Once, it kept you alive. Now it was just… instinct. Muscle memory that work in FBI imprinted on you.

Your detective brain switched on before you could stop it.

The way Sharon kept scanning the area—it wasn’t casual. It was practiced. Her eyes swept the crowd like she was searching for someone. Not in a friendly “Where’s my friend?” kind of way either. This was tactical. Quietly thorough. Efficient. A pattern. She checked the back entrance, the patio door, the hallway leading inside.

You glanced at her hands.

Phone in one, fingers moving quickly over the screen. Her expression didn’t change. Whatever she was typing, it was short, decisive. Not a social message. Not small talk. This was something else.

She sent it. Waited. Glanced around again.

God. You hated this. You hated how it all came back so easily. How you could still read body language like a briefing photo. How you were already forming theories—subconscious little spirals that made your chest feel tight.

You dug your nails into your palm, grounding yourself.

This isn’t a mission. This isn’t a case. You are just at a party. A birthday party. For your daughter’s father.

But you still couldn’t stop watching her.

You inhaled slowly, trying to shake it off.

It is probably just jealousy. That’s all it is.

You repeated it like a mantra.

You saw her kiss James. You were emotional. On edge. You didn’t belong here and you knew it, so your mind was looking for reasons to confirm it.

But it didn’t help.

It didn’t help that your gut wouldn’t shut up.

You clenched your jaw and turned your gaze away. Tried to focus on the faint sound of kids laughing somewhere upstairs. Tried to remind yourself that Becca was safe, that this was just a normal party, that people like Sharon had no reason to be doing anything sketchy at James’ birthday.

She was probably uncomfortable because you were here. That made sense. You were the ex. The one who ran. The one with all the secrets.

And maybe—maybe she was texting someone about you. Complaining. Warning someone. Something petty.

Not everything is a threat. Not everyone is hiding something. Not everyone is you.

You didn’t feel easy. Or light. Or anything remotely comfortable.

Honestly, you would’ve given anything to just go home.

Curl up in bed, wrap your arms around your daughter, and pretend you were somewhere far away. Somewhere the past couldn’t follow you. Somewhere James didn’t look at you the way he did—soft, careful, like he still didn’t know what to do with you.

The party moved like a slow tide around you—people mingling under strings of golden lights, soft jazz floating from the speakers tucked in the corners of the garden. You stood with James near the far edge of the lawn, close to the ivy-covered fence, just far enough from the crowd that no one was listening in. Your drink had long gone warm in your hand.

You glanced around again. Sharon was gone now, probably inside somewhere. People kept giving you looks—curious, polite, none of them exactly hostile. But it didn’t matter. You felt like every pair of eyes was dissecting you. Wondering what you were doing there.

James must have noticed your silence, because he leaned in, nudging you gently with his shoulder. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth. Didn’t answer. Just nodded once, too tight.

Then—

Crack.

It sounded like fireworks at first. Or maybe someone dropping something heavy. Barely anyone reacted. Some people laughed, raised glasses.

You blinked. James turned his head slightly.

Another crack. Louder. Sharper.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Screams.

Suddenly the music cut. A woman shrieked, plates crashed to the ground, and people scattered like frightened birds.

Gunshots.

Real ones.

“Down—get down!” someone shouted.

James grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise, dragging you behind a stone planter as the air exploded with panic.

“Becca.” you gasped, voice already hoarse with fear.

James looked to the house—but it felt miles away now. The garden was too open. Too exposed. And the shooters weren’t waiting. Bullets tore through the air—one splintered the wooden trellis just a few feet away, making you both duck lower.

He cursed under his breath, eyes darting toward the house, then to the patio where Steve and Sam had just shoved a couple of guests through the door.

“Steve!” James yelled. “Secure the house! Get the kids!”

Steve looked back just long enough to nod and disappear inside, already yelling orders.

James turned to you. “We can’t make a run for it right now. We’d be exposed. Just—stay low, stay with me—”

But your chest was tightening. All you could think about was Becca upstairs.

Becca, with some little girl you didn’t know.

Becca, in a house that suddenly felt too far away.

Your breath caught. The air felt thinner now—sharper, like it sliced your lungs instead of filling them.

Where is Sharon?

She’d been standing just a few feet from the patio minutes ago. You’d seen her then—narrow-eyed, checking her phone, barely even pretending to make small talk. You’d watched her look around like she was waiting for someone to show up.

And now?

Gone.

Just gone.

Your brain started spinning without permission. All those instincts you tried to leave behind—every pattern recognition, every quiet training cue buried under years of denial—flooded to the surface.

Something was off. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t messy. Whoever came in… they weren’t just shooting blindly. They knew the house. The layout. Where people would be standing. The way the gunfire curved around the garden like it was designed to herd people—not just scare them.

No one could plan this without inside information.

You felt it in your chest, a cold certainty.

It was her.

It had to be her.

James was crouched beside you, eyes scanning the perimeter, hyper-alert. His hand brushed your back without even realizing it—protective, grounding. But you didn’t dare grab his arm. Didn’t dare say what your gut screamed at you, because—

Because Becca was inside.

Because all that mattered was getting her out.

Alive.

The crack of gunfire didn’t stop. It echoed sharp and vicious through the garden, like it was bouncing off the very air. James had already moved—fast and precise, firing from cover, eyes narrowed in complete focus.

You stayed low behind the stone planter, heart hammering against your ribs, every instinct in you screaming to do something. But James had told you to stay put. Stay down.

You couldn’t.

Not like this.

There was too much blood already. Some people—maybe guests, maybe some of James’ people—lying motionless on the grass, some screaming in pain, others too quiet. Your stomach twisted.

And then you saw it.

Just a few feet away—one of the attackers down, slumped awkwardly near a tree. Their body still, twisted. A handgun glinted beside their open palm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t think. You moved.

Hands shaking, you slid out from behind the planter just enough to crawl across the grass, staying low, barely breathing. You kept your eyes on the body, the gun—ignoring the way the earth was stained red, ignoring the warm slickness that clung to your hands as you reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around the weapon.

You pulled back quickly, retreating to the planter just as another round of shots cracked through the air. You hugged the gun to your chest for a moment, your pulse thundering in your ears, trying to breathe.

You weren’t the same person you used to be.

You hadn’t held a gun in years. Not since you stopped working with the Feds.

But right now…

You didn’t have a choice.

So you didn’t hesitate. Gun in hand, you slipped out from behind the planter again, eyes sharp, heart hammering not just with fear but with adrenaline—the familiar rush that always came with danger.

James was just a few feet away, firing with brutal efficiency. He didn’t say a word when he saw you moving toward the attackers. No warning, no protest. He knew. He knew you could handle yourself, that you were still capable.

You’re both fighting for the same thing.

The house. Becca. Her safety.

You crouched behind a low wall, sighting down the gun carefully, steadying your breath like you’d been trained. Your fingers moved with practiced precision—shoot, reload, shoot again. Shots rang out sharp and echoed, but you barely registered the noise beyond the tunnel vision of protecting what mattered.

James moved with you, a silent partner in the chaos—always just a step away, covering your flank, eyes flicking constantly to the house where Becca was hidden.

You didn’t say much. Words didn’t fit here.

You were two soldiers in a warzone, fighting back the dark that had come for your family.

And you were ready to do whatever it took.

Sam’s voice crackled through the chaos—somewhere near the house— sharp and clear. “Support’s en route. Hold tight.”

You felt the weight of those words settle over you like a shield. Reinforcements. More of James’s people—stronger, faster, better prepared—were coming.

The tide was turning.

James’s eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of relief there despite the grime and sweat on his face. You gave a tight nod, still focused but grateful.

You ducked behind cover again as more figures appeared on the perimeter, moving in synchronized, tactical precision.

The attackers, realizing the odds were shifting, started to falter—some trying to retreat, others desperately pushing forward but losing ground.

Your gun went off again, then another. The sound was relentless but less terrifying now.

The firefight began to wane. The chaos thinned like fog lifting at dawn.

You kept your breath steady, eyes scanning the area.

One by one, the attackers fell back or went down, their numbers dwindling to nearly nothing.

James moved beside you, his expression tense but resolute. “There’s only a couple left,” he muttered, loading his weapon.

You nodded, heart still pounding but steadying. You exhaled slowly, every muscle still tight from the fight, but alive.

One of James’ men finally called out, voice loud and steady. “It’s clear.”

Carefully, you rose to your feet, the weight of adrenaline fading, replaced by raw exhaustion.

James was instantly at your side, his hands searching you for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, fear still in your eyes. “I’m fine.”

His eyes were intense, almost frantic now, and without hesitation he turned to Sam, voice trembling, eyes almost glassy.

“Becca… is she okay? Did they get into the house?”

Sam’s expression was calm but firm. “They’re safe. Your sister, her kid, and Becca—they’re all safe inside with Steve.”

James let out a breath he’d been holding, relief washing over his face in waves. You both stood there for a moment, the world quiet except for your pounding hearts.

The world seemed to freeze for a heartbeat.

You glanced around, heart hammering in your chest—the blood-slick ground, the shattered remnants of what had been a peaceful night now turned into chaos and death.

And then you saw it.

One of the attackers, barely conscious but still clinging to life, lay sprawled on the ground not far from you.

In their trembling hand was a gun, aimed directly at James.

Panic ripped through you. Without thinking, you lunged toward James, moving faster than you knew you could, instinctively shielding him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Crack.

The world narrowed down to the sound of that single gunshot—sharp, unforgiving, like a thunderclap ripping through the chaos.

The impact hit you first—a searing, burning pain blossoming through your rib, fierce and immediate. Your breath hitched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you crumpled forward, body collapsing onto James, fighting to keep him safe.

Sam’s shot rang out, precise and final, cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade. The last threat was silenced, the attacker finally still.

Everything else faded into a blur—the red-hot agony, the pounding in your chest, the taste of iron at the back of your throat.

Your mind screamed but your body stayed rooted, trembling as you clung to him.

James’ voice—raw, frantic—cut through the haze. “No! No, no, no—”

You felt his hands on you, warm as you once remembered them, shaking you gently, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Please—“

But all you could think was how much you loved him.

How much you’d give to keep him safe.

Your world had shattered—but the one thing you knew with terrifying clarity was that you would never let him fall.

James dropped to his knees with you, eyes wide with horror, his whole body trembling. His hands were gentle but frantic as they moved to cradle you, as if holding you close could somehow protect you from the searing pain.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please, my love…”

His breath hitched as he searched your face, desperate for any sign, any flicker of hope.

Without hesitation, he gathered you into his arms, lifting you as if you were the most precious thing in the world—because you were. His hands trembled, urgency flooding his movements. “We need to get you help. Now. Just—Please, stay with me.”

His hands shook, fingers trembling “Stay with me,” he repeated, voice breaking. “Please, stay with me.”

You tried to answer, to tell him it would be okay, to say you loved him one last time—but the pain pressed down on your chest like a weight too heavy to bear. Your breath caught and faltered, the words choking in your throat, slipping away before they could reach his ears.

“Please—Please, you can’t—“ he cried out.

“It’s her—” you managed to let out, your voice barely a whisper.

“What?” James asked, confused through the haze of his emotions. His eyes were full of both ache and sorrow.

Your own eyes fluttered, a tear tracing a slow, silent path down your cheek. Your body felt numb, weak, disconnected from your mind. The darkness was coming fast now, pulling at you with cold hands.

You could feel life slipping away, like sand through trembling fingers, and with it, every chance, every hope you’d ever held onto.

There was a coldness creeping in from the edges of your vision, a soft pulling that whispered this was the end—the last breath, the final goodbye. But your mind refused to accept it, clinging to fragments of warmth: Becca’s bright smile, the sound of her laughter, James’s voice calling your name.

You thought about all the things left unsaid—the apologies, the hopes, the dreams you never got to chase. How unfair it was, that you would never get to watch your daughter grow up fully, or hold James without the weight of pain between you.

And yet, beneath the fear, there was something fierce—a quiet resolve not to vanish without love, without meaning.

Your fingers touched his shirt, the faintest touch, and your lips parted as if to say something. “I— love you—“ you tried to whisper, voice barely audible, but the words were your last gift—a fragile promise carried on a breath.

As the darkness closed in, you surrendered to the fading light, carried by the love of the man who had always held your heart—the love of your life—and the memories of all you fought for.

Chapter Ten (Finale) Soon… 💸

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purplereina11 · 3 days ago

Text

Based on this request

You’ve just moved back to Barcelona with your four year old daughter, and life has been all about her since the day she was born. Your long time friend Alba thinks it’s about time you started focusing on yourself again, especially when it comes to dating. She’s always loved to meddle in your love life, and now she’s pushing harder than ever.

The problem? The person she’s nudging you toward is her sister, charming, cocky, and exactly the kind of complication you’re not sure you’re ready for. Dipping your toe back into the dating pool is one thing… diving headfirst into something with Albas sister known for casual flings is another.

The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as you trail behind Alba, your cart already half-filled with the essentials she'd insisted you needed to survive in your new apartment. The shelves are lined with unfamiliar brands, and you're grateful for her guidance. Being new to both the city and the country has been overwhelming at times, but Alba had taken you under her wing from your first day working at the school. It had been easy to fall into a friendship her warmth and humour cutting through the strangeness of starting fresh in a foreign place.

"Okay, you have to try this," Alba says, tossing a bag of some crunchy-looking snack into your cart with a grin. "They're addictive. Trust me."

You chuckle, nudging the cart forward as she leads the way toward the refrigerated section. "If I get hooked, I'm blaming you."

"That's fair," she quips, scanning the shelves for the brand of yogurt she'd been raving about earlier. "But if you're going to live here, you might as well eat like a local."

You're about to respond when you notice her face light up with recognition. "Hey!" Alba calls, her voice lifting in surprise. You follow her gaze to see a woman standing a few feet away, a basket hanging loosely from one arm and not just any woman.

Even if you weren't new to the city, you'd still recognise her, Alexia Putellas, Barcelona's star midfielder. The face plastered across billboards and news stands, her hair is swept back in a loose ponytail, and there's an effortless confidence in the way she carries herself, even in something as mundane as a supermarket aisle.

"What are you doing here?" Alba asks, already moving in for a hug. "I thought you had training all day."

Alexia returns the embrace with a soft laugh. "I did. Just grabbing a few things before heading home." Her gaze drifts to you curiously, and for a split second, you're keenly aware of how casual you look in your tracksuit and sneakers.

Alba pulls back, turning to you with a smile. "Oh! Alexia, this is my friend. We work together at the school. She’s new to the city, so I'm helping her get settled."

You extend a hand, trying to keep your nerves at bay. "Nice to meet you."

Alexia takes your hand in a firm but warm grip, her eyes lingering on yours a beat longer than necessary. "Nice to meet you too." Her voice is smooth, self-assured.

Alba, completely unfazed, continues chatting. "I was just introducing her to the best supermarket in the area. You know, so she doesn’t end up living off instant noodles."

A soft smile tugs at the corner of Alexia's mouth. "Good call. Alba's a pretty solid tour guide."

"The best," you agree, shooting a grateful glance at your friend.

For a moment, the three of you linger there in the middle of the aisle, the hum of the store filling the brief silence. There's an ease in how Alexia stands, but you don't miss the way her attention seems to return to you, her curiosity apparent. "Well, I won't keep you," Alexia says eventually, though her expression is warm. "I'll see you around?"

"Definitely," Alba replies, already dragging you toward the next aisle. But as you follow her, you can't help but glance back to see Alexia still watching, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze before she turns away.

The moment you're out of earshot, Alba nudges you with her elbow, a teasing grin on her face. "So... what do you think?"

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. "I think you forgot to mention your sister is Alexia Putellas."

Alba shrugs like it's no big deal. "I figured you'd find out eventually." She pauses for a beat before tilting her head toward you. "So? Do you like her?"

You blink, nearly missing a step. "What?"

"Come on," Alba presses, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I saw the way she was looking at you and don't even try to deny the way you were looking at her."

You scoff, grabbing a carton of juice off the shelf. "I just met her."

"And?" Alba grins wider. "You can still think she's hot. It's a simple question."

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you shake your head, trying not to give her the satisfaction. "She's your sister."

"I didn't ask if you were gonna marry her," Alba laughs. "I asked if you like her. Big difference."

You roll your eyes, though you can't help the small smile tugging at your lips. "You're ridiculous."

"I'll take that as a yes," she sing-songs, spinning the cart around the corner. "Don't worry! I fully approve."

"You're not serious," you mutter, but she just grins wider.

"I'm always serious about quality entertainment," she teases. "And watching my sister and my new favorite person dance around each other? Gold. Pure gold."

You shake your head, biting back another laugh. "You're impossible."

"But you love me for it," she fires back, her voice full of warmth. "And hey if anything happens, you owe me dinner. Deal?"

You snort, tossing another item into the cart. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

Alba just grins wider, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "We'll see."

Before you can fire back, a familiar voice cuts in. "Still talking about me?"

Your heart stutters in your chest as you both turn to find Alexia standing at the end of the aisle, one brow quirked in amusement. She's holding a bottle of olive oil, but her gaze is fixed on you, clearly having caught more of the conversation than you'd like.

Alba, completely unbothered, grins wide. "Always. You know you're the family's favourite topic."

Alexia chuckles softly, stepping closer. "Good to know." Her eyes flick to you again, the corner of her mouth twitching. "And here I thought I was just picking up groceries."

You scramble to recover, ignoring the heat rising to your face. "Apparently, you're also a source of entertainment."

"I aim to please," Alexia replies smoothly, her gaze lingering just a little too long before shifting back to her sister. "Don't let her give you too much trouble."

"No promises," Alba says, practically glowing with delight as she watches the exchange.

Alexia shakes her head fondly before glancing at you one last time. "It was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you again."

"Maybe," you echo, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

As she walks away, Alba leans in, whispering under her breath, "Oh, you're definitely gonna see her again."

As you unload your groceries later that evening, the encounter still lingers in your mind. You don't know Alexia, but there was something about the way she looked at you curious, a little intrigued that stuck with you. It’s ridiculous, really. She’s a world-class athlete, and you… well, you’re just figuring out how to navigate a new city without getting lost.

You set the last carton of juice into the fridge, shutting the door with a sigh. The apartment is quiet, too quiet after the whirlwind of the afternoon and yet your mind is anything but. Alexia Putellas. You’d seen her face on posters, in ads, her name popping up in conversations at school even if you didn’t yet understand the full weight of her fame. But meeting her like that in a supermarket of all places was… unexpected. You replay the moment in your head, the subtle way her gaze had lingered, like she was cataloguing you, intrigued despite how utterly unremarkable you felt in your scuffed sneakers and worn-out hoodie. It had been a look that made you self-conscious, but not uncomfortable. If anything, it had made you aware, of yourself, of her.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, snapping you from your thoughts.

Alba [18:37] Sooooo… thinking about her yet? ;)

You roll your eyes, but your fingers move to reply anyway.

You [18:38] Absolutely not. I’m far too busy being a responsible adult and putting away groceries.

Alba [18:38] Lies. You’re probably staring at a yogurt cup thinking about her ponytail.

You bite back a laugh, shaking your head as you type.

You [18:39] I hate you.

Alba [18:39] You love me. Also, no big deal, but we’re going to a match this weekend. VIP passes. My sister’s orders.

Your heart does an unhelpful little flip.

You [18:40] Wait, what? Why?

Alba [18:41] Because she wants to. And because I said you’d never been to a football game. She said that’s a crime.

You stare at the screen, pulse quickening. You weren’t naive. You knew Alba loved to meddle, to push buttons, but this felt… deliberate. Like a door being left slightly ajar, waiting for you to decide if you’d step through it.

You’re still staring at Alba’s last message, heart caught somewhere between excitement and dread, when a small, familiar voice tugs you back to earth.

“Mama, what’s for dinner?”

You turn around to find your daughter standing in the doorway, her curls a wild mess and a crayon clutched in her hand. She’s barefoot, wearing her favourite t-shirt that’s two sizes too big from being washed that many times, and looking up at you with that particular tilt of her head that always makes you want to scoop her up.

And just like that, the daydreams of lingering looks and football stadiums dissolve.

You force a smile, crouching down to her level. “What do you feel like, cariño? Pasta? Sandwiches?”

She considers this, chewing on her lip. “Can we have pancakes?”

It’s not exactly dinner, but who were you to argue? You’d had worse days. “Pancakes it is.” At least she was eating.

As you stand and move toward the pantry, the weight of reality settles back onto your shoulders. Alba’s texts, the supermarket encounter, Alexia’s knowing smile it all feels distant now, like something happening to someone else. Because the truth is, you don’t have time for, whatever that was. You’re a single mother, back to a city that feels too big, trying to make ends meet while keeping life stable for the little girl now sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, flipping through her colouring book.

You can’t entertain dating, you can’t afford to. You don’t have room for tangled emotions or complicated dynamics, not when your focus needs to be here, with her.

As you whisk the pancake batter, your phone buzzes again.

Alba [18:45] Don’t overthink it. Just come. It’ll be fun.

You lock the screen, setting the phone face down on the counter. It’s a nice idea, in theory, but nice ideas don’t pack school lunches or pay rent. You glance down at your daughter, who’s now humming to herself, content in her little world.

This is where you need to be. This is who needs you, still, as you pour batter onto the hot pan, a stubborn little thought creeps in, uninvited, It was just a football match.

Nothing more, you flip the pancake, ignoring the quickened pace of your heartbeat, because nothing could come of this.

Right?

👧🏼

It’s Saturday afternoon, and you’ve already resigned yourself to the fact that you’re not going anywhere. The apartment’s a mess, Aurora’s toys are scattered like breadcrumbs across the floor, and you’re still in your oldest sweatpants, hair tied back in a bun that’s barely holding on.

Your phone buzzes again.

Alba [14:03] Be ready to leave in 30.

You sigh, thumbs flying over the screen as you type out the inevitable response.

You [14:04] I told you, Alba. I don’t have childcare. I can’t just drop life to swan off to a football game for a team I don’t even watch.

You barely finish setting the phone down when a loud knock rattles the door. You groan, already knowing who it is.

When you open it, Alba’s standing there, all sunshine and mischief, a duffel slung over her shoulder like she’s about to kidnap you. She doesn’t even wait for an invite before stepping inside, toeing off her shoes.

“Problem solved,” she announces, grinning as she spots Aurora sitting at the coffee table, furiously scribbling into a coloring book.

“Auroraaaa!” Alba sings, crouching down to her level.

Your daughter’s head snaps up, face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Auntie Abba!” she squeals, launching herself into Alba’s arms. She’s the only one who calls Alba “Auntie,” and Alba’s the only one who gets away with calling her Rory. You’ve long given up trying to fight it.

Alba hoists her up effortlessly. “Hey, Rory-bug. I have a very important question for you.” She spins them both in a slow circle, making Aurora giggle. “Would you like to go watch a football match today? Big stadium, lots of people, snacks… and maybe, just maybe meet some cool players?”

Aurora gasps like she’s just been offered a trip to Disneyland. “Can we, Mama? Please?”

You rub your temples. “Alba…”

Alba grins over Aurora’s shoulder. “Childcare? Sorted. She’s coming. You’re coming. This is happening.”

You glance at your daughter, who’s now bouncing excitedly in Alba’s arms, and you feel your resolve crumble. How can you say no to that face? “I don’t even like football,” you mutter, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at resistance.

Alba just smirks. “Lucky for you, it’s not about the football.”

You narrow your eyes at her, but she’s already putting Aurora back to the floor and making a beeline for your closet. “Now come put on something cute. You’re not showing up to the VIP box looking like a sleep-deprived hermit.”

“I am a sleep-deprived hermit.”

“Not today you’re not.”

You sigh, because the truth is, you’re outnumbered and outmaneuvered. As you watch Aurora twirl in the middle of the room, already chattering about “watching the football players kick the ball super far,” you know you’re going, because of course you are.

As you shuffle off toward your bedroom to change, you mutter loud enough for Alba to hear, “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she calls after you. “But you love me for it.”

👧🏼

The stadium is overwhelming.

The sheer scale of it, the noise, the energy, the sea of blue and red it makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a different universe. You tighten your grip on Aurora’s hand, instinctively keeping her close as the crowd surges toward the entrances.

“This is insane,” you mutter under your breath.

Alba’s walking a few paces ahead, looking completely in her element. “It’s match day! This is the city,” she says, turning back with a grin. “Come on, VIP entrance is this way.”

Aurora’s eyes are huge, taking everything in as she skips to keep up with Alba’s longer strides. You catch her murmuring under her breath, “So many people…” as though trying to catalog them all.

Once inside, the chaos gives way to an air of exclusivity. The VIP area feels calmer, more contained, but the buzz of anticipation is still palpable. Alba hands you a lanyard with your pass, then crouches to clip Aurora’s around her neck. The sight of your tiny daughter in a too-big VIP pass is enough to tug a reluctant smile from you.

“You good?” Alba asks, eyes glinting with mischief as you settle into the plush seats, the pitch stretching out below you like a perfect painting.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you reply, shaking your head. You lean down to adjust Aurora’s top, making sure she’s warm enough despite the late afternoon breeze sweeping through the open stadium.

Aurora is practically vibrating in her seat, legs swinging restlessly as she looks around. “Where’s the football players, Mama?”

“They’re in the locker room,” Alba answers before you can. “You’ll see them soon, and they’re gonna look super tiny from here.”

Aurora makes a face at that, as if the idea of tiny footballers is some kind of scam, but she’s soon distracted when the pre-match festivities kick off. Music blares through the speakers, and the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers.

When the players finally emerge from the tunnel, the roar of the stadium is deafening. You spot Alexia instantly, how could you not? She’s at the front, leading the team onto the pitch with that same effortless command she’d had even in the supermarket aisle.

You feel something stir in your chest, but you push it aside.

“Look, Rory,” Alba nudges Aurora, pointing. “See number 11? That’s my sister.”

Aurora’s eyes widen, mouth falling open as she zeroes in on Alexia. “She’s your sister?!”

Alba chuckles. “Yup. Told you she’s cool.”

Aurora is silent for a moment, watching intently as the team lines up for kickoff. Then she tugs on your sleeve. “Mama, Alba’s sister is playing football.”

“I know, cariño,” you say, brushing her curls back. “She’s really good at it isn't she?”

Aurora seems to consider this, then leans back against you, content for now, her small hand slipping into yours. You steal a glance at Alba, who’s watching you with a soft, knowing smile.

The game starts, and despite your earlier protests, you find yourself getting swept up in it. Aurora’s enthusiasm is infectious she cheers when everyone cheers, mimics Alba’s dramatic gasps, and by halftime, she’s fully invested, even if she doesn’t quite understand the rules.

You’re not immune, either. It’s hard not to get caught in the rhythm of it all, the collective heartbeat of thousands of people living the same moments. Every time Alexia touches the ball, the energy seems to shift, and though she doesn’t know you’re even here, you can’t help but feel strangely… connected.

During halftime, Aurora sits on your lap, nibbling on a snack Alba had somehow conjured from nowhere.

“She’s really good at kicking the ball,” Aurora declares between bites.

“She’s had a lot of practice, i'm sure” you reply, smoothing down her top.

Alba leans back with a satisfied grin. “So, tell me again how you don’t like football?”

You shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

But she just laughs, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m just saying… you look pretty happy right now.”

You don’t bother replying because, annoyingly, she’s right. This wasn’t how you’d pictured your Saturday going. It certainly wasn’t how you’d pictured your life going. But here you are, in a stadium you never thought you’d step foot in, watching a match you never planned to care about, with your daughter curled up in your lap, cheering for Alba’s star sister.

The second half kicks off, and Alexia scores within the first ten minutes. The crowd explodes, and Aurora jumps to her feet, clapping wildly. Alba hoots beside her, and you just sit there for a moment, taking it all in, feeling the ripple of something shift inside you.

You weren’t supposed to be here and yet, here you are and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

👧🏼

By the time you get home, Aurora’s barely keeping her eyes open, her earlier energy now replaced with a slow, sleepy shuffle as she trails behind you into the apartment. The buzz of the match still lingers in your ears, but the quiet of home is a welcome contrast. You kick off your shoes and drop the keys in the dish by the door with a sigh, glancing over to see Alba already making herself at home in the kitchen, unpacking takeout containers like she owns the place.

“Alright, little one,” you murmur, bending down to unlace Aurora’s trainers. “Let’s get you ready for bed.”

Aurora hums in agreement, swaying a little on her feet as you peel off her jacket. You guide her toward the bathroom, her tiny fingers curling around yours as you help her wash up, her movements sluggish and unfocused. By the time you’re back in her room, she’s half-asleep, head resting against your shoulder as you pull back the covers.

But as you’re about to tuck her in, she stirs, blinking up at you with stubborn insistence. “Mama… I wanna say goodnight to Abba.”

You smile softly. “Okay, but then straight to bed, deal?”

She nods solemnly, though you’re not entirely sure she’ll remember this conversation in the morning.

You carry her back into the kitchen, where Alba’s in the middle of setting up a little feast of noodles and dumplings. She looks up, and her face softens immediately when she sees Aurora’s sleepy pout.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person,” Alba says, crouching to Aurora’s level. “You heading off to dreamland, Rory-bug?”

Aurora nods, leaning forward to wrap her arms around Alba’s neck. “G’night, Abba.”

Alba returns the hug with a fond squeeze. “Goodnight, pequeña. Sweet dreams, okay? Dream of scoring the winning goal.”

Aurora giggles sleepily. “Like your sister?”

Alba winks. “Exactly.”

You shake your head with a smile, gently detangling Aurora from Alba’s hold. “Alright, time for bed, kiddo.”

You carry her back to her room, the weight of her small body warm and familiar in your arms. She’s half-asleep again by the time you lay her down, eyes fluttering as you pull the blankets up to her chin.

“Love you, Mama,” she mumbles, voice soft, drowsy.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” you whisper, brushing a kiss to her forehead. You linger for a moment, watching as her breathing evens out, her grip on her stuffed bunny loosening as sleep finally claims her.

When you return to the kitchen, Alba’s already plated the food, one eyebrow arched as she passes you a set of chopsticks. “You’ve got a good one there, you know,” she says, gesturing toward the hallway where Aurora’s room is.

“I know,” you reply quietly, taking a seat. “Be lost without her.”

Alba gives you a look then one of those knowing, annoyingly perceptive glances that makes you feel like you’re being seen a little too clearly, but she doesn’t press. She just nudges a dumpling toward you with a grin.

“Good. Now eat. You’re gonna need your strength if you’re gonna survive this city… and my meddling.”

You snort, but there’s warmth beneath it. For now, at least, life feels manageable. You’ve got a full belly, a safe home, and a daughter who’s already dreaming of football fields.

👧🏼

The morning is a blur of movement, as most mornings are.

You’re crouched by Aurora’s cubby in the nursery, double-checking her things with a precision born of necessity, spare clothes, check; water bottle, check; her favourite bunny plush, check. You smooth down her curls, tucking them behind her ear as she chatters about something one of her little friends said yesterday. You nod along, only half-hearing, your mind already running through the day’s to-do list.

“You good, buggie?” you ask, crouching to meet her eyes.

She grins, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, Mama!”

“Alright.” You press a kiss to her forehead. “Be good, okay?”

She bounds off toward the play area as you straighten up, turning to find Alba leaning against the doorframe, watching with that same infuriatingly smug expression she’s perfected.

“What?” you ask, already wary.

“Nothing,” Alba says, her tone way too casual. “Just… Alexia asked about you after the match.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to Aurora’s cubby, pretending to rearrange items that are already perfectly in place. “Alba, I don’t have time for this.”

Alba pushes off the frame, following you as you move down the hallway toward the staff room. “I’m just saying. She noticed you weren’t in the players’ lounge after the game. Asked why you didn’t come by. I might have mentioned you had other priorities.”

You huff a breath, quickening your pace. “Good. Because I do.”

“She thought that was cute.”

You stop abruptly, spinning on your heel to face her. “Alba.”

She lifts her hands in mock surrender, but the glint in her eyes gives her away. “I’m not matchmaking, I swear. I’m just passing along information. Totally harmless. Just… data sharing.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I have drop-offs, lesson planning, meetings, and a toddler who thinks every puddle is a personal invitation. I don’t have time for this.”

“I know,” Alba says, her tone softer now, though the smile hasn’t faded. “But you’re allowed to exist outside of that, you know. You don’t have to carry the world on your own every second.”

You exhale slowly, the weight of everything pressing down as it always does. “Alba…”

“I’m not asking you to do anything. Neither is she. It’s just…” She shrugs, linking her arm through yours as you start walking again. “You were seen. That’s all.”

You don’t answer. You can’t, not when the idea of being seen feels both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Come on,” Alba says gently. “Coffee’s on me. You’re gonna need it.”

You let her pull you along, the morning chaos momentarily dulled by her easy warmth. But somewhere in the back of your mind, Alexia’s name lingers, curling into a space you didn’t realise was waiting for it.

👧🏼

The supermarket feels quieter than usual, maybe it’s the time of day, or maybe it’s just because you’re alone this time. No small hand tugging at yours, no steady stream of questions about what’s for dinner or whether she can ride on the cart. Just you, a half-filled basket on your arm, and the steady rhythm of errands that never quite end.

You knew Aurora was fine more than fine. Monday dinners with your parents had become her favorite routine, a standing date that gave you a few precious hours to breathe, to catch up on chores, or… apparently, to restock on groceries.

You’re debating between two brands of pasta sauce when a voice cuts through the aisle, smooth and familiar.

“Do you always shop like you’re making the most important decision of your life?”

You glance up, heart doing an automatic lurch, to find Alexia standing a few feet away, leaning casually against the shelf with that insufferably charming smirk. She’s in a hoodie and joggers, hair pulled back in a loose bun, but she wears the simplicity with the kind of quiet confidence that you’re sure should be illegal.

“Depends,” you reply, managing a small smile. “Some of us take tomato sauce very seriously.”

“Clearly.” She steps closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “Should I be worried you’ll judge my choices?”

“That depends,” you say, arching a brow. “Are you about to pick up something with ‘three-cheese’ in the name?”

Alexia gasps, mock-offended, hand flying to her chest. “I’ll have you know, my taste is impeccable.”

You hum, unconvinced, turning back to the shelf as if pondering the fate of the pasta aisle rests entirely on your shoulders. But you’re aware of her presence, of the way she falls into step beside you with an ease that makes your nerves spark.

“You come here often?” she teases, bumping her shoulder lightly into yours.

You glance at her, biting back a smile. “Did you really just use a supermarket pick-up line?”

Alexia’s grin only widens, entirely unashamed. “You’re here. I’m here. Feels like fate.”

You snort, shaking your head, but you can’t deny that you’re impressed. Her charm is disarming, her cockiness somehow toeing the line between obnoxious and undeniably magnetic. You’re polite, though, controlled. You have to be. “Well, fate’s about to be disappointed,” you say, holding up your basket. “This is strictly a solo mission. Grocery run, home, dinner. Very glamorous.”

“Solo missions are overrated,” Alexia counters, leaning slightly closer. “What if I offered to be your expert sauce consultant?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you then, shaking your head as you finally settle on a jar and drop it into your basket. “I think I’ll manage. But… thanks for the offer.”

Her eyes flick over you, curiosity sparking beneath the easy flirtation, but she doesn’t push. She just smiles, soft but still cocky, like she’s playing the long game and knows it.

“Alright. I’ll let you get back to your glamorous Monday night,” she says, stepping back with a little salute. “But I’m warning you. I’m very persuasive when it comes to convincing people to switch sauce brands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, biting back another smile as you move down the aisle.

You feel her watching you for a moment longer before she finally turns away, and it takes more focus than it should to keep walking like your heart isn’t racing a little faster.

You’re unloading the last of your items onto the checkout belt, silently cursing yourself for grabbing so much. Four bags. You hadn’t meant to pick up so much, but somehow the essentials had multiplied, and now your arms were going to pay the price on the walk home.

As the cashier scans items with mechanical efficiency, you feel a presence behind you solid, unmissable. You glance over your shoulder and, of course, there she is, Alexia. Again. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says, voice low, that teasing lilt ever-present.

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to fish your wallet from your bag. “It’s a supermarket, not a secret club.”

“Still feels like fate,” she says, and you don’t need to look at her to know she’s smirking.

The bags pile up faster than you can keep up with, and you’re already bracing yourself for the awkward juggle ahead when Alexia steps up beside you, completely unbothered.

“I’ll help you with those,” she says, casually reaching for the bags.

“I’m fine,” you protest automatically, though the protest sounds weak even to your own ears.

“Didn’t ask if you were fine,” she replies, effortlessly lifting two of the heaviest bags in one hand, like they weigh nothing more than pillows. “I’m offering.”

You try to interject, to argue because you’re not in the habit of accepting help, but the words get tangled somewhere between your pride and the sight of her calmly slinging the remaining bags over her other arm with zero effort.

“That’s… helpful,” you admit, stepping aside as she takes control of the situation like it was always meant to be this way.

“I’m very useful,” she says, flashing a grin as she starts walking toward the exit, fully expecting you to follow and you do.

Because those bags were heavy, your back was already aching at the thought of the walk home, and, if you’re honest, a part of you is grateful that she didn’t wait for you to say yes, grateful for the quiet confidence that made it seem like no big deal. “I live just a few blocks away,” you say, quickening your steps to keep up with her.

“Perfect,” she replies easily. “I like a good walk.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. There’s no smugness in her expression now, just that effortless, steady presence that seems to wrap around her like a second skin.

“I could’ve managed, you know,” you mutter, though your tone lacks conviction.

“I know,” she says simply. “But you don’t always have to.”

And just like that, she’s ahead of you again bags in hand, shoulders relaxed, like this is the most natural thing in the world and for the first time in a long time, you let someone carry the weight for you. Even if it’s just groceries.

The walk to your apartment is shorter than usual or at least, it feels that way with Alexia carrying most of the load, making light conversation that somehow isn’t awkward or forced. You unlock the front door, nudging it open with your shoulder, and gesture for her to step inside.

“Kitchen’s just on the right,” you say, stepping aside.

Alexia moves past you without hesitation, bags still in hand, as though she’s done this a hundred times. The ease of it unsettles you not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. You weren’t used to someone walking into your space and making themselves useful without asking for permission first.

You trail after her, watching as she places the bags onto the kitchen counter, effortlessly shifting into a rhythm as she starts unpacking. You’re a little too aware of how she moves in the small space, how her presence seems to fill it without being overwhelming.

“Nice place,” she comments, glancing around. “Cozy.”

“Thanks,” you reply, moving to start sorting the groceries. It’s easier to focus on the task, to ground yourself in the mundane.

Alexia pulls out a carton of juice, eyes flicking to you with a teasing smile. “Responsible adult purchase. I’m impressed.”

You chuckle under your breath, shaking your head. “What can I say? I live dangerously.”

She’s quiet for a moment, but not in a way that feels uncomfortable. It’s more like she’s studying the space or maybe you, but if she’s looking for signs of a chaotic life or clues to the fact that you juggle more than just a day job, she won’t find them here. The kitchen is clean, neutral, intentionally simple.

“Alright, groceries officially delivered and unpacked,” she says, wiping her hands on her hoodie as if she’s completed some grand mission. “I’m going to claim I’m a very efficient shopping partner.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms with a small smile. “You definitely earned MVP status.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” she grins, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to your glamorous Monday night.”

Her tone is light, but there’s an edge of something lingering behind her smile like she’s waiting to see if you’ll stop her, invite her to stay. You don’t, because you’re not sure what it would mean if you did.

“Thanks for the help,” you say instead, softer than you intend.

Alexia’s gaze lingers on you for a beat, her smirk easing into something gentler. “Anytime.” And with that, she slips out the door, leaving you standing in the quiet of your kitchen, wondering when exactly she’d gotten under your skin.

👧🏼

The classroom was quiet except for the faint scratch of your pen against paper, the stack of exercise books on your desk seemingly multiplying with every tick of the clock. The day had been long, your focus fraying at the edges, but the work had to get done. You barely noticed the soft knock at the door until a familiar voice followed.

“Knock knock,” Alba sing-songed, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You lifted your head, expecting her usual grin, but your eyes immediately landed on the figure beside her. Alexia.

Her hands were full takeout bags dangling from her fingers and she was eyeing you with that same cocky amusement she always seemed to carry.

“Ale has brought food,” Alba said, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “You hungry?”

Before you could answer, Alexia had already stepped into the room, all effortless confidence as she strolled across the classroom. She didn’t wait for an invitation, didn’t hesitate as she grabbed one of the tiny plastic chairs from a nearby table and dragged it to your desk with a loud scrape that made you wince.

She plopped down onto the chair knees bent awkwardly, but she looked completely at ease and started unpacking the food onto your desk, her movements unhurried and perfectly at home. As if she belonged here, in your space, sharing your dinner break like it was a routine.

“You don’t mind, right?” she asked, though the question was mostly rhetorical. She was already pulling open containers.

You leaned back in your chair, pen still in hand, watching as she opened a box of what smelled suspiciously like your favorite noodles. “I’m starting to see a pattern with you,” you said, eyeing her as she casually took the first bite.

“I like efficiency,” Alexia replied, mouth curving into a smirk. “You need to eat. I had food. Seemed like a win-win.”

You shook your head, exhaling a breath that could have been a laugh, but wasn’t quite. Alba, still leaning in the doorway, was watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement. “I told you she’s a menace,” Alba said, grinning.

“A helpful menace,” Alexia corrected around another bite, eyes flicking to you. “You gonna sit there, or are you going to eat?”

You stared at her for a moment longer, thrown off by how seamlessly she’d inserted herself into your evening, but your stomach betrayed you with a soft, undeniable growl. With a resigned shake of your head, you set your pen down and reached for a pair of chopsticks.

“Fine,” you muttered, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a small smile. “But next time, you don’t get to steal the kid’s chair.”

Alexia only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “I make it look good, though.” And the worst part was. She really did.

You sat back in your chair, chopsticks in hand, watching as Alexia commandeered your desk like it was her personal dining table. The way she carried herself relaxed, confident, entirely unbothered would have been infuriating if it wasn’t also weirdly entertaining.

Alba perched on the edge of a nearby table, arms crossed, watching the two of you like she was waiting for the opening act of her favorite play.

“So, is this a thing with you?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the impromptu dinner setup. “Do you just barge into people’s classrooms and take over their desks?”

Alexia didn’t miss a beat. “Only when they look like they’re drowning in paperwork and forgetting to eat.”

“That’s very altruistic of you,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “Barcelona’s star midfielder, saving teachers one takeout box at a time.”

Her smirk deepened, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was enjoying herself far too much. “You’re welcome.”

You tilted your head, giving her a deliberately unimpressed look as you took a bite of your noodles. “You do realise not everyone’s going to swoon just because you show up with food, right?”

Alba let out a sharp laugh from the side, clearly delighted.

Alexia, however, looked completely unfazed. If anything, she seemed intrigued. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a glint of challenge there, like she was testing new ground. “Good,” she said slowly, leaning back in the too small chair with an infuriating ease. “I don’t like easy.”

You couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped you. “Is that a line you practice often, or is this a special occasion?”

“It’s custom-made,” she replied smoothly, her grin unapologetic. “You’re a tougher audience than most.”

“Maybe you’re just rusty,” you fired back, leaning your elbows on the desk.

Alba, now fully invested, practically choked on her own laughter, but Alexia only seemed more entertained. She picked up another dumpling, holding your gaze across the desk, not flinching. “I’m not rusty. You’re just a good challenge.”

You quirked an eyebrow, meeting her stare without backing down. “You’re not used to people calling you out, are you?”

“Not really,” she admitted, her smile lazy, but her eyes sharp. “But I like it.”

The silence between you was charged, but not uncomfortable. It was like a game, a back and forth neither of you was willing to let the other win just yet. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said finally, sitting back with a satisfied grin of your own.

Alexia pointed her chopsticks at you in mock surrender. “You should. You’re a rarity.”

Alba, still grinning, stood up and clapped her hands together. “God, this is better than I expected. I should’ve brought popcorn.”

You shook your head, turning your attention back to your food, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide.

Alexia just kept eating, as if she’d decided this was her favourite seat in the building and somehow, you had the feeling she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

____

Nerves are real for posting this one for some reason, is this something we want to keep going with? 🤔

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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leriexoxo · 2 days ago

Text

Angel’s SKZ Birthday Bash 🎂

Dont Let Me Love You

Bestfriend! Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: Angst, best friends to lovers, unrequited love, stubbornness, smut, feelings realization, slow burn, drunken confession, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, lots of kissing, sexual tension.

Word count: 6.7k

Summary: You were never supposed to fall for him. Not your best friend, the boy who swore he didn’t believe in love anymore. But he touched you like he forgot, looked at you like he remembered, and held you like he wished he could stay. You told yourself it was nothing. That you’d imagined it. Until one night, the truth slipped past your lips, thick with wine and want. And suddenly, he wasn’t pretending anymore. He begged you not to love him. You did it anyway. Now, there’s no going back.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

🎊: Happy Birthday to an amazing writer @angel-writes-skz-here , I hope you have a good one 🤍

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You couldn’t name the exact moment it started.

Maybe it was the first time he pulled you into his hoodie on a rainy night, both of you soaked and breathless, laughing like fools under the yellow haze of a streetlight. Or maybe it was the way he always looked for you in a crowded room with that quiet glance, like the world only made sense if you were in it.

You’d been friends for years. That kind of closeness that lived in the small things — sharing earbuds in public, finishing each other’s snacks without asking, sleeping back-to-back during long movie marathons. No boundaries. No questions. It was never weird. Never talked about.

You told people you were best friends. They never believed you.

“Are you sure you’re not dating?”

“You two act like an old married couple.”

You’d laugh it off. So would he. Because it wasn’t like that. Not really.

Except, it kind of was. Wasn’t it?

You never flirted — not outright. But he’d rest his head in your lap when he was tired. You’d trace shapes into the fabric of his sleeve when you were bored. He’d call you at 2 a.m. just to ask what you thought happened to the dinosaurs. You’d pick up every time.

You didn’t think anything of it. Until one night, you did.

You were both lying on his floor, backs against the carpet, the ceiling spinning just a little from too much soda and too much sugar. He was telling you about his latest sketch — how he couldn’t get the shading right on this one figure, how the shoulders kept coming out wrong.

“I should just scrap the whole thing,” he murmured, one hand behind his head, the other gesturing vaguely. “Start over.”

You looked over at him. His hair was sticking out at different angles from him running his fingers through it repeatedly. His voice was low, softer than usual. You noticed the curve of his mouth when he was lost in thought.

And for some reason, your chest ached.

It came fast, like a breath you weren’t ready to take. Like something you’d been holding back for a long time without realizing.

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your head away and stared at the ceiling again, willing the feeling to pass. It didn’t.

That was the moment.

That was when everything shifted — quietly, almost cruelly. No fireworks. No drama. Just a slow, unbearable awareness that you wanted more than he was willing to give. That you’d fallen in love with the one person who would never love you back.

Because Hyunjin didn’t believe in love. Not anymore.

“Love’s a mess,” he’d told you once. “It makes people selfish. Desperate. I don’t want that again.”

You’d nodded. Agreed. Back then, it was easy. Back then, you believed him.

But now? Now you were lying awake at night, wondering if the way he held your wrist a little too long meant anything. If the way he leaned his head on your shoulder when he was tired was just a habit, or something more. If you were imagining it all.

Because the truth was, he still looked at you like you were his favorite person in the world. He just didn’t look at you like someone he could fall in love with.

And that hurt more than anything.

You told yourself it was still the same. That the late-night phone calls didn’t mean more. That the way he let his head fall against your shoulder when he was tired was just muscle memory. That the things he said, “No one gets me like you do”, “You’re the only person I can be like this with”, weren’t confessions. Just friendship.

You lied to yourself a lot these days. Because Hyunjin was still Hyunjin. Thoughtless in the way he touched, soft in the way he lingered. He didn’t think twice before pulling you into a hug that lasted too long. Didn’t hesitate to rest his chin on your shoulder while brushing his teeth beside you in the mirror. You were just his person. The one who knew his favorite ramen flavor, the only one he let read his notebooks when he got too deep in his head. The one he curled around like a cat on cold mornings, blanket tangled between your legs.

It was never meant to be anything else.

Except now, every time his fingers brushed your skin, it felt like a match struck against your nerves.

You’d flinch — not outwardly, but inside, something always jumped. And he never noticed. Never looked twice.

You got good at pretending. That was your new talent. Smiling through the heat that bloomed in your chest. Holding your breath when he leaned in too close. Laughing like you weren’t falling in love with every little thing he didn’t realize he was doing.

Like now.

You were in the passenger seat of his car, driving home from some late-night errand getting snacks and candles and that moisturizer he liked but could never find. The sky outside was ink-black, the city glowing in fragments through the windshield. Music played low, something dreamy, ambient. A D4VD song you didn’t know the name of.

He was humming under his breath, his voice soft, almost boyish in the quiet.

You had your legs crossed loosely, skirt riding a little high on your thighs, but you didn’t think much of it. Not until Hyunjin’s hand left the gear shift, moved lazily to rest on your leg — light, like it always was. Familiar. Careless.

Except this time, it was your bare thigh.

Warm skin against warm skin. His fingertips just resting there, unconscious and unbothered. A touch he’d done a hundred times before.

But never like this.

You froze.

Not visibly. You kept your face turned toward the window, your mouth pulling into a soft smile at something he said, something you didn’t even hear.

The movement of the car made it worse. Every bump in the road sent a subtle shift through your body, the light drag of his hand against your skin, knuckles grazing higher, then settling again. Not intentionally. He wasn’t even aware.

But it lit something low in your stomach. That terrible, quiet ache.

You stared out the window like it was the most fascinating view in the world. Said nothing. Didn’t breathe too deeply.

Because the moment you acknowledged it, you knew the spell would break. Or worse — you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

And Hyunjin? He just kept driving, humming softly. Like his touch didn’t burn you alive.

He didn’t move his hand from your thigh until his phone buzzed in the console.

He shifted just enough to check it, eyes flicking down, the glow of the screen lighting up his face in the dark. His hand left your skin. You exhaled silently.

“Jisung’s throwing a party tomorrow night,” he said, like nothing strange had happened. “Wants us to come.”

You blinked, still trying to breathe like a normal person. “Yeah,” you said quickly. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But it stayed with you long after you went home. Long after you’d changed into pajamas and buried yourself beneath your sheets and stared up at the ceiling, your skin still tingling where his hand had been. You tried not to read into it. Failed spectacularly.

Because no matter how many times you told yourself it was meaningless — just Hyunjin being Hyunjin — it never felt that way to you.

—

The next night, you dressed slowly.

You didn’t mean to try so hard. You didn’t. But your hands lingered over the soft hem of your dress, your eyes scanning your reflection for anything he might notice. Anything that might make him look twice. Foolish, you told yourself. You knew better. But the hope was a quiet thing, and it didn’t ask permission to bloom.

Hyunjin picked you up just past nine. Same lazy smile. “You look nice,” he said, like it was routine.

You tried not to die inside.

Jisung’s place was already full when you arrived, warm lights, loud music, the living room packed with bodies and laughter. Familiar faces from old parties, new people you didn’t care to know. You stuck close to Hyunjin at first, the way you always did. It wasn’t even a choice anymore, he was your orbit.

There were games going on. Stupid things. Seven minutes in heaven, truth or dare, couples kissing in the middle of dares they barely flinched at. It was messy and loud and full of things you tried not to want.

Hyunjin settled next to you on the couch, thigh pressed to yours. His arm draped along the back, fingers grazing your shoulder every now and then. He smelled like cedarwood and clean laundry. You tried not to lean in.

“Couples are so annoying,” Jisung said from across the room, groaning theatrically as two people fawned all over each other. “Get a room, Jesus.”

Hyunjin snorted beside you. “Seriously. They look insane.”

The words stabbed a little harder than they should’ve.

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your chest felt tight. Maybe it was the noise, or the room, or just him — sitting there beside you like he wasn’t everything you wanted. Like he hadn’t just reminded you, again, that you’d never be it for him.

Because Hyunjin didn’t do love. He didn’t want it. Not from anyone.

And especially not from you.

You looked away. Reached for a cup you hadn’t planned on drinking from.

The first shot burned your throat.

The second made you laugh too loud at something that wasn’t funny.

The third — well, you didn’t remember pouring it.

By the time the music blurred into static and the room tipped slightly when you stood, your head was full of him. His hand on your leg. His voice saying “They look insane.” The way he smiled like nothing between you had ever been dangerous.

You drank because it was easier than feeling.

Hyunjin had stopped drinking long ago. You saw him watching you. Concern flickered in his eyes every time you reached for another glass. You ignored him. You were good at that, too.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said finally, coming over and gently prying the cup from your fingers. “Let’s go home.”

You blinked up at him, a little dazed. “What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His hand slipped around your wrist firmly. His touch was always gentle when it came to you. It hurt more that way.

You didn’t protest when he guided you out, his hand never leaving yours. Not until you stepped into the night and the air bit at your skin and your head started to clear just enough to feel everything again.

The ache. The longing. The quiet devastation of wanting someone who would never want you back.

—

You sat slumped against the passenger window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, trying not to think about the way his hand brushed yours when he helped you into the car. How it had lingered — warm, steady, a little too close to deliberate. Like he’d meant to pull you in and then remembered who you were.

Almost.

Outside, the city passed in slow, sleepy streaks. Warm golds. Faded greys. The world felt quieter than it should’ve, your heartbeat too loud against the hush of his playlist humming in the background. Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t trust your voice not to crack if you did.

When he pulled up outside your building, the engine ticked into silence, and for a beat too long, neither of you moved.

You shifted. “You don’t have to walk me up.”

“I know.” But he came anyway.

The elevator was a closed box of silence. Your floor blinked past in soft dings, but you barely registered them. You were too aware of him, the heat of his body beside you, the clean scent of his cologne, the way his hand brushed the small of your back when you stepped out, so light you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

Your fingers fumbled with the keys. Wine still in your blood. Nerves screaming under your skin. The key missed the lock once — twice — before Hyunjin reached forward, curling his hand around your wrist.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I got it.”

It wasn’t the touch that undid you. It was how long he held it. How gentle. How it felt like he wanted to stay close.

Like maybe he didn’t hate how your skin felt, even if he didn’t want to need it.

The door clicked open. You stepped inside. He followed without asking. Like always.

And maybe it was the way the light fell soft against his jaw, or the fact that your mouth still tasted like longing, or the weight of his hand still echoing against your wrist — but suddenly you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Do you really think love is a mistake?”

He turned toward you. Brow faintly drawn. “What?”

You swallowed. Closed the door behind you. “At the party. When Jisung was making fun of couples. You said they looked stupid. You meant it, didn’t you?”

He stared at you for a long moment. Long enough to make the air feel heavy.

Then he crossed the room, leaned against your kitchen counter, arms folding across his chest like armor. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I meant it.”

You waited. He didn’t elaborate.

“Why?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. He rubbed the back of his neck — a nervous habit — like he was trying to chase something out of his own skin. “Because love ruins things,” he said, low and bitter. “Because people say forever and leave the second it gets hard. Because I’ve already been that idiot once and it fucking broke me.”

The words were sharp. Not at you but still, they cut.

“I’m not people, Hyunjin.”

That made him pause.

His gaze lifted. Locked on yours. And for the first time that night, he looked at you. Not past you. Not through you. At you — like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself see before.

His voice came out rough. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you make it sound like you could be different.”

“Maybe I could be.”

His shoulders tensed. You took a step closer.

“I’ve been here,” you said softly. “Every time. No matter what mood you’re in. No matter how much you push.”

“Because you’re my best friend.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked a little. “But still, you let me in. You always do.”

He didn’t speak.

You took another step.

“You touch me like it means something,” you whispered. “And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’m just reading into things I shouldn’t. But I wish—”

You stopped. Bit back the words.

“I wish you didn’t make it so easy to love you.”

That hit.

You saw it. The way his eyes flickered. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something he’d regret.

The space between you throbbed.

He stepped toward you — slow, hesitant — until he was close enough to reach. Close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath. His gaze dropped, lingered on your mouth.

He didn’t kiss you. But he didn’t walk away either.

Your name left his lips, soft and broken. A whisper edged in something dangerous.

You blinked, swallowed hard, then stepped back. Too fast.

“Forget it,” you murmured. “I’m tired.”

“Wait—”

But you were already turning, already walking toward your bedroom, away from the crash you almost let happen.

And Hyunjin stood in your kitchen hands clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he’d just realized something he wasn’t ready to admit. Still he didn’t follow.

—

You woke up with the taste of regret clinging to your tongue.

Your head pounded, the dull throb blooming behind your eyes as sunlight bled through your curtains too brightly. Your throat was dry, your limbs a little heavy, like your body was punishing you for last night’s stupidity.

And then it hit you.

Not the headache. Not the dehydration.

The memory.

Your breath stalled. You shot upright, the sheets tangling around your legs like they were trying to drag you back under. You’d said it. You actually said it. Out loud. To him. In your kitchen. With your hair a mess and wine swimming in your veins.

“I wish you didn’t make it so easy to love you.”

You groaned — loud and pathetic — and shoved your face into your hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Your chest tightened. Your stomach churned. You pulled at your hair like it might jolt the moment out of your skull, erase the words, roll back the clock. But they were still there, echoing through your skull like a song you couldn’t shut off.

You checked your phone. Nothing from him. Not a single text. No call. Not even a stupid meme, which he always sent after parties, something about how hard he’d regretted leaving the house, or how gross drunk people were.

But this time? Radio silence.

You paced. You spiraled. You considered deleting your entire existence and moving to another continent. Maybe start a new life with a new name. Somewhere snowy. Somewhere far from boys with lazy grins and hands that rest too casually on your thigh.

God, his hand.

You let out a strangled sound, turned on your heel, and marched toward the kitchen. You needed water. Or coffee. Or a time machine.

You rounded the corner—and screamed.

Hyunjin was standing by your counter.

Barefoot. Hair a mess. Same hoodie from last night slouched off one shoulder, like he’d never left.

Because he hadn’t.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He didn’t flinch. “I couldn’t leave.”

You blinked. Words stuttering behind your lips. “You—? What?”

“I tried. I got as far as the door.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight. “But I couldn’t go.”

You stared at him, throat closing around a dozen questions you were too afraid to ask.

His voice was quieter now. “We need to talk.”

And just like that, the hangover didn’t matter anymore.

You swallowed. The air between you shifted, dense and sharp like a wire pulled too tight. “Right. Um. Okay.”

You backed toward the fridge like the moment might forget you existed if you just kept moving. Pulled open the door. Grabbed the water bottle. Avoided his eyes.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you — heavy, unmoving, arms folded across his chest like a barricade.

You unscrewed the cap. Took a long drink. Cleared your throat. “About last night…”

His gaze didn’t waver.

You smiled shaky and rehearsed. “I was so drunk. I barely remember anything.”

A beat passed.

He blinked once. Slowly. “You don’t remember.”

“Not really, no.”

“Nothing at all?”

You gave a small, helpless laugh. “I mean, bits and pieces. I was clearly talking nonsense—”

“Right,” he cut in. “Nonsense.”

He turned his head then, jaw flexing. Something sharp flashed through his expression, not hurt or disbelief but something closer to anger.

Your stomach dipped and you shifted on your feet. “I just didn’t want to make things weird between us.”

“Well, too late for that,” he said, voice tight.

You blinked. “Hyunjin—”

He took a step toward you.

Your breath caught.

He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing. “So let me get this straight. You weren’t confessing anything. You didn’t mean any of it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you said you don’t remember.” He moved again. Another step. “You’re saying I made it up?”

“That’s not—”

“You’re saying I imagined the way your voice shook when you said you loved me?”

You froze.

He kept going. Low. Dangerous. Closer.

“You’re saying my touch doesn’t affect you?”

You flinched.

“Doesn’t make you forget what you’re saying, what you’re doing, who you’re trying so hard to be?”

His hand lifted slowly and deliberately brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Just the pads of his fingers, soft and reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to touch you or punish you with it.

You didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

His voice was barely a whisper now. “Tell me I made it up.”

You couldn’t. Because you didn’t.

And he knew that. Every inch of him — from the tight line of his shoulders to the way his mouth hovered just shy of yours — was daring you to keep lying.

And you couldn’t do it. Not when your whole body was already leaning into the gravity of him.

Not when every second of silence stretched the ache between you like a fuse begging to be lit.

You didn’t mean to touch him. Your hand just moved on its own — curled gently over his chest like it could quiet the tremble beneath your skin. He was so close now, heat radiating off him like a fever, like fire, and you were drowning in it.

And then he pulled you in.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as his hands slid around your waist. His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t soft either, it was firm. Steady. Like he wasn’t letting go, even if he should.

He stared down at you, the weight of his gaze unbearable. Like he could read every word you hadn’t said. Like your silence was loud.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at you.

You didn’t know what to do with the way your body ached to close the last inch.

His mouth was right there, full and parted, breath fanning across your cheek like a dare. You felt the heat blooming in your chest, your stomach, the place between your thighs. You weren’t breathing. Couldn’t.

“Are you ready to talk now?” he asked, voice thick, jaw tight.

The spell shattered like glass between you.

You pulled back. Just barely. Not enough to escape, only to feel the sudden absence of the moment you were about to break into.

Your throat burned. “Do we have to?”

He didn’t smile. “Yes.”

You stepped back, just enough for air, for distance, even if it felt like a wound. He let you go. Slowly. Like it hurt him too.

You moved to the couch, legs folding under you like your bones forgot how to hold your weight. Hyunjin stayed standing for a moment, then sat beside you but far enough to be polite and close enough to make your chest ache.

He spoke first.

“I don’t do love,” he said, low and flat. “Not anymore.”

You stared at your hands. “I know.”

“I’m not built for it. I ruin people. I ruin things that matter.”

“You don’t ruin—”

He cut you off. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then — really looked. Like he was begging you to understand the truth behind the cruelty. “If we cross that line and it goes wrong, we don’t come back from it. And I’d rather die than lose what we have.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious.” Your voice cracked. “That’s the problem.”

He went quiet.

You stared at the floor, eyes glassy, throat burning. “Do you think I wanted this?”

He flinched.

“I didn’t plan to fall for you. I wasn’t sitting around plotting the day I’d mess up our friendship and destroy every ounce of peace I have with you.”

He looked at you then, expression unreadable.

“If I hadn’t been drunk last night, you would’ve never even known. I would’ve buried it like I’ve been doing for months. I would’ve pretended I was fine.”

He said nothing.

“And now I wish I had. I wish I could take it back. Not the feelings—” your voice broke, “but the part where you know.”

Silence pressed down like a weight.

You thought maybe, maybe he’d soften now. Maybe he’d say it was okay, that he understood.

But his jaw clenched. His fists tightened.

“Right,” he said, voice sharp. “So the part you regret is that I know. That’s what’s unbearable.”

You blinked. “That’s not what I meant—”

He stood suddenly, pacing now. Anger clinging to every movement. “You think I wanted to know that last night? You think I haven’t spent months trying to unsee the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

You went still.

He continued, voice low, rough with something too bitter to name. “Do you think I haven’t wanted you?”

Silence. Heavy. Deadly.

“Because I have,” he whispered. “And it scared the shit out of me.”

Hyunjin didn’t look at you when he had started talking. He stood in the center of your living room, hands restless at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like if he looked at you, really looked, the whole damn thing would collapse.

“I didn’t want it to get this far,” he said quietly. “Not because I didn’t feel it. God, that’s the problem. I did.”

You froze.

“I thought I could control it,” he went on, still not meeting your eyes. “That if I ignored it long enough, if I kept the lines blurry but just on the edge, I could trick myself out of wanting more.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I used to tell myself you didn’t feel it back. That it was just me being stupid. Needy. Fucking reckless.” He exhaled like the words had been clawing at his throat. “But it was easier when I could lie to myself. When I thought you didn’t want me.”

Your heart cracked open.

“I’ve ruined things before,” he said. “I’ve crossed lines and lost people and ended up with nothing but memories I can’t even look at without feeling sick. And this—” His voice caught. “You’re not just anyone. You’re you. If I lose you—”

He broke off. Finally looked at you.

“And now I know you feel it too,” he said, softer this time. “And that makes it worse. Because now I don’t have an excuse. Now it’s not just me risking everything, it’s you, and if this goes sideways, I don’t know if I can survive it.”

You didn’t speak. You just watched him, the slope of his shoulders, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes gave him away even when his mouth tried to bury the truth.

He still thought he was protecting you.

But it was too late for that. You were already in it, knee-deep in the ache of wanting him, the mess of loving him when you weren’t supposed to. And now you knew he’d been there too, quietly drowning beside you.

You stepped toward him.

His breath hitched.

Another step.

He went quiet, eyes tracking your every move like he couldn’t believe it was happening.

“I just—” he started, but the words faltered. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “I’m trying to explain—”

You didn’t let him. You reached for him, hands slipping up his chest and then, without giving him time to overthink it, you leaned in and pressed your mouth to his.

Softly.

His whole body went still.

Then, slowly, like gravity was always going to win, his hands found your waist and pulled you in.

The moment your lips touched his again, something broke. Not like a door creaking open — no, it splintered, cracked wide with the force of everything you both had kept buried. All the pretending. All the tension. All the times his hand lingered too long or his eyes dropped to your lips before he looked away. All of it, gone.

Hyunjin kissed you back like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your waist like they didn’t trust you to stay. His mouth slanted over yours, greedy, all tongue and heat and breath. He backed you into the wall without thinking, your spine pressing into it as he kissed you harder, deeper, like you were something he’d gone too long without and wasn’t sure he’d ever get again.

You moaned into his mouth and felt him shudder.

It wasn’t gentle. Nothing about it was. His hands moved — down, around, up again — like he couldn’t figure out where he needed to touch you first. Like he wanted to touch all of you at once. And when you tugged at his shirt, he gasped against your lips, forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he dragged you right back in.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered, the words barely making it out between kisses. “Fuck— I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But his mouth didn’t stop. Neither did yours.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugged — and he groaned, low and wrecked, and kissed you like the world was ending. Like this was the last chance he’d ever get and he had to make it count. Your thigh brushed his hip, and his hand dropped low, pulling you closer, flush against him. You felt all of it. The tension, the heat, the way his body trembled like he was about to fall apart.

And maybe he was.

Because this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t safe or careful or quiet.

This was everything.

You didn’t care. You didn’t want safe. You wanted him. Wanted every part of him he tried to hide, every buried glance and stolen moment and terrified truth. And now that you had it — had him — there was no pretending anymore.

He kissed you like he finally understood that. And still, it wasn’t enough

His lips dragged down your jaw, bruising kisses pressed beneath your ear, and you felt the words before you heard them — breathless and shaken.

“Tell me to stop.”

His voice cracked as he said it. Like it cost him everything just to get the words out.

“Tell me to walk away right now, and I will.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I’m serious,” he said again, softer now, forehead pressed to your neck like he couldn’t bear to look at you. His hands trembled where they gripped your waist. “Just say the word. Please. Before we—before I ruin everything.”

And maybe in another life, you would’ve. Maybe if his touch didn’t feel like home and every kiss didn’t feel like a promise he’d been aching to keep, you would’ve saved him. Saved yourself.

But you didn’t want saving.

You wanted him.

So you reached for his face, made him look at you — really look at you — and you said it like a vow.

“I want you, Hyunjin.”

He flinched like it hurt to hear.

You stepped closer anyway, your voice a whisper against his lips.

“We won’t ruin anything,” you promised, fingers threading into his hair. “Not if you just let me love you. Not if you just let it happen.”

Something snapped in him and then he was on you. Mouth claiming yours, teeth catching your bottom lip before he groaned deep in his throat and kissed you like he’d been waiting. Like this was a secret he’d never meant to let slip, and now that he had, he needed every part of you to make sense of it.

You didn’t stand a chance. His hands were under your shirt before you could blink, fingers mapping your skin like he was desperate to learn it by heart. Clothes tugged off, your top discarded, his shirt thrown to the floor. Every inch of newly bared skin ignited under his touch. Your skirt bunched at your hips, and the moment his hand slid between your thighs, you nearly sobbed.

“Fuck—” he hissed, mouth dragging down your neck. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You did. You felt it. Pressed up against you, hard and pulsing through the thin fabric of his sweats. He rocked into you once, and your knees buckled. His arms caught you before you fell.

He carried you like you weighed nothing.

You didn’t remember how you got to the couch. Just his mouth, hot and everywhere, and the way he settled you beneath him, eyes dark with something between reverence and hunger. You weren’t trembling — you were shaking.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering above you, voice wrecked. “Tell me now, and I’ll stop. I swear.”

You cupped his cheek. Pulled him down until your lips were brushing his.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You felt the way that shattered him.

A ragged breath left his lips, and something raw crossed his face — awe, hunger, need. And then he kissed you. Deep and dizzying. No more hesitation. No more holding back. Just Hyunjin tasting your mouth like he’d starved for it, like he was finally allowed to be greedy.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your jaw, skimming down your ribs, tugging your skirt up your thighs until it bunched around your waist. When his fingers slipped beneath your panties, finding you slick and already throbbing, he moaned like it physically hurt him to touch you.

“Fuck… you’re already so wet,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Did I do that?”

You nodded, barely able to form words.

“Hyun…”

“Say it again,” he murmured, fingers parting your folds, dragging over your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Say my name like that.”

You gasped, hips arching into his touch. “Hyunjin—”

He groaned. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he was trailing down your body, kissing a path from your chest to your stomach, his hands anchoring your thighs as he sank to his knees on the floor. You propped yourself up on your elbows, breath caught in your throat.

He hooked your panties to the side and just… looked. Like you were art. Like he’d dreamed of this exact moment and couldn’t believe it was real.

And then his mouth was on you. Hot. Wet. Relentless. His tongue lapped through your folds, slow and sinful, before wrapping around your clit and sucking hard. Your head fell back with a cry, fingers flying to his hair, but he just groaned against you, the vibration making you choke on a moan.

“Shit—Hyunjin, oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he got hungrier. Dipping his tongue into your entrance, fucking you with it, then dragging it back up to flick over your clit until your thighs were shaking.

When your hips bucked up too hard, he gripped your thighs tighter and held you down, his shoulders braced against your legs to keep you from moving.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he muttered against you, voice thick and dark. “On my tongue. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long—”

You were already there.

Your back arched, mouth falling open in a silent scream as the orgasm hit you like a wave crashing down. He kept licking through it, eyes locked on your face like he needed to see you fall apart.

When you finally collapsed back against the couch, breathless and wrecked, he crawled back up your body and kissed you, slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You good?” he asked, voice a rasp in your ear.

You blinked at him. “Are you?”

He gave a breathless laugh and looked down between you. “Not even close.”

You hadn’t even realized he’d stripped out of his sweats. His cock was flushed, thick, and straining with need — and he was still trying to hold back.

That wouldn’t do.

You reached for him, but he caught your hand and kissed your fingers before pushing them away. Then he grabbed your thighs, spreading you wider, and hooked your legs over his shoulders. The position left you bare and open and trembling.

His eyes burned into yours.

“I need you to look at me when I fuck you.”

Then he pressed forward. The first inch made your breath catch , too much, too deep, but you didn’t look away. Neither did he.

“Fuck—” he gritted out, his hips pushing forward in slow, agonizing inches until he was fully inside, stretching you open, filling you to the hilt. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just him, inside you, looking at you like this was his last wish granted.

And then he moved. He pulled out and sank back in, hard and deep, your legs folded up on his shoulders, the angle hitting something devastating. Your moan broke halfway out as he picked up a rhythm, hips snapping forward, each thrust driving the air from your lungs.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice tight. “Tell me this isn’t just in my head.”

“I want you,” you gasped. “As real as it can get—always.”

That undid him. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again as he fucked you deeper, harder. The couch creaked under you, the heat between your bodies suffocating. You could barely hold on, could barely keep your eyes open.

And then you came again, harder this time. Shaking, crying out his name, nails raking down his back as you clung to him. He followed seconds later, hips jerking, his face buried in your neck as he came with a broken groan, body tense and shuddering above you.

For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft, desperate way he kissed your shoulder.

Then his voice, hoarse in your ear.

“We’re so fucked.”

And you smiled, wrecked and radiant.

“I know.”

—

You didn’t know how long you stayed tangled like that. Your legs still draped over his hips, his chest rising and falling against yours, sweat cooling between your bodies. The air was heavy with the scent of sex and everything unspoken.

Hyunjin’s fingers trailed gently over your hip, then your stomach, then the side of your throat like he was relearning every inch of you now that he didn’t have to pretend he hadn’t imagined this a thousand times before.

Then he kissed you, not with hunger this time, but like he’d been waiting years to kiss you soft.

“You okay?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, brushing your nose against his.

“More than okay.”

His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to commit you to memory all over again.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he whispered. “You’re all sticky.”

You let him carry you to the bathroom.

He set you on the counter first and helped you undress fully, stealing kisses as he did, his hands so gentle now, like he didn’t want to miss a moment of touching you like this. He peeled your underwear down slowly, kissed your thighs. His eyes flicked down between your legs — red, sensitive, swollen from what they’d done.

A blush climbed your neck.

But he just smiled, warm and a little dazed.

“I like seeing you like this,” he said quietly. “All wrecked from me.”

The shower was hot and full of steam. He let you step in first, then wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as the water ran over both of you.

Neither of you talked much. Just small sounds. Little laughs. The soft lather of his hands running over your arms, your back, your chest.

When you turned to face him, water dripping down your hair and cheeks, he stared at you like you were made of gold.

“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” he said. “I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t know how to believe it’s real.”

You touched his face. “It’s real.”

He leaned into your palm.

“Then say it again.”

You blinked. “Say what?”

“Those three words.” His voice cracked a little. “Just once more. Please.”

Your heart stuttered.

You stood on your toes and kissed him, slow and tender, water slipping between your mouths. When you pulled back, you looked him straight in the eyes.

“I love you.”

Hyunjin exhaled like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, like if he didn’t hold you closer he might fall apart.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “God, I love you so much it fucking hurts.”

And then he was kissing you again. Not frantic — not this time. Just deep, adoring, like he finally knew what home tasted like.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Everyone please say happy birthday to Angel @angel-writes-skz-here ! Thanks for organizing this fun event, I need you guys to check the Event Masterlist for the other stories! Mine was based on the song DLMLU, i hope i captured it well 🥹❤️

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8

538 notes · View notes

dannyriccsystem · 19 hours ago

Text

YEARNING FROM AFAR • CL16

SUMMARY ✰ Usually it’s the fan yearning for the driver, but this time around the roles seem to be swapped as Charles desperately searches for the fan that won him over!

WARNINGS ✰ Driver being smitten for reader, fluff

CONTAINS ✰ Charles Leclerc x Fan!Reader

A/N ✰ Fulfilling everyone’s true fantasy here

your.username

liked by friend1 and others

your.username Baiting people by posting my pretty picture first and then all the stupid ones later

—

friend1 - Maybe if you actually let us take pics of you…

♥︎ by author

friend2 - Don’t be fooled bbg every pic of you is a good one

♥︎ by author

friend3 - THIS is the type of content that gets Lewis Hamilton to look at your page

♥︎ by author

your.username - MANIFESTINGGG

> friend4 - He’s gonna finally notice you soon

♥︎ by author

username1 - You’re so beautiful woah

♥︎ by author

your.username - THANK YOU SM PRETTY ❤️

-♡

scuderiaferrari

liked by charlesleclerc and others

scuderiaferrari This is Charles Leclerc, a 27 year old F1 driver from Monaco. Currently single. He likes long walks on the beach, pizza, and dogs. Dm if you’re interested, but only if you’re that one fan (IYKYK 👀)

tagged charles_leclerc

—

charles_leclerc - Thanks admin 💪

♥︎ by author

username2 - NOT ADMIN BEING HIS WINGMAN

username3 - I need to know who this fan is 😭

username4 - They must be ethereal if they’ve got the entire team searching for them like this

username5 - It’s me guys (It’s not I’m just manifesting)

username6 - I could cosplay that fan for you Charles

-♡

your.username

liked by scuderiaferrari and others

your.username Lowkey embarrassing that I met THE Charles Leclerc and the only thing I said was “Where’s Lewis?” BRO

tagged charles_leclerc

—

friend1 - GIRL FERRARI LIKED

♥︎ by author

username7 - If I had a nickel for everytime a fan asked Charles about Lewis instead, I’d have 2 nickels

username8 - Imagine it’s the same person lol

scuderiaferrari - We’ll get you that meeting with Lewis 😉

♥︎ by author

your.username - TWEAKING TF OUT

username9 - Not you pretending you’re them 💔

your.username - Who?

> username9 - That fan??

> your.username - Bro WHAT FAN?

your.username - Can’t believe this blew up I’m kinda embarrassed, sorry Charles

-♡

username10 - I know you’re lying

your.username - I’M NOT?? Literally sounds just like my experience with him 😭

username11 - You’re LUCKY

username12 - Do you have IG? I wanna see what the hype is about

your.username - Yeah you can find me under the same user lol

> username12 - Holy shit

> username12 - You’re beautiful, no wonder

username13 - SENDING THIS TO FERRARI I NEED Y’ALL TO BE REUNITED

your.username - STOP I’M ACTUALLY EMBARRASSED

-♡

your.username

liked by charles_leclerc and others

your.username This cat randomly came up to me. Am I the chosen one?

—

friend1 - Yes you are

♥︎ by author

username14 - CHARLES LECLERC IN THE LIKES?

username15 - WAIT ARE YOU ACTUALLY THE FAN I’M TWEAKING

username16 - You’re so beautiful wtf

♥︎ by author

friend2 - Why is everyone shocked? I’m in love with you too 😍

♥︎ by author

your.username - Stop it, you 🤭

-♡

your.username

liked by charles_leclerc and others

your.username Guys why is my dinner date lowkey majestic as fuck

tagged charles_leclerc

—

friend1 - Caption is too real

♥︎ by author

username17 - WHAT

username18 - Idk if I’m more jealous of the date with Charles or getting to meet Leo Leclerc

your.username - He’s even cuter in person

> username18 - Charles or Leo? 😂

> your.username - That’s up to interpretation

username19 - THIS IS NOT A DRILL

username20 - SO YOU REALLY ARE THE FAN™️

friend2 - I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS YES GAWWD

♥︎ by author

charles_leclerc - Thanks for capturing my good angle

♥︎ by author

username21 - As if he has a bad one?

> your.username - [IMAGES ATTACHED]

> username22 - They really came with receipts…

-♡

BONUS:

509 notes · View notes

madamechrissy · 2 days ago

Text

Just Friends!?

-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-

Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and popular F! reader

Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.

Warnings - Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- this chap - emotional angst, feelings of insecurity, hurt/comfort, long distance relationship - then - car blow jobs, swallowing, dirty talk, backshots, cervix hits, cumplay, breed kink, talking you through it. wc this chap - 7.8k

OMG there's only one more part after this! <3

<<<Part Eight - Masterlist - Playlist- Part Ten>>> (final)

Part Nine

It has been one month since you were in Satoru’s arms.

The days blur, as you all get less and less time with each other, he’s always calling you when it’s well past your time to sleep, and you barely mumble sleepy hellos. He’s asleep when you’re up in the morning, murmuring to you while you’re getting ready. You both constantly text, send pictures to each other, you put him on your bluetooth when you’re driving home.

It was going somewhat smoothly, after seeing him and being in his arms again, you still had that afterglow, you still felt good and positive. Though the last couple days with Satoru in Hollywood were a little difficult, the constant stream of cameras all over, the paparazzi shouting the rudest, most invasive questions at him.

He seemed used to it, numb to it in fact, while you could not understand how he even functioned with their prying eyes, the way they’re always thinking they’re entitled to take pictures of him, and subsequently of you. They got you when you were bare faced at the beach in your bikini, pointing out any blemish they could, it was impossible to be scrutinized like that.

You can still feel the sun warming your skin, remembering how Satoru carried you on his back through the water, how he laughed, your kisses the salt water off his skin, the light making everything illuminate. His hands were on the backs of your thighs, the waves crashing against you all as you clinged to him tightly, breathless when one knocked you both over.

He’d caught you so quickly, lifting you up, and you both had been drenched, laughing, that’s when you’d seen cameras, even on a private beach they were up on balconies, capturing your private moments. You wanted them just for you and Satoru, not shared with the whole world, but you understand that’s his life.

Yet, when he visited this little small town you both grew up in? He’d been able to have dinner with you, people here weren’t that invested in the lives of celebrities, you all had been able to go to a movie with maybe a few girls giggling, go out to eat and just a couple people politely asking for a photo with him. It was nothing like Hollywood.

It makes you long for him here even more.

Your vivid dream is of him, slipping his arm around you that last morning, his tip pressing between your folds, slick and inviting. You clung to his arms, head falling back against his strong chest, his teeth nipped the gentle curve of your neck, sighs and moans echoing in your ear when he pressed inside. Inch by inch, slow and gentle, murmuring your name.

‘That’s it, taking me so well, sweetheart,’ he’d whispered, cupping your face so you looked back at him. ‘You’re all mine.’

‘All yours, Toru,’ you’d whispered back, kissing him, uncaring how you looked or tasted in the morning. You know he wants you, loves you, you’re safe in his strong embrace, pleasured by how full you are, how deep he is. “Mnh!”

‘Can you take it all?’ He teases softly, lifting a thigh up and slinging it over his hip, pressing deeper.

‘I can, ah - more, please.’ You whisper, desperately arching back for more, eyelashes fluttering when the pressure fills you. His blue eyes light up then, when he bottoms out, making you whine out.

‘I’ll give you everything.’

You wake up in tears, just devastated that you’ve had nothing but phone calls, video chats and texts for an entire month. That you’re falling asleep to his husky voice, and waking up to a bed that’s cold, that’s empty without him there by your side. You’re just going through the motions, craving and waiting for the precious time he could give you.

Your parents hired someone to help out at the bar now, but you still work there a bit, just to pass the time and dull the fucking pain of not having him. The long movie he’s doing is cutting your time down even more, and a clip of it just so happens to play on one of the tv’s over the bar, it’s a scene of him kissing his pretty co-star.

It’s a big role for him for his debut, you’re happy for him truly you are, you hate that little nagging feeling in your mind so much.

You know it’s just acting, but without even being in his arms, being near him, it hurts that much more to see Satoru’s lips on another pair, to see his hands cupping the pretty movie star’s face. His snowy lashes fluttering shut, you know it’s all for the cameras, but it doesn’t stop that sharp stab in your chest.

You look away, focusing on making a drink, when they cut off to an interview. They ask him then -

‘They’re all saying you love the cute, ‘girl next door type’, is that true?’

You look up at that, seeing your handsome boyfriend’s scowl, you feel your stomach drop, knowing he’s angry at that, but wasn’t it true? Weren’t you the cute girl who literally grew up next to him, the small town girl who everyone knows, you’re not some starlet.

Would he one day want that?

The longer without him, the darker your thoughts are, the more hurtful to yourself. Without his hugs and kisses and bright smile, without the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing in existence. It’s just one thing after another, it’s all just too painful, and it’s nothing Satoru is doing, it’s the very nature of this distance, of your worlds being completely different.

‘My type is her, yeah she grew up with me basically next door, so what?’ Satoru’s voice is clipped.

‘So you didn’t date anyone in Hollywood because you prefer more… normal girls? Small town over the city?’ He scoffs now, his jaw setting.

‘Nothing about her is fucking ‘normal’ got me? She’s exceptional, and I don’t want to hear your dumb fucking questions. I’m done.’

Satoru yanks off his mic and tosses it across the room, the live interview quickly shuts off, and once it does shoot over to the awkward announcer, you feel the eyes of the bar on you, sympathetic, kind, they all make you feel sicker and sicker even so. He calls, so you quickly walk out, feeling the emotions begin when his husky voice is on the other end.

“Toru…”

“Fuck, she was so stupid,” he grumbles, already slipping in the back of the limo, leaving mid interview. “Calling you fucking normal?”

“Well, I am. In comparison-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, sweetheart,” your eyes well up with tears, standing outside in the cool night, missing his warmth. “You’re beautiful, you fucking know you are.”

“I know you think that, I know for here I’m pretty, but that girl you just kissed she’s fucking insanely gorgeous, glamorous. How can I ever compete with it? I’m not even there with you…” You’re sobbing now, you can’t help it, you’ve been holding it all in for a month, building and building the less you hear from him, the more you see his clips. “I should be supportive, n-not needy.”

“You are supportive.”

“I constantly need reassurance.”

“I’ll constantly give it to you.”

“Toru, don’t you deserve more?” Satoru blinks his own tears now, hating the trembling in your voice, hating your words.

He hasn’t talked to you enough, he’s not had a moment, and when he does – you’re at work, or taking your classes, or you’re asleep. Every time gets shorter, the longer he’s on this dumb fucking set, he doesn’t want to kiss someone else, he has to think of you to evoke this ‘chemistry’ him and his co star have. You know that, but he can tell it’s too much.

Now you don’t feel you’re enough?

“I shouldn’t talk to you like this, I’m just a burden-”

“I will fly right now and beat your ass, say something mean one more time.” You cry even more, missing him impossibly, the love you have growing as the divide is just deepening. The longing tears you apart slowly.

“I just want to be there for you, Toru, happy for you, excited… and I’m just lost in my own head right now. I’m ruining the one conversation we’ll get today crying. I don’t want that to be our talk, but I can’t stop it, I just… am so…”

Satoru just wants to hold you.

You just want to stop being a mess

“Toru can you give me ten, I’ll go home and get myself together.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, tears welling in his own eyes. “I’ll be here when you call me back.”

“I love you, Toru.” You whisper, feeling the cold drops of rain start sprinkling, eyes looking at a dark sky – knowing where Satoru is, he’s probably looking at the sunset instead.

“I love you, sweetheart, please be safe driving, don’t go until you calm down, please.”

“I’ll be safe, I’ll talk to you soon, promise.” You hang up, hugging your stomach, wishing you could just be positive, be bright and happy.

You have the love of your life, right?

But you can’t touch him, can’t hold him, can’t have him wipe your tears off your cheeks, and now you have to see him kissing someone. It doesn’t mean anything to him, you know he loves you and you only, but it fucking cuts deep. It hurts so deeply you can hardly see when you’re driving, hands trembling on the wheel, you can’t stop those fucking tears.

Your hands go numb, breaths come quicker, right when it starts positively downpouring, the rain pounds along the windshield faster and faster, your wipers can’t keep up with it, slinging as much water as they can. You slow down when you feel the car drift just a bit, taking a breath and struggling to focus, on the here and now, and not the feelings spilling over the edge.

A car zips past you, damn near shaking your little car, your heart hammers in your ears, you can’t hardly take your hands off the wheel to wipe your tears, hands trembling over the wheel. You try to control your breathing, slow it down and focus, but all you can think over and over is one thing.

You want him here.

You want him next to you, to comfort you, the presence you went without for eight fucking years, the one you’re terrified you’ll lose. Him to have his hand on your thigh, to make sure you pull over, hug you until you calm. For him to take over the wheel when you’re like this, to take control for you, the boy who you cried on through middle and high school, the man you love now.

Bits and pieces aren’t enough of him.

Your car starts spinning again, you really need new tires and the front two are the worst, lights flash as one of the cars zips around you, surely annoyed you’re barely going twenty because you are terrified. You almost close your eyes in fear before realizing what you’re doing, slipping off the side of the road then, landing right in a fucking ditch.

Lovely.

You’re cursing quietly, putting the car in park while the rain pounds louder, tires pealing when you try to back up, until you’re good and hopelessly stuck. You feel it, the panic in your chest that’s been growing and growing, left untouched to fester until you’re just going to break. You just need him, you know you could stay out there, he’s asked you to, but part of you wants him here.

Home, it’s your home. It’s his home too.

“Selfish, why are you so selfish!?” You shake your head, swiping more hot tears now, the man would do anything for you, why do you need more?

You’re greedy when it comes to him, constantly terrified he’ll disappear one day again, the hurt from that you thought you were long past, but it’s sunk into your bones, even if you don’t consciously admit what it is. You’re scared he’ll leave you again, scared he won’t be in your life any longer, the gaping hole that he filled ripped back open.

You can’t be selfish like that.

You call the towing company, it will be almost an hour. Once you compose yourself a bit, you just sit there, car slightly tilted, unbuckling the seat belt and poking in Satoru’s number. You take several breaths, slow ones, almost falling apart again when you hear his familiar voice.

“Are you home okay, baby?” He asks, you smile tremulously at his care.

“No, it’s raining bad and I… fell in a ditch?”

“You what now!?”

“A small ditch, don’t worry um… just I have to wait a while for a tow. I was hoping to talk to my boyfriend that I was rude to earlier.”

“Tch, you aren’t rude at all,” Satoru’s mind is going insane, picturing you in a fucking ditch, in a storm. “I wish I could get you, I should be able to do that.”

“Toru you can’t just fly out,” you sniffle again, hating it, hating these damn emotions that won’t stop. “I’m in a bad place. Not just the ditch.”

He pauses, blinking rapidly then, how did he not notice this? That your usual bubbly personality has quieted? Is it all the weeks without you, the busy nature of his career, his exhaustion? It’s no excuse though, not to have noticed until you outright say it, and then him putting the pieces together.

“I should have noticed, you’ve been quieter… you’ve been… not yourself,” he whispers, leaning his head back, still riding back home for the first weekend he’s had off in a while. He should be going home to you, saving you from the dumb fucking ditch, helping you, being there for you. “I didn’t notice.”

“I didn’t share it until now, it’s okay. Really, I swear it’s just all in my head, I’m making myself this way,” you shake your head, sighing now. “I’m scared to lose you all over again, it’s like the past is constantly threatening me.”

“I’m so sorry, you should have told me…”

“But you’re doing all you can, you can’t do more. I understand that.” Satoru sighs again, running a hand over his face. “I want to be there for you, cheering you on, I’m so proud of you I swear. I’m not jealous or worried you’d ever do something, it’s more I don’t feel… enough?”

“How can you not, how when all I see is you?” You’re a mess again, eyes burning, vision swimming, you struggle to stop it, like a flood about to burst. “Baby girl please don’t cry, I can’t wipe your tears even. We can’t keep it like this.”

“What’s our options, you’re not even home really… aren’t you just s-stuck on set basically?” Your cheeks are sticky, phone lowering in battery. “Shit, it’s gonna die.”

“Tell me you brought a charger? You can’t be driving around with a dead phone.”

“I know, let me look,” you put him on speaker, digging around your car, remembering being in the car with him last, the first time he took you. A mix of heat and emotions hit at that, remembering every bit vividly, longing filling you. “Fuck I just miss you so much.”

“I do too, I know we haven’t been able to talk enough, we haven’t even seen each other on video all week.”

You swallow nervously, shutting your eyes for a moment. “Video talks just hurt more.”

“What?” You take a shaky breath, finding a cord and slipping it into the charging port, the rain surrounding you all over, bouncing off your car in a halo in the night, reflected by the lone street light above your head.

“It hurts more somehow, to see you and not touch you. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to see your handsome face, please don’t think that. I’m just a mess, speaking nonsense.” Satoru hears it, the emotions threatening you again.

“I think I understand,” he murmurs softly. “It does hurt when I see you and can’t touch you, hold you, kiss every inch of your pretty body.”

“Oh, Toru…” Your voice gets breathy, his gets husky, you lean back in your seat, shutting your eyes. “I’m pretending you’re next to me, and we’re both waiting on this tow and you’re telling me how I should have gotten tires already.”

You break his heart.

How can he stand any more of this?

“Picture me there then,” he quickly texts his manager then, while he speaks softly to you. “Picture me kissing your pretty neck, the marks I’ll leave all over it when I get you in my arms again.”

“Mnh,” you touch your neck gently, heart slowing just a bit with his voice, with the image. “Picture me kissing you all over.”

“Fuck, would you?”

“Mmhmm.”

I need a week off, can they shoot some scenes without me?

He watches three dots move.

I’ll check, shouldn’t be an issue though, your scenes are mostly wrapped up.

“Where would you start with those soft lips of yours?” He asks, smiling at the thought of seeing you soon, fuck he’d be there when you wake up if he can get there quick enough. You giggle a bit, and he can damn near see your blush with his eyes closed. “There’s that sound.”

“You always cheer me up,” you caress your lower lip, imagining him kissing you like he did in that movie. “I don’t want to bring you down though.”

“There will be times we are both depressed, or just one of us, and both of us will be there for each other, you don’t always have to be happy. It’s okay.” You let some of that guilt go now at his words, the relief flitting over you.

“You’re right, we both will be.”

“Exactly…” He eyes tickets as he texts his manager right back.

Perfect, I’m leaving town tonight.

He needs to hold you again.

“I want to maybe… move there, to be near you, but also part of me would miss home so badly. I’m still so torn.” You’re still sniffling a bit, though most of the tears have subsided, keeping your eyes shut and picturing him.

“I don’t want you to just leave everything either, I’m sure we can figure something out better than this. I’m so tired of barely talking to you, and not even being able to tell how bad you’re hurting.”

“You’re hurting too, but you didn’t freak out like me.”

“You have reason to,” he mutes you now, speaking to his driver. “Stay here for a bit, I’m headed to the airport.”

The man nods when Satoru tips him extra, then he unmutes you, walking quickly inside, riding up to the penthouse. You two keep talking, while he’s planning it all, while he’s packing his Gucci luggage with his clothes, what he needs. He can’t fucking wait to hold you.

“Oh, the tow company is here early!”

“Good, baby, you text me when you get settled, I have a couple work things to finish up.”

“I will. Satoru, thank you so much. For calming me down, for being here… I swear I can do this. I want to do this, you’re worth waiting for.” Satoru pauses packing, his heart thrumming in his chest, those words from your trembling voice everything.

“You are worth waiting forever for,” he says softly, a hand resting on the suitcase for just a moment. “I promise I will see you soon. Do you trust me?”

“I do trust you, and I can’t wait.” He hears that smile in your voice, fuck he can’t wait to see it. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m back!”

You both end the call, you feel lighter from it, yet in ways you just miss him more the sweeter he is, being everything you need when you need it. You want to do the same for him, to be there for him when he needs reassurance, not to constantly ask for it. You’re hoping in time things will get easier, perhaps you could finally move out there.

He’s worth it all, even if you’d miss your family and friends, living without him again is just too much.

While you’re settling home, your mom rushes over, seeing your face, you’re soaking wet from walking through the rain to the front door. “Honey, are you all right!?”

“I got stuck in a ditch, ugh.” You grumble, taking off your jacket and shivering.

“Go get dry clothes, I’ll make you some tea.”

“You’re the best.” You rush upstairs and do just that, while Satoru’s riding in the limo to the airport, having caught a last minute flight. He gets your text, exhaling in relief that you’re home.

Go have some tea with your mom and we will talk later

You smile at that, headed down the stairs now wearing pajamas instead, they’re little Sailor moon ones that you have worn for years, they’re faded but far, far too comfy. Your mom wraps you in a blanket, when you sit next to her on the couch, a pretty tea cup with steam rising waiting for you.

“I’m spoiled here,” you tease, she laughs then, shaking her head. “I am!”

“You do a lot for us here, I want you to know, if your heart is yearning for Satoru, you can move. We will miss you so badly, but you are hurting without him.” Her hand rests on your shoulder, you sigh, sipping the hot liquid, just slightly burning your tongue, on the couch that they’ve never replaced in all these years.

The comfy tan suede, worn in places. Where you and Satoru would watch your favorite shows after school, the memories in every corner of this place. You suppose missing him made you cling more and more to this home. “You’re right mom, I feel like I’m just split in half without him, but I don’t want to leave you all.”

“You can visit, and so can we,” she kisses your head, you sit down the tea and snuggle against her. “I’ll miss you terribly, though I don’t want you that far, but I also refuse to be the reason you’re miserable here.”

“Mom…”

“Your dad is good now, he’s strong. We put a lot on you.”

“You did not!”

“We did, I left most of running that bar to you for the past couple years,” you shake your head, but she’s already tearing up. “You deserve to be happy.”

“I’m scared to leave, to live out there, it’s not just you and dad. I will never fit in his lifestyle.”

“Honey, he loves you. He only has eyes for you, since the boy saw you, stop worrying about that. You’re as beautiful as any star.”

“I can’t stop crying lately.” You let her hug you again, tightly, tears against her blouse, the familiar scent of her perfume comforting you.

“You can’t stay like this.”

“I know. I’ll talk to him tomorrow about it.”

“Good, drink your tea and get some rest.”

You do just that, falling asleep before you get to call Satoru, so exhausted and drained, you wake up in a panic, realizing you dozed off, calling him with your eyes half shut. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Satoru, I’m sorry I crashed! Call me whenever you get a chance, but if not I love you, and good night.”

*****

“Satoru!?” Your mom is shushed quickly by the tall, white haired man putting a finger to his lips, standing outside of your front door.

“Wanna surprise her,” he whispers, she waves him in, a big smile on her face, your dad comes out, and is about to shout his name when your mom puts a hand over his mouth.

“He’s surprising her!”

“Oh!”

“Shh!”

He snorts at both of their attempts to ‘be quiet’ and shakes his head with a fond smile. He doesn’t blame you for not wanting to leave them, though he selfishly wants you all to himself. “Is she asleep?” He whispers, they both nod.

“She’ll be so excited, she has been a mess all month,” Satoru’s brows draw together, seeing the concern on her face. “She really needs you.”

“Go on, see your girl.” Your dad makes Satoru chuckle a bit, he quietly walks upstairs, turning the knob and opening the door.

The sight of you tangled up in a blanket and hugging that year book, face puffy from crying is about enough to take him out. It’s almost enough to make him break into tears, knowing the pain and worry you were in. He swallows, throat gone dry, shutting the door behind him quietly, leaning against it for a moment to gather himself. He’s here to cheer you up, not cry with you.

It’s not like the distance hasn’t been killing him too, he’s just so busy he doesn’t have enough time to process it like you do. The moments he does, he feels so lonely, even surrounded by so many people, no one is anything like you. He gently takes the year book from your arms, you wriggle on the bed, brows together, as he sets it over on the nightstand.

“Satoru, don't leave.”

“Fuck…” How does one not cry seeing the love of their life like this? It’s enough to make him quit his career and be a fucking bartender.

This can’t continue, whatever either of you have to do to fix it.

He lays in your little bed behind you, an arm around your waist, tugging you against him firmly, inhaling the scent he missed, the scent that’s just so uniquely you, the one you’ve always had. He shuts his eyes, feeling your warmth seep against his chilled frame, hearing your soft little whine, pressing a little kiss on your cheek that has imprints of your pillow against it.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tickling your ear, and you jolt, looking back at him now, lips parted. “Good morning pretty.”

“Toru!?” He grins, and your heart swells so much you’re shocked it even can fit in the chest it’s trying to beat out of. “Toru!”

“I’m here - oof!” You’re turning, hugging him so tightly, wrapping around him like a monkey, he chuckles, even as a few tears slip from his eyes, holding you close, hand against the small of your back, arms surrounding you. “Miss me?”

“Oh my god, am I dreaming? Ow!” He’s nipped your bare shoulder with his teeth as hard as he can, grinning deviously.

“It wouldn’t hurt if you were dreaming, had to show you.”

“I’m too happy to be mad you just bit the crap out of me,” you cup his face, shoulder throbbing with his glistening teeth marks on it. You look down into his eyes, feeling your own well up. “I’m a wreck, I cry when I’m happy too?”

“Me too,” He drags you down for a kiss, moaning into your lips, you pull back for a moment, flushed. “Do not say you need to go brush your teeth.”

“I do!”

“I don’t care,” he kisses you again, and you whine into his lips, falling into him, his lanky body taking over your entire bed, you just curled up against him, letting him deepen the kiss, his hand slipping to your hips now. He exhales, pulling back and pressing you down on him, you bite your lip when you feel him. “I have missed you so fucking much.”

“I have too, Satoru I’ve been miserable,” he swipes your tears now, sighing, his brows drawing together. “I think I’ll move out there."

He blinks in surprise, brows drawing together. “Shit, are you sure? That’s sudden…”

“I can’t stay without you.” You kiss him again, he sighs into your lips, moaning softly. “I can’t do it another day.”

“There might be a better option.”

“What’s that?” He sits up, you’re still on his lap, thighs on either side of him, and he smiles, so pretty he makes you ache.

“I talked to mom, the house next to her is for sale.”

“It is? But…”

“Why don’t I buy it, and we split the time? I want to start taking time off anyway, I’m getting exhausted,” he brushes fingers on your cheeks, feeling their warmth and sighing. “I miss home too, I miss all of our memories.”

“Me too, Toru. I felt so selfish though…”

“I feel selfish dragging you to LA and leaving this completely, we can just do both, but under one condition.”

“Anything.” He smirks. “Maybe not anything! You look devious.”

“Shouldn’t promise me that,” he kisses down the gentle curve of your breasts, hands entangled in his silky hair then. “When I do a movie, you gotta stay on set.”

“Can I even do that?”

“If a bratty superstar demands it, yes. You can.”

“If I see someone kiss you I may collectively lose my shit.”

“You’re a jealous little thing,” you sigh, nodding. You are. “It’s hot.”

“Oh, is it now? That I want your lips only on mine?” You brush a thumb across them gently, watching the plumpness of it move gently.

“If you were on set, you’d see all the cameras, the directors, the intimacy coaches… you’ll feel better. I know it.”

“You’re right, it would make me feel better than clips on tv.”

“I think of you, it’s why my acting was so good.” You flush, burying your face against his neck. “It’s true, you know. My first love.”

You’re a mess. “My only love.”

Satoru kisses up your neck, you’re basking in it, in his presence, it feels so right and perfect. “I got a suite for us this week. I want you to make noise for me.”

“O-oh?”

“Yeah, oh.” He’s chuckling at how cute you are, messy hair and puffy cheeks, tears still falling down your cheeks. “We can work out logistics after I spend time kissing your pretty body everywhere.”

“Toru…” You say his name in just a little whimper, resting your head against his, feeling the heat building.

“Are you so emotional because you’re already pregnant?”

“You wish! Crazy man - mnh!”

“Shh, your parents are up,” he rocks you against him again, your eyes roll back at the sharp pleasure, the tension pooling. “Want us in trouble?”

“No, we’ll sneak out,” you tease softly, moving against him, he groans out and you shush him with a kiss. “You’re the loud one.”

“That’s it,” he smacks your ass, making you yelp as he chuckles. “Go brush your teeth and get some clothes for a few days.”

“So my breath is bad!”

“It’s not great.”

“You’re still kinda a jerk you know.” You’re hopping off him, seeing the bulge in his pants almost undo your resolve.

“Quit staring, you’ll make it worse,” he grumbles, you giggle then. “You’re laughing at my pain?”

He shoves a pillow on his pants now, hiding it. “It’s cute.”

“You’re such a harlot.” You’re almost dying laughing, and you’re so pretty in that moment, every version of you falling together, wearing those pajamas he swears you have had since senior year, giggling into your hand. “You’re beautiful.”

“Oh, Toru.” You lean over and hug him again, he sighs and shuts his eyes. “You’ve always made me feel that way.”

“And I always will, even if you’re wearing pajamas from eight years ago, and your hair is in knots.”

“Hey now!”

“I’ll brush it for you once he goes away, can’t walk around like this,” he lifts the pillow and frowns, scowling at the giggles that keep spilling from your lips. “I offer to buy you a house and you’re so mean!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll go brush them and get dressed.”

Satoru eventually calms down enough to do just that, brush your hair in the mirror, you’ve washed your face and your eyes are brighter already as he works through the tangles. “Did you sleep on wet hair?”

“Maybe. This reminds me of when you helped me with cheer, you remember that? No one could tight curl like you.”

“Sure couldn’t, your little friends used to ask me.”

“You never did theirs though.”

“Nope.” His lips pop a bit as he grins at you, running his fingers through your hair gently, pulling it back off your shoulders. “You’re the only cheerleader for me, even though you really did suck at it.”

“Why does everyone say that!”

“You couldn’t do a flip. You fell on your face and-”

“Shh!” You turn and cover his mouth, eyes narrowing when he leans down, an arm on either side pressing you against the counter. “I could flip, I did a back tuck.”

“Once.”

“Enough out of you.” You glare at his reflection, though inside you’re so warm.

“We can go check out that house later today if you want,” you nod and he leans down, lips on your ear. “If you can walk when I’m done.”

Satoru’s fingers do not keep to himself when he’s driving you, something he really only does here, they’re in fact right against your cunt, dripped through the panties you’re wearing and soaked the black tights. His hand is right against your heat, your head falling back, his moans soft and breathy while he imagines ripping those tights and fucking you in your little sweater dress.

“You’re so wet for me, god feel you…” He whispers, enamored by it, pressing up higher.

“I’m not gonna make it to the suite if you don’t stop.”

“Aw, am I teasing you too much?” He’s smirking, when you yank his hand off, leaning over now and taking off your seatbelt. “Safety first!”

“Says the man with his fingers on me,” you bend over, and he tenses, his hands gripping the wheel tightly now, you unzip him, hearing his sharp intake of breath. “I want you in my mouth.”

“Fuck,” he’s eager to help you, freeing his cock, it springs out, reddened tip weeping so much precum, he lets out a little whimper when your tongue laps up the sticky mess. “Oh my god, I missed your mouth.”

You wrap your lips around his tip, sucking gently then, he gasps at it, a hand entangling in your hair, gripping it at the nape of your neck when your tongue swirls along the ridge there, before dipping into the hole where more of his cum is dripping. Every sound he makes causes your cunt to throb more, around nothing, wanting to be filled so badly.

“You were just crying, now you’re sucking me. Sure you’re not having mood swings?”

You shake your head and eye him for a moment when he’s at a red light. “You like the thought of me being pregnant so much you’re even harder.”

“Mnh,” it’s his turn to rock his cock up into your hot, eager mouth, thirsty for him, sucking him harder with every movement. “Yes I want it, I want you round and full of me, f-fuck…”

The thoughts destroy you, sucking him deeper, slowly hollowing your cheeks to create more suction, Satoru’s driving again, one hand on that steering wheel, his breaths coming quicker and quicker as you move. You take him deep in your throat, drool and saliva spilling down that veiny length, your little moan of pleasure just vibrating around him.

“If I bust right now, I swear…” You pull back with a little pop of your lips, eyeing him under your lashes, your eyes lidded and dilated.

“I want to swallow you.”

“Are you… trying to kill me?” You’ve not done that yet with him, Satoru loved you sucking him but usually he would want to be inside you, he’s not let you go that far yet.

“I’m showing you how much I missed you.”

“You just missed my cock, u-using me,” Satoru struggles to focus when your mouth moves faster, little hand stroking his cock up and down, he shoves your head deep then, tip spurting more precum right on your uvula. “God you’re too good at it, want you to use me.”

You’re going as deep as you can, his soft white hair against your nose, fully sucking him all while you breathe through your nose, he curses softly again, pulling you off. “Toru, let me.”

“We’re about to be there, though. Mnh, how are you taking it all like that? Your throat is so greedy.”

You pull back and your teeth barely nibble his tip, he yanks on your hair, whimpering again. “I could finish you real quick.”

“Slutty girl,” you’re pressing your thighs together, cunt so soaked and needy, while he starts moving your head up and down him, throbbing inside your throat, thickening impossibly. “Baby pull back, m’close.”

You want his cum deep in your throat, so you refuse to listen, even as he’s muttering about how he wants his cum inside your cunt, how he wants to fill you up, stuttering soon and gasping out when you don’t stop. You’re lost in his every sound, every bit of him you missed so badly, the taste, the scent, the feelings of your hands on his muscled thighs.

“C-cumming, f-fuck baby…” he whines those words softly, bucking up one more time, flooding your mouth then with hot white cum, salty and coating your throat. You’re struggling to swallow it all as he fucks it up into your throat deeper. “That’s it, take all of it, you’re so good for me.”

You keep sucking him then, even after, lapping up every drop and swallowing it deep, moaning at the flavor of him you’ve only had hints of. He pulls you off him when he comes to park, dragging your mouth against his, lapping the taste of himself off your glossy lips, tugging you desperately against his body.

“God I love your mouth,” he kisses you again, and again, you’re sitting back down with his help, his lips trailing down your neck. “Come on, before I fuck you right here.”

Satoru’s got you in his arms, picked up, kissing you as he walks you into the door of the fancy suite with his hands gripping your ass, tongue slipping in your mouth. He’s resting you against the door and pulling back, saliva dripping between you. Your legs are around his narrow waist, pressing tightly as he pulls back, looking down at you, his lips parted and glossy.

“Want you inside me,” you whisper, rolling your hips so your cunt presses against him even under the layers. He carries you to the big bed, with plush covers, wide open windows showing the pretty view down below. He lays you on it, kneeling and slipping off your boots, fingers hooking in your tights. “Please.”

“Impatient, are you baby?” You’re nodding eagerly, he flips you so quickly, before you can register it, you’re dizzy. “Then let’s get rid of these.”

Rip.

He rips those tights right at the crotch, freeing your eager pussy, slipping those panties to the side, you’re shaking, burying your head against the soft blankets. “Arch that pretty ass for me, there you go.”

You do just as he asks, he kneels to the bed, tongue slipping up your slit, gathering the slick that’s collected and swallowing it, moaning. “In me, in me.”

“I’ve not tasted you for a month,” he licks you again, ever so slowly. “You’re gonna let me at least get a taste.”

“Mnh, Toru… ah!” He’s licked you from your clit to your hole, up higher, licking filthy stripes, for himself, not to make you cum, no Satoru wants that taste coated in his mouth forever. He stands after pressing a kiss on your pretty hole, undoing his pants, slipping his fingers between your folds, watching you twitch.

“If you could see this view,” he murmurs, standing back to look at you with those ripped tights, just your perfect cunt on full display for him. He’s already hard again, sensitive when he drags his thick pink tip between your folds, you twitch and jerk, he holds your hips firm and shoves your sweater up your hips, pressing his tip in. “You’re so tight, sweetheart.”

Satoru stretches you then, slowly – inch by inch, deeper and deeper into your snug, slick walls that grip him so tightly. It feels so good he pauses for a moment, leaning low over you now, hands on the bed on either side, bent over tall behind you. He jerks his hips, shoving deeper, as deep as your tight little cunt lets him, moaning against your neck.

Satoru brushes your hair to one side, baring your neck to him, while your head falls back, gasping out and whining his name, trembling underneath him. He wraps an arm around your waist, underneath your breasts, a big hand gripping your tit over the soft knit of your sweater. A shiver goes down your spine when he brushes fingers over your sensitive nipple, cock stretching you beyond your limits.

He whispers your name like a devotion, cock shoving in until the tip bruises your cervix, slow and deep strokes, once that push you over that edge then hold back just enough, keeping you edged and needy. You turn your head, catching his eyes, glowing blue with shrunken pupils, like he’s high.

He is high off you.

He captures your lips, exhaling and tugging you down his length, coated in your slick arousal. “Toru, please.”

“Please what, pretty? I’ll give you anything you ask for,” he means it, you feel it, that Satoru would give you anything. “Do you need to cum, baby?”

“Please, please I need it,” you’re shaking in his hold, he slows again, but this time he reaches down and around, finding your clit and rolling his fingers. “Y-yes, mnh!”

You’re soaking his fingers while his cock stuffs you so full, filling you so much you’re not sure how it fits. “Feel me everywhere?”

“Everywhere.”

“Close, aren’t you?”

“Please, please,” Satoru moans then, your needy pleas and perfect pussy enough to make him bust again, he shoves in fully, increasing the pace of those circles on your twitchy clit, you’re crying out, tears of pleasure slipping along with drool down your chin.

“That’s it, cum for me,” you’re shattering, gushing so much down his cock it’s dripping everywhere, convulsing around his thick shaft, you feel every fucking vein, every bit of him as he moves again. “Good girl, there you go, feels good doesn’t it sweetheart?”

“Mmhmm!” You’re unable to form a word, barely able to slur his name when he pulls his finger off, slipping it into your lips.

“Want me to put all this cum inside you? Fill you up s’good?”

“Please, w-want it, ngh,” Satoru increases that pace, slamming into you from behind while still holding you, kissing you, filthy smacks and thrusts with sweet little kisses. Everything you missed, needed, to feel that unending pleasure and love all at once with him. “Cum in me.”

“Yeah sweetheart, you so eager for it, hmm?” You’re nodding against him, he grips you so tightly you can’t breathe. “Housewarming party, gonna tell em you’re havin’ my baby, hmm?”

“Yes,” you would normally giggle, but you’re lost in him, in the visions of it, and he groans, vibrating against your ear, fucking you hard with shallow strokes that keep deep inside, hitting your cervix over and over. “W-want it, want it.”

“I’ll give you it, sweetheart, f-fuck…” Satoru whines out when he does cum again, this time inside your hot, slick cunt that’s spasming and milking him. “God she wants it, doesn’t she?”

“Mmm…” You’re too fucked out to answer, his warmth flooding your walls, you shiver as he moves, fucking it gently into you, exhaling while his hands explore your body slowly.

“You’re perfect, you are. You are,” he grips your chin, turning you to face his eyes, his long lashes casting little shadows across the fierce cerulean. “You’re the only thing I want in this world.”

“So are you,” he slams his lips, rocking gently, tears slipping from your eyes again at the relief, at his words, at him altogether. “Always you.”

Satoru buries his face against you, inhaling that shampoo, lost as he feels his cock still pulsing, spurting more cum so deep. “Always you.”

The two of you are laying in bed after a shower, it’s the middle of the day, but you’re lounging in nothing, his fingertips running up and down your spine ever so delicately. You tremble at the touch, goosebumps rising, face leaned up on his chest, looking up at him. He’s got his lips quirked up, blowing gently on your forehead, where little baby hairs are falling.

“Do you want to go look at this house today?”

“Are you really sure about this?” You ask, resting your chin on your hand, over his bare skin, the hard muscles of his chest. The sunlight filters in on your bare bodies, he tugs you closer.

“I am very sure, I love being here with you. It’s nice to get away from all that out there, too, I think it’s just what we both need.”

“So it’s not just for me?”

“No, sweetheart,” his eyes study you carefully, caressing your cheek. “It’s not just for you.”

“I don’t want you to regret anything,” you whisper, he swallows then, thumb slipping up your jaw delicately.

“I regret one thing, leaving you.”

“Toru…”

“I could have had years more of this,” he tugs you on him now, you straddle him nervously, tits right in his face. He moans, gripping them, watching your head fall back in pleasure.

“Don’t, it all happened like it should,” you whisper, crying out when his lips latch onto a nipple and he sucks it in his mouth, moaning. “We are where we’re supposed to be.”

“Mmm, we are…” He brushes a thumb over your nipple then, smiling as you’re shaking, cunt leaking his seed down onto his flat abdomen now. “Should I schedule it for thirty? Or do I need to put more cum in your pussy first?”

You lean down, a smile brightening the face he loves, cupping his on either side then. “Make it an hour.”

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

@pinkyvomit @saitamaswifey @kachowness @vraiao @artbligh @psychoartiste @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @bsenpai @simp-for-wanderer @rjreins @emonaculate @simplymygojo @casua11ycrying @psycren @blushedcheri @ureuphoriasworld @frozenmallows @kanaojacksonofc @rcveriees @xlilycoco @yukimaniac @sypnasis @tokina @sharkubi @tztuoo @hyori2 @yesdere @gradmacoco @seikamuzu @xinsonyax @vvaoo @angie420 @ria54sworld @blue-musingss @mysticmyth @asimpinamillion @arabellasolstice @ilovebeansyay @notme000 @emochosoluvr @iv-vee @heh123321 @fushikamo @danilovesboba @spookyy-gracee @satorusleftnut @clqxuds @femaholicc @lizzebear123

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selenecake · 2 days ago

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“We Don’t Talk About Before”

this is a longgg short story lol

Pairing: Dick Grayson (Nightwing) x FemaleReader

Genre: angst, Second-person POV, romance, smut, fluff, domestic chaos, Batfam shenanigans.

Summary: Childhood friends turned strangers, you and Dick Grayson reunite years after your father betrayed Bruce. Now an antihero, you push him away—until missions, old memories, and unspoken feelings pull you back into the Batfamily’s orbit. One kiss turns into a week of tension, ending in a night you can’t take back… and a morning where the whole family knows.

Warnings: 18+ content (explicit sex), heavy making out, suggestive touching, minor swearing, Batfam teasing, mild embarrassment, fluffy domestic intimacy, second-person POV, Depression, emotional trauma, parental betrayal, blood, guilt, emotional neglect, grief, bruised romance, mutual pining

songs:

-Lover, you should come over - Jeff Buckley

“So I'll wait for you, love/Broken down and hungry for your love”

-Archer - Taylor Swift

“Then I hate my reflection for years and years/Cause all of my enemies started out friends”

-Where’s My Love - SYML

“Did you run away? Did you run away?/Just come home”

-Still With You - Jungkook

“If I see you again, I will look into your eyes and say, "I missed you”

-I wanna be yours - Arctic Monkeys

“Maybe I just wanna be yours/I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours”

-Heavy - The Marías

“Cause I don't wanna be in love with another/even in another life”

-Video games - Lana Del Rey

“He holds me in his big arms/It's you, it's you, it's all for you”

A/N: this has been in my drafts for a while…enjoy ;)

(I left a scene out on accident but i edited it in😭)

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Gotham City, midnight

THE city hasn’t changed.

Not really.

Not enough.

The sirens still echo up from the alleys like angry lullabies. Steam still bleeds from the sewer grates in hazy plumes. The same neon signs blink out over damp pavement like half-hearted promises.

You forgot how loud Gotham was.

Or maybe you just got good at forgetting.

The soles of your boots are heavy with soot as you perch on the ledge of an old rooftop, half-shielded by a rusted billboard for Dent’s campaign. The wind is cold tonight—sharper than you remember—and it threads through your jacket like it knows you don’t belong here anymore.

You press your fingers to the concrete edge and breathe.

Just once.

Your hands are gloved, but your knuckles still ache. From the last job. From the way that one guy’s jaw crunched under your elbow. From holding your fists too tight all the time.

You’re trying not to think.

But Gotham makes that impossible.

Especially when you feel him before you even hear him.

A shift in air pressure.

A whisper of wind across your shoulder.

That maddening, familiar silence that always used to come before—

“Didn’t think you’d come back.”

His voice is quieter than you remember. Or maybe it’s just been a while since someone said something that wasn’t a threat.

You don’t turn around.

Not right away.

Instead, you stare out over the rooftops, where the city gleams like it knows your secrets and is daring you to lie to it again.

Then, softly:

“Didn’t think you’d be watching.”

“I’m always watching,” he replies.

And you can hear the unspoken part of it.

I’m always watching you.

You finally glance over your shoulder.

He’s changed.

Not by much—he still wears the same black and blue armor like it’s a second skin, still moves like shadows part for him. But his face is older now. Tighter. There’s tension in his jaw he never used to have, and the stubble along his chin makes him look more like Bruce than he probably wants to admit.

You hate how much that gets to you.

“You look like shit,” you say instead.

He huffs a breath. “You always did have a way with words.”

There’s a long pause.

You both let it sit there.

The air between you is thick with things neither of you are brave enough to name.

Grief. Betrayal. Memory.

The stupid smell of rain on brick.

“How long’s it been?” he finally asks.

You shrug. “Since I left, or since I stopped returning your messages?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he does, his voice is careful.

“Since I last knew you.”

The ache behind your ribs blooms sharp.

You don’t flinch, but it’s a near thing.

You stare at the skyline again. Anything but his face.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” he adds, a little more softly. “They’re still looking for you.”

“So let them.”

“They’ll catch you eventually.”

You smirk. “Not if I catch them first.”

He doesn’t laugh.

That used to work. That cocky little edge in your voice, the recklessness, the way you never let anyone see you shake. It used to make him smile.

Now he’s just watching you like he’s trying to solve a riddle he used to know by heart.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not like them.”

You stiffen. “No?”

“No.” He’s closer now. You can hear the rain dripping off his hood. “You’re still—”

“Don’t,” you say.

That stops him.

You turn to face him fully for the first time, and the look in your eyes must be something sharp, because he doesn’t finish the sentence. Just stands there, jaw clenched, heart wide open behind that stupid mask.

“I’m not whoever you remember,” you tell him.

“I never forgot you.”

Your breath catches.

You wish it didn’t.

You hate how easily he can still do that.

“You don’t know me anymore,” you say, trying to sound cruel, but it comes out hollow.

“I know what happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

His voice is raw now. Just a little. Like he’s tearing pieces of himself off to say this out loud.

“I know what your father did. And I know you’re not him. I know you think pushing everyone away is the only way you’ll survive, but you’re wrong.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t—”

He cuts you off.

“No, let me finish.” He’s stepping closer again, his voice rising—not loud, but urgent. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You’ve built this wall, and every time someone tries to climb it, you light it on fire.”

You open your mouth, but he barrels forward.

“I get it. You’re angry. You’re grieving. You think you have to be this… thing. This weapon. You’re not. You never were.”

You take a shaky step back, but he catches your wrist.

Gently.

Like you’ll break if he’s not careful.

“Let me help,” he whispers.

“I don’t want help.”

“I don’t care.”

You stare at him.

For a second, everything slows. The sirens, the wind, the noise in your chest.

You just look at him—his rain-wet hair, the blood on his lip, the pain in his stupid eyes.

And you want to scream.

Because you want to believe him.

You want to let him back in.

You want to tell him that there are nights you wake up reaching for the sound of his voice.

But instead, you pull your hand back.

Hard.

And say, “You should go.”

He doesn’t move.

“Grayson,” you warn.

But he just nods.

Not because he agrees.

Because he knows he has to let you push him away.

For now.

But his eyes say what his mouth doesn’t:

I’ll be back.

You watch him disappear into the dark, that electric blue symbol on his back flashing once as he vaults off the edge.

And then you sit down again.

On the ledge. Alone.

Like always.

You press your palms to the wet stone, tilt your head back, and wonder—

How many more times can he come back before you finally stop making him leave?

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Gotham Safehouse, 2:14 AM

THE DOOR clicks shut behind you, and for a second, all you hear is the hum of old radiators and the sting in your ribs.

You drop your bloodied jacket to the floor. Sit. Breathe.

The safehouse is quiet. A tucked-away apartment Bruce keeps off-record, with medical supplies and blackout curtains. You’ve bled in worse places.

You peel your suit from your shoulder. You’re not even sure when the gash happened. Somewhere between the rooftop ambush and the second explosion. Your fingers are shaking.

And then the door opens again.

You don’t look up.

But you know his footsteps.

“…Y/N.”

You wince, more from the sound of your name than the wound. He says it so softly, like it still means something.

“Thought I lost you back there,” Dick murmurs.

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t push. Just walks around the couch and crouches in front of you, eyes scanning your body like he’s looking for damage and counting regrets.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulder higher. “Not really a new thing.”

You expect him to sigh. Or scold you. Or do that thing where he says your name again like it’s supposed to ground you.

Instead, he moves gently — grabbing the med kit from the end table and unscrewing the antiseptic like he’s done it a thousand times before. Which he has. Just… not for you. Not for a long time.

“I can do it myself,” you whisper.

“I know.”

But he still doesn’t stop.

The silence stretches thin between you. He soaks the gauze. Swabs the wound. You hiss at the sting, and he pauses — looks up.

“Still stubborn,” he says. It’s almost a smile, but not quite. “I missed that.”

You stare at the opposite wall. “You don’t miss things that try to disappear.”

“I miss you.”

The words are so soft you almost pretend you didn’t hear them.

You hold still while he stitches you up. His fingers are careful. Precise. Gentle in a way that almost makes you cry.

You want to pull away. You want to say stop looking at me like I’m still her — still the kid who used to wait for you at the end of the manor hallway, still the girl with a future and clean hands and a father who wasn’t a liar.

But instead you say, “Bruce is gonna be pissed.”

Dick snorts under his breath. “He’s always pissed.”

“No. At me. For going off-book. For what happened.

“You got ambushed.”

“I disobeyed.”

“You saved three civilians, Y/N. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t I?” You blink hard, voice tight. “You think that matters to him?”

Dick finishes the last stitch in silence. He cuts the thread. Looks at you.

His voice is lower this time. Rough around the edges. “If he says one word to you — one goddamn thing — I swear to god I’ll—”

“What?”

Your voice breaks. “Get in trouble again? He already thinks I’m a walking liability.”

“Well, he’s wrong.”

You look at him then. Really look. At the bruise on his jaw. The dried blood in his hairline. The anger simmering low in his throat — not at you, but for you.

And it unravels something.

“I didn’t want any of this, Dick,” you whisper. “I didn’t ask to be the daughter of a traitor. I didn’t ask for you to look at me like I broke your heart.”

He flinches. “You didn’t.”

“Then why does it feel like I did?”

The silence this time is heavy. Too full.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him.

“I’ve never stopped—” He swallows. Looks away. “You’re not your father, Y/N. And you’re not broken.”

“You sure?” Your voice is brittle. “’Cause it feels like I’ve been bleeding out for years and no one noticed.”

“I noticed.”

The knock on the door cuts through the quiet like a blade.

You both go still.

And then the door opens — and Batman steps inside.

He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He just looks at you like you’re a problem that keeps getting worse.

“You jeopardized the mission,” Bruce says flatly.

You stand. Wince. Hide the bloodstain as best you can. “I made a judgment call.”

“You were supposed to wait.”

“They would’ve died.”

“And now three gang leaders are still on the loose. Because you couldn’t follow orders.”

His words hit low. Exact. Like a scalpel. You don’t answer.

But Dick does.

“Enough.”

His voice is sharper than you’ve heard in years. “She’s not your punching bag.”

Bruce turns to him. “She’s compromised. Emotionally erratic. She acts alone and puts others at risk.”

“She’s alive. And if it weren’t for her, those civilians wouldn’t be.”

“Her father—”

“She’s not her father.”

Dick’s voice breaks open. “And if you can’t see that by now, maybe the problem isn’t her.”

The silence after that is the worst kind of heavy.

Bruce looks between you both. His eyes narrow.

Then he leaves.

The door shuts again. Hard.

You stare at the floor.

“I didn’t need you to do that,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I’m not your problem, Dick.”

He exhales. Walks closer.

“You never were.”

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor, 5:26 PM

The car ride to the manor is quiet.

Dick doesn’t push conversation. You watch the trees blur past the window like you’re on your way to a funeral. Maybe you are — not for a person, but for a past version of yourself that once fit into the place you’re about to walk into.

“Sure you wanna do this?” you murmur.

He doesn’t look away from the road. “I want you to do this.”

You say nothing. Just grip the inside of your coat a little tighter, hiding the fresh sutures on your side. You’d fought men with sharper teeth than Bruce’s judgment, but stepping inside that house again feels like opening a wound.

The doors creak open.

You’re hit with the scent first — old books, faint cologne, the polished oak of a place that pretends it never changes.

You breathe in.

It hurts.

The manor is mostly empty. Alfred’s out. Damian is god knows where. But the grand hallway looks exactly the same — the same staircase, the same chandelier. You blink too fast and the memory hits: you, sitting cross-legged at the base of the steps, bleeding from a busted lip while Dick tried to ice your knuckles and Bruce lectured you about restraint.

You’d been so sure back then that this place meant home.

Your throat tightens.

“You okay?” Dick asks softly beside you.

You nod. A lie. “It’s just weird being back.”

“I know.”

His hand lifts — like he wants to touch your back, or your shoulder, something — but instinct overtakes you.

You flinch.

Barely, but enough.

He freezes. Hand hovering.

You exhale shakily. “Sorry.”

His eyes soften. “It’s okay.”

You both stand there too long.

Then you hear it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Boots.

Jason.

“Shit,” you mutter.

He walks in through the kitchen like he owns the place. His gaze lands on you, then on Dick. He scowls. “Well, look who finally showed up. The golden boy and his… ex–something.”

You stiffen. Dick’s jaw tightens.

“Jason—”

“No, I’m serious,” Jason shrugs, tossing a protein bar in the air. “You didn’t think to maybe give us a heads-up that you were dragging in the caution-tape comeback story?”

You blink slowly. “Nice to see you, too.”

Jason gives a crooked grin. “Thought you were dead. Or in Arkham. My bad.”

Dick opens his mouth — but you cut in before he can speak.

“Say one more thing and I’ll put you through that grandfather clock.”

Jason blinks.

You step forward, voice even, not loud. “You don’t get to talk like that. Not when you’re the poster boy for second chances. You know damn well I didn’t choose what happened. So if you’re still mad about shit from five years ago, grow up.”

The room falls silent.

Jason’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks down. “Tch. Whatever.” He pauses. Then mutters: “Sorry.”

You raise a brow. “What was that?”

He sighs like it physically hurts. “I said I’m sorry, alright? Jesus.”

You almost smile.

Later, in the training room, it’s just you and Dick again.

The tension between you two hasn’t eased — it’s shifted. A softer ache now. A quieter kind of electricity.

“You sure you wanna spar?” he asks, pulling off his hoodie, revealing the slim black tank underneath.

You shrug off your coat. “Might be good to hit something.”

“You mean me?”

“Maybe.”

You both move to the mats, circling each other, silent for a long beat.

He lunges first. You dodge. Quick.

It’s easy to fall back into this rhythm. Fighting him is like muscle memory. Push, spin, counter, breath.

But it’s not like before. There’s a crackle under your skin now. Every time his hand brushes your waist. Every time you twist and catch him off guard.

He grabs your wrist, and you twist out of it, swing your leg around — and drop him flat on his back with a breathless oof.

You straddle him before he can recover — thighs tight against his hips, one hand on his chest to keep him pinned.

Your hair falls over your face. His eyes catch yours.

And everything stops.

His chest rises beneath your palm. His hands are at your thighs, but not moving. Not pushing you off. Just… there.

He looks up at you like he’s caught in the middle of a memory he never wanted to forget.

You realize too late how close you are.

And then you pull back. Hard.

You scramble to your feet. “That’s enough.”

He sits up slowly, breathing heavier now. “Y/N—”

“I said it’s enough.”

You grab your coat. Your heart is hammering.

He doesn’t move to stop you.

He just watches you go.

Like he’s afraid if he says anything too loud, you’ll disappear again.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

You wake to morning light filtering through heavy curtains, warm and soft and too gentle for Gotham. It’s disorienting, the quiet. For a second you think you’ve woken up in your apartment, or somewhere worse — some crumbling rooftop, a cold metal cot in a safehouse. But then you realize.

You’re in that room.

The one you picked during the summers you used to “sleep over.” Back when Bruce still pretended things were normal. Back when you were still pretending, too. The room next to Dick’s, because even then you felt safer with him close.

You sit up slowly, sore in all the usual places. Your body remembers the mission — the one that went sideways — but it also remembers the sparring match with Dick last night. You’d pinned him. Briefly. It should’ve been a win.

You’re still kicking yourself for getting up so fast.

The manor is quieter than it used to be. No hallway alarms, no Alfred clinking dishes just yet. You dress in silence, your fingers slow on the zipper of your hoodie. The moment your door creaks open, a blur of motion intercepts you.

Damian.

He throws an arm around your neck, pulling you into a headlock before you can blink. “When did you come back, big sis?” he smirks.

You twist and use his own weight against him, flipping him onto his back with a satisfying thud. He groans, stunned.

“Yesterday,” you say, amused. “Miss me?”

Damian groans dramatically. “I forgot you do that.”

He looks up at you. “You got stronger.”

“Time away’ll do that.”

He studies you from the ground like he’s trying to memorize you. Something unreadable passes through his face — something softer. He lifts a brow. “…You staying?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Hmph.” He lets you help him up. “You should.”

“Do I even want to know what’s going on out here?” a familiar voice calls down the hall.

You look up — and your mouth almost drops.

Dick leans in the doorway to his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes and very intentionally not wearing a shirt. His sweatpants hang low on his hips. His hair is a mess. He looks like something out of a memory you’ve tried too hard to bury.

You recover fast, but not fast enough.

He catches it. The pause. The blink. The flinch of your mouth like it’s about to say something dangerous.

He smiles — slow and smug.

Definitely on purpose.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, brushing past him.

“Good morning to you too.”

Breakfast is… chaotic.

Damian’s bragging about how much he can bench now. “Eighty pounds over my body weight,” he says, arms crossed.

“That’s adorable,” Jason mumbles, half-asleep and moody in the corner. He looks up at you, then back at his coffee.

Dick sits across from you, too close, flipping through a file you’re not supposed to see but letting you see it anyway.

“You still eat eggs with hot sauce?” Tim asks from the doorway, looking like he hasn’t slept in two days.

You glance at him, blinking. “When did you get back?”

“Late last night. Heard someone was crashing the manor again.”

His smile is gentler than Jason’s grumble, but there’s a weight behind it too. Everyone has questions. No one says them out loud.

Not yet.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Later, you and Dick are in the gym again.

Sparring. Again.

It’s slower this time. Deliberate. You fall into old rhythms, like your bodies remember before your minds do.

“Remember when we used to sneak in here?” Dick asks between swings. “You stole my hoodie once and wouldn’t give it back for a week.”

“It was comfortable,” you say, blocking him. “And oversized.”

“It was mine.”

You land a hit. His shoulder dips.

He smiles.

But something in your chest is tightening.

You pause. “Do you ever miss it?”

He looks up. “What?”

“The way things used to be. Before… everything.”

His expression shifts, softens. “All the time.”

The tightness grows. You lower your fists. “My father sent a letter. From prison.”

Dick straightens, no longer sparring. Listening now.

“He wants me to visit.” You exhale, shaky. “Says he just wants to talk. That he misses me.”

Dick says nothing, waiting.

“I can’t do it,” you whisper. “I can’t look at him and not see it — see what he did. What he became.”

The words feel like glass in your throat. You can feel tears climbing, but they stop halfway up. You choke them down.

“I don’t know what he sees when he thinks of me,” you add. “If he still sees his daughter. Or just another failed version of himself.”

Dick takes a step forward, hands twitching — like he wants to touch you, but isn’t sure you’ll let him.

You pull away before he can try.

“Sorry,” you say too quickly.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You never have to apologize for how you feel.”

You blink away the burn in your eyes. “We should do something else. Distract me.”

You get your distraction.

By evening, the air changes.

Footsteps echo through the foyer. Voices murmur below.

Bruce is back.

You brace yourself. Expect the explosion. The “why is she here?” The cold fury only he can manage.

But when he sees you… he just nods.

Nothing more.

You freeze. Even Jason straightens a little, surprised.

“Grayson. Todd,” Bruce says, eyes flicking between the two. “Mission briefing. Fifteen minutes. Bring her too.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he says it.

Dick frowns. “You sure?”

Bruce glances over his shoulder. “She’s still capable, isn’t she?”

Your jaw tightens.

Dick opens his mouth — probably to argue — but you touch his arm.

“I want to go,” you say. “Let me.”

He watches you for a second, then nods.

“Suit up, then,” Bruce says. “We leave at nightfall.”

You make it to the weapons room and pull on old armor like it’s never left your skin. Dick is quiet while he gets ready beside you.

“You don’t have to prove anything to him,” he says eventually.

You shake your head. “I’m not. I’m proving it to myself.”

He doesn’t argue.

You don’t expect Jason to show up. But he does — standing at the door, arms crossed. He won’t meet your eye.

“I was a dick earlier,” he mutters.

“No kidding,” you reply.

A beat.

He shifts awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re back.”

You pause, surprised.

“Even if the old man won’t say it,” he adds.

You nod once. “Thanks.”

The mission is simple. In theory.

But this is Gotham.

Nothing stays simple for long.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

the mission

The city blurs beneath your boots.

You land hard on the rooftop, knees bending into the momentum. It’s slick from a recent drizzle, steam rising in curls from the vents around you. Gotham below is neon-lit and pulsing, but this building—abandoned, fortified, and suspiciously well-guarded—is your target.

Your comm crackles.

“South side clear,” you mutter.

“North too,” Grayson’s voice answers, low and crisp in your ear. “We’re good to move.”

You don’t say anything. You just move, shadows swallowing you.

The intel came through just hours ago—black market tech trades, something WayneTech-adjacent. Bruce gave the green light, you volunteered, Grayson hesitated. But you insisted. You needed the distraction. Something real. Something with stakes.

Jason’s voice cuts in over comms, dry as usual. “Hey, anyone else feel like this is a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” you reply. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You hear Grayson’s soft exhale. That little sound he makes when you say things that toe the line between reckless and charming. You pretend not to notice it.

Inside the building, everything goes wrong five minutes in.

The guards are enhanced—cybernetically modded, fast, stronger than they look. You duck a punch, slide under another, send a blue-bladed boot to someone’s chest. It’s muscle memory, but your focus slips for half a second.

You get hit.

Hard.

Your ribs crack against the wall, pain blooming sharp under your armor. You grunt but recover, spinning with a flick of flame that throws your attacker off balance. Jason shouts something across the line, Grayson calls your name—but then a familiar voice breaks through the static:

“Need a hand?”

Your blood goes cold.

Barbara Gordon drops from the rafters like she owns the place—red hair tied tight, grin wide, body moving in that fluid, confident way she always has. She lands beside Grayson like they’ve been partners all their lives.

“Hope I’m not late,” she says, cracking two batons out from her belt.

“Oh great,” you mutter, just loud enough that she probably hears.

Grayson’s voice perks up. “You weren’t briefed—how did you even—?”

“Bruce sent me. He thought you could use backup.” She smiles, eyes flicking to you. “And clearly, he was right.”

You scowl and refocus, heat flaring under your fingertips.

The fight stretches on—tight corridors, strobing lights, screams over the comms. You and Grayson fall into sync, your old rhythm finding its legs again. But every time you hit your stride, Barbara slips in. Saving him. Covering him. Pressing a hand to his shoulder, too familiar, too easy.

At one point, she laughs at something he says. You grit your teeth and push harder.

By the end of it, you’re standing in a pile of scorched debris, armor scuffed, hair damp with sweat. Jason’s breathing heavy beside you, muttering about needing a drink. Grayson’s touching a cut on his jaw that wasn’t there earlier.

Barbara’s the one who breaks the silence.

“Well, that was fun,” she chirps, twirling one of her batons and sliding it back into its holster.

You don’t answer. You’re busy wiping blood off your glove.

But she turns to you anyway, all bright-eyed interest. “So… you’re back. For good?”

You glance at her, then away. “Don’t know.”

She steps closer. Too close. “You and Grayson—did something happen while I was gone?”

Your gut tightens. “No.”

Her smile sharpens, just a little. “Right. You’d tell me, right?”

You meet her gaze. Flat. Tired. “What exactly are you asking, Barbara?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says with a breezy wave of her hand. “Just curious. It’s just… the way he looks at you. Kinda hard to miss.”

She turns to walk away before you can answer. And as she passes Grayson, she touches his arm again—lingering, smiling. Your chest tightens, stupidly. You feel it deep, in places that were supposed to be armored.

You look away before anyone notices.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Back at the safehouse, you strip off your gear in silence.

Grayson’s in the next room talking to Bruce over comms. Jason’s off grumbling somewhere about cracked ribs and bad leadership. You sit on the edge of a steel cot, staring down at your hands.

You shouldn’t care.

You don’t care.

But it sticks in your throat anyway—the way Barbara looked at him, the way he smiled at her. You’re not together. You’re not even close. But the ache says otherwise.

The door creaks open.

It’s Grayson. Fresh out of armor, still wearing that breathable undersuit, sleeves pushed up, hair damp.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, but it’s a lie.

He walks over, crouches in front of you. “You barely said a word after the mission.”

“I’m tired.”

“Bullshit,” he says, gently. “You’re never this quiet.”

You let out a breath. “I just—Barbara being there threw me off.”

He watches you carefully. “Why?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you say, “She thinks there’s something between us.”

“Isn’t there?” he asks.

It hangs there, thick in the air.

You look at him. Really look at him. His face is open, waiting. Like he wants you to say something real, something brave. But your ribs still hurt. Your heart even more.

“I don’t know what there is,” you whisper.

He doesn’t press. He never does.

Instead, he just says, “She doesn’t matter. Not like that.”

And it should comfort you. But it doesn’t. Not yet.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor 1:47 AM

YOU head down to the kitchen for water, barefoot on the cold tile.

You’re halfway to the fridge when a voice pipes up from the doorway.

“Long night?”

Barbara leans against the doorframe, hoodie over her suit, hair loose now. She’s holding a mug of tea like she’s been waiting.

“Something like that,” you answer, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You don’t like me,” she says matter-of-factly.

You raise a brow. “We’re doing this at two in the morning?”

She smirks. “You think I’m stepping on your toes.”

“Do I have to remind you we’re not in high school?”

“No,” she says, sipping her tea. “But I know the look. I know how he looks at you.”

Your jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Her eyes flicker, softer for a split second. “Maybe not. But I know him.”

“Good for you.”

There’s a beat of silence before she says, “He’s different when you’re around. Whether you want to admit it or not.” She turns toward the hall. “I’m not your enemy. Just remember that.”

And she’s gone, footsteps fading upstairs.

The voice that comes next is much lower.

“You gonna keep scowling at the floor, or…?”

Jason’s leaning against the counter, still in sweats, a bruise blooming along his jaw. You didn’t even hear him come in.

“Thought you’d be asleep,” you say.

“Couldn’t. Too many thoughts.” He grabs a beer from the fridge. “You looked pissed back there. At her.”

“Drop it, Todd.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, cracking the cap, “if you like him, maybe… I dunno. Tell him before someone else does.”

Your laugh is humorless. “Not that simple.”

He studies you for a moment. “Guess not.”

You’re halfway to the door when he says, “For what it’s worth, I think he’s already picked.”

You don’t ask what he means. You’re not sure you want to know.

You pass Bruce in the hall on your way back upstairs.

He’s out of the cowl, but still in armor, looking like the mission dragged him through glass.

“I heard you held your own tonight,” he says.

You stop. “Surprised?”

He regards you for a long moment. “No. I’ve always known what you’re capable of.”

It’s almost a compliment — the Bruce Wayne equivalent of one, anyway.

But you tilt your head. “That why you wanted me on this mission? Or because you wanted to keep me where you could see me?”

His jaw shifts. “Both.”

There’s a pause before you say, “You don’t have to like that I’m here. But I’m not leaving again.”

He nods once. “Good.”

And just like that, he’s walking away, cape trailing the hall.

You close your door, lean against it, and let out a slow breath.

You’re still not sure what tonight changed. Only that something has shifted, subtly, and you can feel it in the way your chest is too tight to sleep.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor 5:03 AM

YOU wake like you’ve been ripped out of the water.

Your chest is tight, lungs dragging in air that won’t stay. The room is dark but feels too small, walls pressing in. The nightmare fades in jagged pieces — your father’s voice, Bruce’s back turned, blood on your hands that wouldn’t wash off.

It’s not real.

You curl forward on the bed, pressing your palms into your knees until they hurt, until the tremor in your breathing slows enough that you can stand.

You can’t stay in here. Not with it still clinging to your skin.

The training room smells like mat cleaner and faint motor oil from the treadmills. No one’s here yet — not even Damian. You pull off your hoodie, tighten the wraps around your hands, and start throwing jabs at the heavy bag.

Left. Right. Right. Left.

Your shoulders ache, but you welcome it.

You try not to think about Barbara’s voice — He’s different when you’re around.

Or Jason’s — If you like him, tell him before someone else does.

Your knuckles slam harder into the bag.

“You’re up early.”

You don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Dick’s hair is damp, like he’s just showered. He’s in compression gear, gloves in one hand. He takes in the way you’re hitting the bag — sharp, relentless — and frowns a little.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“Didn’t,” you correct.

He steps closer. “Nightmare?”

You glance at him. “Drop it, Grayson.”

He doesn’t. “You’ve been pushing too hard since you got back. Physically, I mean.”

You snort. “Says the guy who used to break his own ribs just to make a deadline.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I wasn’t running from something.”

That hits too close. You step back from the bag. “You think you know everything about me, don’t you?”

“No,” he says, meeting your eyes. “But I know more than you want me to.”

You stare at him, heat rising under your skin. “Like what?”

He shrugs, but it’s calculated. “Like the way you avoid looking at me when Barbara’s around.”

Your pulse spikes. “Wow. Subtle.”

“And the way you don’t flinch when I touch your arm anymore, but you do when I ask about how you’re feeling.”

“That’s not—” you start, but he steps closer, crowding just enough that you can smell his soap.

“I notice,” he says quietly. “Whether you want me to or not.”

You’re breathing too fast again. Like after the nightmare.

You want to tell him everything — the dream, the panic, the way Barbara’s hand on his arm made something ugly twist in your chest — but the words stick.

Instead, you shake your head. “We should spar. I need the distraction.”

YOU circle each other on the mats.

It’s tense from the start. Every move feels like an argument you’re not having out loud. He grabs your wrist — you twist free. You sweep his leg — he catches himself, flips you instead. You roll, recover, slam him back.

You end up with a knee on his chest, pinning him down.

His hands rest lightly at your thighs — not pushing, just there.

“You’re distracted,” he says.

“So are you,” you shoot back.

Something shifts in his gaze — softer, sharper, both at once. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears. You could tell him. You almost do.

But you push off instead, standing.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not,” he says, sitting up. “But you’re not ready. I get it.”

That almost makes it worse — that he won’t force it, that he’s giving you space you don’t know what to do with.

You leave the room before he can see how shaken you are.

But his voice follows you out, quiet and certain:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor 3:12 AM

The dream starts quietly.

Too quietly.

You’re in your childhood home, the one you haven’t seen in years. The light is warm, a low hum of a radio somewhere in the kitchen. For a moment, you think it’s safe.

Then the air changes.

The radio static grows louder, buzzing until it drills into your skull. The windows rattle. And your father steps into the room — but not the version you knew when you were a kid. This one has ash under his nails, his suit blackened, his eyes reflecting fire.

“You could’ve stood with me,” he says, voice smooth as oil.

The floor shakes. Outside, the world is burning — rooftops collapsing, the sky lit red. Gotham’s screams seep through the walls. You turn to run, but your feet are locked in place.

“It’s in your blood,” he adds, smiling as the flames crawl toward you.

You open your mouth to argue, but smoke pours down your throat.

You wake with a gasp so sharp your chest aches.

The room is pitch black, the sheets clinging to your skin. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, your breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts. You shove the covers off and stumble toward the door before you’ve even thought about where you’re going.

The manor’s hallways feel too long. Too narrow. You pass portraits and locked doors, barely aware of your feet on the carpet. The front doors are heavy, but you shove them open, stepping straight into the cold downpour outside.

Rain hits your skin in sharp pinpricks. You tilt your face up, drag in air that tastes like earth and metal, trying to breathe through the panic. It doesn’t work.

“Hey—”

His voice cuts through the storm.

You turn to see Dick running toward you, barefoot in sweats and a long-sleeve, hair messy from sleep. He doesn’t hesitate — just comes down the steps, the rain soaking his clothes in seconds.

“What happened?” he asks, already searching your face.

You shake your head. “I had to get out.”

“Nightmare?”

You huff out a humorless laugh. “If it was just a nightmare, I wouldn’t be standing out here like an idiot in the rain.”

“Tell me,” he says, softer now.

“It was him,” you admit, voice shaking. “Every time I close my eyes lately, I see him — my father — burning everything down. And I’m just… watching. I can’t move, I can’t stop it. And the worst part?” Your throat tightens. “Some nights, I believe him. I believe it’s in my blood. That no matter what I do, I’ll end up like him.”

“You won’t,” Dick says firmly.

But the words keep spilling. “I’ve been bottling it up because if I let it out, I don’t know what happens next. Everyone’s watching me, waiting for me to mess up. Bruce, Jason… hell, even I’m waiting for it. And I’m so tired of pretending I’m fine.”

Rainwater slides down your cheeks — you can’t tell where it ends and the tears begin.

“I can’t lose control,” you whisper. “I can’t lose—” You stop, chest tightening.

He steps closer. “Lose what?”

You look at him, the rain blurring the edges of his face. “I can’t lose the people I care about. I can’t lose you because I love you—”

The words hang there, suspended between raindrops.

Your eyes widen. “I didn’t mean—”

But he’s already closing the gap, pulling you against him. His arms are solid around you, his chin resting on your hair, holding you like you might vanish.

“You don’t have to take it back,” he murmurs.

You stand there, soaked to the bone, letting the rain and the weight of him steady you. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself breathe without forcing it.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor 9:17 AM

Two hours of sleep feels like none at all.

When you wake, the rain’s stopped, sunlight cutting pale lines across your room. Your hair is dry — you must’ve towel-dried it without remembering. You’re still in the hoodie from last night, the one that now smells faintly of rain and laundry soap.

The dream doesn’t come back, but the words you almost said do.

You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, hearing your voice in your head. I can’t lose you because I love you—

You’d like to believe it didn’t happen. But it did. And Dick heard it. And he didn’t run.

That might be worse.

By the time you make it downstairs, the smell of coffee and toasted bread fills the air.

The kitchen is alive in that strange Batfamily way — everyone’s here, but no one’s really talking in full sentences. Damian is dissecting the sports section like it personally offended him. Jason’s nursing a mug of black coffee like it’s life support. Tim is on his second plate of eggs, laptop propped open beside him.

You hover at the edge for a moment before sliding into a chair.

“Morning,” Tim says without looking up, though his eyes flick toward you in a quick, assessing way. You can feel the weight of it — like he’s noticed something but, for now, is keeping it to himself.

“Morning,” you echo, reaching for the coffee pot.

Across from you, Dick’s leaning against the counter, mug in hand, talking with Alfred about some busted security camera on the east wing. But you can feel him watching you between sentences, like he’s keeping you in his periphery no matter where you move.

When you finally glance up, his mouth quirks — subtle, private, like last night’s rain is still between you.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Breakfast is a quiet war of glances.

Jason cracks a joke about you looking “less dead than usual,” and you lob a grape at his head without breaking eye contact with your plate. Damian mutters something about immature adults, and Alfred sighs in that patient, suffering way he’s perfected.

Through it all, Dick stays casual. On the surface. But every time he moves around the table — grabbing more coffee, snagging a piece of toast — his hand brushes yours, just enough to be felt, not enough for anyone else to notice.

You don’t flinch, but you do grip your mug tighter.

Tim’s gaze flickers again — to your hand near Dick’s, to the way you both look away too quickly afterward. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Smart boy.

You’re almost finished eating when Dick pulls the move you’ve known was coming.

He leans down behind you to grab the sugar jar, close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “We should talk later,” he says, low enough that it’s meant for you alone.

Your pulse trips. You keep your eyes on your plate, forcing your voice steady. “About what?”

“You know what.”

Before you can answer, he’s straightening again, sugar in hand, resuming whatever harmless conversation he’s having with Alfred.

And you’re left staring at the last bite of toast like it’s going to give you answers.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor 4:02 PM

THE training room is quiet except for the dull thud of your fists hitting the heavy bag. You’ve been at it for a while — long enough for sweat to bead at the back of your neck, long enough to know he’s been watching.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate, closing the distance like he’s giving you time to notice.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Dick says.

You keep hitting the bag. “Been busy.”

“Funny. So have I. Still managed to make time.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Grayson?”

He steps into your space, catching the bag mid-swing with one hand. “You know what I want.”

You finally look at him. He’s in sweats and a fitted t-shirt, hair a little messy from his own workout. His expression is calm, but his eyes… they’re locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Last night,” he says, “you started to say something. In the rain.”

You shake your head. “I was upset. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is soft, but there’s no give in it. “You meant it.”

You swallow, hard. “Even if I did, it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Your voice falters. “Because if I say it out loud, it’s real. And real things can be taken away.”

He studies you, jaw tightening. “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t scare me off.”

“You should,” you say quietly.

“I won’t.”

The air between you feels charged now, like the seconds are holding their breath. He takes a step closer.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

You shake your head again, but your pulse is pounding, your skin buzzing with adrenaline and something warmer, softer.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw — not pushing, just waiting. “Say it.”

Your chest feels too tight. “I—”

You never finish.

He leans in, closing the last inches, his mouth finding yours.

It’s soft at first — careful — but the second you respond, it deepens, heat curling low in your stomach. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you like he knows your knees might give.

You kiss him back without thinking, without caring about who might walk in, without fear. Just the rush of him — his warmth, his scent, the way his lips move against yours like he’s been waiting a long time.

When you finally pull back, your head’s spinning, and there’s a flutter in your chest so strong it’s almost dizzying.

He smiles, the kind of smile that says he already knows the effect he has on you. “Butterflies?”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the small, breathless laugh that escapes. “Shut up.”

But you’re still smiling.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor Late Evening

It’s been a week since the kiss, and you’ve become very, very aware of Dick Grayson.

The problem is, so has your body.

You’d like to think you’ve been subtle about avoiding him — slipping out of rooms before he enters, keeping conversations clipped, volunteering for errands with Damian just to stay busy. But the second you’re actually in the same room with him, it’s like your brain short-circuits.

It’s the little things.

The way his t-shirt clings to his chest when he comes back from a workout. The way his damp hair curls at the nape of his neck after a shower. That stupid cocky grin he gives when he catches you looking. And yeah, his six-pack — the one you swear he’s been showing off more lately, under the guise of “just stretching.”

You keep telling yourself you can handle it. That it’s fine. That avoiding him is the smart move.

But smart moves stop mattering when you hear a knock on your door.

Go away,” you call, though your pulse is already kicking up.

“Not happening,” Dick says from the other side, voice warm, confident. “We need to talk.”

“Pretty sure we’ve talked enough.”

“You kissed me back.” There’s no smugness in it — just fact.

You open the door before you can talk yourself out of it. He’s leaning against the frame, hair slightly mussed, wearing joggers and nothing else. His skin is still faintly flushed from training.

And suddenly, every plan to keep your distance goes up in smoke.

“You’re not making this easy,” you mutter, stepping back to let him in.

“Not trying to,” he says, closing the door behind him.

You stand there, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected. “So. Talk.”

He moves closer — slow, like he’s giving you the option to stop him. “A week is a long time,” he says. “Too long.”

You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your stomach. “Maybe I like making you wait.”

His mouth curves. “Then I guess I’ll just have to convince you otherwise.”

Your self-control snaps. You grab his jaw, pulling him down into a kiss that’s nothing like the cautious one from before. It’s hard, hungry, your fingers tangling in his hair as you back him toward the bed.

He makes a low sound in his throat — surprise, approval — before his hands slide to your hips, gripping tight.

“You’re bossy tonight,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Shut up and take your pants off,” you reply, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

straddle his lap, kissing him again, slower this time, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan. His hands roam your back, your sides, mapping every curve like he’s been waiting for this forever.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice rough.

“Pretty sure I do,” you answer, nipping at his jaw.

You let your hands trail down his chest, tracing each line of muscle, the hard planes of his abs. His breath stutters when you slip your fingers under the waistband of his joggers, teasing.

“Gonna keep teasing me?” he asks.

“Maybe,” you say with a smirk, before kissing him again — deep, wet, your tongue brushing his until you both break for air.

From there, it’s a blur of heat and skin and breathless laughter between kisses. You guide him back onto the bed, your mouth exploring his neck, his shoulders, the way he shivers when you scrape your nails lightly over his stomach.

When he finally flips you beneath him, it’s not because you’ve lost control — it’s because you’ve let him, and he knows it.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours as he lines his mouth up with yours again.

And when it happens — slow at first, then faster, harder, until you’re both gasping — it’s everything you’ve been avoiding for a week and everything you didn’t know you needed, all at once.

He sinks to his knees in front of you.

“Missed you,” he says against your thigh, his breath hot on your skin.

You open your mouth to reply, but it turns into a gasp when his hands slide up under your hoodie, warm palms smoothing over your waist. He pushes it higher, exposing your stomach, your ribs, until you lift your arms and let him pull it off completely.

His eyes darken as they roam over you. “You’re gorgeous.”

You hook your fingers in his hair and pull him back up into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, your tongues brushing as you shift back onto the bed, letting him follow. He covers your body with his, one knee pressing between your legs until you open for him.

The pressure is maddening. You grind against his thigh without thinking, and he swallows the moan it pulls from you.

His mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before his tongue soothes the sting. His hands are everywhere — your sides, your back, your thighs — as if he’s starving for you.

When his fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts, you don’t stop him. He pushes them down slowly, watching your face the entire time, like he’s looking for even the smallest sign you want to stop.

You don’t.

He cups you over your panties first, his fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

“So warm,” he murmurs. “So wet already.”

Your hips roll against his hand, chasing the friction, and he grins against your neck before sliding your panties aside and touching you directly. The first stroke is light, testing. The second is firmer, his fingertip circling your clit in a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

When he slides one finger inside you, you gasp — and when he adds a second, curling them just right, your back arches off the bed.

“God, you feel perfect,” he says, his thumb never leaving your clit as his fingers work inside you.

He kisses his way down your body, slow enough to make you squirm, until his mouth replaces his hand.

The first swipe of his tongue against you has your fingers tangling in his hair, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He licks you like he has all night, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your clit, his fingers sliding in and out of you in a rhythm that matches the movements of his mouth.

You can’t think, can’t breathe — the only thing you’re aware of is him, the wet heat of his tongue, the way he groans every time you tug his hair.

Your orgasm hits hard, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He crawls back up your body, kissing you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

You’re still catching your breath when you feel him, thick and hard against your thigh. You reach down, curling your hand around him, stroking slow, and his breath hitches.

“Condom?” you ask.

His eyes flick to yours. “Do you want one?”

You shake your head. “I want to feel you.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch has your nails digging into his shoulders, and he drops his forehead to yours with a groan.

“Fuck… you feel unbelievable.”

When he’s all the way in, you just stay there for a moment, breathing each other in. Then you roll your hips, and he pulls out only to thrust back in, deeper this time.

The pace starts slow — deliberate — every movement making you feel every inch of him. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them to open you wider, changing the angle until he’s hitting that spot that makes you gasp every time.

You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, and the pace picks up. His thrusts are harder now, deeper, the sound of skin against skin loud in the room.

He kisses you between breaths, his mouth hot and desperate against yours. You meet every thrust, chasing the pleasure building low in your stomach, the tension winding tighter and tighter.

When his thumb finds your clit again, you break — clenching around him, your orgasm tearing through you. He follows a heartbeat later, groaning your name as he spills into you, hips pressing deep as he rides it out.

You stay tangled together, sweaty and breathless, his weight a comfort on top of you.

“Worth the wait?” you murmur.

He grins against your cheek. “I’m not waiting that long again.”

And from the way you feel right now, you know you won’t make him.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━

Wayne Manor 8:14 AM

You wake up to the weight of an arm draped over your waist and the steady rhythm of someone breathing against the back of your neck.

For a second, your pulse spikes — the last shadow of a nightmare still clinging to you — until you register the heat of his body, the faint scent of soap and rain still clinging to his skin.

Dick.

Your chest loosens. The nightmare fades. The ache in your thighs from last night is a different kind of reminder — one that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

You stay still for a minute, letting yourself soak in the feel of him pressed against you. His hand twitches in his sleep, fingertips brushing your stomach, like even unconscious, he’s holding on.

But if you stay here any longer, you’re going to start something you’re not ready to explain at the breakfast table.

You slip out from under his arm, grabbing one of his shirts on the floor and pulling it over your head. The manor’s floorboards are cool under your feet as you head for the bathroom, toothbrush in hand.

You’ve just started brushing when the door creaks open.

“Morning,” Dick says, voice still rough with sleep. His hair’s a mess, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He looks unfairly good for someone who just woke up.

You try to answer with a mouth full of toothpaste foam, which earns you a low chuckle.

He leans against the sink beside you, brushing his teeth too, and you keep your eyes on the mirror instead of on him — which is why you don’t expect it when he suddenly scoops you up and sets you on the counter.

Your gasp is muffled by the toothbrush still in your mouth.

He steps between your legs, close enough that your knees instinctively part to make room. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles against bare skin, and your stomach does that ridiculous flutter thing you’d rather not admit to.

You spit into the sink, wipe your mouth, and before you can say anything, his lips are on yours.

It’s not the wild, desperate kind of kiss from last night — it’s slower, softer, like he’s savoring it. But the fact that you’re sitting on the counter with him standing between your knees adds an edge that has you leaning into him, fingers curling in his shirt.

When he finally pulls back, his grin is lazy, satisfied. “Morning, beautiful.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. “We should… probably go down for breakfast.”

He smirks. “If we must.”

The kitchen’s already loud when you arrive. Jason’s complaining about the coffee being “too bitter,” Tim’s reading something on his tablet, Damian’s trying to prove a point to Alfred about protein intake.

You and Dick take seats next to each other, but you’re careful not to be too obvious. Or at least, you think you are.

It’s about halfway through Alfred serving eggs when Jason leans back in his chair, smirking. “So… you two have a fun night?”

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. “What?”

Tim doesn’t look up from his tablet, but his mouth twitches. “We all heard you.”

Damian tilts his head like he’s analyzing evidence. “It was rather… loud.”

Your face burns. “Oh my god—”

Dick just grins, utterly unbothered. “Guess we don’t have to keep it a secret then.”

Jason laughs. “Didn’t think you were.”

Before you can come up with a retort, Bruce walks in, setting a folder on the table. “We’ve got a mission. All of you.”

“Even me?” you ask, grateful for the subject change.

Bruce gives you a once-over — unreadable as ever — and nods. “Especially you.”

The heat in your cheeks cools instantly.

Dick leans closer, brushing your knee under the table. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “We’ll handle it. Together.”

And you know he means more than just the mission.

━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━THE END

the ending is kind of rusheddd, sorry

I hope you enjoyed. I don’t read the comics as much but i hope some of the characters where at least a tiny bit accurate

Love, Selene🤍

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