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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 29: August 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

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

The room was dim and quiet, the hum of the ultrasound machine filling the space like background music to something sacred. The lights were low, the monitor flickering in cool blue and white. Belle laid back on the padded exam table, her hand already clasped tightly in Max’s, their fingers woven together like they had been every step of the way.

It wasn’t their first scan, but something about this one felt different. More real. More final.

Because this one held a question neither of them had spoken aloud in the car ride over — not out of fear, but reverence.

“Alright,” the doctor said with a warm smile, moving the probe gently across the slight swell of Belle’s stomach. “Baby’s looking strong. Great heartbeat. Plenty of movement.”

Belle exhaled slowly. Max hadn’t stopped watching the screen since it turned on, his eyes wide and unblinking. She knew that look — the same one he wore when studying telemetry before a race. But this wasn’t data. This was theirs.

“Would you like to know the gender?” the doctor asked, her tone gentle. “It’s very clear now, if you’re ready.”

Belle glanced sideways. Max was already looking at her.

“You decide,” he said softly. “I’m good either way.”

Belle hesitated — but only for a heartbeat.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We want to know.”

The doctor smiled, angled the wand slightly, and froze the image.

“Well,” she said, “looks like your little one isn’t shy.”

Belle held her breath.

“It’s a boy.”

The words didn’t quite register at first.

But then Belle felt it — like a small bloom of warmth behind her ribs, like laughter waiting to escape. Her free hand flew to her mouth as her eyes flooded without warning.

A boy.

She turned her head, eyes meeting Max’s — and he looked absolutely stunned.

Not shocked. Just wrecked in the softest, most beautiful way.

“A boy?” Max whispered, like if he said it too loud it might disappear.

Belle nodded, tears slipping freely now, her chest tight with wonder. “A boy.”

Max leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers, his voice unsteady with emotion. “We’re having a son.”

And then he laughed — just a little, just enough — before kissing her tear-streaked cheek and murmuring, “He’s going to look just like you, you know.”

Belle let out a watery laugh. “God help him.”

Max shook his head, his thumb brushing her temple. “He’s going to be loved like crazy. That’s what matters.”

She reached up, cupped his cheek with a hand that still trembled, and whispered, “He already is.”

Max didn’t let go of Belle’s hand. He didn’t stop staring at the screen where their son’s tiny silhouette still floated in grayscale. He looked like he was trying to memorize every pixel, like this was the most important moment of his life.

And maybe it was.

Belle turned toward the screen too, her other hand resting protectively over her belly. It was still surreal. Still breathtaking.

Their son. Not just the baby. A boy. A future. A beginning.

She pressed her forehead to Max’s again, her voice quiet but sure.

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

Max’s reply was a whisper in return, fierce and full of love.

“Me either, schatje.”

***

The house was quiet that night.

Max sat on the edge of their bed, one hand in his hair, the other resting absently on his thigh. His shirt was rumpled — he’d changed hours ago, but hadn’t moved much since. The only light came from Belle’s bedside lamp, casting everything in gold.

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Humming softly. Completely unaware of the way his chest felt like it was caving in.

They were having a boy.

A son.

Max Verstappen was going to be father to a boy.

And that should’ve made him feel ten feet tall.

Instead, it made him feel cracked down the middle.

Belle came out of the bathroom with her hair pulled back and her nightshirt slipping off one shoulder — one of his old Red Bull shirts, worn soft from years of washes. She looked at him once, and stilled.

He hadn’t said much since they got home.

She crossed the room quietly and slipped onto the bed beside him, her hand finding his thigh.

“Talk to me,” she said gently.

Max didn’t look at her. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Belle sat up a little, not pulling away, just making it easier to see him. “Do what?”

He looked down at his hands. They’d always felt steady in a car. On a wheel. In the cockpit.

They didn’t feel steady now.

“Be a father,” he said. “A good one.”

Belle’s face softened. “Max…”

“I don’t mean I won’t love him,” he rushed to say. “God, I already love him. I feel like I’ve loved him forever. I just—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Belle’s hand found his, warm and grounding. “Why would you?”

Max blinked down at their hands. “Because I only know one version of it,” he said, voice roughening. “Because when I think of being a dad, the first image that comes to mind is someone yelling. Demanding. Pushing me until I broke, then pushing more.”

He paused. “And I love him. I do. I love Jos. I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But Belle… he was hard. He was relentless. He wanted me to be great. And I was. But not because I was happy.”

Belle didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Max’s voice was rough now. “I remember waking up some mornings and feeling sick because I knew he was going to be disappointed in me by nightfall. I remember the weight of that. I remember trying so hard not to feel anything because it just made everything worse.”

Belle shifted closer, her hand covering his. “You’re not him, Max.”

“But what if I become him?”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.I don’t want our son to be afraid of me,” he choked out.

Belle’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” she said. “I know how you talk to Jimmy like he’s fluent in Dutch and sarcasm. I know how you carry Luka on your shoulders until your back hurts and you never complain. I know how you hold me when you think I’m too quiet for too long. I know how you put your hand on my stomach every night now, even when you’re half-asleep.”

Max blinked hard. Once. Twice.

“You are not your father,” Belle said gently. “You are not the echo of his worst days. You are better. Kinder. Softer. Still learning, maybe, but willing. And that makes you more than enough.”

Max exhaled, slow and shaking.

“I just…” He looked at her, his voice breaking a little. “I want him to feel safe. Always. I want him to look at me and know he’s loved, not just when he wins. Not just when he’s perfect.”

“He will,” Belle whispered, leaning in to press her forehead to his. “Because you’ll show him. Every single day.”

Max closed his eyes, her words sinking in slowly, steadying him.

“I don’t care if he never drives a kart,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if he hates racing, if he wants to be a violinist or a vet or a mechanic or—hell, a cat therapist. I just want him to be happy. To know he matters because he exists. Not because he proves it.”

Belle smiled against his skin. “Then you’re already doing better than you think.”

They sat like that for a while — forehead to forehead, hearts pressed together, building something soft between the cracks of what they’d both survived.

Eventually, Belle murmured, “Do you want to say goodnight to him?”

Max let out a breath that felt more like a prayer.

He rested his cheek against the gentle swell of her belly, his hand smoothing over it like a vow.

“Weltrusten, kleine man,” he whispered. Goodnight, little man. “Papa loves you. Always.”

Max looked down at her belly again.

A boy.

His son.

And tomorrow, he’d tell his son — just loud enough that the bump might hear it — that love was never something he had to earn.

Not in this house.

Not ever.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: We had the scan this morning.

GP: Everything good?

Max: Yeah. He’s healthy. Strong. Kicked Belle hard enough the tech laughed. It’s a boy.

GP: A boy. Little Verstappen 2.0. God help us all.

Max: He’ll be calmer. Belle’s influence.

GP: I doubt that. Let me guess—he tried to overtake the probe mid-scan?

Max: More or less. Got his foot in position like he was practicing pit stop timing.

GP: Knew it. When’s his debut?

Max: December. Right before the holidays.

GP: So I should start working on a telemetry-themed baby gift?

Max: If it doesn’t come with data sheets, is it even from you?

GP: Fair point. Congrats, Max. Really. You’re going to be a great dad.

Max:Thank you. I’m trying to be the kind of dad he won’t have to recover from.

GP: You already are.

***

Belle had been up early — not from nerves, just from the kind of contented restlessness that came with good news too big to keep inside her chest.

The sun poured in through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the floor as she moved barefoot between the counter and the stove. The kettle was steaming. The pancakes were stacked. And sitting on a little porcelain dish beside the fruit bowl was one perfect cupcake, its frosting an unmistakable shade of blue.

The front door opened with a familiar knock-knock-push, and Emilie’s voice rang through the quiet.

“Please tell me you made the good tea. I will cry. I will cry right here.”

“In the pot,” Belle called.

Emilie padded into the kitchen, wearing sunglasses, a loose sundress, and an expression of dramatic exhaustion. “I walked behind a tourist group for three whole blocks and I think I now have an intimate understanding of someone named Karen’s divorce settlement.”

Belle grinned and handed her a mug. “To emotional trauma and herbal tea.”

They moved into the dining nook — Belle sliding into her usual seat, Emilie curling up cross-legged on the built-in bench like she lived there. A few cats padded in and out, indifferent to the emotional weight in the air.

“So,” Emilie said, biting into a slice of peach. “You said you had something to tell me that wasn’t about paint samples or prenatal vitamins. Which is suspicious. Spill.”

Belle didn’t answer immediately. She reached across the table, pulled the little plate with the cupcake closer, and placed it gently in front of Emilie.

Emilie blinked. “Is that for me?”

Belle smiled, soft and bright. “Just look at the frosting.”

It took two seconds.

Emilie froze. Looked at the swirl of blue buttercream. Then looked at Belle. Then back at the cupcake.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”

Belle nodded.

“NO.”

Belle laughed, eyes already misting. “Yes.”

Emilie let out an unhinged squeal that made one of the cats bolt from the room. “It’s a boy?! You’re having a little Max!? Like, an actual Verstappen 2.0?!”

Belle was laughing now, wiping at her cheeks. “He kicked during the scan like he was already late for FP1.”

Emilie launched herself around the table and wrapped Belle in a hug that knocked the breath out of her. “Oh my God, Belle. A boy. A baby boy. I’m going to spoil him so much.”

“He’s already dramatic,” Belle whispered. “He deserves an equally dramatic aunt.”

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, still holding both her arms. “You’re going to be the most amazing boy mom.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

Belle looked down at her bump, then back at her best friend. “I’ve been thinking about names.”

“Please don’t name him after a racetrack,” Emilie said, only half-joking.

Belle grinned. “I’d never. Though Max did pitch Zandvoort as a middle name.”

Emilie made a sound of horror.

They both burst out laughing again.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: We found out yesterday. It’s a boy.

Jos: Congratulations. That’s great news. How’s Belle feeling?

Max: Good. Healthy. He kicked during the scan. Like he already wants to race.

Jos: Runs in the blood.

Max: Maybe. But I’m not pushing him. He gets to choose.

Jos: Understood.

Max: He’ll grow up knowing he’s loved. Win or lose. No stopwatch needed.

Jos:. You’ll be a good father, Max.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Summer Chaos

Members: Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur, Pascale, Charlotte and Alexandra

Pascale: We need to decide on a destination.

Charles: Beach?

Arthur: Mountains?

Lorenzo: Not that hotel in Antibes again. I still have nightmares about the breakfast buffet.

Charlotte: I’m fine with the beach. But not that beach. The one where you all complained about the sand for three days.

Alexandra: Seconded. And I am not spending a week somewhere with no air-conditioning. That would be medieval.

Pascale: Well someone needs to book something soon.

Arthur: Can we do a road trip?

Charles: No. That’s so much driving. I want to relax.

Lorenzo: You don’t drive. You just sleep in the passenger seat.

Charles: Exactly. That’s relaxing.

Charlotte: You know what’s not relaxing? Planning a vacation with five people who all want completely different things and none of whom will make a decision.

Arthur: We could do Tuscany?

Charles: Too many tourists.

Alexandra: Oh my god.

Lorenzo: Just pick something, Charles. You’re the one with the stupidly specific villa standards.

Charles: SORRY I LIKE FUNCTIONING WIFI.

Pascale: Isabelle always found the best villas. She even had spreadsheets…

Lorenzo: I’m going to pretend I’m busy for the next hour and see if that magically resolves anything.

Alexandra: Lorenzo. We see you typing. Stay here.

Charles: I’ll do the driving if we road trip. I promise. Just no hiking.

Arthur: What do you mean no hiking?? The whole point of the mountains is the hiking.

Charlotte: I hate hiking.

Alexandra: I like hiking if there’s a spa and wine afterward.

Charlotte: Someone pick a destination by tomorrow morning or I swear I will book all of us into a nudist yoga retreat in the Pyrenees.

Arthur: That’s a threat?

Charlotte: It’s a promise.

Lorenzo: You know what? Pyrenees might be peaceful after all.

Charles: Guys. What about Sardinia?

Arthur: Only if I don’t have to share a room with you again.

Charles: YOU SNORED THROUGH A THUNDERSTORM.

Pascale: Isabelle made this look easy.

***

Group Chat: Summer Sanity Squad

Members: Belle, Alexandra and Charlotte

Charlotte: HOW. THE. HELL. Did you survive this every year.

Alexandra: No seriously. How did you not murder all of us?!

I’m five minutes away from dropkicking Charles into the nearest ocean and letting Poseidon sort it out.

Charlotte: Arthur just suggested a road trip with no itinerary. Like this is a vibe and not a logistical death sentence.

Alexandra: Charles vetoed Greece because “the lighting was bad last time”????

Charlotte: And Pascale just said you used to do spreadsheets.

Girl. GIRL. Why did you not set something on fire.

Belle: I considered it. Then I realized fire wouldn’t fix stupid.

Charlotte: Help us. They are incapable of decision-making.

We are two inches away from a nudist yoga retreat.

Alexandra: We are serious. That was not a bluff.

Belle: Okay. Breathe. Here’s what you do:

Give them exactly three options. No more. Let them vote. Majority wins. End of discussion.

Assign one person to book. If you say “we’ll book it together,” they will vanish like raccoons when the lights turn on.

Do not let them make you the default planner. They will act helpless once, and then forever. Learn from my pain.

Charlotte: This is like talking to a vacation war veteran.

Alexandra: She has seen things.

Belle: I have.

I’ve organized numerous Leclerc holidays, one trip that turned into an accidental mountain survival situation, and a Monaco Christmas where Charles forgot to buy the duck to roast, which was the main dish.

Charlotte: No wonder you married Max.

Alexandra: Was it the man or the functional holiday planning?

Belle: Both. He books villas in advance and brings snacks.

Charlotte: God-tier husband behavior.

Alexandra: I’m starting a support group for people forced to plan a vacation with Leclerc men.

Belle: You can call it “Itinerary? I hardly know her.”

Charlotte: I hate how good that is.

Belle: You’re welcome. Be ruthless.

***

Belle had never understood what people meant when they said they could feel their shoulders unclench.

Not until now.

The villa was quiet in the soft, golden way of late afternoon. The kind of quiet filled with clinking glasses and distant giggles from the pool, the hum of cicadas, the scent of sunscreen and fresh basil and baked stone. It had taken Belle three days to believe it was real. To believe she didn’t have to earn it. That she was allowed to just be.

She lay stretched on a sun lounger in the shade, a linen cover-up slipping off one shoulder, one hand lazily resting on the curve of her bump. Max sat beside her on the deck, legs stretched out, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and one hand absently tracing slow circles along her calf.

Lio was giggling somewhere behind them — something about “beach crab dance” and “Uncle Max said no rules today.” Victoria had abandoned her book to go sort it out, muttering something about “chaos on stilts.”

Luka had declared war on the inflatable swan and was currently trying to stand on its head while Sophie laughed so hard she cried.

It should’ve been overwhelming.

But it wasn’t.

Because nobody expected Belle to fix it. Nobody was asking her to hold the day together. Nobody was waiting for her to smooth things over or play mediator or pretend she wasn’t tired when she was.

The villa was perfect. Secluded. Gated. Peaceful. The air smelled like sunscreen and rosemary, and the only sounds were water, laughter, and the faint hum of a playlist Max had made the night before — a mix of Dutch indie, lazy French jazz, and Belle’s favorite soft piano tracks.

They took turns prepping meals and doing dishes. Nobody raised their voice unless it was because Luka cannonballed too close to the cheese board.

She belonged here.

Not because she was useful.

Not because she planned everything.

Just because she was.

She could just… exist.

“Baby’s kicking again,” she murmured, watching Max’s hand shift instinctively to rest over her stomach.

He didn’t say anything — just grinned, wide and boyish, and leaned forward like he could hear through skin and sun and breath. Belle reached out, tucked a hand into his hair, thumb brushing gently over his temple.

“I think he likes the sound of your voice,” she said softly.

“He’s got good taste.”

She smiled. “He also tried to kick the sunscreen bottle off my belly this morning, so.”

Max shrugged. “Already has priorities.”

The sun filtered through the trees in hazy gold stripes. Belle tilted her head back and let it warm her face.

Victoria padded over a moment later with a bowl of watermelon and a “did someone say hydration,” plopped it between them and flopped into the lounger beside Belle with a sigh.

“Tom says we’re doing a family dinner tonight,” she said. “Outside. Grilled everything.”

“I’ll help,” Belle said instinctively, sitting up.

“Nope,” Victoria said immediately. “You’re pregnant. Your job is to float in the pool and let everyone bring you things.”

Belle hesitated.

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to call Mom? Because she’ll bring out the mom voice and you will be told to sit down.”

Belle held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I surrender.”

Max smirked. “That’s a first.”

Belle kicked him lightly in the ankle. “Don’t make me weaponize the baby.”

Victoria cackled. “Show him, Belle.”

***

The afternoon sun had started to dip, casting everything in that rich, golden glow that made even the garden hose look romantic. The cicadas were loud, the air was soft, and Belle had escaped the chaos of the pool by claiming a lounger on the far end of the terrace with a bowl of grapes and a sunhat that was slightly too large for her head.

She didn’t even flinch when someone dropped onto the lounger beside her.

“I come bearing sunscreen and gossip,” Victoria said, holding up the bottle like a peace offering. “Mostly because Luka told Lio that the baby is probably going to come out wearing a racing suit and now Max is pacing around the kitchen saying, ‘He’s not wrong.’”

Belle laughed, soft and low. “He’s not wrong.”

Victoria began reapplying sunscreen to her shoulders with one hand, the other holding her phone to send somebody yet another photo of her sons face-planting into a bucket of sand.

“You’re glowing,” Victoria said after a moment, without teasing. “Like actually. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s the watermelon,” Belle said, tilting her head. “And the fact that no one here expects me to plan their travel logistics or moderate an argument about hiking versus beach chairs.”

Victoria chuckled. “Ah, yes. A vacation where you’re not everyone’s emotional support sibling. Revolutionary.”

Belle paused. Looked down at her bump.

Then: “It’s a boy.”

The words came out softer than she expected. Not secretive, just sacred.

Victoria’s head whipped toward her. “What?”

Belle smiled. “We found out before we came. He was being very cooperative on the ultrasound. Max almost cried.”

“Almost?” Victoria said, scandalized.

Belle grinned. “His eyes were suspiciously red when we left.”

Victoria blinked hard, then reached out — no hesitation, just instinct — and rested a hand over Belle’s bump.

“A boy,” she whispered. “Oh, Belle.”

Belle’s throat tightened. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.

Victoria looked at her then, full of emotion, her voice warm and unwavering. “He is going to be so loved. He has the best parents. And I’m already preparing a list of ridiculous Dutch baby nicknames.”

Belle’s eyes welled up before she could stop them. “I think I was scared to say it out loud. Like it would make it too real. Too fragile.”

Victoria squeezed her hand. “It’s not fragile. It’s yours. That makes it strong.”

Belle wiped under her eyes and laughed. “Hormones. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m crying too, so you’re not special,” Victoria said, dabbing at her own cheek. “I just can’t believe… my brother. A dad. And you—you’re going to be someone’s mom.”

Belle looked out toward the pool, where Max was now being used as a human surfboard by both Luka and Lio. “I know,” she whispered. “It feels like the start of something good.”

Victoria smiled. “It is good.”

She pulled Belle into a side hug, sunhat and all.

“A little Verstappen boy,” Victoria said. “We’re going to spoil him so much.”

Belle laughed into her shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridsightings: OKAY I WASN’T GOING TO POST THIS

but I just saw Max Verstappen and Belle Leclerc—I mean Belle Verstappen (still not over that) at a baby boutique in the South of France and I’m actually not okay???

A THREAD 🧵

@/gridsightings: So I’m in this tiny boutique near the coast — like, one of those aesthetic French shops with linen everything and hand-stitched baby blankets. — and I’m flipping through said baby blankets because my cousin just had a kid, right?

@/gridsightings: AND THEN I HEAR THE VOICE.

Like that voice.

The grumpy Dutch one from the paddock radios.

I look up and Max Verstappen is just… standing there. In a linen shirt. Holding a swaddle.

@/gridsightings: Belle was glowing. Like, not influencer-glowing. Real glowing. Hair braided, long dress, bump visible.

She laughed when Max tried to fold a swaddle and failed spectacularly.

He said, “It’s like tire warmers but worse.”

I almost blacked out.

@/gridsightings: At one point Max is carrying four things at once because “you liked them all, Belle, we’re getting them all.”

And she just laughs like this is normal behavior.

@/gridsightings: Max just… rested his hand on her belly and went completely still.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

Then Belle kissed his cheek and whispered something I couldn’t hear but he smiled so big my heart grew three sizes.

@/gridsightings: They were talking about colors for the nursery.

Max: “We can do navy and white.”

Belle: “Because you’re emotionally bonded to the Red Bull color palette?”

Max: “No, because you look really pretty in navy.”

ME. ON. THE. FLOOR.

@/gridsightings: A little old woman complimented Belle’s dress and asked when the baby was due.

Belle said, “December.”

The woman said, “A winter baby — strong and stubborn.”

Max said, “So… just like their mother then.”

BELLE LAUGHED AND SMACKED HIS ARM.

@/gridsightings: I was trying to be normal and leave them alone but Belle caught me STARING and smiled and said “Hi!” like she wasn’t the most radiant person to ever exist.

And Max??? Max gave me a little nod and a “have a good day.”

@/gridsightings: Max carried all the bags. Belle held his free hand.

They walked out of the shop smiling like they already knew they were the luckiest people on Earth.

And honestly?

They might be.

@/formulafemmes: “it’s like tire warmers but worse” MAX PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU STOP BEING ADORABLE I CAN’T HANDLE IT 😭😭😭

@/1babyverstappenfan: they’re so married married. like old-married-couple-but-make-it-sexy married. i’m spiraling

@/chaoscar_piastri: her: “navy and white??” him: “no, because you look pretty in navy” ME: SOBBING INTO A BIB I DON’T EVEN NEED

@/mclareninlaws: no but imagine being casually complimented by an old lady and max verstappen immediately goes “just like their mother” like sir please keep that mushy soft husband energy AWAY FROM ME i’m WEAK

@/gridghost: max holding her belly and going completely still like he’s listening for the future i am going to EAT WALLS

@/charleslefreaked: friendly reminder this woman’s family forgot her birthday this year and now she’s married to a man who buys her every swaddle she glances at. karma is REAL and she rides in a Verstappen-branded stroller.

@/babyverstappenupdates: ok but DECEMBER BABY CONFIRMED 🍼 let the countdown begin. i’m making a onesie that says “i survived the Verstappen family Christmas��

@/emotionalslipstream: i want whatever max and belle have. except i want it immediately. and i want it delivered to my door like prime shipping.

@/emotionaldnf: max verstappen in a linen shirt holding a swaddle is not something i was emotionally prepared for today

@/catdadchampion: he carried the bags she held his hand they smiled at each other like idiots i’m gonna eat drywall

@/gridbabywatch: i don’t even CARE that it’s only august baby verstappen is already winning rookie of the year 💙💙💙

@/tifosiferal: also can we talk about how BELLE caught the fan staring and just went “hi!” like she’s not the most ethereal pregnant goddess on Earth? she is sunshine incarnate and I love her.

@/wifeyverstappen “you liked them all, we’re getting them all.” i’m sorry. max verstappen is peak husband material. nobody speak to me ever again.

@/tracksideoracle: honestly? max is 100% going to cry in the delivery room and belle will be like “you’re doing amazing, sweetie” while in active labor.

***

Belle was lying on a sun-dappled lounger near the edge of the villa’s garden, her legs stretched out, a straw hat tilted to shield her eyes. The air was warm, still, soft with the sound of waves crashing in the distance and Max trying to convince Lio that pool floaties worked better when you didn’t bite them.

Belle's phone buzzed on the little table beside her.

Daniel Moreau She blinked at the name for a second before answering. “Daniel! Hi—how are you? Is the kitchen island still intact?”

“Still the star of the house,” Daniel said, his voice warm and amused. “Jules won’t stop hosting dinner parties just so he can show it off. I told him if he breaks the lighting fixture I’m calling you to scold him personally.”

Belle laughed. “Please do. I’ll fly in with a stern face and a clipboard.”

“Listen,” Daniel said, his tone shifting slightly. “I didn’t just call to gush. Well, I did. But not only.”

Belle sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”

“So, Jules’ friend Laurent—He’s an editor for Architectural Digest. And he came by last week for dinner, took one look at the house and lost his mind. He said it was one of the most thoughtful spaces he’s seen in years.”

Belle blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“Belle,” Daniel said, “he wants to feature the house. Full spread. Name in print. Photos. Interview. The whole deal.”

There was a pause. The kind that filled every space inside her chest and made it hard to breathe.

“He said,” Daniel continued, quieter now, “that your work feels like it was designed by someone who understands how people live. Not just how they want to look. That it’s intelligent and emotional.”

Belle pressed a hand to her stomach, heart racing. The baby shifted slightly, as if sensing the moment.

“I—Daniel,” she said, stunned. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he said simply. “You deserve this. Let the world see what we already know.”

Another pause.

This time, Belle let herself feel it.

Not just surprise. Not just pride. But validation.

Her name. Her work. Hers.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Daniel whooped on the other end. “Jules just screamed. We’re already picking out your best angles for the photos.”

Belle laughed, breathless, and wiped at her eyes with the corner of her towel. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Daniel said. “I just know talent when I see it.”

They said their goodbyes, promised to loop in her Studio_B email, and hung up.

Belle sat there for a long moment, the phone still warm in her hand.

She had a baby on the way. A partner who loved her. A family who saw her. And now?

Her work — her name — was about to be in Architectural Digest.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t chasing worth.

She was living in it.

***

“Is that the ‘I just got good news’ face?” Sophie’s voice came from the side doorway, gentle and amused.

Belle looked up, startled, then smiled. “Was I that obvious?”

Sophie crossed the patio with a slow grace that Belle always admired — the kind of elegance that came from being certain of your place in a room, but never needing to announce it. She leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Come on then. What is it?”

Belle hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to tell her — but because somewhere, deep in the layers she hadn’t yet fully shed, there was a part of her still afraid to shine too brightly in front of a mother figure.

She swallowed that part down.

“I got a call from a client,” Belle said slowly. “One of my favorites — Daniel Moreau.”

Sophie nodded encouragingly.

“His house. The one I designed this year — it’s going to be featured in Architectural Digest.”

Sophie blinked.

Belle rushed to fill the silence, nerves creeping in despite herself. “His husband’s friend is an editor there. He saw it and said it felt like someone designed it for the way people actually live, not just… for show. And he wants to do a full spread. Photos. Interview. Name in print.”

Sophie said nothing at first.

Then she reached out and took Belle’s hands, slowly, gently, like holding something precious. Her fingers were warm.

“Oh, darling,” Sophie breathed.

And then Belle saw it — that spark in her eyes. Real pride. Real joy. Unfiltered.

“I always knew,” Sophie said, voice thickening. “From the first time I saw how you talked about your work. The way you light up when you describe materials. The way you feel spaces before you even sketch them.”

Belle’s throat ached. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Sophie said. “For not shrinking. For continuing to build beauty even when no one gave you the space for it. You’ve created things people live their lives in, Belle. That matters. You matter.”

Belle blinked fast.

“I’m proud of you,” Sophie whispered. “I hope you know that. Not because you married Max. Not because of the baby. Because of you. What you’ve done. Who you’ve become.”

And that?

That undid her.

Not in a falling apart kind of way — but in a finally letting go kind of way.

Belle leaned forward and hugged her. Properly. Fully. The way she’d wanted to be held after every university critique, every silent family dinner where her designs went unmentioned, every “what exactly is it that you do again?” masked as curiosity.

Sophie held her like she knew.

Because she did.

***

Max hadn’t expected the patio to go quiet when he rounded the corner.

He was still a little sandy from the beach, his shirt stuck damply to his back, a sunburnt rubber duck in one hand and a pair of tiny, abandoned flip-flops in the other. Lio had declared himself “retired from walking,” and Luka had started building a moat around Max’s ankles with plastic shovels. Chaos, as usual.

But here—on the terrace—it was still.

Belle stood in the golden light, barefoot, her linen dress catching the breeze, arms wrapped around Sophie in a way that made Max’s heart lurch. They weren’t just hugging. They were holding. Like something had been stitched together midair between them.

Sophie’s hand was in her hair, gentle. Belle’s shoulders trembled — not with grief, but with something Max had only ever seen in private. Release. Relief. Real softness.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just took it in.

Then: “Should I come back later or…?”

Sophie looked up at him with a faint smile, hand still at Belle’s back. “Only if you’re going to cry, too.”

Max raised a brow. “I don’t cry. I just get something in my eye when people I love do emotional things in nice lighting.”

Belle turned toward him, her voice already laughing. “Well, prepare to blink a lot.”

He walked closer, stepping carefully over the stray flip-flops, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. She smelled like sunscreen and mint tea. “What’d I miss?”

Sophie stepped back, just a little, giving Belle space. “You tell him,” she said.

Belle looked up at him, eyes still glossy. “Remember Daniel’s house? It’s going to be in Architectural Digest.”

He blinked. Thought he misheard. “Wait… seriously?”

Belle nodded. “Full feature. Interview. Photos. My name in print.”

For a second, he couldn’t speak.

And then the duck and flip-flops were forgotten — he dropped them both on the table and pulled her in, arms around her, forehead pressed to hers like she’d just won the world title.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “You deserve this. All of it.”

Belle’s smile wobbled. “I think I believe that now.”

Sophie wiped discreetly at her eyes behind them, and Max turned to catch her just as she said, “And if you didn’t before, you will by the time that magazine hits shelves. I’m framing it for every hallway I have access to.”

Still holding Belle, Max said, “Can we send copies to every single person who ever asked if she ‘still does decorating’?”

Belle laughed — full and loud and radiant — the kind of laugh that knocked him out every time. “I like you both when you’re dramatic.”

Max looked down at the swell of her belly, already cradling his palm over it. “You hear that, little one? Your mum’s about to be famous.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Internationally respected. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then her bump. “Same thing.”

And he meant it.

Because it wasn’t just a magazine.

It was Belle being seen — truly seen — for who she was and what she built, long before anyone else thought to look. And Max?

Max had known all along.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: EM EMILIE EM ARE YOU NEAR YOUR PHONE I NEED YOU TO BE NEAR YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW

Emilie: I AM I’M LITERALLY IN LINE FOR GELATO DO I NEED TO ABANDON GELATO DID MAX DO SOMETHING IS THE BABY OKAY DO I NEED TO FLY IN

Belle: DANIEL MOREAU CALLED THE HOUSE I DESIGNED FOR HIM IS GETTING FEATURED IN ARCHITECTURAL FUCKING DIGEST

Emilie: SCREAMING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET A CHILD JUST LOOKED AT ME LIKE I’M POSSESSED I DON’T EVEN CARE

Belle:THEY WANT TO DO A FULL SPREAD PHOTOS INTERVIEW NAME IN PRINT

Emilie: I AM GOING TO FAINT I’M GOING TO VOMIT IN JOY I NEED TO SIT DOWN I NEED TO LIE DOWN I’M SO PROUD I’M ACTUALLY SHORT-CIRCUITING

Belle: Sophie cried Max carried me around the terrace like I won a Grand Prix Lio offered me a soggy pool noodle as tribute It was perfect

Emilie: I’M CRYING YOU’RE AN ICON YOU’RE A VISIONARY YOU’RE A STYLISH, PREGNANT, ARCHITECTURAL GODDESS AND IF THE LECLERCS DON’T FRAME THIS MAGAZINE COVER I WILL FIGHT THEM

Belle: You’ll have to get in line Victoria already claimed five copies

Emilie: My queen My muse My favorite internationally recognized interior architect Do you need me to write your AD profile??? Because I WILL.

Belle: Only if you put “was never appreciated enough by her own family but is now thriving and glowing under the South of France sun while married to a barbecue-loving Dutchman” in the first paragraph

Emilie: Done. Signed. Submitted. Pulitzer incoming.

Belle: I love you.

Emilie: I love you more. I’m buying this gelato in your honor. (And also screaming about you to the very confused Italian man behind the counter.)

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: THIS is what peak romance looks like. Also, Lio is FUMING 😂

@/emilie_abadie: I am SOBBING. Why is he like this. Why are you like this. Why is this the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my LIFE.

@/studio_b: Form. Balance. Texture. 10/10 artistic vision. (Even if it was technically theft.)

@/maxverstappen1: The client was kicking for artistic direction. Creative differences were resolved. 🐚✅

@/redbullracing: Max Verstappen, World Champion, Seashell Stylist, Full-Time Soft Dad.

@/f1softlaunches: Forget soft launch. This is a full cinematic debut. Best picture. Best soundtrack. Best supporting actor: the bump.

@/paddockpoetry: he’s not just building a heart. he’s building a home 😭

@/gridgirlfriendz: max. verstappen. crafting. a seashell. heart. on. his. pregnant. wife. I did not have this on my 2024 bingo card but it’s the only thing I care about now

@/sunsetandsectors: there are romcoms with less plot and less chemistry than this photo

@/belletheblueprint: belle’s bump being a canvas for max’s seashell love letters is the kind of content i never knew i needed and now cannot live without

@/charlesleclercfanaccidentally: i don’t even LIKE max like that but i’m gonna need someone to look at me the way he looks at her bump while placing decorative ocean fragments

@/formulafeels: from "I don’t care about Instagram" to “I built a seashell heart on my wife’s stomach at golden hour” character development. emotional development. dad arc unlocked.

@/lando.jpg: bro are you good??? you’re gonna make the whole grid cry into their sim rigs 😭

@/emotionaldnf: me: i’m emotionally stable belle: posts max turning her bump into a love letter me: okay cool cool cool i’m going to cry into a bucket now

@/wagsupreme: this is not just love. this is “you were always meant to be mine and now i build seashell altars to our unborn child” kind of love.

@/cursedf1: i thought he only did tire strategy and intense podium glares but no. he’s also capable of seashell poetry.

@/carlossainzsmileclub: “we’re awaiting trial” belle posting baby bump thirst traps AND committing tiny beach crimes??? ICONIC.

***

Instagram Post: @/maxverstappen1

Comments: @/victoriaverstappen: ❤️❤️❤️

@/danielricciardo: You’ve gone soft and I LOVE IT.

@/redbullracing: Do we send tiny fireproof race suits now or later?

@/jessicaracing: This isn’t just soft. This is core memory, I-believe-in-love-again levels of soft.

@/f1gossipgirl: Baby Verstappen hasn’t even arrived yet and is already more photogenic than me.

@/catdadchamp1: Belle: glowing Max: in love Sunset: blushing Me: dehydrated from crying

@/flamedonfridays: Raise your hand if this post made you reevaluate every man you’ve ever known 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

@/twogirlsonepodium: I clicked on this post expecting soft domestic vibes and instead got hit with an emotional freight train.

@/leclercupdates: Imagine being the guy who made fun of Max for being grumpy in 2019 and now seeing him post this like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

@/danielricciardo: Slow claps in emotional support uncle.

@/georgerussell63: Okay but seriously — congrats, you two. This is beautiful. Genuinely.

@mclarenf1intern: One day that child is going to see this photo and realize he was loved from the very first sunset.

@/belleandmax_updates: They went from secret wedding to building a future in ten business days and I STILL HAVEN’T RECOVERED.

@/maxiel_shippers_unhinged: Imagine being the baby inside that belly and hearing your dad say “this is my future.” I’m sobbing in fetal position on the floor.

@/thef1oracle: Bookmarking this post for every time someone says Max doesn’t have emotions. LOOK AT IT.

@/emilie_abadie: Excuse us while we collectively melt into the floor.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridtears: max verstappen putting seashells on his pregnant wife’s bump in a heart shape i’m sorry i thought this man was built from carbon fiber and spite

@/drivertohusbandpipeline: everyone shut up. max verstappen is making art on belle’s stomach like it’s a goddamn canvas. he’s in his dad era. he’s in his devotion era.

@/formulafairytales: they’re literally on vacation and he’s still building shrines to her with seashells with seashells if that isn’t love i don’t know what is

@/gridwivesclub: if your man doesn’t kneel at your feet and make beach art on your baby bump, leave him. max verstappen has raised the bar to the stratosphere

@/tracksideemotions: you know what? i forgive max for everything he’s ever done yells at an engineer? fine tells lando to shut up in a press conference someday? whatever because THIS. this post has healed me.

@/maxverstappenswifeinmydreams: do you think he collected the shells himself do you think he was like “i need the perfect ones. only the soft round ones. she deserves the best.” do you think i’m unwell?

@/gridsideemotions: not to be dramatic but i would let max and belle run me over with a stroller and then thank them

@/danielricchaotic: max: quiet, serious, brooding also max: arranges seashells on his pregnant wife’s belly like he’s building an altar to love me: is this growth??? is this peace???

@/burntclutchsmoke: belle’s caption being “he said the little one deserved a masterpiece” is so insane like WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S A WORLD CHAMPION AND A ROMANTIC POET NOW

@/verstappenf1daily: max: building red bull strategy also max: building a seashell heart multifaceted king

@/drsandreverence: belle fell in love with a man who saw her, built a future with her, and now hand-places seashells on the curve of their shared life. i want what they have.

@/paddockwivesanon: MAX POSTING THE BUMP. MAX. POSTED. THE. BUMP. I’m on the floor. I’m in the sea. I’m gone.

@/formula1babygossip: we went from “no one knows he’s married” to “here is the mother of my child, bathed in golden light, embodying eternity” in ONE summer

@/notbellamy: me, crying in traffic: I want to be softly adored by Max Verstappen too

@/verstappenteamupdates: Max: casually ends everyone on a Wednesday night with a bump carousel The rest of us: ☠️☠️☠️

@/larriedbutverstappened: sunsets hit different??? you know what hits different?? THIS EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

@/rb_family_fangirl: I knew Max was a family man. I knew he had softness in him. But THIS?? This is poetry in pixels.

@/babyverstappenupdates: The way Belle is glowing. The way he LOOKS at her through the lens. This isn’t content. This is art.

@/alonsohive: just to be clear… max verstappen went from “no public info on his relationship” to “here’s my wife, my unborn baby, and my emotional vulnerability lit by golden hour” in less than a year???

@/gridromance: MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED A BELLE BUMP PHOTO I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR

@/paddockpoetry: “Building a future” Sir. Sir, I am feral. That is your WIFE and your BABY and your EMOTIONAL GROWTH.

@/tearsontrack: Belle really went from forgotten middle child to being soft-launched into emotionally intelligent domestic bliss. A win for the quiet girls.

@/teamverstappen94: "Sunsets hit different when you're building a future." WHO GAVE HIM PERMISSION TO BE THIS SOFT 😭😭😭😭

@/charlesleclercfan13: me: i don’t even like max verstappen like that also me: prints out his post and frames it above my bed

@/emotionaltyres: max verstappen once said “my dream is to have a family one day” and now he’s out here whispering poetry in the captions of his wife's pregnancy photos yes i’m sobbing. mind your business.

@/bellesblueprint: “building a future” oh he meant that. he really meant that.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HELLO??? HAVE YOU SEEN MAX’S POST IS EVERYONE OKAY I AM NOT OKAY

Oscar: He was supposed to be our emotionally unavailable champion And now he’s posting poetic bump pics in golden hour??

Carlos: Sunsets hit different when you’re building a future Who gave him permission to be a POET

George: I literally thought he was going to post a barbecue grill or a tire. Not a declaration of love and legacy. What is this development arc?

Pierre: I need someone to hold me like Max holds Belle’s pregnancy. Seriously. I’m spiraling.

Yuki: You think the baby can feel the soft energy through the skin?? Like “ah yes, my father is emotionally stable now. Nice.”

Checo: Honestly proud of him. Did I cry? Maybe. Is that my business? No.

Lewis: Okay but on a scale of 1 to “Max in a linen shirt arranging seashells on Belle’s belly,” how high are our expectations now for announcing anything in the future?

Carlos: He’s setting the bar in the clouds. I can’t even post a vacation selfie without feeling inadequate now.

George: Does this mean he’s soft-launching Dad Verstappen™ era?? Because I’m ready. I’m emotionally prepared. I have snacks.

Lando: I'm starting a petition to get the baby an Instagram account. @BabyVerstappen. Someone secure the handle.

Nico R.: I’m just going to say it. I love Soft Max.

Yuki: 😭👶🧡

Zhou: who taught him to be like this

Lando: this man used to fight journalists for breathing wrong now he’s out here writing haikus on the bump 😭

Oscar: Anyway. When’s the baby shower. Do we wear white.

***

Lorenzo had always considered himself a patient man.

Oldest sibling. Mediator. Calm in a crisis. He had survived karting weekends, Charles’ existential meltdowns, and Arthur’s teenage skateboarding phase. He’d balanced career and family, built a life, stayed out of drama.

But this?

This vacation?

Was going to break him.

He sat on the edge of a crooked plastic deck chair in the backyard of a house Charlotte had booked last-minute out of desperation. A goat bleated in the distance. Charles and Arthur were arguing in what could generously be called a pool. Pascale was trying to figure out how the coffee machine worked with the kind of intensity usually reserved for international diplomacy.

And Charlotte…

Charlotte had gone very still.

The kind of still that meant she was seconds from throwing someone into the aforementioned pool.

Fully clothed.

“Arthur,” she said, voice deceptively pleasant, “if you say the words ‘group hike’ one more time, I will stab you with this baguette.”

Arthur blinked. “Is it fresh?”

Alexandra sighed from where she sat beside Lorenzo, tapping away on her phone. “Belle warned us.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

She had.

Every year, Belle used to quietly coordinate everything. Bookings, confirmations, backup plans, spreadsheets. And they’d all just… let her. Without ever asking how exhausting it must’ve been.

And now?

Now they were on day four of “improvised family bonding” and Lorenzo was starting to see God.

Charles stomped out of the pool, dripping, holding his phone upside down. “The Wi-Fi’s down again.”

“It’s rural France, Charles,” Alexandra said, unfazed. “What did you expect?”

“Functioning infrastructure.”

Pascale appeared with a tangled extension cord and what looked like a rice cooker. “I think I’ve figured out how to make espresso.”

“God,” Lorenzo muttered, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “We don’t deserve her.”

“Pascale?” Charlotte said dryly.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said. “We don’t deserve Isabelle.”

Everyone fell quiet.

Because it was true.

“Do you remember the summer in Florence?” Arthur said. “We all thought it went perfectly.”

“Because Belle stayed up until 3AM for four nights in a row dealing with the owner about plumbing issues,” Charlotte replied. “She told me a year later.”

“And the amalfi trip?” Charles added, slowly. “She canceled the boat tour and rebooked everything because someone forgot sunscreen and got heatstroke.”

Arthur looked at him. “That was you.”

“I’m aware.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, looking out over the lawn, which was mostly weeds and chaos and half a volleyball net.

“How the fuck,” he said, “did she not kill us all years ago?”

There was no answer.

***

The room was warm. Not hot, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.

Like it remembered things.

Camille’s office always felt a little like that — soft chairs, gentle lighting, a pitcher of lemon water on the table. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and patience.

Belle sat quietly in her usual place on the couch, one hand resting over the curve of her belly, the other loosely intertwined with Max’s. He was calm beside her, but there was a tension in his jaw — the kind that came when he was waiting for someone to say something too late.

Across from her, Pascale sat with a tissue already crushed in one hand. Arthur and Lorenzo looked vaguely shellshocked. And Charles — Charles looked like he’d aged five years in the last ten days.

Camille folded her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you all again,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I heard your family vacation was… eventful.”

That might’ve been the kindest possible way to describe it.

Lorenzo let out a long breath. “We fell apart.”

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Belle. How did you not kill us every year?”

The room fell quiet.

Belle blinked once. Twice. “Because I didn’t think I was allowed to fall apart.”

Charles flinched.

“I thought,” Belle continued, voice calm and terrifyingly clear, “that if I just stayed quiet and useful, maybe I’d matter. Maybe I’d earn a seat at the table.”

“You did,” Pascale whispered, eyes shining. “You always mattered.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “Then why did I have to prove it every year?”

Silence again. Heavier, sharper.

“Vacation planning was never just vacation planning,” she said, softer now. “It was peacekeeping. It was translation. It was remembering who hated what and who wouldn’t speak to whom. It was the only way I could feel needed.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. “We didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Belle said. “That’s the point.”

Max shifted beside her, eyes still on her face. Then he looked at the rest of the room, his voice low and steady.

“What about birthdays?”

The question landed like a pin dropped in a cathedral.

He didn’t stop.

“Or Christmas?” he added. “Or restaurant reservations? Or coordinating travel so you wouldn’t sit near someone you were annoyed with? Or making sure Pascale got flowers even when you all forgot?”

Charles blinked fast.

Max leaned forward slightly, not angry — just precise. “Belle planned all of it. All the time. And no one thought to ask how much it cost her. Because it was easier to just… let her do it.”

“She was so good at it,” Lorenzo said quietly.

Max gave a humorless smile. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t drowning.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “You all thought I was quiet because I was peaceful. I was quiet because I didn’t think I was allowed to need anything.”

Arthur looked up. “And now?”

Belle took a breath. “Now I’m trying to learn that I don’t have to prove I belong.”

Camille nodded slowly. “And the rest of you — what’s your part in that?”

Pascale wiped at her eyes. “To stop letting her disappear behind us.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “To start remembering birthdays ourselves.”

Charles swallowed hard. “To stop thinking silence means someone’s okay.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “To say thank you. Out loud. Even if it’s years too late.”

Max reached over and pressed a kiss to Belle’s temple.

Camille smiled gently. “Then maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, Belle didn’t brace herself for disappointment.

She just breathed.

***

1K notes · View notes

jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

THE 25TH HOUR | 10

"cognitive dissonance"

"Information overload has consequences when your brain tries to map infinity. And some revelations about intellectual competition, tongue habits, and emotional resonance tracking really shouldn't happen in the same afternoon."

next | index | wc: 8.5k

↪︎author's note : AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT'S HEEEREEEE it's FINALLY here. The chapter I have been holding in my evil little claws like Gollum with the ring. My precious… (ᴥ⁝ ᴥ) Okay okay okay. Deep breath. This chapter is so much. Like we are in full "this is why nobody should say anything around Noma without thinking first" territory. I've been WAITING to show you the consequences of information being mishandled around a brain like hers. And it was such a challenge to write because obviously YOU (dear reader) need to get some of this lore and intel too—but we're not in omniscient narration. We're in deep, close POV with Noma, and occasionally Yoongi, and that means there's no "as you know, Bob" exposition. That's amateur hour. Everything that comes through to you has to come through them. It has to feel lived in. Felt. Filtered. With weight. And YEAH. There's a reason I wrote it the way I did. The info needs to creep in, not be dumped on you. This chapter was a narrative challenge and a DREAM to tackle because of that. I went full evil little narrative goblin. There are crumbs. There are cracks in the wall. There is an entire buffet of lore and psychological tension here. If you don't pick up on it… I will cry. And then stab you. Lovingly. Also. That convo between Tae, Jungkook, and Yoongi? YEAH. That's not filler. That is pivotal. I needed to show how people in a massive resistance organization aren't perfectly synced or briefed. This isn't a YA chosen-one fantasy. Jungkook is a literal baby with powers he doesn't fully understand, Taehyung is a modded enforcer who doesn't register information as a threat (which is SUCH a fascinating limitation, ugh I love him), and Yoongi is the only one who has full comprehension of the consequences. The disparity is real. Organic. Messy. And necessary.

The transition leaves an aftertaste of ozone and broken physics.

One moment, you are a collection of atoms held together by sheer will and Agent Min’s grip; the next, you are solid again.

Your feet meet a floor of polished, off-white composite material that seems to absorb all sound.

Back in the resistance headquarters; your mind helpfully supplies. Back to that long, sterile corridor that stretches before you, lit by light panels that emit a flat, shadowless glow.

The raw, bleeding edge of the portal behind you pulses once, then seals itself shut with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“What was that?” is your first immediate question, referring to their commentary about Jungkook’s apparent teleportation abilities.

Your processing centers demanding data to fill the void left by the impossible event. It’s directed at the back of Agent Min’s head as he walks ahead.

No answer.

Agent Min’s shoulders remain rigid, mint-colored hair looking like someone splashed watercolor in a grayscale simulation.

You can see the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the controlled set of his jaw against what must be a significant level of pain.

But his gait suggests someone who’s done answering questions for the next seventy-three hours.

The probability he is ignoring you registers at 98.7%.

Fine. If he won't provide the data, you'll find a more willing source.

You turn your head, your gaze finding Jungkook. “What did you do?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart from you to Min’s rigid back, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. He presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line and gives a minute shake of his head.

A clear non-verbal cue: can’t.

The first spark of real frustration ignites in your chest. A low-grade thermal reaction. It’s inefficient. Annoying.

“Why is nobody telling me anything?” The question bursts out, louder than intended, echoing off the sleek, quantum-reinforced walls. Your vocal modulation is off—pitch elevated by 12%, volume spiking beyond optimal conversational levels.

You don’t care. The lack of input is suffocating, a void where data should be.

“What did he do? He mimicked my abilities, didn’t he? I registered that much. I heard it.”

The query is directed at Taehyung this time. He’s the most likely to respond, with a 43% higher probability of verbal engagement based on past interactions.

But he just lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound echoing unnaturally in the dead air of the corridor. He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hand closes around Jungkook’s forearm, and he begins walking, pulling the younger agent along with him.

Jungkook releases a sigh himself, this one loud and theatrical, a clear broadcast of his own displeasure with the mandated silence.

Your hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening under the pressure.

The sensation is odd—muscle tension at 87% of maximum capacity, a physical manifestation of something you can’t quite name.

Anger? Frustration? Both?

You’re a walking processor, a system built for logic and analysis, not this messy, bubbling surge that threatens to override your control.

But it’s there, undeniable, pushing against the edges of your restraint—you want to slam your fist into the nearest wall, propriety be damned.

Instead, you plant your feet, the soles of your boots gripping the floor with a stubborn finality.

“I require answers.” The statement is flat, cold, and absolute. “If you refuse to provide the necessary information, I will acquire it through alternative, and likely less cooperative, means.”

That does it.

Taehyung and Jungkook freeze mid-stride. Min stops a few paces ahead, his back still to you, but the tension in his shoulders makes him seem taller, more dangerous.

Your eyes, those traitors, find the mint strands of his hair—a soft, pale contrast to the harsh black of his tactical vest and jacket.

The color is striking, almost unfairly pretty, like a glitch in an otherwise monochromatic design. It distracts you for exactly 0.7 seconds before you force your focus back to his face, to those golden eyes that always seem to see too much.

“Min.”

He turns slowly, the movement measured and deliberate.

“Noma,” he begins, his voice low and grating, “you are not in an adequate headspace for a tactical debriefing.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“No.” He takes a step toward you. “I am.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, a puff of air. “By what authority? My operational parameters are my own.”

“Not when they intersect with mine.”

“And why,” you challenge, taking a step to meet him, closing the distance, “would you have any say in what I need, or what I don’t?”

His breath hitches, a ragged, sharp intake of air that speaks of immense pressure barely contained.

It sounds like he’s holding back a scream, or venom, or wrestling with something volatile. Anger, maybe. Or something darker. You don’t know, and that lack of knowing is driving you up the wall.

He stalks toward you, his gait fluid despite the injury. Taehyung and Jungkook melt away, retreating to the periphery as if clearing the stage for a collision they know is inevitable.

He doesn’t stop until he’s so close you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Inches away.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, and this time

it’s not just the ozone—but spearmint, that sharpens in the air around you. His eyes are no longer just tinged with gold; they are molten, blazing down at you.

“Because it became my choice,” he grits out, each word a shard of gravel torn from his throat.

Your own defiance rises to meet it. “I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

His jaw ticks, a violent spasm of muscle. “It became my choice the moment I had to watch you die sixteen times.”

The air vacates your lungs in a single, silent rush.

Sixteen times.

You died sixteen times.

Revival technology, temporal manipulation, parallel timelines—none of the models align with the raw certainty in his voice.

How is that possible? You’re alive. You’re here, breathing, thinking, processing data. There’s no evidence of revival technology in your medical records. No gaps in your memory that would suggest temporal manipulation. No—

If revival is possible, if you’ve died and returned multiple times, what does that mean for the fundamental laws of physics? For the nature of consciousness? For the reality you’ve been operating under?

What timeline are you even in? Or better, worse—how many have you lived through that you don’t remember?

“And I’m not letting you become a seventeen.”

He spits the last word out like poison, a final, damning verdict.

Then he turns, the motion sharp and decisive, and walks away down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving you shattered in his wake.

Jungkook and Taehyung remain stationary.

You note Taehyung’s grip on Jungkook’s arm—pressure increasing by approximately 12 newtons. Restraint behavior. But Jungkook’s eyes find yours anyway.

Then—

Something shifts inside your skull.

Not pain. Not memory. Something else entirely.

A voice that isn’t yours, speaking words that arrive without traveling through your auditory processing centers.

«Yes. It was your abilities. You control the spatial dimension.»

The transmission carries Jungkook’s vocal patterns but bypasses standard sensory input entirely—direct neural interface.

Telepathy.

He’s using Taehyung’s ability without anyone else detecting the connection.

Your gaze remains locked with his for exactly 0.7 seconds before he allows Taehyung to guide him forward.

Spatial dimension.

The words echo through your consciousness, connecting to memory fragments of golden tendrils and impossible physics. Of matter phasing and reality bending and distances that compress at your unconscious command.

Sixteen deaths. Seventeen possible.

You control space itself.

And apparently, nobody trusts you enough to explain why that matters.

The dream always starts the same way—with your hands mapping his chest like you're solving an equation.

You're above him, thighs bracketing his hips, that familiar analytical tilt to your head as you study him. Your hair falls in loose strands across your forehead, catching the low light of whatever timeline this is. Your mouth is parted just slightly, breath coming in those careful, measured gasps that drive him fucking insane.

You move like you always do—deliberate, testing, like every roll of your hips is gathering data. Like his body is some complex system you need to decode. Your palms press flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, cataloging the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Fuck, Noma," he breathes, voice already wrecked, and you pause—just for a second—to process the sound.

That little furrow appears between your brows, the one that means you're filing away his response for later analysis.

Then you sink down on him again, slow and torturous, taking him inch by inch like you're conducting some kind of experiment. His hands move to grip your waist, but golden tendrils—yours, not his—wrap around his wrists, pinning them to the mattress above his head.

The restraint makes him growl, a sound that rumbles up from his chest. Every instinct screams at him to flip you over, to pin you beneath him and fuck you until you stop thinking so goddamn much.

But your tendrils hold firm, crystalline and unforgiving, and all he can do is lie there and take whatever pace you set.

"You're studying me," he pants, watching the way your eyes track every micro-expression that crosses his face.

"Always," you murmur, and the admission makes his cock twitch inside you. "Need to understand how you work."

You lean forward, changing the angle, and he sees stars.

Your breath ghosts across his ear as you whisper, "What does this do to you?" and roll your hips in that specific way that makes him see fucking galaxies.

His answer is a broken moan, hips bucking up involuntarily. The tendrils tighten around his wrists, a gentle warning, and you make that soft sound of satisfaction—like you've just confirmed a hypothesis.

"And this?" You clench around him, internal muscles squeezing, and his vision whites out for a second.

"Christ, Noma," he gasps, straining against the golden bonds. "Let me touch you, please—"

But you just smile, that small, secret curve of your lips that means you’re exactly where you want to be. In control. Gathering data. Driving him out of his fucking mind with the slow, methodical way you take him apart.

You ride him like you have all the time in the world, like this is your favorite puzzle to solve.

And maybe it is—maybe he’s your favorite system to understand, the one equation you never get tired of working through. The way you look at him, like he’s the most fascinating thing in any timeline, like every reaction is precious data you want to memorize.

He knows that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re completely absorbed in something you‘re obsessed with.

He’d let you study him forever if it meant keeping you here, keeping you safe, keeping you—

The orgasm builds slow and devastating, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as you work him closer to the edge with scientific rigor.

“Yoongi.”

His name in your voice, breathless and wanting, and he's gone—

He wakes with a sharp intake of breath, forearm thrown across his eyes, skin slick with sweat. His heart hammers against his ribs, the phantom sensation of your tendrils still wrapped around his wrists.

His room is dark, as usual, silent except for the climate control system.

He turns his head lazily toward the nightstand, where the digital clock glows an offensive blue: 3:47 AM.

He fucking hates that thing. Analog clocks don't mock you with their precision. They just tick, steady and reliable, marking time without judgment.

But digital clocks? They count down to the exact second when everything falls apart.

Again.

He keeps the forearm pressed against his eyes for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling in measured intervals.

In, out. Steady.

He wills his heart rate to slow, tries to sink back into sleep, back into dreams where you're safe and whole and—

His forearm jerks away from his face.

Something's wrong.

The feeling hits him like ice water in his veins, sharp and immediate.

He checks his Chrono-Sync Watch with frantic urgency, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it might crack them. The numbers blur—he doesn't give a shit about the time.

It's you. He feels it in his head, in his soul, in his fucking heart.

Something's wrong with you.

The sheets tangle around his legs as he throws himself out of bed, stumbling forward with too much momentum. His knee hits the floor hard, pain shooting up his thigh, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. His chest is caving in on itself, lungs refusing to work properly as he runs.

Your door is already open when he rounds the corner.

Taehyung and Jungkook stand in the doorway like sentries, their faces pale in the hallway light. He darts past them without a word, shoulders clipping the doorframe.

The scene inside makes his stomach lurch.

Namjoon is on the floor, cradling your limp form against his chest. Jin kneels beside him, one hand tilting your head back, the other checking your pulse clinically.

There's blood—so much fucking blood—pooling on the concrete floor beneath you.

Your nose. It's your nose, dripping steady and relentless, painting your lips and chin crimson.

You're motionless. Completely still except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

His hands shake as he forces himself to breathe slowly, eyes darting around the room, cataloging details.

Your nose. Non-stop bleeding.

The telltale signal of cognitive temporal overload—too much information, too fast, your brain trying to process data it’s not ready for.

"Who told her."

His voice comes out low, barely above a whisper, but there's enough venom in it to make everyone in the room tense. Everyone except Jin, who's too absorbed in monitoring your vitals to care about the threat in Yoongi's tone.

"Who. Told. Her."

He rounds on Jungkook, whose eyes immediately dart away, guilt written across every line of his face. The kid can't even look at him.

Yoongi strides forward, rage building in his chest like a wildfire, but Taehyung steps between them.

"Yoongi."

"Move."

"Yoongi, listen—"

"Move!"

His eyes flick up to meet Taehyung's, and whatever Tae sees there makes him take a half-step back.

"He's just a kid," Taehyung says, voice steady but careful. "He's the youngest. Has only been active since timeline 715."

The bile rises in Yoongi's throat.

He's not violent—never has been. Doesn't lose his temper like this, doesn't let emotion override logic.

But if you're dead, if you fucking died for the seventeenth time because some kid couldn't keep his mouth shut—

He delivers a blow to Taehyung’s stomach. Hard. The impact sends pain shooting up his arm, and he hisses, shaking his hand.

Taehyung doesn’t even flinch.

They both know he wouldn’t. Former enforcer, body modified to withstand worse than anything Yoongi could dish out.

That’s exactly why he hit him instead of Jungkook—because Taehyung can take it, and because the kid doesn’t deserve his rage.

But someone needs to feel it. Someone needs to understand that this isn’t a fucking game.

“Feel better?” Taehyung asks quietly, not moving from his protective stance in front of Jungkook.

Yoongi’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving. “She’s bleeding out on the floor, Tae.”

“She’s not bleeding out. Jin’s got her.” Taehyung’s voice carries that enforcer-calm that always makes situations feel more controlled than they are. “And this isn’t anyone’s fault. She made a choice to push her abilities—”

“Choice?” Yoongi’s voice cracks with disbelief. “You think this was a fucking choice?”

Behind Taehyung, Jungkook’s face crumples.

“I just told her what she was doing,” he whispers. “She asked why I could grab her abilities, and I said—I said she controls spatial dimensions. That’s it. That’s all I said.”

“All you said.” Yoongi repeats the words like they taste bitter. “Do you have any idea what that means? What controlling space actually entails?”

Jungkook looks genuinely confused, eyes growing glassy. “She was already using it. When I mimicked her signature, I could feel how powerful it was, so I thought—”

“You thought what? That because you can copy abilities without consequences, everyone can handle that knowledge?”

“I don’t understand,” Jungkook says, voice breaking. “She manifested spatial manipulation during the rescue. I was just explaining what she’d already done.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens. “He was trying to help her understand her own abilities. That’s not reckless—”

“Not reckless?” Yoongi rounds on him, eyes blazing gold. “Do you know what spatial dimension control means, Tae? Do you have any fucking clue?”

“I know it means she pushed too hard—”

“She didn’t push anything!” Yoongi explodes. “It’s called cognitive temporal dissonance, you absolute dimwit! It’s a fucking medical condition!”

Taehyung blinks, doubt creeping in his enforcer certainty for once. “What?”

“Jin?” Yoongi whips around, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Help me out here.”

Jin doesn’t look up from where he’s monitoring your pulse, voice dry as sandpaper. “Bit busy keeping her stable. Ask Joon.”

“Joon,” Yoongi turns to Namjoon, who’s still cradling your limp form. “Tell them. Tell them what cognitive temporal dissonance actually is.”

Namjoon shifts carefully, making sure your head stays supported. His voice slips into that analytical tone he uses for briefings.

“Cognitive temporal dissonance occurs when an Outlier’s consciousness is exposed to information that exceeds their current neural adaptation threshold.”

“Incongruent. She has better neural adaptation than any of us here. She should be able to process minimal information like that with ease, especially when she’s faced—”

“Jesus Christ.” Yoongi drags his hands through his hair. “It’s not minimal information Tae, it’s an entire fucking dimension of reality. When you tell someone they control space itself—not just ‘spatial manipulation,’ but the actual fabric of dimensional reality—their brain tries to comprehend the scope of that.”

Taehyung simply blinks, eyebrows furrowing. Yoongi sighs out loud, gestures wildly at your unconscious form.

“She doesn’t get headaches because she’s analyzing equations. She gets them because her human brain is trying to process the concept of controlling something infinite. Something fundamental to existence itself.”

Jungkook’s face goes white. “I… I didn’t know it was that big. When I copy abilities, they just feel like… like tools. I can use them without thinking about what they actually are.”

“Because your mimicry protects you from the full cognitive load,” Namjoon interjects softly, never taking his eyes off your vitals. “You experience abilities in ‘safe mode’—all the function, none of the existential weight.”

“But she was already using them,” Taehyung insists, clearly still struggling to categorize information as a physical threat. “How is knowing what you’re doing more dangerous than actually doing it?”

“Because doing it unconsciously is instinct. Understanding it consciously means your brain tries to map the parameters. And when the parameter is ‘I control one of the fundamental forces that governs reality’…” Yoongi gestures at the blood on your face. “This happens.”

Jungkook is sobbing now. “I thought I was being helpful. She seemed frustrated not knowing, and I just—”

“Your brain can barely fucking handle copying my temporal manipulation for seven minutes, Jungkook,” Yoongi cuts him off. “Could you handle knowing you control time itself? That every second that passes is subject to your will? That causality bends around your existence?”

The kid’s face crumples completely. “No. No, I couldn’t.”

“She’s been Outlier-aware for three days. Three fucking days. Her neural pathways are still forming the connections needed to process basic temporal awareness, and you just told her she controls space.” Yoongi’s voice breaks. “That’s like… that’s like telling someone who just learned to walk that they’re actually capable of flight. The concept is too big for a brain that’s still learning how to exist outside normal time.”

Taehyung is quiet for a long moment, his expression cycling through several configurations as his modified brain processes this new categorization of information-as-threat.

“But she’s strong,” Jungkook says desperately. “She handled manifesting the abilities—”

“Unconscious manifestation is completely different from conscious comprehension,” Namjoon explains gently. “When abilities manifest naturally, they’re filtered through instinct and necessity. When someone consciously understands the scope of what they control, their analytical mind tries to map it, test it, understand its limits.”

“And Y/N’s mind…” Yoongi’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N’s mind doesn’t half-ass anything. When she learns something, she learns everything about it. Every variable, every possibility, every potential application. Tell her she controls space, and her brain immediately starts trying to comprehend infinity.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of your steady breathing and Jin’s quiet monitoring.

Taehyung stares at you for a long moment in what Yoongi knows is enforcer processing—that mechanical way his brain reorganizes information when it encounters something that doesn’t fit his neural framework.

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung says finally, voice flat in that way that means his modifications are struggling with the concept. “Information overload isn’t… my brain doesn’t process it as a threat.”

Jungkook looks up at him, confusion mixing with his guilt. “What do you mean?”

“Enforcers were designed to absorb massive amounts of tactical data without psychological impact,” Taehyung explains, still staring at your unconscious form. “When you told her about spatial control, and you looked to me to see if it was dangerous…I literally couldn’t register it as harmful. To me, it’s just information. Like learning the time of day.”

“Yeah, that’s why you thought she was being reckless instead of recognizing she was having a medical emergency.” Jin sighs loudly.

Taehyung nods slowly, that mechanical processing still evident in his movements. “I thought she chose to push herself with new abilities. My programming doesn’t… it doesn’t understand how knowing something can hurt you.”

“Because it can’t hurt you,” Namjoon adds quietly. “Your modifications make you immune to information-based trauma. You could learn you control reality-warping abilities the same way you’d process a weather report.”

Jungkook makes a broken sound. “It’s my fault. When Tae didn’t react like it was dangerous, I thought it meant it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s my fault.” Taehyung runs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through calm. “I keep thinking there should have been warning signs. Behavioral indicators. But information processing doesn’t trigger my threat assessment protocols. I should have deferred to Yoongi, should’ve known better than to let Jungkook make that call.”

“We all should have known better,” Jin speaks up without looking away from your vitals. “But beating ourselves up won’t fix her brain chemistry.”

Yoongi kneels beside you, careful not to disturb Jin’s positioning.

Your face is pale, dried blood still crusted around your nose, but your breathing is steady.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “any questions about abilities, about the past, about anything—you come to me first. Both of you. No matter how harmless it seems.”

“Understood,” Taehyung says, slipping into that formal tone his enforcer training defaults to during protocol establishment.

Jungkook just nods, still crying softly.

Yoongi reaches out toward your face, then stops himself, hand hovering in the air between you.

Even like this—unconscious, vulnerable, bleeding from cognitive overload—he can’t quite bring himself to touch you.

Not when you don’t remember choosing to let him.

Particles of light drift together like puzzle pieces finding their home.

The ceiling materializes above you—unfamiliar angles, different shadows. Not your assigned quarters. Not even the sterile white of Jin's lab space.

This ceiling has character, personality. Warm lighting fixtures instead of clinical panels. Personal touches that speak of actual habitation rather than temporary assignment.

Your processing centers catalog the discrepancies while your vision sharpens from static to clarity.

The bed beneath you is softer than regulation standard, sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of industrial detergent.

Someone's personal space, then.

But whose?

Voices carry from somewhere beyond your field of vision, muffled by distance and what sounds like architectural features—columns, maybe, or room dividers.

"—absolutely ridiculous, Hoseok. She's not our responsibility."

"Where else is she supposed to go? Her room's a biohazard zone.”

A scoff. “So we’re the charity case now? It’s not fair to us, Fuyu. Why not just stick her in Jin’s lab?”

“Because Jin’s not a doctor, Jimin. He’s a memory tech. He doesn’t want her in there while he’s running diagnostics. She needs rest, not a front-row seat to his data streams.”

A pause. The sound of someone pacing, footsteps sharp against what must be concrete flooring.

"Yoongi's room, then. He's the one who—"

A sigh from Hoseok. “You know the protocol he set for this cycle, Jimin. Minimum proximity. No unnecessary contact. He’s trying a different variable; we have to respect that.”

“Respect it? He’s miserable. And right now his misery is sleeping in our bed.” There’s a sound of restless pacing. “I don’t want her here. It’s bad enough we have to watch him self-destruct from a distance, I don’t need a front-row seat to the cause of it.”

“She’s not the cause, Jimin. She’s the… focus. And you know as well as I do she can’t be in his space. Even without the distance protocols, she just went through a neural fissure. The least she needs right now is more cognitive strain.”

Your head turns slightly, seeking the source of the conversation, though the movement sends a dull ache through your skull—not the sharp, stabbing pain of cognitive overload, but the lingering throb of neural exhaustion.

"She could trigger memory fragments just by being in his space," the first voice continues, petulant. "Fine. But that doesn't mean she has to be in ours."

"It's temporary, Mochi. A few days at most."

"A few days of what? Pretending we're running a halfway house for temporally displaced analysts?"

Footsteps approach, and a figure emerges from behind what you now see is indeed a decorative column. Orange hair catches the warm lighting, and Jung Hoseok's face comes into view. His expression shifts from mild exasperation to something softer when he notices your open eyes.

"Oh. You're awake."

You manage a nod, the motion careful and measured. Your vocal cords feel scratchy, unused.

"Well," he says, hands finding his hips, "you really know how to put on a show, huh?"

A scoff of laughter accompanies the words, but there's genuine concern in his eyes. He sighs, the sound carrying relief and residual worry in equal measure.

He walks toward the bed, movements easy and unhurried. "How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten, with ten being 'ready to manipulate dimensional reality' and one being 'please keep the lights dim.'"

"Somewhere around a four," you manage, voice rougher than expected. "Maybe a three-point-seven."

"Specific. I like that." He settles into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward slightly. "Any nausea? Dizziness when you move your head?"

"Minimal. Cognitive processing feels... sluggish. Like running diagnostics through damaged circuits."

"That's normal after what you went through. Jin says your neural pathways are basically reorganizing themselves. Building new connections to handle the information load."

You process this, filing it away with the growing collection of data about your condition.

"Why am I here? In your room?"

"Because everywhere else was either contaminated, occupied, or specifically off-limits."

Pink hair like cotton candy ambushes your vision next, familiar, snappy voice joining the conversation. Jimin appears from behind the same column, arms crossed.

"Lucky you." Jimin’s tone carries enough sarcasm to power a small generator.

"Your room's got blood all over the floor," Hoseok explains, shooting Jimin a warning look. "Jin's lab isn't set up for overnight stays. And Yoongi..." He trails off, diplomatic.

"Yoongi's being a dramatic bitch," Jimin finishes, not bothering with diplomacy. "So you get to camp out here. In our space. With our things."

"Jimin."

"What? She should know what she's signing up for." Jimin's gaze finds yours, walking until he’s next to Hoseok. "This is the biggest room, so we've got a spare bed set up in the back area. But don't expect us to tiptoe around your delicate temporal sensibilities."

You blink, processing the implications. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Jimin continues, deadpan, "if you hear sounds at night, you can suck it up. I'm not putting my sex life on hold just because we have a houseguest."

"We can be considerate for a few days," Hoseok sighs.

"Absolutely not." Jimin's response is immediate and firm. "What if two days become three? Become five? You know how Yoongi gets.”

His fingers trail down the front of Hoseok’s shirt, a deliberate, slow movement that draws attention to the motion. His eyes flick from his own hand to Hoseok's face, intentionally loaded.

“And you know how I get.”

Hoseok's hand moves to catch Jimin's wrist, stopping the downward trajectory. He licks his lips, head tilting in what looks like a silent plea.

Jimin's eyebrows furrow in response, and you realize you're witnessing an entire conversation conducted through micro-expressions and body language.

A communication system developed through intimacy and time, that you somehow, suddenly, crave.

You clear your throat. "I can handle background noise. My auditory processing filters are quite efficient."

Jimin jerks his hand away from Hoseok’s grip, snapping back to full irritation mode.

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he says, rolling his eyes as he starts walking away.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression that clearly expects you to follow.

Hoseok offers his hand, palm up—steady, warm. You take it, more out of protocol than necessity.

Your legs hold, but the world still lags half a step behind your movements.

He keeps pace beside you, easy and patient, while Jimin moves ahead with the attitude of someone eager to put distance between himself and the problem.

“Thanks,” you say, voice low.

It’s the kind of word that feels strange in your mouth, like you’re borrowing someone else’s language for a moment.

Hoseok glances down at you, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

You keep your gaze ahead, watching Jimin’s back.

“Allowing me a place to stay. Even when your partner is clearly… less than enthusiastic about it.”

He snorts, the sound soft but genuine. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence by pretending Jimin’s thrilled. You’d see right through it anyway. And I’d be lying.”

You nod, cataloguing the honesty.

Hoseok’s direct, but not unkind.

“He understands the need, though. Even if he hates the idea.”

You allow the silence to settle. Two seconds pass—long enough for discomfort to threaten, short enough to feel intentional.

“I asked him last time if he dislikes me.”

Hoseok’s lips twitch. “And?”

“He said yes.”

He laughs again, louder this time, shaking his head. “That’s Jimin for you. He doesn’t sugarcoat.”

You blink, parsing the statement. “Is that… typical?”

“Very.” He grins, then sobers a little. “He’s honest to a fault. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll tell you. If he does, you’ll know. There’s no in-between with him.”

You blink, trying to process the humor. “Why does he hate me?”

Hoseok’s gaze drops to the floor, mouth curving into a half-smile.

“It’s not hate. It’s… frustration. This whole mess has been rough on everyone, but Jimin—he takes things personally. Holds onto them. It’s just how he is.”

You nod, not sure you understand, but the explanation feels sufficient.

Maybe you don’t need to understand all the variables to accept the outcome.

The corridor opens up into a space that could pass for a boutique if not for the utilitarian racks and rows of tactical gear.

Jimin is already there, hand braced on the edge of a table, posture radiating impatience.

“Welcome to heaven,” he says, deadpan, not bothering to look back as he starts sorting through hangers with practiced flicks of his wrist.

“What is he doing?” you ask Hoseok.

Hoseok moves to a nearby section, fingers trailing through what appears to be a collection of coats. The fabric makes soft sounds under his touch—silk, wool, materials your tactile processors can identify even from a distance.

“Prepping you for your next mission.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I was not informed there was a mission.”

Jimin doesn’t look up from the rack he’s browsing. “Right. Because you were unconscious. Bleeding from your face. Kind of hard to deliver briefings in that condition.”

“That would imply poor timing on your part,” you say dryly. “Or an urgent operation being executed under suboptimal readiness conditions.”

Hoseok exhales—an audible, weighty thing. “It’s not ideal, but it’s happening. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

Your gaze drifts to the gown Jimin is holding, then back to Hoseok. “You’re sending someone who just experienced cognitive collapse into a mission requiring social infiltration?”

Jimin finally lifts his eyes, voice clipped. “Welcome to the resistance. We don’t have backups. We have probabilities.”

“That is not an explanation,” you counter. “It’s a deflection. Explain the mission parameters and the rationale behind assigning me.”

“Okay, before you go all ‘I demand answers’ on us, let me remind you—you just had a huge temporal dissonance episode. We will not be giving you new, life-altering info like Jungkook did.” Jimin snaps back. “Accept that first or there will be no answers.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Curiosity demands answers.

Jimin demands accepting uncertainty.

Not accepting will result in no answers at all.

Plausible compromise.

“I accept.”

Hoseok rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a gala. High-level CHRONOS operatives. Important enough to warrant surveillance. We need eyes inside. Preferably someone who won’t trip alarms just by walking in.”

Your mind catches on the phrasing. “Yoongi.”

Jimin snorts under his breath.

You glance at him. “This is about Agent Min.”

“Of course it’s about Agent Min,” Jimin mutters. “He’s the only one who can get in without being flagged. You know that.”

“Because he disrupts CHRONOS’s detection systems,” you recall. “He reflects causality. Appears unindexed. A statistical blindspot.”

Hoseok nods. “Exactly. But using his ability too long causes fluctuations. Even Yoongi’s signature starts to spike.”

You blink. “So you need a stabilizer.”

“You,” Jimin says flatly.

You frown. “I stabilize his temporal signature?”

“You synchronize with it,” Hoseok corrects. “Your presence keeps both of you from triggering scans.”

Like on the rooftop.

Jimin crosses his arms. “And with CHRONOS agents watching everything? Even a small spike gets flagged.”

You nod once, calculation already forming behind your eyes. “So I’m the stabilizer. Redundancy protocol.”

“More like failsafe,” Hoseok mutters. “You’re the only one who keeps him from unraveling.”

“And vice versa,” Jimin adds. “You two stabilize each other.”

You don’t remember practicing synchronization. You don’t remember learning how to do it. But your body does.

You remember Yoongi’s presence—how time slows when he’s near, but never quite slips. You remember the way the air holds still when he stands too close.

And how your temporal signatures synchronized to 0% on that rooftop.

“I see,” you say. But you don’t see, not really, because— “Why not assign Jungkook as the stabilizer? Have him mimic Min’s ability to stabilize himself.”

A beat of silence.

“Should I…?” Hoseok prompts, looking for Jimin’s eyes.

“It’s basic info. She already knows Jungkook’s mimicry and some scope of what Yoongi can do.” He replies. Looks at you again. “It doesn’t work like that, Yoongi’s stabilization doesn’t work on himself. He anchors other people, sure, but he can’t anchor himself.”

You frown. “But why? If his ability can neutralize temporal spikes, why doesn’t it neutralize his own?”

Jimin’s jaw tics. “Because it simply doesn’t, okay? We’ve seen it. Firsthand. When he spikes, he spirals. No one can pull him back unless you’re—”

He cuts himself off, lips tightening.

You wait. He doesn’t finish.

Hoseok clears his throat gently. “His ability reflects outward. It doesn’t fold inward. He’s a buffer for others, not for himself. And if the pressure’s high enough… he unravels.”

“And Jungkook can’t hold his ability long enough anyway,” Jimin adds, apparently returning to safe grounds. “Mimicking heavy abilities drains him fast. Which is why he wouldn’t be able to mimic yours for long either—and you’d have to be present anyway. So.”

Your brain ticks through the logic—matching memory to data to anomaly.

And then it clicks.

“The travel spot,” you murmur. “When I lost stability. Jungkook—he was mimicking Min’s ability when he stabilized me.”

Hoseok nods once.

Jimin scoffs. “Look at her, she can actually process info slowly and make her own answers through assumptions. Who would have thought?”

Hoseok ignores his partner’s commentary. “Jungkook was able to do it for a few seconds. Long enough to suppress the spike and get you through.”

“He seemed fine afterward.”

“He was,” Jimin says. “It was under a minute. Well within what he can handle. But he still can’t sustain it for long periods of time.”

“That’s… inefficient,” you murmur. “Reliant on replication. He’s not a constant.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok says, voice quiet. “But you are.”

You process the implications.

Yoongi: a walking temporal singularity with no internal stabilization.

You: the only Outlier whose temporal signature resonates with his to perfection.

Together, you cancel out the spikes.

Together, you are balanced.

A paradox in perfect sync.

It seems deliberate.

Jimin breaks the silence. “Look, I don’t care if you’re barely recovered. You’re his anchor. That’s why it’s you.”

You look down at the dress again. “And if something goes wrong?”

Hoseok shrugs. “Then you sync with him.”

Jimin huffs. “Better keep the ticking bombs contained.”

You nod once, the weight of the truth settling over your shoulders like armor.

“Understood,” you say. “I’ll be ready.”

Jimin eyes you, skeptical. “Physically, maybe. Emotionally? I’d bet against it.”

“Emotions are statistically irrelevant to mission success,” you reply.

Jimin just snorts. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You watch Jimin aggressively pull out another hanger.

Your mind immediately drifts back to resource allocation within this resistance base.

“May I ask how does this organization acquire such resources? This collection suggests significant financial investment or alternative acquisition methods.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s safe info. Shouldn’t trigger any significant memory bleeds. The problem is usually with information you are not consciously aware of.”

Hoseok chuckles, pulling a velvet jacket off a rack. “Let’s just say my network of ‘friends’ in unregulated territories have eclectic taste. We trade in information and temporal contraband—unregulated timepieces, pre-war historical records, that sort of thing. They help us, we help them stay off CHRONOS’s radar.”

“And sometimes,” Jimin adds with a smirk, not looking up from a silk blouse, “CHRONOS just conveniently ‘loses’ a shipment of luxury goods. Taehyung has a knack for manipulating their inventory logs.”

“So formal wear is necessary for this gala.”

Hoseok chuckles. “It’s a social infiltration. High-security event, lots of important people, very specific dress code.”

“Define ‘very specific.’”

“Black tie,” Jimin says, returning his attention to the dress in his hands. He holds it up, studying the cut with professional interest. “Which means floor-length gowns, designer labels, and the kind of jewelry that costs more than most people’s annual salary.”

“I don’t own formal wear.”

“Obviously.” Jimin’s tone suggests this is the most ridiculous statement he’s ever heard. “That’s why you’re here instead of standing around looking helpless.”

“Jimin’s got an eye for this stuff,” Hoseok adds, moving to examine a section of what appears to be evening wear. “Fashion, style, making people look like they belong in places they definitely don’t belong.”

“Mhm,” Jimin hums, pulling another dress from its hanger. This one is milky white, with beading that catches the light. “The right outfit can make you invisible, or it can make you the center of attention. Depends on what the mission requires.”

“And what does this mission require?”

Jimin pauses, dress still in his hands, and looks at you directly for the first time since you entered the space.

“That depends on whether you can handle being someone you’re not for an entire evening.”

"I seem to follow that particular directive quite well," you observe, processing the implications. "Being someone I don't know I am appears to be my default operational state."

The words emerge as simple factual analysis, but Jimin's hands still on the fabric he's examining. He turns slowly, fixing you with a look that could strip circuits.

"I had just forgotten how analytically cunty you can be."

You blink, head tilting slightly as your processing centers attempt to parse the statement.

"Define ‘cunty’."

"Girl." Jimin's voice drops into a register that tells you his patience has officially expired. "I've seen you and Yoongi's version of foreplay. Very semantic, very 'I'm such a genius and I'm gonna demonstrate my intellectual superiority through vocabulary precision and get you horny whilst doing it,' so don't even try me."

Your optical processors stutter for exactly 0.4 seconds.

"I don't understand that reference."

"Of course you don't." Jimin returns to his clothing analysis with renewed vigor, pulling a cordovan dress from its hanger and holding it up to the light. "Because your brain conveniently resets every time you figure out that your analytical observations are sometimes intellectual dirty talk."

Hoseok makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. "Jimin."

"What? I'm stating facts." Jimin's tone carries that particular sharpness that means he's building momentum.”Yoongi’s already interrupted her twice when she starts with their whole intellectual play kink. She already knows she does this thing where she breaks down complex systems using precise technical language, and somehow makes equations sound like pillow talk. It's very specific. Very her."

"That sounds highly improbable," you say, though something in your neural pathways flickers—a ghost sensation, like muscle memory for conversations you've never had.

"Improbable." Jimin repeats the word with theatrical precision, mimicking your inflection. "See? There it is. Nobody says 'highly improbable' when they mean 'unlikely.' But you do, because your brain processes everything like it's conducting peer review on reality itself."

He moves to another section, pulling what appears to be an evening gown with a thigh cut.

"And apparently, certain people find that incredibly attractive. Which says concerning things about their psychological profiles, but here we are."

Your arms cross in front of your chest. "I don't recall engaging in any behavior that could be classified as—"

"Intellectual seduction?" Jimin supplies helpfully. "No, you wouldn't. Because every time you remember how to weaponize your brain for romantic purposes, CHRONOS hits the reset button."

Hoseok steps closer, clearing his throat. "Maybe we should focus on the mission parameters."

"Oh, we are." Jimin’s scoff is loud. “Because watching her figure out how to be someone else while simultaneously being exactly herself is going to be the entertainment highlight of this entire operation."

You process this information for 2.3 seconds before responding.

"Mission success probability increases when operatives maintain behavioral consistency within acceptable deviation parameters."

"There it is again." Jimin gestures at you with the dress still in his hands. "That sentence could have been 'I work better when I can still be myself,' but no. You chose the academic route. Every single time."

"Because precision in communication reduces misunderstanding and increases operational efficiency."

"And because you think being smart is sexy," Jimin adds, deadpan. "Which, according to my observations across multiple timelines, is apparently correct. At least for certain mint-haired individuals with concerning attachment issues."

Your mouth opens, then closes, processing algorithms struggling with the concept that analytical precision could be interpreted as flirtation.

Hoseok clears his throat. "Should we maybe start with sizing measurements?"

"Excellent suggestion," you say, grateful for the redirect to practical considerations. "Accurate dimensional data will ensure proper garment fit and reduce probability of mission compromise due to wardrobe malfunction."

Jimin stares at you for exactly three seconds, then turns to Hoseok.

"I rest my case."

“Could you provide specific examples of this alleged intellectual foreplay, though?” you ask, genuinely curious about the behavioral patterns being attributed to you. “I find the correlation between semantic precision and sexual arousal to be statistically unlikely.”

Jimin’s eyes close for exactly 2.7 seconds—a clear indicator of someone gathering patience.

“I’m not doing this right now.”

Hoseok, however, releases a delighted cackle that echoes off the boutique walls. “Oh, this is perfect. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

“Doing what, specifically?” You tilt your head, awaiting clarification.

“The way you two go at each other,” Hoseok grins, settling against a nearby rack like he’s preparing for storytime. “It’s not about complimenting each other’s intelligence. It’s the competition. The verbal sparring. Like in Timeline 289—you spent forty-seven minutes deconstructing his temporal cascade theory just to prove you could find a flaw in his logic.”

“That seems like standard peer review protocol,” you observe.

“Except it ended with him pinning you against a whiteboard while you tried to explain quantum entanglement with his tongue down your throat.”

You blink, processing this information. Your core temperature rises by 0.3 degrees.

“Or Reset 12,” Hoseok continues, clearly enjoying himself. “When you corrected his pronunciation of ‘dirigible’ during a mission briefing and somehow that turned into a three-hour debate about linguistic evolution that had the conference table creaking by the end.”

“Hoseok, please stop,” Jimin interjects, but his voice lacks real conviction.

“She asked for examples,” Hoseok defends, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Remember Timeline 467? The great coffee temperature optimization argument? They literally got into a screaming match about thermodynamics that ended with—”

“I get it,” you interrupt, though your analytical centers are spinning. “You’re suggesting that intellectual competition serves as our primary arousal mechanism.”

“Not just competition,” Hoseok clarifies. “It’s specifically when you try to out-genius each other. When you go all ‘actually, your calculation failed to account for these seventeen variables’ and he responds with some devastating counterpoint that makes you recalculate everything you thought you knew.”

You consider this data carefully.

“That does align with certain observations. When Agent Min dismissed my temporal analysis with a condescending partial smile in the alley, I did experience a statistically significant increase in heart rate.”

“There it is,” Jimin mutters, pulling dresses with increasing aggression.

“It’s particularly pronounced when he does that slight smirk—0.3 millimeter lift of the right corner of his mouth—while explaining why my analysis is incomplete.” You pause, accessing the memory. “I find myself wanting to… dispute his conclusions. Though I attributed it to simple frustration at the time.”

“It’s never simple with you two,” Hoseok laughs. “It’s this elaborate dance where you’re both trying to prove you’re the smartest person in the room, and somehow that translates directly to—”

“Choose a dress,” Jimin interrupts loudly, shoving the navy blue gown in your direction. “This one. Backless. Navy. Will complement your features.”

You take the dress, examining the fabric. “This one is structurally sound. The open back allows for optimal movement and ventilation.”

Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows. “And easy access.”

“Hobi.” Jimin warns.

“I doubt ‘easy access’ is needed. Agent Min has made it very clear that he refuses skin contact with me.”

Jimin straightens. “For the love of everything that’s holy—do not make skin contact.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Noted. Though with this cut, the probability of skin contact is high.”

“It’s not, because he will be wearing gloves like he always is.” Jimin interjects. “So just behave and don’t think about his big sexy brain.”

“I do find his brain appealing.”

Hoseok is practically vibrating with glee. “Oh, and that’s not even talking about the tongue thing.”

You freeze mid-examination of the dress. “What tongue thing?”

“HOSEOK.” Jimin makes a strangled sound.

“You haven’t noticed yet?” Hoseok looks genuinely shocked. “But you mention it every timeline! It’s like your sexual Achilles heel.”

“Define ‘tongue thing.’”

Jimin lunges for Hoseok. “Don’t you dare—”

“When he’s thinking really hard,” Hoseok dodges easily, still grinning, “he does this thing where he’ll bite it to the side. Or lick the corner of his lip. Sometimes he’ll just let it rest against his teeth while he’s processing something complex.”

Your memory banks immediately scroll through recent interactions, isolating relevant footage.

The briefing room. The coffee shop. That moment when he’d been calculating trajectories, pink tongue darting out to wet his lower lip while his eyes went distant with thought.

Oh.

“Fascinating,” you breathe, skin temperature rising 0.3 degrees. “I hadn’t consciously catalogued that behavior pattern, but reviewing my memory files… I need to pay closer attention to that.”

“No, you don’t.” Jimin groans. “What you need to do is try on the dress. Think about fabric. Think about thread count. Think about anything except—”

“The way his jaw tightens when I successfully identify flaws in his logic?” you supply helpfully. “Or how his pupils dilate by approximately 32% when I use technical terminology to dismantle his arguments? Or the specific angle his tongue—”

“This isn’t funny,” Jimin snaps at Hoseok, who is now doubled over with laughter. “You know what happens when she gets like this. He’s going to feel it, and then—”

A sharp beep cuts through the air. Jimin’s Chrono-Sync Watch lights up with an incoming message. He glances down, face draining of color.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Hoseok leans over to look.

Jimin holds up his wrist, displaying the text in glowing blue letters:

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗.

“Feel what?” you ask, but Jimin is already shaking his head.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just—” He gestures wildly at the dress. “Try this on. Make sure it fits. Don’t think about intellectual superiority or competitive dynamics or anyone’s tongue doing anything whatsoever.”

“That seems like an unreasonable request given the neural pathways that have now been activated,” you observe. “I’ll likely spend the next 3-7 hours involuntarily cataloging Agent Min’s linguistic microexpressions.”

“Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Jimin mutters, then louder: “Dressing room. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“How could it get worse?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

Jimin and Hoseok exchange a look—Jimin’s expression screaming ‘don’t you dare’ while Hoseok’s radiates pure mischievous delight.

“Well,” Hoseok starts, and Jimin immediately throws a shoe at him.

Another buzz. Another message.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟹𝟺𝟸%. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathes. “He’s tracking percentages now.”

“He can quantify emotional resonance?”

“Of course that’s what you focus on,” Jimin mutters. “Yes, he can tell exactly how aroused you are, probably down to the fucking decimal point. Which means he knows you’re up here having revelations about wanting to fuck his brain out.”

“The phrase ‘fuck his brain out’ seems anatomically impossible—”

“Stop saying the word ‘fuck’, stop thinking about tongues, brains and how hot it makes you when Yoongi is being intelectually challenging to you.”

“That’s paradoxical. Telling someone not to think about something guarantees—”

“I know how cognitive psychology works,” Jimin interrupts. “Just. Try. Please. Before he decides to come investigate why you’re suddenly thinking about his doctorate in temporal physics.”

“He has a doctorate?” Your interest sharpens immediately. “What was his dissertation on?”

A third buzz.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝟹𝟺𝟽%. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

“I’M NOT TELLING YOU,” Jimin practically screams. “THAT’S EXACTLY THE KIND OF THING THAT LEADS TO PROPERTY DAMAGE.”

Hoseok is now laughing so hard he’s crying, collapsed against the table. “She doesn’t even remember why she’s attracted to him but she’s already ready to throw down about academic credentials. This is AMAZING.”

You take the navy dress, mind already calculating the statistical probability of Agent Min doing that specific tongue movement they mentioned during the upcoming mission.

The calculation suggests 87.3%.

Your core temperature rises another 0.4 degrees.

Behind you, Hoseok’s laughter echoes through the boutique while Jimin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “he’s going to fucking kill me.”

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡

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