#and just. life needs to stop lifing. and it needs to stop being so complicated.

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-four

Back to our regularly scheduled programming! 🤭

Warnings: our usual angst, these two are starting to bicker again (emotions are running high!!!), more pieces of our puzzle and a new face 👀

You have got to stop agreeing to being trapped in a car with Hotch for an afternoon. Neither of you have an entirely pleasant time when you’re like this (read: the car chase, the many arguments). Except all those times before, Hotch had been driving. And this time, you are.

“Let muscle memory guide you,” he says, buckling himself in.

“Aaron, I didn’t drive when I lived here. I was a kid.”

“Just trust me.”

You glare at him, but you buckle yourself into the driver’s seat all the same. “Fine.”

Forget the fact that you didn’t drive when you were here -- because you left when you were thirteen -- but you also hardly remember living here. The memories are so hazy and broken.

It’s so complicated. This place is as much home as Washington state, yet you only lived there in your teenage years. When you really think about it, deep down, this town is home. This is the place you’ve always felt called to, while simultaneously being the one place you sought to avoid for the rest of your life. You hardly remember living here, years of blocking out memories and only seeing these streets in your nightmares, and yet, you remembered where to turn to go around the back of the schools late last night. You remembered where to go to find your old house, despite it being a library now.

“Where are we going?” Hotch asks casually, resting his arm on the console in the middle.

You readjust your grip on the steering wheel, squeezing so hard it hurts a little. “Don’t know.”

You turn down a side street, then another, weaving through the backroads until you’re at a spot you remember. The train tracks.

You turn into the small area under the bridge. It’s a proper paved parking lot now, but back then, it was just gravel that served as extra parking for the strip across the tracks. A hair salon, diner, general store, and body shop all lined up next to the fire station.

“My mom used to get her hair done here,” you murmur, nodding across the way. “Woman named Cindy. Looks like it’s a…” you squint your eyes, then roll them. “Of course it’s a vape shop now.”

Hotch chuckles. “Yeah. And a pool hall.”

“That used to be the general store,” you say. You scan the other doors. The body shop looks like it’s still in use, though the garage has a cardboard CLOSED sign duct taped to it right now. And the diner-- “No way.”

You open the car door with zero warning to Hotch, who scrambles to exit the car with you and join you outside. 

“No way it’s still open,” you almost laugh. So much has changed around here, you’re relieved to see something that is familiar.

“Will you please watch where you’re going,” Hotch mutters behind you, clearly bothered by you clambering across the train tracks without even looking or listening.

“Oh, please, they’d have the bells ringing,” you wave him off. “They didn’t even put the crossing arms up until a couple years before we moved.”

He’s still muttering behind you, and you have to fight the smile that wants to crawl up your face. 

You at least look before crossing the street, even though no one is out. It’s a little strange, considering it’s lunch time, but everywhere looks pretty barren.

A red and blue Open sign is lit up in the diner’s window, though, and that’s all you need to see.

The bell above the door dings as you and Aaron enter. As with any small town, all the heads turn to see who just walked into the local diner.

You meet the eyes of an elderly couple sitting at the counter, and a waitress on her break with headphones jammed in her ears. The woman behind the counter doesn’t look up from the coffee she’s brewing.

“Sit anywhere you’d like, I’ll be over in a second,” she calls out.

Hotch moves toward the booth right by the door, but you stop him instinctively, saying, “The AC leaks there.” You pause. “Or it used to.”

The woman hears you, turning her head and raising an eyebrow. “She’s right,” she says. “It ain’t much, but some folks don’t like their pie being waterboarded.”

You snicker. Hotch looks simultaneously amused and out of his depth.

“Here,” you nod to a different booth, just a few away from the elderly couple. “We won’t freeze to death here -- or get waterboarded.”

Hotch slides in across from you. “You’re remembering this place?”

You nod, looking all around you. The tiles are the same colors, though they’ve probably been replaced. Same with the booths. The coffee pots certainly haven’t had an upgrade, but you’ll bet the coffee is good. You never had any as a kid, but you loved the smell of it, and sometimes your mom would let you have a sip of hers. 

The woman behind the counter reads your mind, coming over with two mugs and filling them near to the brim with black coffee. She steps back, looking down at you with narrowed eyes. “You from here?”

“Uh…” You let out an awkward laugh, moving the mug closer to you. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Her name tag reads Darlene. You don’t recognize her face, but she is an older woman, so maybe you saw her when you were younger, if she’s worked here that long.

“It’s complicated.”

“Ain’t it always,” she sighs. She looks at Hotch. “What do you want, sugar?”

“The coffee is fine,” he says.

Darlene glances back at you, her face asking this is the company you keep?

“We’ll have today’s pie,” you say with a smile.

“It’s cherry.”

“That’s perfect.” It’s not. You hate cherry pie. But the last thing you need is for the two of you to get zero information because Hotch is too busy being Mister Guard Dog.

“Alright,” Darlene turns on her heel. “Holler if you need anything. Dee, y’all ready to pay?”

The elderly couple behind Hotch nods and waves some cash at Darlene. They argue about how much they’re tipping and it makes you laugh.

“Lighten up a little,” you lightly kick Hotch’s leg under the table.

“Sorry,” he says, finally cracking a tiny smile. “You don’t like cherries,” he whispers.

“Shhh!” you hiss. “That’s not the point. The point is, she seems like she might know me--”

“I noticed.”

“--or maybe remembers my mom or something, so I want to try to ask her some questions--”

“Okay.”

“But I can’t do that if you keep acting like…that,” you give him your best glare. “Be nice.”

“I am nice!”

“Sure.”

Now he gives you his best glare.

The couple pays and leaves, the old man holding the door for his wife despite her grumbling about it. The waitress on her break gets up and heads outside after them.

Darlene walks over with two slices of pie -- apple pie. She sets them down in front of the both of you, grabbing another mug from the counter, this one already full of coffee.

Hotch glances at you, then back to Darlene as she pulls up a chair and sits at the end of the table.

“Alright, out with it,” she huffs, nodding toward you. “There’s only one reason you’re back in this town and there’s no way it’s good news.”

You blink. “You know who I am?”

“I’m not that old, sweetheart,” Darlene laughs, but it’s good-natured. Homely. Reminds you of your mom. “You and your momma used to sit at that booth over there before Cindy colored her hair and trimmed yours. Until the AC started leaking and your coloring book got water spots all over it, and Lord, you were a sight that day.”

“Was I upset?” you chuckle. “Wait-- You used to have red hair!”

“I did,” Darlene nods, pleased that you remembered. “Black covers up my grays better. Anyway, of course you were upset, those were fine art! You were calmed down with a slice of apple pie, though.”

You lower your eyes to the plate before you. “Caught.”

“You never used to have trouble asking for what you really wanted,” Darlene comments. “Not with your mom, anyway.”

Across the table, Aaron tenses.

You pick up your fork, stabbing at the pie to occupy yourself. “Was I…ever in here with my dad?”

Darlene nods very slowly. “Once or twice.”

“What was his behavior like?” Hotch asks.

Darlene cuts her eyes to Hotch before looking at you. She gestures at him with her coffee. “Is he serious?”

“We’re investigating something in town, and it’s-- I think it’s a big spider web and my dad is at the heart of it.”

Darlene sighs, takes a sip of her coffee, looks out the front window. “I told your momma she needed to divorce that man. She needed to get him the hell away from you. And when we heard you were kidnapped, we just knew it was him--”

“My dad didn’t kidnap me,” you interject. You don’t know why you’re defending him, or why you feel like you should. “He was missing, he turned himself in to help find me.”

“Turning himself in was the least he could do after he let that man take you,” Darlene hisses.

Your mind reels, replaying her words. After he let that man take you. 

“You know who it was?” Hotch questions.

“We have some ideas,” Darlene scoffs. “Rick, for starters. They met here once, started talking all funny and laughing too loud-- They were drunk at 10am. Prob’ly high too. I kicked them out. Told them they could go drink on the train tracks for all I cared.”

“Rick?” you ask. “Do you remember his last name?”

“Started with an M or an N,” she shrugs. You and Hotch share a look. “Hell, it’s been twenty years, honey. I’m still not convinced you’re not a ghost. We all thought when your mom took you away from here that you’d never set foot near this state ever again -- for good reason, too.”

“Believe me, I tried,” you laugh bitterly. “Do you remember anyone else he met with here?”

“Doug,” she adds. “He used to own the deli on the other side of town. He and your father never got along, though, I don’t know why they kept trying to be friends. He was here with his son when your dad walked in. That was the second time I kicked your dad out of here, and it was for good that time.”

“Were they arguing?” Hotch prompts.

Darlene nods firmly, pure hatred in her eyes. “Shoutin’ at each other like they had nothing else better to do. In front of God and everybody.”

“Do you remember what they were arguing about?” Hotch asks.

Darlene nods again. At you.

“Me?” you sit back, confused. “What about me?”

“Oh, we all had opinions, honey, about your father. Sometimes people got loud about it. Them two were going at it because Doug thought Carson was a bad father -- hard to argue with -- and Carson made some jab at Doug for being divorced before their baby was even born-- It was awful. It didn’t get too far before the sheriff came in. We were dating at the time, he was on his way for lunch and happened to walk into something more.” She shakes her head. “God, I haven’t thought about this in decades. I’ve thought about you, honey, I’m so glad to see you’re doing so well for yourself.”

You smile fondly, then falter at her wording. You look at Hotch and your eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, Darlene, we’re not--”

“We’re not together,” you and Hotch say together, waving it off.

Darlene glances back and forth between the two of you, eyebrows raised. “Right.” She sips her coffee. “Anyway, Mary will be back from her smoke break soon. I figured it was something you didn’t want anyone else listening to.”

“Yeah, thank you,” you chuckle. “I’m an FBI agent trained to read people, and you’ve read me pretty damn good ever since I walked in.”

Darlene’s smile turns smug. “Not hard at all to read you.” She turns her head to Hotch. “You either, sugar. Loosen the tie, it’ll choke you one of these days.”

Hotch offers a tiny laugh, nodding. “Thanks.”

“And eat the pie,” Darlene says to the both of you. “I made it this morning, don’t waste it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Hotch says, picking up his fork.

You eat your pie in silence, trying to process all the new information Darlene has given you. The waitress comes back from her break and heads through to the back of the diner.

Darlene comes over and refills your coffee. “It’s on the house,” she says, “and don’t argue with me.”

“Alright, fine,” you hold up your hands. “Can I give you my phone number?”

“Of course.”

“If you remember anything else that you think might be important, don’t hesitate to call,” you say, handing her your card. “Or…if we could just talk? I don’t really remember much, but I’d like to hear some stories, if you want to share.”

Darlene rests her hand over yours. “Always, sweetheart. Let me give you some pie to go.”

“I’d love that,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

She comes back with two to-go boxes of pie, and you know without a doubt that there are two slices in each, but you don’t dare say anything about it.

“We should get going,” you say, reaching for the boxes, but Hotch takes them instead. Darlene notices. “Thank you for everything. And if you can think of anything else--”

“I’ll send you a text so you’ve got my number,” she promises, squeezing your arm. She turns to Hotch. “You two take care of each other.”

“We will,” he says with a smile, but it’s strained. You can tell. You narrow your eyes, but you don’t say anything about it. Not yet.

You wait until you’re outside the diner, back across the tracks and under the bridge. You come to a stop in front of the car, blocking his path to the passenger seat.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asks.

“No, I want you to tell me what’s going on,” you retort. “Out with it. What do you not like, what are you sensing, why do you not like Darlene?” you tick each question off with a finger.

Hotch sighs, setting the to-go boxes on the hood of the car. “I just think we should be careful.”

“Hotch, she’s the first -- and maybe only person left who remembers my dad, my mom, me, and you’re worried that she’s the unsub?”

“No, that is not what I said,” Hotch argues. “I said we should be careful. Yes, she remembers you and your family, but that does not mean we should throw caution to the wind and immediately trust her every word. We should look into her.”

“You--” You almost laugh. “You seriously think she’s a threat? She gave us names, Hotch. She gave us new information, pointed us to Doug’s Deli -- that was the place I was at with my dad. We need her. She’s harmless, trust me.”

“I do,” he replies. “You know that I do. That’s not what this is about.”

“If you say it’s about protecting me,” you roll your eyes. “I lived in this town once, Hotch. I can handle being here again.”

“You were a kid the last time you were here, I have no doubt you can handle yourself now, just as I have no doubt that the unsub is here, and is watching.”

You pause, open your mouth, close it again. “You’re paranoid.”

“And you’re not?”

“Sure, I’m scared, I don’t exactly enjoy being back in the town that holds some of my worst memories, but we can’t afford to be paranoid, Aaron. We can’t give the unsub that kind of power.”

“We certainly can’t afford to be so lax with our trust that our guards are down.”

“Darlene is harmless,” you protest. “Don’t make her out to be someone she’s not.”

“You should take your own advice,” he fires back. “Remember you haven’t seen her in over twenty years. You didn’t remember her until she sat down. Are you even one-hundred-percent sure she’s the same woman you think you remember?”

“That’s enough,” you snap. “I don’t need you questioning what I do or don’t remember, I do that to myself enough.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but you cut him off.

“Get in the car,” you mutter, pushing past him to head to the driver’s side. You yank the door open so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t come off the hinges.

Hotch gets in silently, setting the to-go boxes on the backseat. 

“Don’t ask where we’re going,” you say quietly. “I just need to drive.”

+++

Hotch doesn’t dare speak while you drive. He hardly breathes, if he’s honest. He answers texts from Dave and Morgan, nothing of import. And when Dave asks how the two of you are doing, Aaron deliberately ignores the message.

He watches where you drive, taking note of the streets you pass, when your eyes linger a little too long on certain buildings at stoplights. But you don’t say a single word. You sit there, driving around like a ghost. It’s unnerving.

The first thing you do say is “This used to be a dirt road” when you turn down a side street. Hotch hums, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know if you want him to.

You’re too quiet, though. You keep turning your head to get a look at both sides of the road as you drive. No one is out here; it’s all fields on either side.

Then, out of nowhere, you slam on the brakes.

“What?” he says, hand instinctively reaching for you. He turns to look behind the car, but there’s no one. It’s just the two of you out here.

“I think…I think my dad dumped bodies out here,” you whisper. “I’ve seen it in the pictures, but this used to be a dirt road because…there used to be horses up there. We’d stop and I’d feed them. I don’t even know if he knew the owners or anything. I never thought to question that, we were just…spending time together.”

Hotch opens the GPS and reads the road name, and you were right. He’s seen the name pop up before in the files he’s read about The Strangler. Two bodies were found here, but it was strange. While your father did occasionally dump bodies off back roads, it was mostly schools. The bodies were believed to be his victims purely because of the location and the way they were killed, but only after the fact, after they found out Carson Adkins was The Strangler and lived here.

Obviously, you and Hotch both know that sometimes serial killers dump bodies in places they consider to be sacred, places they return to time and time again to relive the kill, revisit the bodies, feel that high all over again. And if the unsub is married with kids, it sometimes means places where the family would spend time together, the killer blurring the lines. 

But your father never did that. All of his confirmed victims were found in Atlanta or California, places you never touched. It doesn’t align with his profile to dump bodies here, where he’d spend afternoons with you, who he clearly adored. He wouldn’t taint this area.

So who would?

“We need to look at those cases again,” Hotch says, “the women he dumped on this road.”

“Why?” You turn your head toward him, furrowing your eyebrows. “We can’t backtrack or we’ll never get ahead of this guy.”

“You said you and your father spent time together here, feeding the horses, bonding together.”

“A few times, yeah, but,” you shrug, “I don’t know that that means much.”

“He wouldn’t have tainted this area with his crimes,” Hotch says. “He loved you too much, that’s obvious in those letters. It would make no sense for him to dump bodies here, where he spent time with you.”

“But someone else would, someone jealous, or just upset with my dad--” You pause. “We need to get Garcia to look into Doug. Now.”

[archivequinn]

Fake Dating Johnny Storm (Unfortunately Works Too Well)

You are not dating Johnny Storm. That’s the first thing you remind yourself every morning—before you brush your teeth, before you scroll through your phone, and especially before you open the door to find him leaning against the hallway wall with two coffees and a grin that looks like it was designed in a lab to ruin your life.

This entire situation? It’s temporary. Professional. Practically a PR stunt.

Johnny needed a date. Not just any date, but someone smart, reliable, grounded. Someone who wouldn’t melt under the pressure of flashing cameras and social media storms and who could handle the heat—both literal and metaphorical—that came with being seen on his arm.

He swears he picked you because you’re “the only person he knows who can roll their eyes and explain quantum field theory at the same time,” but you’re pretty sure it’s also because you didn’t say yes right away. You hesitated. You asked for conditions. You made him work for it.

And somehow, that only made him more insistent.

Your fake relationship begins with an emergency gala. Reed and Sue are off-world, Ben refuses to wear anything that isn’t sleeveless, and Johnny… Johnny needs to show that he’s not the reckless, immature wildcard the tabloids keep painting him as. Stark Industries is watching. S.H.I.E.L.D. is watching. The press is watching. So, of course, he shows up at your lab with a custom suit and a sparkle in his eye, saying, “Come on, I promise it’ll be painless. And I’ll even let you pick the safe word for dealing with the paparazzi.”

You say no.

And then, because you’re an idiot with a soft spot for golden retriever smiles and self-sabotage, you say yes.

That was nineteen days ago.

You're now in week three of this very real-feeling fake relationship, and things are… complicated. At first, it’s easy to remember the boundaries. There are rules. You don’t stay past midnight. You don’t hold hands unless you're being photographed. You certainly don’t kiss unless someone else is watching.

But then he starts texting you in the middle of the night just to tell you that the moon looks weird. He starts remembering how you take your coffee. He laughs a little too hard at your jokes, starts brushing imaginary lint off your shoulder in the elevator, starts calling you “sweetheart” in a way that makes your stomach flip and your brain go static.

There’s no safe word for this.

He touches your lower back when you walk into a room. He leans into you during interviews, whispers jokes under his breath just to make you smile on camera. He always looks at you when you’re not looking at him.

And the worst part? You start looking back.

He invites you to brunch with his sister, casually drops your name into conversation like it belongs there, like you belong there. The line between pretend and maybe-not-pretend is blurring so fast you can barely see it anymore.

Every time he grins at you, you feel the script you wrote in your head disintegrate.

And still, you keep playing your part.

Because Johnny Storm might flirt like it's his superpower, might charm the whole world with a wink and a smirk—but sometimes, in the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you and there’s no camera in sight, he looks at you like he’s scared to blink.

Like if he does, you’ll disappear.

And you? You’re starting to wish the whole thing wasn’t fake at all.

It’s supposed to be simple. A charity auction downtown, a red carpet moment, a few staged smiles, and a ride home before midnight. Easy. Controlled. Predictable. You’re even in your favorite dress—deep jewel-toned silk, sleek heels, the kind of outfit that makes you feel untouchable.

Johnny hasn’t stopped looking at you since you stepped out of the elevator. “You sure this is fake?” he whispers at one point, eyes raking down with the kind of reverence that makes your pulse trip. You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

Everything is almost perfect.

Until the engine dies three blocks from the venue.

Johnny slaps the dashboard twice, like it’s a stubborn vending machine. “Come on, babe, don’t do this to me in front of my girl,” he mutters to the car. You lean forward, poking at the touchscreen. “Is this thing actually voice-activated or are you just flirting with your own car?”

“Can’t it be both?” he says, flashing that cursed smile.

But the dashboard flickers once, groans pitifully, and dies for good.

And that’s when the rain starts.

Not a gentle drizzle. Not a cinematic mist. No. This is full-blown, monsoon-style, apocalyptic-level downpour. Within seconds, the windshield is streaked, the city lights blurred into watercolor, and your perfect night is officially drenched.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

“We should’ve just teleported,” you deadpan.

“Yeah, well, next time remind me to date a mutant with better timing,” he says, already reaching into the glovebox for an umbrella that definitely does not exist.

You're both laughing now, a little delirious, a little undone.

And then—just to add insult to soaking injury—a group of pedestrians on the sidewalk catches a glimpse of Johnny through the window. There's a second of silence, like their collective brain short-circuits, and then—

“IS THAT THE HUMAN TORCH?!”

The entire crowd pivots toward the car.

People start taking pictures, rushing closer, umbrellas bouncing. There’s no room to open a door, no space to breathe. Someone knocks on the window. Someone else yells, “Johnny, say FLAME ON!” A kid waves a Sharpie through the downpour, asking for an autograph on his forehead.

You sink lower in your seat. “We’re not getting out of here, are we?”

Johnny turns to you, calm as ever. “I mean, we could try. Or we could admit defeat, accept that the universe clearly wants us to have a disaster date, and go get greasy burgers in our fancy clothes.”

Your brows lift. “Greasy burgers?”

“Greasiest,” he promises. “There’s a place across the bridge with melted cheese so illegal it’s probably banned in five countries. We eat in the car. You steal all my fries. I tell you your lipstick makes you look like a femme fatale. Boom. Best fake date ever.”

You laugh—really laugh, the kind that fills your chest and makes your cheeks hurt.

“Fine,” you say, tugging off your heels with dramatic flair. “But if the rain ruins this dress, you’re buying me a new one.”

“Sweetheart,” Johnny grins, already starting the ignition again with a spark of literal fire, “if the rain ruins that dress, I’m buying you three.”

Johnny doesn’t hesitate. The moment the crowd spots him—flashes of recognition lighting up one face after another like dominoes—he throws open the car door and steps out into the chaos with a kind of easy grace that only he could pull off. One foot on the pavement, the other still in the car, he turns back to you with a roguish grin and a wink. “Be right back,” he says, like he’s stepping out for a stroll, not into the middle of a miniature flash mob of screaming fans.

You blink. “Johnny—wait, what are you—”

Too late.

He’s already swallowed by the crowd. People rush forward, a sea of outstretched hands and excited voices. Phones are whipped out at lightning speed, someone’s holding up a comic book, someone else a lighter—because of course they are. And Johnny? He eats it up. He’s laughing, shaking hands, signing everything that’s handed to him. His smile is bright, effortless. His flame tattoos glow faintly at his wrist in the late afternoon light, like his body can’t help but respond to the attention.

And then he does that thing.

With a casual flick of his wrist, a small flame blooms in his palm. It swirls, takes form, and rises into the shape of a flaming heart—hovering midair, spinning slowly. The crowd gasps. A couple people scream. Someone yells, “Do it again!” and he obliges, now forming your initials in flickering, molten light. You groan softly, covering your face with your hands as the blush creeps up your cheeks.

“Johnny, oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, slumping lower in the seat.

He’s insufferable. Absolutely, irredeemably full of himself—and you’re not even surprised. What surprises you is the warmth that floods your chest when he looks back at the car, eyes searching for you through the crowd until they land right where you are. And when they do, he smiles—different this time. Not showy, not for the cameras. Just soft. Real.

You swallow hard.

Eventually, he pulls himself away with practiced ease—still charming, still laughing, still leaving a trail of awestruck fans in his wake. When he slides back into the car, the scent of faint smoke and expensive cologne follows him in.

“I signed a sneaker,” he says casually, tossing a half-empty Sharpie onto the dashboard.

You arch a brow. “Was it at least off the person’s foot?”

He grins. “It was. Eventually.”

You sigh, but you’re smiling. You don’t mean to be. It just happens around him.

“Alright, Miss I-Told-You-This-Would-Be-A-Disaster,” he says, shifting gears and pulling out of the crowded lot. “Let’s go get those burgers. I owe you that much.”

“You owe me so much more than a burger,” you say dryly, “but I’ll settle for greasy food and a quiet place to eat it.”

Johnny drives without a destination for a while, the city slowly melting around you. Neon signs flicker past the windows, streaks of gold and red and white. Traffic thins as he turns off the main streets and climbs higher into the hills, the roads getting narrower, more secluded. It starts to rain—soft, gentle droplets tapping against the windshield like fingertips. The kind of rain that makes the world feel hushed. Intimate.

“Where are we going?” you ask eventually, looking over at him.

“You’ll see.”

You do. About ten minutes later, he pulls into a clearing at the top of a hill, where the entire skyline of the city stretches out below you like a painting. Buildings shimmer beneath the drizzle, lights twinkling like fallen stars. The kind of view that makes you forget where you are. Who you are.

“Wow,” you breathe.

Johnny cuts the engine and leans back in his seat, the bag of burgers resting in his lap. “Figured you deserved a reward for surviving the storm. Pun intended.”

You glance at him. His profile is quiet in the soft light, jawline sharp, hair a little damp from the rain. There’s a burger already halfway unwrapped in his hand, and he’s watching you more than he’s watching the view.

You take yours with a small smile. “You’re not half as annoying when you’re feeding me.”

He chuckles. “High praise.”

You eat in silence for a moment, the radio low, playing something old and jazzy. The rain taps gently on the roof. Your windows fog slightly. The city sparkles like it doesn’t know how to stop.

Then Johnny turns toward you fully, one arm draped over the back of your seat, gaze soft but unreadable. “I know this was supposed to be fake,” he says, voice lower now. “But I gotta admit... sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Not with you.”

Your heart skips.

You open your mouth to respond—but what are you supposed to say to that?

So instead, you lean back, let your head rest against the car seat, and stare out at the glittering city below. You don’t say it, but he’s right. Somewhere between dodging fans and sharing fries, something’s shifted. This might have started as a show, but now... you're not so sure either.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Hello India, i think you might’ve already answered a question about this, but these are a bit different:

1. I’ve always felt like Harry’s tried to distance himself from that empty sex-symbol image and take back some agency over his sexuality—something he never really got the chance to explore on his own terms. Do you think that, with the release of a line of sexual products under his brand, he’s kind of given up on that and is now leaning into the image instead? Or how do you interpret it?

2. This one’s not necessarily related to the first, but I saw someone recently say he’s in his “c*ke era” or something like that and might be having a mental breakdown because of his interest in Berlin, techno, etc., and that’s why he hasn’t released any new music. Personally, I’ve seen it more as him finding freedom or taking an emotional breather away from all the public scrutiny—I honestly believe he has a really complicated relationship with fame, especially after being so overexposed in recent years. Do you think he’s going through a rough patch, or is he just taking a break and living his life?

Thanks

Hi darling,

Okay, so I'm going to try my hardest not to write a bloody tome on this, mostly because I really should be writing my fic, but let's tackle this as concisely as possible.

There are a few ways to answer your first question.

One is to acknowledge that Harry's relationship to his brand has very likely evolved over the years due, I think, in no small part to the fact that being branded a "sex symbol" in your mid teens and early twenties is very, very different to carrying that brand as a full grown adult with a lot more personal agency and control over the strength of your boundaries.

I hope I don't have to expound on why those two things are vastly different, but I do think that this fandom has to constantly be reminded that Harry has been in the spotlight for fifteen years. He has grown up in the public eye, and thus what, for normal people, is simply a natural evolution of one's sense of self and identity, is, for him, unfortunately a fairly public ordeal. But, it is still natural. He is going to grow, and change, and evolve, and redefine his personal relationship with the way the public sees him many, many times over his lifetime, just like every other person will, and this fandom needs to learn to react to that very natural growth with at least some sense of rationality, object permanence, and nuance, instead of treating it like he's some sinister two-faced money grabbing goblin with the world's most nefarious intent.

He's human. He can change his mind. He can expand. He can learn how to deal with burdens he couldn't deal with before in a different way with different tools. He's not trying to trick you guys, and we really need to stop acting like having a multi-dimensional personality or earning a level of grace he didn't have access to in his younger years is some grave heinous betrayal of our trust. It's really not.

Two is to focus on the fact that him not welcoming being treated as an empty sex-symbol - as simply a vessel for people's fantasies - doesn't mean he doesn't like sex or being sexy. Those are not the same things. Not wanting to be objectified and poised as some faceless dark romance hero people can use to get off is completely valid and can exist alongside the fact that he's also a fucking good-looking human who enjoys sex and being viewed as sexy in the right context.

Three, and I think the most relevant when pertaining to the discussion of the Pleasing vibrator is, honestly, its not all that deep. Harry's cheeky and has always had a cheeky sense of humor. He wore a Keith Haring mutual masturbation t-shirt to an interview. He wore a Christopher Kane 'Sex' t-shirt on SNL. His daily jewelry stack consists of a banana dick necklace. The through line to creating a line of sex toys is fairly clear. He thought it was fun (correct), he thought it would sell (correct), and he, like most well-adjusted adults, can talk about and interact with the topic of sex in a normal and healthy way without it delving straight into objectification (correct). Most people who are so fucking shocked Harry Styles released a vibrator don't know him all that well, because frankly, its so reflective of his sense of humor and his vibe (pun fully intended).

It's cheeky, it's cute, it's a unique and brave choice, and it starts a conversation -- Harry has been doing all those things with his music, art and fashion for years. Why should this be so shocking?

As for your second question, I say this with as much affection as I have in my body, but if you really believe this, you guys really need to get out more. This narrative that partying in Berlin is self-destructive and reflective of a descent into madness is... super naive and uncultured, frankly. I don't think it's symbolic of anything other than the fact that Harry likes to immerse himself in any city he's in (see: learning to speak Italian, dressing differently in Japan), and if you know anyone who lives in Berlin (I do), you'll know that that's a big part of that city's culture.

Seriously, half the stuff you guys are freaking out over is just Harry being a normal human, hanging out the way normal humans with a lot of disposable income and varied and multi-dimensional interests do. Not everything he does is reflective of some big, ethical, existential shift in who he is, and we'd enjoy him a lot more if we stopped trying to catch him in a lie and just accepted the fact that we can never know all of him, just like we can never know all of anyone.

[elluminis]

hgsn be still my beating heart 😭 I’m gonna yap about ep 4 real quick!!!

first of all, the el gee bee tee scene! It was absolutely gorgeously animated and the voice acting was fantastic, of course, but I also love what this illustrates about hikaru and yoshiki’s relationship with each other and their town. hikaru has never felt out of place here, not in the way yoshiki has. whether that’s due to his family’s legacy, his generally easy-going nature, or a little bit of both, he doesn’t struggle with the expectations of small town life the same way yoshiki does. and so, when he hears that the yasaburo’s kid is sick, he doesn’t think anything of it. but yoshiki does. and he says “he isn’t diseased. he’s gay.”

and hikaru doesn’t fully get it…like that LGBT thing? but he also knows that yoshiki is hurt by more than just the town being “too small.” so he says, “well, whenever you want to go to the city, come over to my place instead.” he offers yoshiki companionship and understanding in a place where companionship and understanding are in short supply, and that means more than he’ll ever know.

compare that, then, with “hikaru’s” reaction to yoshiki’s grief. yoshiki starts crying, and those are complicated emotions that “hikaru” doesn’t know how to comprehend or help with. he goes to give yoshiki space…unlike the original hikaru, who knew that yoshiki needed anything but. “hikaru” is trying, and his childish nature might seem similar to the original hikaru’s carefree nature, but he lacks that level of emotional maturity that comes with time and experience. either way, though, when yoshiki stops him from leaving, he stays.

I feel similarly about hikaru’s death, when he begs the thing on the mountain to keep yoshiki company. don’t let him be alone. because hikaru is afraid that the loneliness would destroy him. and it was the strength of those feelings, I think, that drew “hikaru” to covet yoshiki in such a way, but to also long for his happiness and protection. “hikaru” would do anything for yoshiki…and does it even matter whether it’s the original or the monster from whom those feelings stem? how different are they, really?

and, of course, there’s the realization that yoshiki has known all along. did he think it was all a dream, at first? perhaps. did it take six months for him to properly comprehend that the thing in his friend’s body wasn’t really his friend? also possible. but how incredible, the way these boys’ love for each other transcends life, death, and humanity.

anyway, that’s enough of a thought dump for now. I love these guys so very much :)

[whiteshoespinklaces]

okay superman post because im a little obsessed, spoilers below but if you havent seen it you definitely should its amazing and so incredibly relevant

the way lex is portrayed to mirror so many real life "villains" is so interesting to me and in no way did it fall flat, "ill stop it when it gets to a city i care about" and all of his stuff with Baravia

on top of that his prison in another dimension, canonically being rented to governments who want to hide who they imprison, as well as housing other random people in incredibly inhumane conditions is so painfully relevant as well as the entire baravian conflict

also his line "i am not trying to kill you so the baravian conflict can continue i CREATED the baravian conflict so i would have an excuse to kill you" is so incredibly shocking and is constantly shown through his actions as well and he is horrible, jealous, scared person who is written so well and as such a terrifyingly realistic villain

and superman himself is also written in such an interesting way, the way he constantly does interveiws with himself, how he spends the whole movie learning how to be himself and a human, and the way his contravercies are played out is so interesting

having talked to friends who were both on his side of the conflict and not it is really interesting because most people can see where he is coming from and understand and yet there is still a division there

and his humanity and his desperation to help are so clear, that is why he is on earth, when lois implies he represents america and he screams that he isnt representing anyone but himself, when he keeps going back to "people were going to die" because he dosent care about the geopolitical implications of his actions as long as lives are saved.

and this is one that is brought up so much but exactly one person in the movie dies, they go back to death/injury counts for multiple of the fights in the movie and usually no one dies until the man who gave superman food once is murdered and the most powerful person on the planet sobs for him, its so painful as a scene and you can see the way lex dosent give a crap and the way superman is so incredibly hurt

also the scene when baravia is invading is so so scary in such a real way, we are watching onscreen the beginnings of a genocide so similar to the actual ones playing out in our own world and we watch it cut to their "only hope" dying, and then to the opposing president saying he wont rest until they are all dead, and then superman finds a way to help anyways, doubling down on the fact that he will not let anyone die

i also liked that none of the villains switched over, the girl suffocating him lived but he beat her, his clone didnt live (got sucked into the hole ig) but neither had a redemption arc, the closest thing was one of lex's guys trying to shut the thing off which he was doing the whole time so it dosent count

also the romance worked in this because it was an integral part of the story, the story wasnt about romance but clark's ability to connect with and find his humanity and calling is through lois and how he learns from her and how she critisizes him and a huge part of her own arc is being able to be with a guy like him and learning to help balance each other out the way they do instead of just giving up because they need each other which i really loved because it didnt at any point feel forced, it was just another layer to their complicated dynamic which i loved

and i will never shut up about how much i love love love lois lane

[youremyonlyhope]

Grief is fun... such fun...

[bluestjayy]

Maybe I'm just cursed 🤪

[atlantidea]

.

[cattian-matrix]

been debating on what to say for longer than i've expected, going anon for this ( although i mayyy suspect you may already know who i am just by my writing style but- welp! xd ) ; if i say anything even remotely wrong, you are free to ignore this ask /gen

you're enough. i think one big step is learning you don't have to be enough for everyone else because it's impossible to do that. you can't please everyone, you can't not please everyone aswell ; 8 billion people in the world, it's almost destiny that atleast 100 of them will be bothered by your existence, and other 100 will not.

although, it's okay to feel that way. it's okay to feel like you have to please everyone, to feel like you have to make everyone happy, to feel worthless if that's not the case. it's okay and you're allowed to feel that way. you are not to blame for feelings that you cannot control.

i won't say i understand, but as a fellow people-pleaser, i can say that i can atleast get the feeling. and i want you to know that it's okay. feel free to open up, to be vulnerable, to cry, to feel worthless, to feel like you're not good enough, to feel like your entire existence is entitled to only making people happy - you're allowed to feel all of those things and more. that's okay.

embrace those feelings instead of shoving them away, be kind to yourself by allowing yourself to just feel. it's okay.

it's so easy to just say you're worth, but you're not gonna believe me if i say you are. so i ask you to say those things to yourself instead, and the multiple times you feel like that's just luck, or you're being a fraud ; that's when you know you're doing great. that's when you know you are worth much more than what that voice in your head tells you.

your worth as someone is much more than what your acchievements tells you ; accept yourself as someone who is allowed to feel, to mess up, to regret, to cry, to be successful, to be kind to oneself, to feel and be all of those things and more.

that can be quite hard to do, but look how far you've gotten. you're still here, aren't you? easier said than done, i know. and it won't get easy, not even one bit - but, and i mean it genuinely : you got this. you genuinely got this.

not sure what to say anymore, so i'm just gonna say that i'm here if you wanna talk. my dms are open for you , and i will be there to give my support to you just as much as i can.

<- sincerely, a moot.

...

hey. thanks. /gen

I'm surprised that you even bothered to write out the message. it's odd because I had a weird thought of "they'll just ignore it"/"I want someone to notice this."

I'm still here. Yeah. That is something.

(Holy shit you made me cry with this /gen /pos)

I think I've grown relatively desensitized to people caring about me (not because of them, but because I've truly forgotten what it's like to have someone actually comfort you, especially when said person barely knows you.) but I seriously, seriously appreciate people (like you!) that bother to send me messages like this.

it does help make things better. like- seriously.

(still somewhat in shock because why would anyone care about how I'm doing and take time out of their day to write or do anything for my sake?) but I want to say this did make me feel a lot better. not okay, but a lot better. /gen /pos

be kind to yourself. now hang on a minute didn't I write something literally about this-

oh. i guess i'm just not taking my own advice.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

Humble urself and start w that 30 minutes of recreational reading a day. Go from there. Don’t overwhelm urself w a hefty tbr after a long reading slump

Ask for help. Who cares if it takes a village

Try to get things done in the morning. Then phone

It’s not as hard as you think it is

Be realistic about your limits. You will sacrifice some things in favor of other things. That is okay. Priorities are a revolving door and everything will get its turn

You’re at the beginning of your life. Calm down about doing everything at once

Hour by hour schedules have saved your life. Go back to them

People don’t ask for ur opinion before making decisions. Stop being so fucking concerned w what they think of yours

The truest cliche is sacrificing momentary comfort for long term gains. Sorry

Aim for perfection - don’t expect it off the get go. Perfection is a staircase. You will get there, or at least as close as u can, but you have to start somewhere. One chapter, one workout, one friend you’re consistent texting… then you go from there. Not everything has to be fixed at once

The only guaranteed time is now and what you do with it

Comparison is easily the most useless thing in the world

Green tea at sundown will make u feel better

Switching up your plan—your study plan, your timeline, your anything—is perfectly fine. But don’t use that as an excuse to not stick the landing

Ask if something/someone elevates your life—but ask if you’re also an asset to theirs. Survey others but survey yourself as well. Don’t be too hard on yourself but don’t coddle yourself

Just lock in tbh. Whatever you’re worried about u can take care of later. Choose 3 top things to focus on and own them. Accept other things might take a backseat as a result

Take piano practice as seriously as u do ur stem studies

You can fit a lot in w time management

Taking it one day at a time will save ur life

You can’t change it? Don’t worry about it. Most things are not a damning sentence. Pivot to another opportunity just as if not more lucrative

Intergenerational friendships:)

No shame in trying!!!! And also no one cares that much

Trust the process. It will happen w intention and incremental changes

Sit in the sun and practice thought stopping rituals about it

Embrace not over complicating things. Your therapist is good for u bc she does not indulge ur need to unnecessarily intellectualize/overthink things. She knows its not serving u anything and is just a distraction

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Ok so I’ve had this question for a while and I feel like you’ll be able to give me a good answer. I understand that we’re absolutely not supposed to support anything JKR does monetarily and I never intend to do so. However is engaging with Harry Potter media *at all* also something I should not do or is it only things that give her money?

Like, would there be anything wrong with me playing Hogwarts Legacy if I pirated it? Is fanfiction and fan art ok to consume? Or is engaging with the IP at all going to be harmful in a way that I don’t see atm?

Thank you for your time!

I don't really think a cis person is the right person to ask about this, but I also know that trans people are sick to death of having to field these questions so I'll do my best to answer this, if everyone who reads my answer will promise me that you will NOT use anything I say in this post as an annoying argument against a trans person who has a different opinion on the matter. Remember whose opinions are actually important here.

And look, number one, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Nobody can stop you. If you, in yourself, in your soul, feel morally comfortable consuming Harry Potter by some convoluted method of Ethical Consumption™, then go and do that, and own it, and have the strength to be judged for your decisions.

Trans people might not trust you - hell, I'll probably not trust you either. They might get angry at you, and criticize you, or roll their eyes and call you a fucking loser. If you have the moral conviction that what you are doing is right, and that you are acting in accordance with your beliefs and you are not doing harm, then stand by that conviction and face the consequences. Have that strength of character.

But if you feel the need to go around posting and arguing that it's unfair, that you shouldn't be judged, that you should get to be a special exception and people are unreasonable when they get mad at you... then that is evidence, proof positive, that you are a fucking loser. That you are cowardly, and you don't actually believe that what you are doing is right, you just want the world to affirm your fragile ego while you enjoy your little treats.

To be clear, I am not accusing you of doing this (you seem to just earnestly be asking for guidance), but there's a hell of a lot of people who do do this, and you don't want to be one of them.

So that's number one. Do whatever the fuck you want, and face the consequences with a spine.

Number two is... just fucking drop it. That is my earnest advice to you. Just fucking drop Harry Potter. They are children's books from the early 2000s, they just are not that fucking good or important. The Hogwarts Legacy game is live service slop; the movies are passable at best and their quality comes from the actors being better than the source material. Just drop it. Harry Potter has nothing to offer that you can't get elsewhere from better media with better authors, or problematic authors who have good grace to at least be dead.

Don't waste your life thinking about complicated ways to circumvent the moral problem of JK Rowling's rancid transphobic hate-aura at the center of the franchise, don't waste your finite time on Earth trying to thread that stupid needle. Harry Potter isn't worth this. Rowling is old, and shriveling from hate and mold fumes, at the very least just wait for her to fucking die, and for her political project to fail, before you pick that world back up again.

I speak as someone who read the first book at age 11, hyperfixated on relating to Harry, and whose entire cultural life was consumed by the franchise for over a decade. It is not worth it. You don't need it, you don't need the stress of trying to navigate how or whether to engage with it ethically. You almost certainly have an enormous backlog of other books, games, movies and TV shows you've been meaning to get around to, so just go do that instead. I promise you it will be infinitely more rewarding, and infinitely less compromised by stress and guilt and cognitive dissonance.

And while you're at it, send some money to a trans charity and go scream invectives at a transphobic politician some time.

[moonlightwritingf1]

A Love You Can’t Escape | LN4 | Masterlist

Status ━━━ On going

Summary ━━━ In a world where everyone is born with a soulmate mark, most people live their entire lives without ever finding the one person it binds them to. Some are lucky enough to discover their match in old age, often in their 70s or 80s. A blessed few find theirs early in life—and when they do, it’s considered a miracle. The universe offers no promises, only the mark itself.

Throughout all of recorded history, not a single person has ever rejected their soulmate. But Y/N believes she will be the first to be rejected.

When Y/N, a shy but fiercely guarded woman haunted by childhood trauma and deep insecurities, discovers that her soulmate is Lando Norris—one of the most famous, charming, and emotionally unreachable men she’s ever met—she makes a decision that changes everything. She tells no one. Not even him.

For fourteen months, she carries this devastating secret while Lando unknowingly breaks her heart over and over again. He flirts with other women in front of her, maintains ties with his ex-girlfriend, and treats Y/N with a casual cruelty that cuts deeper than he could ever imagine.

What Y/N doesn’t know is that Lando feels something too—something that unnerves and confuses him. So he buries it beneath sharp words and cold shoulders, lashes out, and pushes away the one person he can’t seem to get out of his head.

He feels the pull. He just doesn’t understand what it means.

Until one moment, by pure accident, he sees the mark on her body.

The universe stops.

Suddenly, the girl he’s spent over a year pushing away is no longer just another name in his orbit—she’s his. His soulmate. The one fate carved into him before he was ever born.

As realization crashes down on him, Lando finally understands why she always looked at him like he was both everything she wanted and everything she feared.

And Y/N—fragile, angry, and terrified—must face the one thing she’s spent months trying to avoid: the truth that he knows.

But the cruelest truth of all? She still doesn’t believe he could ever want her back.

Because while no one in history has ever rejected their soulmate, Y/N has spent her entire life being rejected by everyone else. And she’s convinced that not even cosmic destiny can make her worthy of love.

Pairing ━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

Overview:

soulmate AU

enemies to lovers trope

loads of angst

loads of sexual tension and frustration

fuck boy Lando

complicated relationship with emotionally abusive parents (Y/N)

hyper-independent and emotionally guarded Y/N

jealous Lando

“I don’t need anyone” Y/N vs “I’d give her everything” Lando

protective Lando once he finds out the truth

unrequited love (but not really)

Y/N hiding her trauma behind success and control

slow burn

Y/N putting up walls Lando desperately tries to break through

yearning and longing

smut (at some point)

mutual pining

idiots fighting fate (mostly Y/N)

Lando falling first and harder

touch-starved but terrified Y/N

moments of softness that wreck them both

“I’m not good enough for you” trope

Each chapter contains its own content warnings.

Chapter 1: Fight

| 10.9k | Summary: A brutal fight erupts between Y/N and Lando at a friends' gathering, where he unknowingly destroys his soulmate in a way no one thought possible. His attack confirms every fear she’s carried alone for years, shattering the last piece of hope she had. That night, overwhelmed by heartbreak and years of buried trauma, Y/N suffers a panic attack more severe than anything she’s ever experienced.

Chapter 2: Breaking

| 4.8k | Summary: After the fight with Y/N, Lando is left reeling in guilt and self-loathing, realizing too late that his cruelty came from fear of how deeply he cared for her. Meanwhile, Y/N suffers a severe panic attack and is hospitalized, feeling irreparably broken and unloved. 

Chapter 3

Coming soon...

[suhosieun]

it’s genuinely wild how often weak hero gets reduced to "bromance,” like the story is just about a particularly intense friendship and not something far more complicated, far more intimate. this isn't just shippers projecting. this isn't just wishful thinking. you don’t need the director and cast members repeatedly claiming that suho and sieun are each other's first love to interpret that on your own. the narrative already tells you—quietly, devastatingly, and with absolute clarity.

the queer subtext isn’t subtle. it’s not hidden in glances or throwaway lines. it’s built into the structure of their relationship, in every decision they make. suho knew beomseok had tampered with his bike. that wasn’t just bullying; it was a premeditated act of violence. he knew what kind of danger he was walking into when he went to the ring, and he went anyway. alone. outnumbered. no illusions. he knew he could die. but he went. because they hurt sieun. because sieun got hurt for him.

that’s their language. not confession, but action. not sentiment, but sacrifice. die for each other. kill for each other.

and sieun, who had always been defined by his discipline, his detachment, his spotless academic record? he lets himself spiral. he got expelled. stopped eating. stopped sleeping. stopped going to cram school. when he found out suho was in critical condition, he froze in the middle of the street and didn’t move, even with a car speeding toward him. as if life without suho wasn’t a life worth returning to.

he came back from a coma asking for suho, looking for him. suho was already in one because of him. they revolve around each other like twin stars caught in gravity’s pull—self-destructive, unstoppable, and impossibly close. love doesn’t always look like romance, but that doesn’t make it less real. or less queer.

so no, it’s not just a bromance. and if that’s all you see—if you can watch all of that and not feel the weight of what’s being said without words? then i'm sorry, but you’ve missed the entire point.

[pascalissmoked]

Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

[no-144444]

accepting it- c.leclerc

summary: charles has been a bit too distant during your pregnancy, and what max said about his own child brought some ugly truths to the surface, hurting you in the process. charles realises his mistake, but it's just too late for you to believe him.

pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader

part two!

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The quiet unlocking of the door was what had woken you, Charles was sure of it. He hadn’t wanted to, mostly because he knew he’d say something stupid and piss you off. He wouldn’t mean to, but he would. That’s what the start of the season was, that’s what becoming a father was, that’s what the stress did to him. 

“Hey handsome,” you smiled sleepily from the coach, all bundled up in blankets as some random Netflix series played on the screen. 

“Hey beautiful,” he exhaled harshly, then turned to you, (fake) smiling. “You alright?”

You nodded. “Just tired,” you yawned. “Want to head to bed?”

He nodded with a groan. “Yes, please.” 

He helped you up off the couch and it hit him how close you were to giving birth. You were in the third trimester, heavily pregnant with a slightly complicated pregnancy. He grimaced when he saw you grabbing your back in pain. 

“Alright?” he asked as you winced. 

You took a deep breath and continued on to your bedroom. “Fine,” you said through gritted teeth, the pain easing. 

He led you over to your side of the bed and helped you lie down. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and turned out the lights, ready to sink into his side of the bed after his exhausting day. 

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He woke up to the sound of vomiting. It wasn’t usual to hear, but it had gotten less frequent as the pregnancy went on. “You alright baby?” he called out. 

His question was met with more vomiting. He huffed as he pulled himself out of bed and walked to the bathroom, looking at you hunched over the toilet. He frowned and knelt beside you, holding your hair. After another few minutes the vomiting stopped and you looked up at him, exhausted and sick. 

“Feels any better?” he asked. You shook your head and he frowned again, pulling you into his chest. He smoothed a hand through your hair as you leant against him, trying to calm yourself down. “It’s alright,” he soothed. “You’re alright.” 

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Brunch was going to be hell on earth for both of you, but you still both dressed up and got in the car, pretending to be excited about the family luncheon. 

“Can you believe Max said he wouldn’t miss a race for the birth of his baby?” you scoffed, scrolling through your phone as Charles drove to his mother’s house. “Poor Kelly.”

Charles gulped beside you. He’d been dreading this conversation for weeks, unsure when to have it. It’s not that he didn’t want to be there for the birth of his child, he did, badly, but he couldn’t throw away championship points for anything. He’d make an exception if it was a sprint race, but other than that… he couldn’t chance it. “Well, he has a good reason to,” he shrugged nervously. 

You turned your head to him, shock painting your features. “Are you joking right now?” 

Charles shrugged. “Not really. He’s the World Champion and he needs to stay on top this year, especially if it’s his last year, which he’s thinking it might be. I understand where he’s coming from.”

You were both quiet for a minute, taking in what he’d said. 

“So what about us?” you asked in a small voice. 

“You’re due on a non-race week,” he shrugged. “We just hope she doesn’t come earlier than that.” 

He didn’t dare look over at you, scared of what he might see. He knew this was selfish, but he couldn’t piss away his chance at being champion, not when he’d worked his entire life for it, not when his parents, family, and friends gave up so much.  

“Oh,” you breathed out, trying to stop yourself from crying. “Alright then.” 

The rest of the car ride was silent, you watched the streets of Monaco whip by you as Charles drove up to his mother’s house, and you thought. Thought about giving birth alone. Thought about how Charles had promised you he’d be there. Thought about how shitty it felt to be second to his job. You wiped your unshed tears away before you walked inside.

When you walked inside, Pascale instantly knew something was wrong. Charlotte immediately took you away to chat together, and Lorenzo was too busy giving out to Arthur about breaking up with Jade to notice, but Pascale noticed. She saw the way Charles watched you from across the room, trying desperately to catch your eye, to gauge your reaction, something. 

She pulled him aside. “What’s wrong?” 

He sighed. “Maman, it’s nothing-”

“What did you say to your wife?” he demanded. He looked down, ashamed. He knew he was in the wrong, but he still felt justified, though that justification was slowly dwindling. 

“We were talking about how Max wouldn’t miss a race for his baby, and I said I’d do the same,” he admitted. 

“Excuse me?” Lorenzo inserted himself in the conversation. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Arthur was even looking at him in disgust, Arthur. “Charles, that’s not right-” 

“You don’t get to talk, alright?” he shot at his younger brother, who quietened out of shock. “And what else am I supposed to do? Every single year in Formula One I feel the championship falling away from me! Y/n understands-”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Pascale interjected. “Do you want that little girl? The one your wife has been carrying without complaint for 8 months?” 

Charles nodded vigorously. “Of course I do-!” 

“So you should be there for the woman who’s carrying her! She has been pregnant basically on her own for the past 8 months, either you were racing, or training, or enjoying your break - which meant doing extreme sports that she cannot do! That woman loves you too much to see how you’ve been treating her, and it’s sad, Charles. She does everything for you, and you’re even entertaining the idea of not being there for her while she goes through possibly one of the most painful experiences of her life? Are you insane?” she argued, shocked at her own son's selfishness. “If you cannot see that the woman you love is more important than a race win, you should really just let Y/n go and find a man that actually loves her. Not one who is more focused on his personal goals than the goals of his family. Your father and I raised you to be a racer, yes, but first and foremost we raised you to be a good person. And being a good person means being a good husband and father to your family, which is just starting.” 

Charles stood there for a moment in silence, ashamed of his behaviour. “You’re right.” 

“I know I am,” she scoffed. “Go make it right with Y/n, now.” 

Charles scurried off to find you in the garden with Charlotte, she had her arms around you as you explained everything that had happened, how distant Charles had been, what he’d said about the birth, everything. Charlotte sent him a particularly withering look as he stepped out into the sun, and he knew he deserved it. 

“Can I talk to my wife?” he asked, standing behind you. 

“She’s busy right now Charles,” Charlotte scoffed. “I’m just trying to calm her down from crying. Come back later.” 

His heart broke slightly, he knew you’d been taking the burden of the baby a lot more than he had (obviously), and he thought he was being gracious by not bringing it up. He thought he was doing the right thing by giving you space, but he was just subconsciously trying to ignore the fact that his life was going to change drastically and that he was scared. Still, he never thought he’d be the one to make you cry. 

“Please,” he begged. 

You gave Charlotte a nod, and she smiled at you sadly, then left you to talk. He took the seat she had been sitting in and placed a hand on your thigh. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m ruining the whole day.” 

His heart actually broke then. He was being a dick, he was in the wrong, and you were apologising. What the actual fuck? He shook his head, squeezing your thigh. “No. If anyone ruined today, it was me. My selfishness has been ruining this entire pregnancy for you,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.” 

You stared up at him in shock. 

“You’ve been doing this on your own since day one, and that’s my personal failing. I’m sorry that I was so… distant. I was busy getting in my own head about my career, when the most important thing was right in front of me. I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll forgive me,” he took your hand and squeezed, looking at the ground. 

“Charles, I know what I signed up for when I married you,” you admitted, dropping his hand. “I know you’re ambitious, I know you want to win, and I know you won’t stop until you’re the best. Sometimes it just… gets to me that I’m not enough for you, that our family isn’t enough for you. It’s just… hard sometimes, alright? And if I’m being honest this is a bit too much too late. I know my place in your life, and I’ve accepted it. I just hope you prioritise our daughter more than you prioritise me,” you tearfully explained before getting up and going back inside. 

Was that really the standard he’d set for the love of his life? Surely not?  He had to fix this, and quick.

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