#and still was like yeah I mean I’d probably do it too

[imaxdead]

what i meant was you

—★ popular girl! daniela avanzini x fem! reader

synopsis: you never wanted to agree to this — helping him win over her — but here you are, knee-deep in love with the very girl you were supposed to help him get.

genre: angst, slow-burn, fluff

warnings: strong language, dani is straight(?), kind of a doomed yuri, homophobia, religious stuffs, internalized guilt, my gayass sucks sb w love stuff, reader is fighting the bro-code (BUT LIKE. IT’S DANIELA AVANZINI. BE SRS) also mention of alcohol, and g*y ppl kissing?????

heavily inspired by the half of it (WHICH U NEED TO WATCH IF U HVN’T ITS SO MEANINGFUL AND UNDERRATED I LOVE JT AND YURI SM)

a/n: my 2nd ex and my principal r def going to hell. anyway enjoy reading ts it’s sooo long don’t fall asleep gays

they say every story has two halves. the one you tell the world, and the one that keeps you up at night.

love, in its purest form, isn’t a fairytale or a firework. it’s a slow ache. a quiet kind of violence. it’s watching someone fall in love with the version of you that isn’t yours to give.

people think love is kind. soft. something that makes you whole.

but i think love is selfish. it takes before it gives. it demands. it hides in the spaces between what you say and what you mean.

and sometimes —

the worst part of loving someone isn’t that they don’t love you back.

it’s that they never even knew it was you.

this isn’t a love story. it’s just the wreckage it left behind

and somewhere under all that rubble — what i meant

what i really meant — was you.

the library was technically quiet.

but only in the way a classroom is quiet right before a test — low murmurs tucked between pages, someone laughing too loudly two tables down, chairs scraping against old tile floors like nails on a chalkboard.

the librarian, bless her heart, didn’t give a single fuck.

she was parked at the front desk, head bent so deep into her phone you’d think she was texting Jesus himself. probably some messy affair, based on the look on her face — equal parts giddy and guilty. either that or she was reading fanfiction. no judgment.

you were seated in one of the corner tables, leaning back in your chair, eyes scanning the most painfully awkward piece of writing your hands had ever touched.

“dear daniela,

i know we haven’t really talked that much before, but i think you’re really pretty. and even if you weren’t, i’d still want to get to know you because you seem kind. and smart. most people only have two of those things, but you have all three, and i think that makes you special.

well about me i’m just a normal guy with a regular life. i play basketball. my family thinks i’m cute — well just my grandma. she’s dead though. enough about my dead grandma, i like eating fries dipped in milkshakes. is that weird? i think it’s good. i’d like to try it with you sometime.

— park sunghoon (the basketball guy)”

you stared blankly at the last line for a moment, the silence sitting heavier than it should. then, slowly, you lowered the paper and looked up at the idiot responsible for this war crime.

park sunghoon was sitting across from you, elbows on the table, hands clamped over his mouth as he watched you with wide, nervous eyes. like a kid waiting for a bomb to go off. or worse — your opinion.

to the rest of the world, sunghoon was a “cool guy.”

he was tall. semi-decent at sports. had that “i don’t know how hot i am” aura that somehow made people like him more.

but to you?

sunghoon was the kid from next door.

the one you met when you were twelve. the one who once cried because he stepped on a snail. the one who always got his words jumbled when he was nervous and said “breasts” instead of “brisket” at a barbecue once.

so yeah. he wasn’t that cool.

especially not now, as he practically begged you to help him romance someone out of his league.

you sighed, setting the paper down with the kind of controlled disappointment usually reserved for bad report cards.

“what the fuck even was that—”

“do you like it?” he blurted at the exact same time.

you both blinked.

you groaned, pushing your glasses up your nose. “do i like it? sunghoon, this sounds like a twelve-year-old trying to flirt after watching one romantic movie and panicking halfway through.”

he winced. “okay. yeah. but like, it’s not that bad, right?”

“you mentioned your dead grandma right after calling her pretty.”

“yeah, i panicked.”

“it shows.”

you leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, your tone flattening. “and no, before you ask — i’m not writing a letter to daniela avanzini... or anyone. it’s weird. it’s not real. and it’s definitely not you. i can’t be you.”

he let out the most pitiful groan known to man, flopping forward dramatically like he was auditioning for a tragedy. “y/n, please. just one letter. i’m so bad at this. i know i suck, okay? i just need a little help. just enough to not embarrass myself.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you already have embarrassed yourself.”

“i’ll buy you lunch. every day. for a week.”

you stared at him.

you should’ve said no.

you should’ve laughed in his face, stood up, and walked away with the satisfaction of keeping your dignity and your hands clean from whatever mess this was bound to become.

but instead—

you sighed. “fine. lunch for a week.”

sunghoon’s entire body lit up. “DEAL!” he nearly jumped out of his seat, fist-pumping the air like he just won a scholarship.

you turned in your chair, snatched the disaster of a letter, and uncapped your pen, eyes narrowing as you began to underline the few salvageable parts —namely, the fries and milkshake thing. that part was weirdly charming.

“i still don’t get why you’re writing a letter,” you muttered, scribbling notes in the margins. “you could’ve just DMed her. she’s literally active on instagram 24/7.”

sunghoon shrugged, slouched in his seat like a melted candle. “you think i have the balls to text her? i’m not built for this, bro. and letters are like... romantic. vintage. mysterious.”

you shot him a look. “just say you’re trying to stand out.”

“okay, yeah, that too.”

you shook your head. “people and their dumbass ideas of love... all of it’s ridiculous.”

still, you circled the fries line. “this can stay.”

for a second, there was silence again.

and then, sunghoon cleared his throat. a little too softly. a little too hesitant.

“…you’ve never been in love, have you?”

your pen stopped moving.

you looked up slowly, raising one brow. “what?”

he blinked. “nothing, it’s just—like, you talk about love like it’s... stupid. like you don’t believe in it or something.”

you blinked once. then twice.

and then came your answer, crisp and matter-of-fact: “i haven’t, and don't ever wanna.”

he tilted his head. “but then how do you know what to write?”

you scoffed, pushing back your chair and standing up, gathering the papers in one sharp movement. “you wanted a love letter?”

“yeah?”

you tossed the pages at him. “then watch me write a fucking love letter.”

“wait — where are you going?”

“home, hoe.”

“what? why—WAIT FOR ME, YOU MENACE!”

you were walking down the hallway, still thinking about sunghoon’s disaster of a letter and what the hell you were supposed to do with it. love letters. love. love. it wasn’t like you hated the idea of it, but it was the one thing you weren’t good at. not really. you could write, yeah. about politics. about grief. about astronomy or dead languages. but love? it always felt like trying to write in a language you didn’t speak — like everyone else had the translation, and you were just left guessing the syntax.

kids moved around you in loud, annoying clusters. locker doors slammed. voices bounced off the walls—gossip, laughter, someone crying into a phone like the world ended.

but all of it was background noise.

you weren’t listening. not until your phone vibrated inside your pocket, interrupting your spiral.

your hands were already full—papers, your bag hanging halfway off your shoulder—so when you fished your phone out with your wrist and chin like a goddamn contortionist, it was a little miracle you even answered.

“god, hello?” you muttered, adjusting your bag strap with your elbow.

a beat of silence.

then a voice — low, smooth, shameless.

“hey there, baby.”

your brain blanked for half a second.

what the fuck

in the same cursed moment, someone crashed into you from the side.

their shoulder hit yours hard enough to knock the stack of papers right out of your grip.

everything scattered like confetti—except the vibe was fucking miserable.

you staggered a little, caught yourself, already cursing under your breath when the guy turned, annoyed.

“watch where you’re going, nerd.”

you blinked at him. it was his fault, clearly. but you didn’t have the energy to argue with a walking case of male entitlement. so you just crouched down, starting to gather the mess in silence.

“fuck off,” you mumbled under your breath, not loud enough for him to hear. just loud enough for the rage inside your chest to breathe. as you reached for the pages, someone knelt down across from you. “motherfucking—”

you didn’t think anything of it until you looked up—

—and froze.

it was

daniela avanzini.

what.

the.

fuck.

is.

doing.

here.

kneeling right in front of you like this was some teen movie and not your actual life.

what. the. fuck.

“looks like someone’s in a little trouble here,” she said, her voice teasing but weirdly soft. like you knew each other. like this was normal. which it wasn’t. you didn’t know her. not really. just… admired her from a distance. kinda.

you stared at her, brain struggling to reboot, as she casually collected your scattered papers like she hadn’t just blown up your entire nervous system

“do you know me?”

you asked it before you could stop yourself.

she looked up at you and smiled —

not sarcastic. not fake. just… warm.

“of course i do,” she said, handing you pages. “y/n y/l/n, you’ve only been playing my dad’s church service every sunday for, like, two years.”

oh.

right.

her dad was the pastor.

“you’re his favorite heathen.” she added with a quiet laugh, “i love the way you play. it’s… comforting. in this weird, grounding way. i always feel better after.”

you stared at her. she didn’t sound like she was lying. and it fucked your brain a little.

you both stood up at the same time.

she gave you a little nod, then walked off like that was the most casual interaction in the world.

your eyes stayed on her, trailing her steps down the hallway until she disappeared into the crowd.

then slowly, you brought your phone back up to your ear.

“‘do you know me?’” you repeated, annoyed as fuck.

because yeah. that sentence wasn’t meant for daniela earlier, it was for the idiot on the other end of the call.

who replied with a snort, “uh huh. look behind you, loser.”

you frowned and turned.

fuck.

standing there like a boss bitch in a teen drama was jimin, better known as karina — the school’s it girl, walking ego, and certified pain in the ass

behind her stood her minions — minjeong, giselle, and ningning.

they had the same expression they always wore when they looked at you.

bored. mildly amused. slightly threatening.

the very same people who tried to bully you when you first got here. keyword: tried.

karina gave you a once-over, chewing gum like she had nothing better to do.

“god, what the fuck do you want now?” you asked, exhausted.

you were too fucking tired for her bullshit.

karina raised an eyebrow. “excuse you?”

before you could breathe, her right hand— minjeong —stormed forward like a fucking pitbull off the leash.

“who gave you the fucking right to talk to us like that, huh, freak?!”

before you could dodge, she grabbed the front of your shirt and slammed you back against the lockers so hard it made your teeth rattle. the cold metal pressed against your spine as your papers crumpled under your arm.

you met her glare without blinking.

“no one needs to,” you muttered. “now get your crusty ass breath outta my face.”

her eyes went wide. “you bitch—”

and her fist cocked back.

you braced.

but then karina’s voice, sharp as a whip, sliced through the tension.

“minjeong. off.”

minjeong hesitated, but stepped back with a huff, glaring at you like she’d left the punch on layaway. you exhaled through your nose. fixed your collar. scooped your phone from the ground.

your voice was flat. “you done?”

karina just stared at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

you didn’t know what the fuck they wanted.

“y/n, i’m home. let’s eat,” your dad called out as he stepped inside, voice echoing through the hallway before his head popped into your room.

you froze mid-sentence, pen hovering above the paper like it was a loaded gun. your body stiffened, eyes snapping up to meet his, wide with the kind of panic you only feel when you get caught doing something that isn’t illegal but still feels like a fucking crime.

“i know. i already ate,” you mumbled quickly, setting your pen down like nothing happened, like your heart wasn’t just in your throat. “was over at park’s place.”

he nodded like it was nothing. because it was. it had become this unspoken routine — dinners at sunghoon’s. his mom always made too much food and insisted you stay. you didn’t even bother fighting it anymore.

“she sent you food, too,” you added, trying to shift the attention off you.

your dad didn’t even acknowledge it. instead, he let his eyes wander past you, scanning the chaos spread across your desk. loose pages everywhere. ink-stained hands. scratched-out words.

“what are you writing?” he asked, arms folding across his chest as he leaned on the doorframe.

your eyes flicked down at your desk and only then did it hit you just how much of a disaster it looked like. not just in the physical mess, but in the way it screamed you were trying too hard to say something you didn’t even understand yet.

“nothing... just... an assignment,” you muttered, barely convincing yourself.

“oh yeah?” he raised an eyebrow. “what kind of assignment? let me see.”

he stepped closer, hand reaching for one of the papers. you moved without thinking, throwing yourself in the way like you were protecting classified fucking documents.

“dad, no.”

“what? it’s just an assignment,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“this has nothing to do with you,” you snapped back, a little too defensive, a little too fast.

but he didn’t listen — when did he ever? — and swiped one of the pages anyway. the corner tore in the process, and that sound alone made your stomach drop.

“dad!” you tried to grab it back, reaching over, almost wrestling him for it.

he held it up, smirking, dodging your hands with way too much amusement. “uh huh, let’s see what kind of life-changing schoolwork this is.”

“give it the fuck back!” you hissed, both of you practically the same height now, so it turned into a stupid tug-of-war.

he squinted at the page. “...are you writing someone a love letter?”

your entire spine turned to stone.

“fuck no,” you snapped way too fast, too sharp. “sunghoon asked me to write one for some girl. it’s for him.”

he burst out laughing, like that explanation was somehow even funnier. “you suck. let me help you write it.”

and you let him.

because yeah, you did in fact suck.

“she wrote back.”

that’s the first thing that dropped out of sunghoon’s mouth, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. and he looked weird — not excited, not smug or proud like you expected. just... confused. like her words rearranged the atoms in his brain.

you froze mid-wipe of the countertop, hand still clutching the damp rag as a drop of foam slid off the edge of a coffee cup. you glanced at sunoo behind the bar and gave him that look, eyebrows raised just enough to say, i need to disappear right now. he saw it immediately, barely nodding before nudging your elbow and sliding into your place like a goddamn angel.

you tossed the rag and practically yanked sunghoon by the sleeve, dragging him toward the back hallway, away from customers, from your boss's eagle-ass eyes, from the espresso machine that wouldn’t shut the fuck up. and before he could say anything else, you snatched the paper right out of his hand — eyes already scanning, already desperate.

daniela fucking avanzini.

your heart thumped hard. she’d replied.

the page was folded like it had been read a hundred times already, smudged with sunghoon’s gross fingerprints probably.

but there it was. her handwriting. clean, sharp.

i love wim wenders too. wouldn’t plagiarism him though.

— d

you just stared at it for a second, brows slowly knitting, lips parting like you were about to say something but your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“who the fuck is wim wenders?” sunghoon said, words rushing out of his mouth like they were tripping over each other. “and what’s plagiarism gotta do with—what the hell is she saying? is she mad? is it over? did we just get dumped?”

you didn’t even answer at first, jaw clenched, tongue pressing to the inside of your cheek as your eyes narrowed on the signature. that little dash and the single letter. d. fucking d.

“…fucking dad,” you hissed under your breath, your voice a tight whisper. “god, i told him not to—”

“for fuck’s sake,” sunghoon groaned. “i trusted you with one—”

“it’s not over.”

he blinked, mouth hanging slightly open. “…what?”

you turned the letter over, scanning the back as if something else would suddenly appear. nothing did. just her words echoing in your skull. “she’s... provoking us. that’s not a no. it’s not even rejection. she’s just throwing it back in our face.”

“like... a test?”

“like a fucking game,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the paper. then you looked up, meeting sunghoon’s stare head-on. “and she wants to see what we do next.”

he ran a hand through his hair. “okay. okay. so are we doing this? like—for real?”

you didn’t even hesitate. “yeah.” and then with zero actual enthusiasm, you added, “yay.”

he grinned, cocky suddenly. “we’re gonna win this.”

“obviously.”

but before anything else could leave his mouth, the sharp bark of your name came from the front. your manager. you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt

“that motherfucking bitch,” you muttered, stuffing the paper into your pocket. “whatever. i’ll write something new tonight. you’ll get it tomorrow.”

you gave sunghoon a lazy slap to the chest and turned on your heel.

but inside your chest, something was boiling. burning.

game on, daniela avanzini, game on.

you wanna play? fine.

but you didn’t know. not then. not really.

you didn’t realise this would turn into something.

maybe it was the beginning of something.

or maybe it wasn’t anything at all.

maybe it was just… something to hold.

but still—you did what you said you would.

you wrote daniela avanzini back.

in sunghoon’s name.

you didn’t think she’d reply.

but she did.

and then she did again. and again.

okay yeah. you caught me.

i hide behind other people’s words sometimes. the ones that already sound better than anything i could say myself. truth is, i don’t know a goddamn thing about love. i’ve lived in this town my whole life. same streets. same noise. same people.

i’m the oldest in a family that never runs out of things to say. i’m alright at basketball. but when it comes to shit that matters — my thoughts, my feelings, what i actually want? i’m useless.

and yet here i am, writing this to you.

— p.sh

did you know yawning uses ten different muscles? i keep that fact in my head like it’s supposed to explain something. maybe to remind myself that even the smallest things take effort. maybe to stop myself from showing when i’m tired. or bored. or feeling anything at all.

i use other people’s words too . and yeah, i know how this sounds, but i’m gonna say it anyway— you’re writing to me because i’m pretty right? when you’re a pretty girl, people treat you like a projection. they give you things because of who they think you are, not because they actually see you.

they don’t want to love you. they want to have you. there’s a difference. and somewhere in that difference, i ended up not being anyone at all.

— d

you hadn’t expected the letters to go back and forth like this.

you hadn’t planned for the rhythm of it — her writing, you replying. her unfolding the paper in class with that little smirk, that spark in her eye like someone had finally given her a secret worth keeping.

you’d see her resting her chin in her palm, eyes skimming every word like they were meant just for her.

and maybe they were.

even if she thought they came from someone else.

even if she thought they were sunghoon’s.

maybe that wasn’t your problem.

maybe that meant you were doing a good job.

but the fucked up part? once people decide you don’t fit in, they stop expecting you to. and there’s something kinda freeing in that. lonely. but freeing.

i used to think being different was the worst thing in the world.

— p.sh

don’t we all think we’re different, though? we say we’re weird. unique. strange. but then you zoom out and realize we’re just… the same kind of different. over and over. like a copy of a copy. i sit at the top of the popularity food chain or whatever. but it’s cold up here. it’s always cold.

— d

says the girl who probably doesn’t know how to be anything but a cliché. i don’t even know what i’m saying anymore. maybe the point is that people don’t notice what they don’t want to see.

sometimes that’s you. sometimes that’s me.

— p.sh

i keep thinking about something you said. there was an art teacher once told me that what makes a painting great instead of just good is five strokes. they’re the boldest ones. the scariest ones. the ones you make even if your hand’s shaking.

so now i’m stuck thinking

what’s your boldest stroke gonna be?

— d

sunghoon kept asking if she was saying anything good.

if she liked it.

if there were signs.

if they were winning.

and every time, you said yeah.

yeah, it’s going great.

yeah, she’s opening up.

yeah, she thinks it’s you.

you never said the truth.

you never said she thinks it’s you, but it’s really me.

you never said i think i’m falling into something i wasn’t supposed to start.

i get it now. you spend all this time building something that’s almost beautiful, and then you freeze at the idea of messing it up.

but maybe the only way to make it better is to risk fucking it up completely

— p.sh

that’s why i quit painting.

too scared to mess up something that was already okay. i wonder if that’s what i’m doing with my life.j ust living a pretty good life. not amazing. not wild. just good enough. probably the best you can get when you’re stuck in a town like fairpoint, kentucky.

— d

but do you even really know fairpoint?

you didn’t expect her to go.

to actually follow the instructions you wove into the letter, half as a dare, half as a breadcrumb trail.

but she did. she traced every sentence, every suggestion, every quiet direction—until she ended up there.

a wall. off the main roads. behind a chain link fence, next to the train tracks, half-hidden from the world.

the kind of place no one would bother to look. the kind of place people forget.

and there, sprayed in black paint, uneven and fading but there:

any five strokes here.

the can sat on the ground like it was waiting for her.

when she pressed down, it hissed.

fssssss.

just one line.

one clean, unbroken, bold stroke across the bricks.

and under it, she wrote:

your turn.

then stepped back.

then smiled.

not because of what it meant.

but because something in her already knew it wasn’t just a game anymore.

and maybe it never had been.

you came after she left.

it was quiet, the way alleys get after the buzz dies down. streetlights hummed above, casting a soft orange haze on the cracked wall. a can in your hand. one bold stroke.

you pulled back, tilted your head. it looked... okay.

then, just below your work:

so THAT’S your boldest stroke??

left it there.

walked away.

she came the next morning.

hair tied back, hoodie sleeves shoved up.

she paused when she saw your note.

eyebrow lifted.

“…hm.”

and she didn’t say anything else. just grabbed a can, shook it, and stared at the wall like it insulted her entire bloodline. then she started painting. copying the angle of your strokes — twisting them, playing off them. there was something soft about her chaos.

then below your message, she wrote, sloppily but sure:

i’m into the slow build. what was that?

you came back.

the paint was still damp in some parts. you touched the brick lightly, added a smear of blue into the curve she left. not to fix it—just to nudge it further. let it spill.

it was transforming. slowly. not into something recognizable, but into something honest.

then you wrote:

decisiveness. but, please, take all the time you need to be bold.

next day, she came.

she didn’t speak.

she just painted.

bold reds. a streak of silver like a knife cut through the black. it made no sense and all the sense at once. you watched from a distance, hidden behind a dumpster. she stepped back, studied the mess of colors like it was scripture.

then she looked dead at your last message and wrote under it:

is this BOLD enough for you?

the next time you came, it was finished.

like really finished.

no more space.

just a riot of color and contradiction and layered lines, the kind you don’t even realize are meaningful until you step back. until you breathe.

you stared for a long time, a little grin tugging at your lips.

“and thus was abstract art born.”

daniela avanzini came two hours later.

sunlight hit her cheek, hands in her pockets. she was chewing gum. tilted her head.

“yo, sunghoon did this?”

she scoffed, grinning.

“damn, manz needs to see this. wait, i need to take a pic—”

then—

“HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE!”

a fat security guard barreled into view, flailing.

daniela blinked. blinked again.

then fucking booked it.

“OH SHIT—”

she was gone.

the next day, you returned.

you froze.

someone had ruined it.

paint splashed all over, like blood over skin.

but there was something.

a new line, in shaky handwriting. small.

sighs :(

you squinted.

the “:(" had a little curl at the bottom.

you knew that curl. it was her.

you stared for a bit. let your breath go.

“that motherfucking man—” you muttered.

then sighed.

took out your can. shook it.

and beneath it all, where the mess lived, you added your final line:

everything beautiful is ruined eventually.

sunghoon was dribbling the basketball like it owed him money, his brows scrunched together, sweat glistening at his temple even though it wasn’t that hot. he looked at you like you were the fucking oracle or something.

“so when am i supposed to text her? or like… take her on a date? or whatever the fuck this is—dating?” he asked, pausing the bounce and spinning the ball lazily in his palm.

you sat leaned back on the worn-down gym bench, legs spread, wrist dangling over your knee, sipping that expired-tasting energy drink like you needed it to stay sane. you rolled your eyes without looking at him.

“too soon,” you muttered, pressing the cold can to your cheek for a second. “you text her now, she’s gonna think you’re another try-hard dickhead with zero game.”

“god,” he groaned, dragging the word out like it physically hurt. “i can’t keep doing this shit. this is so ridiculous. i just wanna be straight with her—wait, nah, fuck it, i’m texting her.”

he pushed the ball toward you and you caught it by instinct, your brain registering danger instantly.

he’s gonna fuck this up.

“bitch, do not—” you yelled, standing up just as he started walking toward his bag, phone already out.

but he was already doing it. standing there like a dumbass, typing away like it was a normal thursday and he wasn’t about to tank his one shot.

you stomped over, grabbing his shoulder, trying to talk some sense into him. “if you text her now, she’s gonna think you’re like every other guy who fell for her face and not her brain—”

but it was already too late.

“oh…” he said, blinking at the screen.

you tilted your head to see what fresh hell he just sent and read it aloud under your breath, stomach dropping.

@ hoonieee: would be mind drinking coffee w me ts weekend? 😊😊😊☕

what the fuck even is “would be mind.” was his brain buffering mid-text?

you immediately looked up, scanning the second floor of the gym. it had been seventeen minutes since daniela was up there with sophia and lara, laughing about something you couldn’t hear but wished you could. and there she still was, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the railing.

her phone was in her hand.

oh god. oh fuck. she saw it.

both you and sunghoon watched as her expression shifted — just slightly. a small, fleeting frown. that’s all it took to make your gut twist. then lara said something, and daniela slid her phone away like the message was a fucking fly she swatted.

you turned to sunghoon with murder in your eyes.

“you fucking idiot.”

you snatched the phone from him like it was a weapon, your mind already scrambling for some kind of damage control. maybe you could say it was a dare. maybe say it wasn’t meant for her. maybe—maybe—

then, a notification popped up.

daniela texted back.

@ danielavanzini: uh

sure?

sunghoon let out a sound that was definitely louder than it needed to be—a victorious scream muffled by his own hands as people turned to stare. he was grinning like an idiot, eyes wide, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“it worked,” he whispered.

he got a date. he actually fucking did it. with daniela avanzini. this weekend.

you stared at the phone for a second. then you looked back at him.

“give me your account password.”

he blinked, confused. “what??”

you raised your eyebrows. “i’ve made it this far into this shitshow, i’m not letting you fuck this up from here. i’m handling your texts from now on.”

“i mean… sure. it’s hoonissexy.”

you blinked.

“oh.”

you didn’t even say anything else. just slammed his phone against his chest and walked off, grabbing your bag like you were escaping a crime scene. you didn’t want to be seen anymore. not in this fucking gym, not around this stupid boy with hearts in his eyes and no brain in his skull.

but before you stepped out, you glanced up—just for a second.

daniela was looking straight at you.

smiling.

you didn’t smile back.

you just turned and walked away like you didn’t feel your heart fucking stutter.

“so you’re seriously telling me that awkward lgbt looking guy pulled that girl?” sunoo muttered from behind the counter, eyes glued to the corner table near the window. his tone was disbelieving, borderline offended. “like, jaw-dropping goddess levels of hot, sitting right there like she’s the lead in some tragic indie romance. she even looks like she’s from scissor city, if you get what i mean.”

you didn’t respond immediately. your gaze was already fixed in the same direction—daniela avanzini, wearing a cap low over her forehead, casually scrolling through her phone. even with half her face shadowed, she looked… god, she looked good. like a painting someone accidentally spilled golden light on.

“he’s not lgbt,” you said finally, quiet.

sunoo snorted. “i didn’t say he is, i said he looks gay. huge difference, babe.” he leaned back against the espresso machine with an exaggerated sigh. “where the fuck is he anyway? this man’s already late to his first date? damn.”

“maybe focus on the orders in front of you instead of sunghoon’s love life,” you mumbled, still watching daniela from the corner of your eye.

sunoo groaned and waved his hand. “no, listen. i have a gut feeling about this. that man? he’s hiding something. and that something is probably glitter and a hidden pinterest board full of andrew garfield gifs.”

“i hope so too,” you murmured without thinking.

you immediately glanced around, heart stuttering for a second — no one nearby had heard, thank god.

“y/n!” your boss’s voice snapped from the back, sharp and way too cheerful. “go get miss avanzini’s order!”

you blinked. of course. out of everyone in the cafe, you get sent to her. like the universe was playing some kind of joke.

daniela avanzini wasn’t just any pretty girl. she was the pretty girl in town. the kind people whispered about at church and stared at in grocery stores. her dad was the pastor, which only made things worse—like a halo she didn’t ask for but still wore everywhere.

you sighed, smoothed your apron, and forced yourself to walk over.

when you reached her table, you cleared your throat gently. “may i take your order, ma’am?”

she looked up, and the second her eyes met yours, her whole face changed. the kind of smile that spreads instantly, like it was just waiting for an excuse to appear. “oh—wait. it’s you?” she blinked, then let out a surprised little laugh. “you work here?”

you rubbed the back of your neck. “uh. yeah.”

“damn,” she said, still smiling, like this information genuinely delighted her. “i’ve been to this cafe before but i’ve never seen you.”

“i don’t work every day. just monday, tuesday, and thursday after school,” you said. “sometimes sunday too, if they need extra hands.”

she nodded, then tilted her head a little, clearly amused. “i guess that makes sense. i must’ve missed you.”

you shifted slightly, clearing your throat. “you’re waiting for someone, right?”

she hummed, glanced briefly toward the door, then back at you. “yeah... kind of.”

“is it, uh. like... a date?”

her eyes flicked up again, curious. a small smile tugged at her lips. “what do you think?”

you hesitated. “you seem... eager. that’s all.”

“eager?” she repeated, her voice light with amusement. “wow. that’s a first.”

you didn’t really know what to say to that, so you just nodded, trying to seem normal. like your stomach wasn’t doing slow, complicated flips.

there was a short silence. daniela looked up at the ceiling like she was thinking about something else entirely. her smile stayed.

“i’ll come back for your order when your... uh, date or friend arrives,” you said, turning to leave.

“y/n,” she called out, just as you started walking.

you paused. turned.

“it’s not a date.”

what the fuck

“it’s not a date,” sunoo repeated in a mocking sing-song tone once you got back to the counter, snickering. “girl, she literally said that out loud. you heard her. not a date. she even looked smug about it.”

you rolled your eyes. “shut the fuck up.”

“nah, but for real. you think she’s even into that awkward-lgbt-looking man?” he asked, snorting. “where is he, anyway? he’s late as hell.”

“i’m here!” a voice burst through the entrance, followed by sunghoon stumbling into the cafe, hair disheveled, breath shallow like he’d been sprinting. “is she still here? fuck, mom made me wash the dishes before i could—”

“bruh,” sunoo interrupted, completely deadpan. “shut up and go. she’s sitting right there, and you’re already fifteen minutes late. stop talking.”

sunghoon started toward her table, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm. “listen, she likes books. like actually loves talking about them. she prefers abstract art over literal. if she brings up remains of the day, tell her the movie didn’t do the book justice—especially when it came to the nazi subplot.”

sunghoon groaned. “y/n, it’s a date. i’m not prepping for a goddamn history essay.”

you raised both brows.

he shrugged you off and started walking to her table. you watched his back, not saying anything.

sunoo leaned in closer to your ear. “he’s absolutely gonna fuck this up,” he said under his breath, tone smug and certain. “but hey, silver lining…”

you didn’t respond.

you were still staring at them — sunghoon awkwardly sitting down, daniela smiling at something he said, her hand resting lightly on her chin.

you couldn’t look away.

sunoo nudged you. “so that means i have a chance with the awkward-lgbt-looking man, right?”

it wasn’t going nearly as smoothly as sunghoon swore it would. it was awkward. painfully, bone-deep, secondhand-embarrassment-inducing awkward.

daniela set the book down on the café table with a soft thunk, sliding it across to him like it was some kind of offering. “i’m pretty sure you’ve already read this,” she said, brushing her hair back like she was trying to play it casual. “but it’s signed. thought you’d appreciate it.”

remains of the day.

he stared at the cover like it personally insulted him.

“uh, yeah...? nazis. i... love that. thanks.”

the words flopped out of his mouth like a dying fish. because sunghoon had absolutely no fucking idea what the book was. or who wrote it. or what it was even about. the guy barely even skimmed textbooks, let alone literary fiction from the twentieth century.

daniela nodded, but she looked... off. not disappointed, exactly. just—off. like she was trying really hard not to let the silence choke her to death. “i’m glad we’re friends,” she said, gesturing between herself and him, forcing a smile.

he blinked. friends? after all that shit?

his eyes flicked to the counter. you were busy, hands full, chatting with some customer, but he could feel your gaze drift back every now and then. checking in. just like you always did.

“yeah. friends. sick,” he replied quickly, practically drowning himself in iced americano to avoid the taste of guilt.

the whole thing was fucked before it even got off the ground.

because sunghoon wasn’t the person who wrote those letters daniela still kept in her bag.

he wasn’t the one who painted abstract dreams into cement walls and gave them meaning with strokes bold and stupid and honest.

he wasn’t the one who wrote decisiveness, but please, take all the time you need to be bold.

he wasn’t you.

and daniela didn’t know that.

so of course she was gonna sit there confused as hell. of course she was gonna wonder where the magic went. why it felt so hollow. so off.

and sunghoon?

sunghoon was just trying not to burst into flames under the weight of a lie that wasn’t his.

“y/n, listen—”

“shut up.” your voice was flat, not even bothering to look up from your textbook as your pen dragged across the page, already halfway through solving a problem you didn’t even care about. “i knew this was gonna go to shit the second you asked me to help you ‘woo’ daniela avanzini.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, the kind of annoyed breath that carried weeks of pent-up irritation. “now she’s gonna figure out you’re a fucking weirdo and ghost you like every other girl with a brain.”

sunghoon groaned from your bed like a dying dog, rolling onto his stomach dramatically. “fuck, please,” he whined. “do something. i literally started reading that book for her.”

your hand paused mid-sentence. slowly, you turned around to stare at him like he just confessed to murdering someone. “you? reading?”

“yes! even though i fell asleep like, five times,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like a toddler. “but i tried.”

you blinked. this idiot.

“there’s nothing we can do—”

your phone vibrated on the desk with a quick buzz, and your eyes darted to the screen without thinking.

“she texted—”

“WAIT LET ME SEE!” sunghoon practically launched himself off your bed, scrambling toward your desk like his life depended on it.

you tilted the screen toward him just long enough for him to read:

@ danielavanzini: so that was weird

“YESSSS!” he fist-pumped his voice echoed off the walls and made you cringe.

you tossed your phone down and dragged your hands over your face, glasses slipping off as you rubbed your temples.

“…fine,” you mumbled. “i’ll help you.”

sunghoon froze. “really?!”

“yeah. now get ready before i change my mind and you’re left crying into your fucking shampoo bottle.”

and that’s how the mission started: operation somehow-make-sunghoon-less-of-a-dipshit-so-he-has-a-chance-with-daniela-avanzini.

aka: stalking her but in a totally educational way.

step one: figure out what daniela liked, hated, what books she actually read (without sleeping through them), and how the fuck to coach sunghoon into holding a conversation without tripping over every word like he was being strangled mid-sentence.

you and sunghoon had been “casually observing” daniela for a week now. trailing behind her at school, hanging back in the grocery store while she bought those granola bars she always carried around, watching her hang out with her friends — especially that one guy, ryan.

ryan.

god. that fucking guy.

he wasn’t officially her boyfriend or anything — at least, daniela never confirmed it — but his family was always around hers, like they were already being forced into marriage or something. and he acted like it, too. always hovering around her, but also all over every other girl he could find.

you hated him immediately.

he was obsessed with himself.

talked about his stupid car like it was the second coming of christ.

never paid enough attention to daniela.

and daniela... she deserved better than a self-centered poser with a mediocre jawline and no personality.

you even managed to interrogate some of her friends. megan was the easiest to crack—girl couldn’t keep a secret if you paid her. you got her to spill everything: favorite café, favorite poet, what kind of music she listened to when she was sad, which movies made her cry like a baby.

sunghoon asked her out again.

and to everyone’s surprise—

she said yes.

you didn’t say anything when he told you. you just looked at him, blinked once, and muttered,

“you better not fuck this up.”

you and sunghoon sat on the edge of his porch, the wood creaking beneath you every time either of you shifted. a soft summer breeze tugged at your clothes, and above, the stars looked unusually bright — like they knew something the two of you didn’t.

sunghoon tilted his head toward you, eyes catching the glow of the moonlight. “i can’t wait for tomorrow,” he said with a small smile.

you hummed in agreement, leaning your head against the wall of his house, cheek pressed to the cool surface. “me too. after that day... i’ll finally be free.”

he frowned a little at your wording. “don’t say it like that,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-scolding.

you chuckled under your breath, not looking at him.

the silence that followed was gentle but heavy, like it was waiting for something. after a while, you spoke, not turning to face him. “why do you love daniela avanzini so much? what is it about her that made you go this far?”

sunghoon blinked at you, surprised. not by the question—he had clearly been expecting it—but maybe by the way you asked it. like you were trying to understand something deeper.

“i was wondering when you’d ask me that,” he said, straightening his back slightly. he took in a deep breath, staring ahead at the empty street. “honestly? who wouldn’t love her? she’s basically perfect. she’s kind, she’s beautiful, she’s smart. she’s... everything a girl dreams of being.”

you scoffed, shaking your head slowly. “that’s not love, you idiot.”

he raised an eyebrow. “then what is it?”

you looked down at your hands. your voice came out quieter now, more vulnerable. “it’s when you notice the small things. how her eyes actually hold your gaze when she talks. how she absentmindedly twirls a strand of her hair when she’s focused on reading. how her laugh kind of explodes when she finds something genuinely funny. how she acts all fierce and untouchable, but deep down she’s soft. she cares. she really cares about the people she loves. and her voice... her voice and her eyes. they are so pretty...”

as the words spilled out, it stopped feeling like you were explaining something to him. it felt like you were finally admitting it to yourself.

you felt the air shift. you looked up to find him staring at you—expression unreadable at first, then shifting into something else. not shock. not anger.

“you like daniela,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “i—hoon, it’s not like that—”

“what do you mean ‘not like that’? i tell you i love her and you’re here describing details i didn’t even notice. do you even realize how people act when they’re in love?”

you looked away, throat tightening. it didn’t feel like you were denying it to him anymore—it felt like you were trying to convince yourself.

“no. no, i don’t like her.”

the lie tasted bitter.

sunghoon stood up suddenly, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “goodnight,” he mumbled, voice stiff. “i think i should go.”

you stayed seated, but your voice followed him. “you love daniela,” you said simply, watching him stop mid-step. “you’re the first man i’ve seen—aside from my dad—put in this much effort for a girl. i think that’s real. i think that’s love.”

he turned to glance back at you. you gave him a small smile — one filled with guilt, sadness, but also truth.

he didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth tugged up before he looked away again. “best of luck for tomorrow,” you whispered.

he nodded once and disappeared into the house.

and you stayed there, under the stars, heart heavy with realization.

you were in love with daniela avanzini.

you were sitting on your chair, staring blankly at the wall like it owed you an apology. your thoughts were loud, louder than any noise outside. it was one of those nights where everything felt heavier, tighter, like your own brain was turning against you.

i’m so fucked.

you kept repeating it to yourself, over and over, like some broken prayer. like saying it enough times would un-fuck the situation. like it’d pull you out of this twisted shit you somehow let yourself fall into.

you always said love wasn’t your thing. it’s not for me.

that’s not what i’m here for.

it ruins shit. it gets in the way.

and guess what? it’s doing exactly that. it’s in the way. it’s chewing your thoughts up like meat.

your phone buzzed. again. and again. and again.

reluctantly, you reached into your pocket and dragged it out, papers still stuffed under your other arm.

@ danielavanzini: hi

u up?

i’m sure u r

of course it was her.

your eyes hovered over the name like it had teeth.

your chest ached, head pounding with the aftermath of too much thinking, too much wondering, too much pretending like it wasn’t messing you up.

you did the thing you shouldn’t have done.

@ hoonieee: yeah

why?

@ danielavanzini: nothing rlly

can’t wait for the next weekend tho. hope it doesn’t end up like last time lol

you froze.

she was excited… to see him.

not you. not who you really are.

him.

@ hoonieee: same

can’t wait to see u

you stared at your own message like it was written by someone else. was that sunghoon? was that you trying to be him? why the fuck did that sound so... desperate? too warm, too open?

you waited. she didn’t reply. not for a while. your fingers clenched, your jaw tightened. you finally tossed the phone beside you and let your head drop back—

buzz.

@ danielavanzini: why r u always awake ts late?

your eyes dragged across the screen.

you thought for a second, typed slowly.

@ hoonieee: the world is sleeping, more room for thoughts

@ danielavanzini: hours of secrets?

you scoffed.

secrets?

you had so many, they were practically roommates at this point.

@ hoonieee: no secrets.

lie.

@ danielavanzini: speaking abt secrets

i’ve been thinking abt smth a lot

don’t rlly have someone to share

i mean i do but i can’t really let it out to anyone

@ hoonieee: ohh. that’s bad

@ danielavanzini: it is! so i’m thinking i should tell u

bc u understand me a lot

u get it ok? like no one does

i mean others would too if i were this open w em

but anyways

i think i like someone

your entire body stiffened.

eyes wide, fingers clenched around the phone like it might shatter.

did she just say that?

did she just say she likes someone?

your heart fucking dropped.

you sat up. you sat up like it was a fire drill.

what the fuck did she mean by that?

you started typing.

@ hoonieee: who do you like?

delete.

@ hoonieee: is it someone i know?

delete.

@ hoonieee: who is that?

delete.

you stared at the blinking cursor. your chest was rising and falling way too fast for someone just “chatting.”

don’t lose it. don’t act weird. don’t act like it’s about you.

@ danielavanzini: sorry for dropping the bombshell out of nowhere

i js thought u deserved to know

well i can’t rlly say who it is

but i’ve known them for a long time

i think they like someone else tho

you blinked at the screen. the words punched through your skull one by one.

them.

fuck.

who’s them?

why the fuck is it them?

you swallowed hard.

is she talking about ryan?

is it someone else?

your stomach felt like it flipped over. your tongue was dry.

you didn’t know if you wanted to throw up or scream or laugh like a maniac.

@ hoonieee: its okay

you sent it.

the fakest two words you ever typed.

because it wasn’t okay.

none of this was okay.

but still you sent that

@ hoonieee: if u think they’re worth the risk, js confess

you didn’t even register how you ended up at a party sunghoon dragged you to, somewhere in a house that belonged to one of his friends—some guy named jake, you barely knew him beyond the name.

partying was not your thing. never was.

you’d rather be buried under three blankets, headphones on, pretending the world doesn’t exist.

but that night, you didn’t put up much of a fight. maybe you were tired. maybe your heart had been screaming too loud lately, and alcohol was the only thing that could get it to shut up.

you remember the blur—music, lights, sunghoon’s arm around your shoulder, someone laughing too loud, drinks you should’ve said no to but didn’t.

you remember being handed shot after shot like it was water.

you remember a sharp pain in your gut, a sick twist.

then you remember throwing up.

and sunghoon, always the loyal idiot, dragging your half-dead weight to his car.

somewhere in all that mess, you’d caught a glimpse of daniela’s friend. not daniela.

of course not. she couldn’t come. her dad had her on lockdown, the kind of curfews you couldn't negotiate your way out of.

it made sense. still didn’t stop the ache.

now, you woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours.

your eyes cracked open slowly. the air was unfamiliar. the blanket wasn’t yours—too dark, too scratchy. the smell wasn’t yours either.

you sat up, your head pounding like you got into a fight with a train and lost.

you blinked a few times, reached for your glasses on the nightstand.

sunghoon’s room.

of course. where else would you be?

you groaned. everything hurt.

your eyes landed on the table beside the bed. a small folded note and a pill next to it.

take this

you didn’t hesitate. you popped the pill into your mouth, grabbed the water glass, chugged it like your life depended on it.

anything to make the headache disappear.

and then—

voices. muffled, outside the room.

sunghoon’s mom.

“hoon just left with his dad, you can wait for him here.”

wait? who?

“i’m not planning to wait, i’ll just leave the drawing and go.”

your heart slammed against your ribs.

fuck.

no. no no no no no.

you spit the water out like it burned your throat. shoved the blanket off, scrambling for your bag, your jacket, your keys.

you couldn’t be here. not now. not like this.

daniela was here?

“oh, y/n is here, you two talk, i’ll be back!”

you froze mid-motion, jacket half on, bag hanging off your shoulder.

the door creaked open.

she stepped in, and you swore your brain short-circuited.

daniela looked surprised—but not in the bad way. just startled. and then she smiled. that soft, polite smile she always had.

“h-hi,” you stammered, the word cracking like glass. you awkwardly waved with one hand, trying to look casual while literally holding your jacket halfway across your torso. “i was just… here to take my books back.”

she tilted her head. “books?”

you adjusted your glasses like it would make your lie sound more believable. “yeah. he’s been doing a lot more reading lately.”

she nodded slowly. “aww, is it because i kept asking him too many questions about books? god, i’m so annoying.”

your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

“you’ve never been annoying.”

then you winced. fuck.

there was silence. awkward. thick. heavy.

she glanced down at the paper in her hands. “i was just here to give him this. i drew it last night.”

she held it up like it was nothing. like it wasn’t a part of her heart scribbled in ink.

you walked up to her and took it gently, your fingers brushing against hers.

you stared at the lines, the curves, the soft shadows of the drawing.

“i like the stroke here,” you said quietly, handing it back. “he’s gonna love it.”

she smiled, looking down.

and god, you hated how much that smile did to you.

“uh, i gotta go,” you said quickly, suddenly breathless. “i have to be at the café.”

you turned to leave, already halfway out the door when you heard her call your name.

“y/n?”

you turned, half-expecting her to vanish if you blinked.

“yeah?”

“can i come with you?”

“well. uh. that’s… awkward,” sunoo muttered under his breath, glancing at you from the side like he didn’t want to be caught caring. “you literally have a whole-ass girl sitting out there waiting for you, like—full-on waiting. and you're here giving all your attention to someone’s half-assed espresso order or whatever. like. respectfully. minus aura, y/l/n.”

you groaned under your breath. “god, what am i even supposed to do?”

sunoo shrugged like it was obvious. “i don’t know. skip your shift? take her somewhere? literally anywhere?”

“and where am i supposed to take her, genius?”

he blinked at you, blank-faced. “why are you asking me that?”

“bitch because you’re the one who said i should take her somewhere.”

“yeah, because you need to. you can’t just leave her out there like some kicked puppy while you’re inside pretending your life’s not imploding. and if you're worried about the boss—don’t. i got it. i’ll cover your shift.”

“are you sure—”

“bitch, just go.”

you didn’t argue after that. you just muttered something that vaguely resembled “okay goddamn” and yanked off your apron, barely managing to hang it up without tripping over your own feet.

daniela was still there, still exactly where you left her, sitting at the corner table with a book in her hand. she’d insisted she’d wait. insisted she didn’t mind. but her leg was bouncing under the table, and the crease between her brows hadn’t left since the second coffee was handed to her.

“hey…” you said, awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck.

she looked up immediately. “you’re done already?”

you scratched your temple, glancing over your shoulder. “not technically. sunoo kind of kicked me out. said i wasn’t allowed to make lattes while i’ve got a girl out here waiting like it’s a drama or something.”

you gestured toward the counter where sunoo had taken your place, and as daniela’s eyes followed your hand, he looked up—grinned—and gave her the most unserious little wave.

her lips twitched. “he’s cute. can i steal you for a while?”

“steal me?”

“yeah,” she said, standing and gently tugging at your sleeve. “can i take you somewhere?”

you blinked. “where?”

she smiled. that kind of quiet, secret smile that curled like a hook at the corner of her mouth. “you’ll love it,” she said simply, already pulling you by the wrist like she wasn’t giving you an actual choice.

you didn’t fight it. you followed her out the door, across the parking lot, into her car. she closed the door behind her with a soft thunk and turned to face you, like she was waiting to watch the curiosity bloom in your expression.

you looked over. “okay. so. where are we going?”

daniela grinned. the kind of grin that promised something warm. “my secret favourite spot.”

the car ride was quiet. not the awkward kind filled with tension or unspoken arguments, but the soft kind, where the only thing filling the silence was the low hum of the engine and daniela’s occasional, almost subconscious humming.

you had no idea where she was taking you. you didn’t ask either.but it wasn't until the car slowed to a stop that you realized.

a hot spring.

tucked quietly between tall trees and thick mist, like it was hiding from the world on purpose. the kind of place you’d see in someone’s dream or a movie.

“this is the place i always come to when i need to clear my mind,” daniela said, her voice a little louder now, like she was trying to snap you out of the daze. she shrugged off her jacket, “my cousin found this place. it’s really tucked away, barely anyone knows it’s here.” she gave a small laugh, not looking at you, but at the water.

you just blinked. why did she bring me here? we’re not even that close.

and before you could gather your thoughts, she was already tugging her crop top over her head. you turned around so fast it almost hurt your neck. your hand flew up instinctively, eyes wide, heart skipping like a scratched record.

she chuckled softly. why is she so casual about it?

“it feels so good here,” her voice echoed off the water gently. “thought you’d like it.”

the steam curled around the edges of the spring like soft fingers, and when you turned your head just slightly, you saw her already sitting in the water. she looked relaxed. comfortable. and naked. like the heat of the spring belonged to her.

her eyes found yours, then flicked down to your clothes.you hesitated.

she raised a brow. gave you a small, knowing smile. you adjusted your glasses awkwardly and gestured for her to turn around. she made a dramatic little “aww” face but obeyed, turning her back to you. “this is kinda awkward, but i’m gonna ignore it,” she mumbled playfully.

your fingers trembled a little as you undressed, leaving your shirt on. you couldn’t make yourself take it off. your skin felt too visible already. too bare under her gaze, even if she wasn’t looking.

you slipped into the water slowly. the warmth crawled up your legs.

she turned when she sensed you were near. her eyes met yours.

you were still wearing your glasses. your t-shirt clung slightly to your skin. your knees were drawn up, trying to shrink into yourself.

her gaze dropped. “is that… a long underwear?” she said, one brow lifted.

you looked down at yourself. “…y-yeah.”

her lips twitched like she was trying not to laugh too hard.

then, suddenly, she stood up slightly, eyes widening a bit. “oh—music. i forgot.”

music?

you turned your head, and just for a second, saw too much of her bare skin before snapping your eyes away again so fast they almost teared up. your heart was beating hard. annoyingly hard. like it was trying to break out of your ribs.

“there’s no signal here,” she said, walking over to the side where she’d left her stuff. she bent down, still unfazed, pulling out a small, slightly old-looking radio from her bag. “but i’ve got this guy. it should work.”

she fiddled with it for a second, static filling the quiet air, before she found a station. a soft lo-fi track began playing through the speaker, mixing with the sound of water.

she got back in, like none of this was weird.but your thoughts were anything but calm.

the hot spring steamed softly around you, a hazy warmth rising in the quiet air. daniela had her eyes closed, her back leaned against the stone edge, the softest smile on her lips like the world didn’t weigh so heavy on her shoulders.

you sat beside her, unsure. stiff. trying not to let your eyes drift too long in her direction — but you couldn’t help it.

the water clung to her skin, highlighting the soft curve of her collarbone, the faint moles that dotted her shoulder. even with her eyes shut, she could feel you looking.

“so…” her voice broke the silence, eyes slowly opening as she tilted her head your way, “how’s life here? any plan after school?”

you blinked, pulled out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. “uh— it’s… good. i’m still figuring things out. my dad wants me to go out of town, maybe some big university or something.”

she nodded, listening, fingers absentmindedly trailing through the water.

“what about you?” you asked.

she paused for a beat. “mm, not sure either. but… i overheard my dad talking to ryan’s dad again. about our ‘future marriage.’”

your body stiffened.

“they’ve mentioned it before,” she went on, looking down at the rippling water, “but now it sounds like they’re serious.”

a heavy silence fell. you stared at her, but she didn’t meet your gaze

“...but what do you want?” you asked softly.daniela exhaled, a quiet, almost resigned sound. “i don’t know,” she said. “maybe… everything happens for a reason? maybe that’s just what god wants for me.”

“you mean… marrying someone you don’t even love?” you muttered.

she laughed at that, not mocking, but warm. “you’re funny, you know that?”

you squinted at her. “is that sarcasm?”

“what do you think?”

“...it is sarcasm.”

she laughed harder now, the sound echoing gently in the open air. “no, no,” she waved a hand, “i actually mean it. you’ve got this unintentional humor. it just sneaks up on people.”

you didn’t say anything. just looked at her.

then, without warning, she said, “do you believe in god?”

you didn’t answer right away. your fingers twitched, and your eyes flicked toward the floor

“no,” you finally said, voice quiet but certain.

she exhaled a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “that sounds kind of peaceful.”

you shook your head almost instantly. “it’s not. it’s not peaceful at all. it’s—” you glanced at her, “it’s like walking around with something missing all the time. like carrying around a silence that no one else hears but you do.”

her eyes stayed on you for a long moment. she gave a slow nod, like she understood something but couldn’t find the words for it. you turned the question back to her. “what about you? do you believe?”

“yeah. yeah, i do,” she said, “my dad’s a pastor. we pray before dinner. before bed. i don’t even remember when i started or if i ever had a choice. it’s just always been there.” you listened, nodding gently. “but lately…” her voice thinned. “i don’t know. it’s hard.”

“why?”

she hesitated, like the truth was something she wasn’t sure she should hand over. “because i think i’m falling for someone i probably shouldn’t. and i keep praying about it, but the feelings don’t go away.” she laughed, but it didn’t sound amused. “they just get louder.”

the silence sat between you like a ghost neither of you wanted to acknowledge. you looked at her, unsure—unsure what she meant, unsure who she even liked, unsure if you had any right to ask.

were you even close enough to her to know that kind of truth?

“i should probably marry ryan, right?” daniela said suddenly, almost too casually. your heart paused.

“i mean, he’s a good guy. everyone would love to get a husband like him.” she turned to face you, eyebrows raised. “or not?”

you blinked. “do you love him?”

her lips pressed into a line. “i could try. maybe i should. maybe that’s the safer thing.” she looked away again, out at the sky like she was waiting for god to answer. “but it’s just... love shouldn’t be something you have to force, right?”

“you shouldn’t be scared of who you love,” you murmured, surprising even yourself with how soft your voice sounded. “because love—it’s never been a sin. not real love.”

daniela gave a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it. “tell that to a church pew.”

you shook your head. “god didn’t make love just to call it dirty. he didn’t give us warmth just to punish us for wanting to be held.”

daniela looked at you now. “you think god’s sitting up there mad at me for looking at her like she’s the first light after a long winter?”

it’s a her???

“i think,” you said, voice low, “if god’s anything like love, then he wouldn’t be mad. he’d understand.”

she was quiet for a beat. then, “you’re dramatic as hell.”

you laughed—half from nerves, half from how her voice softened the weight in your chest.

“and you're deflecting,” you said.

“maybe,” she smirked. “or maybe i’m just saying it’s silly. all of it. trying to explain love with scripture and guilt.”

then she turned toward you fully, that mischievous spark flickering back into her gaze. “you know what else is silly?”

your brows furrowed, but before you could ask, she stepped closer. and you noticed—god—how close she really was now.

“this long ass underwear,” she teased, tugging it slightly. “what are you hiding under there, huh?”

“stop—” you tried to snatch her hand away, heat already rising up your neck.

“wait—” she laughed, tugging more. “is there another layer underneath this?!”

you shoved her a little, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “you’re so annoying—”

“you’re like a nesting doll,” she giggled. “how many layers do you wear?? are you okay?? blink twice if you’re freezing to death—”

you were both laughing, breathless, her hands still teasing the fabric. then you both paused. just for a second. not because the moment called for it. but because your eyes met. and that tiny space between you disappeared.

her breath was soft against your cheek now. her hands still close. too close.you forgot what you were going to say.and she forgot to move away.

“say something,” she breathed, and though it wasn’t desperation exactly, there was something in her voice that cracked under the weight of the silence. like if it stretched a second longer, it might shatter her entirely.

your eyes met hers. her face was flushed, probably from the steam rising around both of you—but her eyes… they were burning. not from the heat. from something so much heavier. so much closer to unraveling.

“what do you want me to say?” your voice was quiet, almost stolen by the gentle ripple of the hot spring.

her gaze dropped to your lips, then darted back up. she looked like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, like she already knew the fall would hurt and still—she leaned closer

“tell me i’m not insane,” she said. not in a pitiful way, no—more like someone trying to believe herself. “for feeling like this.”

you blinked. heartbeat stuttering. “feeling like what?”

“like i’m not broken.” her voice cracked. “like i’m not gonna destroy everything again if i just—if i let myself want something for once.”

your words caught in your throat. “daniela—”

“fuck it,” she muttered, eyes closing like she was swallowing every doubt at once.

“god, i’m gonna regret this—”

and then she kissed you.

no warning, no breath between the words—just lips crashing into yours, urgent and reckless and full of everything she couldn’t put into sentences. her hands cupped your cheeks, sliding to the back of your neck, dragging you impossibly closer as if she could anchor herself in your skin. her body pressed against yours, chest to chest, her kiss hungry and trembling. like she was trying to convince you. like she was trying to convince herself.

you froze.

for a second, you weren’t even kissing back. you were just feeling. her breath mixing with yours. her fingertips digging into your skin like she was afraid you’d vanish. her heart hammering fast enough that you could feel it through the wet heat between you.and then reality.

daniela avanzini was kissing you.

and it felt good.

too good.

but before you could melt into it, before you could even let your body answer what your mind was too scared to say—you pulled back. fast. breathless

she flinched, just slightly. her lips parted, her face contorting like she’d just broken something delicate and couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

“i-i’m sorry,” she stammered, wiping her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. “fuck, i—I couldn’t hold it in. i’m sorry.”

you stared.

“so... the person you were talking about...”

she nodded before you even finished. “you. it’s always been you. i know it’s stupid, i know—heck, i remember the first time i saw you at church and i felt something so wrong. like i wasn’t supposed to feel it. you’re a girl, and that should’ve stopped me. but it didn’t. and i tried to forget it, to erase it, but i couldn’t. not when you looked at me like you didn’t even know you were undoing me.”

she pushed her soaked hair back with both hands. “you don’t have to say anything. really. i get it. i’m sorry if i messed it all up.”

your heart was pounding so loud, it almost drowned the quiet hiss of the water.

everything made sense now.

the way she smiled at you when no one else was looking. the way you were the secret she carried with shame and softness.

but all you could say was—

“sunghoon.”

the name left your lips before you could stop it. and immediately, her face fell. “he likes you,” you whispered, guilt settling into your chest like an anchor. “i can’t. i’m sorry.”

you weren’t sure who you were apologizing to—her, yourself, or the part of you that wanted to kiss her back. because something in your chest twisted painfully when you said it. like betrayal. like regret. like love trying to crawl out of your mouth but choking on someone else’s name instead.

daniela swallowed. “what about me?”

you looked up.

“i like you, isn’t it worth something?”

a/n: help meeeee guys i hv been peeing a lot lately, is that a bad sign

[psychearrows]

screw it.

1. With my mom, absolutely. My dad and I are friendly.

2. My girlfriend 💕

3. Yeah, but ultimately I think everything’s worked out for the best.

4. Yeah :D

5. Taken 💕💕

6. Quietly and peacefully, when I’m satisfied with how I’ve lived my life. Preferably above 85.

7. Smoothie with peanut butter, a banana, milk, spinach, and chocolate protein powder.

8. Um… yes, but I sucked at all of them (except ice skating, I was average at that)

9. No, but I pick at them

10. Never fought. Maybe with my brother when I was like, 4

11. yea :))) betcha cant guess (hint: it’s my girlfriend 💕💕)

12. Nope. Never stayed up 24 either.

13. politicians, mostly

14. Yeah

15. Not anymore. I had a dog when I was younger tho.

16. Pretty good! I have to pack tho, and that’s boring :p

17. Never made out in general

18. Yeah

19. No. Im a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and I don’t wanna cause any paradoxes

20. I don’t know what that means and I don’t think I want to

21. Going upstate to visit family

22. Yes, 1-3

23. Nope. Terrified of needles

24. Math and English

25. Yeah. But it’s for the best.

26. Peanut butter sandwich 😋

27. I don’t think so? I’ve broken up with someone, but I felt like it was mutual (???)

28. No

29. Yes, but we weren’t dating at the time. I delivered a monologue I wrote about a girl who took her own life, and it made her emotional.

30. The texture of my shorts (gonna change)

31. Yes, many people I think :)

32. Blue! Light blue specifically. Close second is dark or olive green

33. Maybe?

34. There was vodka in it. That’s all I remember

35. My Six cast mates (I said the wrong words in my song, and I cried during intermission)

36. I don’t think so?

37. I don’t do either easily. But I guess forgive, cause I never forget

38. Could be. It’s been a pretty good year, but I haven’t had too many :)

39. Twelve

40. NO. Never walked out of my room without being covered.

There is no 41 - 50 lol

51. Bread :D

52. Oh I mentioned that in this lol. Yes, absolutely.

53. Logged onto tumblr :>

54. No. Never.

55. I wouldn’t say so

56. Zero

57. Eh. No, not really.

58. The rain :)

59. Yeah!

60. Absolutely! Hope it’s still legal by the time I can

61. It makes me a little eugh, but if my girlfriend called me it I probably wouldn’t mind

62. A lot of things. Off the top though, alone time, my mama, my girlfriend, my friends, video games, books, knowing a fact or trivia, blah blah blah

63. Probably not, but I do kind of want to change what I go by in real life (to a variation of my birth name)

64. Currently, yes. But like. Theoretically I could kiss her on Monday lol

65. Tell him I’m gay, and that I have a girlfriend.

66. Yea, he’s chill :)

67. My brother

68. My therapist lol (just got back from therapy)

69. I believe you make your own, platonic or romantic

70. Yes. My girlfriend, my best friend, another close friend, anyone I know that’s very young, and any of my siblings. I’d also die for my mom, but she wouldn’t let me and I don’t think she could handle the survivor’s guilt.

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[mikkies]

「 ALL OF YOUR FEELINGS, I PLAYED WITH THEM, WE WERE TOO DIFFERENT, YOU WERE TOO SENSITIVE. 」

Sebastian Solace x GN! Expandable! Reader

warnings: none

notes: my hello to the Pressure x reader fandom... don't bite me pls. (side note: Sebastian might not be accurate here since I only know a bit and asked for some help within my community)

THE FLICKERING BLUE glow of the angler bulb was the only light in the cluttered, patchwork shop. 

Strange tools clicked and buzzed in the background, their purpose long forgotten by anyone but Sebastian himself. 

The air stank faintly of salt and rust and something just a little unnatural. You had been here before—several times, in fact—but maybe today was different.

You didn’t come to trade.

You came because your will gave out just after entering.

"Well, well,” came his voice, smooth as sea glass but laced with subtle irritation. 

“If it isn’t my favorite repeat visitor. You planning on buying something, or just loitering and bleeding emotions all over the floor again?"

You didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even look up.

You just sat there, curled inward, shaking. Your hands were tight fists against your uniform, knuckles pale. And when you finally spoke, your voice cracked in a way you didn’t mean it to.

“I just wanna go home.”

A silence stretched between you. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. As if the room itself had gone still with your words.

“…Tch.”

There was the faint sound of a tail fin swishing against the steel floor, followed by a shuffle of belts and fabric. You felt his presence lower beside you, one of his larger hands coming to rest a little ways from yours—close, but not touching.

"You’re crying again.”

“…Yeah,” you muttered, barely audible. "I miss my family. I didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t think I’d be stuck here. I didn’t know."

"You weren’t supposed to," he said, with an odd detachment that almost passed as kindness. 

“They never tell you how long you'll be gone. How much you’ll lose. They like it better that way. Keeps you scared. Desperate.”

Your breath hitched. You turned your face into your sleeve to muffle a sob.

Sebastian watched, eyes—plural—softening just slightly. His third one blinked slowly on the side of his head, observing more than seeing.

“…Do you want a tissue?” he asked, a bit awkwardly. "I think I’ve got some wedged between the bandages and the cat pin.”

You let out a small laugh that turned into a hiccup. “That’s… probably gross.”

“Very. But authentic.” He leaned in a bit. “And better than crying into your sleeve and giving yourself a rash.”

You sniffled. “I-I didn’t mean to bother you. I know you don’t like visitors hanging around—”

“You didn’t bother me,” he interrupted.

That shut you up. You glanced at him then—really looked—and for once, he wasn’t smiling. 

Not that smug grin, not that practiced salesman smirk. His face was still, lit eerily from the glow of his angler bulb. It cast strange shadows on his sharp teeth, but somehow made him look… tired. Just a little.

“I hate this place too, y’know,” he said at last. “I dream about it sometimes. Home. Whatever that meant. Back before the fins, before the scales. Before they made me into this.”

He flexed the smallest of his three arms—the bandaged one—and let it fall limply to his side.

“I had a name. A job. Friends. A family. Someone who used to feed the cat in the picture, even.”

“…You were innocent,” you said quietly.

That got a flicker of something behind his eyes. “Guess someone finally read the fine print, huh?”

“I’m sorry. For what they did to you.”

Sebastian let out a small breath through his nose. “Not your fault. Wasn’t theirs either, not really. Just gears in the machine. Cogs in the current. That’s how Urbanshade likes it. Clean, untraceable.”

You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes red and puffy. “I feel like I’m losing my mind here.”

“You will,” he said, blunt as ever. “Everyone does. But you? You’re still fighting it. Crying means you still care.”

He tapped a claw gently against your head. 

“It’s the numb ones you need to worry about. They’re already drowned.”

That quiet settled again. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of a device rebooting in the corner. Then…

“…You think I’ll ever make it out?” you whispered.

Sebastian didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into one of the pouches on his tail. Fished around. Came out with something small and round, wrapped in weathered cloth.

He held it out.

You blinked at him. “What is it?”

“A keepsake,” he said. “Something I was gonna trade. But… consider it a loan.”

You unwrapped it gently. Inside was a small, rusted pocketwatch. The face was cracked, but you could still see the hands frozen in place.

Engraved on the back were initials you didn’t recognize.

“…Yours?”

He nodded. “Stopped ticking a long time ago. But I still keep it. Helps me remember that time used to matter. That I used to be someone.”

You closed your fingers around it carefully. “Thank you…”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered, standing up and dusting off his jacket. “You will be buying something next time.”

A pause. Then, softer—

“But if you need to cry again… you know where to find me.”

You gave a teary little smile. “You’re not as cold as you act.

“Blame the temperature,” he said with a smirk, flicking his tail as he turned. “Now get out.”

And with that, Sebastian shooed you out of his shop—leaving you outside of the vent with the broken pocketwatch, and a little more hope than you had when you arrived.

[cinnamon7girl7]

"WHATEVER YOU SAY, BEAUTIFUL"

It was one of those afternoons when the sky couldn’t decide whether to rain or stay still. The wind lazily blew through the trees in Jujutsu High’s central courtyard, and the silence of the evening slipped through the nearly empty hallways.

Yuji walked aimlessly, as if looking for an excuse not to return to the dorm. His hands were in his pockets and his brow furrowed, dragging his feet along the hallways as if each tile weighed more than the last.

—Why does something so simple bother her so much…? —he muttered, although he knew it wasn’t just about that.

For the past couple of months, he had been dating Aiko, a sweet girl he had met through Shoko during one of those hospital visits where Aiko volunteered. She was kind, calm, with a shy smile and eyes that seemed to understand him faster than he could understand himself.

Everything was going well. They went to the movies, met in parks in the afternoon, talked late into the night through messages. Aiko was patient. And Yuji tried hard to be good enough. But lately… things had gotten more complicated.

A week ago, Aiko had texted him to invite him to a small get-together she was organizing with her volunteer friends. Nothing big, just a casual picnic in the park near the station. It was important to her. She had told him several times. And Yuji… well, he said he’d go.

But then a mission alert popped up. Nothing urgent, but just enough to stay and train with Panda and Maki for a couple more hours. He thought it wouldn’t be a big deal if he didn’t go, so he sent her a message saying, “"I can’t go, I’ll explain later.".” But her reply had been short, almost cold.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. Do whatever you want.”

And if he had learned anything from Nobara, it was that those words never meant what they said.

That’s why he was there, wandering through the hallway, with his phone in hand and a mix of guilt and confusion swirling in his chest. He stopped in front of the window of classroom 2-B, where the sunlight tinted everything orange. That’s when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

—You’re quieter than when I steal your fries —he said gently.

Yuji turned and saw Satoru leaning against the doorframe, a coffee in one hand and the other in the pocket of his coat.

He didn’t respond right away. He just looked back out the window.

—Have you ever had a fight with someone who really matters to you, and you know they’re right… but you still feel like you are too?

Gojo walked slowly until he was standing beside him, with an expression much more serious than usual.

—Yeah. It’s what twists you up the most inside, right?

Yuji nodded, his gaze lowered.

—I’m dating a girl. Her name’s Aiko. She’s… really sweet. Very different from what I’m used to, and she makes me feel like I’m better than I am. But today I made her feel less important than she is, and the worst part is I didn’t mean to.

Satoru took a sip of his coffee and stayed quiet for a few seconds.

—What did you do? —he asked, not needing many details.

—I promised I’d go see her with her friends. It was important to her. And I… ended up staying to train. I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal, but it was. And now she won’t answer me.

Gojo sighed. He knew that tone of voice well. He had used it himself once.

—And what do you plan to do?

Yuji shrugged.

—I don’t know. I don’t want to sound desperate. But I also don’t want her to think I don’t care. I just… don’t know how to fix it.

Silence slipped between them again.

—Sensei —Yuji said then, turning his head—. What do you do when you argue with your wife?

Gojo smiled. Not mockingly, but with a quiet affection he rarely showed in public.

—Me? —he said, resting his back against the wall—. We don’t argue.

Yuji raised an eyebrow.

—No?

—No. If she’s upset, I listen to her. And if I’m upset… it probably goes away just by seeing her.

Yuji let out a small laugh.

—I’m not sure that would work for me.

Gojo crossed his arms, his smile turning more conspiratorial.

—It’s not about convincing her with words. It’s about making her feel that she’s more important than your ego. That you’re not there to win a fight, but to take care of her.

—And what if she says she doesn’t want to see you?

—That’s when I use my secret card.

—Which one?

Gojo leaned toward him, as if he were about to reveal a forbidden spell.

—I say: “Whatever you say, beautiful.” —he repeated in a soft, honest tone, as if those words had always been both his shield and his surrender at the same time.

Yuji smiled, unable to help it.

—And that’s enough?

Gojo nodded slowly.

—If you truly love her, and if she loves you… sometimes that’s enough. But only if you really mean it. Not as an excuse. Not to get away with it. But as someone who accepts that what matters most isn’t being right, but that she knows how much she means to you.

Yuji looked down at his phone.

—Whatever you say, beautiful —he repeated softly, trying out the phrase as if it weighed more than it seemed.

Gojo patted him on the shoulder.

—Try it. But also bring her favorite dessert. Words soothe the soul, but chocolate heals wounds.

Both of them laughed, and the air in the hallway seemed to get a little lighter.

Yuji didn’t know if Aiko would answer. But at least now, he had a clear direction.

And in his mind, the phrase repeated like a sincere mantra:

“Whatever you say, beautiful.”

That very day, night had gently fallen over the house they shared. Outside, the distant sound of traffic mixed with the whisper of the wind against the windows. Inside, warm lights softly illuminated the living room, and the jasmine scent from the diffuser filled the air with a deceptive calm.

The deception came from what had just happened.

Satoru had just gotten out of the shower, his hair still damp and a towel in his hand, and found you sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, a pout on your face, and your gaze fixed on the turned-off TV.

He knew immediately.

—Love… —he said in that drawn-out voice, like someone walking on thin ice—. Don’t tell me I forgot something…

You barely turned your head. You didn’t say anything. But you looked at him with that mixture of disappointment and patience that only someone who truly loves can hold without breaking.

He knew the reason.

The dessert.

He had promised it to you since the morning. He was going to stop by your favorite place and bring you that passion fruit tart you loved so much. You had reminded him twice. You even sent him a photo.

—It’s just… Yuji wanted to talk to me, and I got distracted —he began to justify himself, leaning on the doorframe with that awkward “don’t hate me” smile.

You didn’t say a word.

Not a breath.

He took a few steps forward, leaving the towel on the chair. He knelt in front of you, gently taking your hands while settling on his knees.

—I know you reminded me. I know I promised. I know I ignored it and that it’s not the first time. And I know it’s not just about the dessert, but because it makes you feel like I don’t pay attention to the things that matter to you.

Your eyes softened slightly, but you weren’t going to make it that easy for him.

—Exactly, and you didn’t keep your promise —you said, quietly but firmly. —Tomorrow I want to sleep in and skip the training you force me to do. And afterward, I want to eat pancakes with lots of maple syrup.

Satoru looked at you silently for a few seconds. He came a little closer, with that tender expression he only showed to you. His voice lowered to a whisper.

—Then I have only one thing left to say to you.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting.

He smiled.

—Whatever you say, beautiful.

Your brow furrowed again.

—Don’t come at me with that phrase like it’s a magic spell. It’s not going to work this time.

—It’s not a spell. It’s a promise —he said, raising your hand to his face, gently resting it on his cheek—. It means: you’re right, and what you feel matters to me more than anything else. It means: I’m willing to learn not to fail you in what’s important to you, even if sometimes it seems small to me.

You didn’t expect that explanation. Nor did you expect him to look at you like that, as if you were the center of the universe even when you were upset.

—Are you manipulating me with tenderness?

—Is it working?

—A little —you admitted, barely smiling.

—You know what else works? —he asked, with that mischievous tone he always used before hugging you.

He stood up, went to the kitchen, and returned with a small white box and a lily in his hands. He placed the flower on your lap so you could carefully open the box, which contained your favorite:

Passion fruit tart.

—Did you think I was going to show up empty-handed? Never. I just wanted to pretend to be forgetful to see if you’d still melt when I said “whatever you say, beautiful.”

You looked at him with narrowed eyes, holding back laughter.

—You’re such a trickster.

—And you, the most beautiful woman I love to lose every fight with —he said, sitting beside you and wrapping his arm around you.

You let yourself be held, resting your head on his shoulder while he took a little spoon.

—Will you forgive me?

—Only if you give me the first bite.

—Whatever you say… beautiful.

I’ll probably upload the next part of Streamer!Gojo tomorrow or Saturday. Can’t wait for you all to see it — hope you love it!

[anxiousjarofsass]

Frederick Chilton is proof that the greatest sin a character can commit is being annoying, there were legitimate serial killers getting better treatment than that man every season of Hannibal.

[seilon]

top surgery…………tomorrow…………

[reloaderror]

all my colleagues are nerds, possibly also weebs

[plaidcowboy]

clingy clark

( synopsis ) — after insecurely taking advice from jimmy and spending hours online, clark distances himself from you. scared he might’ve overwhelmed you with his clinginess. all for a crying clark to come back home to you.

( warnings ) — none! just an insecure, clingy clark.

( tags ) — @jordiemeow [to be added]

“Just leave them alone for a second, Clark!” Lois laughs, watching as Clark’s arms stay locked around your waist, his face practically buried in your shoulder like a big, needy golden retriever.

“Yeah, dude. Clinginess isn’t cute. I should know. I’m probably the best guy in the room when it comes to women,” Jimmy adds from beside Lois, nudging her playfully before he’s met with a sharp glare.

“Oh, shut up,” you say to Jimmy, leaning back into Clark’s hold. “Just give me a few minutes, baby. Lois and I are talking about the article.” You give his arm a quick pat before slipping out of his grip.

When you and Lois walk off toward the printing room, Clark stays behind. He frowns, glancing at Jimmy and leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed.

“Do you think that’s true?” he mutters. “Do you think they get annoyed when I’m too… affectionate?”

Jimmy barely looks up. “Most definitely,” he says flatly. “I mean, come on, man. You’re like a big dog. Always all over them.. hugging, touching, laying your head on them. If I were dating you, I’d lose my mind.”

And that conversation sticks in Clark’s head longer than it should. Later that night, he’s alone in his cold, quiet room. The only light in the room comes from his computer screen. He’s slouched in front of it, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stares at the headline on the screen:

“Are Clingy Boyfriends a Turn-Off?”

His eyes scan every word. Each line feels like a hit to the gut. And the comment section? Even worse.

voidsuites: “I dated someone like this once. It was suffocating. I couldn’t even stand next to them without their hands on me.”

jordiemeow: “Clingy partners are exhausting. So glad I got out of that relationship.”

hrtfilm: “Clingy usually means controlling. Red flag behavior, honestly. Be careful, guys.”

jclolz22: “It’s not bad at first.. but after a while, it gets annoying.”

Clark checks every box.

He was always touching you, his hands under your shirt, his chin on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, even in public. He’d pull you into his lap in front of anyone. You were a constant source of peace for him. A calm he never wanted to be without. But maybe that wasn’t how it felt to you. So he thought. So he stopped.

Over the next few weeks, he pulled back. He stopped bugging you at your desk. Stopped waiting outside the bathroom for you. Stopped finding excuses to pass by your apartment after work. No more arms slipping around your waist. No more hands brushing against yours. No more sudden, warm weight of him behind you while you were reading.

And of course, you noticed.

Clark might’ve thought he was giving you space, but you felt the shift immediately. He was always the one who made you feel grounded just when you got too lost in your own head, he’d appear out of nowhere and wrap you up in that warmth like a big blanket. Now, it felt like something important had been quietly taken away.

But being you, you didn’t say anything right away. You just kept thinking. Replaying things over and over.

Did you do something? Say something? Had you pushed him away without realizing? Why didn’t he want to hold you anymore? When was the last time he stayed over? It was driving you crazy. So you decided to fix it.

On your walk home one night, you nodded to yourself, already planning it out. You’d invite him over. Cook for him. Make his favorite, rhubarb pie, using Ma Kent’s recipe (which you were absolutely going to call her for).

But while you were lost in your head, something strange happened. A shadow passed over you. The sun was still high, the sky clear. No tall buildings around you. No trees. No reason for a shadow. So you looked up.

And there he was. Clark, flying overhead in full Superman gear, clearly trying to look casual. A blur in the sky, pretending he wasn’t watching you from above like some lovesick satellite.

You just smiled. Because you couldn’t exactly call him out in public. Superman was supposed to be busy saving people, not floating above his partner on their walk home like a weird, adorable stalker.

But the next day? That was different.

You had the day off. You were in your apartment, music playing quietly from the radio. You leaned against the counter, sliding a tray into the oven. Ma’s rhubarb pie. You were trying your absolute best to get it right before inviting Clark over for dinner.

And as you stood back and wiped your hands on your apron, your eyes drifted to the window. There it was again. That familiar blur of red and blue just outside.

You sighed, walked over to the window, and pushed it open.

“Clark,” you said dryly. “Get inside.”

He tried to pretend he hadn’t heard you at first, looking away dramatically. But eventually, he floated in, landing softly on your floor. He didn’t say much, just sat down on the couch, eyes glossy, face tight with emotion.

You stepped between his legs, placing your hands on his shoulders as he instinctively held your hips, his touch cautious.

“What happened?” you asked, gently.

“What do you mean?” he tried.

You raised your brows. Really?

“I just…” he started, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Jimmy said I was being too clingy. And then I read this article online. And all these comments. And I thought… maybe I was making you uncomfortable. I thought giving you space was the right thing.”

You lowered yourself into his lap, taking his hand from his face and wiping his wet cheeks with your thumbs.

“And you listened to Jimmy Olsen?” you teased softly, trying not to smile too hard.

He sniffled, nodding. “He said girls hate guys like that. And everyone online agreed. I just wanted to do right by you, baby.”

Your hands moved to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones as he looked up at you, big eyes full of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

He kissed you back, slow and soft, holding onto you like he was afraid you’d disappear. When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads pressed together, your breath mingling.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, barely loud enough to hear.

“I told you it’s okay,” you murmured. “I’m not mad. I just wish you would’ve talked to me first before disappearing like that, alright?”

He nodded, still holding you close. Then suddenly, his eyes widened, nose scrunching.

“Wait… do you smell something burning?”

You blinked. “Shit. The pie.”

[quibbs126]

So much of Cyberverse is me going “wait huh??” or “what the fuck??”

Shit just happens in this show, I gotta accept that

[solaceseven]

breath of fresh air

you storm out in the middle of an argument. featuring: gojo satoru, geto suguru, kento nanami, ryomen sukuna, toji fushiguro.

GOJO - the second you stormed out, gojo was right behind you.

you heard his footsteps almost immediately, quick and determined. of course, he wasn’t going to just let you go—not without a fight.

“leave me alone, gojo,” you snapped over your shoulder, picking up your pace.

“nope.”

you groaned. “i need space.”

“i need you to not walk around alone at night,” he countered, effortlessly keeping up.

you whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “i can protect myself.”

gojo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "i know you can. you’re strong, way too strong for me, honestly—i think about it all the time, actually, how you could probably throw me into the sun if you really tried—”

“gojo.”

“right, right, focus.�� he exhaled. “i know you can handle yourself. that’s not the point. i just—please, come back home.”

you clenched your jaw, crossing your arms. gojo loved your stubbornness—adored it, actually. but right now, he just wished you’d listen to him.

when you didn’t say anything, he groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up. “come on—don’t make me get on my knees.”

“you wouldn’t.”

“oh, i would. right here. in the middle of the street.”

you rolled your eyes, turning to keep walking. when you finally took in your surroundings. without even realizing it, you’d walked all the way to a 7-eleven.

gojo followed your gaze, then brightened immediately. “oh? a sign from the heavens?” he turned to you with a grin. “ramen?”

you sighed, and gojo, ever the opportunist, pressed on. “my treat.”

“you always pay,” you deadpanned.

“exactly! so, technically, i didn’t even have to say that—but i did, because i’m a generous and loving boyfriend.”

you exhaled, shaking your head. “…yeah, okay.”

gojo beamed like you had just accepted a marriage proposal. “knew you couldn’t resist me.”

you shot him a glare, but he just threw an arm around your shoulder, steering you inside like you hadn’t just been arguing minutes ago.

as he grabbed entirely too many snacks, sneaking extras into your basket with a shit-eating grin, you felt the weight in your chest ease just a little.

you weren’t done being mad at him—not completely. but as he stood beside you at the register, arms full of junk food, nudging you with his elbow like a lovesick fool, you realized—

yeah. you’d be okay.

GETO - suguru doesn’t stop you.

not because he doesn’t care—no, quite the opposite. he watches as you grab your coat, as you storm out, and he lets you go. he knows you need space, and he respects that.

but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to find you.

you don’t know how long you’ve been walking, the frustration from your argument still lingering, but eventually, you find yourself stopping by a quiet street corner. you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to steady your thoughts—

and then you hear it. a smooth, familiar voice from behind you.

“you’re really making me work for it tonight, huh?”

you whip around, only to see geto standing there, hands tucked casually into his sleeves, watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

you glare. “how did you even find me?”

he tilts his head, amused. “you’re predictable.”

you huff, crossing your arms. “if you’re here to drag me home, don’t bother.”

geto steps closer, slow and easy. “i’m not dragging you anywhere.”

you raise an eyebrow. “then what do you want?”

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “you’re upset. i get it. but you know i hate leaving things like this.” he steps beside you, hands still tucked into his sleeves. “so, i figured i’d come find you.”

you don’t answer right away, staring at the ground. then, without warning, your eyes begin to sting. you blink rapidly, willing the tears away, but it’s too late—geto sees it instantly.

his expression shifts, the tension in his shoulders vanishing in an instant. before you can turn away, he’s already in front of you, his hands cupping your cheeks with the kind of gentleness that makes your chest ache.

“hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, tilting your face up to him. “don’t cry.” his thumbs brush lightly under your eyes, catching the first traces of tears. “look at me.”

you do, even though it only makes your throat feel tighter.

his brows furrow, guilt flashing across his face. “i’m sorry, okay?” his voice is soft, sincere. “i didn’t mean to upset you.”

you swallow hard, blinking up at him. “…you were being an ass.”

a small, breathy chuckle leaves him. “yeah,” he admits. “i was.”

you sniff, and he immediately wipes away another tear before it can fall, his touch warm and steady. “but i didn’t mean to be,” he continues. “you know that, right?”

you nod.

geto exhales, relief evident in his expression. his hands don’t leave your face, his thumbs still tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin.

“come home?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you glance away, mumbling, “still mad.”

“i know.” his lips quirk into a small smile. “you can be mad at me at home, too.”

a pause. then, finally—

“okay.”

he doesn’t say anything, just lets his forehead rest lightly against yours for a moment before taking your hand in his, squeezing it once before leading you back home.

NANAMI - the argument had left a bitter weight in your chest, one that you couldn’t shake no matter how much you wanted to. the walls of your shared home felt too tight, too suffocating, so you did the only thing that made sense—you grabbed your coat and walked out.

you didn’t have a destination in mind, just the simple need to move, to put some distance between you and the words that had been thrown too carelessly.

at first, you thought you were alone. but then, a few blocks in, you heard it—steady, familiar footsteps trailing behind you.

you sighed. “kento.”

a pause. “hm?”

you turned slightly, just enough to glance over your shoulder. sure enough, he was there. hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, but present nonetheless. he didn’t try to walk beside you, didn’t call your name or tell you to come home—he was just there.

“you don’t have to follow me,” you muttered.

nanami exhaled slowly, adjusting his tie as he kept his pace behind you. “i know.”

and yet, he didn’t stop.

you didn’t push him away, either.

the night air was crisp, the streets quiet save for the occasional car passing by. you walked, and he followed. neither of you spoke. the argument still lingered between you, raw and unhealed, but for some reason, his quiet presence made it easier to breathe.

eventually, your feet carried you to the park. it was empty this late, just dimly lit by a few scattered streetlights. you found yourself heading toward the swing set, your steps slowing as you lowered yourself onto one of the swings. the chains creaked slightly under your weight.

nanami hesitated for only a second before taking the swing next to you. he didn’t say anything, just sat there, hands resting on his thighs, eyes fixed ahead.

the silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just… there.

after a long moment, you broke it.

“we’re going to be okay, right?” your voice was quieter than you intended, but you didn’t correct it.

nanami didn’t answer immediately. he let out a slow breath.

“yeah,” he said, firm, certain. “we’re going to be okay.”

and for the first time since the argument, you let yourself believe it.

SUKUNA - the door had barely swung shut before you heard heavy footsteps behind you.

you had barely made it down the front steps when a clawed hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you to a stop.

sukuna’s grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm—unrelenting. “where do you think you’re going?” his voice was low, edged with something unreadable.

you didn’t turn to face him. “i need to cool off.”

his fingers twitched against your skin. “tch. you can cool off inside.”

you exhaled sharply, attempting to pull away, but he didn’t let you. his grip remained steady, grounding. “i don’t want to be inside right now, sukuna.”

“and i don’t want you wandering off alone.”

you finally turned, eyes burning with frustration. “i can take care of myself.”

his expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his crimson gaze. “i know you can.” his tone softened, just barely. “that’s not the point.”

silence settled between you, tense and heavy. the night air was cool against your skin, the world around you quiet. your breathing was uneven, your heart still pounding from the argument. you wanted to be stubborn, to keep walking just to prove a point.

but sukuna didn’t let go.

for a long moment, he just looked at you. not with anger, not with amusement—just quiet, unreadable intensity. and then, after a sigh that sounded almost reluctant, his grip loosened. his hand slid down to take yours, fingers wrapping around yours in a way that felt less like restraint and more like holding on.

“come back inside,” he muttered. his voice wasn’t commanding, not like before. it was something else. something almost pleading.

you hesitated, still upset, still wanting to fight. but his hand was warm, solid, there. the fight had drained out of you, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

after a long pause, you sighed, giving his fingers a small squeeze before turning back toward the house.

sukuna didn’t say anything, just followed beside you, his hand never leaving yours. when you stepped inside, he made sure the door was locked behind you, his movements slow, deliberate. neither of you spoke as he guided you toward the bedroom, the silence no longer suffocating but something quieter, softer.

the argument wasn’t over. you weren’t ready to let it go. but as sukuna’s grip lingered, steady and sure, you knew—

you two were going to be okay.

TOJI - toji doesn’t follow you. at least, not right away.

he watches as you storm out, jaw clenched, arms crossed, your anger still crackling in the air like static. he lets you leave, doesn’t call after you, doesn’t chase you down. he just sits there, rubbing a hand over his face with a deep sigh.

but after a few minutes, he clicks his tongue, grabs his jacket, and heads out after you.

he knows you—knows you’re stubborn, knows you need space, but he also knows it’s late, and he’ll be damned if he lets you wander around alone.

it doesn’t take long to find you. you’re sitting on a bench at some quiet little bus stop, arms hugged around yourself, your knee bouncing impatiently. toji exhales, shoving his hands in his pockets as he makes his way over.

you glance up when he steps in front of you, glaring. “go away.”

“not happening,” he says flatly.

you scoff, turning your head. “i don’t wanna talk to you.”

“good,” he deadpans. “cause i ain’t here to talk.”

you blink, caught off guard, looking at him. he just shrugs. “you needed space, so i gave it to ya. now i’m just gonna sit here and shut up.”

and with that, toji plops down onto the bench next to you, spreading his legs wide, leaning back like this is the most natural thing in the world.

you stare at him. “you’re kidding.”

“nah.” he closes his eyes, tilting his head back. “go on. be mad.”

you are mad. but suddenly, it feels a little ridiculous.

the two of you sit there in silence, the sounds of the city buzzing faintly in the distance. the weight of the argument still lingers, but toji’s presence, solid and unshaken, makes it feel smaller. like it’s not going to swallow you whole.

after a while, he cracks an eye open, side-eyeing you. “you done sulking yet?”

you huff. “i’m not sulking.”

“yeah, yeah.” he stretches, rolling his shoulders. “c’mon. let’s go.”

you hesitate. “i dunno…”

he stands up, glancing down at you. “i’ll buy you food.”

you squint. “bribery?”

toji smirks. “call it what ya want. just get up.”

you sigh, but when he holds a hand out to you, you take it. his grip is warm, steady, and when he tugs you to your feet, he doesn’t let go.

“where are we going?” you mumble.

“dunno.” he shrugs. “we’ll figure it out.”

and somehow, that’s enough.

[pucksandpower]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.��

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[rikiszn]

DRINK TILL IM DRUNK, SMOKE TILL IM HIGH —nsh.r

ꪆৎ ⟢ 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾.

feat. nishimura riki x reader

──── ✦ enemies to lovers (?), angst, riki is rich and annoying, eventual smut, tension, slowburn

You could smell him before you saw him.

That stupid cologne—woodsy, expensive, overpowering—and the faint, unmistakable haze of weed trailing behind it. You didn’t even bother looking up from your notes when he dropped into the empty seat beside you, the metal legs of the chair dragging obnoxiously against the floor like he wanted everyone to know he’d arrived.

“You busy?” came that lazy, low drawl.

You sighed. “What do you want, Riki?”

He smirked like he always did. Too confident. Too pretty. Too used to the world handing him everything.

“I forgot the history paper’s due tomorrow,” he said, leaning his elbow on the desk, turning to face you. “Be a sweetheart and send me yours?”

You finally looked up. He was wearing sunglasses. In class. And a leather jacket like this was some kind of movie and not 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. His dark hair was a little messy, like he’d just rolled out of someone else’s bed. There was a red mark on his neck. A love bite, probably. Gross.

You blinked at him. “No.”

“No?” He blinked back, mock offended. “No one says no to me.”

You returned to your notes. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

He whistled low under his breath, then leaned in closer. Too close. His knee brushed yours under the desk and you stiffened, refusing to move.

“You’re so mean to me,” he murmured. “Makes me wonder what you’d sound like if you weren’t.”

You clenched your jaw. “If you’re done harassing me, I have an actual education to focus on.”

He chuckled. “You sound like my dad.”

You turned to him, lips curled. “Your dad’s the one paying off professors to pass you, right?”

That wiped the smirk off his face—only for a second. Then he was grinning again, like you’d just impressed him.

“Damn,” he said. “You really hate me, huh?”

“I don’t care enough to hate you.”

That was a lie. You did care. Because everything about him infuriated you. The way he laughed too loud at parties. The way he always had some new girl draped around him like jewelry. The way he wore his privilege like a crown. And the way, no matter how much you tried to ignore him, he always noticed you.

“I saw you at Sunghoon’s party last week,” he said suddenly, tapping his fingers on the desk like he was bored. “You looked good.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in again, whispering, “Were you looking for me?”

You turned your head slowly, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “I was looking for a lighter. Didn’t expect to see the joint already lit and talking.”

Riki stared at you for a second, then let out a sharp laugh, slumping back in his chair like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re unreal,” he said, shaking his head. “Like, actually unreal.”

You gathered your books. The bell was about to ring.

He watched you, tilting his head, tapping his pen against his bottom lip.

“You sure you don’t wanna spend a little more time with me?” he asked again, voice low.

You looked at him one last time.

“I’d rather die.”

The bell rang. You walked away.

And behind you, Nishimura Riki smiled.

Like he’d just found his next favorite game.

“I’m telling you,” Riki said, dragging smoke from his joint and exhaling out the window, “she’s obsessed with me.”

Jungwon laughed so hard he choked on his drink. “Bro. She literally called you a ‘talking joint.’ I was there. I heard it. She hates you.”

Riki just smiled, slouching back on the couch like he hadn’t just been insulted in front of half the class two days ago.

“She doesn’t hate me,” he said, smug. “She’s just in denial. They all fall eventually.”

“Yeah,” Jay muttered, flipping a poker chip between his fingers, “except she hasn’t. And it’s been, what? A year? You’ve tried everything. Compliments. Group projects. DMs. And she’s still not interested.”

“She left you on read last month,” Sunghoon added. “That’s cold, even for her.”

Riki rolled his eyes. “She was probably busy.”

“She was online,” Jungwon said, grinning. “Watching cat videos.”

Riki sat up, annoyed now. “Why are you all so invested in this?”

“Because it’s funny,” Jay said. “You get girls without trying. But this one? She has standards.”

Riki scoffed, standing to grab another drink from the mini bar. His house was massive—of course it was. High ceilings, glass everything, and the stench of wealth dripping from every marble countertop. The kind of house where people threw parties just to trash something pretty.

“She’s not better than me,” he muttered.

“No,” Sunghoon agreed. “But she acts like she is. And that makes her untouchable.”

Riki turned slowly. “Untouchable?”

Jay smirked. “She hasn’t even looked at you the way those other girls do. You’re not special to her.”

Riki didn’t say anything.

Jungwon leaned forward, the corners of his mouth curling. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Jay raised a brow. “You wanna make it interesting?”

A pause.

“A bet,” Jungwon said. “You get her to fall for you.”

Sunghoon laughed. “Yeah, okay. Like that’ll happen.”

“No, listen—” Jay grinned. “Get her to like you. Like, really like you. Admit it. Kiss you. Sleep with you, maybe. Whatever. Just get her hooked.”

“And if I do?” Riki asked, sipping from his drink like he wasn’t already considering it.

“Then we all shut up forever,” Sunghoon said. “And we pay for your spring trip to Barcelona.”

Riki’s brow raised. “And if I lose?”

Jay grinned. “You post a full apology video. Shirtless. Hair down. Crying. Real tears.”

Riki laughed. “Fuck off.”

“No, come on,” Jungwon said. “You said she’s into you. Prove it. Win the bet.”

Riki exhaled slowly, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Your voice echoed in his head—

“I’d rather die.”

He grinned.

“Fine,” he said. “Bet.”

Somewhere across town, you were studying in your room with your laptop open, notes highlighted, textbooks stacked high. You didn’t know it yet, but a very stupid boy had just made a very stupid decision.

And he was coming for you next.

“Partners have been randomly assigned,” your teacher said, scrolling through the spreadsheet on the projector, completely oblivious to the silent panic spreading through the room.

You barely listened, already highlighting the first page of your assignment packet. You didn’t care who you were paired with. As long as they pulled their weight.

“—and last, Y/N and Nishimura Riki.”

Your highlighter froze mid-stroke.

No.

No no no no no—

Riki made a sound from the back of the room. A low whistle. And then, like he always did, he took his sweet time strolling over to you, dropping into the seat beside you with that infuriating smile.

“This fate thing,” he said, nudging your foot under the desk, “is really starting to feel like destiny.”

You stared ahead. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Aw, c’mon, princess,” he murmured. “We’ve got a whole research paper to write. Gotta be civil.”

“You don’t even go to class.”

“I’m here now.”

“You’re high.”

He grinned. “High-performing, maybe.”

You looked at him. He was in a hoodie this time, hood half over his head, a little bruised at the jaw like he’d gotten into a fight or kissed someone with too much teeth. His eyes were slightly red, but not in a sleepy way—in a too-much-weed-and-not-enough-water way.

God, you hated him.

“Fine,” you muttered. “We meet after school. Library. Three o’clock.”

He blinked. “The library?”

“Yes. The quiet place. Where people go to study. Not vape.”

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

“I hope so.”

3:00 PM.

You were already at the back corner table, laptop open, outline half-started, when he sauntered in ten minutes late with two iced coffees and not a single folder in sight.

“Iced vanilla,” he said, sliding one toward you. “No syrup, oat milk. That’s your order, right?”

You blinked.

He shrugged. “Saw you holding it once. I pay attention.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“You also didn’t say thank you.”

You took the drink. You didn’t thank him. He smirked anyway.

“Let’s just get this done,” you muttered, scrolling to the outline. “We can split the topics evenly—”

“Actually,” Riki interrupted, spinning his chair toward you, “how about we work together on each section?”

You stared at him. “What?”

“You know. Collaborate. Bounce ideas. Build chemistry.”

“This isn’t couples therapy.”

“It could be,” he said under his breath.

You slammed your laptop shut.

He held up both hands. “Okay, okay. Chill. I’m just trying to be a good partner.”

“You don’t know how to be a good partner. You don’t even know what this paper’s about.”

“It’s on post-war economic reconstruction.”

Your jaw tensed.

He smirked. “Told you I pay attention.”

You hated how smug he looked. How close he leaned. How his knee kept brushing yours like it was accidental.

He tilted his head. “You always this intense when you’re working?”

You ignored him.

“Bet you’re fun when you finally let go.”

You snapped your head up. “Bet you’re still a spoiled asshole when you shut up.”

He stared at you for a moment. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not just amusement—something closer to interest.

He leaned in a little. “You’re so hot when you hate me.”

“I’m always hot.”

He laughed. It was loud. Too loud for the library. A girl from the next table glared.

You shoved your chair back and stood up. “Come back when you’re serious.”

“Wait—”

“I’m not wasting time on a fake partner and a fake coffee.”

You walked away, bag slung over your shoulder, head high.

And behind you, Riki was still smiling.

Because for someone who claimed you weren’t playing the game—

You sure made it fun.

You expected him to flake.

After the mess that was your first study session—if you could even call it that—you assumed he’d go back to parties, girls, skipping class, and rolling joints behind the gym.

You did not expect him to show up the next day.

On time.

With a notebook.

And a bag of spicy chips that he wordlessly dropped in front of you.

You stared at the bag. Then at him.

“What’s this?”

“Peace offering.”

You frowned. “You think you can just buy my forgiveness with chips?”

He shrugged. “They’re your favorite.”

“…How do you know that?”

He leaned his chin into his palm, voice annoyingly casual.

“You always eat them during calc. Third period. Right after your quiz. You shake the crumbs into your mouth like a savage.”

You blinked.

“You’re stalking me now?”

“Just observant,” he said, tapping his pen against the table. “Can we work now, or do you wanna keep pretending you hate me?”

You did hate him. Didn’t you?

You opened your laptop and said nothing.

It kept happening.

Study sessions where he actually took notes.

Group chats where he actually replied.

Class presentations where he actually spoke and didn’t just lean back with a smug smile.

It was unnerving.

“Okay, what the hell is going on,” you finally said one day after school, slamming your binder shut as he bit into a banana muffin he brought “for brain fuel.”

Riki blinked at you, mouth full. “What?”

“This.” You motioned between you two. “You being nice. Helpful. Actually participating. What’s your angle?”

He swallowed, brushing crumbs off his lip with the back of his hand. “Damn. Can’t a guy just try?”

“No. Not you.”

He tilted his head. “Maybe I wanna change.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable expression he only ever wore when he forgot to flirt. It made your stomach do a weird twist.

“Maybe I like spending time with you,” he said softly.

You scoffed. “No you don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t flirt back. Because I don’t fall for your dumb lines. Because I don’t let you copy my work.”

He smiled, a little sad now. “Maybe that’s why I do.”

You stared at him.

The library suddenly felt too quiet. Too small. Like the table between you wasn’t doing much to keep him out of your head.

He looked away first. Back down at the notes.

You cleared your throat. “Well. This part’s due Friday. Don’t mess it up.”

His voice was quieter than before. “I won’t.”

You didn’t know what this was anymore.

But you knew it was dangerous.

Because you didn’t hate him like you used to.

And he didn’t look at you like it was a game.

The school courtyard was loud—too many voices, music playing from someone’s speaker, and the metallic sound of soda cans cracking open. But all of it faded the moment Riki saw you.

You were laughing.

With Sunghoon.

Sunghoon stood way too close, one hand resting casually on the brick wall behind your head like this was some goddamn rom-com. You had your arms crossed, head tilted, eyes narrowed in a way that Riki knew meant you were annoyed—but not annoyed enough to leave.

And Sunghoon knew it too.

“Bro,” Jungwon muttered next to him, following his gaze. “Chill.”

“I’m not even doing anything,” Riki said, jaw tight.

“You’re literally crushing that Red Bull can with your bare hand.”

Riki forced himself to breathe.

He watched as Sunghoon leaned in, said something in your ear. You shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, obnoxious and loud.

Riki hated how his stomach twisted.

He started walking over before he could stop himself.

You saw him coming before you heard him—Riki, storming across the quad like a stormcloud in a hoodie, hair a little messy, lips pressed into a tight line.

Sunghoon grinned.

“Well,” he said under his breath, “look who’s about to explode.”

You glared at him. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously.”

“Asshole.”

“Love you too.”

“Yo.” Riki stopped in front of you both, ignoring Sunghoon entirely. “Can I talk to you?”

You blinked. “I’m in the middle of—”

“Now.”

You looked at Sunghoon, who held up both hands in mock surrender, eyes gleaming. “Don’t let him cry, Y/N.”

You turned to Riki. “What is your problem?”

“What are you doing with him?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I needed your permission to talk to someone.”

“You don’t,” he snapped. “Just not him.”

“Oh my god.” You turned to leave, but he grabbed your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you.

“Let go.”

“Why him?” he asked, voice low now. Almost broken. “Out of everyone—why Sunghoon?”

You pulled your hand back. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then act like it.”

You left without another word.

And Riki? He stood there, watching you walk away from him—again.

He hated it.

So that night?

He did something stupid.

You weren’t going to go to the party.

You had every intention of staying home, buried in essays and your hoodie. But Yoonchae sent a picture—

Riki. On the couch. With a girl in his lap.

So of course you went.

You shouldn’t have. But you did.

The house was too loud. You pushed through bodies, sweat and smoke and spilled beer sticking to your skin.

And there he was.

Nishimura Riki.

Hoodie off. White t-shirt clinging to his chest. A redhead straddling him, giggling into his neck, nails dragging across his shoulder as he smirked at something Jay said.

You froze in the doorway.

He didn’t see you yet.

Or maybe he did. And just didn’t care.

You turned to leave, something sharp clawing its way through your chest—

“Y/N?”

You stopped.

He was standing now. The girl still clinging to him. But he was looking at you.

Only you.

Your voice was flat. “You look busy.”

He flinched.

The redhead leaned in closer. “Riki, come on—”

He shook her off, stepping toward you. “It’s not what it looks like.”

You laughed. “You’re really gonna use that line?”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Something real. But then you saw it—Sunghoon, standing by the kitchen, arms crossed, watching.

Riki looked too.

And then he made his choice.

He turned back to the girl, tugged her back onto the couch.

Didn’t say a word.

And you walked out.

Jealousy?

It wasn’t a game anymore.

It fucking hurt.

You avoided him all week.

Didn’t show up to the library. Didn’t reply in the group chat. Didn’t even glance in his direction during class.

If the professor mentioned “group partners,” you raised your hand and asked if you could switch.

He didn’t say anything when the professor said no.

He just sat there, staring at the back of your head like it might catch fire.

Friday. After school.

You stayed late to finish a lab report.

The hallway was quiet when you finally left, your backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, head down.

You didn’t hear the footsteps until they were too close.

“Y/N.”

You froze.

Riki.

He was standing at the bottom of the stairwell, hoodie pulled over his head, hands in his pockets, eyes dark.

You tried to walk past him.

“Wait—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “You’re mad at me.”

“No shit.”

“Why?”

You scoffed. “You’re joking, right?”

He shook his head. “You were talking to Sunghoon like you didn’t even know I existed.”

“Oh my god,” you laughed bitterly. “You were literally being felt up on a couch while I was in the room.”

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Right. Because why would I show up to a party full of fake friends and even faker boys.”

He flinched.

Silence.

The air between you was hot. Heavy. Tense in a way it hadn’t been before. This wasn’t teasing anymore.

This was real.

You stared at him. “What do you want from me, Riki?”

His voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Is this part of your game? Make me fall for you? Win a bet with your loser friends?”

“No—”

“Then what? What do you want from me?”

He took a step closer.

And then another.

And another.

Until your back hit the wall behind you.

And he was standing so close you could feel the heat of him through your shirt.

You could smell him—faint cologne, laundry detergent, the ghost of a cigarette.

His voice was hoarse. Quiet. Broken.

“You hate me, right?”

You stared at him.

He looked desperate.

Like he wanted you to say yes.

So he could believe it.

So he could let you go.

You whispered, “So much.”

And then you kissed him.

Hard.

Like you meant it.

Like you’d been waiting months.

His hands found your waist like it was instinct, pulling you in, pressing you flush against him as he kissed you back like he couldn’t breathe without it.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was messy. Bruised. Real.

His mouth was hot, open, needy against yours. Your hands fisted in his hoodie. His tongue dragged across your bottom lip and you gasped—and he took advantage of it, groaning into your mouth like he was starving.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, your lips were swollen, and his hands were still on your waist like he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

You whispered, “Tell me this isn’t just a game.”

He stared at you.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t say yes.

Didn’t say no.

And your heart cracked.

Because you knew.

And you kissed him again anyway.

You barely made it through the front door.

His hoodie was bunched in your fists, your lips on his before you even got your shoes off, stumbling into his house like gravity itself was pushing you together.

“Upstairs,” he breathed, kissing your jaw, your neck, his voice rough. “Please—upstairs—”

You didn’t answer.

Just grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the staircase like you were going to die if you didn’t touch him properly right now.

His bedroom was big, dark, stupidly expensive like the rest of the house—but you didn’t care.

The second the door shut, you shoved him back against it, kissing him like you hated him. Like you didn’t hate him. Like you didn’t know the difference anymore.

Riki groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips so tight it hurt.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breath ragged. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pulled his hoodie off.

Then his shirt.

He let you.

Let you stare.

Let you touch.

Let you make him fall apart with just your hands and mouth and teeth.

“You like this, huh?” you murmured against his throat. “You like being wanted?”

His breath hitched. “Only by you.”

You paused.

That made him flinch.

“I didn’t mean—” he tried, but you kissed him again before he could finish. Because maybe you didn’t want to hear what came after. Not yet.

The back of your knees hit the bed.

He pushed you down, climbing over you, breathing hard.

But he stopped.

Eyes flicking over your face.

His voice was quieter now. Fragile.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Don’t make me beg.”

His mouth curved.

But his hands were careful.

He touched you like you were made of secrets, kissed you like he was trying to apologize for something he hadn’t said yet.

And when he finally pressed into you, slow and deep and desperate—he buried his face in your neck and groaned your name like it broke him.

You weren’t quiet either.

Couldn’t be.

Not with the way he moved.

Not with the way he whispered things like:

“You feel so good—fuck—so good…”

“Thought about this every night since the library…”

“Didn’t know I could want someone like this.”

You moaned into his shoulder, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he thrust into you, faster now, rougher, hands trembling where they held your thighs.

“Riki—” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

He groaned, desperate and breathless. “Say it again.”

“Riki.”

“Again.”

“Riki—please—”

He kissed you hard, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, deep enough to make your breath hitch, your back arch, your voice crack.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

You nodded, dazed, dizzy. “Yeah.”

He kissed your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Then your neck.

“You don’t get it,” he panted. “You’re not like the others. You’re fucking worse. You’ve ruined me.”

And he meant it.

Because when you came—when he followed, moaning into your mouth, eyes fluttering shut like it hurt—

He didn’t stop holding you.

Even after.

Even when it got quiet.

Even when your breathing slowed and your voice broke on a whisper:

“Now what?”

He just held you tighter.

Didn’t have an answer.

Didn’t let go.

You woke up tangled in sheets that weren’t yours.

In a bed too soft, a room too quiet, with arms around you that still didn’t feel real.

Riki was still asleep. Bare chest rising and falling. His mouth was a little open. Messy hair. A faint bruise blooming on his neck from where you’d bitten him.

You stared at him.

At the boy who made you want things you didn’t know how to want.

And something inside you clenched.

This was stupid.

This was dangerous.

You started to sit up, needing space. Needing to think.

But Riki mumbled, still half-asleep. “Where are you going…”

You paused. “Home.”

His eyes opened, still hazy. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

He pulled you back into him, burying his face in your neck like a sulky puppy. “Stay.”

“I can’t.”

He kissed your collarbone. “Please.”

You were going to argue—really—but then his hand slid under the sheet again, warm and slow, and—

Yeah.

You stayed.

You were in his bathroom when you heard it.

He thought you were gone. Or still asleep.

His phone rang.

You wouldn’t have listened—really, you wouldn’t have—if it wasn’t on speaker.

Sunghoon’s voice.

“So? Did you finally win the bet?”

Everything stopped.

Your body went cold.

Riki laughed—laughed.

“Define win.”

Sunghoon whistled.

“No way. You actually slept with her?”

Silence.

Then—

“Shit, Riki. You actually caught feelings, didn’t you?”

You didn’t hear his answer.

You were already grabbing your stuff.

He caught you halfway down the stairs, shirt half on, hair a mess.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. “Home.”

“Wait—what happened?”

You whirled around. “Seriously? You’re gonna pretend like you don’t know?”

His face paled. “Wait, no—just let me explain—”

You shoved him back. “A bet, Riki?”

He flinched.

“You used me. You made me feel—fuck.” Your voice cracked, hands shaking. “And I was stupid enough to believe it was real.”

“It was real!” he shouted. “It is—I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“What?” you snapped. “You didn’t mean to fall for the girl you were using? Didn’t mean to make it worse?”

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because he couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t make it worse.

You blinked fast. Didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him.

But your voice broke anyway.

“I was the one person who didn’t fall for your bullshit. And now I’m just another girl you can laugh about.”

He reached for you.

You stepped back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please—don’t leave like this—”

But you were already walking away.

And he didn’t follow.

Not until the door shut.

Not until he was alone in the silence you left behind.

It had been a week.

One week since you walked out of Riki’s house.

One week since he stopped showing up to class.

One week since your phone blew up with texts you refused to read.

You deleted every one.

Except the last.

riki (2:31 a.m.)

i fucked up.

i miss you.

i swear i never meant for this to happen. not like this.

You stared at it sometimes. At that little “i miss you.”

It made your chest twist in ways you hated. Ways you couldn’t stop.

But you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did—

You knew he’d ruin you again.

He showed up at school the next Monday.

Dark circles under his eyes. Hoodie pulled low over his face. Ignoring everyone.

Except you.

You felt it before you saw him.

That heat. That gravity. The air in the room bending.

You looked up.

He was already staring.

Eyes wide. Red. Like he hadn’t slept.

You looked away.

So he crossed the room.

“Can we talk?” His voice was hoarse.

You didn’t answer.

“Please.”

People were staring. You hated that.

So you stood up. “Fine.”

You walked down the hall, through the back doors, into the empty courtyard. He followed like a shadow.

When you turned around, he flinched like you’d slapped him.

“I know,” he said, before you could even speak. “I know I don’t deserve anything. Not your forgiveness. Not even this conversation. But—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“What was I to you, Riki?”

His lips parted.

“You want to talk? Talk. So talk. Was it just a game?”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Not after the first week.”

You scoffed.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “At first—yeah. It was ego. I was stupid. You were the one person who didn’t want me and it made me—fuck—I don’t know, obsessive.”

You stared.

“But then you smiled at me. You teased me. You saw me when no one else did. You made me want to be better. And I hated it. And I loved it. And I—”

“Riki—”

“I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

He stepped even closer. “I’m in love with you,” he repeated, voice lower, more broken. “I don’t know when it happened. Somewhere between your eye rolls and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t just some rich asshole.”

Your throat tightened.

“I tried to play it cool,” he whispered. “Tried to keep fucking around, pretending you didn’t matter, but you did. You ruined me for everyone else.”

You blinked fast. “You don’t get to say that. Not after what you did.”

“I know. I know.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if I have to. That it wasn’t fake. That I meant it. That I still do.”

And then—

Softer.

“You can punch me. You can tell me to fuck off. Just don’t walk away again without knowing I’d do anything to make this right.”

You stared at him.

Really stared.

At the boy who used to be unbearable.

Cocky. Cold. Beautiful.

And now looked like he’d fallen off the pedestal he put himself on.

Crashed into the ground.

All because of you.

“Say it again,” you said.

“What?”

“What you said. Just now.”

He swallowed. “I’m in love with you.”

And you didn’t mean to.

You didn’t plan it.

But you kissed him.

Hard. Messy. Angry. Loving.

He kissed you back like he was dying.

Fingers in your hair. Hands trembling. Like if he let go for even a second, he’d lose you again.

You pulled back first.

His forehead dropped against yours.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I want to stay mad.”

“Then stay. Just don’t leave.”

You closed your eyes.

And let yourself fall.

This time—

You didn’t hit the ground alone.

[strawberryraviegutz]

Can we PLEASE be normal and agree that all kpop demon hunters ships are valid instead of shitting on/writing off ships and or thinking that a ship is a moral failing or “less progressive” just cuz said ships are m/f.

Are yall forgetting the target audience for this movie?? Like yeah the movie is for queer ppl too since there’s a queer allegory in the movie’s overall message and kpop fanbases having a huge queer community, but this movie also had in mind women and young teenage girls who obsess over kpop boy bands along with shipping themselves and or other kpop stars with said boy band members both male and female.

I still wanna enjoy hunterix yuri so bad bad because im a multishipper, but at the same time even as i was watching the movie I already knew ppl were gonna start shitting on Rujinu, zoestery, miromabby, and the Saja boys and the ppl who like these ships and the Saja boys as a whole and it’s leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

Hell even before the movie came out ppl were jumping this one person who made a ship post about Mira and Abby. And yes representation IS important but that doesn’t mean m/f ships should just be disregarded as “not progressive”.

When did we suddenly start deciding that a woman and a man being attracted to each other is a detriment to the feminist/progressive movement?? Like yall do realize that CisHet allies exist, right? You’re not automatically “more progressive” by shipping gay ships.

I’d argue it’s more misogynistic to send a message to women that if they’re attracted to and or want to have relationships with men then that means they’re a danger to the feminist/progressive movement or have “less value” which does nothing to help our movement at all and just ends up excluding other women which also goes against our movement.

Feminism and the progressive left movement as a whole is all about EQUALITY. Feminism quite literally involves helping men too because EVERYONE is negatively affected under the patriarchy.

Men may not be oppressed for being men but that doesn’t mean that the patriarchy doesn’t affect them negatively. Feminism isn’t men vs women, it’s everyone vs misogynists/the patriarchy. Also bold of u to assume that Rumi and Jinu are straight.

Considering the parallels to Rumi’s story and the way many queer ppl feeling about their own identities feeling like they need to hide themselves because of shame, it’s obvious that she’s not straight and could be bisexual. Just cuz a bi woman falls in love with a man doesn’t make her any less bisexual/queer.

And Jinu is a 400 year old demon. He probably had centuries to experiment along with the fact that queerness did exist in Korea and Asia as a whole and was a normal part of their cultures pre colonization hundreds of years ago and the same goes for the other Saja boys. Mira and Zoey can be attracted to girls too of course but them being shipped with men wouldn’t make them any less queer especially if the men in question are also queer.

Plus we all saw how all three of the hunterix members reacted when they first saw the Saja boys(especially Mira and Zoey who had LITERAL HEART EYES WHEN THEY LAYED EYES ON THEM. Along with Abby’s Abs continued to make their eyes do the popcorn thing 2 times later on in the movie and Mira literally calling them hot the first time.).

Any of the hunterx x Saja boys ships could quite literally be bi 4 bi or bi 4 pan(with the saja boys being pan with the reasons being my previous statement about them being over a hundred year old demons who had plenty of time to experiment.)

Why can’t we just agree to disagree and ship whatever we want without putting down/sending vitriol towards other ships and or the ppl who ship these ships?? We’re already in a low empathy crisis as is and yall are just making it worse. Focus that same anger and hatred yall put into sending hate towards ppl over pixels on a screen towards calling ur senators/reps about pushing back against the facist regime that the orange man is trying to plunge the US into.

Like seriously guys what will it cost u to not be an asshole to others for liking something that you don’t like? Get off your high horses and BE NICE TO EACH OTHER AND RESPECT ALL SHIPS.

[userluhna]

MARRY ME

husband!hwangjunho x wife!reader

words: 670

warnings: none!

enjoy! :)

husband!junho, who can’t stop touching his wedding ring. he does it without thinking. during conversations, while he’s deep in thought, when he’s tired or worried. his left thumb always finds the ring. sometimes he spins it slowly, absently. other times he just brushes it with the pad of his thumb like he needs to remind himself it’s still there.

at the station, going through case files, pen tapping against the desk? his thumb is there, touching it. on the couch with you, his arm tucked around your waist, the other hand free—only so he can toy with the ring. you noticed. of course you did. and one night, you brought it up. “you always do that thing,” you said.

“hm?” he looked at you, his head turning slightly before his eyes followed. “that thing with your ring,” you motioned toward his left hand. “you’re always touching it.” his gaze dropped to his hand, then back to you, a slow smile blooming on his face. “oh, yeah,” he said. “grounds me. reminds me you’re never too far.”

husband!junho, who texted you just minutes before you walked down the aisle:

“i know you’re walking soon. probably heart pounding, yeah? mine too. but look up when you get there. you’ll see me. you’ll always see me. you look for me, angel. you’ll find me.

today. tomorrow. all of it.”

husband!junho, who didn’t write vows. not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t need to. he looked at you and spoke from his heart. his voice was soft. steady. his eyes, not so much. glass-like. full. brimming with everything he couldn’t quite say until that moment.

husband!junho, who bought that ring on your first dating anniversary—because he already knew. fucking knew. but he waited. two more years. wanted the timing to be right. wanted you to say yes because you were ready, not just in love.

husband junho, who lives for the “my wife” line anytime someone flirts with him. “nice shirt,” someone says, too close, a hand brushing his arm.

“thanks,” he replies, smile subtle, “my wife picked it.” or at the front desk, when the receptionist leans in just a bit too much. “you have a really nice smile, detective.”

he grins. “yeah, my wife says it’s even better after she kisses me.” and he means it. every damn word.

husband!junho, who once told you:

“if i could, i’d marry you all over again. every year. every day. every version of us.” and when he said it—thumb brushing his ring again—you believed him. because he never stopped looking at you like you were the best decision he ever made.

masterlist

requests are open!

tag list: @namgyucat @namsgyu @threerxcha

[no-144444]

i love love your writing i probably binged some of them haha! i was wondering if you can write smth about their partner having intense baby fever. i was thinking you can do oscar or ollie or the whole grid, really up to you ❤️

꩜ summary: you say something, and it tips his world upside down

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

꩜ a/n: thanks for requesting!

Family functions weren’t exactly Oscar’s forte, but you made them bearable. Kids running around, adults too drunk to remember to hold their tongues, and you and Oscar, usually sat in the corner of the garden on kid duty. You were wonderful at it, listening intently, sorting out arguments in seconds, all while holding onto one of Nicole’s friends daughter’s 5 month old baby. He’d tried to take her off your hands, but she’d started crying immediately. He watched in awe, totally enchanted by you. 

“We should have a kid,” you said, as casual as anything. His world tipped on its side. Yeah, maybe he thought about it occasionally. Like in those moments when you’re so wonderful with Penelope, or his own family, or Lando’s nieces and nephews, or maybe in those moments when you know exactly what to say to anyone to calm them down, or often those moments when he was balls-deep inside of you seconds away from cumming. “What do you think?” you turned to look at him with that innocent ‘I didn’t just give you a boner and make you want to cry at the same time’ look. He turned his attention back to the park in front of you both, Family Fun Day in full swing. 

“I’d like that,” his voice was a pitch too high and he coughed despite himself. “I mean- yeah. I think we should. Affirmative,” he felt like he’d passed out and woken up with his hand on his forehead, ready to salute. You chuckled and leaned against his shoulder, his cheeks already a bright shade of red. The baby in your arms wriggled, but it didn’t faze you. None of it seemed to. 

“You’re such a dork,” you chuckled, then you were quiet for a moment, soaking it all in. The garden in front of you, littered with kids of all ages, and you couldn’t help but think of you and Oscar with your own little hoard of kids who looked exactly like you two. You watched as he helped out one of the girls, she’d fallen and hurt her knee, and he sat her on the remaining space on the bench between you, and played ‘I-spy’ until she felt good enough to go back out there. “You’ll be a great dad though.” 

Again, his world flipped on its side. He cleared his throat, shocked that even after years of being together, you could still make him feel like this. He took a deep breath. It was the fact that it was definitive. Not ‘you would’ be a good dad. You will be a good dad. No questions asked. “You’ll be a great mum.”

“I hope so,” you answered dreamily. “Some little toddler running around looking like us.”

He swore he’d died and gone to heaven when he thought about that. Mornings with you, sunlight streaming in, a little girl or boy who had your eyes and his hair or vice versa, babbling away while he helped you make a morning coffee, and helped them with homework, or reading, or anything they’d ever want. It pulled at his heart more than he’d want to admit. “Yeah,” he smiled. “That’d be nice.”

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[fallenbratfiction]

Gym Crush ~ older joel miller x f!reader

A/N: there’s a guy in my gym that looks alike joel in season 2 and he’s scrumptious delicious but I can’t make any moves because I’m an awkward fuck and I'm afraid I'll be a homewrecker howeverrrr today he helped me with the hip thrust machine and that's as close as I'll ever get to him.

warnings: large age gap (reader is in her twenties and joel is around his fifties), sexual tension (no explicit smut yet, but heavy physical tension, intimate kissing...), mild language "bitch", sexual verbal harassment (not from joel!!), protective behavior, threat (joel threatening someone else)

✧ minors dni with me or my blog. i'm not responsible for your consumption.

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

⟡━━━━━━━━━━⟡

Joel watched you from a short distance as you picked up a weight almost three times your size and carried it—with all your strength—to the middle of the weight area.

He watched as you got into a squat position—a wrong one—and started moving in a squat motion. He shook his head slightly.

Either you were new or overestimated yourself trying to pull a squat with a 30kg kettlebell. He thought about minding his own business and continuing his own set—but he couldn’t just let you hurt yourself.

He tapped your shoulder gently, and you dropped the weight. Startled, you pulled out one of your headphones and looked up at him.

“Don’t mean to disturb you,” he said, calm and low, “but I couldn’t just stand by and let you get hurt. You should try with a different weight—lower, maybe.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Are you saying that cause I’m a woman?”

“No, I’m saying it ’cause I’ve seen it before—and I’ve felt it. You don’t want to throw out your back or wreck your knee. Trust me—once you hit my age, you’ll regret it.”

You chuckled and crouched to pick the kettlebell back up. Strange—five minutes ago, it hadn’t felt this heavy.

Joel watched your struggle and stepped in again, lifting it easily with one hand.

“Allow me, doll.”

You watched him carry it back to the rack and pick up a different kettlebell. He wasn’t trying to diminish you really, he brought a 25kg weight in one hand and a 20kg in the other.

“Since you seem mighty powerful,” he said with a teasing glint in his eye, “you could probably handle either of these.”

He set them at your feet.

“Try.”

You reached for the 25kg and tried a set. It was okay—but heavier than you wanted to admit. Still, no way you were about to embarrass yourself in front of the gorgeous, gruff man standing over you.

Joel seemed to sense it. He set a hand on your shoulder and gave it a gentle pat.

“That’s alright, shake it off. Try the other one"

You nodded, biting your lip, and picked up the 20kg. Better. Still heavy—but manageable.

“There you go, doll,” he said, smiling like he was proud. “Don’t worry—you’ll get stronger and lift heavier. The key is not to mess up your back.”

With that, he walked off. Back to his own set—but now with one eye still on you. Just in case. If you grabbed another too-heavy weight, he’d be there.

By the end of your workout, you crossed paths again—this time at the walking pads.

“Hey, savior,” you smiled, setting your water bottle in one holder and your phone in the other.

He chuckled at the nickname.

“You save lives often around here?”

“I don’t mean to, I just observe a lot and happen to intervene”

“You new here?”

“I try not to,” he said with a shrug. “I just watch a lot. Sometimes I step in.”

You nodded, heart still a little elevated.

“You new here?” he asked, glancing sideways at you as you started the pad.

“Yeah,” you nodded. I moved to the city about a month ago. Still getting used to it. New job, new apartment, new gym…” You smiled. “Figured I’d build a routine before the chaos set in.”

“Smart,” he said, nodding. “You’ll get the hang of it.” Then, a small smirk. “Already off to a strong start.”

You laughed at that—something about his voice made compliments sound earned, not empty.

The treadmill kept humming under your feet. Comfortable silence. Just the two of you walking, letting the post-workout adrenaline settle.

“You come here every morning?” you asked after a beat.

“Most days,” he replied. “Early’s quieter. Fewer idiots, usually.”

“Except for me and my tragic squat form.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

“You’re not an idiot. Just new. Big difference.”

You smiled to yourself and let that be the end of it.

After that day, you continued showing up. And so does he.

It becomes a routine without either of you naming it. He spots you during your sets sometimes. You bring him a spare protein bar once. He teases your playlists. You tease his ancient headphones.

You think about him more than you’d admit. But you never cross the line. Not even when he lets his hand linger on your back a little too long. Not even when he brushes your fingers as he passes you a weight.

You don’t make a move.

Because—what if?

What if he thinks you're just a silly girl with a crush on the hot older guy?

What if it makes things awkward? Or worse—makes him leave?

What you don’t know is he’s thinking the same damn thing.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye every time you laugh at one of your own jokes. Every time you push through a hard set. Every time you flash that proud little smile when you hit a PR.

He tells himself he’s just being friendly.

He tells himself he’s too old to be looking at you like that.

But it’s getting harder every day.

Then, the tension happens.

You both stayed a little longer than usual, finishing up extra sets. The gym is quiet—just a few stragglers and the soft echo of music bouncing off the walls.

You’re at the stretching area, tying your hair up again, when Joel walks over, towel slung around his neck, shirt damp with sweat.

“Still at it?” His voice is low, that rough rasp even more gravelly this late.

“You know me,” you say, sitting back into a stretch. “Trying to prove I can handle more than a 20kg bell.”

He huffs a laugh and crouches beside you, adjusting the towel on his shoulder.

“Told you—you’ll get there. Already stronger than most.”

“You always say that, but I'm still stuck with 20."

“Easy tiger, you're getting there"

There’s a beat of silence. You glance over. He’s already looking at you—his gaze soft but unreadable.

And that’s when it happens.

A flicker. Something unspoken is rising between you.

“You ever train with someone?” you ask, a little quieter now. “Like… actually work out with a partner?”

He tilts his head and thinks.

“Not in a long time. Why?”

You shrug, trying to play it off.

“Just thought—maybe you and I could try it sometime. I mean, you already spot me half the time.”

His eyes linger on you a little longer than usual. Like he’s deciding if it's the right thing to do.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower. “I’d like that.”

There’s something there in his tone. Something new.

You nod slowly, holding his gaze. He nods back.

The air gets a little too still. You’re too aware of how close his knee is to yours. How good he smells—sweat, cedar, something warm and masculine.

And then, almost, he reaches out—just brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

But then someone drops a weight behind you.

The spell breaks.

You both flinch and turn.

He stands up quickly, clearing his throat.

“I should… probably head out.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

You walk out together, but a little quieter than usual. Something's shifted. Something happened.

Not everything, but just enough.

The next morning feels...different.

Not in a bad way—just off. A little too aware of each other. You say “morning” like always. He tosses you a spare sweat towel like he usually does. But your fingers brush a little too long. His gaze lingers a little too low before darting away.

Still, you both pretend nothing happened.

You warm up on your own, trying to shake the strange buzz in your chest. You chalk it up to sleep deprivation. Or the pre-workout drink. Or him.

You're mid-set—deep in a tough rep—when some asshole guy you don’t know struts over. Smirking.

He’s the type who lifts just to be loud. One of those guys. Probably couldn’t spell “glute” if you spotted him the G and the L.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins, stepping too close. “You always squat that low, or is this just for me?”

You pause mid-motion. Eyebrow twitching. Trying to ignore him.

“Busy,” you say, short and clipped.

“Come on, don’t be shy. You in those little shorts—can’t expect a guy to keep his eyes to himself.”

He’s way too close now, crowding your space.

That’s when Joel appears.

You don’t even see him come over. You just feel the shift in the air.

He steps between you and the guy. Slow. Calm. But his shoulders are tense. Jaw set.

“You heard her,” he says, voice low. “She’s busy.”

The guy scoffs.

“Who the fuck are you? Her dad?” He laughs. “Why do you care, grandpa?”

Joel doesn't blink. Doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward—just barely. But it’s enough. The tension radiates off him like heat.

“I think you better walk away,” Joel says, voice like gravel, “before you regret it.”

The guy’s smile falters.

He opens his mouth—then closes it. Realizes what he's dealing with.

“Whatever,” he mutters, backing off. “Bitch isn’t even worth it.”

You flinch at the word. Joel’s hand flexes like he’s holding back from knocking teeth in. But he lets the guy walk.

He turns to you.

“You okay?”

You nod, cheeks burning. Embarrassed. Angry.

“Yeah, I just—” You shake your head, suddenly too aware of your own body. “I probably had it coming. Dressed like this in these shorts.”

Joel’s expression changes. All that quiet fury shifts—not at you, never at you—but at the fact you’d even think that.

“Don’t say that.”

You glance up, surprised at how serious he sounds.

“There’s not a damn thing wrong with you or what you’re wearin’. That guy was a prick. That’s on him. Not you.”

You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out.

He softens. His hand grazes your arm gently.

“You hear me?”

You nod, throat tight.

“Yeah. I hear you.”

Truth was, Joel had been staring at you, too.

It was impossible not to.

He told himself it was pride—he’d helped you with form, corrected your weight, spotted your squats more times than he could count. He should be proud your glutes had grown the way they had.

But lately?

Pride was harder to separate from something else.

He kept it subtle. Discreet. Respectful. Not like that asshole. Joel knew how to look without making you feel small. Without making it about him.

Still, when you bent over to re-rack your weights, or dropped low into a perfect squat… Yeah. His gaze lingered a little longer than it should.

And he hated himself for it.

But God—you were a sight.

After that scene, Joel insists on walking you out.

“Just to your car,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like his hands hadn’t just curled into fists over you.

You don’t argue. He walks a half-step behind you, gaze still sharp like he’s expecting another problem to round the corner. Silent the whole way.

When you reach your car, you turn to face him, hand on the handle and smile up at him.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quieter now. “For stepping in. And for walking me.”

He gives a small nod, hands in his pockets.

“Didn’t sit right. That guy was outta line.”

“Still…” you hesitate. “I’m sorry he said what he said...about you.”

His jaw tenses, but he shrugs.

"He's just an asshole. Words don’t mean much comin’ from someone who can’t even rack his own weights.”

You laugh softly, then pause—because you can feel it. The shift. That weight between you.

Joel glances at your car, then back at the gym, hands still in his pockets.

“You good to continue alone tomorrow?” he asks, voice rough. Then, more carefully— “Or… you wanna train together?”

The question lands softly—but it lingers. Like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s not just asking about sets and reps. Like maybe he wants to be there for more than just that.

You look at him in the light—really look. Hair damp at the edges from sweat. That gray t-shirt hugging his chest. Hands flexing like he’s trying not to reach for something.

You nod, heartbeat picking up.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

He starts to turn, giving you one last nod, and turns around to step away—

That’s when you do it.

Quick, instinctive—you reach for his wrist. He stops. Looks down. Then up at you.

You step in closer.

The sunlight makes everything sharp. No shadows. No excuses. Just you and him standing there in plain sight.

Joel’s eyes search yours—quick, wild, unsure—pupils blown wide even in the harsh daylight. His chest rises like he’s holding his breath.

You kiss him.

No warning. No words. Just your mouth on his, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

He freezes—for the briefest moment.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

One hand grips your waist, the other slides up your back, pulling you flush against him. His mouth moves with heat, control slipping by the second. It’s not gentle. It’s not frantic either.

It’s pent-up.

Like every lingering look, every soft-spoken “good job, sweetheart,” every moment spent standing a little too close in the weight area—was leading here.

And in the full light of day, right there in the gym parking lot, he kisses you like he’s starving.

When it ends—when breath becomes necessary—he pulls back just an inch, eyes still closed, like the sunlight might take it all away if he opens them.

You break apart just enough to breathe.

Just enough for him to whisper against your lips:

“Wasn’t expectin’ that.”

You manage a shaky smile, heart pounding.

“Would’ve done it sooner if I thought you wanted me to.”

He lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-growl—low and wrecked.

His forehead rests against yours. He shakes his head once.

“Shit, darlin’…” His hand grazes your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You have no idea.”

There’s a pause. Long enough for the silence to throb between you.

Then he leans in again, lips hovering beside your ear—

“Hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

You step back, just enough to breathe again. Smile—nervous, dizzy.

“See you tomorrow?”

Joel smirks, slow and sure, like a man already plotting something dangerous.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You get in your car, still shaking slightly, and look at him one last time through the window.

He’s standing there—hands in his pockets, chest rising slow.

His jaw is clenched.

But his lips?

Curved into the faintest smirk.

Not cocky. Not smug.

Just… wrecked. Quietly wrecked.

Like a man trying hard to look composed— but already ruined by the taste of something he knows he’s not going to stop wanting.

You drive away.

And he watches you until you’re gone.

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Part Two coming soon...

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