#and studying and having casual conversations

[sillylilsquid]

you're not alone pt. 2

pairing - hyun-ju x reader summary - studying abroad in korea felt like a great idea, until you realized how hard being by yourself in a new country was. that is, until you meet the tall, beautiful woman who happens to speak perfect english. and maybe things start to feel not so lonely warnings - afab!reader, post-tranistion!hyun-ju, some brief homophobia, explicit sexual content, 18+ minors dni!! reader's messages are pink, hyun-ju's are purple, and others are black!

A few days passed in a blur of textbooks and exhaustion. Exams were looming, and your brain felt like it was constantly swimming through molasses. But Hyun-ju had texted you earlier, asking if you wanted to go to a festival with her. “To get your mind off everything,” she’d said.

Of course you agreed.

The festival was bustling–vibrant fabric banners swinging overhead, the smell of sweet rice cakes and roasting chestnuts curling through the air. You could hear a guitarist playing somewhere near the plaza, kids running by their hands sticky from cotton candy, and the clatter of handmade jewelry and trinkets at every stall.

Hyun-ju was holding your hand. It had happened so casually. One moment you were both trying to dodge a particularly rowdy group of tourists, and the next her fingers had closed gently around yours, warm and firm. You hadn’t let go.

She was in her dark fitted jeans, a black turtleneck sweater that clung to her in all the ways that made your stomach flip, and the moss green scarf you’d knitted just last week. She’d unwrapped it in front of you with that slow, pleased smile–had looped it around her neck that same night. Now, she wore it like she’d never taken it off.

You, meanwhile, were cozy in your college sweatshirt, oversized and soft from years of washes, baggy jeans, and your platform Converse that still couldn’t quite close the gap between you. She had to bend a little to hear you when you talked. You liked that. You like how she always listened.

You’d been walking together for a while now, passing from booth to booth, sharing a hot drink in a paper cup–some kind of sweet milk tea you’d begged to try. She even let you have the last sip.

The crowd had thinned now, the market trial weaving into a quieter area with lanterns strung along the path. A river nearby shimmered under the glow, and wind tugged gently at Hyun-ju’s  scarf. Her arm was looped around your shoulder, tucking you close against her side as you strolled. She smelled like clean laundry and cinnamon from one of the food stalls.

You’d been leaning into her without thinking, cheek brushing against her shoulder as you walked. You could feel her thumb tracing soft, slow circles across the back of your hand.

You looked down at her hand holding yours, heart fluttering at the gentle motion of her thumb. The noise of the market had faded a little, like the two of you had stepped into a pocket of quiet just for yourselves.

Then–like a sudden idea struck–you pulled your phone from your pocket. “Wait,” you said, tugging her to a nearby bench. “Let’s take a picture before we leave.”

Hyun-ju titled her head, already smiling. “Yeah?”

“I wanna remember today,” you said, unlocking your phone and flipping to the camera app. “Actually, let’s do a video. That way we can get a bunch of screenshots.”

She laughed softly as you propped your phone up on the bench using a makeshift tripod out of your water bottle and bag.

You hit record and ran back to her, bumping her with your shoulder before slipping an arm around her waist. She pulled you in easily, both of you smiling wide for the first shot.

Then you said, “Okay–silly one,” and before you could even pose, Hyun-ju crouched down and scooped you up onto her back, laughing as you squealed.

“Hyun-ju!!”

“You said silly!” she said through her giggles, and you wrapped your arms tight around her shoulders to keep from falling.

Hyun-ju spun once, your laughter mingling in the air, then gently let you down again, hands steady on your waist as your feet hit the ground.

Neither of you stepped back.

You were still in each other’s space, hands lingering, breaths close. The video kept recording, forgotten.

Hyun-ju looked down at you, eyes soft and serious. The buzz of the crowd seemed far away again. You blinked up at her, heart stammering. She looked at your lips once, then back to your eyes. 

“너무 예뻐…” she murmured, barely audible. So pretty.

Your breath hitched. “W-what?” you said, your voice clumsy and small.

“I said,” she repeated, lips quirking into a shy little smile, “you’re so pretty.”

You didn’t know what to say, only that your body swayed closer to her on instinct. And she leaned in, too, just a little, the space between you humming like a held breath.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” she whispered.

Your lips parted. “I–I really want you to kiss me,” you said, barely getting the words out before she bridged the last bit of space between you.

She kissed you so gently, her lips brushing over yours like a question and an answer all at once. The camera kept rolling in the background, recording the quiet tremble of your first kiss, the way your fingers curled into the sleeves of her sweater, the soft gasp you let out when she tilted her head and kissed you deeper.

It was the kind of kiss you’d dreamt about–slow, tender, inevitable.

When you finally pulled back, dazed and breathless, you blinked up at her and whispered, “I think I’m gonna need to watch this every day.”

She chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think I’m gonna need that video.”

Then, unsure what to do with yourself, you leaned in for a clumsy little hug–arms looping loosely around her shoulders as your face tucked into her scarf.

Hyun-ju laughed, hugging you tighter. “That was so awkward,” she teased, voice all low and amused.

“I know,” you mumbled into her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She pulled back just a little to look at you, her nose red from the cold, smile still soft. You let go of her completely, retreating to grab your things off the bench where it still recorded. You stopped the video with trembling fingers and shoved everything into your tote.

“It’s getting dark,” Hyun-ju said, reaching for your hand again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Let me walk you home.”

You glanced up at her, heart leaping. “Okay.”

The walk was quiet and sweet–shoulders brushing every other step, your arms occasionally swaying into each other. You talked a little about the food you tried, the funny dog in a hoodie you saw at one of the vendor booths. But mostly, it was just soft silence and the warmth of your joined hands.

When you reached your apartment, you turned toward her, suddenly reluctant to go inside.

Hyun-ju cupped your cheek with one hand, brushing her thumb along your jaw. “Goodnight,” she said, and leaned in to kiss you again–just once, gently.

It still made your knees wobble.

“Goodnight,” you whispered when you pulled back, cheeks flaming. “Text me when you’re home.”

She lingered a moment longer, then finally stepped away, walking backward for a few steps just to grin at you. “I will.”

You were still in a gaze as you got inside, dropped your bag, and peeled off your shoes. You stripped out of your clothes and jumped into the shower, trying to calm your nerves. And once you were out and dried off, your phone buzzed with a text from Hyun-ju.

made it home safe good <3

You smiled as you watched the typing bubble pop up. And when her next message popped up your heart skipped a beat. You had to read it twice just to be sure.

dinner date tomorrow night? date?? or just dinner. whatever you want to call it. of course.

Still giddy, you covered your face with your hands, grinning into your palms. You crawled into bed and the memories of tonight all came rushing back again. You pulled up the video, and scrubbed through it frame by frame.

There you were, laughing on her back.

There you were, arms around her waist.

There she was, brushing your hair from your face.

There you were, kissing.

You saved five screenshots and sent them all to Hyun-ju.

here’s some of my favorites. the one where you picked me up is going to be my phone background forever.

Then, hesitating for only a moment, you pulled up your mom’s chat.

hyun-ju asked me to dinner tomorrow night. (attached: three pictures–none of the kiss)

Her reply came in under a minute.

you two are beautiful. 😀 …for a date!? she called it that but i don’t really know. doesn’t matter what you call it. it’s clearly special. enjoy your time.

You set your phone down on your chest, heart doing full flips. And maybe–just maybe–you let yourself replay the kiss in your head a few more times before falling asleep with a smile on your face.

The next morning you woke to the soft buzz of your phone on the nightstand and a sleepy smile already tugging at your lips. You reached for it, still half tangled in your comforter.

good morning pretty girl☀️ can’t stop thinking about last night.

You buried your face into the pillow for a second, heart threatening to melt right through the mattress. Then, with one eye open:

good morning🌝 i’ve been smiling since i woke up do you still wanna do dinner tonight? yes.  i made a reservation already. 7:30. wear something nice how nice is nice? like…a dress nice? like expensive tablecloths and wine nice. hyun-ju! that’s too much!! come on, it’ll be fun. i want an excuse to dress up and eat good food with you. please? 

You bite your lip, staring at her text. Your stomach was already doing anxious little flips.

fine. but only because you asked like that

That afternoon you found yourself in a dressing room stall under the worst possible lighting, staring at yourself in the mirror.

The dress was simple but elegant–soft and black and fitted just right around your waist. You couldn’t afford anything flashy, but it felt pretty. And paired with your favorite platforms, it was still you.

You stood on your toes to get a better look, then dropped down with a huff. “I’m not buying heels,” you muttered to no one. “My bank account would burst into flames.”

When you got home, you smoothed the dress out again and sent a mirror selfie to your mom.

do i look okay??

She replied almost instantly.

you look BEAUTIFUL!!! is this for the date!?

yes. hyun-ju made a reservation at a fancy place. i didn’t even have anything nice to wear. but i’m still wearing my converse lol

that’s my girl. if she can’t appreciate the full look, she’s not worth it!

You laughed, heart thudding widely as you checked the time. 7:17. Time to go.

When you stepped into the restaurant, your eyes had to adjust to the warm gold lighting. The clink of cutlery, soft music playing. Waiters in black vests and clean white shirts.

Then you spotted her.

Hyun-ju sat at a table near the back, scrolling idly on her phone. She was in tailored black trousers and a silky gray blouse that clung to her arms just right. A single gold chain around her neck, small gold hoops, and light makeup dusted across her face. Her scarf was folded neatly beside her.

She looked up–and when her eyes found yours, she stood with a slow smile.

You crossed the floor quickly, heart pounding in your ears. As soon as you reached her, she wrapped you in a hug that smelled like vanilla and warm skin and fabric softener.

“You look really nice,” she said softly into your ear.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, pulling back. “So do you.”

She glanced down with a small smirk. “Nice shoes.”

You groaned immediately, covering your face. “Stop! They’re my favorite! I didn’t have enough money to buy heels too, okay?”

Hyun-ju laughed, the sound warm and light. “No, they’re cute. I’m not judging.”

You gave her a mock glare. “Plus…they make me taller.”

She grinned as she led you to your seat. “You’re still short though.”

You shoved her shoulder as you both sat down, cheeks burning. “Rude.”

She just winked and picked up the wine menu. “Red or white?”

“Uhh…surprise me?”

She ended up ordering a bottle of red wine to share, and when the waiter poured two glasses and stepped away, Hyun-ju raised hers toward you. “To our first…whatever this is.”

You giggled and clinked your glass with hers. “To our whatever this is.”

Hyun-ju smiled behind her wine glass as she took a sip. Then, she tilted her head slightly, eyes warm and curious. “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Yeah, of course.”

“What’s your major again?” she asked, resting her chin in her hand. “I feel like you told me before, but I wanna hear more about it.”

“Oh,” you said, a little shy. “It’s, um…creative writing. Well, technically English literature with a writing concentration.”

Hyun-ju’s eyes lit up like that genuinely delighted her. “That’s so cool. So you write stories?"

You nodded, smiling bashfully. “I mean, I try to.”

“I bet they���re good.”

“They’re okay,” you said, laughing under your breath. “Mostly fiction. Some essays. I’m kind of all over the place right now.”

Hyun-ju nodded like she understood completely. “Do you want to write books one day?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or work in publishing. Or teach. I don’t know yet.”

She didn’t pressure you for a definite answer. Just smiled gently. “Well, I hope you do. Whatever you chose. I think you’d be amazing at it.”

Your face burned again, but this time from something deeper than just embarrassment. You took a sip of wine to hide the way your mouth couldn't quite find the right words.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asked a moment later, lightly swirling the wine in her glass.

“Nope. Only child.” You grinned. “Can’t you tell?”

She laughed at that. “A little. In a good way.”

You grinned again, leaning forward slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you’re very…independent. But also like…easy to want to take care of.” She smirked, and you had to cover your face for a second.

“That’s not fair,” you mumbled through your hands.

Hyun-ju laughed again, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Bet it’s hard on your mom, you being out here alone.”

You lowered your hands. “Yeah. It was, at first. But we talk a lot. I send her updates about everything. I literally sent her a picture of my outfit before this.”

She beamed. “That’s adorable.”

“I sent her a picture of us from last night. She said we’re both beautiful,” you said, cheeks warming again. “And then immediately followed it with: wait, for a date!?”

Hyun-ju tilted her head with a small, knowing smile. “And is this a date?”

You bit your lip. “It feels like one.”

“Good,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “It is.”

Something fluttered in your chest–soft and deep and warm like velvet. You looked won at your plate for a moment, suddenly shy again.

She didn’t rush you. Just picked up her fork and reached across the table again, gently pushing her half of the dessert toward you.

“Here,” she said, voice still soft. “Try this one too. You’ll like it.”

You took another slow bite of the dessert she’d slid across the table toward you–some creamy, fancy thing with berries you couldn’t pronounce. She watched you like she was waiting for a verdict.

You licked a bit of whipped topping from your spoon and smiled. “Okay, that’s dangerously good.”

“I told you,”  Hyun-ju said, all smug satisfaction. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You really do,” you muttered, letting the spoon clink into the plate. You leaned forward just slightly, chin resting in your palm. “Hey…how are you so fluent in English? Like, even with your accent you’re really easy to understand. And you never pause to think or anything.”

Hyun-ju’s lips curled into a soft, pleased smile, and she leaned back a little in her chair. “I lived abroad for a while. Four years after college. London first. Then a few in Toronto.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Wait, really? That’s so cool. What made you come back?”

“Family,” she said with a little shrug, the candlelight catching in the curve of her jaw. “And I missed the food. The weather. The…quiet.”

“That’s fair,” you said. “The quiet’s nice.”

She smiled again, then tilted her head just slightly. “Will this be your only year abroad?”

The question caught you off guard–not in a bad way. Just…it made something in your chest flutter weirdly. You hesitated, lowering your gaze to the base of your wine glass as you rolled the stem between your fingers.

“I…I don’t know yet,” you admitted. “I guess I’m kind of waiting to see what happens.”

Hyun-ju didn’t push. Just hummed, like she was letting the answer settle in her chest. Then, after a moment, she gave you a playful little smile. “Well. I hope something good happens.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Mm…” Her eyes danced a little. “Like maybe you fall in love with the city. Or the food. Or–” she paused, sipping her wine, then winked, “–something else.”

You laughed, a short, helpless sound. “Oh my god.”

“What?” she asked innocently, setting her glass down.

“You are so full of it,” you said, still grinning.

Hyun-ju leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm. “You didn’t deny it, though.”

“Deny what?”

“That there might be something,” she said simply. “Worth staying for.”

You picked up your glass to hide your face and immediately regretted it when you felt your cheeks warming from the wine–and the way she was looking at you.

You mumbled into your glass, “You’re not very subtle, you know that?”

“And you’re not very sneaky. I saw your face turn red.”

You practically whined. “Stop it.”

Hyun-ju laughed, low and smooth. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered.”

You tried to glare at her, but you could barely keep the smile off your lips. “You’re such a menace.”

She titled her head. “Only for you.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to shake off the butterflies. “Okay, wait–serious question.”

“Mm?”

“How are you so good at flirting? Is that a barista skill?”

Hyun-ju grinned wide. “Oh no, I save this level of effort for special occasions.”

“Like tonight?”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “Exactly like tonight.” You swore your heart skipped a beat.

She reached for her wine again, swirling it slowly before taking a sip. “Okay, now my turn,” she said. “Have you always been this easy to fluster?”

You froze. “Excuse me!?”

Hyun-ju was already laughing. “I’m just asking.”

“Rude.”

“You walked into it.”

You dramatically dropped your face into your hands. “I should’ve known better.”

“You really should have.” She paused, and her tone softened a little. “But honestly…it’s really charming.”

You peeked at her through your fingers, your cheeks fully on fire now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re adorable.”

You groaned. “I swear I’m usually cooler than this.”

“No, you’re not,” she teased. “And that’s the best part.”

You were giggling now, hiding your smile behind your hands, completely undone by the wine and the candlelight and her eyes, the way she looked at you like you were made of gold.

She leaned forward again, voice lower now. “Want to know what else I like?”

You hesitated, then nodded, eyes wide.

Hyun-ju grinned slowly. “Those shoes.”

You blinked. “Wha–my Converse?”

“Yup. With the dress? It’s very you. Like… ‘don’t mess with me but also I might cry during a movie.’”

You burst out laughing. “That is exactly my brand.”

“I know.” She gave you a warm look. “And you wear it perfectly.”

You covered your face again with a whimper. “I cannot handle you tonight.”

“You better start trying,” she said with a wink, “because the night’s not over.” And suddenly that candlelight felt warmer. And your heart beats a little faster.

You excused yourself to the bathroom the moment you felt like your chest might explode from how much you liked her.

The second the door closed behind you, you leaned your hands against the counter and stared at yourself in the mirror. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes a little glassy from the wine—and the way Hyun-Ju had been looking at you all night. The flirting, the way her voice dipped, the way she called you cute and wore that smile like she knew what she was doing.

You pulled your phone out and opened your messages to your mom.

omg  MOM this girl is trying to kill me. like in the best way she’s so hot and sweet and charming and she keeps flirting and i can’t breathe send help

Your mom replied almost instantly.

lol sounds like ur already dead 😇 but in love maybe??

You stared at the screen, biting your lip.

idk. but i really really like her

You didn’t wait for a reply this time. Just tucked your phone back in your bag, gave yourself one last look in the mirror—then headed back to the table.

Hyun-Ju looked up as you returned, and she smiled like she'd been waiting just for you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Just needed a minute.”

“I figured,” she said. “So I ordered reinforcements.”

You blinked, then noticed both wine glasses had been topped off. You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Hyun-Ju raised a brow. “Please. You’ve had, like, a glass and a half. You’re just a lightweight.”

You let out a little giggle, flopping dramatically into your seat. “I am not!”

She smirked. “You are. But it’s okay. It’s cute.”

You took a slow sip of the wine, trying to hide your flustered smile behind the rim of your glass. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to compliment me or tease me.”

“Why not both?”

You groaned into your drink. “Stop.”

Hyun-Ju chuckled, then toyed with her fork for a second before looking up at you again. “Hey, my friends are planning on throwing a house party this weekend. If you’re free... you should come.”

You blinked. “Me? Partying? Remember last time?”

She nodded casually. “If you want to.”

You hesitated. “I’m not really a party girl…”

Hyun-Ju shrugged. “That’s okay.” Then, “I’m not either.”

“…But I want to spend time with you,” you added quickly. “So I’ll come.”

Her smile spread, soft and warm. “Yeah?”

You nodded, chewing your bottom lip. “Just… promise you won’t let me stand awkwardly in the corner all night.”

“I’d never,” she said, voice dipping. “If I’m being honest, I was kinda hoping I’d get to dance with you.” Your breath caught in your throat. “Just a slow one,” she added. “So you don’t run away.”

You giggled, flustered all over again. “I can’t dance.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, tilting her glass toward you. “I’ll lead.”

You clinked your glass with hers before taking another slow sip, hoping she couldn’t hear your heart beating out of your chest.

The two of you stepped out of the restaurant into the warm evening air, laughter still lingering between you like perfume. The sidewalk sparkled faintly beneath the streetlamps, your shoes tapping beside Hyun-Ju’s quiet strides. The wine left you a little floaty, but it wasn’t just that—it was her.

She walked close enough for your arms to brush with every step, your fingers occasionally grazing, and every time it happened, your heart fluttered so hard it felt unfair. “You’re gonna wear something cute tomorrow, right?” Hyun-Ju asked casually, looking ahead.

You blinked. “Huh?”

She smiled without turning. “To the party.”

Your face went warm. “I—I mean, yeah. I guess.”

“Something that’ll make me want to kiss you again.”

Your steps faltered slightly, and she glanced over at you with a tiny smirk, like she knew. “You can’t just say things like that,” you muttered, pressing a hand to your cheek.

“Why not?” she asked, her voice a little lower now. “It’s true.”

You didn’t have a response to that, not one that wouldn’t come out in a squeak. You looked down at the sidewalk instead, your smile stubborn and helpless.

Soon, you were at your apartment building, the soft golden glow from the lobby light spilling onto the sidewalk. “Well,” you said, half-turning to face her. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Of course,” she said, not moving. Her gaze lingered on your face for a beat longer than felt safe. “You gonna let me kiss you goodnight?”

Your breath caught, eyes flicking up to hers. She looked impossibly pretty in the glow of the lamplight, eyes warm and patient and waiting.

But you just… stood there. Frozen. Not because you didn’t want to—god, you did—but because everything in you had gone soft and quiet and too full at once. The wine. The night. Her.

“Sweet girl?” she asked softly, a gentle tease in her voice.

It snapped you out of your trance, eyes going wide as you blinked up at her. “Oh my god—sorry. I—yeah. I mean—goodnight kiss… yeah. That’s okay.”

Hyun-Ju let out the smallest laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then she stepped close, one hand curling behind your neck, not pulling—just holding—and leaned in.

The kiss she gave you was soft, slow, and barely there, like she was afraid to overwhelm you. Just a warm press of lips, and then she was pulling back, smiling at the way your eyes fluttered open again.

“Goodnight,” she murmured.

“Goodnight,” you whispered back, barely able to hear your own voice. You stayed there on the steps even after she left, watching the glow of the streetlights catch in her hair as she walked away.

Your phone buzzed a few minutes later.

made it home :) thanks for tonight

And then, a second later:

can’t wait to see what you wear tomorrow

The next morning you dragged yourself out of bed with a slow stretch and made it to class–barely on time, but present. The lectures blurred by, your notes messier than you’d like, but your head was still spinning a little from everything that had happened the night before. Hyun-ju’s lips. Her hand on your neck. That smirk when she told you to wear something cute.

You stopped by the convenience store near campus after class and picked up a triangle kimbap and a bottled ice tea. You didn’t feel like a full meal–not with your nerves buzzing again.

You sat outside on the bench to eat your snack, watching the cars and people pass by. Instead of heading straight back to your apartment, you wandered to the coffee shop. Hyun-ju was working.

You ordered your usual, and when she spotted you, she smiled in that warm, knowing way. “Studying?” she asked, already turning to make your drink.

You nodded. “Trying to be productive.”

“Your favorite booth is free.”

You grinned, heading over to your favorite spot. The spot where you first met her. The spot you sat when you met up with her friends. A moment later, she set your coffee down beside you–extra foam on top, just how you liked it.

You slipped on your headphones, opened your laptop, and started typing out the early draft of your paper. It was coming slowly, but it was coming.

Halfway through your second paragraph, your phone buzzed.

Mom♡ FaceTime

You blinked in surprise, then smiled and picked up.

“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom beamed into the camera. She was in the backyard, phone a little wobbly as she turned it toward your cavalier. “Look at Berry! She’s been out here all morning, digging up the same exact corner of the garden.”

“Berry!” you laughed. “She looks filthy.”

“She is. I gave up trying to stop her. She’s on a mission.”

Berry gave a joyful bark in the background, pawing at something unseen in the dirt. Your mom turned the camera back to her face. “How’s my girl? Are you eating enough?”

You held up your coffee with a sheepish smile. “Lunch of champions. Plus I had a kimbap earlier.”

She gave you that look, the familiar mom one, but before she could say anything else, her eyes flicked to something behind you on the screen.

“That’s her, isn’t it?”

You glanced back. Hyun-ju was walking behind the counter, hair tied up in a messy low pony, wiping her hands on a towel and laughing at something one of her coworkers said.

You flushed a little. “Uh. Yeah. That’s her.”

Your mom’s eyes lit up. “She’s even prettier than in the pictures you sent.”

“Mom,” you mumbled, flustered. “I’m just studying here, okay?”

“I didn’t say anything!” she teased. “I just said she’s pretty.” You buried your face in your hands. She laughed.

“So,” she said, a little more gently, “how’s school going? You look less tired than the last time we talked.”

You dropped your hands and sighed. “It’s okay, I think I’m finally getting a good schedule down. Classes aren’t too bad. Just takes a while to adjust.”

She smiled, a bit softer now. “I miss you a lot, honey.”

Your throat tightened. “I miss you too, Mom.”

There was a pause. Just the sounds of Berry panting and the soft background hum of the cafe.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” your mom said eventually. “But send me more pictures soon, okay? Of your outfits. Or the city. Anything. Or Berry will be mad.”

You laughed. “Okay. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

You hung up and sat there for a moment, the ache of homesickness dull but familiar. Then you glanced up–Hyuun-ju was wiping down the espresso machine, and she looked over just in time to catch your eye.

She smiled. And you did too.

You set your phone face-down beside your laptop and stared at your screen for a moment. The cursor blinked at you, annoyingly patient. You took a slow sip of your coffee. It had gone lukewarm while you talked to your mom, but you didn’t mind.

Homesickness settled over you like a slow, quiet fog. Seeing your mom’s face—Berry’s wagging tail, your yard back home, the way your mom’s voice always softened when she looked at you—left a dull ache in your chest. It wasn’t new, but today it clung harder than usual.

You sniffled softly and rubbed your thumb under your eye, blinking a few times like it would shake the feeling loose. You weren’t going to cry in the middle of the coffee shop. You had a paper to write. You had a date with Hyun-Ju’s friends tonight. You had things to look forward to.

You tapped your fingers against the edge of your laptop, inhaled deep, and let it go slowly. Then you forced your attention back to your paper, rereading your last paragraph and adjusting a sentence or two just to feel like you were moving.

Still, the ache lingered. Gnawed at the back of your mind. Your chest was tight and your throat was scratchy and you wanted to crawl under your blanket and sleep for twelve hours.

But you didn’t. You just kept writing. Slowly. Sloppily. But writing. You reminded yourself of the good things. You had a date with Hyun-Ju. A real date. And she’d invited you out tonight. To spend time with her. To be with her friends.

You were nervous—god, you were nervous. Your stomach had been twisting with it all day. What if you wore the wrong thing? What if they didn’t like you? What if you couldn’t hear anyone over the music, or you got too anxious to dance, or you embarrassed yourself somehow?

But you still wanted to go. Because Hyun-Ju wanted you there. And deep down… you wanted to see her again. Even if it meant faking a little confidence until it felt real.

You glanced up as she walked past your booth again, carrying two drinks to a table. Her apron was smudged with flour. There was a tiny crease on her brow like she was thinking about too many things at once—but when she looked your way, her face softened. She smiled again. Like it was automatic. Like she was just happy to see you.

And for a moment, the ache dulled. You smiled back. Then you turned back to your screen and started typing again.

You practiced the greeting one more time in the mirror, mouthing the syllables carefully.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” you whispered. Then again, slower. “An-nyeong-ha-se-yo.”

Your accent was a little rough around the edges, but you were trying. You wanted to show Hyun-Ju’s friends you cared enough to at least learn something—even if it was just hello.

You smoothed down your shirt, checking the outfit again. Short black skirt, a crisp white tee that showed just a little sliver of skin above the waistband, your oversized jean jacket thrown on top to balance it out. Comfortable, familiar—cute, but not like you were trying too hard.

Your favorite perfume sat untouched on your desk, the pretty bottle glinting faintly in the light. You hesitated for a second, then spritzed once over your wrists, then your neck. The scent hit instantly—warm and soft and expensive, like good memories and something a little sexier than you usually let yourself feel.

You grabbed your phone, snapping a picture in the mirror. Skirt, shirt, jacket. Platforms peeking from the bottom of the frame.

headed to a house party soon! do i look okay??

You sent it to your mom, heart fluttering for reasons you didn’t entirely understand. Your phone buzzed back a moment later.

you look beautiful. have fun tonight. be safe. i love you!

You stared at her message a little longer than you meant to. Then your Uber pinged from downstairs. You grabbed your bag, gave your reflection one last breathless look, and headed out.

The ride there passed in a haze of neon lights and the thrum of Friday night foot traffic. The city was buzzing, as always–packed sidewalks, late night food carts, chatter echoing down alleys. But as your Uber turned down a quieter residential street, the sounds shifted: laughter spilling from a front yard, music thumping through cracked windows, a glowing porch light swinging slightly in the breeze.

Your Uber pulled to the curb in front of a modest two story house lit up from the inside–music spilling out through the open front door, the scent of beer and grilled snacks wafting out into the night.

Your stomach flipped, nerves prickling your skin. You checked your phone.

we’re out front🩶

You looked up–and there she was. Hyun-ju was leaning against the porch railing, cup in hand, lit from behind by the soft yellow glow of the house’s string lights. The moment she saw you, her grin spread slow and warm across her face.

She looked unfairly good in black jeans and a wine colored tank top under a leather jacket, the kind of effortlessly hot that made your mouth go dry. Her hair was down, bangs brushing her forehead, makeup soft and glowy, lips tinted like fresh berries.

Her friends stood around her on the porch, chatting and laughing, but Hyun-ju stepped forward right away when she saw you. You gave her a nervous smile and a little wave as you climbed the steps.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly blanking on every syllable of Korean you’d practiced. Her grin softened into something almost fond as she pulled you into a brief hug that still managed to melt your knees. She smelled like warm vanilla and peach soju and something you hadn’t placed yet—but now craved.

“Come say hi to everyone,” she murmured, keeping a hand at your lower back as she led you inside.

The house was packed with people–you could barely see the floor between bodies. The air was warm and loud, music booming from someone’s bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, the scent of soju, beer, and sweet snacks lingering in the air.

Just inside the living room, you spotted the girl you remembered from last time–short bob, sparkly earrings, the one who had made you take a shot of something radioactive blue. She looked up from where she sat perched on the arm of the couch.

You panicked a little–words jumbling–but managed to squeak out, “Annyeonghaseyo.”

There was a split second of stunned silence…and then a cheer erupted. The bob-haired girl gasped like you’d given her a gift. “You learn!” she cried, hopping up to fling her arms around you. “Look at you!”

You giggled, flushed, barely catching the soft, proud smile Hyun-ju tried to hide. “Love your outfit,” the girl said, pulling back and giving your skirt and jacket combo an approving once over. “Beautiful.”

Your cheeks flared hot. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Drinks!” someone called from the kitchen.

A chorus of “Yes!” followed, and the group surged toward the back of the house, dragging you and Hyun-ju along.

She stayed close, always within reach. In the kitchen, she grabbed a peach soju and glanced at you, raising a brow. You picked something fruity and fizzy and out of the cooler–a canned cocktail with a pastel label–and caught the little laugh she tried to stifle.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Nothing,” she said, smirking as she popped open her drink. “It just suits you.”

You rolled your eyes and sipped quickly, letting the sweetness distract you from how warm your face felt.

Before you could say anything else, her fingers slid into yours–steady, sure–and you were tugged back into the hallway through a doorway into the living room, where music pulsed through an old speaker and people were dancing, sprawled out on couches, or lounging on the floor with half full drinks.

The crowd shifted around you, and someone’s elbow bumped into your back–Hyun-ju’s hand caught your waist just in time, pulling you in.

The music pulsed around you like a heartbeat, bodies swaying, voices raising above the beat. With the crush of people, you ended up with your back flush to Hyun-ju’s front, her arms resting lightly around your hips.

You weren’t sure if you were dancing or just trying to breathe, your mind struggling to keep up with the mix of music, Korean, laughter, and the way she was standing behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She dipped her head slightly, resting her chin on top of yours. “You okay?” she asked, voice warm against your ear.

You nodded, voice soft. “Just…a little overwhelmed.”

Her thumbs brushed gentle circles over your hips. “You’re doing great,” she said, barely loud enough to hear. “Just stay close.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Everything felt like her–her perfume, the press of her jacket against your back, her breath against your hair.

The conversation around you faded into static. You tried to keep up with the jokes being tossed around in rapid-fire Korean, tried to smile at the right moments–but the only thing you could really focus on was how close Hyun-ju was, the slight shift of her hips swaying.

The crowd shifted again–just enough to give you space to breathe, to move without bumping into strangers, but not enough to break the quiet closeness between you and Hyun-ju.

Her hand stayed on your waist. She could’ve stepped back. Could’ve let you go. But she didn’t.

Her palm stayed warm and steady over your side, fingertips brushing the fabric of your shirt, just above where your skirt began. You were sure she could feel the way your breathing had changed—unsteady, shallow. You were sure she knew.

You tried to focus on the song, on her friends’ laughter somewhere off to the right, but all you could feel was her. Her scent—faint and sweet and dizzying. The soft way her chest moved behind your back. The whisper of her thumb moving against your shirt.

Then, gently, her chin came to rest on top of your head. Your breath caught. Her body curved around yours, close and warm. Protective, but not possessive. You tipped your head back instinctively, just to see her.

And she was already looking. Her lips found your forehead, soft and warm. You blinked up at her—heart thudding, hands loose at your sides, drink long forgotten.

When you turned your gaze forward again, breath caught in your throat, Hyun-Ju dipped her head until her lips hovered just beside your ear.

“You dressed cute for me,” she murmured, her voice warm and smooth beneath the music.

You tried to scoff, tried to shake off the way it made your stomach twist—but your voice came out breathier than you wanted. “You told me to.”

“I didn’t think I’d see this much of your legs tonight.”

Your eyes darted down to your skirt—a mid-thigh black thing that hugged your hips and flared just a little. Flowing, but not shy. Not tonight. You swallowed. “Too much?”

“No,” she said, low in your ear, “just enough.” Her fingers, resting so gently on your waist, began to move—slowly, casually, slipping from the hem of your shirt to the bare skin above your skirt.

You jumped a little at the contact, even though it was light. Even though it was careful. Even though it was her.

Hyun-Ju didn’t pull away. “And your tummy?” she said softly, fingers still resting there now—just barely grazing your skin. “What did I do to earn this?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Your whole body felt warm. The music pounded around you. Her fingers didn’t move—just stayed there, gently grounding you and setting your nerves alight.

You could barely hear her friends anymore. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. You just leaned a little heavier into her touch, cheeks flushed and stomach fluttering.

“Hyun-Ju,” you whispered, your voice getting lost in the music.

She leaned in again, her mouth near your jaw this time. “You wanna get some air?” Her words barely registered in your ears. You nodded before you could think.

She laced your fingers together and tugged you through the hallway—dodging swaying bodies and half-closed bedroom doors—until she found a bathroom tucked near the back of the house. She tried the handle, found it unlocked, and nudged it open.

It was small—just a toilet, a sink, a mirror, and a clean white tiled floor—but it was quiet. Dim. Private. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the air changed.

Hyun-Ju leaned back against it, her eyes skating over you in the soft yellow light. You stood in the center of the room, heartbeat ticking high in your throat, your fingers fidgeting at the hem of your shirt.

She crossed the space slowly. “You really wore this for me?” she asked, voice lower now—no teasing, just a soft rasp that made your skin spark.

You couldn’t look at her. “Maybe.”

Hyun-Ju’s fingers found yours, tugged them gently away from your shirt. “I like it.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

Her eyes darkened just a little. “Yeah.”

You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly you were kissing. Slow at first—like you had time. Like she wanted to taste every part of your mouth before she got carried away. Her hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your jaw, her lips warm and plush against yours. She kissed like she’d thought about it. Like she’d really thought about it.

Your hands drifted to her waist, fingers sliding under the hem of her tank top, and you gasped when she suddenly gripped your thighs.

“Up,” she said, breath ghosting your lips. Then—effortlessly—she lifted you and set you on the bathroom counter.

Your knees fell open instinctively, making room for her between them. Her hands gripped your thighs, firm and steady, her thumbs tracing lazy circles just above your knees.

“You okay?” she asked, voice husky now, her forehead resting lightly against yours.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I’m okay.” That was all she needed.

She kissed you again—deeper this time, more sure of herself. Her hands slid up your thighs, gripping gently, possessively, and your fingers curled into her jacket like a lifeline. Her tongue licked into your mouth slow and deliberate, and you whimpered into the kiss, your back arching just a little.

The counter was cool against your bare thighs, but her body was warm, pressing between them, anchoring you in place.

She kissed you like it wasn’t just about tonight. Like she wanted to remember how you tasted when she couldn’t have you later. Like kissing you was the only thing keeping her upright.

When her lips dragged to your jaw, then to the side of your throat, you gasped—hands flying to her shoulders, holding on like the world was tilting. She bit down gently, then soothed the spot with her tongue.

Your hips rolled forward without thinking, and her hands tightened on your thighs. “Careful,” she murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You keep that up and I’m not gonna let you out of this room.”

Your breath caught. “S-sorry–I’m sorry,” you apologized quietly.

Her soft laugh was like a thrill down your spine. “It’s okay, sweet girl.”

But she kissed you again anyway. Slower this time. Savoring it.

The kiss had just deepened again—your legs locked around Hyun-Ju’s waist, her tongue in your mouth, her hands gripping your thighs like she never wanted to let go—when there was a sudden rattle at the doorknob.

You both froze. A loud, impatient knock followed. “야! 안에 사람 있어? 나 미치겠다고!”

Hey! Is someone in there? I’m gonna lose it!

You panicked, your hands flying to your face. “Oh my god–”

Hyun-ju didn’t even flinch. Calmly, she turned her head toward the door and called back in an easy, slightly amused tone: “야! 안에 사람 있어? 나 미치겠다고!” Just a minute!

Then, under her breath, to you: “He’s so dramatic.”

You gave her a horrified look, whispering, “We have to go, Hyun-Ju.”

She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, but helped you down off the counter with surprising gentleness. Her hands lingered at your waist, straightening your slightly twisted skirt with a little tug. “You’re okay,” she murmured, giving your hip a squeeze.

“I’m not okay,” you hissed, your heart racing. “My lip gloss is probably—my hair—everything—”

“You look hot,” she said with a wink.

Then, without ceremony, she cracked the door open. The hallway light poured in, and the guy standing outside blinked at the two of you. His eyes scanned you—flushed face, rumpled clothes, Hyun-Ju’s satisfied expression—and he immediately groaned.

“씨발.” Fuck.

Hyun-ju didn’t even blink. She stepped past him, hand gently guiding you forward, and tossed over her shoulder: “질투는 보기 안 좋아요.” Jealousy’s not a good look.

You covered your face as you walked, mortified, your heart pounding like a drumline. Just before you reached the living room again, she paused and turned to you. With both hands, she gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and smoothed down a piece near your crown where it had gotten rumpled.

Her eyes softened, her voice quiet. “There.”

You blinked up at her, shy and a little dizzy. “Thanks…”

She smiled, brushing her thumb along your cheekbone for one lingering second. “You were so cute in there.” Your stomach flipped.

Then she turned casually and led you back toward the group like it was just any other moment, like your lip gloss wasn’t all over her mouth, like she hadn’t just kissed you breathless in a stranger’s bathroom.

Meanwhile, you were glowing pink, your heart still thudding out of rhythm, and praying no one noticed the way you couldn't quite meet anyone's eyes.

Of course, the bob-haired girl from earlier immediately spotted you both and narrowed her eyes. “Took you long enough,” she said with a smirk, handing you a fresh drink. “You okay, sweetheart? You look flushed.” she asked, some words in English and some in Korean.

You opened your mouth to lie—to say you were just hot, or needed air, or anything remotely believable—but Hyun-Ju just plucked the drink out of your hand, took a sip, and handed it back to you.

“She’s good,” she said with a wink. And somehow, you were. Sort of. Maybe. Except for the fact that all you could think about now was her mouth on yours and how many more locked doors this house had.

taglist - @shesruinqtion, @diouna, @jeongteen, @natwendigo, @lesmiix, @sukunasthighmarkings101, @danitzastolfo, @coreyfics, @deftonism, @kikibunnyy, @seungyug, @chattersstuff, @daydreamerstars, @littleblindchannelfan, @tteokbunni

[iamquiantrelle]

FORTY • iamquaintrelle

# tags: @everythingblaesthtic, @mauvecherie-writes, @szariahwroteit, @greedyjudge2, @irishmanwhore, @jessnotwiththemess, @peyiswriting, @queenshikongo3, @saintwrld @brownsugarcoffy @iamryanl @amirawrah @muglermami @scorpiobleue @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @pickingupmymercedes, @literallysza, @mochachocolatayayaa, @cocobutterqwueen, @pinkcatcus, @cherry2stems, @sapphireheaven, @chaoticcoffeequeen, @motheroffae, @a-moment-captured # summary: requested by @palefacestudentlove # warnings: porn with light plot, cursing, p in v penetration, male receiving oral sex, pregnancy kink, creampies (no condoms). 18+ only # author's note: this is as freaky and detailed as i can get....

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Colorado mountain home, casting long shadows across the wood-paneled walls. Lewis stirred in the king-sized bed, his arm instinctively reaching across the sheets to find you, but the space beside him was empty and cool.

January 7th, 2025. His fortieth birthday.

The number felt strange rolling around in his mind. Forty. Four decades on this earth, and in a few weeks, he'd be driving for Ferrari for the first time. The weight of it all – the new team, the expectations, the milestone birthday – should have felt overwhelming. Instead, lying there in his favorite place on earth, surrounded by the Colorado mountains he'd called home for over a decade, it felt... peaceful.

The sound of plates clattering downstairs made him smile. You were already up, probably making breakfast. He stretched, feeling the familiar ache in his lower back that reminded him he wasn't twenty-five anymore, and padded barefoot down the wooden stairs.

"Morning, beautiful," he called out as he entered the kitchen, but you barely looked up from the stove where you were flipping what looked like regular pancakes.

"Oh, hey," you said casually, glancing over your shoulder. "Sleep okay?"

Lewis paused, studying your face for any sign of... well, anything. A knowing smile, a badly hidden excitement, even acknowledgment of what day it was. But you just turned back to the pancakes, humming softly to yourself.

"Yeah, slept good." He moved closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and pressing a kiss to your neck. "What's all this then?"

"Pancakes," you said simply, leaning back into his warmth. "Figured we could use a proper breakfast before you start your workout."

He waited. Surely you'd say something. Mention the date, crack a joke about him being over the hill, anything. But you just continued cooking, perfectly content in the morning routine.

"Right," he said slowly. "Pancakes sound good."

Maybe you were planning something for later. That had to be it. You weren't the type to forget important dates, especially not his birthday. You'd been together long enough that you knew how much family celebrations meant to him, how much he valued the quiet moments away from the chaos of his public life.

But as you plated the pancakes and sat across from him at the kitchen table, chatting about the fresh snow that had fallen overnight and whether the roads would be clear for a drive later, Lewis felt a small knot of disappointment forming in his chest.

"So," he said, cutting into his pancakes with perhaps more force than necessary. "Any special plans for today?"

You looked thoughtful, chewing slowly. "Not really. Was thinking we could just chill. Maybe watch a movie later? You've been stressed about Ferrari and everything."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, that sounds... nice."

The conversation moved on to mundane things – the weather, the grocery delivery that was coming later, whether they should start the fire in the living room. Normal, domestic topics that would usually make Lewis feel content and grounded. Today, they just made him feel... forgotten.

After breakfast, he went for his usual run on the trails behind the house, Roscoe bounding alongside him through the snow. The Colorado air was crisp and clean, filling his lungs as he pushed himself up the familiar inclines. Usually, the physical exertion cleared his head, but today his mind kept circling back to your casual indifference to the date.

Forty years old. The milestone felt bigger than it should, especially with everything changing in his career. Starting over at Ferrari at forty was either brave or stupid, and some days he wasn't sure which. Having you acknowledge that transition, acknowledge him, would have meant something.

When he returned to the house, sweaty and slightly out of breath, you were curled up on the oversized leather couch in the living room, laptop open, looking completely absorbed in whatever you were working on.

"Good run?" you asked without looking up.

"Yeah, good." He headed toward the stairs. "Gonna shower."

"Mmm," you hummed, already back to your screen.

The hot water felt good on his muscles, but it did nothing for the growing irritation in his chest. He stood under the spray longer than necessary, trying to talk himself out of being petty. So what if you'd forgotten his birthday? You'd been dealing with your own work stress lately, and it wasn't like he needed a big celebration. He was a grown man, not a child waiting for a party.

But the rational voice in his head was losing the battle to the hurt one.

When he came downstairs, hair still damp, you were in the same position on the couch. He settled beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

"Whatcha working on?" he asked, nodding toward your laptop.

"Just some emails," you said absently. "Boring work stuff."

He tried to peek at the screen, but you angled it away slightly. "Important emails for a Tuesday?"

"Every day's important when you're trying to stay on top of things," you replied, still not really looking at him.

Lewis leaned back against the couch cushions, studying your profile. There was something about your posture, the way you kept glancing at him and then away, that didn't quite fit with your casual act. You were hiding something, he was sure of it now.

The question was what.

"You know what I was thinking?" he said, testing. "Maybe we should do something special today. Since it's, you know..." He trailed off, giving you every opportunity to fill in the blank.

"Since it's what?" you asked, finally closing the laptop and turning to face him.

"Since it's Tuesday?" he finished weakly.

You laughed, that genuine sound that usually made his heart skip. Today it just made him more confused. "You want to celebrate Tuesday?"

"I mean, why not? Live every day like it's special, right?"

"Very philosophical of you," you said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "But I think you're just restless because you don't have anything for today. Why don't we watch something? You pick."

Lewis stared at you for a moment, searching your face for any crack in the facade. But you just smiled back at him, patient and expectant, as if this was any other ordinary day.

"Fine," he said, reaching for the remote. "But I'm picking something good."

He scrolled through the options, eventually landing on Cool Runnings. The familiar opening credits rolled, and despite everything, he felt himself starting to relax. This movie never failed to make him smile, no matter how many times he'd seen it.

"Really?" you said, settling back against his side. "This again?"

"Don't act like you don't love it," he said, his arm automatically wrapping around your shoulders. "Besides, it's a classic."

"If you say so," you laughed, but you snuggled closer anyway.

As John Candy's character appeared on screen, Lewis felt some of the tension from the morning start to ease. Maybe this was enough. Maybe he didn't need grand gestures or big celebrations. Maybe just being here, in his favorite place, with you warm against his side, was all he really wanted for his birthday.

Even if you didn't remember it was his birthday.

The thought stung again, but he pushed it away. The movie was just getting to the good parts, and your hand was tracing lazy patterns on his chest through his t-shirt. This was nice. This was enough.

He almost believed it.

By the time the Jamaican bobsled team was making their final run, you were half-asleep against his shoulder, your breathing deep and even. Lewis found himself more focused on the weight of you against him than on the screen, on the way your fingers had stilled against his ribs, on the soft sound you made when you shifted in your sleep.

This was what he'd missed during all those years of constant travel, of hotel rooms and airport lounges and endless obligations. These quiet moments of pure domesticity, where the biggest decision was what movie to watch and whether to start the fire.

The movie ended, and he carefully reached for the remote to start another one, not wanting to wake you. Ferris Bueller's Day Off began playing, and he settled back to watch one of his other favorites, his hand stroking absently through your hair.

"Life moves pretty fast," Ferris said to the camera, and Lewis found himself nodding along. "If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

Forty years. Had he been looking around enough? Had he been present for the moments that mattered, or had he been too focused on the next race, the next championship, the next goal?

You stirred against him, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into sleep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

Maybe this was what forty looked like. Not the milestone he'd been dreading, but just another day in a life he was finally learning to appreciate. Even if it wasn't going exactly as he'd hoped.

The afternoon wore on in comfortable laziness. You eventually woke up during the middle of Ferris's museum scene, stretching like a cat before curling back up against Lewis's side.

"What time is it?" you mumbled.

"Around three," he said, not bothering to check his phone.

"Mmm. We should probably think about dinner soon."

"Should we?" He was perfectly content to stay exactly where they were, your body warm against his, the fire crackling in the background.

"Unless you want to starve," you said, but you made no move to get up either.

"There are worse ways to go," he said, and you laughed.

"Very dramatic. No wonder you like these old movies."

"Oi, they're not old. They're classic."

"Same thing," you said, tilting your head to look at him. "But I love that you still get excited about them like you're seeing them for the first time."

There was something soft in your expression, something that made Lewis's chest tighten with affection. This was why he'd fallen in love with you – not just your beauty or your intelligence, but the way you saw him. Really saw him, not the public persona or the championship titles, just Lewis.

"You love me even though I have terrible taste in movies?" he asked.

"I love you because you have terrible taste in movies," you corrected. "Among other things."

"Other things, huh? Like what?"

You pretended to think about it. "Your cooking skills are questionable at best. You sing off-key in the shower. You leave your workout clothes everywhere."

"Wow, you really know how to make a man feel special on his—" He caught himself just in time, but not before you raised an eyebrow.

"On his what?"

"On his... Tuesday," he finished lamely.

You studied his face for a moment, and he could see the exact moment you decided not to push. "Right. Your Tuesday."

The conversation moved on, but Lewis couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. You were more attentive for the rest of the afternoon, bringing him tea without being asked, laughing a little too hard at his jokes, touching him just a little more frequently than usual.

By evening, he was certain you were up to something.

You disappeared upstairs while he was building up the fire, claiming you wanted to change into something more comfortable. When you came back down, you were wearing one of his old Mercedes t-shirts and nothing else, your legs bare and beautiful in the firelight.

"Comfortable, huh?" he said, his eyes tracking the movement of your thighs as you walked.

"Very," you said innocently, settling back onto the couch beside him. "What? It's your shirt."

"I'm aware," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. The sight of you in his clothes always did things to him, and you knew it.

"Good," you said, curling up against his side again. "What should we watch now?"

But Lewis was finding it hard to concentrate on the TV with your mostly naked body pressed against him. Your leg was thrown over his thigh, and every time you shifted, the hem of the t-shirt rode up just a little higher.

"Lewis," you said softly, and when he looked down at you, your eyes were dark and warm. "Happy birthday."

The words hit him like a physical blow. Relief, confusion, and something that might have been anger all crashed together in his chest.

"You knew," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Of course I knew," you said, sitting up to face him properly. "Did you really think I'd forget your fortieth birthday?"

"I..." He stared at you, trying to process everything. "You've been acting like it was just another day."

"It was just another day," you said softly. "Until now."

"I don't understand."

You smiled, and there was something almost mischievous in it. "I wanted to give you something normal. Something quiet. I know how much you've been stressing about Ferrari, about getting older, about all the changes coming. I thought maybe what you needed wasn't a big celebration, but just... this. A day that felt like home."

Lewis felt something tight in his chest start to loosen. "You did this on purpose."

"The whole day. I wanted you to remember what it felt like to just be Lewis, not Sir Lewis Hamilton or the seven-time world champion or Ferrari's new driver. Just the man who loves terrible movies and gets excited about fresh powder and makes the world's most mediocre pancakes."

"My pancakes aren't mediocre," he protested weakly.

"They're definitely mediocre," you said, but you were smiling as you said it. "But I love them anyway. I love all of it. I love you."

The words settled over him like a warm blanket. This was why he'd fallen for you, why he'd known from almost the beginning that you were different. You didn't just love the successful parts of him – you loved the quiet parts, the mundane parts, the parts that had nothing to do with racing or fame or achievement.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "Now that it's officially my birthday?"

Your smile turned wicked. "Now we celebrate properly."

Before he could ask what that meant, you were straddling his lap, your hands framing his face as you kissed him. It was soft at first, almost gentle, but it quickly deepened into something hungrier, more urgent.

"Wait," he said against your mouth, his hands settling on your waist. "What about dinner?"

"Later," you murmured, nipping at his bottom lip. "I have other plans for you first."

"Other plans?"

Instead of answering, you stood up and held out your hand. "Come with me."

Lewis let you pull him to his feet, his heart starting to race with anticipation. Whatever you had planned, he had a feeling his fortieth birthday was about to get a lot more interesting.

You led him upstairs to their bedroom, where he noticed for the first time that the lights were dimmed and there were candles flickering on the nightstands. The whole room smelled like sandalwood and vanilla, warm and inviting.

"When did you do all this?" he asked.

"I may have been planning this longer than just today," you said, turning to face him.

"How much longer?"

"Does it matter?" You stepped closer, your hands sliding up his chest. "The point is, I wanted tonight to be special. Forty deserves to be celebrated properly."

Lewis felt his breath catch as your fingers found the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up and over his head. Your eyes tracked over his chest, taking in the familiar lines and angles, and he felt heat pool low in his belly at the hungry look in your eyes.

"I can't believe you're forty," you said softly, your palms flat against his chest.

"Thanks for the reminder," he said dryly.

"No, I mean..." You looked up at him, something almost awed in your expression. "I can't believe how lucky I am. How lucky I get to be here with you, like this."

The sincerity in your voice made his chest tight. "Baby..."

"I love you," you said simply. "All of you. Every year, every day, every moment."

Lewis cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "I love you too. More than I know how to say."

"Then don't say it," you whispered, rising up on your toes to brush your lips against his. "Show me."

The kiss was different this time – slower, deeper, full of promise. Lewis felt himself getting lost in it, in the way you melted against him, in the soft sounds you made when he nipped at your bottom lip.

When you broke apart, both breathing hard, your eyes were dark with want.

"This is going to be a very good birthday," Lewis said, his voice rough.

"The best," you agreed, and then your voice dropped to something softer, more vulnerable. "Lewis, I want... I want you to use me however you want tonight. It's your birthday, and I want to make you feel good."

Something shifted in Lewis's expression at your words. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until they were nearly black, filled with a hunger that made your breath catch. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips – that cocky expression that always made your knees weak.

You and Lewis had always been exploratory in the bedroom, open about what you wanted, what felt good. But for you to explicitly tell him to use your body any way he saw fit? Yeah, he was going to fuck you into next year. No doubt.

"Is that what you want, baby?" His voice was even rougher now, commanding in a way that sent heat straight to your core. "You want to be good for me tonight?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"Words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it."

"Yes," you breathed. "I want to be good for you. I want you to tell me what you need."

Lewis's hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he studied you with those dark eyes. "You sure about this? Because once we start..."

"I'm sure," you said firmly. "I trust you."

The smile that crossed his face was devastating. "Good girl. Now, first thing – this shirt needs to go."

His hands found the hem of his t-shirt you were wearing, lifting it slowly over your head until you were bare before him. The cool air made you shiver, but the heat in his gaze warmed you from the inside out.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his hands skimming down your sides. "So fucking beautiful. Now, I want you on your knees for me, yeah?"

Your breath caught, but you nodded, sinking down onto the plush carpet beside the bed. Lewis settled on the edge of the mattress in front of you, legs spread just enough, and the sight of him like this – powerful, in control, but looking at you with such tender hunger – made your mouth go dry.

"Look at me," he said softly, and when you met his eyes, he leaned down toward you. "Open up, sweetheart."

You parted your lips without question, and Lewis leaned closer, letting a long strand of saliva drop into your mouth. The intimate act made you moan softly, your body responding to his dominance.

"Swallow for me," he instructed, his voice gentle but firm.

You did as he asked, maintaining eye contact the whole time, and the pleased sound he made sent warmth flooding through you.

"That's my good girl," he praised, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Now show me how much you want to make me feel good."

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and dragged them down, inch by inch. His dick sprang free—thick, flushed deep and red at the tip, glistening with pre-cum. The kind of hardness that made your pulse quicken and your mouth go dry. But Lewis? He was watching you—how your lips parted, how your chest rose, how your fingers twitched like you were aching to touch.

His jaw flexed. That was the only warning you got before his hand slid into your hair, fingers curling at the base of your skull.

“I’m not gonna be gentle tonight,” he said, voice low and rough. “You sure you want this?”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “I want everything.”

His grip in your hair tightened just enough to make your scalp tingle.

“Good girl.”

That did something to you—those words in his voice.

You leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from the base of his shaft to the tip. His entire body tensed, thighs twitching under your touch. You circled your tongue around the head, tasting salt and heat and Lewis, and hummed as you took him into your mouth.

His breath hitched. “Fuck.”

You went slow, taking him in inch by inch until your lips were flush with your hand, your throat stretching around him. He groaned, low and guttural, his fingers flexing against your scalp.

“Eyes on me,” he said.

You looked up, blinking through your lashes, and the way he stared back—jaw clenched, eyes molten—made your thighs clench together. His hips shifted, a shallow thrust into your mouth, and then he steadied himself with a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s it. Look at you, baby. Fuck, you look good like this.”

You moaned around him, letting the vibration carry through your throat, pressing your tongue along every thick vein. You hollowed your cheeks, your hand working the base in tandem with your mouth. Lewis groaned again—low and controlled—but you could feel it in him, the tight coil of tension, the way his thighs flexed like he was holding back.

“Hold still,” he ordered. “I want to fuck your mouth just the way I like it.”

You obeyed, staying steady as he started to thrust—slow, deliberate, each movement precise. He held your head, guiding the rhythm, controlling the depth. Every inch of him filled your mouth, and still, he wanted more.

“You’re taking it so well,” he gritted. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your throat fluttered around him, spit leaking from your lips, but you stayed with him. You wanted this—every inch of him, every word, every sound. He pulled back slightly, letting you catch a breath, then pushed in again, groaning at the way your lips stretched around him.

“Shit—just like that. You feel so good. So perfect.”

You choked once, and his hand slid up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

“Breathe through your nose, baby. You got it.”

You nodded as best you could, and he fucked into your mouth again, deeper this time, slow and steady like he could live here—in your throat, in your mouth, in this exact moment. The heat between your legs was unbearable now. You were soaked, and he hadn’t even touched you there yet.

When he pulled back with a wet pop, your lips were swollen and slick. You sat back on your heels, dazed and breathless.

“C’mere,” he said, reaching for you.

You let him guide you closer, and he looked at you like he was trying not to lose it. He dragged his thumb across your bottom lip, then slipped it between your lips. You sucked without hesitation.

And then he removed his thumb, and he kissed you after—deep and messy, like he didn’t care he’d just been in your mouth. Like he wanted to taste himself on your tongue.

“Still with me?” he whispered, foreheads pressed together.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “Still yours.”

Lewis smirked, slow and dangerous, brushing your hair away from your face. “Damn right you are. And I’m not even close to finished.”

He stood then, towering over you. His dick was still hard, slick with your spit, and his body radiated heat—bare chest rising with every breath, abs flexing with every movement. He offered his hand. You took it.

He pulled you in, kissed you again, slower this time, and murmured against your lips, “Get on the bed. Hands and knees.”

You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, your skin buzzing. You positioned yourself just like he asked, hands planted, back arched, breath caught somewhere in your chest. You felt exposed, vulnerable—and yet, so wanted. The sound of Lewis behind you—his quiet grunt, the rustle of sheets, the low curse—only added to the anticipation.

He slid his hands up the backs of your thighs, gripping the swell of your ass. “You’re dripping,” he muttered. “Did sucking my cock get you this wet?”

You nodded, whimpering when he pressed a finger against your folds, teasing you.

“Look at you,” he said. “Fucking soaked. All for me.”

He leaned over you, his chest brushing your back, mouth at your ear. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby. Gonna take my time and ruin you properly.”

He pressed in slowly, inch by inch, letting youfeel every part of him. Your breath caught, hands fisting the sheets. Lewis stilled once he was fully inside, letting you adjust, his hands now gripping your waist.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped, pulling back slightly before driving in again, harder.

The first thrust knocked a moan from your throat. The second made your back arch even deeper.

He set a rhythm—deep, measured strokes that made the bed creak and your breath stutter. He watched the ripple of your body as he moved, sweat beginning to gather at the back of his neck.

Then he leaned forward, his chest pressing to your back, one hand sliding up, wrapping around her throat—not tight, but just enough to make you gasp. Just enough for you to feel it.

“You okay?” he whispered, his lips at your ear.

You nodded quickly, your voice nothing but a breath. “Yes… please don’t stop.”

That’s all he needed.

His other hand tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make your back arch farther for him. He thrust harder now, hips snapping into yours, the slap of skin filling the room. Your moans grew louder, breathier.

“You like that?” he muttered. “Like when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes, Lewis… fuck, yes.”

He smacked your ass once—sharp, quick—earning a whimper from you. Then again, slower this time, watching your skin flush under the sting.

“You take me so well,” he growled. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

You were unraveling, he could feel it in the way your inner muscles clenched around him, in the tremble of your thighs.

“Stay right there,” he ordered.

But he needed to see your face.

Lewis pulled out slowly and flipped you over before you could even think. He didn’t let you go far—grabbed her thighs and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Your eyes met his, dazed and glassy.

“Lewis—”

“I got you.”

He hooked your legs around his waist, lined himself up again, and thrust back in. The angle made you cry out, head falling back.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You did. Barely. But you did.

He fucked you deep, his thumb brushing your clit in circles that had your eyes rolling back and your hips jerking against his.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me.”

You came hard—legs shaking, back arching, mouth open in a silent moan. He kept going, chasing his own release, watching you fall apart again and again.

Lewis was close. So close. He grabbed your thighs, pushed them higher, and gave a few more thrusts, faster now, rougher. His body tensed, heat curling low in his spine.

“Fuck—gonna come,” he gritted. “Gonna come inside you, baby.”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless. “Come in me.”

That was it.

He groaned, head falling to your shoulder as he spilled into her, hips still moving in short, stuttering strokes. He stayed there for a moment, panting, skin slick with sweat, heart thundering. Your scent—sex and sweetness and something just hers—filled his lungs. He kissed your neck, then her shoulder, his hands smoothing up your sides.

“Fuck,” he whispered, a little hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hummed lazily in response, lips curved in a sleepy smile as you nuzzled closer.

Lewis slowly pulled out, careful, watching the way you twitched from the oversensitivity. A lazy trail of cum followed, thick and wet, and then—

You shifted down the bed, easing yourself between his thighs before he could even ask what you were doing. Then you leaned in, eyes locked on his, and ran your tongue along the head of his dick—licking up the mix of him and yourself like it was the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted.

“Jesus,” Lewis breathed, voice punched out of him.

Your tongue was slow, teasing, deliberate. You licked the length of him, cleaning every drop of his come, humming softly.

“Look at you…” he said, watching you with a stunned half-laugh. “You’re so nasty.”

You pulled back just enough to smile. “You love it.”

He did. God, he did.

He stared down at you—his girl, still flushed and glowing from everything you two had just done—and the sight of you like that, licking him clean without a second thought, made his dick twitch with interest again, already stirring back to life.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, brushing a hand over his face. “You tryna put me in a coma tonight?”

You grinned, smug, and crawled back up into his lap, straddling him, pressing your chest to his. Your skin was still warm, your lips soft as you kissed him again—deep and slow and messy.

Lewis groaned into your mouth. “You’re unreal.”

You shifted against him, clearly feeling the way he was hardening again, and gave him a knowing look.

“I thought this was your birthday,” she teased.

“It is,” he said, gripping your hips. “And I’m starting to think you’re tryna give me a heart attack as a gift.”

You laughed, but Lewis wasn’t playing now. He kissed you again—this time softer, gentler, like he needed to slow it all down or risk combusting.

When he pulled back, he cradled your face in his hands, thumb stroking your cheek. You nestled into his chest, your fingers tracing the outline of his tattoos.

You lay like that for a few long moments, the room quiet except for the slow beat of your breath syncing back together.

Then Lewis tilted your chin up and smirked. “You know, only way this birthday gets any better…”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

He kissed the tip of your nose. “Is if you give me a baby next year.”

You blinked, stunned silent.

“I’m kidding,” he said, but the way he looked at you—it didn’t feel like a joke. His smile turned sly. “Mostly.”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing despite yourself.

“Lewis!”

“What?” he grinned. “You’d look sexy as hell carrying my kid. Sore all the time, moody… needy.”

You groaned, burying your face deeper in his chest. “Stop.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. “But you should know, this was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

You looked up, all swollen lips, and smiled.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple.

[kuronarnze]

Hello!

I have been reading your Blue Lock posts for a while now and I really like them! Please continue to feed us with your words and ideas 🙏🏻

I was wondering if you could do a request with Sae and a deaf/hard of hearing partner, targeting how they handle/act in their established relationship.

GN! Reader if possible and while I'd like to see Sae specifically, of course you can do it like general bllk boys headcanons and add anyone else you want. In that case I'd also ask for Kaiser, but the rest is your free pick!

Thank you for taking the time to read my message!

- 🦦🌺

a/n: AAAAA TYSMMM 🫶�� I LOVE THIS REQUEST SMMM, okokok enjoy reading 💗

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Blue lock boys with a Deaf/HoH!Reader

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Isagi Yoichi

- Golden retriever energy + eager learner = he's immediately invested in learning your preferred way of communication.

- Whether it’s sign language, lip reading, written notes, or speech-to-text apps, he’s got them memorized and practiced.

- If you're signing and he doesn’t understand something, he asks you to repeat it with zero shame — he genuinely wants to do better.

- Keeps his hand gently on your back or shoulder in crowded rooms so you’re always aware of him.

- If you're in a group setting, he makes sure you’re included in the conversation by signing/talking with you in between and explaining what others said.

- Random moment: during a press conference, someone asks who he loves most in the world. He signs your name before even speaking it.

- “You don’t need to hear me say it. I just want you to feel it, always.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Itoshi Sae

- He’s quiet already, so having a partner who communicates differently is never an issue.

- He prefers eye contact, subtle touches, and expressive body language — all things that suit a deaf/HoH partner perfectly.

- He took a sign language course in secret after you started dating. Showed off by casually signing “I love you” one night and pretended like it was nothing.

- Doesn’t force verbal conversation; he’ll text you from across the room, write notes, or just sit beside you in comfortable silence.

- Will fight anyone who speaks over you or acts like you’re a burden. Sae-style glare activated.

- Puts subtitles on everything — even his phone reels and TikToks — just so you can both watch comfortably.

- “You’re not missing anything. I’ll make sure of it.”

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Itoshi Rin

- Rin may not be good with words, but he listens in the way that matters.

- Communicates through thoughtful gestures — bringing your drink the way you like it, leaving you little notes when he goes out, gently tapping your hand before speaking.

- He always positions himself where you can read his lips clearly if needed.

- If you’re overstimulated or frustrated by trying to lip-read/speak too much, he doesn’t push — just offers his hoodie, takes your hand, and lets you cool down in peace.

- Practices sign language alone at night watching YouTube videos. Gets embarrassed when you catch him.

- Once told you: “I’m learning this for us. Not just you. Us.”

- “Even if the world’s too loud, you never have to shout to be heard by me.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Shidou Ryusei

- Surprisingly intuitive and unapologetically protective of you.

- He might be loud, reckless, and chaotic — but when it comes to you, he’s always tuned in.

- Gets upset when people speak to you like you’re a child or slow things down unnecessarily. → “They’re deaf, not stupid. Dumbass.”

- Learns your communication style fast. Doesn’t care if it’s sign, texting, or pointing — he rolls with it.

- Loud music isn’t a problem — he’ll dance with you to the beat of vibrations, grab your hands, and pull you into a living-room concert.

- Signs “I love you” wrong at first but so proudly that you can't bring yourself to correct him.

- “I don’t care how we talk. You could slap morse code on my forehead and I’d still understand you.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Michael Kaiser

- Acts like he knows everything, but actually studies up behind the scenes to get everything right for you.

- Thinks your sign language is beautiful and secretly loves when you sign fast because it looks like magic to him.

- Pulls you into his lap in loud settings like clubs or stadiums so he can sign against your palm or whisper against your cheek so you can feel the vibrations.

- Shows off with overly dramatic signing, makes everything he says theatrical, just to make you laugh.

- But also incredibly serious when needed: makes sure any interviews, team meetings, or events you attend have accessibility accommodations.

- “If they don’t know how to make space for you, I’ll make it myself.”

- “I don’t care if the world’s on mute — you’re still the loudest thing in my heart.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

THANK YOU SM FOR REQUESTING have a nice day and tysm for reading 🫶💗

[tobesolnelyx]

Hiiii love!!

I keep my promise and reread your works and you know what?? First - you're amazing 💖 Second - i miss my gf Lottie Matthews sooo damn much😫

So, in "Sports car" was that moment where Lottie distracted reader while she trying to study, and in "texting" she begged reader for math help cause "you're so smart!!" and it got me thinking...

A smart reader!! Not some stereotypical nerd, but someone who can balance a relationship with Lottie and good grades! Imagine Lottie not even noticing at first - they always have better things to talk about (or to do😏) than stupid studying. R doesn't sit in the library all day long - she goes to parties and go on dates with Lottie and looks nothing like a textbook nerd... until Lottie sees her grades and she's just "omg my gf is not only pretty but REALLY SMART"

So when Lottie struggles with her homework (not like she cares) she ask R to tutor ger. Lottie expects some flirting but R just sights, grabs her notes and starts explaining material seriously?? Damn, Lottie never been so hard so fast.

There's something incredible hot about reader trying to explain anything Lottie came to her with. She definitely has one of the quickest, painful boners of her life - and ugh, she definitely can't focus on studying until reader helps her👀

-🪆

slight NSFW - MDNI

Lottie furrowed her brows as she watched you talk to the professor. Her fingers tapped against the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. She had just come from practice, so her cheeks were still flushed, maybe from a hot shower, or maybe from the murderous sprint through the hallways to pick you up after class. Like a true gentleman, at least in Lottie’s opinion.

“Miss Matthews,” the professor nodded when he finally decided to leave you be. She nodded back. Everyone at least recognized her, her father was a college sponsor. She watched him go, as if she didn’t trust him one bit.

“Hey,” you smiled at her, wrapping your arms around her. She had to lean down to place a quick kiss on your lips. She smelled of expensive perfume and shower gel.

“Hey, babe,” she murmured, her hands immediately finding your hips. Her gaze moved to the paper in your hands. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” you looked at the paper and grinned, showing it to her proudly. Not that you usually bragged about your grades. Not because Lottie didn’t want to hear about them, but because your conversations always drifted away from anything related to school. Lottie didn’t have to put in much effort most of the time. Most professors passed her from class to class anyway. And you managed just fine on your own despite her constant teasing about whether she should just buy you a diploma.

“The lastest test,” Lottie took the paper from you and looked at the perfect score. She blinked. Once. Twice. Then she looked at you as if she was seeing you for the first time.

“Babe, congratulations, I…” she began, but you just shrugged.

“Actually, I’ll probably be awarded a scholarship,” you said casually, as if you were talking about the weather. As if college didn’t take any effort from you. “I just talked to the professor about it.”

Lottie handed the paper back, stunned, as you tucked it into your bag. It’s not like Lottie didn’t know you were smart, she did. She just hadn’t expected this. Because, fuck, she’d never even seen you in a library let alone revising. You went to parties, always said yes to dates, Lottie couldn’t wrap her head around how you managed to balance a social life with constant studying. Honestly, it was hard for her to grasp how you had so much determination, discipline, and drive. Because in Lottie’s mind, a scholarship was a big deal.

It wasn’t about the money. People with scholarships, to Lottie, were the ones standing center stage at graduation, giving speeches and collecting applause.

“Lottie?” you asked, tilting your head, a small smile playing on your lips. The kind of smile that made Lottie melt every single time and want to give you all the money in the world, anything to keep you happy. “Can we go?”

Lottie finally returned your smile. She cleared her throat and nodded, intertwining her fingers with yours. She felt the blush on her cheeks deepen. She knew she had a ridiculously pretty girlfriend but now she knew you were ridiculously smart too. She let you tug her along, grabbing your bag so you wouldn’t have to carry a thing.

****

Lottie should have finished her homework ages ago. Writing a whole essay and doing research for that took effort, and she was currently stuck staring at a blank page, procrastinating in hope that the words would magically appear. She could’ve used her laptop, her iPad but she knew she’d end up playing some stupid game or scrolling through social media.

So Lottie just stared. You were sprawled out on her frat house bed, reading something Lottie assumed was a book for your next obligatory read.

She was lying on your stomach on the carpet, gently sucking on the cap of your pen and swinging your legs in the air. One finger tapped rhythmically on the floorboards.

She sighed deeply for the tenth time, loud enough that you finally glanced over at her, letting out a soft laugh. You looked at her with something like pity.

“You were supposed to be writing,” you murmured with a smile, turning your eyes slowly back to your pages. Laughter echoed from downstairs, and the scent of dinner, probably cooked by Shauna, drifted into your nose.

You turned a page, and Lottie’s eyes followed the movement. She pulled the pen from her mouth and bit her lip gently.

“I’m just… not feeling it,” she sighed, rolling onto her back and dramatically staring at the ceiling. She lifted her shirt a bit, absentmindedly scratching her hip. Another wave of laughter came from below, and Lottie rolled her eyes.

“It’s an essay, you’re not supposed to feel it,” you laughed. Lottie looked at you again, and before you could stop her, she was climbing into bed next to you with her books in hand, laying a sheet of paper on top and grabbing her pen.

You raised an eyebrow as she dramatically flopped next to you with a groan.

“Then explain it to me,” she grumbled, finally sitting up. She smiled wide at you, and you realized your girlfriend might have had a slightly different idea of what explaining meant. Lottie was clearly hoping for some light flirting, maybe a quick hookup while everyone else was downstairs. She definitely didn’t expect you to take it seriously.

But without shame, you grabbed one of her books and, with a light huff, settled yourself in her lap, straddling her. Lottie kept grinning, assuming this was part of the foreplay.

Which is why to say she was a little surprised when you started explaining the material, topic by topic, is a huge understatement. For a moment, Lottie just stared at you in disbelief, barely following the words pouring from your mouth. Until it started to sink in.

A blush spread across her cheeks the moment she realized, you really knew what you were talking about. You broke everything down clearly, one step at a time. Her hands froze on your hips, her lips slightly parted.

She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t incredibly attractive. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear from time to time, the way your fingers gently traced the back of her neck. Her gaze locked on your lips as they kept moving, driving her insane. She didn’t even notice when she started leaning in, subconsciously searching for a kiss.

And maybe you would keep going if it weren't for the hard bulge pressing against your inner thigh. Lottie squirmed, flushed as never, trying to somehow fix her pants. Because, God, she just got a boner from only listening to your talk.

You glance down at the incredibly visible bulge. Lottie winced a little when her boxers grew suddenly painfully tight. She couldn't help herself. Not when you were sitting on her lap, looking so hot and rambling about whatever.

"Shit," she mumbled, trying so hard to cover it somehow. It was embarassing. Lottie never once in her life became hard so fast. So painful.

You looked at her. Book landed somewhere on the bed.

"Do you need help with that?" You asked already reaching for her zipper.

"Uh I...yeah," she admitted finally.

And oh, Lottie adored your pretty mouth. Especially wrapped around her tip.

[ns-imagines]

All Eyes on Nikto.

Nikto x Reader (Non-Romantic) 4.8k words SFW

(She/her pronouns mentioned) Going for psychological intimidation. Hopefully this makes you sweat. Please see the bottom for Author notes.

Attention Grabber: They called it an evaluation. Nikto knew it was a test? And she? She thought it was just another room with another soldier. But nothing about him was ordinary. And the longer they spoke, the more the walls began to bend.

DO NOT REPOST OR STEAL MY WORK. pleaseeee

The hum of soft music thrummed low from hidden speakers, but it didn’t hide the chatter. Laughter in controlled bursts, light conversation punctuated by the clink of mugs on porcelain. All of it staged. All of it a performance. All of it mandatory.

Nikto leaned back in the chair, mask shadowing his face, gloves gripping the armrest with quiet tension. Eyes scanned the room like they always did: corners first, exits second, people last. Each smile looked too deliberate. Each movement too rehearsed. He felt himself starting to sweat. Not from nerves but, rather from nauseating overhead lights. He didn’t want to be here. But orders were orders. Social exposure they said. As if talking would scrape the ghosts off his skin. Make the wires in his head, that were frayed and broken, all the sudden complete again.

Nikto’s gaze flicked to Krueger across the room: stonefaced, arms crossed, eyes like knives behind that mask of his. If Nikto was a wall, Krueger was a blade, cold and sharp, ready to cut through anyone stupid enough to force a conversation.

Behind closed doors, fresh-faced Military Psychiatrists waited all of them eager, nervous, and freshly trained. They had completed countless hours of study, simulations, and psychological prep. But nothing could prepare them for the men they were about to face. These men were walking scars. These men were broken, rebuilt, and weaponized. None of them a man in the room but a consequence.

The doors opened slowly, spilling light across the waiting crowd. The stage was set the final practical application had begun. Inside stood all previous Marines, Navy, Army, and Air Force, each one from a different walk of life, now fighting for the same prize: selection. Every move they made, every word they spoke, was watched, measured, and judged. There was no room for error. Not here.

Footsteps approached. Lighter. Deliberate. Professional.

Nikto’s fingers twitched once against the chair, before settling. The woman standing before him was dressed in the standard business casual uniform favored by military psychologists at events like this trying to blur the line between evaluation and formality. A fitted black blazer over a plain black T-shirt, crisp white slacks, and modest kitten heels. A petite gold watch glinted at her wrist and gold round stud earrings in her ears, catching the harsh light overhead. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, professional bun, and a plastic-covered name tag swung from a lanyard around her neck, though the glare made it unreadable from where Nikto sat.

She approached with calculated distance, careful not to get too close. Then came the smile—polite, practiced, a little too tense.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Doctor (L/N).”

His silence stretched long enough to make it uncomfortable, the muted hum of the lounge filling the gap where words should have been. She stood there, waiting for a response she wasn’t sure she wanted. He tilted his head slightly, leather creaking at the collar of his jacket. The mask over his face made any subtle expression vanish, leaving only that unreadable stare.

Finally, he spoke—low, gravel-edged, the faintest trace of Russian shadowing his words.

“…Doctor.”

The way he said it was neither greeting nor acknowledgment. Just… a word. He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The woman rolled her lips back and nodded fully expecting his lack of participation. She had read his folder before this.

The corners of his eyes narrowed just a fraction, studying her posture, the way her hands rested, the tightness in her shoulders. All tells. All weaknesses. Easy to scare. Easy to break. He let the silence return, letting her decide if she’d fill it or run. Her eyes bounced away from his and then back. Remember the script.

“Yes, are you having a good evening?”

She said confidently again, still following a script. Her fingers pressed tightly around the clipboard she held close to her chest. She blinked a few times awaiting his response shifting her weight to the other leg. Now her name tag was visible.

(F/N, L/N)

United States Marine Corps (RTD)*

Class 224 - UNT ASN KORTAC*

Then a bunch of numbers and a barcode.

Nikto’s gaze dropped to the tag the moment it caught the light. His eyes tracked the name—slowly. (F/N) (L/N). Former Marine. Assigned KORTAC. Interesting. His pupils tightened a fraction. He didn’t look impressed. If anything, that detail made his stare heavier, as if weighing her worth without needing to speak. Marine. So you’ve seen blood, then. And still, you look like you’d break in half if I breathe too hard.

Her question hung in the air like a weak thread. Are you having a good evening? Scripted nonsense. He exhaled through his mask, a sound more like a growl than a sigh.

“No.”

The word dropped flat and cold, clipped at the edges. His accent wrapped around it just enough to make it sound foreign, harder. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t return the question. Instead, he leaned forward slightly—enough that the tension shifted like a warning. One gloved hand rested on his knee, the other still gripping the chair arm, knuckles pale against black leather.

The doctors face dropped for a moment and then she went to a smirk nodding again. She let out a breath and gestured to the chair next to him. She attempted to mirrored his body language by leaning forward slightly and turning her body towards him as a sign of being open to talk.

“You read my file.” His voice was quiet, but it cut like glass. “You think that makes you ready?”

His head tilted a few degrees, eyes narrowing—not in rage, but in that dissecting way predators study prey. She stood up straighter at his statement. Her face hardened slightly realizing the script wasn’t going to work. Match his intimidation. Nikto knows this is a test so he might as well make it one. Hopefully she studied.

She had more techniques she could use later. The doctor sighed and answered flatly.

“Yes I’ve read your file. I also know you’ve been to one of these events before.”

A quick pause; then another attempt at building rapport.

“Можно мне сесть там?” (Can I sit down?)

She asked somewhat confidently. Her Russian was okay. Definitely not a native speaker. Going to his native language was an attempt to find common ground. Nikto’s eyes fixed on her the second the Russian left her lips. For a heartbeat, there was stillness—too sharp, like the air before a blade falls. Then, slowly, his head tilted, and a sound low in his throat rumbled—a laugh, or something near it. Dry. Empty.

Her accent wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t his. And trying to bridge the gap with language? Cute. He didn’t tell her to sit. Instead, he let the silence drag until it coiled tight around her shoulders. Then, in Russian, his tone dipped lower, rolling with a weight that sounded more threat than invitation:

“Тебе не стоило этого делать.” (You shouldn’t have done that.)

A laugh is good right? She reminded herself of the lessons: Build Rapport. She smiled but it looked unsure and almost the tiniest bit cocky. Her eyebrows pinched together. The doctor didn’t hesitate in her follow up question. This was her window. Time for an open question.

“Что ты имеете в виду?” (What do you mean?)

Her tone was the same as before. Soft but a bit more confident. When she spoke Russian again, his brow flicked up just barely, a ghost of expression hidden by the mask. Surprise, maybe even amusement. It was subtle, but it was there. Nikto posture shifted, controlled stale chill of his presence pressing hard against her composure. The leather creak of his gloves broke the hum of distant chatter as his grip on the armrest tightened once, then stilled. She didn’t react or show intimidation to him leaning forward. Her eyes didn’t glance down to react how the chair made a creaking noise to him squeezing it. She just blinked. A muscle in her jaw tensing for a moment. Nikto spoke his voice laced with venom

“You read the file. Good. Then you know…” His words switched back to English, slow and deliberate, as if pinning each syllable to her spine. “…what I do to people who try too hard.”

That smirk she had before and she switched back to English. Mirror she told herself. She leaned slightly shifting the weight to her back leg as he leaned back.

“I can respect that.”

She responded dryly. The room beyond them blurred into background noise. There was nothing but those grey eyes, sharp as shattered ice, dissecting every flicker of muscle in her face. Finally…finally…he sat back into the chair, the tension breaking like a wire snapping, but not before letting her feel the cut of it deep. He gestured lazily to the chair.

“Sit. Since you want to.”

The mockery in his voice was subtle, but it was there. The doctors eyebrows rose up in surprise as he annoced he was allowing her to sit. This was great progress. Lots to go still. She’s confidently sat down. Nikto knew she was watching his ever move like he was watching hers. The doctor let out a breath she had been holding and crossed her legs. She turned her torso slightly in his direction to remain open to conversation and looked at him waiting for a response to her question earlier.

Nikto tracked every movement—the tilt of her head, the twitch in her jaw, the way her breath stuttered for half a second before she caught it. She was holding the line. Not breaking, but not winning either. That smirk of hers… he hated it. Or maybe he didn’t. Hard to tell where the irritation ended and the interest began. Nikto went back to her question in Russian from earlier. His eyes narrowed slightly as he repeated her follow-up question in his head. What do you mean?

Then, without warning, he leaned forward again, closing that respectful space with quiet precision. A small gap and two chair arms between them. His voice dropped to a murmur, Russian wrapping around his tone like barbed wire:

“Я имею в виду, что ты не готова.” (I mean you’re not ready.)

Nikto let that hang for a breath before. Back to Russian? It was always more comfortable to speak your native language to someone. She kept her eyes on him and her expression neutral with a small friendly smile. Making sure to listen with purpose and not rush him to answer. The only reaction she had to him leaning forward was swallowing. Her expression remained exactly the same.

Her eyebrow raised and slightly turned her head to the side. More open questions. This is more than she had expected him to talk.

“Готов к…?” (Ready for…?)

She said softly, which Nikto quickly followed. Nikto switched back to English, sharp and low.

“You read a file and thought you understood. You walk in here with a smile, a script, a… little Russian. You think that’s enough?”

He tilted his head slowly, eyes fixed on hers like a vise. His voice thinned into a blade:

“Say the wrong thing to the wrong man… and you don’t leave the room.”

Another pause, weighted, meant to make her feel every second of it. She smiled and nodded at his following statement. Leaning slightly into the chair as Nikto had leaned in previously. A show that she wasn’t intimidated. Convincing even if it was lie. She made sure to mirror and switch to English as well.

“I’m happy you acknowledged my Russian skills.”

Another attempt at common ground. She didn’t react to his masked threat of saying the wrong thing. The Doctor wasn’t at all scared. This was a controlled environment and she was a Marine. Although she knew for a fact if it came down to strength he would win every time. Then his gaze flicked to her crossed legs, then back to her eyes.

“Uncross.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command. A test.

Unexpected. The doctors eyebrow twitched and she smiled at his demand for her to uncross her legs.

“I respect the fact you want me to uncross my legs but, I’m comfortable like this.”

A polite deflection but firm answer. Nikto didn’t move— neither did she. No flicker of surprise. No visible irritation. Just that steady, glacial stare. He let the weight of silence crush between them like ice forming under pressure. Then…slowly his head tilted again, that same surgical shift of predatory interest. Her expression was constant. Unreadable. Nikto saw the barely visible artery in her neck beat faster. When he spoke, the tone was softer now, almost a whisper, but sharper than before:

“Ты слушала плохо.”

(You didn’t listen well.)

His gloved hand lifted—not fast, not threatening, but deliberate. He reached forward and, without touching her, hooked a finger beneath the edge of her clipboard. She held her breath as Nikto took the clipboard. Her face not reacting. The Doctor let him take it. A slow, subtle tug, like he was peeling away her shield. The message wasn’t about the object—it was about control. The doctor was slow and pushed it forward for him to take. Same as anyone would do if passing an item to someone. She had turned his attempt at intimidation into a regular interaction. As if she passed him the clipboard.

“Comfort is a lie,” he murmured, English now, voice cutting low like a blade grazing her skin. “You think you have it until someone takes it.”

He set the clipboard on the table beside them without looking, then leaned in again, his masked face just close enough that she could hear the rasp of his breath through the material. Nikto’s gaze lingered on her like a blade against glass waiting for a crack. But she didn’t flinch. She even fed the motion, like giving him the clipboard was her choice. That earned her something— not approval, not trust, but maybe… a pause.

“You didn’t run,”

he added after a beat, eyes narrowing like he was dissecting the fibers of her spine. The artery in her neck betrayed her, though. He saw it. Filed it away like a weapon. He continued:

“That’s good.”

A pause. Then, quieter, colder:

“But you didn’t obey either.”

His gaze held hers for a second longer before he leaned back, shoulders sinking into the chair, as if he’d just ended something she didn’t fully understand. One gloved hand tapped against the armrest once, twice, and then stilled. She didn’t watch him place it on the chair next to him. The doctor maintained eyecontact. Maintained her smile. (Y/n) moved her hands to her lap. Right over left. An open position. Her torso still directed to face him, leaning forward slightly, showing she was open to conversation. That neutral smile still present.

“Comfort is intangible.”

A simple response but firm enough to get the message across. Nothing was in the clipboard anyway. It’s for show. To keep the discussion professional. Just as she had leaned forward she leaned back. Her posture still confident. As if there was a metal pole in her spine. He didn’t comment.

“Ask your next question, Doctor.”

Finally—he spoke again, flat, unreadable. (Y/n) responded taking this as an opportunity to resume her previous question. It was important for her to remain in partial control of the conversation.

“Ready for?”

Nikto leaned forward again, but slower this time—not predatory, more deliberate. The repetition of her earlier question. Persistent. Digging. His gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin, elbows resting on his knees. That mask made it impossible to see his face, but his eyes… his eyes told her everything. That he was still testing. Still hunting.

“Ready,” he said, low, his voice almost a whisper, “for people who don’t want to be saved.”

The weight of the words hung like a noose. His gaze bore into hers, cold and heavy as a winter sky. Nikto was talking more and now moving more. Good. Continuing to attempt to build rapport and listen with purpose she told herself. Only known to (y/n), her heart was beating from adrenaline. Being careful to not predict the direction the conversation would go. Let him take his time. The doctor nodded softly to ensure he knew she was listening.

“Why is it important to you that I’m aware of everyone’s need to not be saved?”

She asked softly. Good. Made it to question three. For a moment, there was stillness again so complete it swallowed the hum of the lounge. Nikto didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, long and hard, like he was peeling her words apart to see what was hiding underneath. Her question…why is it important to you…had landed. Not because he wanted to answer, but because no one ever asked him that before.

His gloved hands shifted, slow and deliberate, folding together between his knees. A faint metallic rasp whispered from somewhere on his gear when he moved. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh, almost a growl:

“It’s not important to me.”

A pause, then sharper, like glass grinding underfoot. Nikto continued, tone flattening into something almost clinical, almost cruel:

“It’s important to you. Because you believe you can help. That’s your weakness. They sent you here, thinking you can fix what isn’t broken. They tell you we need help, that we can come back…but we don’t come back, Doctor. We don’t want to.”

(Y/n) continued to maintain eye contact and nod as he spoke. Not too much. For the first time, his voice shifted—a rasp of something darker creeping in, like a shadow crawling under the door:

“So… tell me.” His eyes narrowed to slits, grey and merciless.

“When you fail, and you will, what happens to you?”

She didn’t expect him to ask a question back. The corners of her mouth twitching in her consistent soft smile. Address the disinterest. The same tone as earlier, soft but firm.

“This is just a conversation we’re having, not a test that results in a pass or fail. Just talking.”

Nikto leaned forward again, but this time it wasn’t a strike. It was like a shadow moving closer, heavy and cold. His words dragged with a quiet venom:

“You want to make this conversation safe. It isn’t. It never was.”

His eyes flicked down, then up, pinning her in place like a knife through paper. He let her reassurance …just talking… hang in the air for a beat before tearing into it with a single line:

“You don’t believe that.”

His tone had lost the mockery now. It was something else—something closer to predation, but quieter, almost thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. (Y/n) could tell he was doing the same thing as her. Dissecting the conversation. Every word had meaning. Every question had a direction it could go. Mutual control. (Y/n) nodded to his claim she didn’t believe that. In reality she did. She wanted to help people like him. It was her job. Her passion. Her profession after the Marine Corps. Lots of hard work to be in front of someone like Nikto. She remained in the same position as before her foot bounced for a second. Could be a sign of cockiness or nervousness. It wasn’t clear.

“You’re good,” he said finally, almost like an observation, almost like a warning. Then after a beat:

“But good doesn’t survive long.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Testing. She let the silence simmer for a moment. She knew he was trying to predict ever turn the conversation would try to turn in. Time to stop gathering more information. Respond to the disinterest.

“Why is this not important to you?”

She asked in the same tone she had maintained this whole time. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Feeling as if it was smacking against her ribs. Trying to remember the scripts for maintaining control. Her face remained unreadable. (Y/n) made sure not to argue not responding to the majority of what he said.

Nikto’s eyes narrowed just slightly—not from anger, but because that question hit where he hadn’t expected. (Y/n) was looping the conversation back to where she wanted it. His head tilted a fraction, and for the first time, there was hesitation in the air. Not weakness, but calculation.

Her voice stayed level. Soft. Unshaken. He’d been pushing, carving at her composure like a sculptor working stone, and she was still there same posture, same calm tone. Even the bounce in her foot? He noticed it. Filed it away. But it didn’t matter she wasn’t breaking.

He leaned back slowly, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly, his hands folding over his knees. When he spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, like each word weighed more than steel:

“Because importance is… a luxury.”

Got him. He took the bait. (Y/n) nodded to show she was listening. His eyes locked with hers—cold, but sharp, like a hunter speaking truth that burned in his bones. She tried to read the emotion his eyes displayed. Not much to work with but they widened like when she spoke Russian. She matched his tone lowering her voice and taking time on each word.

“What do you mean by a luxury.”

She asked. (Y/n) kept eye contact. Control over her breath. Subconsciously matching his. For a moment, his gaze flicked to the clipboard on the table. The doctor kept looking at him as he looked away. Taking that split second to swallow the tension in her throat. By the time he turned she was back to unreadable. Niktos eyes snapped back to her. A faint trace of something crossed his eyes memory, maybe, or something darker clawing at the edges.

“You want this to matter,”

he said softly, almost like an accusation. All she did was nod to his accusation before he spoke. Defensive? She went back to fully paying attention as he said Doctor. She remained stoic. He continued:

“But out there…”

he jerked his chin slightly toward the world beyond the walls, his voice tightening to a rasp:

“—nothing matters. Not your words. Not your rules. Not even life.”

He sat forward again, slow and predatory, his voice dipping into that rough whisper:

“So tell me, Doctor…”

A pause. His head tilts, the mask catching the light like black steel.

“…if nothing matters—why do you?”

The challenge hung heavy between them, a coiled wire waiting to snap. She need to move her tone away from the aggressive and challenging direction his was going. Her tone was soft and easy going. Her voice was still low to match his. A deescalation statement.

“This is just a conversation. Nothing more. It’s okay if it doesn’t matter.”

Nikto froze. Not outwardly, but in the way predators do when something unexpected shifts in the air. Her tone had changed. Not defensive, not forceful—soft. Easy. It didn’t fight his words; it absorbed them.

The silence that followed was heavier than any threat he’d made so far. He leaned back slowly, head tilting just a fraction, those cold grey eyes narrowing as if recalibrating. She wasn’t reacting how most did—no fear, no scramble to take control back. Just… calm.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. Not softer—just lower, as if the weight had shifted.

“You think that makes it safe?” His tone wasn’t mocking this time. It was… curious. Probing.

He watched her for a long second, his gaze dissecting her words for weaknesses that weren’t there. She was matching his breath. Matching his cadence. Keeping the room hers without taking it from him.

Then something happened he didn’t plan. His head dipped slightly. Just enough to be noticeable. Not submission, not approval—acknowledgment.

“Хорошо,” (Alright)

he muttered finally, Russian curling over the word like smoke. (Y/n) didn’t react to his fall in stature. A wall down? Probably not. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, but there was no snap, no sharp edge this time. She mimicked her own form of relaxation. (Y/n) uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. Relaxing the same way he did as he learned back. She let out a small sigh. Not one of disappointment but one from deep thought. The calmness remained even as she moved. She looked over at him. Her head tilting softly towards him. Still keeping her body turned and open for conversation. And then, almost like a test disguised as casual, his next words slid out:

“So… tell me, (y/n). Marine. Doctor. Why are you here?”

The tone was flat, but something had shifted. The predator wasn’t pouncing anymore. He was circling—watching if she’d open a door she couldn’t close. Redirect.

“Why did you come? This event was optional for you.”

She asked softly but almost rhetorically. Giving him the option to blow off the question or answer. That sense of control still apparent. But it did feel neutral. She kept looking at him for his response. (Y/n) knew why she was here and that was to meet clientele similar to him. Walls up and capable of defending them. She matched his relaxed breathing again. Giving him room to decline the question or speak. Nikto stared at her. No shift. No blink. Just the quiet ticking of something behind his eyes. She hadn’t answered his question. She’d turned it.

Not with force. Not with arrogance. With subtlety. She gave him space, a choice, as if this was his conversation—not a test, not a profile being filled out. His. And that… that was new. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, the sound soft through the material of his mask.

“You’re good at this.”

The words weren’t warm, weren’t approving—but they were honest. A rare thing from him. He looked past her for the first time in minutes. Her eyes stayed glued to him. He did just a glance toward the door, then back. His posture didn’t shift much, but that small movement made the air feel different. Less like a coiled spring. More like something cooling.

“Optional…they always say that.”

he echoed finally, his tone flattening into something more analytical. His fingers tapped once on his knee. Then again. Controlled rhythm. A subtle tell, maybe. A simple answer.

“I come to see who they send. To see who can be broken first.”

His gaze shifted back to her. Still weighing her. Still watching for that tiny crack that never came. The air in the room started to thicken.

“You didn’t.”

Silence again. Long. Tension still there, but thinned out now. No longer barbed, more like a wire slowly slackening. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You want to know why I stayed? Because you didn’t pretend to win.”

Then—finally—he leaned back again, gloved hands steepling in his lap.

“That’s rare.”

(Y/n) inhaled softly, ready to speak. She didn’t rush. She timed it, let the silence breathe, just as he had. She parted her lips to respond. Footsteps approached them.

To be continued….

Notes: If you see my OCs name (my name🥀 Natasha) in here I missed it. I tried to remove them all as I had wrote this just for me. ALSO you like those “—“ I added in?!? I wanted to be mega spicy with my punctuation. Maybe I should focus on all the commas and periods I missed. This took me a whole year to write. I think I got better. I’ve learned “Sales” skills now and finished my Associates. It’s been a long year. I am finally in the states again. Still in the military but on to bigger and better things!! XOXO hope you enjoy.

Websites used: 1. Reverso - For Russian 2. Quillbot - spellchecker 3. Word counter - to count words. PM for links if you want <3

Military Lingo: RTD -Retired, UNT ASNG - Unit Assigned

[augustjustice]

you wanna feel how it feels (let's exchange the experience) 8/?

start here | Part 7 | AO3

Rating: E (overall; T for this section) | 5.4k for this part of the chapter

Tags: Bodyswap, Friends to Lovers, Slowburn, Getting to Know Each Other, Disabled Eddie Munson, Disabled Steve Harrington, Class Differences, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Eddie Munson, Ableism, Jealousy

Summary: After the Spring Break from hell, Eddie and Steve become fast friends, with a possible hint towards something more…except they’re never quite sure what the other is actually thinking. But maybe, just maybe, walking a mile in each other’s shoes can lend them some much needed insight.

Notes: The boys debrief after meeting up with Nancy. Then, Eddie heads back to Harrington Manor for the night.

Continued conversations around ableism unfold here, and Steve definitely struggles with some negative self-talk.

“So…” Eddie elongated the syllable in his mouth, “you wanna talk about what happened, back there?”

Steve's hands adjusted around the steering wheel, suddenly white knuckling it, and the tenseness in his jaw was visible even in the low lighting. 

Despite the fact that they’d ended on a seeming high note–even if Nancy had shot them some odd looks, each time they cheered when “Steve” got a question right–after everything that went down at the study session, Eddie had been more than willing to let Steve win their prior argument and get back into the driver’s seat of his baby. 

…Once Nancy’s station wagon was well out of the parking lot, of course, red lights disappearing into the darkness. They ought to be safe, especially now that they had the cover of night to conceal them from any other prying eyes. 

So they were clipping right along back to the trailer park, Steve putting the pedal to the metal. His driving wasn’t anywhere near as wild and erratic as Eddie’s usually was, but it was still fast enough to suggest he definitely needed this after the day they’d had. 

Huffing out a breath, Steve gave a shrug, playing it casual despite the stiffness that lingered in his shoulders. “I mean, not really. What exactly is there to talk about?”

“I don’t know, dude. Shit just got…kinda intense, for a second.” Understatement of the century, but Eddie was doing his best to keep things light, especially when Steve already looked like this conversation was making him want to jump out of Eddie’s skin. “So…whaddya say you give it to me straight, Harrington–”

Steve snorted, cutting him off. “I thought I already made that totally clear, Eds. I can give it to you anyway but straight.”

“The man’s got jokes!” Eddie crowed, glad for the cover of night, dark enough to hide the flare on his cheeks at the innuendo. “But seriously, dude. What was up with you and Wheeler? She really didn’t know about your whole…reading thing?”

Steve sighed, long and dramatic, as he raked a hand up into Eddie’s curls. “I don’t get why it’s such a big deal. Everybody already knows I'm an idiot, man. A day with the kids should have taught you that. What would be the point of, like, getting into all the nitty gritty details?” 

“That! That’s part of the problem!” Eddie jabbed an accusing finger in Steve’s direction. “Jesus H. Christ, Stevie! Did you miss everything I said earlier? You're not an idiot, okay, dude? And I'm gonna keep saying it until it finally penetrates your stubborn, thick skull to that brilliant, beautiful brain of yours.” 

“You know, technically, you're the one with the thick skull now.” Master of deflection, Steve reached over and gently rapped at the side of Eddie's head.

“Well, what can I say? It suits me. Ask my uncle, I’m plenty stubborn too. Once I find a mystery that needs solving, I’m as bad as the Scooby Doo gang–can’t put it down until the case is closed. Like why exactly you never said anything before. To Wheeler, I mean.” 

Or me, he didn’t add. Worry still clawed at him, though, that Steve didn’t trust his friends enough to share certain parts of himself. 

Did he really think that Eddie of all people would have made fun of him? Because there was no way. 

Steve shook his head, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t believe that for a second, dude. You’re such a total Shaggy.”

Eddie clutched a hand to his chest, offended. “Excuse me, good sir, I think you’ll find that you’re the Shaggy now. Got the hair for it and everything. I, on the other hand…am our fearsome and noble leader Fred.” Flipping down the sun visor, he took in Steve’s reflection in the dim light, making a show of adjusting the polo he was wearing. “Honestly, man, picture it. This preppy ass outfit of yours is practically begging for an ascot.” 

Steve gave him a light shove, not quite able to keep the laughter out of his voice. “I swear to god, Munson, if you put me in an ascot, I’m chopping off all your hair.”

“I’ll happily call that bluff, Stevie. I know you love me for my beautiful locks.” 

Since he couldn’t fluff his hair in a show of exaggerated vanity, as he normally would have, Eddie settled for giving a strand of it a teasing tug.

“Watch it, dude! You’re gonna damage it,” Steve complained, not exactly beating Eddie’s allegations that he cared. “And, you know, if you’d really let me get my hands on it, then what you just said might even be true.”

“You wound me, good sir. So what, in order to love it, you gotta give my hair the ole Farrah Fawcett treatment? Not sure how that’s gonna play in front of Corroded Coffin’s two whole fans. I’m going for something that’s a lot less Fabio and a lot more Eddie van Halen.”

“If you say so,” Steve said skeptically, pulling out a frizzy curl to give it a judgmental once over. 

“You are such an ass, man!” 

Steve only giggled, pleased with himself. 

The banter had settled something between them, as it always did. The atmosphere in the car was easy again, enough so Eddie took the risk and said, “Honestly, though…she seemed pretty cool with it.” 

He swallowed a little thickly, trying to tamp down on the feelings of jealousy that stirred at the memory. The way the air between Nancy and Steve had seemed to shrink, crackling with intensity, and the soft looks Steve kept shooting her after she’d apologized. Unfortunately, the image was basically seared into Eddie’s brain, now. 

At Steve’s puzzled look, he added, “Wheeler. When she found out about the…dyslexia.”

Eddie was careful with the pronunciation, the word foreign on his tongue. 

Steve let out a huff. “You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”

“No way in hell, man. I’m like a dog with a bone.”

“Is it really such a crime that I didn't want my ex-girlfriend knowing just how much of a dumbass I really was?” Steve asked, exasperated. 

He hadn’t snapped, not exactly, but the harshness in his tone made Eddie flinch anyway. 

“‘Course it’s not,” he said hurriedly. “Sorry.”

The apology was weak, and Eddie knew that the uneasy silence that lapsed after it was his fault. He just wasn’t sure how to make up for it. 

But before he even got a chance to try, Steve murmured, so quiet he almost missed it, “‘You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.’” 

The words were like a slap to the face. Eddie had already known that he’d fight anyone, including Steve himself, who had the audacity to make that kind of comment, but even he was a little surprised at how instantly ready and raring to go he was.

“Shit, man, what did I just get done sa–”

“No, not–I wasn’t calling myself that, okay? It’s–Nancy used to say that. To me, back when we were together. It was like a fond thing? Like a joke, you know, between the two of us. I guess I just…didn’t want her to think that for real.” He added, in a low undertone, “Not anymore than she already did.”

“...Oh,” Eddie breathed in, fingers tapping a restless staccato on the passenger side door. “So…you never told her.”

“Nope,” Steve popped the ‘p.’ “Or anybody, really. After they found out, my dad really didn’t want me to talk about it. How would it look, right, to his business partners, to hear he had a complete moron for a son?” Steve laughed bitterly. “I mean, Tommy and Carol kind of knew, probably. And Robin, of course, cuz there’s nothing I can get past her. But…nobody else.”

“‘Cept for me and Wheeler, now,” Eddie amended, inclining his head. “Confidantes by necessity.” 

“Right,” Steve sucked in a breath, rubbing an anxious finger at his upper lip. “I really wasn’t trying to keep it from you, dude. I literally just…forgot.” 

“Nah, man, I know,” Eddie rushed to assure him, regretting that he’d needled him so hard. He hadn’t meant to make Steve feel guilty, since he had no reason to. 

Maybe a selfish part of him had wanted the assurance he hadn’t done anything wrong. But, more than anything, he’d just wanted Steve to open up. Eddie knew how bad he was about bottling shit up, if given half a chance. 

“No question. Plus, it’s not like you owe it to anybody, to tell them if you don’t want to.” 

“Yeah, but you’re the one having to put up with it, now. I’m sorry about that, too. You know, that you got saddled with my…” Steve made a helpless gesture at his head, “messed up brain.”

Eddie let out a pained noise. “Shit, Stevie, don’t do that. There’s nothing to apologize for, ya hear me?” he adopted his best no-nonsense tone, the one he’d learned from Wayne. “Besides, I should be saying the same thing to you. After all, you’re stuck with mine.” 

“Okay, well, but there’s nothing wrong with your–”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Eddie waggled a finger at him, cutting off his protests. “Third year senior, remember? I’ve long been said to have a few screws loose.” Though his tone was light, joking, he couldn’t help but murmur, more seriously, “Christ, trust me, it can be kind of a nightmare up there, sometimes. And that was before all the Upside Down related shit.”

“They were bullshit,” Steve said, the word carrying weight, conviction. At Eddie’s questioning look, he added, “Anybody who ever said there was something wrong with you. Total losers.” He spit the title, Steve harnessing all his high school mean girl energy as he often did now–in the name of good. 

“And so was your dad, big guy, and our shitty high school teachers, and whoever the fuck else made you feel that way. I meant what I said before. To Wheeler? I get what it’s like, man. But you’re the farthest thing from stupid. It’d actually almost be kind of funny, that people treated you that way, if it wasn’t so goddamn infuriating.”

Panting from how worked up he’d gotten from his impromptu speech, Eddie slapped his hands against the glove box once, twice. Not hard–he didn’t want to hurt Steve’s hands or his car–but just enough to get the pent up energy, the fury of it, out.

Lip caught between his teeth, Steve shot Eddie a quick glance. He braced for it–the reprimand, Steve to tell him off for being reckless, meet Eddie’s anger with some outrage of his own. 

But it didn’t come. 

Instead, he waved a hand back and forth between them. 

“This whole bizarro Freaky Friday thing. Sure, it’s been weird as shit, but…” Steve shrugged, clearing his throat before redirecting his gaze to the road, “at least it’s you. You know?”

Eddie blinked in confusion, feeling like he’d lost a step somewhere. 

“I’m, uh…gonna need you to elaborate on that one for me, Harrington.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t know if I could handle it, if this happened with anybody else.”

As touched as he felt at the sentiment, Eddie couldn’t help but scoff. “Get real, Stevie. You and Buck are so joined at the hip, I bet money you’d both just go merrily on like nothing had even happened.”

The Beemer came to a full stop, and Eddie realized, magically, they had somehow made it back to the trailer park in one piece. He hadn’t even noticed, too caught up in the conversation to register the familiar surroundings flashing by.  

Though Steve put the car in park, neither of them made a move to get out. 

Cocking his head, he hummed in clear contemplation. 

“Sure, okay. Robin, maybe. In theory, except I'm really not sure either one of us is prepared to have each other's…junk." Steve made a face at the thought. 

Eddie let out a short, amused bark of laughter. "We've got each other's junk right now, dude.”

"Well, yeah, okay, but at least we've both still got…dicks, you know?" 

"Oh, I'm aware,” Eddie muttered. 

How could he not be, after that shower earlier?

"Look, I’m just saying…can you imagine a suddenly 19 year old Dustin?” Steve said, drawing Eddie abruptly out of the x-rated memories that threatened to flash across his mind. His eyes went so wide with horror, it bordered on comical–Eddie definitely got it, now, why the guys sometimes called him ‘bug-eyed.’ “He'd be a goddamn menace. I'd never get the Beemer back in one piece."

Eddie flashed a grin. "Can't argue with you there. You'll be lucky to get it back in one piece as it is, with me behind the wheel."

Steve's lips turned down in a frown, looking petulant. It was becoming less weird by the second, seeing Steve's sour pout on his own face. Instead it was mostly just…cute. 

“Like hell I’m letting you drive my car again, Munson,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder into Eddie’s as he picked up the old argument again. 

It should have been tired by now, but instead it just felt…easy. Warm and comfortable, like pulling on one of the worn flannels Eddie had stolen the first year he’d started living with Wayne, the ones he still refused to give back.  

“That right, big boy? Well, then, how the hell do you propose I get back to Casa de Harrington for the night?”

They’d already agreed that recreating the situation as the first time they switched seemed like their best bet for switching back. Eddie might have struggled through each and every science class Hawkins High required, but even he’d absorbed enough to understand that was how experiments worked–if you wanted to replicate the results, you had to keep running the test the exact same way again and again.

Steve shrugged, unbothered. “You can walk.”

“That’s miles away, Harrington! You’d really just abandon your good pal Eddie, leave me out here to die?” 

Even in the darkness, Eddie could see the slight twinkle in Steve’s eye. “Don’t worry about it, Eds. I work out. You’ll be completely, 100% fine.”

“Can’t believe you're willing to let me take your body for such a reckless ass spin but not your car,” Eddie shook his head, Steve’s shorter hair tickling the back of his neck. “Such priorities you’ve got, Stevie.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t really have much of a choice on that first one, now do I?” When he caught Eddie’s eyes again, his expression became open, sincere in that way Steve had that always struck him down to his core. “But, I’m serious. I’m really glad it’s you.” 

Unable to pull a strand of hair over his face, Eddie settled for ducking his head to hide his shy, pleased smile. 

“Me too, Stevie. Nobody I’d rather be stuck with.”

Reaching over, Steve settled a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, giving him one of those tight, reassuring squeezes. Eddie couldn’t help but lean into the touch, soaking in the warmth of the moment. 

…That was, at least, until the opening notes of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” wafted into the air from whatever pop station Steve always had his car radio tuned to, shattering it. 

Eddie wrinkled his nose before shooting Steve a shit-eating grin. “...Even if your music does absolutely suck.”

“Munson, I swear to God…” Steve groaned. 

But then, not even a beat later, his face broke into a wide smile, showing off Eddie’s teeth and dimples. A mischievous glint appeared in his eye. 

Eddie didn’t care for that look, not one iota. 

“Uhhh, dude? What’re you do–?” 

Hand darting out to grab the knob, Steve turned the song up to full blast. Then, he opened his mouth, and, to Eddie’s horror, crooned out an Ooh. 

“No, no, no! Goddamnit, Harrington, don’t you dare!” he cried out. 

…To no avail, as Steve was already belting out the first lines of the song at the top of his lungs. 

Eddie practically vaulted over the gear shift to try and stop him. But Steve just shoved open the car door and raced out into the Munsons’ front yard, too fast for him. 

“Hey, just consider this payback for the Scoops uniform, jerkwad!” he called back over his shoulder, laughing in the face of Eddie’s scowl.

In his haste to follow, Eddie all but fell out of the driver’s side door, scrambling around the Beemer to go after him. 

“Diggin’ the dancing queen!” Steve sang, giving a dorky little shimmy to go along with it. Right out in the open, where there could be witnesses. “Oh, wow. You really do sound, like, super good, dude.” 

Eddie harrumphed, momentarily offended. “Yeah, well, you don’t gotta seem so surprised, man. I’m a professional, after all. Although I’d sound a helluva lot better if you’d sing something decent like–like Dio, or Ozzy, or, fuck, Judas Priest! Have mercy, Stevie, anything but ABBA.” 

As he should have predicted, his comment only made Steve raise his voice even more, loud and proud as the next line rang out into the night sky. 

In retaliation, Eddie shouted out the opening lyrics of Mötley Crüe’s “Come On and Dance” to try and drown him out, sticking his tongue out and banging his head in time. 

“When she's hot, well, damn she's hot! Electric love like Sandra Dee!”

And…what the hell? Steve sounded fucking bad ass, he absolutely had the vocal range for metal. 

But before he could test said range further, Steve pulled him out of his reverie.

“Not gonna work, Eds!” he shook his head, amused. “Like I give a shit who hears me singing your metal crap.”

“Metal crap! Metal crap, he says! Oh, it is so on, Harrington!”

Thankful once again for the boost of Steve’s added speed, Eddie zipped straight towards him and caught him around the waist. Mindful of his own body’s injuries, he wrapped Steve in what was basically a big bear hug, clapping a wide palm over his mouth to silence him. 

Muffled sounds issued from behind his hand, Steve doing his best to keep singing. He wriggled in Eddie’s arms, working to free himself, but to no avail.  

“Well, well, well, still not so easy, is it?” Eddie taunted, wiggling his eyebrows triumphantly. “Going up against those jock muscles of yours?” 

Steve scowled at him, eyes narrowing. 

Then, Eddie felt a warm, wet stripe drag over his skin as Steve licked his hand. 

He dropped his grip, more startled than anything. 

“What the fuck, dude?!” Eddie demanded, wiping the moisture off on Steve’s light rinse jeans. “You’re the one that went on and on about how gross spit was! Just where the hell are those prim and proper royal manners now?”

Steve threw back his head and laughed, pleased as punch with himself. 

“I mean, sure, it absolutely is, but it’s your spit on your hand. I don’t have to put up with it.”

Twirling away from Eddie, he started right back up again. 

“You come to look for a king. Anybody could be that guyyy.” 

“Yeah, uh, not just anybody.” Accepting defeat, Eddie settled for snarky commentary. “Pretty sure we can safely say that’s you, Harrington.” 

Ignoring him, Steve surprised Eddie all over again by extending a hand to him. 

“Eddie,” he needled, batting his eyelashes. Eddie would have said it was a move worthy of him at his most ridiculous–but Steve had pulled the same thing on him before, too, usually with resounding success. 

It shouldn’t have still been as effective as it was, considering Steve was peering back at him out of Eddie’s own big, brown eyes. 

“Come on, man, don’t be a buzzkill,” Steve jutted out his bottom lip, coupling the puppy dog eyes with a devastating pout. “Dance with me.”

…But it was looking more and more like Eddie remained a total sucker for Steve Harrington, in any and all shapes and guises. 

“Somebody’s gonna see us out here, Stevie,” Eddie protested reluctantly.

“So what?” Steve wriggled his shoulders. “Oh, right, I totally forgot, gotta protect your reputation as the biggest, baddest metalhead in town. Seriously, Eds, I thought we put that dumb high school shit behind us.”

He seemed completely unconcerned with his own reputation, what someone might think if they caught “him” dancing with Eddie Munson, local outcast and known freak. 

And, in the face of that, how could Eddie really argue?

He sighed, hanging his head, making an exaggerated show of his defeat. 

“Well, fuck, man, when you put it that way–”  

Steve let out a whoop of triumph. “Score one for Harrington! I knew you’d see it my way.”

Eddie held up a finger. “Let the record show I'm doing this under extreme duress.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get over here, Munson.”

Steve mimed throwing a lasso and looping it around Eddie, reeling him in. After acting out a brief “struggle,” Eddie went, grinning all the way. 

As soon as he was in range, Steve grabbed both his hands, pulling him close. Eddie matched his silly dance move for move, twisting his shoulders and shaking his hips. 

Which that, at least, probably made for quite the show. Eddie was a little sorry he was missing it. 

But Steve’s expression, happy and light and carefree, was even better. So good, in fact, the entire town of Hawkins could have been out on the lawn watching them, and Eddie couldn’t have held on to an ounce of annoyance or embarrassment, even if he tried. 

“You are the dancing queen!” Steve shouted, pointing a finger right at Eddie. 

“Uh, pretty sure you’re the only royalty I see around these parts, Stevie.” 

“Come on, man, you already said I was the king. That means you’ve gotta be my queen, yeah?”

Eddie flushed, stomach swooping as Steve spun them around in the grass. 

“Well, shit, we are a couple of queens,” he conceded. “Nailed that part, at least.” 

“That’s the spirit!” The enthusiasm with which Steve agreed–something that would have been a complete impossibility for him to fathom only a few hours before–warmed Eddie to his core. “Damn right we are.” 

They swayed together, Steve still singing along with every word. And for just a moment, Eddie pictured what it might be like to finally make it to one of those gay clubs he’d heard whisper of up in Indy. Imagined the way sweat would drip off his body under the strobing lights as he lost himself in the music, Steve at his side. 

So, swept up as he was, the next time Steve bellowed out the chorus, movements buoyant and excitement infectious…Eddie joined him. 

“You are the dancing queen! Young and sweet, only seventeen!”

And though he would have only admitted that he’d sang along to the end under threat of death, the way Steve’s smile lit up, bright and shining as any star, honestly made the whole thing worth it.

As they made their final circle, the last chords fading out, Eddie couldn’t help but say, “You know, sweet seventeen Steve Harrington wasn’t this much of a goofball. At least, not from what I remember.”

“Oh, he so was, trust me. You just didn’t know him. And…well,” Steve shrugged his shoulders, sheepish, “he also hid it a lot better, back then. At least in public.”

“Ah. Doing his best to protect his own precious reputation, keep that crown firmly in place, was he?” Eddie said knowingly. “But, you know…kinda wish we had gotten to know each other, during those bygone school days. Probably would have done us both a world of good.”

Steve grimaced. “No way, man, you so don’t. Seriously, I was such an asshole.”

“I mean, you didn’t exactly keep the best company, I’ll give you that. But…nah. Like I told the kids, you weren’t all that bad.” He shook his head, eyes glazing as he took a not at all pleasant stroll down memory lane. “Jesus Christ, you were an absolute peach next to Hargrove and Hagan.”

Steve’s face screwed up, sour like he had sucked on a lemon. “Not exactly a high bar.”

“Better than most, trust me. I’m just saying, sorry we didn’t get our shit together sooner. To think, I could’ve gotten to see the prom king’s dorky ass moves ages ago! For shame!” Eddie teased. Then, he dropped into a dramatic bow. “So thank you for gracing me with a dance now, kind sir.”

Steve rolled his eyes fondly. “Thank you. I mean, after all, it’s only cuz you quit being such a ginormous stick-in-the-mud that I got to.” 

“Well, shit, what can I say? Even the jester himself,” Eddie gestured to himself with a flourishing hand, “has to be reminded to get off his high horse sometimes.”

“Thought we both already agreed you’re my queen, Eds,” Steve said, settling a hand on the small of Eddie’s back and keeping it there as he guided him back towards the car. The weight of it, steady and warm through the material of Steve’s polo, sent a pleased tingle running up Eddie’s spine. 

As he slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, Steve crossed his arms and leaned onto the open window. 

“And hey, man, who knows? We’ll probably wake up tomorrow, and everything will be hunky dorky again.” He held up his hand, fingers curled into an ‘ok’ sign.

Eddie refused to ask how many times that had actually happened in this town. 

Instead, he chuckled. “Honestly, you’re such a dork, Harrington. I can’t believe people used to go on and on about how damn cool you were.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waved a dismissive hand at him, then gave the car one final pat as he stood up. “Don’t wreck my car, Munson.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Harrington.”

“I mean it. Just get home in one piece, alright?”

“Roger that, dad,” Eddie taunted mercilessly. 

Steve pursed his lips into that catty, annoyed look Eddie was so fond of and flipped him the bird. Eddie only cackled in response.

“I’m not kidding, asshole! Everything better be in tip-top shape when I wake up tomorrow morning. Not a speck of dust on the paint job or a hair out of place, got it?”

Even amongst his nagging, Eddie could appreciate Steve’s attempt at eternal optimism. 

With a mocking salute, he called back, “Aye-aye, sailor! I have my orders.” 

He waited as Steve, ever the jock, jogged up the front porch steps, making sure he got the trailer door open with the key Eddie had singled out for him. When Steve wiggled his fingers in a final, exasperated wave goodnight, Eddie revved the engine once, just to rile him up. 

Then, he was off. 

—

At night, Harrington Manor stood quiet. 

The whole neighborhood did, really, those eerie little identikit Stepford houses dark and silent. Even just shutting the door to the Beemer a tiny bit too hard had Eddie worried the housewife across the street might call in a noise complaint on him. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how Steve had pulled it off, all those years of house parties, without Hopper immediately turning up to break things up. 

As he entered the house, unease crept up Eddie’s spine, lingering with him as he started towards the stairs that led to Steve’s bedroom. 

It wasn’t the horror movie kind, like something was watching, out to get you. After his run-in with the Upside Down, Eddie was intimately aware of how that particular brand of discomfort felt. 

No, this was more the itchy sensation that came with visiting a distant relative you only knew through stories. Long gone was the sense, from earlier in the day, that Eddie shouldn’t still be counted as a guest in the Harrington house. 

He felt like a guest, now. Or, even worse–an intruder.

Because, apart from when he’d woken up that morning, Eddie had never been in Steve’s house without the man himself around. It felt wrong, to be here when he wasn’t. 

The whole ‘alone’ thing wasn’t even what really bothered Eddie about it, at least not completely. Honestly, that was familiar enough. Wayne worked third shift at the plant, after all, so he’d spent many a night by himself. 

But, even when he wasn’t home, his uncle’s presence lingered at the trailer, in every trucker cap and souvenir mug lining the walls. 

So, no, being alone wasn’t what left Eddie’s chest aching, had him missing Steve fiercely despite the fact they’d spent the entire day together. It was just how lonely the empty Harrington mansion felt. 

Because if the Harringtons’ signature touch was here, Eddie couldn’t tell it. 

Surely Steve’s mom had had a hand in decorating the place? But every space felt more like a showroom you’d see in the glossy pages of a magazine than a home, each item in its place, tidily tucked away. 

Most of the furniture, expensive though it might have been, looked uncomfortable and barely used, further evidence that Eddie’s hunch was right. Only the couch in the den showed any signs of wear and tear, the result of many a movie night Steve had hosted for the party, as Eddie now knew from experience. Abstract paintings lined the white walls along the staircase as he climbed it, not a single photo of gap-toothed baby Steve to be seen. 

Seventeen year old Eddie had often wondered, in moments he'd been anything but proud of, what it might be like to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. 

He’d never pictured it’d be anything like this, drifting through the halls of a so-called ‘resplendent’ palace and finding it cold and empty. 

Sure, for his own sake, he was glad that the wayward Harrington parents weren’t here–had no idea how he’d manage to fake it if they had been. But…how the hell must Steve feel, spending night after night in their gaping absence? 

After the suffocatingly still hallway, even Steve’s room felt like a breath of fresh air. Finally, Eddie was in one of the only spots in the whole place where there were signs of life, limited though they might be. The terrible matching plaid wallpaper and single poster aside, a few of Steve’s sports trophies on display, alongside a wayward bowling pin, and he did have personal pictures framed on his desk and bedside table. 

Eddie’s eyes ran over them eagerly. Dustin, all decked out for one of the middle school dances, hair done up in a Harrington-approved ‘do. Max, on her skateboard in front of the Byers’ place, Lucas and El off on the sidelines happily cheering her tricks on. Steve and Robin, perched on the Scoops Ahoy counter, making faces at the camera. There were even a few shots of Eddie, sprinkled in amongst them. 

Silly as it might have seemed, just seeing those familiar faces smiling up at him was a comfort, after the blank drabness of the rest of the house. 

He hoped it offered the same relief to Steve, on nights he found himself up here on his own. 

To try and drown out the echoing silence, Eddie turned on Steve’s stereo. Hell, he’d welcome ABBA at this point, anything to disrupt the gnawing feeling of solitude. 

When the opening chords of Dio’s “Rainbow in the Dark”–the third track on the mixtape he’d made for Steve–filled the air, he did a double take. Eddie started humming along as he went to Steve’s dresser, mouth curving helplessly into a giddy smile. 

Rifling through the pajama drawer, he grabbed a pair of Steve’s Hawkins High Athletics sweatpants and one of his own Judas Priest’s tees, left behind after many a night spent staying over. Steve might have slept shirtless usually, but there was no way in hell if he tried that, Eddie would last til morning with his sanity still intact. And while he certainly wasn’t opposed to wearing something more prototypically Steve, like the swim team or Wham! T-shirt he spotted–both well worn and soft as hell, enough so Eddie had gone for them himself countless times in the past–a part of him delighted in imagining Steve waking up the next morning wearing his shirt. 

Which, with any luck, he would. 

Eddie drifted off surrounded, as he had been all day, with that strange, intoxicating mix of Steve and him together–Ozzy Osborne playing lowly in the background, the scent of expensive detergent and fancy shampoo all around him. 

His last thoughts were the hope–wish, really–that tomorrow, they’d be able to look back on this whole thing and laugh. Munson and Harrington, rolling Nat 20 once more on a wild and whacky but, for once, mostly harmless trial in Hawkins, Indiana. 

—

For the second morning in a row, Steve woke up in Eddie Munson's bed.

Taglist below! As always, if you’d liked to be added or removed, please just let me know:

@tinytalkingtina @eriquin @spectrum-spectre @grimweathers @highkingpenny

@yesdangerpls @vthx @queenie-ofthe-void @pearynice @felixir-of-moths

@stevesworldxx @themellowyellowmomma @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @anne-bennett-cosplayer

@sidekick-hero @thefreakandthehair @hbyrde36 @lingeringmirth @too-efn-old-to-be-here

@ellietheasexylibrarian @sharingisntkaren @a-lovely-craziness @soaringornithopter

[rinwxxi]

escape route

suna rintaro x runaway bride reader

the white dress felt like a prison as you stood at the altar, staring at a man you barely knew. your parents had arranged this marriage months ago, speaking of “family honor” and “beneficial connections” while completely ignoring your feelings. the officiant droned on about commitment and love—words that felt hollow when you had no choice in the matter.

your heart hammered against your ribs as you looked around the ornate chapel filled with guests who saw this as a celebration. to you, it felt like a funeral for your freedom. the flowers were too bright, the music too cheerful, and everyone’s smiles felt like they were mocking you.

you caught your mother’s eye from the front row. she nodded approvingly, completely oblivious to your distress. your father looked satisfied, like he’d just closed a particularly profitable business deal. which, you supposed, he had.

“do you—” the officiant began, but he never finished.

you bolted.

the heavy doors slammed behind you as you ran, your heels clicking frantically against the pavement. behind you, shocked voices erupted from the chapel, but you didn’t look back. the white fabric of your dress billowed around you like a ghost as you spotted a sleek black car idling at the curb.

without thinking, you yanked open the passenger door and threw yourself inside, gasping for breath.

“drive! please, just drive!”

the driver—a young man with dark hair and sharp, fox-like eyes—stared at you with the kind of mild surprise someone might show if their coffee order was wrong. he was wearing a simple black hoodie and had his phone in one hand, clearly having been waiting for someone else entirely.

“wrong car?” he asked, his voice calm despite the obvious chaos you’d just brought into his vehicle.

“i don’t care whose car this is,” you said desperately, glancing back at the chapel where people were starting to emerge. your future husband looked confused and angry, gesticulating wildly at your parents. “please, i’ll pay you, i’ll do anything. just get me away from here.”

the man studied you for a moment. your wedding dress, your panicked expression, the way you kept looking over your shoulder like a hunted animal. he’d seen enough drama in his life to recognize someone in genuine distress.

“seatbelt,” he said simply, shifting the car into drive.

relief flooded through you as he pulled away from the curb. you fumbled with the seatbelt with shaking hands, finally clicking it into place as the chapel disappeared behind you. for the first time in months, you could breathe properly.

“thank you,” you breathed, slumping back in the seat. “thank you so much.”

silence stretched between you for a few minutes as he navigated through traffic. you expected him to ask questions, to demand explanations, but he just drove with the same casual energy someone might have while picking up groceries.

“so,” he finally said, glancing at you briefly before focusing back on the road. his tone was conversational, as if picking up runaway brides was just another tuesday for him. “arranged marriage?”

you blinked in surprise. “how did you—”

“the dress, the panic, the whole ‘please just drive’ thing.” he shrugged, changing lanes smoothly. “plus you look miserable instead of happy, which is usually a red flag at weddings. also, you’re gripping that bouquet like you want to strangle it.”

you looked down and realized you were still clutching your bridal bouquet, your knuckles white against the white roses. despite everything, you found yourself almost smiling. “are you always this observant?”

“occupational hazard,” he replied. “i’m suna, by the way. suna rintaro.”

“y/n,” you said quietly. “and… occupational hazard?”

“i play volleyball. you learn to read people pretty quickly when you’re trying to predict their next move.” he turned onto a main road, putting more distance between you and your former life. “middle blocker. it’s all about watching for tells, reading body language.”

you nodded absently, watching the familiar streets of your neighborhood fade away. “so what were you doing parked outside a wedding chapel?”

“waiting for my teammate. his sister was getting married today—actually married, not whatever that was back there.” suna’s lips quirked slightly. “he texted me five minutes ago saying the reception’s running long and to go ahead without him.”

“oh.” you felt a flush of embarrassment. “i’m sorry for hijacking your car.”

“don’t be. this is way more interesting than sitting in traffic.” he glanced at you again, and you caught something almost amused in his expression. “so, what’s the plan? i’m assuming you have one beyond ‘get in random stranger’s car.’”

the question hit you like a cold wave. you’d been so focused on escaping that you hadn’t thought about what came next. where would you go? how would you live? your parents would probably cut you off financially after this stunt.

“i…” you started, then stopped. the reality of your situation was starting to sink in. “i don’t know.”

suna was quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. you noticed he had nice hands—long fingers, neat nails. volleyball player hands.

“well, you can’t exactly go home in that dress,” he said eventually. “you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” he pulled into a parking lot outside a small shopping center. “come on.”

“where are we going?”

“to get you some normal clothes. can’t have my mysterious runaway bride passenger looking like she just escaped from a disney movie.” there was the hint of a smirk on his lips. “my treat. consider it payment for making my boring afternoon interesting.”

you stared at him. “you don’t even know me. why would you help me?”

suna was already getting out of the car, but he paused to look back at you through the open door. “because,” he said simply, “everyone deserves the right to choose their own life.”

as you followed this strange, calm man into the store, still wearing your elaborate wedding dress and feeling completely out of place, you realized that maybe—just maybe—jumping into a stranger’s car had been the best decision you’d ever made.

after all, suna rintaro was turning out to be exactly the kind of unexpected that your carefully planned life had been missing.

[romanczukowsky]

Spellbound and Spellchecking

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: When studying at Hogwarts becomes an excuse to spend time together, something more than friendship develops between George and Y/N.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Romance / Delicate romantic and intimate scenes / Friends to Lovers / Cozy moments / Mutual pining

The corridors of Hogwarts were always loud after breakfast – a chaotic blend of shuffling feet, animated conversations, and the occasional half-shouted spell from some reckless second-year. But today, there was a sudden hush in the air as Professor McGonagall strode through the sea of students with the clipped, precise pace that usually meant trouble for someone.

I watched her approach from the stairwell landing above, arms folded over my robes, curiosity sharpening my gaze. It didn’t take long to see who was in the line of fire.

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall’s voice rang out – brisk and scolding. “And you, Mr. Weasley,” she added, her stern glance sliding naturally to Fred, who was leaning far too casually against the wall nearby.

George looked up, all faux innocence and crooked smile. “Good morning, Professor.”

“Don’t test me, Mr. Weasley,” she snapped. “Your last two marks in Potions and Transfiguration were not only abysmal, they were bordering on tragic. One more failed assessment and I will have no choice but to suspend you from the Quidditch team.”

That wiped the grin off his face – if only slightly.

Fred let out a low whistle, but said nothing.

McGonagall’s sharp eyes narrowed further. “This isn’t a joke. Not anymore. And that goes for you as well, Fred. I suggest you both start taking your studies seriously before you’re grounded in more ways than one.”

With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the corridor, robes snapping behind her like a warning flag.

There was a long beat of silence.

“Yikes,” Lee muttered.

“Overdramatic much?” George shrugged, still leaning against the stone wall, trying to look unfazed. “One more exam won’t kill me.”

Fred elbowed him. “Yeah, but one more failure might kill your chances of ever scoring again.”

“Oh shut up,” George muttered.

That was when I moved. I hadn’t meant to—not exactly—but something in the way he tried to brush it off, the way his mouth tightened just barely at the corners, made me speak up.

“I could help you, you know.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to me at once.

I held my chin high, defiant even as heat crept up the back of my neck.

“With Potions. Or Transfiguration. Or whatever else you’re failing. Just—if you actually care.”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Well, look who’s throwing herself at Georgie now.”

Lee snorted, covering his mouth with his fist.

George opened his mouth, closed it, then finally scoffed. “I’m fine, thanks.”

I blinked once. My smile didn’t falter, but something behind it flickered – a flash of something sharp and wounded. “Right,” I said coolly. “Of course you are.”

I turned and walked away before anyone could say another word, my footsteps echoing down the corridor. My jaw was clenched tight, but my chest ached with something hollow and hot. Embarrassment. Or maybe something worse.

I didn’t look back.

But I didn’t have to.

I could feel it – the weight of George’s stare following me as I disappeared into the crowd.

The Gryffindor common room was warm and noisy in the late afternoon, the fire crackling in the hearth while students lounged on crimson sofas or hunched over homework. I sat near the window, books spread out in front of me, trying to focus despite the distractions.

Then, through the hum of chatter and laughter, I heard footsteps—slow, hesitant ones—coming my way. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Y/N?” George’s voice was softer than I expected, almost cautious.

I closed my book and looked at him. He wasn’t wearing his usual cocky grin. Instead, there was something vulnerable in his eyes, a flicker of uncertainty.

“Can we talk?”

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “You mean after you ignored me in the corridor and made me look like a fool?”

His lips twitched into a sheepish smile. “Yeah. About that.”

I waited, feeling a strange mix of irritation and curiosity.

“I’ve been thinking… maybe McGonagall wasn’t wrong. Maybe I do need help with this Potions stuff. And, well, I figured if I’m going to fail anyway, I might as well try to pass—with your help.”

I wanted to believe him, but my pride pushed me back. “I don’t have time to babysit someone who thinks he can skate by.”

Fred and Lee appeared from behind the couch, snickering loudly. “Oi, Georgie! You finally coming to terms with needing a brain?” Lee teased, nudging Fred.

Fred grinned. “Looks like someone’s getting serious.”

George flushed but kept his gaze on me. “I’m serious. Please. Just one lesson. That’s all I’m asking.”

I hesitated. His usual bravado was gone, replaced with something honest, almost shy. It was... disarming.

“Fine,” I said after a pause, “but don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

He smiled—really smiled this time—relief flooding his face.

“Deal,” he said quietly.

As he sat down next to me, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. Maybe this slow burn was about to start heating up after all.

The library was quieter than anywhere else in the castle — the perfect place to concentrate, or so I thought.

George and I sat at a worn wooden table tucked away in a corner, a stack of Potions books spread before us. I was trying to explain the complicated process of potion brewing — precise measurements, timing, careful stirring — but George’s attention was... somewhere else.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement a few tables away. Fred and Lee were sitting close together, trying hard not to laugh. Between them, a series of tiny, folded paper notes were flying back and forth like mischievous owls.

And George? He was making ridiculous faces in their direction—eyebrows raised, tongue sticking out—clearly playing along.

I cleared my throat sharply. “George, can you please focus?”

He grinned without turning to me. “I’m fine, really.”

Another paper airplane landed squarely on our table.

I picked it up, unfolded it, and read the message: “Still no clue, Georgie?”

I squeezed the note tightly until it crumpled. My patience snapped. “Enough,” I said, standing up abruptly. “I’m done. If you don’t want to take this seriously, then I’m not wasting my time.”

I grabbed my things and walked out before George could protest.

But of course, he did.

“Wait, Y/N!” His voice was softer this time, less cocky. He caught up to me in the hallway, slightly out of breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes earnest. “I know I’ve been messing around, but I want to actually learn. And the library… it’s too distracting. What if we tried outside? Somewhere quieter? Just you and me.”

I hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his tone.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said finally, a small smile tugging at my lips.

He grinned like I’d just handed him the winning broomstick.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something worth waiting for.

The sun was warm on my skin, and the gentle rustle of leaves mingled with the soft splash of water against the shore. George had somehow convinced me to meet him outside—by the lake—away from the noise and distractions of the castle.

I sat on the soft grass, books open but forgotten for a moment as George reached down and plucked a handful of pebbles.

“Alright,” I said, trying to focus. “Tell me—what’s the first step in brewing a Swelling Solution?”

He grinned and flicked a pebble toward the water. It skipped three times before sinking. “That depends on what you mean by ‘first step,’” he teased. Then he lobbed another stone, this one skipping seven times.

“Seven times!” I gasped, eyes wide. “That’s a record.”

I looked up at him, amused. “Enough showing off. Sit down.”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender and walked over, lowering himself onto the grass beside me. His shoulders were warm from the sun, and he glanced my way with a sheepish smile.

I reached out and brushed a loose lock of hair away from his forehead, my fingers lingering a moment longer than I intended.

His eyes caught mine, and for a heartbeat, everything else fell away.

“Back to the book?” I whispered, my voice softer than before.

He nodded, but the smile tugging at his lips said more than words ever could.

I turned the page, trying to focus on the complicated instructions about timing and ingredients, but my eyes kept flicking back to George. He was sitting uncomfortably close now, his leg nearly brushing mine.

“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “what’s the trickiest part about this potion?”

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks reddening just a little. “Getting the timing right, I guess. Too long stirring, and it all goes wrong.”

I smiled, leaning in just enough to catch a whiff of his familiar, slightly earthy scent. It made my heart do something odd—a little flip, maybe.

“Okay, repeat after me,” I said, tapping the book. “Add the powdered root of asphodel...”

“Add the powdered root of asphodel,” he repeated, voice low.

“Good.” I looked down at my notes, then up again, catching him watching me.

His eyes were soft, a little uncertain, like he was waiting for permission to say something more.

I swallowed hard.

“George... do you really want to get better at this? Or are you just saying that?”

He looked down at the grass between us, fingers tracing invisible patterns. Then he met my gaze and nodded firmly.

“I do. I mean it.”

For a moment, we just sat there, the quiet broken only by the occasional bird call and the gentle lapping of water.

Then, almost shyly, he shifted closer. Our shoulders touched.

I felt a spark—electric and warm.

“I’m all ears.”

And just like that, between whispered instructions and shared smiles, the lesson became something much more — a quiet dance of connection, one slow step at a time.

The corridors of Hogwarts felt stuffy and crowded compared to the quiet openness of the grounds. George caught me just as I was turning the corner near the Charms classroom, his usual mischievous grin softened into something more genuine.

“Hey,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “How about we take the next lesson somewhere... less boring? The library’s fine and all, but I know this great spot in the forest. We could study there.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You have some strange study habits.”

He shrugged, clearly unbothered. “Well, it’s got character. Plus, it’s quieter. What do you say? Wanna come?”

There was something about the way he asked — hopeful but casual — that made me smile.

“Okay,” I agreed with a feigned loud sigh.

We walked side by side through the towering trees, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in scattered golden patches. George led me down a narrow path until we reached a small clearing with a fallen log and a view of a sparkling stream.

“This is it,” he said, gesturing proudly. “My secret spot. Me and Fred come here sometimes... you know, to, uh...” He paused, grinning cheekily. “To bring some of the girls around. Classic Gryffindor strategy.”

I smirked, raising an eyebrow. “By ‘strategy’ you mean trying to impress girls, right?”

George laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Exactly! The perfect place for a bit of ‘charm offensive’.”

He leaned back, rocking slightly on his heels, clearly enjoying the moment. Then, almost forgetting himself, he added, “I mean, it’s not like I still do that...”

I rolled my eyes and before he could say anything else, I planted myself firmly on the fallen log. “Alright, sit down before you start embarrassing yourself.”

George blinked, then with a mock sigh of defeat, he sat beside me, picking up a twig from the ground and waving it around like a wand.

“So, what’s the next potion ingredient again?” he asked, eyes focused on the stick as if it held all the answers.

I repeated the instructions, watching as he tried to keep up, occasionally getting distracted by the way the sunlight caught his hair.

After a while, the quiet between us felt comfortable. Not awkward, not forced — just easy.

I finally broke the silence. “Why do you like studying outside so much?”

George looked up at the sky, taking a deep breath.

“It’s the peace,” he said slowly. “At home, it’s always a mess — Percy, Ron, Dad — Mum trying to keep us in line, noise everywhere. When I’m stuck inside four walls, I feel... trapped. Like a bird in a cage.”

I studied his profile, the way his jaw clenched just slightly.

“You have a big family,” I said softly.

He smiled, his eyes lighting up, and started talking, his hands moving animatedly as he painted pictures of each brother. With a sweeping gesture, he mimicked Percy’s serious, upright posture, then flicked his fingers playfully to imitate Fred’s mischievous grin. His fingers danced again, showing Ron’s flustered shrug, and then he made a broad, protective gesture that made me picture his dad standing firm, unshaken.

As he spoke, I watched the way his face softened, the warmth shining through his laughter and glances. When he looked at me, that familiar, easy smile touched his lips, and his eyes held a spark — a mix of humor and something deeper that made my heart skip.

For a moment, I let myself get caught in that smile.

But then I shook my head, forcing myself back to the books. “We should probably get back to studying. There’s still quite a bit to cover.”

George nodded, though I caught the reluctant pause before he turned back to the open pages between us.

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos — students chatting, clinking cutlery, and the faint hum of magical chatter filling the air. I was settling down at my usual table when I spotted Fred, Lee, and George weaving through the crowd towards me.

The boys continued on, but George stopped right beside me and smiled. “I’ll catch up in a minute,” he said over his shoulder to Fred and Lee.

He sat down next to me with a casual ease that made my heart skip unexpectedly.

“Listen,” he started, lowering his voice just enough to be sure no one else could hear, “your notes? They’re brilliant. I actually let myself read them last night. Not gonna lie, thanks to you, I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass Snape’s Potions for once.”

I blinked, surprised but pleased. “Really?”

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah, and we only have Transfiguration left after that. Then it’s all downhill — or, well, done.”

George smiled softly, and as he stood up, he accidentally brushed his hand against mine. Then, almost imperceptibly, his finger grazed my arm before he turned and walked away.

I sat there, heart still fluttering, the quiet space between us suddenly charged with something unspoken. In my mind, I whispered, If he passes Transfiguration, that’s the end of our study sessions. And maybe... I’m not ready for that yet.

I couldn’t help but replay the moment over and over in my mind as I wandered around the common room, pacing in small circles. What if I found a way to stretch out these study sessions just a little longer? What if I held back, made him think he still needed me?

But then, a cold knot of doubt tightened in my chest. What if by doing that, I’m actually hurting him? What if my hesitation costs him his spot on the Quidditch team?

The questions swirled around me, tangled and heavy. Was I being selfish? Or just scared?

I wasn’t sure. But one thing was clear: I didn’t want this to end. Not yet.

The weather had turned overnight — low, sullen clouds now pressed against the windows, and the steady whisper of rain made the castle feel smaller somehow. Colder. The lake was out of the question, the forest drenched. Which meant… the library.

I sat across from George at one of the tucked-away tables in the back, parchment spread between us, candles flickering lazily above our heads. It should’ve felt cozy. Quiet. Instead, the air between us was tense, almost restless.

George tapped his quill rhythmically against the edge of his notes, brows furrowed in frustration. After a while, he muttered, “This is pointless.”

I didn’t even look up. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, I meant it then too.”

I blinked at him slowly, forcing my voice to stay calm. “You’re distracted.”

“No, I’m bored,” he muttered, sharper than usual. “And tired. And completely done pretending I care about the difference between a proper hand-to-paw transfiguration and accidental fur growth.”

I closed my book—not loudly, not angrily, just enough to say: Try me.

“You asked me to help you.”

He leaned back, scrubbing both hands over his face. “I know, I know. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “This place makes me feel like I’m suffocating.”

I studied him for a beat. The way his shoulders rose and fell, a twitch in his jaw. I understood more than I wanted to admit.

“It’s not the lake,” I said softly. “Or the woods.”

His gaze flicked to mine. And for a moment, the irritation slipped. His eyes held something quieter underneath — not quite apology.

“I just… liked it better out there,” he said, almost to himself. “With you.”

My heart snagged on that last part, but I didn’t let it show.

“We don’t always get ideal conditions,” I said gently. “Sometimes we just get through it.”

He looked at me properly then — really looked. And something shifted, like a weight settling.

“I don’t want to get through it if it means being an arse to you.”

The edges of my mouth twitched. I nudged his notes back toward him.

“Then stop sulking and focus.”

A beat.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“You’re definitely sulking.”

George huffed a soft laugh and leaned back in again, slightly closer now. Not enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, see the corner of his mouth pull up in something that wasn’t quite a smile — but not far off.

And just like that, the air between us shifted again. Still charged. Still complicated.

But maybe… still ours.

George huffed a soft laugh and leaned back in again — this time, just a bit closer. Our knees brushed beneath the table, a fleeting touch that neither of us acknowledged out loud, but neither of us pulled away from, either.

He didn’t look at me right away, just reached for the edge of my parchment, tugging it slightly toward him with a half-smirk.

“This bit,” he said, tapping a note I’d scribbled in the margin, his fingers grazing mine for the briefest second. “I swear, you write like McGonagall hexed you mid-sentence.”

I rolled my eyes, but my pulse betrayed me. “It says: cross-species transfiguration is volatile and unstable. Not my fault you can’t read anything without moving your lips.”

His eyes finally met mine, sharp but amused, and for a second too long, neither of us looked away.

The air around us tightened, like it always did when we got too close, too quiet. George looked down again, tracing the line of my notes with his finger — slow.

I watched him with a mix of frustration and fascination, torn between brushing it all off or letting it settle somewhere deep under my skin.

The library had long since emptied out, the candles floating low and the windows now bathed in the deep blue of late evening. We finally packed up in silence, parchment rustling as I tucked away my notes.

George scooped up my bag before I could even reach for it.

“I got it,” he said simply, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. My stomach fluttered.

We walked side by side down the quiet corridors, footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor. The silence between us was easy this time — not tense, just... charged. I could feel it in the way his shoulder brushed mine every so often, how neither of us pulled away.

Then, from down the hall, someone yelled, “Oi, Weasley! That your girlfriend?”

A chorus of laughter followed. I stiffened instinctively.

George only laughed — a short, easy sound. “Jealous?” he shouted back over his shoulder, not missing a beat.

My cheeks burned.

We reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. He handed me back my bag, his hand lingering against mine — warm, calloused fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. I looked up, and he stepped just slightly closer.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “For tonight. Really.”

I could feel my heart pounding like a bloody drum.

Before I could answer, a voice from behind: “Ooooh, someone's getting all sentimental.”

More teasing, more giggles.

I flushed hard and ducked past George, muttering something about sleep. I didn’t look back.

We didn’t study again. Not right away.

Classes resumed, days blurred, weather shifted. But something between us had changed — like a string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

One warm afternoon, I was walking back from the library when I spotted George and Fred across the courtyard, heading in my direction.

Fred nudged George and said, just loud enough for me to catch: “Take her there, mate. That spot? Guaranteed magic.” Then he grinned at me and added, “You’ll thank me later.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A simple hey would’ve worked, Fred.”

George smirked, unfazed. “You busy?”

I shook my head slowly.

“Come on then.”

He led me out past the lake, farther than we’d ever gone during our so-called study sessions. The path wound through tall grass and dipped into a small cove. Water sparkled like glass, and trees arched in a canopy above us. It was... breathtaking.

“Thought you’d like it,” he said.

“I do.”

We sat. Talked. Tried to study — genuinely, for maybe twenty minutes — then got distracted, throwing pebbles into the water, laughing at how utterly hopeless he was at pronouncing half the Transfiguration terms.

Then, out of nowhere, he stood and started tugging his jumper over his head.

My brain short-circuited.

“What are you doing?” I asked, mouth suddenly dry.

He grinned. “It’s too nice not to swim. C’mon.”

And then he jumped. Shirtless. Into the water.

I blinked. “You’re insane!”

He surfaced, laughing, and ran both hands through his soaked hair. “It’s amazing! Come on, don’t be boring.”

I hesitated, the cool air suddenly feeling heavier against my skin. My shoes were already off, and the soft grass beneath my feet grounded me, but my heart was pounding in a way that felt entirely new — raw and exposed.

His eyes didn’t waver as I slowly pulled off my jumper, the fabric slipping past my shoulders and revealing the bare skin beneath. The way he looked at me was different now — less playful, more intense, as if he was seeing me for the first time in a way that both thrilled and unsettled me.

I stepped closer to the water’s edge. The sun lit up my hair, and I felt his gaze follow the curve of my neck, the line of my collarbone, the slight tremor of my fingers.

I waded in. The water was cold, biting, perfect. I gasped, and he splashed me like a devil.

We swam. We shouted. We laughed like kids.

But then, just as the sun began to warm my skin again, a shadow passed over us — a cloud sliding slowly across the sky. A sudden chill ran down my spine, prickling my skin with goosebumps.

I shivered, the cold suddenly sharper, and instinctively started to head toward the shore.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle but curious.

“C-cold,” I admitted, my lips trembling as I wrapped my arms around myself.

Before I could say more, he stepped up behind me, his chest warm against my back. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around me in a comforting embrace.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered softly, his breath warm against my ear. “The sun will be back any second now. And if it’s not…” His voice dropped, playful but tender. “I’ll keep you warm.”

A soft heat spread through me, chasing away the chill — not just from the water, but from something deeper.

He held me close for a moment longer, his hands steady and warm against of my body. I could feel the steady beat of his heart pressed lightly against my back, syncing somehow with my own. The world around us faded — only the gentle lapping of the water and the soft rustling of the breeze remained.

Slowly, I turned in his arms, our eyes meeting.

His fingers brushed a stray lock of wet hair from my face, and I caught my breath. The air between us thickened, charged with something fragile yet undeniable.

“Are you cold?” he whispered, voice low, rough with something more than concern.

I shook my head, barely daring to speak. “No… just… warm now.”

His smile was soft, almost shy, as if he was surprised by the sudden closeness between us. Step by step, we closed the gap until our faces were inches apart.

Every small movement felt amplified — the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes searched mine, the subtle parting of his lips.

And just when I thought I might lose my nerve, his hand found mine, fingers intertwining gently, grounding me.

“We don’t have to go back just yet,” he murmured, the invitation hanging between us.

He leaned over me, his hand tilting my chin up with a feather-light touch. His gaze held mine, deep and searching, like he was trying to read every hidden thought.

His lips brushed against mine — soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. Then, with a quiet confidence, the kiss deepened, full of a longing that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. The heat between us flared as his hold tightened, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

He carried me slowly toward the shore, every step deliberate, every breath shared. When he laid me down on the scattered clothes, his body settled atop mine with a gentle weight, grounding me in the moment.

His hands moved with slow, deliberate care, tracing every curve and contour as if memorizing the shape of me. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down my spine, igniting a fire that spread through every nerve.

Our breaths mingled, shallow and quick, the space between us charged with a magnetic pull too strong to resist. His lips hovered just above mine, teasing, asking without words.

For a moment, time held still — the world reduced to the soft brush of his breath, the heat of his gaze locked on mine, and the delicious ache of anticipation.

Then, with a whisper barely louder than a heartbeat, he finally closed the distance, lips capturing mine in a kiss that promised everything.

[neverbelessthan]

I just read someone’s hot take on ‘the mermaid scene’ being ‘peak cringe’ and I just-

Sweet, sweet human. That’s Ed’s psyche you’re taking about. My dude is having his life flash before his eyes in the most beautiful little heartbreaking s1 montage, and if that’s how he wants to picture Stede coming to redeem his lonely fucking soul - as a glittery goddamn tits-out merman, then that’s HIS GODDAMN BUSINESS.

[somewhereincairparavel]

having a parent that loves you but doesn't like you is not for the weak.

[its-murderous-business]

Sometimes I wonder why people think im a buzzkill and then I hear myself talk at social gatherings and I go oh yeah. That tracks actually.

[causticsunshine]

been working on some photo studies in the hopes that perfecting my rendering skills and the like will help me finish more pieces and idk if i suddenly got really good at painting faces or what but god i’m doing something right with this one study and i can only hope it means something good for my art

tbh most of the art i scrapped the last few years—which was mostly the 1d pieces i lost rip 😔—i scrapped because i didn’t like how i painted the faces so?? yeah i really hope. the tide is turning

[instantpansies]

i’m over 5'5 that's confidential / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

tagging: uhh @imabiscuitinthousandworlds @gaydoggirll @allulily @zebracakesarecopingmechanisms @galaxygorl-does-stuff and anyone else who's interested

tag game 🤭

rules: color the sentence that's true about you

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

this is a whole lot of yellow lmfao

no pressure tags: @marthawrites @schniiipsel @aemonddtargaryen @aemondsbabe @adragonprinceswhore @arcielee @black-dread @lovelykhaleesiii @aemondsbabygirl @valeskafics @connorsui

[harrysfolklore]

but daddy i love him, part one - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc: 17k. PART TWO

folkie radio: HERE. IT. IS. FINALLY !!!!!!!! as i've stated before i'm absolutely terrified of posting this, this is my longest fic ever and different from what i've done before. i know it's a long read but i'm really proud of it and i think it's worth it. IN THIS FIC MORE THAN ANY OTHER. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO LEAVE FEEDBACK.

DISCLAIMER: as stated in the title THIS IS PART ONE!!! part two is ready in my drafts and will be posted shortly (in a week tops). i'll stop talking now. BUCKLE UP AND ENJOY (and please leave feedback okay)

Melbourne, 2015

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour - that strange liminal space between late night and early morning when most reasonable people are asleep. But you've never been great at reasonable, and jet lag has your body clock completely scrambled.

That's how you end up in the hotel's deserted coffee shop at 1 AM, nursing a hot chocolate and trying to calm your nerves about tomorrow.

You're so lost in thought you don't notice someone else enter until they speak.

"They're still open?"

You look up and your heart skips. Of course you recognize him immediately - Max Verstappen, the 17-year-old prodigy your father hasn't stopped talking about for months. "The next big thing," Papa had said, watching testing footage. "He's going to shake up the whole paddock, just watch."

"Sort of," you gesture to your drink, trying to keep your voice casual. "The barista took pity on me. Said she'd make one last drink before closing."

He glances at the now-dark counter and sighs. Up close, he looks even younger than in the photos you've seen, but there's something in his eyes - a fierce determination that makes you understand why everyone's been talking about him.

"Here," you push your barely-touched hot chocolate towards him. "I'm not really drinking it anyway."

He hesitates. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Probably shouldn't have caffeine at this hour anyway."

He sits across from you, taking a careful sip. "Thanks. I'm Max."

I know, you think. Everyone knows. The youngest F1 driver in history, Jos Verstappen's son, the rookie everyone's watching.

"You're not from around here," you note his accent, playing along with the pretense that you don't know exactly who he is.

"Neither are you," he grins, and something warm flutters in your stomach. His smile transforms his whole face, makes him look his age.

"Fair point. Here for the Grand Prix?"

"You could say that." He studies you, and you wonder if he can hear your heart racing. "You?"

"Something like that." You're enjoying this little game more than you probably should.

"Cryptic."

You laugh. "Says the equally cryptic stranger."

"Okay, okay." He takes another sip. "I'm one of the new drivers. Toro Rosso."

You try to hide your smile. You've watched every clip of his testing sessions, heard every conversation your father has had about his potential. "Ah. The youngest F1 driver in history. That must be a lot of pressure."

He shrugs, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of expectations already heavy on him. You know that weight - you've carried your own version of it your whole life.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Scared?"

"No," he answers too quickly, then sighs. "Maybe a little. You won't tell anyone I said that, right?"

There's something vulnerable in his admission that makes your heart ache. Behind all the hype and headlines, he's just a boy on the verge of something enormous.

"Your secret's safe with me." You lean back. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do great."

"You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me."

If only he knew how many hours you'd spent watching his karting videos. How many times you'd heard your father say "That Verstappen boy is going to change everything."

"Let's call it intuition."

He laughs - a genuine, unguarded sound that makes your pulse quicken. "You're different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Just… different." He finishes the hot chocolate. "Most people, when they find out who I am, they either get weird about it or start asking about Jos."

"Your father?"

He nods, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes - the same shadow you sometimes get when people mention Toto.

"Well, I know a thing or two about father-related pressure, so…"

"Yeah?" He looks interested. "What does your father do?"

You check your watch, knowing it's time to end this little charade. "Oh wow, is that the time? I should probably head up."

"Wait," he stands as you do. "I didn't catch your name."

You pause at the door, turning back with a small smile, savoring what you know will be his reaction. "I'm YN Wolff."

His eyes widen. "Wolff? As in…"

"See you in the paddock, Max Verstappen."

You leave him standing there, but not before catching his surprised laugh. Your heart is racing as you walk away - from the deception, from his smile, from the way his eyes had lit up when he laughed.

The next morning, you spot him in the paddock. He does a double-take when he sees you with the Mercedes team, then grins and shakes his head. You're wearing your team kit now, no more pretending to be just another girl in a hotel coffee shop.

"Cryptic stranger," he mouths at you as he passes.

You just smile, trying to ignore how your stomach flips when he winks at you.

Neither of you could have known then - in that quiet hotel coffee shop at 1 AM - that this was the beginning of something that would change your lives.

Singapore, 2015

The paddock is eerily quiet now, the usual chaos of race day reduced to a whisper of distant maintenance and soft lighting. You're sitting on one of the team benches, the night air cool against your skin. Max is close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the line between friendship and something more feels increasingly blurred.

It wasn't a sudden thing, this connection with Max. It had been a slow burn, a gradual unraveling that began that night in the hotel coffee shop and grew through stolen moments between races, brief conversations in crowded paddocks, and late-night messages that became increasingly frequent.

At first, it was simple curiosity. You'd catch each other's eye across the paddock, exchange a knowing smile. Then came the texts - random observations about races, inside jokes about team dynamics, comments that walked the line between friendly and flirtatious. Max had a way of making you laugh like no one else could, his wit sharp and unexpected.

He nudges you playfully. "So, daughter of the most powerful team principal in Formula 1. Must be interesting."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "Not as glamorous as you might think."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."

You pause, considering. The weight of your father's reputation is something you've carried your entire life - a constant backdrop to every interaction, every moment.

"Imagine," you say slowly, "having every conversation potentially recorded, every interaction analyzed. One wrong move and it's not just about you, but about your family's reputation."

Max's expression shifts. There's understanding there - he knows something about familial expectations, about the pressure of carrying a name.

"My father," he says quietly, "Jos Verstappen. Not exactly a walk in the park."

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. These moments have become more frequent - brief windows where the polished racing personas fall away, revealing something raw and real.

"Tell me," you prompt softly.

He takes a deep breath. "Constant pressure. Every race, every test, every moment - it's like I'm living not just for myself, but for some expectation he's created. Sound familiar?"

You laugh, but it's a sound tinged with something harder. Sadness. Recognition. "Absolutely."

Your conversations have been like this lately - layers peeling back, revealing something raw and real beneath the polished exterior of Formula 1.

"Sometimes," Max continues, "I wonder if I'm racing for myself or for the legacy everyone else wants me to create."

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the night. "Little Wolff?"

Lewis approaches, his team kit still impeccable despite the late hour. His eyes narrow when he sees Max, taking in your proximity.

Lewis had been a constant in your life long before Max entered the picture. Since joining Mercedes, he'd taken on a role that was part mentor, part protective older brother. It wasn't an official designation, but in the Mercedes family, it might as well have been law.

Lewis knew everything about you - your hopes, your fears and everything in between. He was more than just your father's driver. He was family.

"Oh," Lewis says, a mix of surprise and something else - protection, wariness. "Verstappen."

Max stands immediately. "I was just leaving," he says quickly, a touch of nervousness breaking through his usual confidence. "See you around."

As Max walks away, Lewis turns to you, his protective big brother persona fully activated. "What," he says slowly, "was that about?"

You start walking together, the paddock lights casting long shadows. Lewis' stride is purposeful, matching yours.

"Nothing," you say, but the word sounds unconvincing even to your own ears, "He's my friend."

"Friend," he says, uncertainty in his voice, "Just be careful, okay? Things are never that simple in this paddock" he'd said, and you knew he meant more than just about Max.

You said nothing. But you heard him. You always did.

Barcelona, 2016

The champagne sparkles in the late afternoon sun as you watch from a secluded corner of the paddock. You smile as you watch Max on that podium - the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. Your smile is wide, uncontrolled, and you're grateful for the relative privacy of your spot. If anyone noticed that your eyes never left Max, that your smile was meant only for him, they didn't say.

You remember the first time you saw him race, really race - not just in videos or testing. The raw talent, the fearlessness that made your breath catch. Over the past year, you'd watched him grow from that confident teenager in the Melbourne coffee shop into someone who commanded respect on track. And somewhere along the way, between stolen moments in the paddock and late-night conversations, he'd become so much more than just another driver.

The past year had been a dance of almost-moments and careful distances. Shared glances across crowded rooms, text messages that made you smile at 3 AM, touches that lingered just a second too long. You'd both known the complications, the impossibility of it all - the Mercedes team principal's daughter and Red Bull's rising star. It was like a modern Romeo and Juliet, except instead of warring families, it was competing Formula 1 teams.

Later that evening, you stand in your father's office doorway, heart hammering but determined. Toto is absorbed in post-race papers, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the formidable team principal even hours after the race.

"Papa?"

He looks up, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Yes, Schatz?"

"I'm going out," you say, trying to keep your voice casual while mentally rehearsing your prepared explanation.

Toto's eyebrows rise slightly. "Out?"

"With some friends," you elaborate, grateful for years of practice at maintaining your composure under his scrutiny. "To celebrate the race."

He sets his papers down, removing his glasses. "Friends from the team?"

Your heart skips. "Just… friends from the paddock," you say carefully. "Daniel invited me."

"Ricciardo?" His tone sharpens slightly.

"He's always been nice to me," you reason, which isn't a lie. Daniel has been a friend since his early days, always treating you like a friend rather than just the boss' daughter.

Toto studies you for a long moment, and you force yourself to meet his gaze steadily, even as your pulse races. You've always been close to your father - he's been your hero, your guide, your biggest supporter. The weight of potentially disappointing him sits heavy in your chest.

"Be careful," he finally says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. "You know how complicated things can be in this world."

"I know, Papa," you say softly. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Getting into the Red Bull celebration is easier than expected, thanks to Daniel's help. He meets you at a side entrance, his trademark grin wider than usual.

"Looking good, Wolff," he winks, pulling you into a quick hug. "Though I'm pretty sure your dad would kill me if he knew I was helping you sneak in."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," you say, trying to ignore the guilt that accompanies the words.

"Just…" Daniel's expression turns serious for a moment. "Be careful, yeah? With Max. He's my teammate and you're like my sister, and I don't want either of you getting hurt."

You're saved from responding by the noise of the party as he leads you inside. The atmosphere is electric - the joy of Max's first win filling the air along with music and laughter.

When Max spots you, his eyes widen, champagne glass freezing halfway to his lips. The surprise on his face quickly melts into something softer, more private. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over, that familiar smirk playing on his lips - the one that never fails to make your heart skip.

"Should I be worried about Mercedes spies in our midst?" he teases, but his eyes are soft, drinking you in.

"You know me," you counter, matching his playful tone while trying to ignore how good he looks in his race winner's shirt, "I live for trouble."

"That you do, Wolff." He steps closer, just slightly, but enough to make your breath catch. "I didn't think you'd come."

"And miss your first win celebration? Never." You mean it to sound light, teasing, but your voice comes out softer, more sincere than intended.

"Still can't believe it," he says, shaking his head with a boyish grin that makes him look his age for once. "My first win."

"I can," you reply, taking a sip of champagne. "I've seen how you drive. It was only a matter of time."

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. "You've been watching me drive, then?"

"Someone has to keep an eye on the competition," you tease, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Is that what I am? Competition?" He moves closer, and suddenly the music seems far away.

"Among other things." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

The conversation flows easily between you, as it always has. You talk about the race, about his incredible overtakes, about the moment he realized he was going to win. His eyes light up when he describes the feeling of crossing the finish line, and you find yourself caught between admiring his passion and getting lost in the way his hands move as he talks.

As the night progresses, the party gets louder, more crowded. Max notices you glancing around at the growing crowd.

"Want to get some air?" he asks, nodding toward a door that leads to a quieter area.

You follow him to a private terrace overlooking the city. The music is muffled here, and the night air is cool on your skin. You lean against the railing, city lights twinkling below.

"Better?" he asks, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Much." You turn to face him, drawn in by the way the lights play across his features. "Though I have to say, you throw quite a party for a rookie winner."

He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Rookie? I've been racing since before I could walk."

"Oh right, I forgot - Max Verstappen, born in a go-kart," you tease, making him smile wider.

"You're impossible, you know that?" He shakes his head, but his eyes are fond.

"Part of my charm," you counter, feeling bold in the privacy of the moment.

"Is that what you call it?" He's even closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Would you rather I was predictable?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging.

"Never." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down your spine. "Predictable is boring. And you, YN Wolff, are anything but boring."

The tension between you is electric, years of carefully maintained distance crumbling in this quiet moment. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

"Well," you say, stepping into his space until there's barely a breath between you, "I think the winner deserves a reward."

Before you can second-guess yourself, you're kissing him. It's everything and nothing like you imagined - soft at first, tentative, like you're both afraid of breaking something precious. Then his hand comes up to cup your face, and the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. You can taste champagne on his lips, feel the solid warmth of him against you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world spins around you.

It's a perfect moment, suspended in time, until he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

"You're trouble, Wolff," he murmurs against your lips, but he's smiling that smile that makes your heart flip. "Beautiful trouble."

"Scared?" you challenge softly, echoing your first conversation in Melbourne.

"Terrified," he admits, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "But in a good way."

You stay at the party longer than you should, caught in Max's orbit. Every smile, every touch, every shared look feels charged with possibility. But reality crashes back hours later when you return.

Your dad is waiting, his expression thunderous in a way you've rarely seen directed at you. Your stomach drops as soon as you see him, the lingering warmth from Max's kisses turning to ice in your veins.

"Would you like to explain," he says slowly, each word precise and controlled, "why did I receive a call informing me that my daughter was at a Red Bull celebration?"

"Papa, I-" you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture.

"Don't." His voice is hard. "Don't try to fool me. I've seen you with Max Verstappen."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. You want to defend yourself, explain that Max isn't just the Red Bull driver he sees, that there's more to him.

"Do you have any idea," he continues, "what position this puts me in? Puts the team in?"

"It's not about the teams," you say quietly, finding your voice. "It's just-"

"Just what?" he challenges. "Just you and him? Nothing is ever just anything in Formula 1, YN. Every action has consequences. Every relationship has implications."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "This sport isn't about fair. It's about winning. About loyalty. About trust." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "How can I trust you to put the team first when you're sneaking around with our biggest rival?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I would never betray the team," you whisper, hurt that he could even think that.

"Maybe not intentionally," he says, his voice softening slightly. "But this… whatever this is with Max Verstappen… it can't continue. I won't tell you again. Stay away from him."

You want to argue more, to make him understand. But you recognize the finality in your father's tone, the immovable force that has made him such a successful team principal. In this world of racing and rivalry, some lines aren't meant to be crossed.

As you leave, you touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of Max's kiss. Your phone buzzes - a message from Max: "Worth the trouble?"

You stare at the screen, tears threatening to fall. Sometimes the biggest crashes in Formula 1 aren't on the track at all. Sometimes they're in the space between what your heart wants and what the sport demands.

Germany, 2016

The German summer air is thick with tension. You can feel it crackling through the paddock like electricity before a storm. Nico and Lewis' rivalry has turned the Mercedes garage into a pressure cooker, and your father's stress is palpable. Being around him feels like walking on eggshells, which makes your secret meetings with Max even more dangerous.

You've gotten good at this dance over the past few months - stolen moments between practice sessions, hidden corners of the paddock, coded messages about "casual meetings" that are anything but casual. Every stolen kiss feels like a victory and a risk all at once.

The sun is setting over Hockenheim when you slip behind the Red Bull motorhome, your heart racing with the familiar mix of excitement and fear. Max is already there, leaning against the wall with that cocky smile that still makes your stomach flip.

"Cutting it close, Wolff," he murmurs as you approach. "Your father's been prowling the paddock all day."

"Worried?" you tease, even as you glance around to ensure you're alone.

His answer is to pull you against him, one hand sliding to your waist while the other cups your face. "About your father? Always. About this? Never."

The kiss is heated from the start - months of practice have taught you both exactly how to make each other breathless. His thumb traces your jawline as he deepens the kiss, and you press closer, fingers curling into his team shirt. You love how solid he feels against you, how his breath catches when you bite gently at his lower lip.

"You're going to get me in trouble," he whispers against your mouth, but his smile suggests he doesn't mind at all.

"You love trouble," you remind him, trailing kisses along his jaw.

His hands tighten on your waist. "I love-" he starts, but cuts himself off, choosing instead to capture your lips again in a kiss that makes you forget everything else.

You lose track of time, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. It's dangerous and perfect and everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.

A sound makes you both freeze. You pull apart quickly, straightening your clothes, but it's too late.

Jos Verstappen stands at the corner of the motorhome, his expression dark and unreadable. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him.

"I… I should go," you manage, your voice shaky. Max's hand brushes yours briefly - a small comfort - before you hurry past his father, avoiding his stern gaze.

Behind you, you can hear Jos' voice, low and harsh in Dutch, but you don't stop to listen. Your heart is pounding as you make your way back to the paddock, wondering if this is the moment everything falls apart.

Max stands his ground as his father's disapproval fills the space between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jos demands in Dutch, his voice controlled but sharp. "The Wolff girl? Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not what you think-" Max starts, but Jos cuts him off.

"It's exactly what I think. You're letting yourself get distracted. By a Mercedes girl, no less. Toto Wolff's daughter?" Jos steps closer, his presence intimidating despite Max now being taller than him. "You're just starting to prove yourself in Formula 1. This is when you need to focus more than ever."

"I am focused," Max argues. "My results prove that."

"For now." Jos' voice turns cold. "But girls like that, from families like that - they're nothing but distractions. She'll get in your head, make you soft. And then what? You think Toto Wolff wants his daughter with a Red Bull driver? You think this ends well?"

Max clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to defend you, to explain that you're different, that you understand the sport as well as he does. But he knows his father won't listen.

"Stay away from her," Jos says finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Focus on what matters. On winning and being champion. That's what we've worked for all these years. Don't throw it away for some girl."

The words hit harder than Max wants to admit, echoing his own doubts, his own fears about what this thing with you means. But he can't forget the way you look at him like you see past the racer, past the name, to who he really is.

Jos leaves him there in the growing darkness, with only the weight of expectations and the lingering taste of your kiss on his lips.

Monaco, May 2017

Another year, another dance of stolen moments and secret smiles. If anything, the warnings and opposition have only made whatever this is between you and Max more intense. Like a forbidden drug, each stolen moment leaves you craving more, even as the risks grow higher.

"This is a terrible idea," Max whispers as you pull him through your back door, "Your dad is literally upstairs."

"He's dead asleep," you assure him, carefully closing the door. "He took sleeping pills for his flight tomorrow. Besides, he sleeps like the dead anyway."

Max still looks like he's ready to bolt at any second. "YN, if he catches me here-"

"He won't." You tug him closer by his shirt. "Unless you keep talking so loud."

He glances nervously at the stairs. "Your room is up there? Past his?"

"Scared, Verstappen?"

"Terrified, actually." But he follows you anyway, both of you carefully avoiding the creaky third step you'd mapped out years ago during teenage sneaking attempts.

You're almost at your door when Max freezes. "Was that-"

"Just the house settling," you whisper, but your heart is racing too. "Come on, we're almost-"

A door opens down the hall.

Max actually whimpers. You shove him into your room just as Toto's voice calls out, "YN? Is that you?"

"Just getting water, Papa!" you call back, praying your voice sounds normal. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine! Those pills should be kicking in, right?"

A yawn. "Ja, starting to feel them. Goodnight, Schatz."

"Night, Papa!"

You wait until you hear his door close before slipping into your room. You find Max standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor, looking absolutely terrified.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he announces in a whisper. "I'm actually having a heart attack. I can see the headlines now: 'F1 Driver Dies of Fear in Team Principal's House.'"

You try not to laugh. "You're being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" His voice rises slightly before he catches himself. "YN, your father was ten feet away from me. Ten feet! Do you know what he would do to me if he found me here?"

"Well, first he'd probably have a heart attack himself-"

"Not helping!"

"Then probably murder you-"

"Still not helping!"

"And Lewis would hide the body-"

"Why did I agree to this?" He runs his hands through his hair. "I'm a professional athlete. I have championships to win. I can't die in Toto Wolff's house because his daughter is too pretty to say no to."

You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're trying to kill me." But his hands settle on your waist automatically. "If your father walks in right now-"

"He won't."

"But if he does-"

"Max." You kiss him softly. "Stop talking about my father when you're in my bedroom."

"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. "Watching you in the paddock all day, not being able to touch you…"

You smile against his lips. "Poor baby. Must be so hard being professional."

He responds by lifting you up, making you laugh as he carries you toward your bed. "You have no idea."

Hours later, you're tangled in your sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. The city's lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older than his twenty years.

"We should sleep," you say, even as you press closer to him. "You have meetings tomorrow."

"Meetings are overrated," he mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Says the guy who's already breaking records." Your fingers trail down his chest. "Future world champion can't skip meetings."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Future world champion can do whatever he wants."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But morning comes too soon, sunlight streaming through your windows and your alarm blaring way too early.

Max groans, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," you remind him, even as you run your fingers through his hair. "You're already going to be late, and my father is still next room, remember?"

He lifts his head, giving you that boyish grin that still makes your heart skip. "Worth it."

But reality can't be held at bay forever. Max rushes to get dressed, stealing kisses between looking for his scattered clothes. You watch from your bed, sheet wrapped around you, trying to memorize how he looks in the morning light.

"Tonight?" he asks, pausing at your bedroom door.

"Text me," you say, and he gives you one last smile before he's gone.

Max is still smiling when he arrives at the Red Bull office, nearly an hour late for his morning meeting. The smile dies on his lips when he sees his father waiting outside, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

"You were with that girl weren't you? Nothing's changed" Jos demands without preamble, switching to Dutch.

"I was just-"

"Don't lie to me." Jos' voice is low, dangerous. "Are you trying to destroy everything we've worked for?"

"I'm not destroying anything," Max argues, frustration creeping into his voice. "My results-"

"Your results could be better," Jos cuts him off. "You could be focused on becoming champion instead of sneaking around with Toto Wolff's daughter. Do you think this is a game?"

"It's not a game-"

"Then what is it?" Jos steps closer, his presence still intimidating despite Max being taller now. "Love?" He spits the word like it's poison. "You think love wins championships? You think that girl is worth throwing away everything we've sacrificed for?"

Max clenches his jaw, the weight of years of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "I can handle both-"

"No." Jos' voice is final, absolute. "You can't. And you won't. This ends now. Cut her off."

"Or what?" The words slip out before Max can stop them, a rare challenge to his father's authority.

Jos' eyes turn cold. "Or I'll make sure Toto knows exactly what his precious daughter has been up to. How do you think that ends for her? For her relationship with her father? For her position in the paddock?"

The threat hangs in the air between them. Max feels his stomach turn to ice, knowing his father well enough to know this isn't an empty threat.

"Your choice, Max," Jos says, already turning away. "But make it soon. This distraction ends now, or there will be consequences. For everyone."

Max stands there long after his father leaves, the taste of your kisses still on his lips, now bitter with the weight of choices.

Monza, 2017

The Italian late summer heat feels suffocating as you finally corner Max behind the Ferrari motorhome - neutral territory. He's been dodging you since Hungary, responding to texts with one-word answers before stopping altogether. You've seen that look in his eyes when he spots you in the paddock - the way he quickly turns away, finds somewhere else to be.

"Hey stranger," you say, aiming for casual despite your racing heart. "Been a while."

He looks everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "YN…" There's a warning in his voice that you choose to ignore.

"I've missed you," you continue, taking a step closer. "We haven't talked since-"

"We can't do this anymore." His words cut through the air like a knife.

You freeze, the practiced speech you'd prepared dying in your throat. "What?"

"This." He gestures vaguely between you, still not meeting your eyes. "Whatever this is. It has to stop."

"Just like that?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "After everything?"

"I need to focus on racing." He sounds like he's reciting a rehearsed speech. "Just racing. No distractions."

The word 'distraction' hits you like a physical blow. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

Finally, he looks at you, and for a moment you see something crack in his carefully constructed facade - pain, regret, something more. But then it's gone, replaced by a coldness you've never seen directed at you before.

"This was never going to work," he says flatly. "We both knew that. It'll only cause trouble - for you, for me, for our families. It's better to end it now."

You think about all the stolen moments, the late-night conversations, the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. All reduced to 'trouble'.

"Fine." You straighten your spine, channeling every ounce of Wolff pride you possess. "See you around, Max Verstappen."

You turn and walk away before he can respond, each step measured and controlled despite feeling like your world is crumbling. You make it all the way to the Mercedes motorhome before the tears start to fall.

You duck into what you think is an empty corner, trying to get yourself under control, when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Little Wolff?"

Lewis stands there, concern etched across his features. He's known you since you were a kid, has watched you grow up in the paddock. In many ways, he's your brother.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping at your eyes. "Just… allergies."

"Right," he says softly, not believing you for a second. "Because Monza is famous for its allergies."

A sob escapes before you can stop it, and suddenly Lewis is pulling you into a hug. You break down against his chest, all your carefully maintained composure crumbling.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing your back. "What happened? Who do I need to beat up?"

You laugh wetly against his shoulder. "Nobody. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"You're one of the smartest people I know," he counters. "So whatever it is, it's not stupid."

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. "I just… I thought…" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."

Understanding dawns in Lewis's eyes. He's not blind - he's probably noticed more than most about your relationship with Max, even if he's never mentioned it.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people make choices out of fear rather than what they really want. Especially in this world."

"He said I was a distraction," you whisper, the words still burning.

Lewis's expression hardens slightly. "He's young. And scared. And probably being pulled in a hundred different directions." He pauses. "Doesn't make it hurt any less though, does it?"

You shake your head, fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Come here." He pulls you into another hug. "For what it's worth, I think he's an idiot. But maybe this is for the best, he's not good for you."

You stay there for a while, letting Lewis comfort you, grateful for his presence and his wisdom. But you can't shake the image of Max's face, that moment when his mask slipped, and you'd seen the pain in his eyes. You wonder if Lewis is right - if this is really about fear rather than feeling.

But in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. A choice is still a choice, even if it's made for the wrong reasons.

Monaco, Summer 2018

The bass thrums through your body as you down another shot, Lando cheering beside you. The club is packed - all of Monaco's elite young crowd mixed with racing's next generation. Your father would have an aneurysm if he saw you here, but that's half the fun.

"Another!" Lando shouts over the music, already signaling the bartender. He's technically too young to be here, but money and fame open most doors in Monaco.

"You're a bad influence, Norris," you laugh, but you don't stop him.

"Me?" He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel. You're the one corrupting the youth."

"You're literally younger than me."

"Details, details." He hands you another shot. "To being young and irresponsible!"

You clink glasses with him, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down. This is what you needed - no paddock politics, no disappointed looks from your father, no thoughts of…

"Oh shit," Lando says suddenly, following your gaze. "We can move to another section if you want."

Max has just walked in with a group of friends. He looks good - he always looks good - in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Your stomach does that familiar flip before you forcefully squash it down.

"Why should we move?" you say, perhaps a bit too loudly. "We were here first."

Lando gives you that knowing look he's perfected over the past year of friendship. "YN…"

"Don't start," you warn him. "I'm fine. It's fine. Ancient history."

"Right," he drawls. "That's why you drunk-called me crying about him last month."

"I did not!"

"'Lando,'" he mimics in a high voice, "'why doesn't he want meeeee?'"

You shove him playfully. "I hate you."

"You love me." He grins. "I'm your favorite driver now."

"You're not even in F1 yet."

"Yet!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Next year though. Then I'll be beating your ex's ass on track."

"He's not my ex," you mutter. "We were never actually together, remember?"

"Right, just sneaking around making out for like a year and a half. Totally casual."

You're about to retort when movement catches your eye. Max is at the bar now, and there's a girl with him. Tall, blonde, model-beautiful. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's leaning in close to hear her over the music.

"YN…" Lando's voice has that warning tone.

"I need another drink," you announce, turning back to the bar.

Three shots later, you're on the dance floor with Lando, trying to forget the scene playing out at the bar. But your eyes keep drifting over, watching as Max gets closer to the blonde, his hand now on her waist.

"Stop torturing yourself," Lando says in your ear.

"I'm not-" you start, but the words die in your throat as you watch Max lean down and kiss the girl.

Something inside you snaps. You scan the crowd, spotting a guy who's been eyeing you all night. He's good-looking enough - dark hair, nice smile, probably a trust fund kid like half the people here.

"YN," Lando tries to grab your arm, but you're already moving.

You approach the guy with purpose, channeling every ounce of confidence the alcohol has given you. "Want to dance?"

He looks surprised but pleased. "Absolutely."

You let him pull you close, perhaps closer than necessary. You can feel eyes on you - Lando's concerned ones, and maybe, just maybe, someone else's too.

The guy - you think he said his name was Alex or Alec - is a good dancer. His hands are respectful but firm on your hips as you move to the music. When he leans down to kiss you, you let him.

It's not a bad kiss. He knows what he's doing. But he doesn't taste right, doesn't feel right. His hands aren't calloused from racing. He doesn't smell like motor oil and expensive cologne. He's not… him

But you kiss him anyway. When you finally pull back from the kiss, Lando is at your elbow.

"I think we should head out," he says, glancing meaningfully at your nearly empty glass.

"I'm having fun," you protest, even as the room spins slightly. Alex-or-Alec's hands are still on your waist.

"YN." Lando's voice is firmer now. "Come on."

You turn back to Alex-or-Alec, pulling him down for another kiss. It's messy and desperate and you can taste the expensive whiskey on his breath. You're proving something, you think, though you're not sure what or to whom anymore.

Through the haze of alcohol and bass-heavy music, you hear a familiar voice.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Max is standing there, his face tight with anger. The blonde from earlier is nowhere to be seen, but there's another girl hovering behind him - brunette this time.

"Having fun," you say sweetly, pressing closer to Alex-or-Alec. "You should try it. Oh wait, you already are."

"You don't even know this guy," Max snaps.

"His name is Alex." You pause. "Or Alec."

"It's Adrian," the guy supplies helpfully.

"Whatever." Max steps forward. "You're drunk. You need to go home."

"And you need to mind your own business." You turn to Adrian with an exaggerated smile. "Want to get out of here?"

"YN," Lando pleads. "Don't."

"Sure," Adrian grins, clearly oblivious to the tension. "My place isn't far."

Max moves so fast you barely register it, suddenly between you and Adrian. "She's not going anywhere with you."

"Excuse me?" You push at his chest. "You don't get to decide that. You lost that right when you-" You cut yourself off, aware you're saying too much.

"When I what?" Max challenges, his eyes dark. "When I did exactly what you're doing right now?"

"No," you laugh, but it comes out bitter. "When you decided that sneaking around was fine until it wasn't. When you started showing up to every event with a new girl on your arm. When you-"

"YN," Lando tugs at your arm. "Not here."

You shake him off. "Go back to your girlfriend, Max. Or girlfriends. I lost count tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"And you're being a hypocrite." You grab Adrian's hand. "Let's go."

Max's hand closes around your wrist. "You're not leaving with him."

"Get your hands off me." Your voice is ice cold. "You don't get to play protective boyfriend when it suits you. Go find another model to add to your collection."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt maybe, or anger. "Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway."

"Exactly. I do what I want." You turn to Adrian. "Sorry, but I've changed my mind. Turns out I have standards."

You shake off Max's grip and push past him, heading for the exit. Lando hurries after you, already calling for a car.

"YN, wait-" Max calls after you.

"Go to hell, Verstappen."

Outside, the Monaco air is cool against your flushed skin. Lando wraps his jacket around your shoulders as tears start to fall.

"I hate him," you whisper.

"No, you don't." Lando pulls you into a hug. "That's the problem."

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows feels like actual daggers in your skull. You're nursing your third cup of coffee, wearing sunglasses indoors like the walking cliché you are, when your father's voice cuts through your hangover haze.

"Would you care to explain these?"

Toto slides his phone across the breakfast table. Your stomach drops as you see the photos - you dancing with Adrian, Max confronting you, your tearful exit with Lando. The Monaco nightlife paparazzi are relentless, and you were too drunk to notice them.

"Papa, I-"

"No." His voice is quiet but firm. That's worse than yelling. "This stops now, YN. This... rebellion phase of yours. It stops."

Lewis and Valtteri are suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. Susie, your stepmother, places a gentle hand on your father's arm, but doesn't contradict him.

"It wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?" Toto's accent gets thicker when he's angry. "Wasn't you, drunk in a club, making headlines again? Wasn't you creating another PR nightmare for the team?"

Your head throbs. "I'm not part of the team."

"No? Then why does every tabloid headline read 'Mercedes Boss's Daughter in Club Drama with Red Bull Star'?"

You wince. Both at his words and at the volume.

"The drinking, the parties, the public scenes - it needs to stop." He leans forward. "You're not just any teenager, liebling. Everything you do reflects on this family, on this team."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." He softens slightly. "I know this past year has been... difficult."

You feel Lewis shift beside you. He knows - of course he knows. He's probably the only one at this table who knows the full story of you and Max.

"But this self-destructive behavior cannot continue." Your father's voice is final. "You're grounded."

"I'm twenty one!"

"And living on my yacht, in my house, representing my name." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer to go back to boarding school?"

The threat lands. You sink lower in your chair.

"No, sir."

"Good." He turns to his own coffee. "No more clubs. No more parties. And for God's sake, no more scenes with Max Verstappen."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know without looking it's probably Lando checking on you. Or worse, Max.

"YN." Your father's voice draws your attention back. "I mean it. Whatever is going on between you two... it ends now."

"Nothing is going on," you mutter.

"Then it should be easy to maintain distance."

Susie finally speaks up. "Why don't you come work with me for a while? Help with the She Moves Forward initiative?"

You know it's a peace offering - a way to keep you busy and out of trouble. But the thought of structured days and responsible tasks makes your hangover worse.

"Fine," you concede, if only to end this conversation.

Lewis nudges you under the table - a small gesture of solidarity. Valtteri offers a sympathetic smile.

"Good." Your father stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to handle."

After he leaves, Lewis slides a bottle of Advil towards you. "Here. You look like death."

"Thanks," you grumble, dry-swallowing two pills.

"He's right, you know," Lewis says quietly. "About Max."

"Not you too."

"YN." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The drinking, the acting out - it's not going to make it hurt less."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He stands, squeezing your shoulder. "Just... think about what you're really angry at. Because I don't think it's your father, or the team, or even Max."

"I'm going back to bed," you announce to no one in particular.

"Honey," Susie calls after you. "This doesn't have to be a punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity."

You pause at the door. "For what?"

"To figure out who you are without all the drama. Without..." she hesitates. "Without defining yourself by who you're trying to hurt."

You think about Max's face last night, about the girls he was with, about how none of it made you feel better.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "Maybe."

The air feels thick and oppressive as you stumble out of another club, the world spinning slightly. You're not entirely sure how you ended up here - after the disastrous night a few weeks ago, you'd promised yourself (and your father) that you were done with the party scene. But one text from Lando about needing to "get out" had quickly spiraled.

Except Lando had bailed last minute with food poisoning, and you'd gone anyway. Because you're nothing if not stubborn.

The familiar figure of Charles Leclerc materializes beside you. "YN? Are you okay?"

"Charles!" You throw your arms around him, nearly losing your balance. "My favorite Ferrari boy!"

He steadies you with practiced ease. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Lost count," you admit cheerfully. "But it's fine. Everything's fine."

Charles sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Lewis."

"No!" You grab for his phone but miss entirely. "Not Lewis. He'll tell Papa."

"Good. Maybe he should."

You slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's so disappointed in me."

Charles' expression softens as he puts the phone to his ear. "We're worried, not disappointed."

Twenty minutes later, you hear the distinctive rumble of Lewis's car. He jumps out, concern etched on his face.

"YN? What were you thinking?"

"That alcohol makes feelings go away?" you offer weakly.

Lewis turns to Charles. "Thanks for calling me."

"Of course. Take care of her."

The ride home is quiet until Lewis finally speaks. "This has to stop."

"I know," you whisper.

"No, I mean it really has to stop. You're hurting yourself, and for what? To prove something to Max?"

"It's not about Max."

"Isn't it?"

You stare out the window, tears forming. "I need to get away from here."

"What do you mean?"

"The paddock, the drama, all of it." You turn to him. "I can't keep doing this. Being the Mercedes princess, the ex-whatever of Max Verstappen. I need… space."

Lewis is quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea. Take some time, figure out who you are away from all this."

"Will you help me convince Papa?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'll help. But you have to promise me - no more nights like this."

You nod, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. "I promise."

As Lewis helps you out of the car, you freeze. Toto is standing in the doorway, still in his sleeping clothes. Your stomach drops and fresh tears spring to your eyes - this is it, the final disappointment.

But instead of the anger you expect, your father simply opens his arms.

You practically fall into them, suddenly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he soothes, holding you tight like he did when you were little. "You're alright, liebling. You're alright."

"I can't-" you hiccup against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here."

"Out of where?"

"Monaco. The paddock. All of it." You pull back slightly to look at him. "I need space. To figure out who I am without… without all of this."

Toto exchanges a look with Lewis over your head. "I know," he says softly, surprising you. "I've seen it coming."

"You have?"

He cups your face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're my daughter. Of course I have. I just needed you to realize it yourself."

"I'm tired, Papa," you whisper. "Of being the Mercedes princess, of the gossip, of seeing…" You trail off, but they all know what you mean. Who you mean.

"Then go," he says simply. "Find yourself. The paddock will still be here when you're ready."

"You're not mad?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, we'll discuss tonight's adventure when you're less drunk. But no, liebling. I'm not mad. Sometimes we need to step away to see things clearly."

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We've got your back, little Wolff. Whatever you need."

Fresh tears fall as you're overwhelmed by their support. "I love you both so much."

"And we love you," Toto kisses your forehead. "Now, let's get you to bed. We can make plans tomorrow."

As they help you inside, you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't an ending, but a beginning. A chance to become someone new - or maybe to find who you've been all along, underneath the labels and expectations.

Austria, 2020

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel hits you as you step into the Mercedes garage for the first time in almost two years, your heart doing a little flip at being back after so long. Everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow different - or maybe you're the one who's different now.

"Little Wolff!" Lewis' voice booms across the garage before you're engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off your feet. "Finally back where you belong!"

You laugh, squeezing him back just as tight. "You literally saw me at Christmas, Lewis!"

"That's not the same and you know it," he sets you down but keeps his hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "Christmas is family time. This," he gestures around the garage, "this is home."

Looking at him now, you can see the genuine joy in his eyes. Lewis has always been your second father, and these past two years, he's been your biggest cheerleader from afar, always sending encouraging messages when you were climbing mountains in Nepal or teaching English in Thailand.

"She's hardly been here five minutes and you're already monopolizing her, Lewis?" Your father's voice carries that familiar warmth that makes your chest tight with happiness. Your relationship with him has transformed during your time away - all those long phone calls and video chats where you really talked, not just about racing but about life, dreams, fears. Distance made you both realize what you'd been missing.

"Papa," you smile, walking into his open arms. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Welcome home, liebling," he murmurs. "The garage hasn't been the same without you."

"I missed you too," you say, then pull back with a grin. "But I need to go see someone else before he thinks I've forgotten him entirely."

Toto laughs. "Go on then. Lando's been asking about you non-stop since he heard you were coming back."

You practically skip your way to the McLaren garage, your heart light. The past two years have given you perspective, helped you understand yourself better. You're not the angry, lost girl who fled Monaco anymore. You're stronger now, more sure of who you are outside of being "Toto Wolff's daughter" or "Max Verstappen's conquest."

"YN!" Lando's screech of delight echoes through the garage as he launches himself at you. "You're back, you're finally back!"

"I missed you so much, you idiot," you ruffle his hair, noting how he's grown even more into himself. He's not the shy rookie anymore - he's coming into his own as a driver.

"Group hug!" Carlos appears, wrapping his long arms around both of you. "Welcome back, pequeña. It's been too quiet without you here to keep this one in line."

"Oi!" Lando protests, but he's beaming.

You're in the middle of telling them about your adventures in Japan when movement catches your eye. Your words trail off as you see him - Max, walking past the garage with Christian. He's filled out more, shoulders broader, face more mature. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step it always did around him.

Two years haven't completely erased the memory of his hands on your skin, his laugh against your neck, the way he used to look at you like you were his entire world. First loves leave permanent marks, and Max Verstappen had branded himself onto your heart when you were both too young to understand the weight of it all.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There's something there - recognition, remembrance, maybe even regret. You see him swallow hard, his step faltering just slightly. But neither of you moves to bridge the gap.

You turn back to Lando and Carlos, forcing a smile, but your mind is still with that brief moment of eye contact. You're not that lovesick teenager anymore, but part of you wonders if you'll ever fully get over Max Verstappen. If anyone ever really gets over their first love, or if they just learn to live with the echo of what could have been.

"YN?" Lando's voice brings you back to the present. "You okay?"

You look at your friend's concerned face and give him a genuine smile this time. "Yeah, I am. Just… remembering."

Carlos squeezes your shoulder knowingly. "The past is the past, si? You're here now, that's what matters."

You nod, grateful for their understanding. You're not the same person who left two years ago, running from heartbreak and confusion. You're stronger now, wiser. Ready to write a new chapter.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, you still feel the ghost of an old love story tugging at your heart.

Barcelona, 2020

The Barcelona night is warm and heavy with memories as you sit at the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Daniel's telling some ridiculous story about a kangaroo, but your attention keeps drifting to the other end of the table where Max sits, deliberately positioned as far from you as possible.

Five years ago, you'd kissed him for the first time just a few streets from here. After his first win, giddy with freedom and teenage rebellion.

"So how was Bali?" Charles asks making your come back to your senses,"The surfing photos were insane."

"Almost died about twelve times," you laugh. "But worth it."

"She's exaggerating," Max comments casually, surprising everyone at the table. It's the first time he's directly addressed anything about your travels. "I saw the videos. Your form wasn't that bad."

You catch his eye across the table. "Been keeping tabs on me, Verstappen?"

He shrugs, a hint of that old smirk playing at his lips. "Hard not to when you're all over everyone's Instagram stories."

The tension at the table shifts slightly - not gone, but different. Lando kicks your foot under the table, raising an eyebrow when you look at him. You ignore him.

The conversation flows easier after that, stories and laughter bouncing around the table. You find yourself watching Max when he's not looking - the way he's grown into his features, how his laugh is deeper now, how he still runs his hand through his hair when he's trying not to smile.

As the night winds down, you end up being the last two waiting for cars. The others had filtered out gradually - Daniel dragging Charles off to some club, Lando claiming early training, Carlos heading home with his father.

"So," Max breaks the silence first, hands in his pockets. "Two years."

"Two years," you echo, leaning against the wall. "Feels longer sometimes."

"And shorter," he adds, then glances at you. "You look good. Happy."

"I am. Mostly." You study his profile in the streetlights. "You've changed too."

He laughs softly. "Had to grow up sometime, right? Can't be the paddock's problem child forever."

"No more sneaking around in garages?" The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes darken slightly at the memory. "Bit harder to get away with that these days. Plus, there hasn't been anyone worth the risk."

The weight of unspoken things hangs between you. All those stolen moments - behind motorhomes, in empty conference rooms, dark corners of victory parties. Never official, never acknowledged, but burning so bright it scared you both.

"Want to come up to my place?" he asks suddenly. "Just to talk. Properly. Without…" he gestures vaguely at the paddock world around you.

You should say no. But two years of distance have made you forget how magnetic he is, or maybe just made you brave enough to pretend you can resist it. "Okay."

The penthouse is exactly what you'd expect - sleek and modern, with a view that makes you catch your breath. You walk to the windows, Barcelona sprawling below like a constellation.

"Remember that night after your first win?" you ask softly. "When we snuck onto the roof?"

"Papa Wolff nearly had a heart attack," Max comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms almost touch. "Worth it though."

"Was it?" You turn to look at him. "All of it? The sneaking around, the fights with our families, the constant hiding?"

"You know it was." His voice drops lower. "At least, it was for me."

"Max…"

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "Not just… not just the physical stuff. I missed talking to you. Making you laugh. The way you'd roll your eyes every time I said something stupid in press conferences."

"I still do that," you smile despite yourself. "Some things don't change."

"Maybe they shouldn't." He steps closer, and suddenly you're eighteen again, heart racing at his proximity. "Maybe some things are worth holding onto."

When he kisses you, it feels like muscle memory. Your body remembers this dance - the way his hands find your waist, how he tastes like wine and possibilities. It's softer than the desperate kisses you used to share in dark corners, but somehow more dangerous for it.

You pull back first, breathing hard. "We can't."

"Why not?" His thumb traces your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. Who cares what anyone thinks?"

"I do," you step away, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I left to get away from this, Max. From sneaking around, from being the paddock scandal waiting to happen. I built a life where I'm not defined by who I'm secretly sleeping with or whose daughter I am."

"It wouldn't be like before-"

"Wouldn't it? The politics haven't changed. Our families still wouldn't approve."

"I don't care about any of that," he reaches for you but you step back.

"That's the problem," your voice cracks. "I had to live with all of it. The whispers, the judgment, watching my father's face every time there was another rumor about us. I can't go back to that."

"YN, please-"

"I should go." You grab your phone from the counter. "This was a mistake."

At the elevator, you turn back one last time. He's still by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. "For what it's worth," you say softly, "you were my first love. Maybe that's why we have to let it stay in the past."

The elevator doors close on his response, and you lean against the wall, heart pounding. Some part of you will probably always want Max Verstappen. But you've worked too hard to become your own person to let that want destroy everything again.

Even if walking away feels like leaving part of yourself behind.

Monaco, 2020

The yacht party is winding down, the late hour thinning out the crowd until somehow you find yourself alone on the upper deck. The Mediterranean breeze carries fragments of music and laughter from below, but up here it's quiet enough to hear your own thoughts - dangerous, when they all seem to revolve around him.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. You don't need to turn around to know it's Max - your body has always been attuned to his presence, like a compass finding north.

"Hiding?" His voice is soft as he comes to stand beside you at the railing.

"Just needed some air." It's not entirely a lie. "Shouldn't you be downstairs? This is your best friend's party."

"Daniel can handle it on his own," he shrugs, looking out at the harbor lights. "Needed some air too."

The silence that follows should be uncomfortable, but it isn't. That's the problem with Max - everything still feels as natural as breathing. Two years away hasn't changed how your body relaxes in his presence, how the air seems to crackle with possibility when he's near.

"Remember that party in Singapore?" he asks suddenly.

You smile despite yourself. "When we hid from Lewis for half of the night?"

"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, and something in his voice makes your heart skip. "I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

"Max…"

"I still can't," he admits quietly. "Even now. Even when I'm supposed to be focusing on other things, my eyes just… find you."

You grip the railing tighter. "We can't do this again."

"Can't we?" He turns to face you now. "Because ever since Barcelona, since that kiss…"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?" He steps closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like coming home."

The words hit you right in the chest, because he's right. That's exactly what it felt like - like every cell in your body recognizing where it belonged.

"Nothing's changed," you say, but your voice wavers. "The politics, our families, the media…"

"Everything's changed," he counters. "We're not those kids anymore, sneaking around without putting a label on it because we didn't know better. I know exactly what I want now. Who I want."

"Max, please-"

"Two years, YN. Two years of watching you live your life through Instagram stories and paddock glimpses. Two years of trying to convince myself I was over you." His hand finds yours on the railing. "But the truth is, a part of me has belonged to you since that first night in Melbourne, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

You should pull your hand away. Instead, you turn it over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. "I tried so hard to become someone new," you whisper. "Traveled the world, built this whole independent life. But the moment I saw you again…"

"I know." His other hand comes up to cup your face, and you lean into the touch instinctively. "Because I felt it too."

"It scares me," you admit. "How easy it is to fall back into this. How right it feels when it should feel wrong."

"Maybe that's exactly why it isn't wrong." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Maybe some things are just meant to be, despite everything else."

When he kisses you this time, it's different from Barcelona. That kiss had been hesitant, testing. This one feels like surrender, like finally stopping a fight you were always meant to lose. Your hands find his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispers. "You're the first girl I ever loved, and I think maybe you'll be the last. I know it's complicated, I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't, but I don't care about any of them. I just want you."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the truth in his words, by how perfectly they mirror your own feelings. "I never stopped loving you," you confess. "I tried. God, I tried so hard. But it's like… it's like a part of me just belongs to you, and no amount of distance can change that."

"Then be with me," he pleads softly. "For real this time. No more running."

"How?" But you're already melting into him as he pulls you closer. "Nothing's changed, Max. My father would still lose it, Christian would still disapprove, the media would have a field day…"

"So we don't tell them." His hands slide to your waist. "We keep it between us. No sneaking around in garages this time, no risky moments in the paddock. Just us, in private, doing this properly."

You should say no. You know all the reasons why this can't work. But as his lips find yours again, you realize you're tired of fighting this magnetic pull between you.

"If anyone finds out…" you start.

"They won't," he promises. "We'll be careful. We're not those reckless kids anymore."

And maybe that's the key difference - you're not acting on impulse anymore, not diving in blindly. You're choosing this, fully aware of the consequences, of what you both stand to lose.

"Okay," you whisper against his mouth. "Okay."

When he kisses you again, it feels like every kiss you've ever shared and completely new all at once. Like coming home and starting an adventure. Like an ending and a beginning wrapped into one.

Later, you'll figure out the logistics, the careful dance of secrecy. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment.

Some things, you realize, are worth keeping secret. Some loves are worth protecting, even if it means hiding them from the world.

Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max's apartment, painting everything in soft gold. You're awake before him, taking in the familiar weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. It feels surreal - like stepping back in time, but with the sharp edge of awareness that comes with being older.

You feel him stir, his arm tightening slightly around you. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbles against your shoulder.

"Sorry," you turn to face him, finding his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Hard not to."

He props himself up on an elbow, studying your face. The morning light makes everything feel more raw, more real. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," you say honestly. "Just… thinking about how we make this work."

"We managed before."

"And look how that ended." You trace a pattern on his chest absently. "We were reckless then. Every stolen moment was a near-miss."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "So we're smarter this time. No more risky moments in the paddock. No sneaking around where anyone could see us."

"It's not just that." You sit up, pulling the sheet with you. "Max, if this gets out… it's not just about our families being angry. It could affect your career, the team dynamics. And my father-"

"Would probably try to have me assassinated," he finishes with a half-smile, but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of it."

"And you still want this?"

He sits up too, cupping your face in his hands. "More than anything. The question is, do you?"

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. "You know I do. That's what scares me. How much I want this, despite everything."

"Then we figure it out." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. We know how to be discreet. Your place, my place, private locations only. No public appearances together unless we're with the whole group. No suspicious social media activity."

"No telling anyone," you add. "Not even Lando or Charles."

"Especially not them," he agrees. "The fewer people who know, the safer it is."

You open your eyes to find him watching you with that intense focus he usually reserves for racing. "It's going to be hard," you warn. "Pretending there's nothing between us in public. Watching you from a distance at races."

"We've had years of practice at that," he reminds you softly. "At least now I get to hold you afterward."

The simple statement makes your heart clench. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "When did you get so good with words?"

"Must be all those media training sessions," he smirks, but then turns serious. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. Whatever we have to do to make this work, I'm in."

"I love you too," you whisper back. "God, I really do."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he's trying to memorize the moment. When you pull back, you're both breathing harder.

The morning light is brighter now, reality creeping in with the rising sun. Soon, you'll have to leave separately, go back to pretending there's nothing between you. But for now, you let yourself sink into his embrace, memorizing the feeling of being here, being his.

"This is crazy, isn't it?" you murmur against his chest.

"Probably," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But some of the best things in life are a little crazy."

You know there will be challenges ahead - difficult moments, close calls, the constant strain of secrecy. But as Max pulls you back down onto the pillows, his lips finding yours with familiar hunger, you think maybe he's right.

Some things are worth the risk. Some loves are worth keeping secret.

The key card clicks softly as you slip into Max's Monaco apartment late on September 30th. You'd made your excuses to your friends early - a headache, an important call - knowing they wouldn't question it too much since they'd already planned Max's official celebration for tomorrow.

But tonight is just for the two of you.

You find him in the kitchen, already changed into sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, pulling something from the oven. The domestic scene makes your heart flutter.

"Is Max Verstappen actually baking?" you tease, dropping your bag.

He turns with that smile that's become exclusively yours - soft, unguarded, real. "It's just heating up the cake Victoria made. I'm not completely useless."

You cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "Happy birthday, baby."

He turns in your embrace, backing you against the counter. "This is already better than last year's birthday."

"Mm, because last year you weren't secretly dating your rival team principal's daughter?"

"Because last year I couldn't do this," he murmurs, before kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The timer dings, making you both jump and then laugh.

"The cake can wait," he starts, but you push him back gently.

"Let's do this properly. Cake first, then presents, then…" you trail off suggestively.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes are sparkling. "But I'm holding you to that 'then'."

You sit cross-legged on his massive couch, sharing pieces of Victoria's chocolate cake straight from the tin. It's comfortable in a way that still surprises you sometimes - how easily you've fallen into these private moments, these glimpses of normalcy in your decidedly abnormal situation.

"Got you something," you say, reaching for your bag.

He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were my present?"

"Cheesy," you throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Here."

He unwraps the small package carefully. Inside is a simple leather bracelet, dark brown with a subtle pattern worked into it. "Turn it over," you say softly.

On the inside, barely visible unless you know to look, are your initials and the date from Monaco - the night everything changed.

"YN…" his voice is rough as he runs his thumb over the engraving.

"I know we can't do obvious things," you explain. "But I wanted you to have something… something that's just ours. Something you can wear without anyone knowing what it means."

He pulls you into his lap, kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin. "I love it," he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper back, heart full with how natural those words feel now. "Even if you are getting old."

He retaliates by tickling your sides until you're both breathless with laughter, ending up horizontal on the couch with you pinned beneath him.

"Twenty-three isn't old," he protests, pressing kisses down your neck.

"Ancient," you tease, but it turns into a gasp as he finds that sensitive spot below your ear. "Max…"

"Mm?"

"The cake…"

"Can wait," he finishes, hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. "Right now, I want to unwrap my other present."

Later, much later, you're tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. The city lights twinkle through the windows, creating patterns on the ceiling.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"For what?"

"For this. For making my birthday special even though we have to hide. For loving me despite everything."

You prop yourself up to look at him, trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "Thank you for making it worth it."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sometimes I wish we could just tell everyone. Walk into the paddock holding your hand, take you on real dates, post about you on Instagram like a normal couple."

"I know," you sigh, settling back against his chest. "Me too. But…"

"But it would cause chaos," he finishes. "I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though."

You lift your head again, kissing him softly. "Maybe someday. But for now, I'm happy just having you like this. These moments are ours, just ours."

His arms tighten around you. "I love you," he says again, like he can't help himself. "More than racing, more than winning, more than-"

"Don't," you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't say more than racing. We both know that's a lie."

He grins, rolling you under him again. "Maybe it's a tie?"

"I can live with that," you smile up at him, pulling him down for another kiss.

The world outside keeps turning - tomorrow there will be the official party, the public celebrations, the careful distance you'll have to maintain. But tonight, in this space that's become your sanctuary, you can just be Max and YN, two people in love, celebrating another year together.

Even if the rest of the world doesn't know it yet.

Monaco, 2021

You're curled into Max's side on your couch, some Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm while you scroll through your phone, both enjoying the calm before tomorrow's storm - the start of a new season, new expectations, new pressure.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head to look at him.

He shrugs, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders. "Not nervous. Just… ready. The car feels good, testing went well."

"Mm," you press a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe this is your year."

"Maybe," but his smile is confident as he turns to capture your lips properly. "Though right now I'm more interested in-"

Your phone buzzes loudly, Lando's name flashing on the screen. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey Lan-"

"I'm outside your place!" his cheerful voice cuts through. "Charles and I brought wine and that awful reality show you love. Open up!"

Your heart stops. "What?"

"Come on, it's freezing out here! I can see your lights on."

You sit up straight, panic flooding your system. "Lando, I-"

"Don't even try to say you're busy. It's the night before the first race, I know you're just sitting there overthinking everything."

Max is already moving, gathering his shoes and jacket silently. Your eyes meet across the room, both knowing how catastrophic it would be if Lando found him here.

"Give me five minutes," you say into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm… I need to put clothes on."

"Gross, too much information," Lando laughs. "Five minutes!"

You hang up, heart racing. "Shit, shit, shit."

"It's fine," Max is surprisingly calm as he pulls on his shoes. "I'll go out through the back stairs."

"What if they see you?" You're already scanning the room for any evidence of him - his Red Bull cap on the coffee table, his phone charger by the couch.

"They won't." He grabs his things efficiently, muscle memory from two years of sneaking around kicking in. "I'll text you when I'm clear."

Another knock at the door makes you both freeze. "YN!" Charles's voice this time. "We can hear you moving around!"

Max pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss. "I love you. Don't worry."

"Be careful," you whisper against his lips.

He flashes that cocky grin you love. "Always am."

You watch him disappear through your bedroom toward the back stairwell, then take a deep breath, running your hands through your hair to mess it up slightly - making your "just got out of bed" excuse more believable.

When you open the door, Lando immediately pushes past you with wine bottles clinking. "Finally! What were you really doing?"

"Told you, getting dressed." You accept Charles' hello kiss on the cheek, praying your face isn't as flushed as it feels.

"Your shirt's inside out," Charles points out, smirking.

You look down - shit, he's right. You'd thrown it on hastily after… earlier activities. "I was sleeping," you say quickly. "You guys interrupted my pre-race nap routine."

"At 9 PM?" Lando's already making himself at home on your couch - right where Max was sitting minutes ago. "Sure, sure."

Your phone buzzes with a text: "All clear. They didn't see me. Missing you already x"

Relief floods through you as Charles pours wine and Lando queues up the show. You settle into the evening, letting their familiar banter wash over you, trying to act normal even as your skin still tingles from Max's touch.

"You seem different lately," Charles observes suddenly, studying your face. "Happier."

"Just excited for the new season," you deflect smoothly, a skill you've perfected over the past year.

"Mm," he doesn't look entirely convinced. "No secret boyfriend we should know about?"

You laugh, the sound only slightly strained. "Right, because that worked out so well last time."

"Last time was Max," Lando points out. "Thank god you're both over that whole thing."

If only they knew. But you just smile and take a sip of wine, letting them move on to discussing tomorrow's race.

As the evening progresses, the wine flows and the reality show plays in the background. You're carefully avoiding any topics that might make Charles or Lando suspicious, laughing a bit too loudly at their jokes.

Lando, ever restless, decides to raid your kitchen for snacks. "Where do you keep the good stuff?" he calls out, opening cupboards.

Your heart immediately races. You know exactly what might be lurking in those cupboards - Max's favorite energy drink, a Red Bull can he'd left behind last time he was here. You stand up quickly, "I'll get it for you-"

But Lando's already moving, pulling open the refrigerator door. "Found it!" he announces, then pauses. His hand emerges holding a Red Bull can, but something else catches his eye. A water bottle with a distinctive Red Bull Racing team logo sits next to it.

"Huh," Charles looks over. "Isn't this Max's water bottle?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. "Oh, um-" Your mind races, searching for an explanation. "I... must have picked it up from somewhere. You know how these things get mixed up."

Lando turns, one eyebrow raised. The playful smile slowly morphs into something more knowing. "Mixed up, huh?"

Charles is watching you now, that sharp observant look that made him such a good racing driver now focused entirely on you.

"Yeah, I must've picked it up by accident, didn't even realize."

Lando shrugs and cracks open a packet of chips, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. But Charles continues to study you with that piercing gaze that makes you want to squirm.

Keeping this a secret is becoming harder and harder.

Silverstone, 2021

The English countryside blurs past your window as Max takes another curve, maybe a bit faster than necessary. It's nearly midnight, and you should both be resting before tomorrow's race, but these night drives have become your thing - the only time you can be truly alone during race weekends, truly free.

"You're showing off," you accuse, but you're smiling.

"Me? Never." He takes his eyes off the road for a second to grin at you, his hand finding yours across the console.

The radio plays softly in the background, some British pop song you don't know. The summer air rushing through the open windows carries the scent of grass and freedom. It feels perfect. Until it isn't.

It happens so fast - a deer appears out of nowhere, Max swerves to avoid it, but the road is narrow and dark. The tires lose grip on loose gravel, and suddenly you're spinning, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of shadows and panic.

The impact when it comes is brutal. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and everything goes still.

"YN?" Max's voice is tight with fear. "Baby, are you okay?"

You do a quick mental check. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. "I'm okay. You?"

"Fine." He's already trying to open his door, but it's jammed. The front of the car is wrapped around a tree, steam hissing from the hood. "Fuck. Fuck!"

Your phone is somewhere on the floor. When you retrieve it, the screen is cracked but working. "We need help."

"We can't call emergency services," Max says immediately. "It'll be all over the news in minutes."

He's right. You can already see the headlines: "Verstappen in Late Night Crash with Mercedes Boss's Daughter."

"Christian?" you suggest.

"He'll kill me. We have a race tomorrow." Max runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We need someone who can be discreet, who has the resources to handle this quietly, who-"

You both realize it at the same time.

"No," Max says.

"He's the only one who can help us without this becoming a scandal."

"YN, he's the last person-"

"Max." You reach for his hand. "We don't have a choice."

He knows you're right. With a resigned sigh, he nods.

Your hands shake slightly as you dial Lewis's number. It rings three times before he answers, voice groggy with sleep.

"Little Wolff? It's midnight, what-"

"Lewis, I need your help. And I need you to not ask questions."

There's a pause, then rustling as he presumably sits up. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but… we're stuck. Had an accident on the back roads near Silverstone. We need help getting the car towed without anyone finding out."

There's a pause. "We?"

You close your eyes. "I'm with Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. "Send me your location. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to his word, headlights appear eighteen minutes later. Lewis steps out of his car, taking in the scene - the wrecked vehicle, you and Max standing by the roadside, the unspoken truth of why you were together at this hour.

"Are you both alright?" He asks first, concern overriding any other emotions.

"Just bruised," you answer. "The car took the worst of it."

He nods, already on his phone. "Angela's on her way with a tow truck. She'll be discreet."

Max steps forward. "Lewis, I-"

"Don't." Lewis holds up a hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." He looks at you, something sad in his expression. "How long?"

"Since last year."

He lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains a few things."

The wait for Angela is tense. Lewis keeps his distance, occasionally speaking quietly into his phone. Max doesn't let go of your hand, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

When Angela arrives with the tow truck, she doesn't bat an eye at the situation. The car is loaded efficiently, and arrangements are made to have it repaired at a private garage Lewis trusts.

"I'll drive YN home," Lewis says, and it's not really a question.

Max tenses beside you, but you squeeze his hand. "It's safer this way," you whisper. "Less suspicious if anyone sees us."

He knows you're right, again. "Text me when you're home?"

"Promise."

The drive with Lewis is quiet at first. Then the storm pours down.

"Of all the stupid, reckless things," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "A year? You've been sneaking around with him for a year? Again?"

"Lewis-"

"No." He turns to face you, anger and worry warring in his expression. "Do you have any idea what could happen if this gets out? What your father would-"

"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, making your head throb. "I don't care what anyone thinks anymore."

"Well, you should!" Lewis's voice rises to match yours. "This isn't some game, YN. This is your life, your career, your family-"

"You think I don't know that?" You bite back. "You think we haven't spent the last year terrified of exactly that? Hiding everything, sneaking around, lying to everyone we care about?"

"Then why?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Why risk everything for him?"

"Because I love him!" The words echo in the car. You lower your voice, tears threatening to fall. "I love him, Lewis. And he loves me. Isn't that enough?"

Lewis' expression softens slightly, but the worry remains. "Love isn't always enough, YN. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake."

"It has to be," you whisper. "Because I can't do this anymore - pretending I don't feel what I feel, acting like my heart doesn't race every time he walks into a room. I'm tired of hiding."

"He's not good for you," Lewis says quietly. "You remember how broken you were after-"

"He was nineteen," you cut him off. "We were both kids, both scared. Things are different now."

"Are they?" his voice is gentle but firm. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still sneaking around in the middle of the night, still hiding from everyone. That doesn't sound different to me."

You sink back into your seat, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not asking for your approval, Lewis. I'm just asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Because getting into a car accident at 2 AM doesn't exactly scream good decision-making."

"That wasn't-" you start to defend, but he holds up a hand.

"You shouldn't have been out there in the first place. These secret meetings, these late-night drives… it's not sustainable, YN."

"I know," you admit quietly. "We know. We've been talking about telling people, about doing this properly."

Lewis studies your face for a long moment. "And what happens when the media finds out? When your father finds out? When the pressure becomes too much and he runs again?"

"He won't." Your voice is firm despite your injuries. "He's not that scared kid anymore, Lewis. He knows what he wants now."

"And what is that?"

"Me." You meet Lewis's gaze steadily. "He wants me. All of me, no matter what it costs. And I want him."

Lewis sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I can't support this, YN. I've watched him hurt you too many times."

"I know," you say softly. "And I love you for wanting to protect me. But I'm not asking for your support. I'm just asking you not to make this harder than it already is, I know you're worried. But please… please don't tell anyone. Not yet. Let us do this our way."

He doesn't respond, just pulls up the car outside your hotel and unlocks it so you can get out.

Silverstone, 2021. Race day

Your hands are still shaking slightly as you make your way through the paddock. Last night's crash left more than just physical bruises - the tension with Lewis, the close call, the reality of how fragile your secret is, it all weighs heavily.

The Mercedes garage is already buzzing with pre-race energy when you spot Lewis by his car, going through data with Peter. You wait until he's alone before approaching.

"Lewis," you say softly. "Can we talk?"

He glances around before responding, voice low. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Please. What you did last night-"

"Was a mistake," he cuts you off, finally turning to face you. "I should have called emergency services, protocol be damned."

"You know why we couldn't-"

"No, YN. You couldn't because you're sneaking around like teenagers. Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that tree had been a few inches to the left-"

"But it wasn't," you interrupt. "We're fine."

"Fine?" He scoffs. "You're both bruised, his car is wrecked, and I'm now complicit in your little romance."

"It's not a little romance-"

"Then what is it?" His voice rises slightly before he checks himself. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern as before. You, him, secrets, lies."

"I told you last night - I love him."

"Love?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Love doesn't hide, YN. Love doesn't put people in dangerous situations. Love doesn't-"

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't pretend you understand what we're dealing with."

"Oh, I understand perfectly. You're playing girlfriend with my biggest rival while there's a championship at stake. You're risking everything - your reputation, your father's position, the team's integrity-"

"This isn't a game to me!" The words come out sharper than intended. A few mechanics glance your way, and you lower your voice. "This isn't about the championship or the team. This is about me and him."

"Nothing in this paddock is ever just about two people," Lewis says coldly. "You of all people should know that."

Before you can respond, Bono approaches. "Lewis, strategy meeting."

"I need to focus," Lewis tells you, his expression hardening. "I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie before someone gets really hurt."

He walks away, leaving you standing there with a hollow feeling in your chest. Angela catches your eye, her expression sympathetic, and you wonder how much she knows.

The pre-race preparations pass in a blur. You go through the motions, smile when appropriate, but your mind keeps drifting to Max. You haven't seen him since Lewis dropped you off last night - you both agreed it was safer to stay apart until the race.

Then you're in the garage, watching the formation lap. Your father stands beside you, discussing something with the engineers, but their words sound distant.

Lap one. Copse Corner.

The contact happens so fast - Lewis's Mercedes alongside Max's Red Bull. The touch of wheels. Then Max's car is airborne, spinning, crashing into the barriers with devastating force.

The garage erupts in chaos. Screens show the replay from every angle. Your father is immediately in discussion with the stewards.

You can't breathe. Can't move. Your eyes are fixed on the smoking wreck of Max's car, willing him to move, to get out, to be okay.

"Racing incident," Toto argues. "Lewis had the line-"

Their voices fade to background noise as you watch the medical team reach the car. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, but you can't check it - not here, not with everyone watching.

"YN," Angela touches your arm gently. "You look pale. Maybe some water?"

You follow her away from the garage, grateful for the excuse. As soon as you're out of sight, your composure breaks.

"I don't know if he's okay," you whisper, hands shaking. "I can't- I can't check my phone, I can't ask anyone, I can't-"

"Breathe," Angela steadies you. "Just breathe."

"I should be there. I should be with him. After last night, after everything-"

"I won't say anything," she promises quickly. "But YN... this is bigger than just keeping a secret now."

"I know," you admit. "God, I know. But I can't- I can't even ask if he's okay without raising suspicions."

The race continues. Lewis gets a ten-second penalty but fights back to win. The garage celebrates, and you have to join in, have to smile and cheer while your heart is somewhere else entirely.

Hours pass with no news. Social media is full of speculation, but nothing concrete. You catch snippets of conversation - "hospital for checks" and "conscious but shaken" - but nothing official.

It's torture, pretending everything is normal. Pretending you're just concerned in a general, professional way. Pretending last night never happened, that you don't still have bruises from a different crash, that your world isn't falling apart all over again.

Finally, after what feels like years, you manage to slip away to the Red Bull motorhome.

The motorhome is quiet when you enter. GP looks up from his laptop, surprise crossing his features.

"YN? You shouldn't-"

"Please," your voice breaks. "Please, I need to see him."

GP studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "Last door on the right. But be careful - he's pretty beaten up."

You find Max lying on the small bed, eyes closed but breathing steady. The room smells of medical cream and defeat.

"Max?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes open immediately, finding yours in the dim light. Despite everything, his lips curve into a small smile.

"Two crashes in twenty-four hours," he mumbles. "Must be some kind of record."

"Don't," tears spill over finally. "Don't joke. Not now."

"Come here," he tries to move over but winces.

"Careful," you rush to his side, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"

"Everything hurts," he admits. "But nothing's broken. Well, except my championship lead."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks. "When I saw the crash, and then I couldn't- I couldn't even ask if you were okay. I had to stand there and pretend like I wasn't terrified."

"Hey," he reaches for your hand, wincing at the movement. "I'm okay. Well, relatively speaking."

"This is my fault," you whisper. "If I hadn't called Lewis last night-"

"Stop," he squeezes your hand. "This had nothing to do with last night."

"Didn't it? He was so angry this morning, about us, about having to help us-"

"Lewis and I race hard regardless of personal feelings," Max says firmly. "What happened today was racing. Stupid, dangerous racing, but still racing."

You study his face in the dim light, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain he's trying to hide, "Max, don't you think it's time?"

"Time?"

"To tell people. About us." The words rush out now that you've started. "I can't keep doing this - watching you race and pretending I don't care, hiding how I feel, lying to everyone we know. Today made me realize… if something had happened to you, really happened…"

He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing patterns on your hand. "What about your father?"

"I don't care anymore. Well, I do care, but… not more than I care about you. About us." You meet his eyes. "When the season's over. Before next year starts. We tell everyone."

"You're sure?"

"Are you?"

He pulls you closer, carefully, until you're lying beside him. "I'm sure if you are."

"Even with the championship? The media circus it'll cause?"

"Especially then." He kisses your forehead. "Today… when I hit that barrier, all I could think about was you. Not the championship, not the points, just… you. And how much time we've wasted hiding."

You curl into his side, mindful of his bruises. "So we're agreed? After Abu Dhabi, whatever happens with the championship…"

"We tell everyone." He lifts your chin to kiss you properly. "No more hiding."

"Promise?" You need to hear him say it.

"Promise," he pulls you closer, careful of both your injuries. "Besides, after last night's adventure and today's crash, I think we've filled our drama quota for a while."

You stay there, tangled together in the quiet darkness, both battered from different crashes but somehow still whole.

"I should go," you whisper eventually. "Before someone comes looking."

"One of the last times we'll have to say that," he reminds you.

"Promise me something else?"

"Anything."

"No more late-night drives for a while?"

He laughs, then grimaces in pain. "Deal. Although technically, both crashes were Lewis' fault."

"Max..."

"Kidding," he kisses your forehead softly. "Kind of."

You stand carefully, already missing his warmth. "Text me when you're feeling better?"

"Text me when you're home safe," he counters.

At the door, you turn back one last time. He's watching you with those eyes that made you fall in love twice - once when you were too young to know better, and again when you were old enough to know exactly what you were risking.

"Max?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. Even when I have to pretend I don't."

His smile, despite the pain, lights up the dark room. "I love you too. Even when Lewis Hamilton tries to kill me. Twice in twenty-four hours."

You shake your head, but you're smiling as you slip out into the night. A few more months of hiding, of pretending, of careful distances and secret meetings. Then everything changes.

You just hope you're both ready for whatever comes next.

Abu Dhabi, 2021

The final showdown. Equal points, one race to decide it all.

The morning of the race, you slip into the Red Bull garage before sunrise. Max is already there, going through his pre-race routine, but his face softens when he sees you.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, pulling you into his arms.

"Not really," you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Too much going on in my head."

"Talk to me."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "I'm nervous. For you, for the race, for what comes after…"

"Hey," he cups your face gently. "Whatever happens today, we're in this together. Remember?"

"I know," you try to smile. "It's just… everything's going to change after today."

"Good changes," he kisses your forehead. "No more hiding, remember?"

You've had this conversation countless times over the past months, planning how you'll handle the revelation of your relationship. Your father still doesn't know, though you suspect he's noticed something's different.

"I brought you something," you reach into your pocket and pull out a small charm - a tiny silver racing car. "For luck."

Max takes it, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile. "You're my luck."

"That was incredibly cheesy," you laugh, but your heart swells.

"You love it," he pulls you closer, kissing you properly this time. "And you love me."

"I do," you whisper against his lips. "So much it scares me sometimes."

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before reality intrudes again.

"I should go," you sigh. "There's something else I need to do before the race."

Max knows without asking. "Lewis?"

"Yeah," you bite your lip. "I can't let things end like this between us."

"Go," he squeezes your hand. "Just come back to me after?"

"Always."

Finding Lewis proves harder. He's been avoiding you since Silverstone, your relationship reduced to professional nods and carefully maintained distance. But you finally spot him in the Mercedes garage, alone with his thoughts.

"Lewis?" your voice is hesitant.

He tenses but doesn't turn around. "YN."

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me-"

"Then why are you here?"

You take a deep breath. "Because you're my brother, Lewis. Not by blood, but by choice. And I can't stand how things are between us."

He finally turns, and the pain in his eyes matches your own. "You chose him."

"I chose love," you step closer. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about you."

"You could have told me," his voice cracks slightly. "Before Silverstone, before any of it. I thought we told each other everything."

"I was scared," you admit. "Scared of exactly this - losing you, losing my family, losing everything I've known."

"So instead you just lied? Snuck around?"

"I know it was wrong," tears prick at your eyes. "And I'm so sorry, Lewis. Not for loving him, but for hurting you. For breaking your trust."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face. "Does he make you happy? Really happy?"

"Yes," you whisper. "More than I ever thought possible."

Lewis sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Come here, little sister."

You practically fall into his arms, tears flowing freely now. He holds you tight, like when you were kids and he would protect you from everything.

"I'm still mad at you," he mumbles into your hair.

"I know."

"And I still think you're crazy."

"Probably."

"But," he pulls back to look at you, "I love you. And I miss you. And if he ever hurts you, I'll end his career so fast-"

You laugh through your tears. "There's my overprotective brother."

"Someone has to look out for you," he wipes your cheeks gently. "Even if you make it incredibly difficult."

"I'm sorry," you say again. "For everything."

"I know," he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure it out. After today."

"About that…" you hesitate. "We're planning to go public. After the race."

Lewis nods slowly. "I figured something like that was coming. The way you look at each other isn't exactly subtle."

"You noticed?"

"YN, everyone with eyes has noticed. They're just too scared of your father to mention it."

You both laugh, and for a moment it feels like before - easy, comfortable, safe.

"Lewis?" you grab his hand. "Whatever happens today… I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be."

He squeezes your hand. "Right back at you, little Wolff. Even if you have terrible taste in men."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying, there are other drivers-"

"Goodbye, Lewis," you start walking away, but you're smiling.

"YN?" he calls after you. "For what it's worth… he better know how lucky he is."

An hour later, you're standing in the Mercedes garage, heart in your throat, watching the screens as though your life depends on it. In a way, it does. Six years of loving Max in secret, two years of running away from it all, and now here you are - watching the man you love fight your father's driver for the championship in the most intense finale you've ever witnessed.

When Nicholas Latifi crashes, everything changes. The safety car comes out, and suddenly the garage erupts with activity. Your father's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative as he argues with race control. You've never seen him like this - the usual composed Toto Wolff replaced by someone desperately fighting against what feels like destiny shifting.

"No, no, no, Michael, that is so not right!" Your father's voice booms through the garage as the lapped cars are allowed through. You flinch at the fury in his tone, at the way he slams his headset down.

The final lap is unbearable. You watch Lewis getting hunted down by Max on fresh tires. Your nails dig into your palms, torn between family loyalty and the love you've kept hidden for so long.

When Max makes the pass, when he crosses the line as World Champion, the Mercedes garage falls silent. The contrast between the Red Bull celebrations on screen and the devastation around you is stark.

Your father looks destroyed, a mixture of anger and disbelief on his face. But it's Lewis who breaks your heart - the way he sits in his car, processing what just happened, the dignity with which he eventually emerges to congratulate Max.

You find Lewis in the drivers room a few hours later, away from the cameras. His eyes are red, his shoulders slumped in a way you've never seen before.

"Lew," your voice breaks.

He looks up, and suddenly you're both crying. You wrap your arms around him as he breaks down.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he whispers.

"I know," you hold him tighter. "I know."

You stay with him, through the protests, through the appeals, through the obligatory congratulations he has to give. You stay because he's family, because he needs you, because some things are more important than celebration.

Through it all, you catch glimpses of Max - being crowned champion, celebrating with his team, searching the crowd with eyes that keep finding you. But you stay where you're needed most.

Hours pass before you make it to Max's hotel. The celebrations are still going on somewhere, but he's in his room when you arrive, pacing like a caged animal.

"Where were you?" he demands as soon as you enter.

"I was with Lewis."

His face darkens. "Of course you were. Consoling the Mercedes garage while I won my first championship."

"Max, don't."

"Don't what? Don't be upset that my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me? That she was too busy comforting the opposition?"

"That 'opposition' is my family!" Your voice rises to match his. "Lewis is like my brother, my father is devastated-"

"Your father?" He laughs bitterly. "The same father you've been lying to for years? The one we're supposedly telling about us after this race?"

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"When else am I supposed to do it? When you're ready? Because I've been waiting for you to be ready since 2015!"

The words hit like physical blows. "That's not fair. You know why I left in 2018, the way you cut me off like I was nothing, it tore me apart."

"Yeah, because it got too hard. Because loving me was too complicated." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And now here we are again. I just won the World Championship, and where were you? With them."

"They're my family!"

"And what am I?" He steps closer, eyes intense. "What are we, YN? Because right now it feels like I'm still your dirty little secret."

"That's not-"

"Then prove it. Let's go tell Toto right now. Let's end this charade."

"Today? After everything that happened? Are you insane?"

"Why not today? When will it be convenient enough for you? When will loving me not conflict with your perfect Mercedes family?"

Tears are falling freely now. "You're being cruel."

"No, I'm being honest. Finally." He sits heavily on the bed. "I love you. I've loved you through everything - through you leaving, through you coming back, through all the hiding and sneaking around. But I can't do this anymore."

Your heart stops. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want all of you. Not just the parts that are convenient, not just the stolen moments between races. I want to celebrate with you when I win, hold you when I crash, build a life with you in the open." He looks at you, and you see the tears in his eyes too. "But I don't think you want that. Not really. Not enough to risk everything else."

"Max…"

"Go home, YN. Go console your father. Go be the perfect Mercedes daughter." His voice breaks slightly. "Just… don't come back unless you're ready to choose me. All of me. The rival, the champion, everything."

You stand there, frozen, both of you crying. Everything you've built, every secret moment, every whispered promise, feels like it's crumbling around you.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I know." He doesn't look at you. "That's never been our problem."

As you stand in the doorway of Max's hotel room, the weight of seven years of love, secrets, and choices bears down on your shoulders. The championship trophy gleams on the table behind him, a symbol of everything he's achieved and everything that's torn you apart.

[loafysainz]

🎥 HANDING MY BOYFRIEND MY PANTIES AT DINNER AND GET HIS REACTION

carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, lando norris, max verstappen, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, george russell × reader! warn: 18+, smut, minor dni insp by this trend

Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz was a patient man.

But not when it came to you.

He had spent the entire evening watching you, his dark brown eyes tracking your every move. The way your lips wrapped around the rim of your wine glass, the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs under the table, the way you leaned forward just enough to tease him with the barest hint of cleavage.

Carlos had been holding himself back. Barely.

And you? You were about to push him past his limit.

The restaurant was elegant—low lights, soft music, the hum of quiet conversations surrounding you. Carlos sat across from you, dressed in a perfectly tailored black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, veins prominent as he lazily toyed with his glass. He looked so effortlessly sexy, so unfairly attractive, and you couldn’t help but wonder how far you could push him.

You shifted in your seat, heart pounding, as you subtly reached under the table. You hooked your fingers into your panties, slowly, discreetly, slipping them down your legs, the cool air against your bare skin making you shiver.

Carlos was oblivious, swirling his wine, licking his lips as he studied the menu.

And then—casually, with a small smirk—you reached across the table and placed your panties in his hand.

Carlos froze.

His fingers curled around the fabric instinctively before he even realized what he was holding. He blinked, looking down at his palm.

A beat of silence.

Then another.

And then—oh, fuck.

His entire body tensed. His jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His nostrils flared as he exhaled a sharp breath, his grip tightening around the delicate lace like he was resisting the urge to crush it in his fist.

Slowly—so slowly—Carlos lifted his eyes to meet yours.

Dark. Heavy. Predatory.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

And then—his voice, deep, low, almost a growl—

“Dime que no hiciste lo que creo que hiciste.” (Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.)

You tilted your head, pretending to be innocent. “What do you think I did, cariño?”

Carlos inhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the lace before he shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. His knee bounced under the table, his entire body buzzing with tension. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head with a dark chuckle.

“You’re testing me,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You sipped your drink, biting back a smirk. “Maybe.”

Carlos exhaled a slow, measured breath. His fingers tapped against the table, his eyes flickering down to your lap, realization sinking in.

“No panties,” he murmured. His voice was rough, thick with something dangerously close to desperation. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat like he was physically struggling to stay put.

You crossed your legs slowly, watching the way his jaw ticked. “Mmm.”

Carlos let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Eres un problema, ¿lo sabes?” (You’re a fucking problem, you know that?)

He adjusted in his seat, exhaling harshly. “Now I have to sit here. In this restaurant. Acting normal. While I know you’re sitting there…” His voice dropped, dark, his accent thickening. “All wet. All needy.” He licked his lips, eyes burning with heat. “For me.”

Your breath hitched.

Carlos saw. And smirked.

His knee suddenly pressed against your thigh under the table, firm and possessive, making your pulse skyrocket.

“I should drag you to the bathroom right now,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration. “Make you sit on my lap. Make you ride me slow. Until you can’t stay quiet anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your entire body burned.

Carlos chuckled darkly at your reaction. “Oh, you like that idea?” He tilted his head, his fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. “Would you like it, hmm? Biting your lip, trying not to moan? Knowing that if you make one sound, everyone in this restaurant will know what I’m doing to you?”

You clenched your thighs together instinctively, and Carlos noticed.

His smirk widened, his knee pressing even firmer against you.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You started this game, amor.” His voice was a low, dangerous whisper. “Now you have to deal with the consequences.”

Your stomach flipped.

Carlos sat back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair, looking like the picture of relaxation—except for the way

his hands curled into fists, like he was using every ounce of self-control to stop himself from grabbing you.

“You better eat fast,” he muttered, his leg still pressed against yours, his eyes still devouring you.

“Because the second we leave this restaurant?” His voice was gravelly, dripping with hunger.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

—

Lewis Hamilton

Dinner with Lewis was always an experience. He had impeccable taste—whether it was in fashion, cars, or five-star restaurants with private dining rooms that catered to the elite. Tonight was no different. The restaurant was dimly lit, with an intimate atmosphere and a view of the Monaco harbor glistening under the night sky.

Lewis sat across from you, wearing a tailored suit with no tie, the top few buttons of his crisp shirt undone to reveal just a hint of his tattoos. He looked like a damn dream—effortlessly cool, his jewelry catching the soft candlelight, his full lips curving into a smirk as he listened to you talk.

And you? You were about to make things very, very interesting.

The idea had been teasing you all night. The way Lewis had kept his hand on your thigh during the car ride here, the way his deep, smooth voice sent shivers down your spine, the way he knew he was irresistible and used it against you. It was time to turn the tables.

You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your dress while slipping your panties down your thighs, letting the lace pool at your ankles before discreetly stepping out of them. You balled them in your hand, heart racing with anticipation.

Lewis was mid-sentence, swirling his wine glass lazily, when you reached across the table and placed the delicate fabric in his palm.

His fingers closed around it instinctively before realization set in.

He blinked, lifting his hand slightly under the table, his expression unreadable at first. And then—oh, then—that signature smirk spread across his lips, slow and devastatingly sexy. His tongue flicked out to wet them, eyes dragging from the panties to your face, amusement flickering behind the heat in his gaze.

“You’re bold tonight, love.” His voice was low, almost a purr.

You took a sip of your champagne, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Lewis exhaled a slow breath, shaking his head. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.”

His fingers tightened around the lace before slipping them discreetly into the pocket of his blazer.

He leaned forward, his gaze dark and smoldering. “So, what’s the plan, then? You expect me to just sit here, act normal, knowing you’re sitting across from me with nothing underneath that little dress?”

Your lips curled. “That was the idea.”

Lewis chuckled, the deep sound sending a shiver down your spine. He adjusted in his seat, exhaling sharply. “You’re playin’ dangerous, babe.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” You batted your lashes at him, knowing full well you were poking the bear.

Lewis’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to your lips before flicking back up. He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip of wine, his demeanor calm—too calm. That was the most dangerous sign of all.

The waiter arrived, placing your entrées in front of you, completely unaware of the silent war happening at this table.

Lewis picked up his fork, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts were running through his mind.

But then—oh, fuck.

You felt the softest brush against your thigh.

Your breath hitched.

Lewis smirked, casually cutting into his steak like he wasn’t dragging his fingers up the inside of your leg beneath the table, like he wasn’t making his way higher and higher with every passing second.

You shot him a glare, shifting in your seat, but that only made him chuckle. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice innocent.

Bastard.

His fingers brushed the apex of your thighs, barely teasing the sensitive skin, and you had to fight the urge to clamp your legs shut.

You inhaled sharply, gripping your fork a little tighter. “You’re really gonna do this here?”

Lewis tilted his head, lips curving. “You started it.”

His touch disappeared just as quickly as it came, leaving you throbbing, your skin hot, your body desperate for more.

And that’s when you knew you were in trouble.

Lewis sat back, stretching out his legs, the picture of relaxed confidence. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned in slightly.

“When we get back to the hotel…” His voice was a dark promise, smooth as silk. “You better be ready for me, baby.”

Your stomach flipped, heat coiling low in your belly.

Oh, you were so screwed.

Dinner suddenly felt like a countdown to something far more delicious. And by the way Lewis kept stealing glances at you—like he was barely holding himself back—you had a feeling he wouldn’t be ordering dessert.

At least, not at the restaurant.

—

Lando Norris

Dinner with Lando was never boring.

He had a way of making everything fun—whether it was cracking jokes, teasing you, or finding little ways to touch you every chance he got. Tonight was no different. You were at a high-end restaurant in Monaco, overlooking the water, Lando sipping on his cocktail as he playfully nudged your foot under the table.

He looked good—hair slightly tousled, wearing a fitted black suit with no tie, the crisp white of his shirt accentuating his tan skin. The top two buttons were undone, just enough to tease you with a glimpse of his collarbone.

And right now? He had no idea what was coming.

So, you decided it was time to turn the tables.

The restaurant was buzzing with quiet conversations, the candlelight casting a soft glow over the table, and Lando? He was completely oblivious, sipping his drink, scrolling through the menu, looking criminally good in his tailored black suit.

You took a slow breath, pretending to shift in your seat, your hands disappearing beneath the table. Your pulse thrummed as you hooked your fingers into your panties, dragging them down your legs, over your heels, and slipping them into your palm.

And then—casually, innocently—you reached across the table and pressed them into his hand.

Lando took them instinctively, still half-distracted, his thumb brushing over the fabric—soft, lacy, unmistakably not something that belonged in a restaurant.

He froze.

His blue eyes flicked down at his hand, then up at you.

His breath hitched. “No.” His voice was a strangled whisper. He blinked, like his brain couldn’t quite process what just happened. He looked back down at the lace, gripping it between his fingers, and then back at you—eyes wide, pupils blown.

“No fucking way.”

You just took a sip of your drink, acting

completely unfazed. “Something wrong?”

Lando let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his curls. “Are you—” He exhaled sharply. “You didn’t just—” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Tell me you’re fucking with me right now.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head.

Lando’s jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His grip on the panties tightened before he hastily shoved them into the pocket of his blazer, his fingers twitching like he was fighting every single urge running through his body.

His leg bounced under the table. He dragged his hands down his face. “You—” He let out a low, breathy laugh, but it was strained, like he was hanging on by a thread.

“You little—” His voice cut off, his head tilting back slightly as he inhaled through his nose.

You could see it. The shift. The way his entire demeanor darkened. The way his hands clenched into fists like he didn’t trust himself to keep them to himself.

And then, he leaned forward, eyes locked onto you, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re gonna fucking regret that.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

The waiter arrived at that exact moment, asking if you needed more wine, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown Lando was having in real-time.

Lando barely glanced at him, his jaw clenched so tight his words were almost clipped. “No. We’re good.”

The moment the waiter left, Lando shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “I hope you realize,” he muttered, “that I now have to sit through this entire dinner with a fucking hard-on.”

You smirked. “Poor baby.”

His eye twitched.

His knee suddenly pressed against the inside of your thigh under the table, firm, possessive, making you inhale sharply.

Lando smirked at your reaction, his fingers twitching as if debating whether or not to reach for you. “No panties. Just sitting there. All pretty. Knowing what you just did to me.” His voice was dark. Husky. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly, pressing your thighs together, and Lando noticed. His smirk widened.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You think you’re in control here?”

He leaned in, voice dropping even lower, lips barely an inch from your ear.

“Just wait till we get back to the hotel, baby,” he whispered. “I’m gonna make sure you feel what you just did to me.”

Heat coiled in your stomach.

Lando sat back, stretching his legs out, exhaling slowly. His fingers drummed against the table, his eyes flickering over your body, taking his time, like he was memorizing you.

“Eat your dinner, baby.” he muttered, shifting in his seat again, adjusting himself. “After we done this. You’re mine.”

Your entire body burned.

And suddenly, dinner felt like the longest fucking event of your life.

—

Charles Leclerc

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Charles Leclerc was the perfect mix of sweet and sinful—soft when he loved you, but intense when he wanted you. He could melt you with just a smile, but when he needed you? When you pushed him too far? That was when he became dangerous.

Tonight, you were playing with fire.

The restaurant was romantic—low lights, soft music, a flickering candle between you. Charles looked breathtaking across the table, his white button-down slightly unbuttoned, his hair tousled in that effortless way that made your fingers itch to run through it. His green eyes sparkled in the dim light, his lips curling in a small, amused smile as he sipped his wine.

You wanted to see how far you could push him.

So, while Charles was distracted, you reached under the table. Your fingers brushed the hem of your dress, heart racing as you slowly—so slowly—slid your panties down your legs. The soft lace glided over your thighs, your knees, pooling at your ankles before you kicked them off.

Charles was still flipping through the menu, completely oblivious.

You swallowed a smirk, reached across the table, and—without a word—placed the fabric in his open palm.

Charles didn’t react at first.

Then—

His fingers froze.

His eyes flickered down, scanning the lace in his palm, his lips parting slightly.

Then—very slowly—he lifted his gaze to yours.

His breath hitched.

His jaw tensed.

His entire body went rigid.

“Mon amour…” His voice was a whisper, but there was something different about it. Something deep, something dark.

You tilted your head innocently. “Yes, baby?”

Charles exhaled sharply, his hand disappearing under the table as he shoved the panties into his pocket. His fingers twitched against the fabric, his entire body suddenly filled with nervous energy.

“No.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No, you—” His voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“You are telling me…” His accent was thicker now, deeper, as he swallowed hard. “That you are sitting here. With nothing under your dress.”

You nodded, biting back a smirk.

Charles groaned. His head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he muttered something very fast in French under his breath.

Then he looked back at you—his pupils blown, his breath uneven.

“Baby,” he whispered. His voice was soft, but there was a raw edge to it. His hand found your knee under the table, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. The touch was gentle, but his grip was firm.

Possessive.

His fingers inched higher.

You gasped softly.

Charles inhaled sharply, his hand freezing before it could go any higher. His jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white.

“No,” he muttered. “No, I can’t—” He cut himself off, exhaling harshly.

His eyes were burning.

“You’re making this very difficult for me, mon amour.”

You smirked. “That’s the idea.”

Charles let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Incroyable.” (Unbelievable.)

Then—so suddenly—he grabbed his napkin and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh,” he muttered, completely unconvincing. “How clumsy of me.”

Your eyes widened. “Charles, don’t—”

Too late.

He dipped under the table.

Your heart stopped.

“Charles—” Your breath hitched as you felt the ghost of his lips brush against the inside of your knee.

Then higher.

And higher.

Your entire body tensed.

His hands rested on your thighs, warm and steady, his breath hot against your bare skin.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

“Charles,” you whispered, barely breathing.

His voice came from under the table, low and teasing. “What is it, chérie?”

Your hands gripped the tablecloth, panic and desire swirling together in your chest. “You need to come up.”

He hummed. “Do I?”

His lips skimmed the inside of your thigh.

Your breathing stuttered. “Charles—”

Then—

A loud noise from the kitchen made him jolt.

His head smacked against the underside of the table.

“Merde!” (Fuck!)

He shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his wine glass, his cheeks flushed, his hair messy, his lips red.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

Charles groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “I hate you.”

You giggled. “You love me.”

His eyes darkened.

“Oh, mon amour,” he murmured, leaning forward, his voice dripping with promise.

“You will regret this when we get home.”

Your stomach flipped.

Charles smirked.

Then he picked up his menu, casually flipping through it like he hadn’t just been under the table.

Like he wasn’t still rock hard.

Like he wasn’t about to absolutely destroy you the second you were alone.

You swallowed hard.

You were so screwed.

—

Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen was competitive in everything.

On the track, he was ruthless. In life, he always wanted to win. But in the bedroom?

He didn’t just compete—he owned.

And tonight, you were playing with fire.

The restaurant was high-end, filled with soft chatter and the occasional clink of wine glasses. Max sat across from you, looking effortlessly sexy in a black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, his strong forearms resting on the table. His blue eyes flickered up from his menu, locking onto yours with that signature intensity.

“Why are you smirking?” he asked, voice laced with suspicion.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached under the table, heart pounding as you hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties. Slowly—so slowly—you slid them down, feeling the lace brush against your bare skin.

Max had no idea what was coming.

Once the fabric was off, you balled it up in your hand and reached across the table. “Here,” you said casually, dropping the delicate lace into his palm.

Max’s brows furrowed. His fingers curled around the fabric, and then—

His entire body went still.

His grip tightened.

His jaw locked.

You saw the exact moment realization hit. His ocean-blue eyes darkened, flickering between the panties in his hand and you, sitting there, completely bare under your dress.

Max inhaled sharply. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice was low—dangerously low.

You leaned forward, eyes playful. “Something wrong, baby?”

Max’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers disappearing under the table. He shoved the panties into his pocket so fast you almost laughed. His

other hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

“Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Are you sitting here, at this table, with nothing under that dress?”

You nodded.

His nostrils flared.

“Jesus Christ.”

You smirked. “Cat got your tongue, Max?”

His gaze snapped to yours, and suddenly, the air between you changed.

The playful energy shifted into something heavier.

Something dangerous.

Max leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. “You think this is funny?”

You shrugged, enjoying the way his grip tightened on the table, his breath growing uneven. “A little.”

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching so tight it looked painful.

Then—so suddenly—he sat back, a slow, wicked smirk curling his lips.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Game on, liefje.” (Sweetheart.)

Your stomach flipped.

Max shifted in his seat, stretching his legs

out under the table—until his knee pressed firmly between your thighs. Your breath hitched, your body going rigid as he applied the lightest pressure.

Your eyes widened. “Max—”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “What? Something wrong?”

His knee pressed harder.

You swallowed hard, your breath stuttering as heat flooded your body. “You’re evil.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you get away with this.”

His fingers drummed casually against the table as he continued, voice slow and taunting. “You know, I was going to take my time with you tonight.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But now?”

His voice dropped even lower.

“Now, I have no choice but to ruin you.”

Your entire body shivered.

Max smirked. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His knee pressed higher, his strong thigh now between your legs, keeping you right where he wanted you. “Look at you,” he mused, his accent thick, teasing. “So quiet all of a sudden. Where’s that bratty attitude now, huh?”

You glared at him, but the effect was lost

when your breath hitched at the way he was touching you.

Max chuckled darkly. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

Your mouth went dry.

Max picked up his menu, pretending to study it, but his knee stayed right where it was.

The worst part?

He acted like nothing was happening.

Like he wasn’t pressing you against the chair.

Like he wasn’t completely hard under the table.

Like he wasn’t planning a thousand ways to make you pay for this

the second you were alone.

You shifted in your seat, desperate for some relief.

Max caught it immediately. His grip on the table tightened, his breathing sharp.

Then—so quietly only you could hear—he whispered, “Do that again, and I swear to God, I’ll drag you into the bathroom right now.”

You froze.

Max’s smirk was lazy, but his eyes?

His eyes were pure fire.

—

Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri was a problem.

No, Oscar was a problem because he was impossible to read.

When he was mad, he didn’t explode—he got quiet. When he was turned on, he didn’t stumble over his words or blush—he became dangerous.

And tonight?

You had just challenged him.

The restaurant was sleek and modern, the

kind of place that matched Oscar’s cool, composed energy. He sat across from you, dressed simply in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms. His fingers tapped against the table absentmindedly as he scrolled through the wine menu, completely unaware of what was coming.

You shifted in your seat, heart pounding as you reached beneath the table. With slow, deliberate movements, you slid your panties down, feeling the soft lace brush over your thighs, your knees—until they were off completely.

Then, with a calm smile, you reached across the table.

“Here,” you murmured, dropping the delicate fabric into his open palm.

Oscar didn’t react immediately.

His fingers curled around the lace, his grip firm but unreadable. His eyes flickered down, scanning the fabric like it was nothing more than a business card someone had handed him.

Then, finally, he looked at you.

And fuck.

His brown eyes were steady, calculating—sharp.

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t smirk, didn’t blush, didn’t flinch.

He just… stared.

Long enough that you shifted in your seat, suddenly less sure about what you’d just done.

Then—slowly—he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.

His voice was quiet. Calm.

“You’re not wearing anything under that dress.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “No.”

He hummed, nodding slightly as he tucked the panties into his pocket like they were nothing. Then he picked up his menu, flipping through it as if this was just another casual dinner.

Your stomach flipped.

That was it? No teasing? No reaction?

Oscar glanced up, catching your slight frown. His lips curled into the smallest smirk.

“You expected me to crack, didn’t you?”

You hesitated. “Maybe.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

You blinked. “I—”

Oscar shut his menu, setting it aside. Then—so suddenly—he reached across the

table, gripping your wrist. Not rough. Not forceful.

But firm.

His thumb brushed against your pulse.

You knew he could feel how fast it was racing.

His voice dropped, calm and cold.

“You think you can just hand me your panties and expect me to lose control?”

You swallowed.

His grip tightened.

“No, baby.” His voice was deadly soft. “That’s not how this works.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, sitting back like he wasn’t currently ruining your entire life with just his voice.

Then—just to be cruel—he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice so only you could hear.

“I’m going to finish my drink.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Then we’re going to leave.”

Your thighs clenched together.

Oscar smirked. He noticed.

“And when we get home,” he murmured, “you’re going to get on your knees and apologize.”

Your breath hitched.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered, picking up his glass and taking a slow sip.

Then, just for fun, he tilted his head and smirked.

“Still think this was a good idea?”

You were so screwed.

—

George Russell

George Russell was a gentleman.

Polite. Well-mannered. The kind of man who held doors open, pulled out your chair, and kissed the back of your hand just to see you blush.

But there was a danger in that charm.

Because underneath all that posh, British elegance?

George was ruthless.

And tonight?

You were about to learn just how much.

The restaurant was candlelit, expensive, and filled with the quiet hum of conversation. George sat across from you, impossibly handsome in a tailored navy

suit, the top two buttons of his shirt undone just enough to tease. His Rolex gleamed under the soft light as he picked up his wine glass, fingers wrapping around the stem with effortless grace.

You watched him, heart pounding, as you slowly—deliberately—slid your hands under the table.

George didn’t notice at first. He was reading the menu, his brows slightly furrowed, completely unaware that you were currently slipping off your panties in the middle of a five-star restaurant.

Your breath hitched as you finally pulled them free, the delicate lace pooling in your hand.

“George.”

Then, with a coy smile, you reached across the table.

He looked up, eyes warm. “Yes, darling?”

You placed your panties in his open palm.

George blinked.

His fingers curled around the lace, and for a moment, he just stared at you, completely unreadable.

Then—so slowly—his lips parted, his tongue briefly darting out to wet them.

His jaw ticked.

You smirked. “Something wrong?”

You saw the exact second realization hit—the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his grip tightening just slightly around the fabric.

George exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You are unbelievable.”

You leaned in, tilting your head. “Why? Is Mr. Russell flustered?”

His eyes darkened.

“No,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m just debating whether I should take you home right now or make you suffer first.”

Your stomach dropped.

You watched him, heart pounding.

George sighed dramatically, slipping the lace into his suit pocket like it was just another accessory. Then, as if nothing happened, he picked up his wine glass and took a slow, deliberate sip.

The way his jaw clenched as he swallowed. The way his fingers tapped against the table—controlled, measured. The way he refused to break eye contact.

Then—so suddenly you almost gasped—he leaned forward, his voice silky smooth.

“Tell me something, darling,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Are you currently sitting there, at this table, with nothing under that pretty little dress?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

George grinned.

Not his usual, charming smile.

This was something else.

Something dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched.

George hummed, pleased with your reaction. He reached for his drink again, bringing it to his lips before pausing—his smirk deepening.

Then—so casually it ruined you—he whispered, “Spread your legs.”

Your eyes widened. “George—”

“Shh.” He took a slow sip of wine, eyes twinkling with pure amusement. “You wanted to play, love. Now be a good girl and listen.”

Heat flooded your body.

You hesitated for half a second too long.

George raised a brow. “I’m waiting.”

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts as you obeyed, shifting slightly in your seat, thighs parting under the table.

George’s smirk turned positively wicked.

“Such a good girl.”

Your entire body shuddered.

He leaned back, completely unbothered, pretending to scan the menu.

Meanwhile, you were a mess. Your skin burned. Your pulse raced. Your thighs trembled because holy shit—he wasn’t even touching you, and yet, you were completely at his mercy.

Then—just to ruin you—George tilted his head, voice smooth as silk.

“You know,” he mused, “I was planning on taking my time with you tonight.”

You clenched your fists in your lap.

He grinned. “But now?”

He placed his menu down.

“Now, I think I’ll take you home and remind you exactly who’s in charge.”

Your breath hitched.

George chuckled, reaching for his drink once more.

Then, with a wink, he murmured,

“Finish your wine, darling. You’re going to need it.”

END

hshshshsh idk why but my drafts keep posting themselves?? Like, I’m literally just editing them then it suddenly posted?!? And if not that, sometimes my drafts just disappear :( like wtf?? hshshshs its soooo annoying.

[cressidagrey]

delulu girl autumn

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Caitlin Pritchard thought she actually stood a chance with Oscar Piastri at Haileybury in 2018. Reader, she did not. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Caitlin had only been at Haileybury for a day when she saw him.

Tall-ish. Sharp jaw. Easy smile. Accent unmistakably Australian, like hers. But smoother somehow, more Melbourne than Gold Coast. And he was laughing at something—shoulders relaxed, eyes crinkling, head tilted toward the girl walking beside him.

Caitlin had stopped in her tracks.

Finally, she thought. Someone normal. Someone who didn’t speak in clipped boarding school vowels and ask what her father did before they asked her name.

She leaned over to the girl next to her in form. Mia, or Leah or maybe Thea? “Who’s that?”

The girl followed her gaze and blinked. “Oscar Piastri. He’s nice. Smart. Does motorsport. Always winning stuff.”

Caitlin hummed. “And the girl he’s with?”

“Felicity Leong. Genius. Bit intense. She’s been here forever. Lives in the attic room, actually. Kind of…weird, but she’s nice. Don’t cross her in a debate.”

Caitlin squinted.

Oscar had just nudged Felicity’s arm. She rolled her eyes and said something that made him grin, like she always knew how to make him grin. But she didn’t touch him. No hand-holding. No kiss on the cheek. Just two people walking side by side like they knew all the same secrets.

Huh, Caitlin thought. Maybe she’s just one of those super smart best friend types.

Maybe Caitlin had a chance.

By the second week of term, Caitlin had “accidentally” started showing up near the physics lab at the exact time Oscar had free period. She’d dropped a pen in the courtyard and watched—heart fluttering—when he was the one to pick it up.

“Thanks,” she’d said, flashing a smile.

“No worries,” he’d replied with a nod. Polite. Casual. Australian.

Home.

That’s all she needed. One moment. One shared flag. Surely, once they actually talked…

But every time she tried, Felicity was there.

Gorgeous, quiet, smart. The kind of girl who made the headmistress beam at assemblies and never got her phone confiscated. She always had her hair in a braid, and she somehow looked effortlessly expensive, even in a regulation uniform and the ugliest brown shoes Caitlin had ever seen.

Oscar walked her to class. Sat next to her in the common room. Gave her the last cookie at dinner.

But, Caitlin reasoned, that was probably just a long-time-friend thing. Or maybe she was the mom-friend and Oscar just liked the way she shared her highlighters.

Felicity didn’t act like a girlfriend.

She didn’t sit on his lap or link arms with him. She didn’t get jealous when Caitlin joined them for group study one night and asked Oscar (with perhaps a little too much lip gloss) if he wanted to split a Red Bull.

Felicity had just smiled politely and gone back to solving some ungodly advanced physics problem like Caitlin wasn’t even speaking.

Oscar, for his part, had blinked and said, “Nah, I’m good—but thanks.”

Not interested, maybe. But also not unavailable.

Caitlin just need to separate him from the satellite girl who always orbited his shoulder.

Caitlin had a chance. 

***

Caitlin wasn’t obsessed, okay?

She was just… observant.

Which was perfectly normal when someone as cute and talented and Australian as Oscar Piastri walked the same halls you did and occasionally smiled at you with that very symmetrical face.

So what if he was always with that girl—Felicity Leong?

That didn’t mean anything. Boys and girls could be close. Felicity was probably just his study partner. Maybe a cousin. Or a very intense academic rival he was contractually obligated to have polite conversations with. Sure, she always looked like she knew every thought in his head before he said it, and sure, he never looked at anyone else the way he looked at her—but that could just be stress.

Or sleep deprivation. 

Or mutual trauma bonding over too many A-levels.

Besides, Caitlin had time. She was charming. Australian. Had a solid hair routine. And if she played her cards right, Oscar might notice that she wasn’t just some new transfer who tripped over her own backpack in front of the science block last week.

She just had to be patient.

That Thursday afternoon, she was sitting outside the canteen with a few girls from her form when one of them mentioned something in passing that made her freeze mid-sip of orange squash.

“Can you believe Oscar and Felicity are graduating next year?”

Caitlin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Oh yeah,” the girl said, balancing a yogurt pot on her knee. “They’re in Upper Sixth now. Well, technically. They skipped a year. Did, like, an insane amount of independent studying. Finished early. It was a whole thing last term.”

Caitlin frowned. “But they’re seventeen.”

“Yeah, and smarter than the rest of us combined. Oscar does racing on the weekends. He was gone last weekend for a competition, and I heard he won.”

Won. That word stuck.

Caitlin nodded slowly, storing it away. Racing. Trophy. Real-world stakes.

Interesting.

Later that day, she was cutting through the front quad when she ran into Oscar. Literally. Walked right into his shoulder as he came through the gate, duffel bag slung over one arm and a giant freaking trophy in the other.

“Oh my God—sorry!” she squeaked, stepping back.

Oscar caught her elbow lightly to steady her. “It’s okay. You alright?”

Caitlin blinked up at him, struck by how tired he looked—jet-lagged, probably—but still managing to smile like it was instinct. His curls were a bit flatter than usual, but he was holding a trophy like it weighed nothing.

It was golden. Shiny. Definitely taller than her forearm.

“I—yeah! You won?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from squeaking again.

Oscar laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Hockenheim. Long weekend.”

Hockenheim.

Oh. He was worldly.

“That’s amazing,” Caitlin said, widening her eyes slightly. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m just glad to be back. Haven’t seen Fliss since Thursday, so—” He trailed off, smiling again, something soft flickering in his eyes.

But Caitlin cut in quickly. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around? If you’re not too busy being famous or graduating early or…” She laughed.

Oscar nodded, polite and vaguely distracted. “Yeah, maybe. I should—uh, I promised Fliss I’d meet her before dinner.”

Of course he did.

Caitlin watched him walk off with that massive trophy and the easy kind of stride that said he belonged somewhere. He didn’t look back.

But still.

He hadn’t said no.

Caitlin smiled to herself.

Still a chance, then.

***

Felicity Leong.

Gorgeous, effortlessly intimidating, lived in that weird attic room nobody else wanted, wore her uniform like it was tailored by Prada, and had this way of looking at you like she already knew what you were going to say—and how wrong it was.

People whispered about her. How she was on first-name terms with half the faculty. How she submitted essays a full week before the deadline. How she once corrected a physics teacher mid-lecture and was right.

But Caitlin didn’t get the big deal.

She’d seen her around with Oscar, obviously. Always hovering nearby. Always tucked under his arm at lunch or passing him a pencil looking like they were one collective brain. But Caitlin had told herself that was just proximity. Comfort. Maybe they were from the same side of Australia. Maybe it was platonic.

Besides, Felicity couldn’t be that smart.

People exaggerated. Nerds got hyped up all the time, especially when they were hot.

Then came double history.

Caitlin hadn’t even realized Felicity was in the class until Caitlin slipped into the seat next to hers—late, looking vaguely annoyed. Felicity meanwhile had a black coffee in one hand and three uncapped highlighters in the other.

Caitlin blinked.

“Oh,” she said, “Hi.”

Felicity didn’t look up from her notes. “Hi.”

Caitlin offered a smile. “I’m Caitlin. I just transferred—”

“I know. Caitlin Pritchard.” Felicity said, finally glancing over. “You’re in Samir’s economic class. You were late twice last week.”

Caitlin opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Well. Yeah. I had trouble finding the classroom”

Felicity hummed, scribbled something in the margin of her paper, and then underlined it twice.

Caitlin stared.

She wanted to say something else. Something casual. Charming. Something that might explain why Oscar seemed to orbit this girl like she was a fixed point in the universe.

So when the teacher walked in and launched straight into a discussion on colonial resistance movements, Caitlin pounced.

“Sorry,” she said, cutting across the room. “Can we go back? Didn’t the Sepoy Rebellion happen because of, like… pork grease? On bullets or something?”

A few people laughed. The teacher smiled thinly. “Yes, Caitlin, that was one of the catalysts. Though, of course, the issue was more complicated—”

“It was never really about the grease,” Felicity said suddenly, without looking up. “That was just the final insult. The British had already eroded Indian sovereignty through unfair taxation, disrespect of local customs, and widespread economic disenfranchisement. The cartridge issue was symbolic—it touched religion, identity, and trust. Which, when combined with long-standing resentment, triggered the uprising.”

Caitlin blinked.

Felicity continued annotating her page like she hadn’t just delivered a university-level mini-lecture.

The teacher looked delighted. “Exactly, Miss Leong.”

And that was the first time Caitlin realized two very important things:

Felicity Leong was terrifyingly smart.

She had grossly underestimated the girl Oscar Piastri smiled at like she was his whole damn world. 

Still.

Caitlin glanced sideways at her.

She could recover.

Probably.

Maybe.

***

Caitlin was still replaying the moment in her head when she flopped into a beanbag in the common room an hour later.

“‘It was never really about the grease,’” she muttered under her breath, mimicking Felicity’s deadpan tone. “Like, okay, Google Scholar, relax.”

Across from her, Aarya Kumar— vice captain of the debating society, and possibly the only person more feared in a podium setting than Felicity herself—arched an eyebrow.

“Oh no,” she said mildly. “Did you challenge Felicity?”

“I asked a question,” Caitlin said defensively. “I wasn’t trying to start a revolution.”

Aarya snorted. “With Felicity, it’s the same thing.”

Caitlin grabbed a nearby cushion and hugged it to her chest. “She’s just—she’s kind of cold, isn’t she?”

Aarya looked up from her laptop with the slow blink of someone deciding whether or not to waste time correcting an idiot.

“Cold?” she repeated.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Like, she’s obviously really smart and everything, but she’s a bit… sharp. She didn’t even smile when I introduced myself. She just recited my attendance record.”

Aarya leaned back in her chair, looking extremely entertained.

“Caitlin,” she said, “Felicity Leong is not cold. She’s clinical. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, sorry, clinical. That’s so much more warm and inviting.”

Aarya smiled like a shark. “She just doesn’t waste energy on things she finds boring.”

“And I’m boring?”

“No,” Aarya said, sipping her tea. “You’re just not particularly relevant.”

Caitlin stared. “Wow.”

“Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone who isn’t on her shortlist of priorities.”

Caitlin frowned. “And who’s on the list, then?”

Aarya tilted her head, like the answer was obvious. “Well, there’s Oscar. And—actually, I guess it’s mostly just Oscar.”

Caitlin sat up straighter, hopeful. “So… they’re, like… best friends?”

Aarya raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Caitlin clung to the ambiguity like a life raft. “Right. Because he is super friendly with everyone.”

Aarya didn’t say anything. Just went back to typing.

Caitlin leaned back, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted.

Because technically, no one had said they were together.

No kissing. No hand-holding in public. No PDA.

It was probably one of those ultra-close platonic friendships. The kind that seemed romantic but wasn’t. Maybe they’d grown up like siblings. Maybe Felicity was just a little possessive. Maybe Oscar just hadn’t met the right girl yet.

Maybe—maybe—Caitlin could still be the exception.

It wasn’t like they were dating.

Right?

***

It started in the library.

Caitlin was flipping through flashcards, half-studying, half-scanning for Oscar (which was a completely innocent form of multitasking), when she caught the sound of his voice coming from two rows behind her.

“Fliss.”

The tone was casual. Familiar. The syllable dropped like second nature.

Caitlin frowned.

Fliss?

She peered around the bookcase just enough to glimpse him—Oscar, leaning on the edge of the table where Felicity sat, surrounded by a ridiculous number of open books and a mug that probably held black coffee and ambition.

Felicity didn’t look up. “What?”

“You forgot your physics notes in the study room.”

He held out a folder. Her hand came up automatically to take it.

“Oh. Thanks, Oz.”

Caitlin blinked again.

Oz?

Fliss and Oz?

Since WHEN were they nickname people?

She hadn’t even known he went by Oz. Nobody else called him that. Everyone else just said Oscar. Osc rarely, from some guys on the cricket team. 

Caitlin tilted her head. Okay, maybe it was a smart-people thing. Maybe if she ever helped him with physics, he’d let her call him that too.

And then Felicity, still scribbling, added absently:

“You’re not getting another cookie for this, by the way.”

Oscar laughed. “Didn’t ask for one, love.”

Caitlin’s brain stuttered.

Love?!

He said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a thing. Like it was something he’d said a hundred times before and would say again in the hallway or in front of God and Aarya and everyone.

Felicity didn’t even react.

She just circled something in her notes, then muttered, “You’re lucky I still have any goodwill left after The Great Béchamel Disaster.”

“You said you forgave me,” Oscar said, nudging her elbow.

“I lied,” she replied, but she was smiling.

A real smile. Small. Private. Quiet and warm in the way a person only smiles when they’re with someone who knows all their weird habits and loves them anyway.

Caitlin sat there in stunned silence, still holding her flashcard on Newton’s Third Law, like gravity had just personally attacked her.

Oscar Piastri had a nickname. And a backup nickname. And Felicity had one too. Multiple, probably. He probably called her things like “hey you” and “genius” and “mine.” Caitlin was spiraling. She hadn’t even gotten a solid hi this week.

She told herself not to read into it. Some people just had nicknames. That didn’t mean anything.

Did it?

…Did it??

She turned back to her flashcards with renewed determination.

She still had time.

Still had a chance.

Probably.

(Maybe.)

***

It was just after prep when Caitlin wandered into the shared sixth form kitchen in search of a snack and maybe a slightly flirty conversation with Oscar Piastri.

What she found instead was chaos.

The counter was covered in flour. Someone’s blazer was draped over a chair. The oven light was on, the whole place smelled like vanilla and sugar, and at the center of it all—like it was completely normal—stood Oscar and Felicity Leong, side by side at the counter, making cookies.

Oscar had chocolate smeared on his cheek.

Felicity was wearing a hoodie that she was drowning in, from the Richmond Tigers. 

Caitlin blinked.

“Um. Hi?”

Oscar looked up, grinning immediately. “Hey, Caitlin. Want one? They’re a bit misshapen, but Fliss says that’s ‘charm.’”

Felicity, still focused on placing the next tray in the oven, didn’t glance up. “Because it is.”

Two other students—Aarya and a boy named Samir—were sitting nearby eating cookies like this was a regularly scheduled Wednesday night tradition.

Caitlin stepped cautiously inside. “You guys… bake together?”

Felicity closed the oven and finally turned around, brushing flour off her sleeves. “Only when we both have a free evening and Oscar’s not flying from Spain or Monaco or whatever.”

“She says that like I don’t make time,” Oscar said, nudging her with his shoulder.

Caitlin watched as Felicity gave him a look. Not annoyed. Not even teasing.

It was warm. Familiar. Like this was their thing.

Oscar smirked. “Anyway,” he said, holding out a cookie, “these have caramel bits. Still hot.”

Caitlin accepted it, trying not to overanalyze the way Felicity casually stole a cooling rack from behind him and bumped her hip into his like it was second nature.

“Oh my God,” Aarya muttered to Samir behind them. “Is she still trying?”

“She must be,” Samir whispered back, mouth full. “This is brutal.”

Caitlin turned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aarya said quickly, looking at the ceiling. “Just… nothing.”

Caitlin took a bite of the cookie. It was genuinely good. “I didn’t realize you were, like… domestic,” she said to Oscar, with what she hoped was a charming little laugh.

Felicity looked unimpressed.

“I make a mean pasta bake too,” Oscar said easily. “But Fliss doesn’t let me cook anything unsupervised since The Great Béchamel Disaster.”

Felicity nodded solemnly. “He thought you could substitute almond milk for béchamel.”

“It was a theory.”

“You nearly set the microwave on fire.”

Oscar pointed at her. “You said you forgave me.”

“I did,” she said sweetly. “After you bought me new pyjamas.”

Caitlin laughed awkwardly. “Wow. You two really know each other.”

“Since we were 14,” Oscar said. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

Caitlin wanted to ask more, but Aarya was now fake-coughing aggressively into her biscuit, and Samir looked like he was trying not to choke from suppressed laughter.

“Anyway,” Oscar added, smiling at Felicity again, “you wanna do the next batch or switch?”

“I’ll mix,” she said, already reaching for the bowl. “You always under-fold.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but obeyed. “Yes, Fliss.”

Caitlin watched them—Felicity focused, Oscar content just to orbit around her—and something unspoken flickered in her chest.

But then Oscar caught her eye again. Friendly. Easy.

He was still nice to her.

Still smiling.

And so Caitlin told herself—again—that if it was something romantic, someone would’ve said so. Or at least made it clear. They weren’t kissing. They weren’t holding hands. Maybe this was just… how they were. How they’d always been.

She still had a chance.

Caitlin took another bite of her cookie.

It burned her tongue.

***

Caitlin wasn’t technically stalking Oscar.

She just… happened to sign up for gym block at the same time as him. And then happened to show up early. And then happened to secure a treadmill with a very good view of the weights section.

That wasn’t a crime.

And honestly, she was doing it for herself. Self-improvement. Endorphins. Definitely not to stare at the way Oscar Piastri filled out a nike shirt...

He wasn’t even doing anything fancy. Just basic reps. But his arms? Defined. Shoulders? Unfair. And the fact that he wasn’t even out of breath while talking to someone? Offensive.

Also—he was lifting more than Samir. Samir was on the rugby team.

Caitlin glanced around like someone should be noticing this.

But no one cared. Because of course they didn’t. They’d all seen it before.

And then in came her.

Felicity Leong.

Hair braided. No makeup. Oversized red shirt. ARDEN written over her chest. Black leggings. Looked like she could do calculus while sprinting.

Caitlin tried not to stare.

But then she saw Oscar’s face light up when Felicity walked in and any hope she had left melted like protein powder in lukewarm almond milk.

They greeted each other with the kind of ease that made Caitlin want to scream into a dumbbell rack.

Then they trained together.

Felicity wasn’t flashy. She was fast. Precise. Focused. Caitlin watched her fly through circuits like her body was a machine and she’d never once felt fatigue. Meanwhile, Oscar was at her side, timing her sprints, correcting her posture, offering her his towel like it was nothing.

“Water?” he asked during their rest.

Felicity reached for the bottle, took one sip, and muttered, “You’re still folding your lunges.”

Oscar grinned. “Still bossy.”

“Still inefficient.”

Caitlin was starting to believe in soulmates and consider drowning herself in the gym water cooler at the same time.

And then it happened.

Felicity slipped mid-rep. Nothing dramatic—just a wrong angle coming down from a box jump—but the sound her ankle made was sharp, sickening, real.

She hissed through her teeth and staggered.

Oscar was at her side in less than two seconds.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Don’t move. Is it bad?”

“Twisted,” Felicity gritted out. “Might be sprained.”

He crouched beside her, eyes scanning her ankle, hands gentle as he tested the pressure. And then—before Caitlin could even process what was happening—

He scooped her up.

Like she weighed nothing. Like it was automatic. Like he’d done it before.

Arms under her knees and back, no strain, no hesitation. Felicity didn’t even protest. Just looped one arm around his neck like this was a routine Tuesday.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s get you iced.”

Caitlin gaped.

And no one else reacted.

Not Samir. Not the girl by the rowing machines. Not the PT. They barely looked up.

As if this happened all the time.

As if Felicity regularly got princess-carried out of the gym by her brilliant F1-adjacent boyfriend like it was part of the warm-down routine.

Caitlin blinked.

Her heart hurt.

Oscar was strong. Like—really strong. Quietly strong. The kind that didn’t flex, just lifted people like they were paper.

And Felicity?

Felicity was tiny. Not weak. Not fragile. Just built like the universe decided someone should be genetically optimized to be carried by Oscar Piastri.

As they disappeared into the hallway, Felicity mumbled something.

Oscar laughed and said, “It’s not my fault your centre of gravity is adorable.”

Caitlin still had a chance. 

Probably. 

***

Caitlin had known Oscar Piastri was cute.

Obviously.

That had been Day One material: waves, dimples, polite voice, Australian accent. It was instant. It was unavoidable. It was textbook crush.

What she hadn’t expected was the slow realization that Oscar Piastri was hot. Like… unfairly hot. Like betray-your-bestie-and-your-God hot.

It didn’t hit her all at once.

It was gradual.

It was the library, when he’d leaned over Felicity’s desk to hand her a flash drive and his shirt had shifted, and suddenly his forearms were right there, and Caitlin had nearly highlighted the entire Treaty of Versailles out of order.

It was the way he always ran one hand through his hair when he was concentrating—pushing it back, curls falling forward again five seconds later, like he was in a shampoo commercial directed by the gods.

It was the back muscles, which she first clocked during PE when he’d taken off his jumper and casually did push-ups like they didn’t reveal everything.

And then there was the shoulder stretch incident.

One Friday morning in study hall, he’d lifted both arms behind his head to stretch—and his shirt had ridden up just enough to show a sliver of toned lower back and hip. Caitlin had dropped her pen, her dignity, and a solid 80% of her vocabulary in the same moment.

Every time he laughed, it was a problem. Deep, full-body, throw-his-head-back laughter that made people turn and smile reflexively. Except Caitlin didn’t just smile. She short-circuited.

And God help her when he swore.

Oscar didn’t swear much—but when he did, it was low and Australian and effortless and usually muttered under his breath in the most devastatingly hot tone imaginable. Once it had been “bloody hell, Fliss”, and Caitlin had ascended into another dimension.

Even his hands were unfair. Long fingers. Casually spinning a pen. Good at everything. 

One time he’d run laps for warm-up and pulled his shirt off over his head as he walked off the field, sweat glistening, curls sticking, and Caitlin had genuinely seen a bird fly into a tree because the universe was clearly overwhelmed.

But the worst part—the absolute worst—was how unaware he was of it.

Oscar Piastri had the audacity to be hot and nice. The kind of boy who helped carry books and always shared his last cookie with Felicity without even blinking.

It was a public safety hazard.

***

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon, and most of Sixth Form had retreated to the study hall. The floor-to-ceiling windows rattled with wind, someone had put on a low jazz playlist, and everyone had resigned themselves to pretending they were productive.

Caitlin was “working” on a history essay (read: rewriting the intro for the fourth time), when Oscar dropped into the seat beside Felicity at the windowsill bench. She barely looked up from her notes, just shifted sideways to make room for him in the way of people who didn’t ask—they just expected each other to be there.

He leaned over her shoulder, reading something upside down.

"You need a break," he said softly.

"I need a functioning global economy," she replied, underlining a sentence in red.

Oscar snorted. “Come on. Fifteen-minute truce. Stretch. Look at a cloud. Touch grass.”

Felicity didn’t move. But she looked at him. And then, in the most deadpan voice imaginable, she muttered:

"Alright, Tin Man. Let’s walk."

Caitlin blinked from her corner of the room.

Tin Man?

Tin. Man.

Was that… a dig?

A pet name?

An insult wrapped in affection?

She stared after them as they walked out, Oscar brushing his hand lightly against Felicity’s as they passed through the door. He was grinning. She wasn’t—but there was a crinkle in her eyes that looked suspiciously like she was trying not to smile.

“What,” Caitlin said aloud, turning to Thea across the table, “was that? She just called him Tin Man.”

Thea didn’t even glance up from her colour-coded notes. “Yeah. That’s her thing.”

“Her thing?”

“She calls him that when he gets too sentimental.”

Caitlin blinked. “Wait, what?”

Thea sighed like she was explaining physics to a moth.

“When Oscar first came to Haileybury, some of the guys used to tease him for being a bit—cold. Like, he was brilliant at everything but didn’t show much emotion. You know, kept to himself. Never really… reacted.”

Caitlin’s mouth opened. “So they called him—?”

“Robot Boy,” Thea finished. “No emotions. You get it.”

“That’s—awful,” Caitlin said.

“Yeah. But then Felicity came along, and he started reacting.” Thea finally looked up, eyes sharp with amusement. “First time he ever raised his voice in public was when someone made a comment about her. You should’ve seen it. He went full protective rage blackout.”

Caitlin blinked, stunned.

“Anyway,” Thea continued, “he started thawing. Laughing more. Getting teased for having feelings, instead of not having any. So now when he gets too soft with her—like, says something sweet or looks at her like she put the stars in the sky—she calls him Tin Man.”

Caitlin sat in silence.

Outside, through the rain-streaked glass, she could just barely make out Oscar and Felicity under the trees. He was walking so close beside her their arms brushed with every step. Felicity said something, and he threw his head back laughing.

And then she bumped him—gently, with her shoulder.

He bumped back.

They kept walking.

They weren’t holding hands. 

So Caitlin still had a chance. Right?

***

Caitlin joined the dance club because she needed something.

Something that wasn’t academic. Something that wasn’t tied to being “the new girl.” And, ideally, something that would make her look effortlessly hot in a leotard.

She had a background in jazz, had done a few summer workshops in Sydney, and figured it’d be a good place to make some friends. Plus, Oscar might notice—if she mentioned casually that she danced.

So when she walked into the studio for her first Thursday meeting, wearing her black tank and brand new split-sole ballet shoes, she felt good. Confident. A little nervous, but in a cute way.

And then she saw her.

Felicity Leong.

Hair in a flawless bun. Dressed in a leotard and a worn black wrap top that looked somehow elegant. Not flashy. Not even trying. But immediately magnetic.

Caitlin blinked. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Is she part of this club?” she whispered to the girl next to her.

The girl gave her a look. “She’s the senior lead.”

“Oh,” Caitlin said weakly. “Cool.”

Cool.

Felicity didn’t look like she was about to ruin lives. She was sitting against the mirror, stretching calmly, headphones in. Calm. Focused. Untouchable.

Then the teacher clapped. “Alright, let’s warm up. Miss Leong—lead us in pliés?”

Felicity nodded once, stood, and—

Transformed.

It was like watching a poem in motion.

No overthinking. No hesitation. Just muscle memory and precision. Her arms curved perfectly. Her turnout was textbook. Her every movement landed in that devastating sweet spot between softness and control. And her face didn’t change once—like grace wasn’t a performance for her, just a setting she never turned off.

She wasn’t just good.

She was ballet.

Caitlin barely remembered the warm-up. Her legs did something, sure, but her brain was short-circuiting.

Felicity flowed through port de bras like she’d been born with music in her veins. Executed a développé with the kind of restraint that said she could go higher, but didn’t need to prove it.

By the time they got to center work, Caitlin was pretty sure she’d stopped blinking.

“Felicity, would you mind demonstrating the adagio solo from last year?” the teacher asked.

Felicity gave a soft, almost reluctant nod. “Sure.”

And then she danced.

No music. No fanfare. Just her body moving like it had already heard the score.

Every extension was art. Every balance was deliberate. Every turn was smooth enough to make the world spin slower. When she reached the final pose—arms lifted, chin angled upward like she was made of light—nobody clapped.

Because everyone was stunned.

Even Caitlin.

She barely breathed until the teacher finally said, “Thank you. That was… as always, exquisite.”

Felicity just shrugged like it meant nothing and walked back to her spot like she hadn’t just outdanced God.

Caitlin sat down slowly.

Silently.

And had a minor identity crisis.

Because not only was Felicity Leong intimidatingly smart, casually attached at the soul to Oscar Piastri - she could also do ballet like she was on loan from the Paris Opera.

Caitlin didn’t know whether she wanted to cry, scream, or change schools.

So she settled on tying her shoes tighter and pretending it didn’t bother her.

Even though it absolutely did.

***

It was a rainy Tuesday evening, the kind that turned the Haileybury dorms into a sanctuary of hot chocolate, fleece blankets, and half-finished homework sprawled across common room tables.

Caitlin was curled on the edge of a beanbag, pretending to annotate her literature essay while sneakily watching Oscar argue with Samir about some Grand Prix controversy. It was one of those low-effort nights—everyone a little too tired to be productive, a little too comfortable to care.

And then Felicity walked in.

Hair down.

Caitlin almost dropped her pen.

Because up until that moment, she hadn’t even realized Felicity Leong had hair.

That’s how tightly she always wore it. Braids, buns, perfect French twists that looked regulation-ready even on Sundays. But now—

Now it was loose.

A dark, glossy sheet that spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a black silk curtain, nearly to her waist. Smooth, thick, flawless. It looked less like hair and more like something airbrushed onto a Vogue cover.

Caitlin blinked. Was she allowed to just—walk around like that?

Felicity padded over to where Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, tugged a cushion closer, and dropped herself unceremoniously between his knees like it was a routine chore.

“Hands?” she asked, already gathering her hair over one shoulder.

Oscar grinned. “Clean. Promise.”

And with that, he gently took the mass of hair in his hands and began to braid.

Just like that.

Like it was something they’d done a hundred times. Like this was normal.

Caitlin watched, frozen, as he sectioned it expertly—two smooth parts, fingers moving with unconscious ease. He wasn’t even looking, just chatting with Samir about tyre compounds while looping her hair over and under like he knew it better than she did.

Felicity leaned forward a little to help him get the tension right.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t supervise. Just… trusted him.

Caitlin wasn’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that Oscar Piastri could braid at all, or the fact that Felicity Leong, terrifying genius and dance prodigy, had somehow allowed a boy to touch her hair.

And not just touch it, but casually French braid it in front of other people like it wasn’t the most intimate thing Caitlin had ever seen in her life.

Oscar tied the end with a small black elastic from his wrist, then tugged the braid gently to make it fuller.

“There,” he said. “Symmetry achieved.”

“Better than last time,” Felicity said, glancing over her shoulder.

He tapped her temple with his knuckle. “I get better under pressure.”

Someone across the room muttered, “You two are so weirdly domestic, it’s terrifying.”

Neither of them looked offended.

Oscar just smiled. Felicity leaned back slightly against his knee. And they went right back to talking about whether or not the new history teacher was secretly unqualified.

Caitlin sat there, quietly imploding.

Because never, not once, had she seen Oscar that comfortable with anyone. Not in the flirtatious way she’d been fantasizing about—but in the quiet, unconscious belonging kind of way. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

But Caitilin still had a chance…right?

***

It started with a phone ringing.

Not a notification. Not the subtle ping of someone’s locked screen lighting up. This was a proper ringtone—some soft, instrumental chime that sounded like it belonged to a very calm person who did yoga and paid their taxes early.

Caitlin glanced up from her seat in the common room just in time to see Felicity Leong pull her phone out of her cardigan pocket.

“Sorry,” Felicity murmured, already stepping toward the hallway.

Oscar was sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, textbook balanced across his knees. He didn’t even look up.

Caitlin narrowed her eyes.

“Wait, where’s your phone?” she asked, leaning toward him a bit. “I thought I heard your ringtone earlier?”

Oscar didn’t glance up. “Dead. Forgot to charge it.”

“Classic,” Samir muttered without looking up from his laptop.

But Caitlin was still watching Felicity, who had now stepped just out of sight—though her voice still carried through the open doorway. Calm. Familiar. Just slightly exasperated.

“Hi Nicole. No, he’s alive,” Felicity said lightly. “Phone’s dead again. I’ll tell him to call you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “No, Oscar’s fine. Tired. He’s had a headache all day, that’s why he didn’t call. Yeah. I’ll remind him to check in tomorrow.”

Then Felicity laughed softly, eyes fond. “Yes. He misses you too. I’ll make sure he actually eats something green tonight.”

She listened for another beat, nodding, then added, “Love you too.”

Then she hung up and tossed the phone back onto the sofa.

Oscar caught it with one hand without even looking. “She say hi?”

“She said to tell you to eat a vegetable.”

“She’s so mean to me,” he said dramatically, eyes closed.

“She birthed you,” Felicity replied, deadpan. “She’s earned it.”

And Caitlin suddenly wasn’t paying attention to her annotated Hamlet anymore.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Was that… your mum?”

Oscar glanced up like it was no big deal. “Yeah.”

“She called Felicity?”

Oscar blinked, confused. “Yeah?”

“Instead of, like, you?”

He shrugged. “She knows I never answer. Felicity always does.”

That… was apparently that.

Nobody else reacted.

Not Aarya, not Samir, not the Year 13 boy flipping through a copy of The Economist like his soul depended on it. They just kept working or scrolling or sipping lukewarm tea, as if it wasn’t insane that a boy’s mum had defaulted to calling a teenage girl for updates on her son.

“Your Mom just calls Felicity?” Caitlin repeated.

“Has since Year 10,” Samir said without looking up. “Honestly, Felicity usually knows where Oscar is before Oscar knows where Oscar is.”

Oscar shrugged. “It’s a system. If I miss three texts, she goes to Fliss.”

“I think Nicole called her during exams once because she couldn’t figure out Oscar’s calendar,” Aarya added. “Felicity had it memorized.”

Caitlin blinked. “But… that’s like… really personal, right?”

“Not really,” Oscar said mildly. “Just easier. Fliss keeps my schedule on her laptop.”

“She’s basically his external hard drive,” Samir muttered.

“His mum calls her,” Caitlin said again, dazed.

And yet… still.

Still.

She told herself maybe it was just one of those weird family dynamics. Maybe Felicity had just gotten swept up in the Piastris’ orbit because she was organized. Maybe Nicole liked her because she was polite and good at reminding Oscar to take his iron supplements or whatever.

Caitlin clung to denial with the strength of a thousand delusions.

Because maybe Felicity was just close with the family.

Maybe she was like… the childhood friend who became an honorary sibling.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

She definitely still had a chance.

Didn’t she?

***

The Winter Formal was two weeks away, and Caitlin was ready.

This was her moment. Her chance.

She’d been at Haileybury long enough to know that Winter Formal wasn’t just some dance—it was a statement. A social chessboard. The perfect opportunity to be seen, to be asked, to be unforgettable.

And Caitlin was not going to let it pass her by.

She’d already ordered a dress from Australia—a sleek, midnight blue satin thing with a thigh slit and delicate straps that made her feel expensive just looking at it. Her mum had mailed it express with handwritten instructions about which earrings not to pair it with. S She’d even practiced walking in heels on the quad during lunch.

All of this, of course, was part of Operation: Oscar Will Finally See Me As A Woman™.

So when the girls’ dorm corridor started buzzing with excitement and dress talk, Caitlin took her usual spot near the common room couch, flipping through lipstick swatches on her phone and casually steering the conversation.

“I feel like everyone’s going for red or black,” she said, examining a cherry gloss. “I want something classic, but… memorable, you know?”

Thea, who was painting her nails, nodded. “Honestly, I just hope someone asks me. Last year was so dry.”

“I heard Samir’s organizing a group to go together,” someone else said. “Just friends, but, like, cute coordinated outfits?”

“Ugh, that’s sweet,” Caitlin said, smiling. “I mean, obviously, if someone asked me, I’d say yes. But if not, I’ll just look stunning on my own.”

The group hummed in agreement.

Then the door opened, and of course, in walked Felicity Leong—casual, composed, hair in a clip, hoodie two sizes too big.

No Richmond Tigers this time. but once again something emblazoned with HP Tuners on it. Caitlin seriously wondered where she kept finding them. 

She looked like she was just passing through, but Thea called out, “Fliss! Are you going to the Winter Formal?”

Felicity paused. “Yeah, probably.”

Caitlin glanced over, trying to sound breezy. “Do you have a dress yet?”

Felicity shrugged like the entire concept of formalwear bored her. “I’ve got a few. I’ll pick one.”

“You mean, like… from your closet?” Caitlin asked, lips parting in disbelief. “You’re not getting one new?”

Felicity blinked. “I already own dresses. I don’t need another.”

Caitlin opened her mouth. Closed it. “Right. Sure.”

“So who are you going with?” Thea asked teasingly. 

Felicity just smiled faintly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Caitlin’s heart kicked. Her mind raced.

That could mean anything. It could be a friend. A joke. A bluff. There had been no announcement. And Oscar—Oscar still hadn’t said anything about going. She’d know if it were him.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Definitely.

…Right?

Felicity turned to go, already halfway down the corridor, when she called back casually:

“Don’t stress too much about the dress. The dancing is the best part.”

And just like that, she disappeared.

Caitlin sat very still for a moment.

Her lip gloss suddenly felt… desperate.

But no matter.

Felicity Leong could wear a paper bag to Winter Formal and still pull off mysterious. Caitlin, however, was going to show up looking like a star.

She still had time.

She still had a chance.

***

Winter Formal at Haileybury was everything Caitlin had dreamed it would be.

The great hall was transformed—strings of fairy lights hung from the beams, candles floated on tables like something out of a movie, and the DJ actually understood how to mix orchestral pieces with chart hits. Students filed in dressed to the nines, heels clicking on polished floors, laughter echoing across the velvet-draped room.

Caitlin felt stunning.

Her navy satin gown fit like a dream. Her curls were glossy, makeup dewy, everything rehearsed and poised. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror-lined hallway, she thought: This is it. This is my main character moment.

Oscar hadn’t arrived yet.

She was mid-conversation with Thea and half-scanning the crowd when the noise in the room dipped. Not stopped. Not hushed. Just… shifted.

She followed the direction of a few stares—and there they were.

Oscar and Felicity.

And Caitlin forgot how to breathe.

Felicity was in a deep forest green dress—floor-length, off the shoulder, with a subtle silk sheen that looked so expensive it had to be designer. Her hair was down for once, falling to her waist pin straight and thick. Her makeup was minimal, but somehow she still looked like she stepped out of a fashion editorial.

Oscar was in a classic black suit. Crisp white shirt. And he was smiling at her—her, meaning Felicity—like she was the only person who existed.

The room wasn’t silent, but it didn’t matter.

It bent around them anyway.

Caitlin stared. There’s no way they’re just friends.

But nobody said anything. There was no announcement. No hand-holding. So it was still ambiguous, right?

She had hope.

Until the dancing started.

The DJ called for a traditional waltz—something Haileybury insisted on every year for the old-money aesthetic—and most students awkwardly shuffled into pairs, giggling through their two-left-feet attempts.

And then—

Oscar and Felicity stepped onto the floor.

And they danced.

Not fumbled.

Not swayed.

They danced.

He led effortlessly, one hand pressed against her back like he was born to guide her. She followed with impossible grace, her green skirt swirling just above her ankles. They moved in tight, perfect circles, their footwork synchronized, their expressions focused and just barely smiling, like the moment was just for them.

And then—because of course—

He picked her up.

Clean, elegant lift. Like she weighed nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Her feet left the ground, and she laughed—actually laughed, head thrown back—and when he set her down again, she didn’t even wobble.

The room applauded.

Caitlin clapped too, mostly because she forgot how not to.

Thea leaned over. “Okay, they’re disgustingly perfect.”

Caitlin forced a laugh. “Yeah, I guess they… practiced?”

Samir, somewhere nearby, snorted. “They’ve been practicing since Year 9, mate.”

Caitlin blinked. “What?”

But Samir had already turned away.

Since Year 9?

That had to mean something else. Dance class. PE. Maybe Oscar’s mum had hired them a coach. It didn’t confirm anything.

Even when the slow songs began, and Oscar pulled Felicity close—one hand at her waist, the other brushing the back of her neck, foreheads nearly touching—Caitlin still thought:

Maybe he’s just that affectionate with close friends.

Even as he whispered something that made Felicity laugh and tuck her head into his shoulder.

Even as they moved in a slow, gentle rhythm that looked less like dancing and more like existing in sync.

Caitlin took a sip of her sparkling juice.

She still had a chance.

...Right?

***

The Winter Formal afterparty wasn’t technically sanctioned, but Haileybury looked the other way as long as nobody died, broke curfew, or set off the fire alarm like last year.

So a group of Upper Sixth students had ended up back in one of the common rooms, still in formalwear but now barefoot, jackets discarded, and half-asleep on beanbags and mismatched sofas. The music was low. The fairy lights from the dance still blinked lazily around the windows. Someone passed around leftover sweets from the dessert bar.

Caitlin was feeling… hopeful.

Oscar was lounging two cushions away, his jacket tossed over a chair, his tie hanging loose around his neck. Felicity sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, sipping from a paper cup. 

Then someone suggested Truth or Dare.

It started off tame.

“Truth: who did you originally want to go to formal with?” “Dare: text your sibling ‘you up?’” “Truth: have you ever cheated on an exam?”

The group laughed, groaned, teased.

Caitlin felt herself relaxing. It was fun. Casual. Normal.

Then Aarya, ever the chaos agent, turned toward Oscar with a shark-like grin.

“Oscar,” she said sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Dare.”

Aarya’s eyes lit up. “Kiss your girlfriend like you actually mean it.”

The room stilled.

Caitlin choked on her drink.

Felicity blinked slowly, then looked up at Oscar with one eyebrow raised.

He laughed softly. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Aarya said, sipping her juice. “Here we are.”

Oscar leaned forward.

Caitlin’s heart started pounding.

And then—without fanfare, without hesitation—he tipped Felicity’s chin up with one hand and kissed her.

Not a peck. Not polite. Not friend-coded.

It was full-on, no questions asked, get-a-room kissing.

He kissed her like it was muscle memory. Like he’d done it a thousand times. Like he had no idea anyone else was in the room.

Felicity kissed him back with the same energy—slow and familiar and undeniably his.

When they finally pulled apart, Felicity just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stole a sip from Oscar’s drink like nothing had happened.

Oscar smirked and leaned back like he was settling into home.

The room erupted.

Whistling. Groaning. “You are horrible,” someone muttered.

Aarya grinned with no mercy in Caitlin’s direction.

“Oh my God,” Caitlin said faintly. “Wait, are you—?”

Felicity looked at her. “Together? Yeah. Since we were fifteen.”

Caitlin stared.

Aarya, feigning deep shock, added, “You didn’t know?”

The silence after that wasn’t cruel—but it was loud.

Caitlin tried to find her voice. “I just thought—no one ever said—”

Oscar blinked, genuinely confused. “I thought it was obvious?”

And somehow, that was the worst part.

Because to everyone else, it was.

The braids. The cookies. The phone call from Nicole. The dancing. The goddamn waltz lift. All of it had been real.

Caitlin had never stood a chance.

And now she knew it.

Fully. Completely.

Unmistakably.

***

@/caitlinfromoz: ✨okay so now that oscar piastri and felicity leong are publicly Official™ and married… a thread about how teenage me was DELUSIONAL and thought i had a chance ✨ (yes. i was that girl. i’ve grown.)

@/caitlinfromoz:  i transferred to haileybury in 2018. i was 17. oscar was cute. australian. quiet. smart. devastatingly nice to literally everyone. INCLUDING ME. obviously, i decided we were endgame.

@/caitlinfromoz: There was just one obstacle. Her name was Felicity Leong.

@/caitlinfromoz:  Gorgeous. Terrifying. Looked like she ate straight A’s for breakfast and ballet-danced in her sleep. Hair always in a perfect bun. Vibes of a girl who could ruin your life with a well-written paragraph.

@/caitlinfromoz: I tried to talk to her once in history class and said the Sepoy Rebellion was about pork grease. She proceeded to verbally destroy me and rewrite my understanding of British colonialism in one breath.

I still think about it at night.

@/caitlinfromoz:  nobody told me they were together because apparently “it was obvious” spoiler: IT WAS NOT OBVIOUS TO ME. 

@/caitlinfromoz:   I never saw them kiss. She didn’t sit on his lap. I spent three months thinking I had a chance. 

Reader, I did not have a chance.

@/caitlinfromoz: Things I ignored in pursuit of this delusion:

@/caitlinfromoz:  He was the only person that called her Fliss. (Side note: He also called her Love.) She was the only person that called him Oz. Or Tin Man. 

@/caitlinfromoz: His mother called her when he didn’t answer answer his phone. And that was generally accepted as normal. Nobody blinked. i thought she was just close with his family. 💀

@/caitlinfromoz: They made cookies together like an old married couple. They were the best cookies I have ever eaten. (He’s also not allowed in the kitchen without supervision. Something about The Great Béchamel Disaster?)

@/caitlinfromoz:  there was this one time i saw him french braid her entire waist-length hair in the common room while talking about tyre compounds. and i was like “they’re probably just childhood friends :)” girl.

@/caitlinfromoz:  also felicity could do actual ballet. like real swan lake coreography. i joined dance club to be graceful. she FLOATS. i left dance club two meetings later.

@/caitlinfromoz: but the REAL nail in the coffin was winter formal. i thought “this is it. this is where he sees me in a dress and FALLS.”

@/caitlinfromoz: and then oscar & felicity arrived like they’d just stepped out of a slow-burn fanfic and casually performed a literal waltz. with lifts.

@/caitlinfromoz: like, lifted her.

in time with the music.

in front of witnesses.

and i still thought “huh… maybe they’re just really good friends??”

teenage me was determined to die on that hill. and oh god, die i did 🥲

@/caitlinfromoz: Cut to post-formal hangout, someone suggests Truth or Dare. Aarya (bless her ruthless soul) dares Oscar to “kiss your girlfriend like you mean it.”

@/caitlinfromoz: He proceeded to snog Felicity like we weren’t all sitting 5 feet away in formalwear with Red Vines and sparkling juice. When they broke apart, she casually took a sip from his drink.

@/caitlinfromoz:  I had an out-of-body experience.

 turned to the group like: “Wait… they’re DATING??”

Felicity, sipping her juice: “Since we were 15.”

Everyone else: 👀

Oscar: “I thought it was obvious?”

@/caitlinfromoz: Reader, it was. I was just dense.

@/caitlinfromoz: turns out they’d been dating for over 2 years. everyone knew. except me. i think i stared at the wall for ten full minutes.

@/caitlinfromoz: to be clear: they weren’t hiding. everyone else knew. they just… were. no theatrics. no announcement. just two teenagers sharing tea, physics notes, and apparently a long-term romantic commitment 😃👍

@/caitlinfromoz: anyway. it’s years later. they’re still disgustingly in love. her hair’s still perfect. he’s still absurdly nice. and i’m now emotionally stable enough to laugh at my teen self.

@/caitlinfromoz: teenage me had confidence, delusion, and absolutely no awareness.

i salute her.

but she was so, so dumb.

RIP to her.

@/caitlinfromoz: thank you for attending my TED Talk on delulu girl autumn 2018 💀💀💀

***

@/nicolepiastri: This was a hilarious read. Thank you for the reminder that Oscar once thought almond milk could substitute béchamel. And yes, I called Felicity when Osc wouldn’t answer. I still do. Caitlin, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You never had a chance. Loved the thread though 💕

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  WHY IS OSCAR’S MUM HERE i was a CHILD i didn’t know i was just trying to thrive in maths and a floor-length gown

➡️@/NicolePiastri: You were lovely, but Fliss had already reorganized his entire life by the time you arrived. Including his sock drawer. And his heart.

@/f1roseshard:  SHE SAID "YOU NEVER HAD A CHANCE" I’M SCREAMING

@/chaosinthepits:  nicole piastri coming in like a mother with the final shovel of dirt for the grave 😭😭

@/oscarlovrs: someone frame this whole interaction and hang it in the haileybury hallway i’m serious

@/piastribetterhalf: @/NicolePiastri when did you start calling Felicity instead of Oscar?

➡️@/NicolePiastri:  When he forgot to tell me he’d landed and Felicity texted “Don’t worry, I fed him.”

@/caitlinfromoz: @/nicolepiastri ma’am with all due respect i would’ve loved a warning like maybe a little sign. a polite letter. a fortune cookie.

➡️@/nicolepiastri:  Replying to: @caitlinfromoz I thought the braid should’ve been a giveaway, darling x

@chaoticconstructors: “i thought the braid should’ve been a giveaway” IS THE GREATEST CLOSING LINE I’VE EVER READ

@/piastrisbuns:  what was felicity like irl?? did she ever TALK to people??

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: she talked. just… efficiently. like her words had a budget. she once ended a debate in 3 sentences and someone cried. i respect her. i feared her. i may still fear her.

@/chaosinthepits truth or dare. full snog. in front of everyone. my GOD. did you die. did you ascend.

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  i think i dissociated tbh. someone passed me a cookie. i bit it and stared into space like i’d just seen a horse speak fluent italian.

@/oscarlovrs: be honest… was it at least a good kiss??

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  listen. i’m woman enough to admit… it was an excellent kiss. cinema-worthy. soft hand placement. forehead bump. mutual giggling after. 

@/aussieoscarfans:  so you’re telling me his mum had her on speed dial he braided her hair slow danced with her picked her up IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL and u still thought u had a chance?

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  yes but in my defense: ✨delusion is a powerful drug✨ (i was 17. my brain wasn’t fully online.)

@/softpitwall:  Be honest. Did you ever consider throwing yourself down the stairs at school just to get Oscar to carry you?

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: no but I did once fake confusion near the physics lab hoping he’d walk me to class felicity appeared out of NOWHERE i swear she just sensed it 😭

@/formula1girlie: THE WAY I GASPED AT “he picked her up” 😭😭 you were fighting for your life against a woman who literally waltzed

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i was fighting for my life against someone who could quote voltaire and do fouettés there was no battle. i was collateral damage

@/teamsoftlaunch: i’m obsessed with the idea that everyone else knew. like no one even thought to say “hey they’re dating btw”? lmao

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i think Aarya tried once and then gave up. she probably put money on how long it would take me to catch on

@/piastrilicious: can you PLEASE drop a photo of what you wore to winter formal?? we need to see how hard you tried

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i will NOT be bullied into posting that navy satin thigh-slit disaster okay fine here it is but please understand i believed it was my villain origin story

<attached image: Caitlin in full formal glam, looking gorgeous and heartbreakingly confident> caption: “she really thought she was gonna change the plot 💔”

@/flissleongstand: this thread is my roman empire. i think about felicity leong just shrugging and saying “yeah, since we were fifteen” DAILY

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: she said it so calmly. meanwhile my entire worldview collapsed in 0.2 seconds

@/oscpiastriluvr81:  GIRL YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD A CHANCE AGAINST THE GIRL HE FRENCH BRAIDED WHILE TALKING ABOUT TYRE COMPOUNDS??? 💀💀💀

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  i didn’t think i had a chance. i built an entire ROMANTIC NARRATIVE. i was the main character in my head. he was the love interest. she was… a subplot. i was wrong.

@/oscarstanpage: soooo who dared him to kiss her 👀

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  Aarya. if you’re out there: i forgive you. you were right. i needed the reality check.

@/piastricorners:  you had a crush on oscar when he was braiding hair and baking cookies?? be honest. you liked the domestic vibes didn’t you

➡️ @caitlinfromoz listen. there’s nothing more dangerous than a teenage girl witnessing an emotionally intelligent boy sift flour

@/thepiastrileongfiles: are you ok now

➡️ @/caitlinfromoz: i’m healed. i have a job, a dog, and the emotional distance to find teenage me absolutely hilarious. but i am blocking anyone who makes an edit about that truth or dare kiss with “ceilings” by lizzy mcalpine.

@/oscarp_brasil:  sooo how hot was the kiss. scale of 1 to my soul left my body

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: like if a jane austen novel and a wattpad fic had a baby. there was hand cradling, forehead touch after, she drank from his cup like nothing happened. i was spiritually vaporized.

@/mclarendownbad: @/OscarPiastri bestie ur fans need u to confirm the french braid thing

➡️ @/OscarPiastri I can do a Dutch braid, too. And a crown braid.