#does she know she has 11 days...

[netsuijae]

Your art just made me remember that the Kana5 event is gonna start during the March equinox…. The specific holiday celebrated on that day in Japan is one with a lot of history. Some people during the holiday go to the graves of loved ones and tend to them, which makes me think that Kanade is gonna have a not so fun time 👀

its kanaover i fear

[yuwuta]

twin aus are fun bc sukuna is sooooo ugly and yuuji is soooooooo pretty and beautiful and lovely <3 completely understand why sukuna ends up the deliquent loser twin bc why would anybody choose him when <3yuuji<3 is right there

[disorganised-bagel]

been playing way too much slime rancher recently, and am now getting The Urges to make some kind of rtc slime rancher au

[champ-wiggle]

'She is so old': One-eyed wolf in Yellowstone defies odds by having 10th litter of pups in 11 years

By Patrick Pester, published June 3, 2024

Wolf 907F recently gave birth to her 10th litter of pups, which researchers say is likely a Yellowstone National Park record.

Wolf 907F walking past a trail camera in Yellowstone National Park. (Image credit: Yellowstone Wolf and Cougar Project)

The alpha female of a Yellowstone gray-wolf pack has defied the odds by having a 10th litter of pups at the age of 11.

The one-eyed wolf elder, named Wolf 907F, gave birth to her latest litter last month, the Cowboy State Daily reported. Gray wolves (Canis lupus) have an average life span of three to four years, so it's rare for them to reach 11, let alone have pups at that age.

Wolf 907F has given birth to pups every year for a decade straight since she became sexually mature, which Kira Cassidy, a research associate at the Yellowstone Wolf Project, said is likely a record for the wolves of Yellowstone National Park.

At age 11, Yellowstone’s Wolf 907F has lived more than twice a wild wolf’s average life expectancy. In this photo from April, she was pregnant with a litter of pups that she’s since given birth to. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

"Every day, I expect that she might die just because she is so elderly, but I've been thinking that for the last few years, and she keeps going," Cassidy told Live Science.

Cassidy has calculated that only about 1 in 250 wolves in Yellowstone make it to their 11th birthday, with just six recorded examples since wolves were reintroduced to the park in 1995. The oldest of all of these great elders lived to 12.5 years, according to the National Park Service.

Wolf 907F lies in the snow in Yellowstone in 2015. (Image credit: Kira Cassidy/NPS)

Wolf 907F is the oldest wolf to have lived her whole life in the park's Northern Range, where there is more prey but also more competition from other wolves. Wolves rarely die of old age in the wild, and in Yellowstone National Park, the biggest threat is other wolves.

"In a protected place like Yellowstone, their number-one cause of death is when two packs fight with each other," Cassidy said. "That accounts for about half of the mortality."

One of Yellowstone's oldest wolves, Wolf 907F is pictured here with her pack last year. She's the gray collared wolf on the lower left. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

Wolf 907F is the alpha female of the Junction Butte pack, which has between 10 and 35 members at any given time. Cassidy noted that this is a large pack — the average wolf pack size is about 12 individuals — and that reduces the risk of being killed in territorial fights. Wolf 907F's experience also gives her pack an edge.

"Packs that have elderly wolves are much more successful in those pack-versus-pack conflicts because of the accumulated knowledge and the experience that they bring to that really stressful situation," Cassidy said.

Wolf 907F has likely boosted her pack's survival chances outside of battle, too. Cassidy noted that the Junction Butte pack rarely leaves Yellowstone's border and that Wolf 907F is "savvy" when it comes to things like crossing roads and avoiding humans.

Wolf 907F, Yellowstone's aging matriarch at 11 years old, only has one eye. She's the fourth wolf to pass by this trail cam. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

What makes Wolf 907F even more impressive is that she does all of this with only one functioning eye. Researchers aren't sure what happened, but her left eye has been small and sunken since before she turned 4. "You would never know [when] watching her," Cassidy said.

Like other elders, Wolf 907F takes a back seat in hunts now that she's older, and she spends most of her day hanging around with the pack's pups. Cassidy and her colleagues have counted three pups in her current litter, which is smaller than the average litter size of four to five but not surprising. A 2012 study of Yellowstone wolves published in the Journal of Animal Ecology found that litter size declines with age.

"The fact that 907 is still having pups is amazing, and her litter being small is expected given that she is so old," Cassidy said.

A few of Wolf 907F's offspring now lead packs of their own, but most of her pups never reach adulthood due to the perilous nature of being a wolf. However, Wolf 907F and the others in the park don't seem to live like death is on their mind.

"They are happy to be with their family going from day to day," Cassidy said. "Even if they have injuries or are missing an eye or something really stressful is going on in their life, they move through that stress and go back to seemingly really enjoying their life."

At age 11, Yellowstone's Wolf 907F - the gray wolf in the center of this photo from 2020- has lived more than double the typical lifespan of wolves in the wild. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

[aboodfamily2]

My fundraising campaign has been deleted🚨‼️😭

Note: Today I suddenly lost my campaign, gofundme decided to close it after reaching $60,000, I only got $23,000 and lost about $37,000, it wasn't easy after I worked day and night to raise money to save my family from war, I'm going to start now from scratch and need your support💔‼️

Hello again, I am Abood from Gaza, I live in war, fear and destruction, we have been living for almost a year and a half now and we do not know how long, we have been displaced from our house more than 11 times

She got married 10 months ago amid the horrors of war. We dreamed of a bright future, but the war destroyed our home and everything we planned. We lost our livelihood after my father’s shops I worked in were destroyed after graduating with accounting. We had to move dozens of times in search of safety, but no safety here, only fear and constant death

Today, my sick wife and I live in a small tent that does not from the heat of summer or the cold of winter, amid insects and pollution that aggravates their health. I dream of surviving, traveling far from this hell, but the cost of leaving exceeds our ability

Things here are harder than you think, and the reality hurts 😭💔

We wake up every day to the smell of death, tanks and helicopters have surrounded me more than 4 times, and every time I don’t know how to live? It seems that my death has not yet come

I and my family don’t want to die 🥺🙏

I beg you to reach out to save our lives, the only chance we have left is to help you

My campaing vetted by

@90-ghost / @dlxxv-vetted-donations

[heritageposts]

I'm writing again to spotlight the GFM campaign of @nourfamily1989, a mother of five in Gaza.

If you've been following Nour's story, you probably already know that last month was very difficult for her and her family. It began with Nour being injured in a bombing, and ended with the family being displaced yet again, this time to an area even more crowded than the last so-called "safe zone."

Now her oldest son, Muhammad (13), has started bleeding from his ear, and Nour is worried he might lose his hearing if he can't get medical treatment soon.

In her post about Muhammad, she writes:

We faced endless suffering for 11 months. With the continued bombing day and night. We kept wondering when this nightmare will end????? Do you still hear our cries?? To those who have compassion. Don't abandon us.

Let's do whatever we can to make sure that Nour does not feel like she's being abandoned. If you can, please donate; if not, then help by sharing.

Donation link (GFM)

For info about how Nour's fundraiser has been vetted and organized, see this post by @/killy.

The goal for Nour's campaign is now to reach the next milestone of $25,000. For every 5k we raise, we're one step closer to ensuring her entire family will be able to evacuate if the Rafah crossing should reopen in the near future.

Currently: $20,991 / $25,000

Total GFM goal: $90,000

[whatsverstappeningnow]

you inspire me

‏max vertstappen x author!reader

★ smau ★ after years of hard work, author!reader's third novel is finally released and fans can't help but notice the similarities between the book's main love interest and the authors real life boyfriend...

yourusername

liked by max.verstappen, booklover2 and more

after years of writing, years of meetings, years of plot ideas written on the back of restaurant napkins and promptly forgotten at the bottom of my handbag, 'This Time, Gently' is one week away from being yours. this book is my love letter to how beautiful my life has become, and i owe it all to you guys. thank you for your patience, your constant love and support and, most of all, your time. signed (with love), y/n.

comments

bookishwithbri crying in the club over a caption 😭 can’t wait to hold this book in my hands

coolgirlhq youre my MUSE

romanceismyreligion “this time, gently” sounds like it's going to hurt in the softest, most beautiful way

userlibrary “my love letter to how beautiful my life has become” OKAY WELL NOW I’M SOBBING

max.verstappen proud of you always ❤️

-> yourusername your support is the spine of every story i’ve ever told. thank you, always.

-> user4 omg my emotional support celeb couple

-> formulafiction name a cuter couple than them. i'll wait.

writtenbymoonlight i’ll be clearing my schedule for this. just me, tea, tissues, and your words 📖

softf1edits t minus 7 days till release. i just know we arent ready for this.

redbullracing This book is going straight on the shelf next to Max’s trophies

-> yourusername i'll give you a signed copy <3

lilymunihe i'm sat. i'm so incredibly sat. i'm already waiting outside a bookstore for it to be released. so ready for all the feels.

-> yourusername 💌🤍

max.verstappen chapter 11 is my favourite 😀

-> yourusername MAX SHHHHH 🤫

-> softf1edits ok what does he know that we dont

-> user8 babes what DOESN'T he know. he's probably read it three times already

-> softf1edits simp max is my favourite

-> yourusername same <3

comment liked by max.verstappen

yourusername has posted to her story

replies

max.verstappen admit it, you love race days too

-> yourusername only because i get to kiss you good luck

-> max.verstappen you don't have to wait until race day for that

-> yourusername noted... completely unrelated but are you still sim racing right now?

-> max.verstappen i'll turn off the camera, come kiss me.

yourusername

liked by max.verstappen, coolgirlhp and more

and finally, she's yours too. please love her (gently) signed (with love), y/n.

comments

thequietreader y/n calling her book 'her' like an old friend is actually se deeply important to me. we will love her gently.

racerreads I've only read the dedication and im already locked in

-> racerreads "for max, who taught me love was more than a fairytale, and everyone who's still waiting for their soulmate" DO I CRY????

-> writtenbymoonlight omg NO WAY thats the dedication, my girl is so in love im so jealous

comment liked by yourusername

max.verstappen The wait was worth it. Can’t wait to see everyone fall in love with her, just like I did.

-> yourusername 🥺🤍 my biggest supporter always

verstappenfan just a reminder: reading gently includes crying quietly in the corner. thank you for this gift, y/n.

booklover99 max's comment omllll "fall in love we her" LIKE BRO WE KNOW YOU MEAN Y/N *AND* THE BOOK. WE KNOW.

-> literary_soul when any other driver rocks up at the 'best boyfriend' party but max is already there... 🧍‍♂️

-> george.russell ouch

-> alex.albon ouch

-> oscar.piastri ouch

-> charles.leclerc ouch

-> lando.norris ouch (but fair)

-> booklover99 LANDO. HA.

fastreader I’m going to need everyone to lock in and read this book QUICK cause I have something to say about the inspiration for the love interest and I’m only 2 chapters in…

post-quali interview...

yourusername

liked by max.verstappen, booklover2 and more

my muse <3 you love me plenty signed (with love), y/n.

comments have been restricted for this post

max.verstappen yours ❤️

had this idea in my head for a while, just a short (and my first ever) smau <3... requests open!

[lovableapocalypse]

weather the storm

dr. jack abbot x female!wife!reader

wc: 1.8k

summary: you take you and jack's son to the er in the middle of the night when he's sick, but your marriage happens to be on the rocks atm

warnings: reader and jack have 11 year old son, medical inaccuracies, mentions of marital differences/separation, mentions of surgery/medical procedures, established relationship, light angst but happy ending, not canonically accurate, reader has her dogs out

a/n: i don't know why i'm struggling so bad to characterize/write for abbot but i hope this does him justice. i def think he's more goofy in the show but this is a more sensitive situation so idk? i hope you like it okay!!! ugh!!!! i want to write sm more for him so maybe it will come easier to me

You were deep in sleep when you felt a familiar small hand grasp your shoulder. Your eyes shot open and you inhaled sharply as you sat up on your elbow. Your son’s face came into your weary vision. He was grasping your arm and bent over the bed, a distressed look on his face. 

“Mom.” He spoke in a pained whisper. 

“Benjamin?” You blink and clear your eyes, anxiety skyrocketing at the sight of Jack and your son’s form. You grab onto his arm that’s gripping your body and squeeze. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

His voice is soft and broken, “My side. My side really hurts.”

You sit up immediately and push the covers back. “Your side?” 

You run your hands over his arms and move the one that’s covering his midsection, lifting his pajama top. It looks normal to the eye.

“Here?” You place a gentle hand on him.

He nods, grimacing. 

You curse under your breath and stand, guiding Ben to sit on the edge of your mattress. It’s definitely his appendix and you’re praying to yourself it hasn’t ruptured.

You grab your phone off the nightstand. “You’re okay, baby.” You reassure him as you dial Jack’s number. 

You know it’s a shot in the dark. Jack was working an overnight shift again and you had been separated for two months now. Your marriage was one full of love and a deep connection to each other, but lately you’d been struggling. He’d been working nights full time and barely saw you. He tried to make time for Ben, which you appreciated, but it was a different story for you. 

You started spending more time at work in his absence and found yourself desperate for his attention. And when you reached a breaking point you pushed him away. You two fought like you’d never fought before and things buried deep inside came to the surface. After the two of you cooled down, you spoke with a marriage counselor and a brief separation was suggested.

So, here you were. At home in the house you used to share, the bed that you still kept to your side of. Jack had gotten a small townhouse closer to the hospital and stopped by for the occasional dinner and to pick up Ben. But, as the phone rang you internally begged him to pick up, all drama aside. 

You get his voicemail. Realistically, you know the ER can get chaotic at night, but you can’t help the curse that escapes again. You toss the phone down and grab your shoes from near the closet, the ones you swore you’d pick up days ago. 

You help Ben move to the car, holding his groaning form up. You hide your fear and anxiety and whisper reassurances to him. 

The dashboard reads 2:38 am as you drive the fastest and safest way you can to the hospital. You park and help your son to the familiar ED’s waiting room. It’s less busy than you would have thought, the night shift seeming to usually catch the weirdest cases. 

The receptionist is one you recognize thankfully, and her eyes shoot up when she sees you and Ben.

“I think it’s his appendix.” Your voice shakes. 

Ben leans into you, his eyes tearing. “Mom-”

“It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re here now.” You repeat. 

The receptionist pages back and Dr. Ellis exits the locked doors with a nurse not a moment later. 

“Abbot?” She uses your last name as she rushes over and assesses Ben’s state. The nurse follows with a wheelchair and she helps you sit Ben in it. 

“I think it’s his appendix. Jack didn’t pick up and I have no idea if it’s ruptured-” 

Ellis cuts off your rambling, “Don’t worry, we got him.”

You follow her as they put Ben in a room and start an IV. You step forward and run a hand over your son’s hair, trying to comfort him. 

“Is Dad here?” He groans. 

“He’s in Trauma 1.” Ellis answers, giving you a look as she pulls the ultrasound over. 

“He’ll be here in a little, baby.” 

Ben nods but drops his head back defeatedly. 

Ellis moves closer to her boss’s son and speaks gently. “I’m going to lift your shirt and check out what’s going on, okay, kid?” 

Ben nods and she puts the soft gel on the wand, moving it over his abdomen. She watches the screen and Ben holds onto your hand, wincing softly. 

Ellis hums to herself, before placing the wand back and wiping your son’s side. “Good news is it’s not ruptured yet. I’m going to admit him to General Surgery and they’ll get him in pre-op.”

“He needs surgery?” You thought you’d heard of doctors being able to reverse appendicitis with medication. 

She nods. “It’s pretty inflamed, I’m not sure the antibiotics would work in time to stop a rupture.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah. Thank you. Can- can you just get Jack when you have a chance?” You know he’s working and you’re not in the best place but you want him here. 

“Of course.” She takes a moment to explain what’s going on to Ben before exiting. You sit on the edge of the mattress and squeeze Ben’s hand, trying to soothe him. 

Jack had been in Trauma 1 when you had entered the ER. A GSW had come in through the ambulance bay and the patient was critical. He had spent the first 10 minutes coding him, then working to stabilize him enough to send him up to the OR. 

When he finally exited and shoved off his gown, exhaling a deep sigh, he wasn’t in the mood to find out why Ellis was moving towards him in such a grim way. 

He went to glance up at the board but Ellis’ tone caught him off guard. 

“Dr. Abbot,” Her inhale was shaky, “Your son is in South 15.”

His world stopped. His years of training and education abandoned him in that singular moment. “What?” His voice was barely audible. 

“Your wife brought him in, looks like appendicitis. It’s inflamed and I don’t think there’s time for antibiotic treatment. He’s getting prepped for General Surgery-” He didn’t stay to hear her finish. His movements were controlled but hurried as he moved to the curtain he would find you behind. 

He shoved the curtain back and took in the scene before him. You were sitting on the small hospital bed, still in your tank top, striped pajama pants, and familiar worn flip-flops you’d had since before Ben was even born. You were whispering soft words to your son. Your son, whose face was scrunched up and who was lying back in a hospital gown, IV dripping into his arm. 

You turned at the curtain’s movement and sighed deeply in relief. Ben glanced up. 

“Dad.”

Jack was by his side in an instant. “You okay, buddy? What happened?” 

You stood and watched Jack run his hand over Ben’s hair, pushing the curls he’d inherited from the man back. 

Ben spoke softly, “My side started hurting, it woke me up. I woke Mom up and she brought me here.”

“I tried to call. I got here as quick as I could-” You continued. 

“You did everything right.” Jack nodded, his voice soft and eyes firm. 

He grabbed a pair of gloves from the box on the wall and pulled the ultrasound machine back over. 

You knew he trusted Ellis and her professional opinion, but he also wanted to make sure his son was okay for himself. 

Ben laid back as his dad examined his abdomen. You ran a hand over your bedhead and watched Jack shift into the all too familiar doctor he was. His expression unreadable, his movements precise. 

He wiped the machine and his son’s stomach before speaking, “You’ll be okay, kid. One less appendix for you.” He smirked, winking at the young boy.  

Ben smiled weakly at his dad and you let out the breath you’d been holding. Hearing that everything would be okay from Jack was the most reassurance you could get at that moment. 

A few more nurses came in, giving Jack sympathetic glances and prepping Ben to head to the OR. When Ellis came back in and gave the all good, you pressed a long kiss to your son’s head. Jack squeezed his hand and whispered ‘I love yous’ in his ear. You watched as they wheeled him towards the elevator. 

You knew he would be okay and that he was in the best hands, but your eyes watered. The night was catching up with you. A sob wracked through you and Jack watched your shoulders shake. 

He stepped close behind you, his hands finding your shoulders and his mouth pressing a soft kiss to your head.

“It’s okay.” His voice was quiet and that was all you needed to let the tears fall. 

Turning in his arms, you fell into his chest. His familiar hands, rough and calloused, wrapped around your crying form and his head came to rest on yours. 

It was overwhelming. Ben needing surgery in the middle of the night and Jack not being there next to you to know or help. You let yourself cry for a while, before pulling back. You said nothing as you let Jack lead you to the elevator. 

He kept his arm around you as you moved to the surgical floor. He sat with you in the waiting room, even finding a PTMC hoodie to wrap around your shoulders. He didn’t push you. He let you lean on him and intertwine your fingers with his. 

“Do you need to go back down to the ER?” You sniffle, head on his shoulder. 

“Shen can manage. I told him to page me only if there’s an emergency. I’m not going anywhere.” He squeezed your hand. 

You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, serious and soft. 

“I’m sorry,” you start, “about everything. Tonight- the whole night, I just kept wishing you were there with me. That I didn’t have to worry about calling or you being across town if something happened.” 

A tear escapes as you continue, “I don’t like this. Not knowing where we stand. It’s killing me. I miss you, Jack. All the time.”

His face contorts in emotion and he swallows before responding in that soft tone of his. “I miss you too. All the time. I’m sorry, baby. I thought- I thought this would help. That you’d feel better away from me.”

Your head shakes and a few more tears fall. “I don’t, I don’t. I want you to come home.”

His thumb catches your tears as he takes in your words. His touch is soft and casual, a motion you’d found comfort in for years.

His jaw visibly clenches and his nod is firm, but it carries the emotion you know he’s feeling. “I want that, too. I want you, Ben, all of us together.”

“Together.” You repeat and clutch his hand tighter. 

He pulls you into his arms and you let him. You fall into him for the first time in months with no second guesses. No imaginary lines being crossed. 

You feel his lips graze your hairline and you pull back slightly, hands cupping his face. His lips find yours easily and it feels brand new again. Your heart full and your mind at ease. 

“We’ll be okay.” His words wrap around you like his arms and you know in all certainty they’re true.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 11: December 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

EXCLUSIVE: MAX VERSTAPPEN ON LEGACY, LOVE, AND LIFE BEYOND THE TRACK

Max Verstappen has nothing left to prove. At just 26, the Dutch driver has secured his third consecutive Formula 1 World Championship, cementing his place among the sport’s greats.  A record-breaking season. The most dominant year of his career.

Sitting down with us in the aftermath of his 2023 season, Verstappen is more reflective than ever—about racing, his future, and, unexpectedly, love.

“I’m just really happy with where I am,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a rare, easy smile. “It’s been an incredible year, not just on the track but personally too.”

For a driver known for his laser focus and relentless pursuit of perfection, the mention of his personal life is intriguing. Verstappen has always been fiercely private, but for the first time, he opens up—just a little—about the woman who has been by his side through it all.

“She’s been amazing,” he says with a rare softness. “Just always there, supporting me. It makes a difference, having that stability, someone who understands what this life is like but also makes it feel normal. Racing is intense, it takes so much out of you, and having someone who understands that, who knows when to push and when to just be there… it makes a difference.”

There’s a softness in his voice that is unexpected, a rare glimpse into a side of Verstappen few get to see. While he doesn’t reveal her name, it’s clear she holds a special place in his life.

“I’ve been learning French,” he reveals, smiling. “It’s… a work in progress. But I hear it a lot at home now, so I’m trying. I think it’s important to make an effort, to meet someone halfway.”

The mention of home is deliberate—he’s no longer just passing through Monaco, but truly settling in. For a driver who once lived and breathed racing with little room for anything else, that shift is telling.

And when asked about his future outside of F1, his answer is telling: “Marriage with her? Yes, definitely,” he said with the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants. “One day, I want a family. I want kids. I think that’s something really special.”

Still, don’t mistake contentment for complacency. If anything, Verstappen seems more driven than ever. “I love what I do,” he says simply. “And I love coming home after, too.”

As Verstappen looks ahead to 2024, his goals remain the same: keep winning, keep pushing, keep proving that his dominance is no accident. But for the first time, it seems like he’s racing toward something more than just trophies. And perhaps, that’s what truly makes a champion.

Comments: 

@/F1Obsessed: MAX VERSTAPPEN. LEARNING FRENCH. FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND. WE HAVE WON.

@/RedBullRacingUpdates: “I hear it a lot at home now” HOLD ON. HOME?????? HE LIVES WITH HER?????

@/MonacoGossip: So Max has a girlfriend. He’s learning French. He hears it a lot at home. CONCLUSIONS ARE BEING DRAWN.

@/PitLanePrincess: No bc WHO is she. WHO is this woman who has Max Verstappen learning a whole new language.

@/SoftMaxxie: “She makes it feel normal” I’M SORRY BUT THAT’S SO CUTE I NEED A MOMENT

@​​DR3Stan: Max is really out here being domesticated and thriving.

@/CharlesFanatic: French. Girlfriend. Monaco apartment. squints at every French-speaking woman in the paddock

@/TheGridTea: The way he just casually dropped that he’s LEARNING FRENCH for her like that’s a normal thing. Max, sir, you are in love.

@/CheckeredHeart: Not me downloading Duolingo because if Max Verstappen can learn French for love, so can I.

@/OversteerQueen: The fact that he didn’t even realize he was basically confirming he lives with her… Max, babe, you’re so in love.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: I need to go through Max’s entire Instagram with a fine-tooth comb IMMEDIATELY. There must be something.

@/F1Troll: Duolingo about to see a spike in Dutch users trying to figure out what Max is learning.

@/DR3Honeybadger: “I hear it a lot at home” SO YOU’RE SAYING HE GOES HOME TO HER. MAX VERSTAPPEN GOES HOME TO HIS GIRLFRIEND.

@/BoxBoxBox: Max Verstappen being all “oh yeah, my girlfriend this, my girlfriend that” like we KNOW who she is. SIR, WHO??

@/FormulaHeartbreak: I thought I was prepared for soft domestic Max but I WAS NOT.

@/TifosiDrama: Charles Leclerc’s face when he realizes his biggest rival is learning his language for his mystery girlfriend.

@/SidepodShenanigans: Forget the championship, I need an in-depth investigation into WHO this woman is and how she has Max Verstappen willingly studying.

@​​/ChecoFan88: We’re never getting her identity confirmed, are we? Max is just going to keep saying “my girlfriend” like it’s a classified government secret.

@/F1Obsessed: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID “MARRIAGE WITH HER? YES, DEFINITELY.” HELLO??? WHO IS SHE???

@/LandoNorrisFanclub: I need someone to look at me the way Max Verstappen looks at his mystery girlfriend that none of us have ever seen.

@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen, the man who once said all he needed was sim racing and his cats, is out here talking about marriage and kids. Character development.

@/Formula1Fanatic: Max in 2021: “I don’t need friends, I have sim racing.” Max in 2023: “I want kids, a home, and a life beyond the paddock.” What did this woman DO TO HIM???

@​​LightsOutMax: This man used to refuse to even acknowledge personal questions and now he’s out here basically writing wedding vows. Love really changes people.

@/PaddockPrincess: If Max Verstappen, king of emotional repression, is out here openly talking about love and marriage… yeah, she’s the one.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Spotted: Pretty sure I just saw Isabelle Leclerc buying baby clothes…??? Is there a Leclerc niece/nephew we don’t know about? 👀

@/F1Updates: oh we’re COOKING today. someone get the conspiracy board out. it’s time.

@/ItsAboutDrive: Charles is gonna be an uncle????? 🍼

@/mclarenny: Wait wait wait Isabelle has a boyfriend??? Did i miss a chapter???

@/verstappensupremacy: me, knowing damn well who her boyfriend is, sipping my tea calmly 😌🍵

@/gridgossip: LECLERC BABY ERA INCOMING??? ISABELLE WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US RIGHT BEFORE THE WINTER BREAK

@/f1blonde: If Isabelle Leclerc is pregnant and we don't even know who the dad is,  i'm going to personally storm the monaco royal palace

@/f1insiderz: to be clear: no confirmation of anything, she was spotted in a boutique, could be a gift, could be for someone else, could be NOTHING (we’re still gonna lose our minds though)

@/chequeredflag: me trying to stay calm: it’s probably just a present also me: ISABELLE LECLERC BABY ERA CONFIRMED 😭

@/charlesincrisis: charles: what a peaceful day

twitter: ur sister might be pregnant

charles: 🧍🏻‍♂️

@/reasonableracer: guys: take a breath. Victoria Verstappen is literally pregnant. And CHRISTMAS IS IN 24 DAYS. Maybe Isabelle is just buying baby clothes for HER FRIEND’S BABY. 

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHY ISABELLE WAS JUST SPOTTED BUYING BABY CLOTHES??

Charles: WHAT???

Arthur: LOOK AT THIS. [attaches screenshot of a Twitter post: “Pretty sure I just saw Isabelle Leclerc buying baby clothes…??? Is there a Leclerc niece/nephew we don’t know about? 👀”]

Lorenzo: Isabelle. Tell me this is a joke.

Isabelle: Calm down. It’s not a big deal.

Arthur: NOT A BIG DEAL??? WHY ARE YOU BUYING BABY CLOTHES???

Isabelle: Because they’re cute?? 

Charles: …What?

Lorenzo: Isabelle, that’s not an answer.

Isabelle: I just like them, okay?

Charles: Wait. Is there something you need to tell us?

Arthur: OH MY GOD. ARE YOU PREGNANT?

Isabelle: No. 

Arthur: Then WHY are you buying baby clothes??

Isabelle: First of all, a friend of mine is pregnant, so I bought some as a gift. Secondly, I like baby clothes! I have a whole box of them at home!

Charles: A WHOLE BOX???

Arthur: ISABELLE. THAT MAKES IT WORSE.

Lorenzo: WHY DO YOU HAVE A BOX OF BABY CLOTHES WITH NO BABY??

Isabelle: Because I’ve been collecting them for years!

Charles: …Years??

Arthur: But… for what?

Isabelle: For when I have a baby one day??

Lorenzo: One day?? Isabelle, you don’t even have a boyfriend.

Charles: Yeah. Who exactly are you planning this baby with?

Isabelle: Excuse me??

Arthur: I mean… it’s a little weird, right? Collecting baby clothes for years when there’s no sign of a baby happening anytime soon?

Charles: It’s just… I don’t know, kind of pointless?

Isabelle: Wow. Okay.

Arthur: We’re just saying—

Isabelle: No, I get it. It’s weird because I have them. If someone else did, it’d be sweet. But because it’s me, it’s just sad and pathetic, right?

Lorenzo: We didn’t say that.

Isabelle: You didn’t have to.

Arthur: Come on, don’t be like that.

Isabelle: No, really. It’s fine. I’ll make sure to run all my future life choices by you three first so I don’t embarrass the Leclerc name.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: So… my brothers are currently having an absolute meltdown.

Emilie: What did you do? Actually, wait—what do they think you did?

Isabelle: Oh, nothing major. Just bought some baby clothes.

Emilie: …Are you pregnant?

Isabelle: NO!

Emilie: Okay, just checking! So why are they freaking out?

Isabelle: Because I told them I have a box of baby clothes at home, and now they think I’m insane.

Emilie: Pffft. That’s not insane. That’s just you.

Isabelle: THANK YOU.

Emilie: Seriously, I don’t know why they’re acting so shocked. You were the girl who had a wedding binder at thirteen and a full baby name list by fifteen.

Isabelle: It was color-coded.

Emilie: Of course it was. Because you plan ahead. It’s not weird—it’s just you being Belle.

Isabelle: It’s just a small box of things I’ve collected over the years…

Emilie: Honestly, I don’t get why they’re so weird about it. Like, I don’t want kids, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s strange that you do.

Isabelle: You don’t?

Emilie: I will personally never deal with sticky fingers or 3 AM crying, but you? You’re gonna be an amazing mom one day. And when that happens, I will spoil your kids rotten.

Isabelle: You’re the best.

Emilie: I know. Now, do you need me to help you pick out more baby clothes? Because I will fully commit to this.

Isabelle: I might have seen a few more things today that were cute.

Emilie: I’m in. 

***

Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Updates: LMAO, not pregnant, just buying Christmas presents for literally anyone with a baby. I can’t.

@/ItsAboutDrive: Sadly Charles is not gonna be an uncle 😭 Isabelle literally went on to Instagram to shut down these rumours

@/mclarenny: It’s honestly insane that we need a full IG story to clear up the rumors. Just let her buy a few baby clothes in peace…

@/verstappensupremacy: The fact she had to make that statement is just... wild. Why do we live in a world where women can't even buy baby clothes without everyone assuming they’re pregnant?

@/leclercslens: Honestly, it’s not even funny. If she was pregnant, it’s her news to share, and people jumping to conclusions is gross. Let her live her life!

@/gridgossip: LECLERC BABY ERA INCOMING??? ISABELLE WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US RIGHT BEFORE THE WINTER BREAK

@/f1blonde: If Isabelle Leclerc is pregnant and we don't even know who the dad is,  i'm going to personally storm the monaco royal palace

@/chequeredflag: Imagine buying a gift for a baby and then having to do a whole Instagram story just because people have assumptions😭

***

The winter sun slanted low through the living room windows, casting golden stripes across the hardwood floors.

Isabelle sat cross-legged on the carpet, the lid of the old storage box propped up against the coffee table.

 Inside: soft cotton onesies, tiny knitted booties, delicate little cardigans wrapped in tissue paper.

 A tiny quilt she had picked up at a market in Paris three years ago, too lovely to leave behind.

She hadn’t meant to pull it all out today.

It had just... happened.

Maybe because the fight with her brothers was still lingering under her skin, the words they hadn’t said loud enough to name — weird, sad, pathetic — scratching at her confidence like sandpaper.

Isabelle carefully unfolded a tiny pair of socks, brushing her thumb lightly over the soft fabric.

She hadn’t even heard the door open.

"Hey," Max’s voice came, warm and familiar from behind her. "You’re back early."

She turned, startled — and froze.

Max stood just inside the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair tousled, still a little flushed from training.

His eyes dropped to the scene in front of her. The open box. The tiny clothes.

Isabelle’s stomach twisted painfully.

"I—" she stammered, already rushing to shove the lid back on, to stuff the pieces away. "It’s nothing. I was just... cleaning. I should put this away."

But before she could, Max was there, crouching down beside her, one hand gently catching her wrist.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "You don’t have to hide it."

She looked at him helplessly, the shame still hot and heavy in her chest. "I know it’s weird," she muttered. "You don’t have to pretend."

Max just shook his head, slow and certain.

"It’s not weird," he said simply. "It’s you."

He reached into the box without hesitation, pulling out a tiny, soft grey onesie embroidered with a little fox.

He smiled — a small, real smile that made her chest ache.

"This is adorable," he said, running his thumb lightly over the fabric. "You’ve had all this ready. Just waiting."

Isabelle swallowed hard. "It’s stupid," she whispered. "I don’t even know if—when—"

Max set the onesie carefully on her knee, and took her face in his hands.

"You’re going to be an incredible mother someday," he said, steady and sure, like it was a fact written in the stars. "And it’s not stupid to dream about it."

Tears stung behind her eyes, burning hot and fast.

"I’m not in a rush," she said quickly, panicked, because the last thing she wanted was for him to feel trapped. "I’m not—this isn’t pressure, I swear—"

Max’s thumb brushed under her eye, catching the first tear before it could fall.

"I know," he said. "I know you’re not rushing. And I’m not scared."

He smiled again — small, crooked, devastating. "I want that with you. One day. When you’re ready. When we’re ready."

Isabelle let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch.

Max kissed her forehead, lingering there for a long moment, like he could press all his promises into her skin.

“I hope they have your heart,” he murmured.

“I hope they have your eyes,” Isabelle whispered, half-laughing through the emotion that suddenly welled up in her chest.

They stood there for a long moment — Max with his arm around her, Isabelle resting against his shoulder, the box of tiny dreams between them.

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel silly for hoping.

 Didn’t feel foolish for wanting.

She just felt… safe.

 Held.

Seen.

***

The meeting was supposed to be quick.

 Just a light debrief before the holidays — finalize a few schedules, exchange terrible Secret Santa gifts, maybe sneak out early and pretend they were already on break.

It wasn’t supposed to turn into... whatever this was.

GP, casually flipping through his notes, glanced at Max and said, "You sorted your Christmas break yet, mate?"

Max shrugged. "Mostly."

Then, without warning, he pulled a folder from his backpack and slid it across the table like it was nothing.

"Also, this is for you."

GP raised an eyebrow, visibly suspicious. "What's this?"

Max leaned back lazily, arms stretched over the chair next to him. "Kitchen plans," he said. "Merry Christmas."

Checo, half-listening at first, glanced up. Kitchen plans?

GP cracked open the folder, frowning. Max was utterly relaxed, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"Belle helped draw it up. Should make it easier," Max added, casual as anything.

Checo’s brain stalled on one word.

 Belle.

 Belle?

 Belle?

Across the table, Checo slowly straightened, feeling a weird knot twist in his chest.

 Surely Max didn’t mean—

 No.

 No way.

"Belle," Checo repeated carefully, watching Max’s face.

Max nodded once, calm and easy. "Yeah."

Checo looked at the folder again.

 Then at Max.

 Then back at the folder.

Slow horror dawned in the pit of his stomach.

"Belle like..." Checo said, the words dragging themselves out against his will, "Isabelle Leclerc?"

Max’s answering nod was small but smug. Proud, even.

"Yeah."

Checo stared at him.

 Dead silent.

 The realization hitting him like a slow-motion car crash.

"You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s little sister," Checo said aloud, more for his own sanity than anyone else's.

 Not a question. A statement. A grim acknowledgment.

Max’s smirk widened, barely restrained.

"Yes," he said again, almost cheerfully.

Checo just sat there for a long moment, frozen in place, wondering at what point in life he had taken the wrong turn that led him to this exact situation.

Charles was going to kill him just for knowing this information.

Max might survive because Max was Max. But Checo? Checo had a family to think about.

He valued peace. He valued survival.

Very, very carefully, Checo set his coffee down.

"You know what?" he said, pushing his chair back with slow, deliberate movements. "I don't want to know more."

Max tilted his head, amused. "You sure?"

"Completely sure," Checo said firmly, standing up like he needed physical distance from the absolute disaster this could become. "I value my life. I value my continued existence. I don’t want to be an accessory to whatever crime scene this turns into."

Max just chuckled under his breath, spinning his pen between his fingers like the smug bastard he was.

Meanwhile, GP was still utterly oblivious, flipping through the kitchen plans like he’d been handed the Holy Grail.

 "This is under budget," GP muttered, awed. "How the hell—?"

"She’s good at what she does," Max said simply, stealing a sip of his Red Bull like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

Checo rubbed a hand over his face.

 He needed a drink.

Maybe several.

"You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s little sister," he muttered again, mostly to himself. "And now she’s designing kitchens for your engineer. I’m just... I’m going to mind my own business. Completely. Forever."

Max gave him a bright, insufferable thumbs-up.

"Happy holidays," Checo muttered darkly, clutching his coffee like it might save him from the nightmare he was now complicit in. He turned and walked straight out of the meeting room, not daring to look back.

Some things, he decided grimly, were above his pay grade.

Max Verstappen dating a Leclerc was absolutely one of them.

He didn’t want to know more.

He didn’t want to witness more.

And if anyone asked later, Checo would simply say he had no idea, no involvement, no memory of any of it.

Survival first.

Questions never.

***

The kitchen was filled with the soft clatter of dishes and the hum of the coffee machine.

Belle leaned against the counter, scrolling absently through emails on her phone, half-listening to the quiet patter of the cats chasing each other down the hallway.

She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do next.

Quitting had been the right choice — she didn’t doubt that. But for the first time in years, she felt... unmoored.

No title to hide behind.

No company name to make herself sound important.

Just her.

Her phone buzzed, startling her slightly.

Unknown number.

Frowning, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Isabelle Leclerc?"

The voice was vaguely familiar. Polished. Professional.

"This is Daniel Moreau — you worked with us last year on the Chevalier renovation in Beaulieu?"

Her heart lifted in instant recognition. The Moreau project — one of the few she’d truly loved. A quiet, modern transformation of a historic villa. One where the client had listened. Trusted her.

"Yes, of course," Isabelle said, straightening.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," Daniel said warmly. "I just... I was hoping to get in touch with you directly."

Isabelle blinked. "With me?"

"Yes. I know you were working with Atelier Renard before, but I heard you’ve gone independent?"

She hesitated.

 Independent.

Was that what she was now?

"I—" She cleared her throat. "Yes. I’m no longer with them."

"Good," he said, without missing a beat. "Because between you and me, I wasn’t impressed with the rest of their work. You were the reason we kept moving forward…Frankly, we want to work with you. Not the firm. You were the reason the project went so smoothly last time."

Isabelle felt something flicker in her chest — a cautious, disbelieving warmth.

"We’ve bought another property," Daniel continued. "Another historic site. Needs sensitive handling. We were hoping you might be willing to take it on."

Her heart was hammering now.

They wanted her.

Not the company behind her name.

Not the brand.

Her.

"I—I'd love to hear more," she said, keeping her voice steady somehow.

They talked for a few minutes — broad sketches of timelines, budgets, expectations. Nothing binding yet. But real. Solid. Tangible.

When she finally hung up, she stood there for a long moment, the silence of the apartment pressing in around her.

And then it hit her.

She could do this.

Freelancing wasn’t just a fantasy.

It wasn’t some reckless, impossible dream.

She had clients who trusted her.

She had projects she could be proud of.

She didn’t have to disappear into someone else’s firm again.

She could build something of her own.

The realization settled into her bones, slow and sure and so much bigger than she'd expected.

From down the hall, she heard the cats yowl — something crashing into a wall — and a muttered curse from Max, who was apparently trying (and failing) to play referee.

Isabelle laughed under her breath, feeling something unfurl inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Real, solid hope.

Maybe she didn’t need a title to be important.

Maybe she just needed to bet on herself — finally, properly — and not be afraid of being seen.

***

Max wandered out of the hallway, barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower after wrestling two hyperactive cats off the curtains. He found Isabelle standing by the kitchen counter, barefoot too, scrolling through her phone with that look he knew well — half-distracted, half-scheming.

She looked up when she heard him.

 And immediately, he knew.

Something had shifted.

Something good.

He crossed the room lazily, leaned one hip against the counter, and stole a sip of her coffee before she could swat him away.

"Alright?" he asked, pretending to be casual.

Isabelle bit her lip — that tiny, telltale smile she couldn't hide when she was excited.

"I got a call," she said.

Max tilted his head, setting down the cup. "Yeah?"

"Daniel Moreau. From the Chevalier project,” she said, voice careful, like she was still half-afraid to jinx it. "You know — the villa renovation project I did this year?"

Max frowned, sorting through his mental archive — and then remembered.

The client she’d actually liked. The one who sent her a handwritten thank you note. The one she had called reasonable, which for Belle was practically sainthood.

She’d talked about that project differently. Like it had meant something.

"He wants me to take on a new property," she said, almost breathless. "Not with the firm. With me. Freelance."

Max’s chest tightened in a way he hadn’t expected.

 Pride.

He grinned, wide and stupid, and grabbed her by the waist, lifting her off the ground for half a second before she squealed and shoved at his shoulders.

"Max!" she laughed, breathless.

He set her down carefully, brushing her hair out of her face.

"You’re a menace," she accused, cheeks pink, smiling anyway.

He just smirked. "And you’re brilliant."

Isabelle ducked her head, embarrassed, but Max didn’t let go. He never would.

"You’re doing it," he said, quieter now. "On your own."

She nodded, biting her lip again.

"It feels... real. Like maybe I can actually do it."

Max dropped a kiss on her forehead, easy and sure.  "You’re going to be brilliant, schatje. You always were."

Then, grinning wickedly, he added, "Although I guess this means you’re quitting your career as my trophy wife after, what, three weeks?"

Isabelle snorted. "You’re the one who said I should be a trophy wife while I figured things out."

"You were terrible at it," Max teased. "No gold digger instincts. No dramatic shopping sprees. You kept refusing to use the black card."

"I bought the cats toys," she said defensively.

"For like two hundred euros," Max deadpanned. "Pathetic effort."

Isabelle laughed properly then, tipping forward to rest her forehead against his chest.

Max wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

"You’re the worst trophy wife," he said affectionately. "But you’re the best everything else."

She hummed quietly against him, the kind of sound that always made something in him settle.

And just like that — without even thinking about it — a plan started forming in his head.

"You’re going to need space," he said, thoughtful.

Belle blinked. "Space?"

"A proper office," Max said casually, already picturing it. "One of the guest bedrooms. We’ll clear it out this week. Desk, shelving, everything you want. Set it up properly."

She stared at him, stunned.

"You—you don’t have to—"

He cut her off with a soft snort. "You're not freelancing from the kitchen table, Belle. You're not hiding your work anymore."

She bit her lip, eyes shining.

"You’re building something," Max said, voice low and certain. "And you’re doing it here. With me."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: EMILIE

Emilie: Oh god.  What did the cats destroy?

Emilie:  Is Max in jail for killing your brothers? Do I need bail money?

Isabelle: No?? Not this time

Isabelle: This is GOOD news!

Emilie: 👀 I’m listening

Isabelle: Do you remember the Chevalier project??

Isabelle: The villa in Beaulieu with the modern restoration?

Isabelle: The client I actually liked??

Emilie: omg yes

Emilie:  The miracle project. 

Emilie:  The one with the client who sent you a thank-you basket instead of screaming about grout. 

Isabelle: YES

Isabelle: He called me. 

Emilie: Wait what??

Isabelle: He called me directly. Me. not the firm. 

Isabelle: He and his husband bought another property

Isabelle: A historic one and they want me to lead it

Isabelle: me-me

Isabelle:  not me-through-someone-else

Isabelle:  not “representing a firm”

Isabelle:  just me

Isabelle:  freelance

Emilie: OH MY GOD BELLE

Emilie: HOLY SHIT

Emilie: YOU’RE DOING IT

Isabelle: I think I am??

Isabelle:  I think I actually am 😭

Emilie: I’m so proud I could throw up

Isabelle: thank you

Isabelle:  I literally hung up the phone and just stood in the kitchen like. blinking. processing.

Isabelle: Max is already planning to convert a guest room into an office

Isabelle:  he was like “you’re not freelancing from the kitchen table, Belle”

Isabelle:  like it wasn’t even a question

Isabelle:  I think I almost cried??

Emilie: you deserve every bit of this

Emilie: the job

Emilie:​​ the space

Emilie: the love

Isabelle: 😭😭😭

Emilie: now

Emilie:  send me photos of this imaginary office

Emilie:  we're making mood boards

Emilie:  this is not a drill

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Belle,  you’re getting the gifts sorted, right?

Arthur: And can you find a tree?

Arthur:  The one last year was kinda sad.

Charles: Maybe get the ornaments too?

Charles:  Some of them broke last year when Arthur dropped the box.

Arthur: NOT MY FAULT

Charles: Was totally your fault.

Arthur: Ok but Belle dropped it first and I just caught it badly.

Arthur:  Not 100% my fault.

Isabelle: I can get a tree.

Isabelle: But I thought we were all doing gifts separately this year?

Lorenzo: It’s easier if you just coordinate it.

Charles: Yeah like last year.

Arthur: You have the spreadsheets.

Charles: Exactly.

Lorenzo: I’ll send you money for my part.

Arthur: Same ***

Max knew Isabelle liked things to be done properly.

He just hadn’t realized how much of Christmas rested entirely on her shoulders—until he saw it for himself.

He leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching as she moved through the room in a practiced, exhausted sort of rhythm. No music playing, no humming, no bright Christmas energy — just quiet determination.

The dining table was buried under piles of wrapping paper, tissue, and scotch tape.

 The counters were cluttered with cookie tins she had baked and labeled herself— and he knew she had stayed up until two in the morning last night finishing them.

"Belle," Max said quietly. "When was the last time you sat down?"

She didn’t answer right away, too busy fiddling with the tags on a stack of presents. Her movements were brisk, mechanical, like she was running on autopilot.

"I’m almost done," she mumbled.

Max pushed off the doorframe, crossing the room to her. "That's not what I asked."

Isabelle finally looked up at him, and he caught it then — the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of it all.

"I have to finish," she said, voice soft but firm. "There’s still the place settings for dinner, and I have to make sure the boys’ gifts are packed up, and if I don’t do the grocery shopping today, no one will—"

She cut herself off with a frustrated little breath, pressing her fingers to her temple.

Max felt something sharp and angry twist in his chest — but not at her.

 At them.

 At the way her family didn’t even seem to notice how much she did. How much she gave.

"Why does it all fall on you?" he asked, gentler now.

Isabelle shrugged. A small, defeated motion.

"Because if I don’t do it," she whispered, "nobody will."

And Max realized, all at once, that Christmas wasn’t a magical time for Isabelle.

 It was work. It was duty. It was trying to make sure everyone else felt special, even if it meant breaking herself in the process.

He reached out and tugged the ribbon from her hands, letting it drop onto the table.

"Enough," he said quietly.

"But—"

"Belle." His voice left no room for argument. "Enough."

Her lip wobbled, just a little, and Max swore he felt his heart crack.

He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin, and just held her.

 Held her like he could carry the exhaustion for her, even if only for a moment.

"You don’t have to do everything," he murmured. "You shouldn’t have to."

"I just… I want it to be nice," she whispered into his shirt. "For them."

Max kissed the top of her head, fierce and aching with love, unable to come up with an answer to that.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: You know what’s actually insane?

Emilie: That you’re obsessed with my best friend?

Max: That Isabelle plans EVERYTHING and no one even notices.

Emilie: Oh. That. Yeah, it’s infuriating.

Max: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, their mom— they just assume things magically happen.

Emilie: The best part? If she ever didn’t plan something, they’d all just stand around confused like, “Oh, I thought you handled it.”

Max: And she’d probably still feel bad and fix it for them.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: How has she not quit being the family event planner?

Emilie: Because she’s too nice. And apparently, someone has to be the responsible one.

Max: No, but really. Why is she the one who always has to book everything?

Emilie: Because if she doesn’t, nobody will.

Max: They’d just show up at an airport with no flights booked.

Emilie: Or try to go to a fully booked restaurant like, “Oh, you need reservations?”

Max: It’s actually painful to think about.

Emilie: The best was when Arthur’s girlfriend was like, “It’s so cute how he planned our anniversary dinner.”

Max: No. Don’t tell me—

Emilie: ISABELLE BOOKED IT.

Max: I refuse to believe this.

Emilie: She even picked out the gift.

Max: Arthur better be eternally grateful.

Emilie: Oh, no. He just went, “Oh yeah, great,” and moved on with his life.

Max: …I need a moment.

Emilie: I KNOW.

Max: Does anyone EVER actually thank her??

Emilie: Not really. They just assume she enjoys it.

Max: What if she doesn’t?

Emilie: Then she suffers in silence because if she stops, everything falls apart.

Max: I actually hate this.

Emilie: Welcome to my world.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Pascale: Good afternoon my loves!

Pascale: Isabelle, have you finalized the menu for Christmas Eve yet?

Lorenzo: And did you book the restaurant for Christmas Day lunch?

Arthur: Also, did you grab the tree yet?

Pascale: Don’t forget to wrap the presents nicely this year.

Pascale:  Remember last year? Arthur’s wrapping was a disaster.

Arthur: HEY

Arthur:  you gave me like five minutes and no tape!!

Pascale: Also, Isabelle, can you remind everyone about the dress code for Christmas Eve?

Pascale: I want a nice family photo this year. No jeans.

Pascale: I want it to feel festive, but tasteful.

Arthur: CAN I WEAR A CHRISTMAS SWEATER WITH A DINOSAUR

Charles: Maman will actually murder you. 

Lorenzo: And you’re getting gifts for the cousins, right? Maman said you handled it best last year.

Pascale: And don’t forget to bake some of those little cinnamon cookies your brothers love!

Isabelle: Sure.

Isabelle: I’ll handle it.

***

The smell hit him first.

Warm, rich, spicy — the kind of scent that wrapped around your senses and pulled you straight into childhood memories.

 Max inhaled without thinking… and then frowned.

Cinnamon.

He stepped into the kitchen, fully expecting to find Isabelle humming or maybe sneakily sampling cookies fresh from the oven.

Instead, he found her hunched over the counter, moving carefully as she arranged rows of golden-brown cookies onto a cooling rack. Her sleeves were pushed up, her hair pinned back messily. There was flour on her cheek.

And a deep, angry rash beginning to creep up the side of her wrist.

Max's heart dropped.

"Belle," he said sharply, striding over. "What are you doing?"

She jumped, startled, nearly dropping the spatula.

"Max! You scared me."

He caught her hand before she could hide it behind her back. The rash was worse up close — red and inflamed, already beginning to welt. He knew the signs; Isabelle was allergic to cinnamon. Had been since she was a kid.

"You're having a reaction," he said, keeping his voice steady even as his blood simmered with frustration. "Why are you—?"

She gave a small, guilty shrug, trying to tug her hand back.

"It's just a little," she muttered. "It’s fine. I washed my hands a lot. I’ll take something after."

"Belle."

"They like them," she said, almost defensively. "Arthur, Lorenzo and Charles always ask for them. I didn’t want to disappoint them."

Max stared at her, the cookies cooling between them, the kitchen warm and bright but the air between them unbearably heavy.

"You’re allergic," he said, low and rough. "You're hurting yourself. For cookies."

"For my brothers," she corrected softly. "They don't even realize I can't eat them."

The words slipped out, unguarded, and Max felt them land like a punch to the chest.

They didn't even realize.

She baked them every year anyway.

Because she loved them. Because she thought that was what love meant — giving and giving, even when it cost her.

He closed his eyes, the fury, hot and immediate. 

All the work, all the care, all the quiet sacrifices—things her family didn’t even see unless they went undone.

Max opened his eyes and pulled a bowl away from her, setting it firmly on the counter.

"No," he said.

Isabelle blinked up at him, startled. "No?"

"No more," Max repeated. "You’re not doing this. Not for them. Not when it hurts you."

"But—"

Max cupped her face, ignoring the faint cinnamon dust on her cheek.

"I love how much you care," he said, voice low, steady. "I love how much you want things to be perfect for everyone. But you deserve someone who thinks about you, too."

He saw the way her throat bobbed, the way her lashes fluttered like she was trying not to cry.

"You don’t have to earn their love, Belle," Max whispered. "You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep them warm."

And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

 The oven beeped in the background, forgotten.

Finally, Isabelle sagged into him, her forehead pressing into his chest, her hands fisting lightly in his sweater.

Max wrapped his arms around her, holding her together because he knew she’d spent so long holding everyone else.

****

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Your best friend is insane.

Emilie: I assume this isn’t about the fact she alphabetizes her spice rack?

Max: No.

Max:  She’s baking cinnamon cookies.

Max:  FOR HER BROTHERS.

Max:  SHE’S ALLERGIC TO CINNAMON.

Emilie: Oh god.

Emilie:  Again???

Max: AGAIN???

Max:  THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR???

Emilie: Max, breathe.

Emilie: Yes.

Emilie: She does it every year because Arthur and Charles expect it and she doesn’t want to “ruin Christmas.”

Max: THIS ISN’T FUCKING NORMAL.

Max:  SHE’S HAVING A REACTION.

Max:  FROM COOKIES.

Max:  THAT SHE IS MAKING FOR PEOPLE WHO DON’T EVEN NOTICE.

Emilie: Yeah.

Emilie: Welcome to the Leclerc family dynamic.

Emilie: You’re catching up.

Max: No.

Max:  Absolutely not.

Max:  I’m burning the cinnamon.

Max:  I’m throwing the cookies out the window.

Max:  I’m locking her in a room with antihistamines and telling Arthur to choke on store-bought biscuits.

Max:  How has nobody told her she doesn’t have to kill herself for them?

Emilie: Because she thinks love is earning your place.

Emilie: Not just existing and being enough.

Emilie:She’s never really had anyone who told her otherwise.

Max: She does now.

Emilie: Good.

Emilie: Because she deserves better.

Emilie: And if you ever need backup setting fire to the cinnamon cookies, I’m free.

Max: Might take you up on that.

***

Group Chat: Santa’s Elves

(Members: Max, Victoria, Tom and Sophie) 

Victoria: okay troops

Victoria:  Christmas dinner plan is a GO

Victoria:  assignments incoming

Tom: I’m ready

Tom:  already bought festive beer Tom:  and the good wine Tom:  you’re welcome

Sophie: 😂 Love the enthusiasm, Tom

Max: what’s my job? Max: …please nothing that involves cooking

Victoria: relax Victoria: you’re on babysitting duty Victoria: keep the kids alive while we finish food

Max: Easy Max:  i’m their favorite anyway 😎

Sophie: Confirmed.

Sophie:  The boys like Max better than Tom and me combined.

Tom: 😑 i’m buying more wine to cope

Victoria: Mom is doing the main course (queen)

Victoria:  I’m doing the cheeseboard and table set up

Victoria:  Tom’s on drinks duty

Victoria:  Max is kid-wrangling + ordering dessert from that bakery we like

Max: got it

Max:  will order tomorrow morning

Max:  anything specific?

Sophie: something chocolate. always chocolate.

Victoria: and something pretty for Instagram pls

Victoria:  priorities

Tom: if it looks good but tastes bad that’s your fault, Vic

Victoria:  you’re on thin ice

Max: if you two fight the kids are judging

Sophie: The kids already judge

Sophie:  you should hear the Luka critique Tom’s hot chocolate skills

Tom: As long as Max doesn’t set anything on fire we’re good this christmas

Max: no promises 🔥

***

Max’s suitcase was by the door, neat and ready, like always.

She sat on the edge of the couch, fingers curled around a mug of tea she wasn’t drinking, pretending the ache in her chest was just from the cold — not from the knowledge that he was leaving, and she was staying.

They had never made a big thing out of it. They had agreed months ago: Christmas with their own families.

 She hadn’t wanted to impose. And truthfully, she hadn’t thought she was allowed to want anything else.

Max crossed the room, zipping up his jacket, his steps slow like he didn’t want to leave either.

"You sure you’ll be okay?" he asked softly, crouching in front of her, his hand coming to rest on her knee.

Isabelle smiled, small and careful.

"Yeah," she lied. "It’s just a few days."

Max’s gaze didn’t move from her face. He was too good at reading her now — too good at seeing the spaces between what she said and what she meant.

"You’re dreading it."

It wasn’t a question.

She let out a quiet breath and looked down into her tea.

"They mean well," she said, which wasn’t really true. "They just... expect things. And it’s always a lot. No matter how much I do, it never feels like enough."

Max reached for her hand. He held it carefully, like it might crumble if he wasn’t gentle.

"You don’t have to do it all," he said. "You can say no."

Her throat tightened. "Not with them. You know that."

He didn’t argue.

Just brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"You want me to stay?"

The words were so quiet she almost missed them.

Her eyes shot up to his, wide and startled. "What?"

Max smiled — soft, knowing. "I’d stay. If you asked."

And oh, she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

But she couldn’t be the reason he missed his family.

 The one that actually showed up. The one that divided the work. The one that loved him without conditions.

"You should go," she whispered. "They’ll be waiting."

Max nodded, though his hand didn’t let go of hers right away.

"You text me," he said firmly. "Whenever you need to. If it gets too much. If you just want to vent. Anything."

Isabelle nodded. "I will."

Max leaned in, kissed her forehead — slow and lingering — then pressed his mouth to her temple, like he was trying to pass all his steadiness into her through the skin.

"You come to me the moment you need a break, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

And then he was gone — suitcase in hand, footsteps echoing down the hall, the door clicking shut behind him.

She sat in the quiet, tea still untouched, the weight of the upcoming holiday settling back over her like a too-heavy coat.

A few days.

 She could survive a few days.

Even if it meant smiling through disappointment.

 Even if it meant being everyone’s glue while no one held her together.

She stared at the blinking Christmas lights, silent and still, and braced herself.

***

The pet carrier sat on the passenger seat, tiny but somehow loud, the small bundle inside meowing indignantly every few seconds.

"I know, I know," Isabelle murmured, glancing over as she pulled into the underground parking. "Almost there, little one. Just hold on."

The breeder had handed her the kitten that morning, wrapped up in a soft blanket, small and wriggling and so full of attitude that Isabelle had immediately thought, Yes. You’re perfect for us.

A Bengal — fiery little spirit, spotted coat shining under the winter sun, with eyes so impossibly blue they hardly looked real.

Max was going to lose his mind.

She smiled to herself as she carried the carrier carefully up the elevator to the apartment. The plan was simple: keep the kitten separated from Sassy and Jimmy for a few days. Let her adjust. Let them adjust.

Slow introductions, every guide said. Boundaries.

She set the carrier down in the guest bedroom, heart pounding with excitement.

"You have a few days to settle in before Max gets back," Isabelle whispered, unlocking the carrier door. "Nice and quiet. No stress."

The kitten immediately barreled out of the carrier, straight into her lap, climbing up Isabelle’s chest like she was a mountain to be conquered.

Isabelle laughed, steadying her with gentle hands.

"You’re trouble already," she murmured fondly.

She sat with the kitten for a while, letting her explore the little setup — litter box, toys, cozy blankets. Everything ready.

Then came the problem.

The door.

She had just cracked it open to slip out quietly when two familiar blurs appeared: Jimmy first, then Sassy, both clearly having heard the new sounds and smells.

Sassy sat elegantly just outside the threshold, blinking slowly. Jimmy practically vibrated with excitement, already chirping.

"Not yet," Isabelle whispered. "You’re supposed to meet her later, carefully, slowly—"

The kitten, of course, had other plans.

Before Isabelle could stop her, she wobbled toward the door on still-clumsy legs, let out one fierce little meow, and plopped herself directly in front of Sassy.

For a split second, Isabelle panicked, heart racing.

And then—

Sassy lowered her head slowly, gave the kitten a long, inspecting sniff... and purred.

Isabelle blinked.

 Jimmy, emboldened, bounded forward and nudged the kitten with his nose.

The kitten immediately batted at Jimmy’s ear, clearly delighted, and Jimmy flopped onto his side with a happy trill, inviting her to climb all over him.

Isabelle stood frozen, watching her careful, responsible plan unravel in real time — and somehow turn into magic.

The kitten was already nuzzling into Sassy’s side, purring like a tiny engine.

 Jimmy rolled onto his back, paws waving playfully in the air.

There was no hissing. No swatting. No stress.

Just acceptance.

 Immediate, unquestioning.

A soft lump rose in Isabelle’s throat.

They already loved her.

 No slow introductions needed. No hesitation.

Just home.

Isabelle knelt down carefully, heart full to bursting, and whispered:

"Well. That was easy."

The kitten squeaked and headbutted her hand.

 Jimmy chirped again.

 Sassy blinked at her like, obviously.

Isabelle laughed, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Within minutes, the kitten was curled up between Sassy and Jimmy, purring so loudly her tiny body vibrated.

Belle pressed her hand to her chest, overwhelmed by how right it all felt.

Max was going to lose his mind. In the best way.

She snapped a quick photo — Jimmy snoring, the kitten sprawled across his paw, Sassy watching them both with regal approval — and saved it carefully.

Not sending it yet.

 Wanting Max to be surprised in person.

This — this little chaotic, purring pile of love — was the Christmas she wanted to give him.

Home.

 Family.

 Peace.

Exactly what he deserved.

Exactly what they deserved.

***

The house was warm with the scent of cinnamon and pine, the soft hum of holiday music playing in the background. Wrapping paper littered the floor as Victoria’s two-year-old son toddled between family members, showing off his new toy car, while her boyfriend sat on the couch, trying (and failing) to assemble a playset.

Max sat beside his mother, watching the scene unfold, a rare moment of quiet as the chaos of Christmas morning settled. He reached into the pile of gifts beside him and pulled out a simple, tasteful gift bag.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to Victoria. “This is from Isabelle.”

Victoria looked up from where she was helping her son unwrap another gift. “Isabelle got me something?”

Max shrugged like it was no big deal. “Well, technically for the baby.”

Victoria’s expression softened, and she took the bag, carefully peeling back the tissue paper. Inside was a collection of delicate baby clothes—soft cotton onesies, tiny knitted socks, and an elegant, hand-stitched blanket in muted pastels. She pulled out a small note tucked inside.

For your little girl, with love – Belle.

Victoria stared at it for a long moment before shaking her head with a fond smile. “Max.”

“What?”

She looked up at him, her eyes full of something knowing. “You know I love her, right?”

Max exhaled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I figured.”

“No, I mean it,” Victoria pressed. “She’s… she’s perfect for you.”

Their mother, who had been watching quietly, nodded in agreement. “She is.”

Victoria placed the baby blanket back in the bag, then met Max’s eyes again. “You should marry her.”

Max blinked, feeling his heart stutter for just a second. He didn’t say anything at first, just rolled the thought over in his mind—something he had already done a lot lately.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed. Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “Oh my God. You have been thinking about it.”

Max exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the couch. “I mean… yeah.”

Victoria lit up like a Christmas tree. “Max!”

Their mother smiled knowingly. “You love her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max ran a hand through his hair, a little overwhelmed but not denying it. “I do.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Victoria pressed.

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing, really. I just—I want to do it right.”

Victoria hummed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t want her to feel like it’s rushed. Or that I’m just asking because things are good now, but I haven’t thought about what comes after.” He hesitated. “I know what comes after. And I still want it.”

Victoria’s expression softened even more. “That’s kind of the whole point of marriage, Max.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… I don’t want her to doubt it, even for a second.”

Victoria gave him a long look, then smiled. “She won’t.”

Max exhaled, rubbing at the tension in the back of his neck. “She might. Her family—”

“Is a mess,” Victoria finished for him. “Yeah, I know. But that’s exactly why she’ll believe you. You’re showing her something different. Stability. Love. Someone who actually puts her first.”

Max swallowed, something tight in his throat. “Yeah.”

Victoria smirked. “Also, I’d pay good money to see Charles’ face when you tell him.”

Max let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’ll be… something.”

“You should do it at a race weekend. Really put him on the back foot.”

“Victoria.”

“What? It’d be funny.”

Max rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. His sister had a point, even if she was enjoying the idea of Charles' reaction a little too much.

After a moment, Victoria nudged him with her foot. “So? You gonna do it?”

Max sighed, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

***

Christmas with the Leclercs had always been... complicated.

Isabelle wasn’t naïve enough to expect magic anymore.

 Not after years of being an afterthought.

 Not after years of achievements brushed aside in favor of louder, brighter celebrations for her brothers.

Still— Some small, stubborn part of her had hoped this year would be different.

She had spent days picking out gifts — careful, thoughtful gifts — ones that showed she knew them, that she cared. A rare edition of sneakers from a brand Arthur loved. A custom wine set for Lorenzo. A framed photo restoration for her mother. A new golf carry bag for Charles, with his initials embroidered onto it. 

Things that mattered.

And in return? 

A wall calendar from her mother. (Dogs in silly costumes. Not even horses. Not even cats. Nothing she liked. The tag read simply: "For your office, so you can keep better track of things. Love, Maman.")

A  gift card to a random electronics store she never shopped at from Lorenzo. 

A keychain shaped like a tire from Charles. ("Because you’re a Leclerc too, Isabelle, you’re part of the racing spirit, right?") 

And then from Arthur, the piece de resistance: A crop top. Tight. Neon pink. (“Saw it on sale and thought — this is way more fun than all the beige you wear!”)

Gifts that said: We don’t know you. We didn’t try.

Isabelle kept her smile pinned in place all through the day, all through the polite clinking of glasses and the endless, thoughtless chatter.

She had smiled, folded it carefully, and said thank you.

Because that’s what she always did.

Be the good gril. The grateful quiet sister. Regardless of how much it hurt. 

Still, as soon as she could go…

Belle went home. 

The door clicked shut behind her with a final, hollow sound.

The apartment was silent except for the soft pad of paws across hardwood.

The kitten darted toward her first, meowing indignantly. Jimmy and Sassy followed, blinking sleepily from their place curled up on the couch.

Isabelle dropped her keys on the counter.

Kicked off her shoes.

She made it three steps toward the living room before her legs gave out.

She sank to the floor — cold against the wood — and buried her face in her hands.

The tears came fast. Hot. Helpless.

Not just for today.

For all the Christmases before it.

For all the years spent trying to earn a place she should’ve already had.

She didn't sob.

No messy gasps for air.

Just silent, shaking tears that soaked her palms and blurred the world around her.

The kitten crept onto her lap first, purring loudly, headbutting her arm. Jimmy slunk in next, nudging her side with his nose.

Sassy stretched lazily, then trotted over and curled against her knees.

They didn't ask for anything.

They just stayed.

Isabelle curled into the weight of them — warm and grounding — clutching the kitten to her chest like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his fur. "I'm sorry for expecting anything different."

The cats purred louder, blanketing her in their soft, unbothered love.

Somewhere deep down, she knew Max would be home in a few days. He would take one look at her, see right through her smile, and pull her into his arms without asking any questions.

He always did.

But for now— It was just her. And them.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had to be.

***

The days stretched out, slow and heavy.

Max wouldn’t be home until the 27th.

That left her in the quiet.

No clinking glasses. No forced smiles. No careful pretending.

Just her.

And the kitten, curled against her chest more often than not. And Jimmy, draped dramatically over her lap. And Sassy, perched like a soft guardian nearby.

She didn't even turn on the TV. The blinking Christmas lights stayed unplugged. The gifts — the ugly, hollow things — sat untouched on the kitchen counter, still half-wrapped.

Isabelle moved through the apartment like a ghost.

Feeding the cats. Watering the plants. Existing.

And the thing was... it didn't feel like peace.

It felt like grief.

Grief for the girl who had tried so hard.

Grief for all the years she had believed that if she just did a little more — gave a little more — loved a little louder — she would finally be enough.

She found herself curled on the couch one night, knees to her chest, staring out at the glittering lights of Monaco beyond the glass balcony doors.

The kitten kneaded her sweater, purring obliviously.

Jimmy snored softly against her feet.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, painful thought broke free:

"I can't do this anymore."She whispered it aloud, her voice cracking."I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."

Her chest tightened, her throat closing.

"I can't keep loving people who don't love me back the way I need."

The admission shattered something inside her.

It was terrifying — it felt like giving up.

But it also felt... honest.

Real.

Necessary.

She wiped at her cheeks with shaking hands, breathing hard.

The kitten headbutted her chin, making her laugh — a raw, broken sound.

"I need help," she whispered into the empty apartment. "I need... someone to help me figure out how to stop doing this to myself."

The kitten purred louder.

 Sassy hopped up onto the back of the couch and flopped across her shoulders with a regal little grunt.

 Jimmy rolled onto his back and batted at her ankle.

Not demanding. Not needing her to earn anything.

Just there.

Isabelle closed her eyes, letting the tears fall without fighting them anymore.

And when she opened them again — when she sat up, cradling the kitten against her chest — she wasn’t thinking about the next Christmas, or the next gathering, or the next thing she had to survive.

She was thinking about tomorrow.

One day.

One step.

Maybe she could call a therapist. Maybe she could start small — just talking. Maybe she could start choosing herself for once.

She wasn’t sure yet.

But for the first time, she wasn’t thinking "how do I fix them?" She was thinking "how do I heal me?"

***

The second he opened the door, Max knew something was wrong.

The apartment was dark. Too quiet, except for the soft, broken sounds he couldn't place at first.

He dropped his bag without thinking, heart thudding painfully against his ribs, and moved quickly down the hall.

And there she was.

Isabelle.

Curled up in a tight ball on the couch, knees to her chest, face buried in a pillow.

Crying.

Not loud, racking sobs.

 Not the kind of tears she could hide behind a tight smile and a polite "I'm fine."

The real ones. The ones she never let anyone else see.

Max's chest cracked wide open.

He crossed the room in two strides, crouching beside her without hesitation.

"Belle," he said, voice breaking. "I'm here. I'm here, Schatje."

She lifted her head slowly, her face blotchy and pale, her eyes swollen from crying.

And then, hoarse and desperate, she whispered:

"I need therapy."

Max swallowed hard.

"I need a therapist," she said again, voice trembling. "I can't—I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."

Max didn’t say anything.

 He just gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest like she was something breakable, precious.

She clutched at his hoodie like a drowning girl grabbing a lifeline.

"I can’t fix it," she whispered against him. "No matter how good I try to be, it’s never enough. I’m so tired, Max. I’m so tired."

Max kissed her hair, his hands moving gently up and down her back, trying to soothe, to anchor.

"You don't have to fix anything," he murmured. "Not for them. Not for anyone. I'm so proud of you for saying it out loud, Belle. I'm so proud of you."

She sobbed then — real, gasping sobs — and he just held her tighter, rocking her gently like she was something he could shelter from the whole fucking world.

It was minutes, maybe longer, before the crying started to ease, the shaking in her body slowing to small, exhausted tremors.

Only then did he notice the movement out of the corner of his eye.

A tiny, curious kitten stood perched on the arm of the couch, blinking at him with wide, impossibly blue eyes.

 Spotted, fierce-looking, all attitude in a body that barely fit in his hand.

She meowed loudly, clearly offended at being ignored.

Max blinked, stunned.

"Belle," he said softly, half-laughing through the ache in his chest. "Is that—?"

Isabelle sniffled, curling closer into him.

"Your Christmas present," she whispered. "I got her for you."

Max smiled, the kind of smile that hurt because it was too full, too much.

The kitten — tiny menace that she was — marched straight onto his lap without hesitation, climbed up his arm, and flopped against his chest like she belonged there.

Jimmy and Sassy appeared a second later, trotting over with soft chirps, their tails high and proud. Like they were presenting the newest member of the family for inspection.

Max pressed another kiss to Isabelle’s hair and looked down at the kitten sprawled across him.

"She’s perfect," he said simply.

Isabelle let out a broken little laugh — the smallest flicker of something lighter — and Max kissed her again, over and over, soft and steady.

"You’re not alone anymore," he whispered against her temple. "You don't have to carry it by yourself. We’ll find you someone good. We’ll do it together."

She nodded against him, the tiniest, exhausted nod.

And Max stayed right there — one arm around Isabelle, one hand cradling the tiny, fierce little kitten — anchoring them both.

Because they were his family.

 And he was never letting them go.

***

The world slowed down after Christmas.

Not in the way it had when she was alone — heavy, suffocating — but in a quieter, gentler way.

Because Max stayed.

He didn’t try to fix her with grand gestures.

 He didn’t try to force her to smile or pretend she was okay.

He just took care of her.

Small, steady things.

Waking up early to make coffee before she even stumbled out of bed.

Filling the fridge with all her favorite food without asking.

Curling up with her on the couch, half-watching bad movies while the new kitten climbed all over them, fearless and bright.

They spent an entire afternoon sprawled on the living room floor, arguing over names.

"Sassy and Jimmy are named after Monaco clubs," Max pointed out, gently prying the kitten off his sleeve for the tenth time. "It’s tradition now."

Isabelle smiled — a real one, small and unsteady but there.

"Lilly, then," she said after a while, watching the kitten attack Jimmy’s tail with wild enthusiasm. "After Lilly’s."

Max grinned, reaching out to scratch behind the kitten’s ear.

She immediately tried to bite his finger.

"Perfect," he said. "A little chaos queen."

"Lilly it is," Isabelle said softly, scooping the tiny, purring bundle into her arms.

Lilly. Sassy.  Jimmy.

Home.

***

Four days after Christmas, Emilie showed up.

She barely made it two steps inside the apartment before pulling Isabelle into a hug so fierce it knocked the breath out of her.

"You should’ve called me," Emilie muttered into her hair.

"I’m okay," Isabelle said, though it came out thin.

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes sharp. "You shouldn’t have to be."

Max gave them space, drifting into the kitchen with Jimmy and Lilly trailing at his heels. (Sassy remained queenly on the back of the couch, surveying her kingdom.)

Emilie spotted the pile of gifts Isabelle had dropped on the counter — the ridiculous calendar, the generic gift card, the keychain, the pink crop top — and went still.

She picked up the crop top between two fingers, like it might bite her.

"This," Emilie said slowly, "is an insult."

Isabelle laughed, but it cracked around the edges.

Emilie turned, her eyes blazing now.

"They don't deserve you."

The words landed harder than Isabelle expected.

Not because they were cruel.

 Because they were true.

She opened her mouth to deflect — to say it wasn’t that bad, that they didn’t mean to hurt her — but Emilie just shook her head.

"No. None of that. You gave them everything, Belle. Thoughtful gifts. Time. Care. And they couldn’t even be bothered to see you."

Isabelle felt her throat tighten painfully.

"You’re not asking for too much," Emilie said fiercely. "You’ve never asked for too much. You just wanted to matter."

The tears came fast and hot, blurring the kitchen into light and shadow.

Emilie stepped closer, squeezing her shoulders.

"You do matter," she said. "Just not to people who only know how to take."

Behind them, Max hovered silently, a plate of cookies in his hand, his eyes soft and steady.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t add anything.

He just stayed.

Exactly what she needed.

Exactly what she deserved.

Later, after Emilie left with promises of vengeance and an ominous "Just say the word and I will rain hellfire on all of them," Isabelle curled up on the couch with Max, Jimmy, Sassy, and little Lilly wriggling between them.

Max pulled a blanket over both of them, tucking her into his side without a word.

Isabelle let herself lean into him, breathing him in — warmth and safety and home.

Maybe the family she was born into would never see her the way she wished.

But the one she was building?

The one that showed up — not because they had to, but because they wanted to?

That family was hers.

 And she was enough for them.

 Exactly as she was.

***

[shy-writer-999]

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that and licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly wish you didn't overshare, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

click here for part 2! also here's my masterlist if you're interested!

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Every single member of the Batfamily lies about their taste in music

Damian will claim that he only listens to classical music and that everything else is beneath him.

Damian will unironically listen to trashy Arab pop and the absolute worst Bollywood songs known to man (Dick introduced him to them and he hates the fact that sometimes he gets Sheila Ki Jawani stuck in his head during missions)

Tim will put on the most ear grating hyper pop you've ever heard and claim with full chest that these is the peak of humanities capabilities with music (Damian, Jason and Steph have all tried to kill him for this take) He will also play stuff like the living tombstones and sing it obnoxiously loud when he's working on the computer.

Tim however loves his 90s grunge and it's all that's playing in his headphones. (think nirvana, pearl Jam, Melvins, Alice in Chains etc) He has tracked down so many shirts and concert posters and watched every bit of content from the older shows.

Jason will claim he only listens to east coast rap, biggie, Nas, Jay etc and maybe some older metal. He will fight you on east vs west coast music, there will be weaponry involved.

Jason likes rap music... he unfortunately prefers west coast rap and has listened to no vaseline like 500 times. He will deny this till the day he dies...again. (Dick knows and threatens to tell Steph)

Steph will steal the aux and play Taylor Swifts greatest hits until one of the Boys threatens mutiny. Every single one of the bats has had style stuck in their heads during a stakeout at least twice. She will claim that the only rap song she can tolerate in Eminem and the 7/11 is Beyoncés best song.

Steph is an underground fan, think the dude selling mixtapes on the subway type shit. She also unlike Jason genuinely loves East Coast Rap music more than anything and knows every single wu-tang clan song by heart, same with Biggie. Not only does she love the music she also spends any free time binging those "history of rap and its consequences" videos and has been a firm believer that P.Diddy had a hand in a lot of the Death row records well...deaths.

Cass, well everyone thinks Cass has really good taste bc its Cass and she has zero flaws (don't @ me) she never takes the aux and will usually listen to her music while she's chilling or doing stretches. None of them have heard or seen a single one of her playlists except Duke.

its all 2010s top 40s pop music and like the trashy kind too, Beauty and the Beat, Kesha, Katy Perry. It's her turning of her brain time and she will be straight vibing to Rude! by magic or Boom Clap or Shower. she has shown this to Duke, smirked and told him that even if he tried to tell anyone they wouldn't believe him.

Duke is the only one who doesn't... lie. He just hides a few things. Lies of omission don't count as lies when the bats will lie to you about what they had for breakfast, while they are visibly eating breakfast. Duke says he listens to everything and he does. Literally everything. His patrol Jam is offensive bc it with start with Norwegian death metal and immediately switches to "like a G6" followed by kendrick Lamar and then descendants Disney channel movie music.

Bruce... Bruce is just weird, everyone asks him and gets a different answer. Bc he doesn't... like music. Like at all. It's all noise, his mother played instruments so he learned like 14 and he hates how they all sound. He just like vague batwings fluttering in dead silence.

Dick Grayson will obnoxiously play top 40 and radio music religiously around the bats. He claims it's the best music for rhythmic acrobatics and trapeze work and that true! Jason hates this kind of music the most, it's formulaic and holds no substance and drives him insane.

But Dick only listens to that music when he's moving, flipping doing high energy stuff. When he just wants to chill? This man has the most depressing music taste you've ever seen. You know that sad song from ur favorite artist that you can't listen to without crying. Yeah that's his bread and butter. Every single song is just flat out tear inducing, some of these bands have like 100 listeners and he is one of them and it's just their saddest song that reads like suicide note. The titans have conducted an intervention bc its just... concerning. He just thinks it's neat!

[imaginespazzi]

Everything Changes (They Stay the Same)

A series of stolen moments of peace in between a chaotic week

(In which an unreliable writer is really trying to beat the retirement allegations)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: 30 google-doc pages of pure fluff with hints of angst and hurt/comfort if you squint really hard

Words: 14.5K (we're soooo back)

TW: Swearing, drinking, alludes to sexual content.

A/N: Hi my lovelies :) Two fics in less than 48 hours? Who woulda ever thunk it? I can't lie this is so all over the place and we are all gonna ignore that I was trying to do a moment a day, and then fully forgot a day and I'm not abouta go back a month (because it's been a month since natty and the draft which is what this fic is technically about) to figure out which two days I accidentally blended into one. But this is fiction! So it doesn't really matter! Anyways, I got bored editing about 80% of the way in but I will eventually go back and fix the typos so feel free to make me aware of them. As always, live reactions are much appreciated so let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see in the future. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

April 6th 11:26 p.m.

Azzi will never admit it out loud -will never let it become the recipient of her teammates’ jovial teasing or something her girlfriend can flash that cocky smirk of hers about- but she’s kind of a little bit obsessed with staring at Paige. 

She always has been. 

Since she was fourteen and she’d spotted this lanky white girl getting up shots before the official tryouts for the U16 USA basketball team started. And Azzi had been mesmerized by the effortless concentration that had been present of Paige’s face, never deterred by when the ball would occasionally rim out. She’d stood by the doorway, watching -staring- much longer than necessary until one of the other girls had rushed past her, accidentally bumping her shoulder and shaking her out of her reverie. That’s the first time Paige had caught her gaze and she hadn’t made much of it then but Azzi’s slowly realized since, that there’s just something about the blond that draws her eyes towards her like a magnet, like everything else surrounding her is just a hazy blur and Paige is the only thing in focus. 

And tonight, it feels almost impossible to tear her eyes away from Paige. 

Because tonight Paige looks radiant, like the reason it’s dark outside is only because the sun itself is in the middle of this room, laughing her heart out with one arm casually slung around KK’s shoulder, bottle of champagne nursed in her left hand and that goddamn net still hung around her neck. She’s basked in the glow that comes from finally being unshackled from the chains of pressure and expectations and that dreaded fear of being the  greatest UConn player without a title that Paige had only ever voiced out loud with her head burrowed in the crevice between Azzi’s neck and shoulder. 

Tonight, all of that -all of the tired dark circles underneath her beautiful blue eyes and the frown lines that had once been present right under where her new national champion hat covers her forehead- is gone. 

Because tonight, Paige Bueckers is finally a national champion. 

And god, does the happiness that comes with that look so fucking great on her. 

“You’re staring,” Kaitlyn whispers from where she’s sitting next to Azzi on the couch, the two of them and Caroline perched on a loveseat that has the perfect view of their other more rambunctious teammates. 

And maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through her veins, or that stupid all-consuming feeling of love for her girlfriend that’s been overwhelming Azzi since the buzzer rang out at the end of the national championship game, but she doesn’t deny it. 

“That damn net looks ridiculous on her,” Azzi quips, trying to maintain some sort of dignity but there’s an underlying fondness to her tone that she can’t quite seem to mask; she isn’t really trying to hide it either.  

“She’s never taking it off,” Caroline says with a slight shake of her head, “she’s gonna wear it forever. It’s gonna be the third wheel in your relationship.”

“She deserves it,” Azzi's eyes soften, her gaze still locked on her girlfriend who’s now posing for the most ridiculous pictures with KK, Aubrey and their practice players, “she’s earned the right to never take it off.”

Kaitlyn lets out a teasing low whistle, nudging Azzi’s shoulder, “can’t believe Paige is the only one who gets the simp allegations when this is how you behave.”

“They’re as bad as each other,” Caroline supplies helpfully, holding up her red solo cup as she winks at Azzi, “I swear it’s gotten worse over time too.”

“It has not,” Azzi protests. 

Caroline snorts, “see Az, that would be more believable if you could at least look at me while saying it instead of being too busy ogling your girlfriend.”

A rose-colored blush begins to spread across Azzi’s cheeks as both Kaitlyn and Caroline cackle with laughter at what the latter had just pointed out. Because it’s true. She still hasn’t looked away. 

She can’t. 

And as if on cue, Paige turns around at that exact moment, just in time to catch the color fully seeping into Azzi’s cheeks. The blonde’s smirk is gradual, first just a quirk at the edge of her lips before stretching across the entirety of her face as she raises her eyebrow in question at Azzi. The younger girl bites her lip, her stomach swooping when she notices the way Paige’s eyes linger on the small action. She watches keenly as the blonde begins to saunter towards her -long, confident strides that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as they are- and her body seems to lean forward in anticipation on its own accord. 

Azzi feels her breath hitch when Paige finally reaches her, one hand clutching the armrest as she towers over Azzi, leaning down just enough so their faces are levelled.

“You staring at me?” she asks with a lazy smile, her speech coming out slightly slurred. 

“You’re imagining things,” Azzi whispers, sporting her own half-grin as she blinks coquettishly up at the older girl. 

“Oh yeah?” Paige drawls out slowly before she’s tugging Azzi off the sofa, a pleased expression on her face when the brunette comes into her arms easily. Her hands settle on either side of Azzi’s hips as the younger girl interlocks her own hand behind Paige’s neck, her fingers playing with the net, “coulda sworn I felt your eyes on me.”

Azzi shrugs impishly, “must’ve been someone else.”

“Nah, can’t have been,” Paige shakes her head, “I know when it’s you looking at me. No one else looks at me like that.”

“And how do I look at you?” Azzi breathes out, stepping closer to her girlfriend so their chests are pressed against each other and they can feel the warmth radiating off of each other's bodies. 

“Like you love me,” Paige says softly, “I look at you the exact same way.”

Azzi’s heart flutters, the sincerity in the blonde’s voice quelling any chance of a smart retort as she reaches up to brush her lips lightly against Paige’s, “I do love you. Like a lot, a lot.’

Paige’s arms tighten around her waist as she presses their foreheads together, “I love you more. Like more than a lot, a lot.”

They stay like that for a moment, cocooned in each other's arms. The constantly moving world seems to still for a second, like it’s pausing just for the two of them to be able to catch their breaths before everything changes. 

But Azzi isn’t quite ready to think about that -about how today is the end of something and next week will be the beginning of something different- not yet. 

She just wants to think about now, about the girl in her arms and the dream that they’d once dreamed of together -laying side by side in a bed that was too small for two people while feeling emotions that were too big for how young they’d been- and how after years and years, plagued by uncertainty and adversity, they’d finally made that dream come true.

“I like your new necklace,” Azzi says finally, her voice low, just for the two of them to hear as she twists her fingers through the net draped around the older girl’s neck. 

Paige grins like a toddler who’s just been given their favorite candy, “yeah well, my favorite person won it for me.”

“It was a team effort,” Azzi says bashfully, quickly catching onto the meaning behind the older girl's words.

“Yeah but you were MOP baby,” Paige nudges their noses together, “my outstanding player.”

Azzi chuckles, “pretty sure the M stands for most actually.”

“Don’t care,” Paige shrugs cavalierly, “you’re still mine. There’s no one else I would’ve rather done this with- no one else I could’ve done this with, you know that right?”

“Yeah baby, yeah I do,” Azzi whispers, looping her arms back around Paige’s neck as it all seems to come rushing back to her, the gravity of what they’d achieved making her feel almost weightless in her girlfriend’s embrace, “we really did it Paige. We won. We fucking won the damn thing.”

Paige laughs breathlessly as she steals a kiss from Azzi’s lips, “yeah we did baby. Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, national fucking champions. Together. Just like it was always meant to be.” 

April 7th 10:31 a.m.

Everything is too fucking loud. 

Paige clutches her head in her hands as the sound of her teammates screaming reverberates around the plane cabin. Normally, she’d be joining into the cacophony, if not at the forefront of it, but clearly she’s all cacophony-ed out after last night. Honestly, she’d known that the last two shots of vodka were pushing it a little but it had been four in the morning and when Diana Taurasi was encouraging you to throw back a shot, you didn’t really have the option to say no. And so Paige hadn’t said no. 

Now, as the world around her spins and her headache feels like it’s threatening to send her to an early grave, Paige wishes she’d said no, wishes she’d followed her sensible, responsible girlfriend to bed at a much more reasonable time like two a.m. instead of getting carried away in the still ongoing celebration and drinking herself into a killer hangover. 

Speaking of her girlfriend, Paige frowns as she glances at the seats next to her. The middle seat is occupied by the national championship trophy and don’t get her wrong, Paige loves that trophy and everything it stands for very much but it has to be said that it’s neither as soft nor as cuddly as Azzi and it definitely doesn’t smell as nice or feel as warm. 

She pouts harder when Kaitlyn slips into the aisle seat, feeling even more nauseous when she notices the bottle of champagne in the other girl's hand. Normally Paige is a very polite and kind person; normally she doesn’t just let those clingy intrusive thoughts of hers slip through her lips when she’s feeling just a little bit too needy for her girlfriend. But clearly today isn’t normal and before she can stop herself, Paige finds herself practically glaring at her innocent teammate. 

“Why are you sitting there?” she asks grumpily, “where’s Azzi?”

“Sheesh Bueckers, you’re rude when you’re hungover,” Kaitlyn gives her an unamused look. 

“I’m not hungover,” Paige lies adamantly, earning her an expected eyeroll. 

“And I’m not the smartest person on this team,” Kaitlyn says sarcastically, before tilting her head towards the girl walking up the aisle, “and relax Bueckers, I’m not stealing your girlfriend’s seat. Just wanted to have a little fun first.”

She continues to speak, something about taking a swig of champagne on live but Paige isn’t listening anymore, too entranced by the sight of her girlfriend as if it’s been years instead of minutes since she’d last seen Azzi. The younger girl is dressed in her typical UConn tracksuit, still sporting gameday braids that are getting a little loose under the blue cap on her head. Her eyes droop a little with residual tiredness but her smile -god that fucking smile, Paige thinks she’s not much of a writer but she could write sonnets about that smile- more than makes up for it as she flashes it too teammates and staff alike while making her way towards Paige and Kaitlyn. 

“Hi,” Azzi says softly, coming to a halt right in front of their seat, her eyes twinkling at Paige. 

“Hey baby,” Paige replies with a dopey grin, her head already feeling that much lighter at having her girlfriend near her. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Kaitlyn groans, looking rather disgusted -although there’s that typical underlying fondness to it that all of Paige and Azzi’s teammates seem to have around them- at the heart eyes her two friends are making at each other, “can y’all do that after I’ve gotten my championship video please?”

Azzi tears away her gaze first, holding her palm out for Kaitlyn to place her phone in, “alright, alright, how do you wanna do this Kait?”

Paige zones out for the rest of the conversation, bringing her cup of coffee closer to her face, inhaling the scent of it as she watches Azzi film Kaitlyn. There’s that goofy little smile on her girlfriend’s face as she videos their friend on live, her eyes sparkling with joy. It makes Paige’s heart ache in the best way possible because this -after everything she’s been through, everything they’ve been through- is what Azzi deserves. 

There aren’t enough words on this planet to describe just how incredibly proud of her girlfriend, Paige is. She knows that, last week in Spokane had been hard on Azzi, that she’d retreated too far into her own head after missed shot, after missed shot, even though she’d been impactful in other ways. But Azzi -true to the resilience bracelet dangling on her wrist- had pulled herself out of it. And it had been thrilling for Paige to be on the court with her this weekend as she’d risen like a phoenix from the ashes of her own self-doubt, to win them -to win Paige- the most important game of their season.

“And cut,” Azzi says dramatically as she ends the live and Paige re-focuses to see Kaitlyn’s face all scrunched up from the fact that the rather expensive champagne hadn’t gone down quite as smoothly this morning as it had last night. 

“You good?” Paige snickers snarkily as Kaitlyn glares at her, coughing to regain her composure. 

“Watch it Bueckers or maybe I won’t move for Azzi to sit here,” the transfer student says with a pointed look. 

“You wouldn’t because then I’d just whine your ear off about how much I miss her,” Paige smirks, pleased when it elicits that little laugh out of Azzi that she’s so in love with. 

Kaitlyn shakes her head in mock irritation as she slowly pulls herself out of the seat.

“You’re right, that does sound like torture. Be good kids,” she pats Azzi on the shoulder as she starts to make her way to a different seat, “keep your hands to yourself, don’t forget there’s other people on the plane.”

“No promises,” Paige calls out after her, a triumphant grin on her face as Azzi takes her rightful place in the seat next to the trophy. 

Azzi giggles as she buckles her seatbelt, leaning over the armrest so she can rub her thumb against her girlfriend’s cheek, “how’s your head doing? Better from this morning?”

Paige sighs dramatically, melting into the soft touch, “I still feel like I’m fucking dying,” she admits, “I’m never drinking again.”

“Oh of course not,” Azzi snorts, “not like you’ve ever said that before.”

“Hey you never know, I might actually mean it this time,” Paige defends herself half-heartedly but they both know it’s not true, not when there’s already a plan in motion for the team to party at Teds tonight after the championship rally at Gampel. 

“Whatever you say baby,” Azzi concedes gently, before she reaches down to her bag, unclipping her unicorn neck pillow to hand over to Paige, “here, it’ll make it more comfortable for you to get a nap in.”

The older girl frowns as she takes it, “I wanted to use your shoulder.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed babe, but there’s kinda something in between us,” Azzi says amusedly as she points at the national championship trophy that’s occupying the middle seat in between them. 

“Can’t believe I worked so hard for this, just for it to cockblock me,” Paige grumbles under her breath as she fastens the neck pillows around her shoulder, before holding her hand out to Azzi, “can you at least hold my hand?”

Azzi hesitates, “I was hoping to get some work done.”

“Baby please,” Paige whines, jutting her lower lip out at her girlfriend as she grabs Azzi’s hand and intertwines their fingers together, “just till I fall asleep? You know I can’t fall asleep without holding you.”

A little spark of sadness flashes in Azzi’s eyes -something like you’ll have to learn to fall asleep without me soon that Paige isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet- but it’s gone as quick as it came and instead the younger girl squeezes her hand. 

“Okay, fine,” she relents, “go to sleep baby. I’m right here.”

And everything is still really fucking loud, but as she drifts off into a much-needed nap, Paige thinks that having Azzi next to her -her presence as steady and solid as it was when they’d first been on a plane together almost eight years ago- feels a lot like a moment of quiet in the chaos. 

April 8th 8:24 p.m.

Azzi isn’t sure if her skin is prickling from the vibration of the music echoing around the area, the tipsiness -elicited from a mix of alcohol and general elation- that hasn’t fully left her body in the last 48 hours, or simply the warmth of Paige’s fingers tapping to the beat against her exposed waist. The heat radiating from her girlfriend’s chest, pressed firmly against her back as they alternate between actually dancing and half-heartedly swaying to the songs, encompasses her entire body in the kind of comfort that Azzi has only ever really felt from being wrapped in Paige’s arms. 

“You having fun baby?” Paige’s breath is hot against her ear and Azzi shivers involuntarily, as she hums contentedly in response. 

“This is nice,” she says after a beat, shrinking further back into the safe haven of her girlfriend’s embrace, “I’ve missed this.”

Paige rests her chin against Azzi’s shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that they’re shrouded in only the dim glow reflecting off of the stage lights, as she nods in agreement, “me too. It’s been a while huh?”

“Yeah, it has,” Azzi concedes, letting her eyes close as she enjoys the serenity of good music and even better company. 

It really has been a rather long time since the two of them had gotten to simply exist like this, carefree and unburdened. The last few weeks -really ever since Christmas- their entire focus had been on basketball and winning the National Championship. And as much as the pressure to do so, had been the kind that had ultimately created a diamond, it had still come with it’s challenges. They’d been so immersed in the game -all of their time spent on the basketball court alone, together or with the team- that it feels like it’s been years since they’ve had a moment like this, a moment where, instead of being Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd, UConn superstars, they could just be Paige and Azzi, two twenty-something year olds who were truly, deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with each other. 

And then the thought hits Azzi. 

That she doesn’t quite know when they’ll get a moment like this again. 

Tomorrow, the championship media tour would start and then the draft and then- 

Well Azzi isn’t quite ready to confront what comes after the draft. Not yet. 

For now all she knows is that their schedules for the next couple of days are both filled to the brim with the expected TV appearances and brand and sponsorship photoshoots woven in between those commitments. She knows that they’ll be in the same city, together for a lot of it and she knows that in all the awaiting chaos, they’ll still find a way to steal a second of peace to be with each other. Just like they always have. But Azzi also knows that it still won’t be quite the same as this moment right here. Because this moment still feels like the before. 

The before, where Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd are still teammates separated by a mere staircase and all they have to do is say the word, for the other to come running. 

Tomorrow, they’ll start the inbetween. 

And then the after-

Azzi shakes her head -not wanting to dwell on that before she absolutely has to- as she shifts in Paige’s arms to turn her body around to face her girlfriend, hands instinctively locking around the older girl’s neck. She lets her gaze trickle down Paige’s face, taking in the way the older girl’s cerulean blue eyes sparkle with a ferocity stronger than the stars as she observes Azzi right back, the way even in the dark she can tell that Paige’s cheeks are flushed with that slight bashful pink color they only ever become when it’s the brunette who’s making her blush, the way the edges of the blonde’s lips are upturned sightly, like they’re just waiting for her to give them a reason to burst into that beautiful, dazzling, larger-than-life just for you smile of Paige’s that Azzi has been in love with longer than she’ll ever admit it. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, her voice loud enough only for Azzi to hear as her thumbs rub circles against either side of the brunette’s bare waist. 

“I’m observing,” Azzi corrects, “memorizing.”

Paige curls an eyebrow at that, “you scared you’re gonna forget me?”

It’s a joke, but there’s a hint of insecurity hidden in her tone, in the way her hands instinctively grip Azzi’s waist a little tighter, like she’s trying to anchor them together before the winds of change can blow either of them away.

“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” Azzi admits, her vulnerability accidentally slipping through the cracks before she can glue them shut, “not when you’re a part of me.”

And there it is. That smile. It blooms like a beautiful flower on Paige’s lips, the vines of it growing through her entire face until you can see them in the crinkles of her eyes. Even in the obsidian of the concert lighting, Paige glows like a shooting star that's headed straight for Azzi’s heart. And Azzi, welcomes the crash, welcomes the way it makes her chest hurt, makes it hard to breath in the best way possible. 

“Damn Fudd,” Paige whistles lowly, “you got lines.”

Azzi laughs, throwing her head back the way she only ever really does when it’s elicited by Paige, “I mean I gotta keep up with the ultimate rizzler somehow don’t I?”

They giggle quietly into each other’s space, the two of them lost in their own world, blissfully unaware of what's happening on stage or the quiet eye-rolls they've definitely been getting from their teammates around them. 

“You’re the biggest part of me,” Paige says after a beat, whispering it like it’s a secret confession only meant for Azzi’s ears, “you always have been, you always will be.”

Azzi doesn't say anything, she doesn’t need to. Instead she takes advantage of the dark and presses her lips against Paige’s. It’s chaste and delicate but it’s everything. 

It always is. It always will be. 

April 9th 1:47 p.m. 

The text lights up her phone screen when Paige needs it the most. 

She’s currently being fitted for her Jimmy Fallon appearance, waves of exhaustion radiating off her body even though it’s barely afternoon as she fights the urge to fall asleep while the makeup artist retouches up her face. Hectic days are no stranger to Paige, and she’s learned the importance of napping in cars between shoots, but that doesn’t mean the tiredness just magically goes away. Especially when she knows the next couple of days ahead of her are going to be filled with the same frantic rush. And it’s not that Paige isn’t thankful for it -not like she doesn’t know that, all of this is a privilege is a reward for all her hard work- but sometimes it all just feels too fast, like the pages are being turned in a frenzy before she can even finish reading them. 

She just wants it all to slow down, just for a second, just so she can catch the raindrops of her life before they fall and fade as they hit the ground. 

And somehow, as Paige unlocks her phone to look at the mirror selfie of Azzi in Cane’s uniform -tongue out, fingers thrown up in a peace sign- it almost -almost- feels like it does. 

They’ve been texting back and forth pretty much all day, and by all day, she really does mean since 4 a.m. which is when -after getting back close to midnight last night- Paige had, had to begrudgingly leave the warmth of her girlfriend snuggled into her chest, to get to New York in time for her way, way, too early morning interview. And of course Azzi, despite being just as tired, had woken up with her, had groggily gone through the checklist of things Paige needed to take with her, had given her a freshly brushed minty kiss right before she’d gotten on the car, and had been on facetime -although she had nearly dozed off a couple of times- almost the entire car ride, just to keep the blonde company until she reached Manhattan when they’d switch back to texting. 

But then there had been a slight lull in conversation, Paige becoming busy in the rush of her day and Azzi slowly beginning her own. And now, as if she’d sensed her girlfriend’s restlessness, could feel her spiraling into that trepid sense of overwhelmedness, Azzi had resumed it, just when Paige needed it the most, needed her anchor, the most. 

A: would you still love me if i said i was deciding to quite basketball to work at cane’s?

P: depends

would you give me free tenders?

Az: wow

so you’re saying your love is conditional?

P: i’m saying i’d love you just a little bit more if you gave me free chicken tenders 

i mean cane’s and my hot ass girlfriend, that’s the dream right?

A: that’s the dream? 

P: that’s the dream!

A: you’re a weirdo bueckers 

P: and yet you love me (don’t say debatable) 

so who’s really the weird one here? 

A: still you babe, still, definitely you 

P: oof definitely

that hurt baby 

A: you’ll survive 

P: only if you kiss it better 

i miss you by the way

if you even care 

A: it’s been like six hours 

P: oh so you don’t miss me?

cool cool cool cool COOL 

A: you’re so dramatic jfc 

P: oh OKAY 

a girl can’t even be sad about the fact that her girlfriend 

THE WOMAN SHE LOVES 

doesn’t even give a fuck that she’s DYING without her 

A: like i said 

so dramatic 

P: right right right so you hate me

got it.

A: oooooh fullstop and everything damn 

P: i’m not talking to you anymore BYE 

A: wait no

P: yes 

A: babyyyyyy

come backkkkk 

PAIGEEEEEEEEEEE

i’m sorryyyyy

you’re not dramatic 

you’re very not dramatic 

you’re very undramatic 

like the least dramatic person ever actually

and i miss you too

AND I LOVE YOU 

P: wow fudd

you’re like desperate for my attention or something huh? 

A: OH FUCK YOU 

P: i know YOU want to baby

Paige is grinning like a fool as she waits for Azzi to reply to that, a smile so bright she thinks there’s probably astronauts in space who are being blinded by it right now. She can’t help it. The knots of tension in her body are beginning to unravel, replaced by threads of a serene calmness that seems to have stitched itself to her skin just by talking to her girlfriend. Her person. Her happy place. 

A: skipping over that…

you doing okay? 

It’s in text form, but there’s still an underlying tone to it -a i know you’re not quite fine- that’s an acknowledgement of Azzi being in tune with Paige’s feelings and both an opening for her to talk about it now or a promise to be there to listen to her later. That’s the thing about having been with someone for years; Azzi knows Paige, she can read her -even from miles and miles away- like she’s the top line of a snellen chart at the optometrist’s office. And even years later, the knowledge of that simple fact makes Paige’s heart flutter with the feeling of being loved. 

P: i will be when you get here tonight 

A: i’ll be there soon baby

gonna set out for nyc as soon as my shift is over lol

can’t wait to see you 

P: work hard baby!

can’t wait for you to bring me tenders!

A: ....oh okay! 

i see what’s really important to you 

P: hey you know i love cane’s 

A: and here i thought you loved ME

P: i do 

just maybe a little less than my chicken tendies

A: fine 

then maybe i love you a little less than crinkle cut fries

P: aww you love me?

A: occasionally…

P: good enough for me! 

Paige catches herself smiling in the mirror, that enamored, goofy, grin that stretches her whole face, wiping away the traces of a frown that had once inhabited the same space. It’s still all a little -maybe even a lot- overwhelming, but she has a lifejacket now. Azzi won’t let her drown. 

P: hey az

A: yeah? 

P: thanks for checking in baby 

A: always baby 

P: i love you 

more than chicken tenders 

A: i love you too 

more than crinkle-cut fries 

April 10th 5:37 p.m.

The door to the hotel room creaks open and that familiar scent of Valentino whafts through the air, settling like the comfort of a worn out binkie against Azzi’s senses. She smushes her dorky grin into the pillow her face is already buried in, suddenly feeling a little more awake than she had just a couple seconds ago. After a multitude of media appearances, Azzi had returned back to their shared hotel room, only about twenty or so minutes ago, with a drained social battery and the cardinal urge to be nestled in her girlfriend’s strong arms. Considering said girlfriend hadn’t been back yet then, she’d settled for a hoodie that smelled like her and pillows that, while not as sturdy as Paige’s biceps, were soft enough to band-aid the ache for a little while. 

But now Paige is back. 

And Azzi doesn’t have to settle. 

She lifts her head to say as much, when -before the words can leave her mouth- the bed dips and suddenly there’s a warm weight being pressed against her back, slightly calloused hands finding their way under her body and then under her hoodie till they’re sprawled against her stomach. 

“Hi,” Paige whispers softly, her breath ticking against Azzi’s skin as she leaves a lingering kiss against the nape of the brunette’s neck, before burying her face in her shoulder as they let out matching contented sighs. 

“Hey,” the brunette whispers back, turning her face slightly just so she can give Paige a quick peck on her cheek. 

Azzi’s eyes close involuntarily as she lets herself be consumed by all things Paige, the essence of her girlfriend’s existence seeping into her veins and being pumped into her heart, like it’s the only thing keeping the most important organ in body alive. It used to terrify Azzi sometimes, this all-consuming love she knows she has only for Paige. She’d been so young when she’d first realized it, realized that missing and wanting and needing her best friend that fucking much couldn’t possibly be platonic. And god had that scared her. 

Because loving someone meant living with the fear of losing them too. 

But that doesn’t scare Azzi anymore. Not when she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this -the two of them and this little life their slowly beginning to build brick by brick- isn’t something she’ll ever lose.

This, the two of them, it’s a forever kind of thing.

“How was your day?” Paige murmurs against Azzi’s ear, fingers tracing delicate patterns against her taut stomach. 

“Exhausting,” Azzi replies, eyes still closed, “but nice. It’s a victory tour. Can’t really complain. How about you? How was your shoot?”

“Same ol’ same ol’. Nothing new. The camera loved me as always,” Paige’s cocky smirk prickles against Azzi’s skin and the younger girl shakes her head even though she’s just as confident that the pictures would in fact turn out perfect and that, Azzi would likely have to hide them in that secret little folder in her phone that’s filled to the brim with her favorite Paige photoshoot shots (and that she occasionally flicks through when she misses her girlfriend just a tad bit too much). 

“Or maybe it’s the hangover still making you delusional,” Azzi teases. 

Paige groans, pushing herself even further into her girlfriend if that’s even possible, clearly being bombarded with memories of the cruel headache she’d had to endure this morning, “please don’t remind me. Why’d you even let me drink last night?”

Azzi snorts into her pillow, “let you? Babe, since when have I ever been able to stop you from drinking? In fact, I’m pretty sure I did try last night after your third one and what did you do? You said, nah baby it’s just one more drink i’ll be fine,” she mocks, her mind flashing to her tipsy girlfriend last night who’d flashed that dopey grin at her while downing another shot she swore wouldn’t affect her the next morning. Azzi knew better. She always did. 

“What was I supposed to say when Alicia fucking Keys was handing me another drink Az?” Paige defends, “you don’t say no to Alicia fucking Keys.”

“I said no to Alicia fucking Keys just fine,” Azzi points out. 

“Yeah that’s cause you’re Azzi goddamn Fudd,” Paige presses a smile into the brunette’s shoulder, “you’re like the princess. The princess can say no to anyone.”

“Shut up,” Azzi grumbles, but her cheeks are stained red as she bites back her own grin at the pet name. 

They drift into a comfortable silence, their hearts beating in sync as their breathing starts to slow down a little, both of them on the precipice of sleep. It’s been nonstop since the championship -a different grind to what they’d been doing in-season but a grind nonetheless- and exhaustion rolls off of both of their bodies in waves. But right now, wrapped up in each other with every part of their bodies touching, it feels a little bit like they’re recharging, feeding off of each other’s strength before they go back out into the real world. 

“What if I skip this dinner thing and we order takeout and watch Frozen while we cuddle in bed?” Paige says after a beat, her tone wistful as Azzi lets out a soft laugh, her mind fluttering with memories of countless nights spent doing exactly that, 

She twists her body underneath Paige, so that they’re chest to chest and she can finally see her girlfriend’s face. And god, it’s been eight years she’s known Paige, almost eight years she’s been in love with her, but Azzi swears the blonde -with that fully toothed smile she claims as her own and sky blue eyes that look at her like they can see into her soul- still takes her breath away every single time she looks at her. She feels tongue-tied, this syrupy sweet feeling congesting her chest as she loops her arms around Paige’s neck, tugging her girlfriend closer so she can meld their lips together, lazy and slow and perfect. 

“So is that yes?” Paige mumbles against Azzi’s mouth, “I’ll even have room service bring us an ice-cream sundae.”

The brunette chuckles, her thumb caressing the older girl’s cheek as she shakes her head, “the ice-cream almost convinced me but unfortunately not baby. I have plans.”

Paige pouts, raising an eyebrow in mock offense, as she lifts herself off of Azzi just enough to be able to see her properly, “you have plans? With who?”

“Oh you know, just this cute girl who’s really funny,” Azzi teases, her eyes gleaming with mirth as Paige narrows her own. 

“What girl?” she asks, the possessive glint in her irises sparkling like sun rays hitting the surface of a tranquil blue ocean. 

“Just this girl,” Azzi says cavalierly, “but she’s amazing. Think I’m gonna wear that pink tank top-”

“Like hell you are,” Paige cuts her off, her voice gruff as she scowls down at Azzi, “pick something else. That’s my favorite top on you. No one else needs to see you out in it.”

“I know it is,” Azzi smirks, and then, deciding she’s done enough to elicit that jealous side of her girlfriend -who's still glaring at nothing in particular- that she finds rather insanely attractive, she figures she probably should put Paige out of her misery, “but KK said pink looks good on me so…”

Paige stares at her, mouth opening and closing as she processes Azzi’s world before she lets out a loud groan and buries her face in her girlfriend’s chest. 

“Oh fuck you,” she curses as Azzi trembles with laughter, her hands rubbing up and down the blonde’s back. 

“KK’s gonna die when I tell her about this.”

“Azzi no! Don’t you dare,” Paige whines, “don’t you care about your girlfriend’s dignity at all?”

“What dignity- OW did you just fucking bite me?” Azzi’s joking tone turns shrill as she feels her girlfriend nip sharply at her collarbone. 

Paige smirks lazily into her girlfriend’s skin, tongue darting out to soothe the patch of red forming on it like an artist putting on the finishing touches to their craft, “you’ve never seemed to mind that before.”

Azzi’s breath hitches, irritation melting into something completely different as Paige continues to press open-mouthed kisses to her neck. 

“Paige,” she breathes out and it’s meant to be a warning -a plea for her to stop- but it sounds like anything but. 

“My offer still stands baby,” Paige murmurs, “I don’t gotta go and you don’t gotta leave. We can just stay here. Together. Doing this.”

It takes all of Azzi’s willpower to not succumb to the sultry lilt in her girlfriend’s voice, to not let their bodies tangle into the sheets and let the night pass them by. She places her hands firmly on either side of Paige’s head, coaxing the blonde’s face away from her skin -both of them sighing in disappointment at the loss of contact- so they’re face to face agan. 

“You gotta go baby,” she says softly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Paige’s ear, “it’s part of taking the next step, part of entering your new world.”

“I know,” Paige bites her lip, hesitating as she looks down at Azzi with a newfound vulnerability, a hidden crack in her confident exterior that only the brunette has ever been privy to, “I’m scared,” she confesses, “it’s gonna feel too real once I’m in there with all the vets and draftees.”

“Oh Paige,” Azzi whispers, her touch gentle and soothing as she runs index finger down Paige’s face, “it is real. This is real. Your dreams are coming true baby.”

“I know, I just-” Paige pauses as she leans her face into Azzi’s hand, melting into the familiarity of it, “it’s all gonna be different soon. That’s scary as fuck.”

Azzi nods in understanding, “yeah it is. But you’ve got this Paige. I know you do. And,” she nuzzles her nose against her girlfriends, “you’ve got me. That’s not gonna be different. Not now, not ever.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

April 12th 11:32 p.m.

Horsebarn hill smells like newly mowed grass and fresh spring flowers that have just started to bloom. The  gentle April breeze -like whispers of all the stories that have been told here- curdles around Paige as she sits criss-cross on a checkered pink blanket, one arm wrapped firmly around Azzi’s shoulder, the other nursing a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Her teammates are scattered across the grass on their own blankets, some with matching drinks, others with a late night snack. Their chatter mingles with the distant chirping of cicadas creating a soothing lullaby that almost threatens to put Paige -with the frantic rush of her past few days- to sleep. 

But she doesn’t dare let her eyes close, wanting to savor every single second before nightfall turns into daybreak and a moment turns into a memory. 

This is her team. Her family. 

And tonight is the last night that they will get like this, to be in this place -a familar space they’ve visited countless times, a space where they’ve woven threads of themselves into the grass that grows here- as individual pieces who belong together in the same puzzle before three of them -her, Aubrey and Kaitlyn- scatter to fit into a different jigsaw. 

A new start. 

Instinctively, Paige pulls Azzi closer to her, breathing in that familiar soft scent of the brunette’s lavender deodorant mixed with the coconut-y aroma of her body wash, that settles her nerves like a peace serum. Azzi doesn’t say anything -still laughing at KK and Ice who are doing some sort of dramatic reenactment of Aubrey and her new cheerleader girlfriend’s first date- but she shifts just enough to press her temple against Paige’s chin, a simple reminder that she’s here, ready to be whatever the blonde needs her to be. 

“That is not what happened,” Aubrey’s indignant voice carries out through the hill, much to the amusement of her teammates who all burst out into laughter, the sound like wind chimes ringing throughout a mountain, “y’all weren’t even there.”

“We didn’t have to be,” KK defends, her eyes shining with her patented mirth, “we know you Aubs.”

“It does sound like something you’d do Aubrey,” Carol says contemplatively, barely able to conceal her own smirk as she pats her friend comfortingly on the back

“CAROL,” Aubrey shrieks in betrayal, scooching away with a dramatic hand on her heart, “I cannot believe YOU would do this to me?”

“I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Caroline says solemnly, inciting another round of giggles from the group of girls as Aubrey shakes her head in exasperation. 

Paige thinks she’s a little bit in love with this moment, in the mundaneness of it that feels like any other night spent with her teammates and yet there’s still something about it -about these people that have loved her just as much through the losses as they have thought the big wins- that feels inexplicably special. Perhaps that’s just the bond forged by working towards and winning a championship together. Because it's certain that all of them will win more than just this -that’s who they are, winners at their core- but not like this, not this group, not all together, not as comets in the same once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower.

“Alright, alright enough bickering,” Paige’s voice sweeps over her team, still as commanding as over, their leader, “even though let’s be real Aubs, that definitely sounds like something you’d do.”

“I hate all of you,” Aubrey grunts. 

“Yeah, yeah we love you too,” Paige sends her oldest teammate a quick wink before turning her focus to the rest of them, “y’all we should do something. Something fun.”

Ice raises a skeptical eyebrow, “we are doing something. We’re eating and drinking and pissing Aubrey off. Sounds like hell of a fun night to me.”

Paige rolls her eyes, “no Isuneh, I mean like something special. We’re fucking National Champions we guys. We should do something to celebrate.”

“We did celebrate. Or were you so drunk that you don’t even remember that?” Sarah deadpans much to the amusement of their teammates and this time Paige finds herself the victim of the group’s shrill laughter as her youngest teammate goes on to mimic her intoxicated antics from the night they’d won the championship. 

“Baby,” the blonde whines like she’s been backstabbed when she feels Azzi’s body -still securely plush against her own- shake with her girlfriend’s own giggles, “you laughing at me too?”

“No, no, of course not. I would never,” Azzi says soothingly, turning her head slightly so she can kiss away the pout on Paige’s lips. 

“Oh my god get a fucking room,” Jana yells when the kiss inevitably goes from chaste to something deeper and the two of them break away reluctantly, still grinning at each other like the cheesy lovesick idiots they’ve never shied away from admitting they are. 

“We have one,” Azzi replies, shrugging as she settles back into Paige’s chest, a coy smirk on her face directed towards Paige’s roomates, “and you should know I plan to use it tonight, so either get headphones or get the fuck out of the apartment. Just saying.”

Paige snorts into her girlfriend’s hair as Jana scrunches her nose in disgust, pretending to puke into the grass and Allie lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing her temples like a teenager who’s tired of their parent’s high jinks. 

“Why is it always us?” Jana complains, “why don’t you ever traumatize your roommates instead.”

“Absolutely not,” Ice puts her hands up in surrender, “I already lived through that last year,” she shudders at the memory, “they owe me compensation for that shit not a replay.”

“Oh please,” Aubrey says cavalierly, sitting with her hands splayed on the ground behind her back, “y’all think this is bad? Y’all don’t even know what we had to live through when Azzi first got here and these two were still being absolute dumbasses. I don’t remember what was louder. The fighting or the fucking.”

“And the fighting always lead to fucking,” Caroline commiserates before a contemplative expression overtakes her features, “or was it the other way round?”

“Shut up,” Paige grumbles, a red blush forming from the base of her neck to the tip of her ears as she hides her face against Azzi’s curls, “we were not that bad.”

“No we definitely were,” Azzi’s voice is steady, despite her own face being the same embarrassed shade as her girlfriend’s, as she gives Paige’s hand -wrapped around her waist- a gentle squeeze, “but we figured it out,” her eyes are soft as she turns around in the older girl’s arms to look at the blonde, “we always do.”

Paige brushes their lips together before pressing her forehead against the brunette’s, “always.”

And she’s dimly aware of her teammate’s making gagging sounds in the background, can practically feel the eye-rolls and thoughts of the two of you are sickening vibrating off of them but Paige doesn’t care. Because underneath it all is a fondness -perhaps even admiration- that none of the girls can really hide because no one is a bigger supporter of the Paige and Azzi story than the teammates that had lived through every chapter of it with them. 

“Alright enough,” it’s KK who eventually pulls them apart, her hand curling around Paige’s bicep to pull her back, eyes almost rolling to the back of her head when she notices the frown on the blonde’s face, “oh my lord, y’all don’t get tired of each other?”

“Nope,” Paige and Azzi replying in sync, glancing dopily at each other because, it’s been seven years of their lives being intertwined, four years of living in each other’s skin -so interwoven that it was hard to tell where Azzi began and where Paige ended- and yet, Paige thinks if there were more hours in the day, she’d still spend every single extra second as a chance to fall a little bit more in love Azzi. 

“Y’all are hopeless,” KK informs them (they don’t deny it) before she looks expectantly at Paige, “anyways P-boogs, you were saying something about celebrating?”

“Isn’t that what the parade tomorrow is for?” Ashlynn asks quizzically. 

“Yeah but that- that’s for everybody. The fans, the local media, all of them,” Paige replies earnestly, “we should do something for us- something just us. One last time.”

“Do your fangirls know their ultimate rizzler is such a sap P?” Ayanna teases but there’s wistfulness to her tone, one that reflects in the eyes of all of the girls as that last bittersweet phrase settles in the air, “what did you have in mind?”

Paige grins, “y’all see that tree over there,” she points to the large willow tree a couple meters away, one that looks out over the school like a protector; it’s the team somehow always ends up close to whenever they make their way up to Horsebarn hill, “I wanna carve our names into it. Something that’ll last forever.”

Ice lets out an amused snort, “trust you to come up with the most clichéd idea ever Bueckers. What are we in some feel-good 90’s teenage comedy movie?”

“Oooh I’d be the funny one,” KK supplies proudly, “like that one supporting character everyone remembers more than the main ones.”

“I think that’s the annoying one,” Ice mutters under her breath causing KK to glare at her. 

"You’d be a forgettable extra Isuneh,” the shorter girl hisses, “not even one of the ones with lines. Matter of fact, your name wouldn’t even be on the goddamn tree.”

“And someone would scratch your name off. So guess we’d both be off the fucking tree Kamorea,” Ice retorts immediately, crossing her arms over her chest as the two of them revert to their default of being in a state of constant bickering. 

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Caroline says, her voice as authoritative as ever as she fixes Ice and KK with her best warning motherly gaze before rising to her feet, “okay everyone go find yourself a sharp stick so we can carry out Paige’s clichéd idea.”

“Hey,” Paige pouts, “it’s not that cliché.”

“It definitely is,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes like it pains her to have to go along with this but the way she lights up when she finds a little twig with whetted edges -perfect for etching her mark into a tree- tells a different story. 

“I think it's a sweet baby,” Azzi whispers softly as she gently stands up, reaching out a hand to pull Paige up with her, “very cute, very you.”

“Yeah?” Paige nudges her girlfriend’s shoulder, their intertwined hands swinging between them as the two of them make their way towards the tree, picking up their own sticks along the way, “so sweet that you’ll carve your name next to mine?”

Azzi laughs, the sound of it pure and uninhibited  as it echoes through the night, “where else would my name go?”

Paige practically beams at her girlfriend’s answer as the two of them join the rest of their teammates by the tree, the group of girls gathering under the willows as they each take turns etching their signatures into the bark. They have their phones out as flashlights, illuminating the area just enough for whoever’s turn it is to be able to see what they’re marking out. And Paige thinks that if at this moment, anyone were to look up at the hill from the path at the bottom, it would look a little bit like the stars had fallen from the night sky so that a constellation could congregate on top of the hill. 

She’s the last person to carve her name onto the tree and Paige sucks in a sharp breath, eyes glossing over the names of the rest of her teammates -her found family- before she inches forward, finding Azzi’s name amidst the rest and with a smile -one filled with the memories of everything she’s achieved and the building excitement of everything else she will- Paige signs her name right next to her girlfriend’s, right underneath the National Champions 2025 - we fucking did it!

April 13th 9:47 p.m.

Azzi’s sitting on the bed, head perched against the headboard, legs criss-crossed as she types away at her phone, texting Mackenzie about the photoshoot she has tomorrow morning. Her eyebrows are knitted in concentration, tongue poking out of her lips occasionally as she goes over the details with a friend, meticulous planning how the rest of the day would go. She’s so caught up in her focus that it takes her a while to realize she's being stared at. 

And when she does finally look up, there’s Paige -standing in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail as she leans against the door to their en-suite bathroom- staring at her like Azzi’s the moon and Paige has scoured the entire night sky just to find that luminescence again. It’s how Paige has always looked at her, with an intensity that feels all-consuming -like the blonde is memorizing every single inch of her and hiding the snapshot of it away in a treasure chest, locked by a key that only she has. Azzi feels her breath catch in her throat as Paige’s gaze stays locked on her -unwavering and steady- with that patented just for Azzi smile curling against the corner of her lips. 

“I missed you,” Paige says finally, after a moment of them just staring at each other. 

Azzi lets out a quiet chuckle, “you were in the bathroom for a solid ten minutes. How could you have possibly missed me?”

“I miss you every second you’re not with me,” it’s one of those corny lines Paige has used on her a million times -one she’d normally roll her eyes at and make a quip at about her girlfriend being clingy-  but there’s an underlying tone to it tonight that makes Azzi sit up just a little bit straighter. 

“Paige,” Azzi says softly, shifting her body slightly, ready to reach out for her girlfriend, but the blonde shakes her head 

“I miss you every time you leave, every time we’re apart. Doesn’t matter if it’s for a couple seconds or minutes or hours or days or-” Paige swallows as she cuts herself off, her breathing uneven as she continues as Azzi feels her heart start to ache at where this is going, “it started when you left Minnesota that first summer we met. And I remember- I remember after I��d left you at the airport- it felt- it felt like something was missing. And all I could think about the entire car ride home is when you’d land and when I could facetime you again. Just so I could hear your voice and see your face, even if it was through a screen that time.”

“I didn’t even wait till I got home,” Azzi reminisces, letting out a watery giggle as flashback of a much younger version of her -an antsy fourteen year old who didn’t quite understand why she was already so desperate to call her new friend that she’d just seen a mere few hours ago- invades her mind, “I called you as soon as we got in the taxi. God I almost hung up when you didn’t pick up on the first ring.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” Paige admits, “I’d been staring at my phone the whole time waiting for you to call and then when you did, I fucking dropped it.”

“You were a dork,” Azzi teases, “still are.”

“You love it,” Paige smirks cockily before her expression softens, her throat scratchy as she continues, “I don’t know how we did it sometimes. All that distance. Seeing each other for a couple weeks here and there and then being apart for months. It killed me, you know that? Every single time we had to say goodbye? I fucking hated it.”

“I missed you as soon as you walked away each time,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, looking down at the mattress so Paige won’t see her eyes threatening to overflow with the tears that are brimming at her water line

And she can feel it -all of those emotions she’d kept at bay over the last few weeks, all of those realizations she’d refused to let herself have just yet, all of those fears and worries that she’d pushed away to deal with after- everything rushing up all at once, banging at the barricades of their cages as they yell to be let out, to be dealt with. Because there isn’t much time left. After tomorrow, after the draft, everything would start changing. And Azzi can’t change that. 

The silence around them is thick with tension, Paige’s eyes on Azzi and Azzi still staring down at the linen, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the comforter. She almost feels selfish for feeling this way; for not being stronger for Paige, for her girlfriend whose life would change a lot more than Azzi’s would. It’s Paige who’s going to have to move to a new city and leave this old life of hers behind, Paige who’s going to have to integrate into a different team in a much harder league, Paige who’s going to have all eyes on her as she embarks on a new journey. 

And Azzi knows, despite the façade of complete confidence that Paige puts up, that her girlfriend is still human and that humans get scared. She wants to be Paige’s anchor, her shield and she has been -has let herself burn in her own trepidation so she can protect her girlfriend from the fire of doubt- but tonight, everything feels too fucking hot. Azzi can feel her resolve crumbling and when she finally looks up, when she finally lets Paige catch a glimpse of her face -red with tears free-falling- she knows her girlfriend can feel it too. 

“I’m scared Paige,” Azzi whispers and they both know what she means, “everything’s gonna change.”

“Oh baby,” Paige’s tone is gentle yet wrecked as she almost trips over her own face to get to Azzi, immediately cupping the brunette’s face in between her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Azzi’s voice comes out trembling -barely above a whisper- as she lets herself melt into her girlfriend’s touch. 

“God baby no,” Paige soothes, her thumbs brushing away the fast-falling drops rolling down the brunette’s cheeks, “why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t want- fuck Paige- baby it’s the night before the best day of your life and I’m ruining it,” Azzi sobs; now that she’s let the tears out, it’s like they refuse to stop. 

“No you’re not,” Paige corrects her immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument, “you could never ruin anything for me baby. Just you being here, it makes it-,” she gives Azzi a wobbly smirk, “it makes tonight un-ruin-able or something.”

And in spite of the heaviness pinching at her ribs, Azzi finds herself letting out a watery chuckle, “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“It so is,” Paige says assertively, pulling Azzi onto her lap so that the younger girl is straddling her hips, her head instinctively burrowing itself into the safe space in the crevice between the blonde’s neck and shoulder as they breathe together in synch with each other’s heartbeat

A beat passes before Azzi speaks again, the vulnerability leaking through her voice despite it being muffled by Paige’s skin, “this is gonna be really fucking hard isn’t it?”

Paige’s arms instinctively tighten around the brunette, her hands that had been playing with her curls stilling as her body goes rigid under Azzi. It’s a thought that both of them have had -their eyes have even said it each other in the moments where the inevitability of their future had been to hard to ignore- but neither of them had, had the courage to actually say it out loud yet, to give that thought the wing to fly into the air and hang between them like a sword of reality waiting to cut through their mirage of wilful ignorance. 

But the sword has been unsheathed now. And the mirage has disappeared. 

“Yeah it is,” Paige says finally, her fingers slipping under Azzi’s shirt to caress her back, like she’s trying to soothe her girlfriend and keep herself sane just by being able to touch her, “it is scary and it is- it’s gonna be really fucking hard.”

Azzi whimpers, trying to push herself further into her girlfriend’s embrace, almost like she’s trying to sew them together by their skin with a thread that no force in the world could unbind. 

“But baby listen,” Paige coaxes Azzi’s face out of her chest, her thumbs resting on the younger girl’s jawling as she looks at her with that gentle gaze she reserves solely for her girlfriend, “no matter what- no matter how scary or hard it is- we’re gonna get through this. I know we are. Because you and me Az? We’re unbreakable- we’re un-ruin-able.”

Azzi lets out a wobbly laugh as she presses her forehead against the blonde’s, eyes closing instinctively as she breathes in the clean, calming, scent of Paige’s lavender body wash, “just cause you keep using it, doesn’t mean it’s suddenly gonna become a word, you know that right?”

“Yeah but it got you to smile twice so I’mma keep using it over and over again,” Paige shrugs, her nose nuzzling against Azzi’s. 

“You’re such a cornball Bueckers,” Azzi announces with a somewhat dramatic eye roll before she’s falling back into the pillows, tugging her girlfriend with her so she’s lying on her back, with Paige hovering right over her, cerulean blue eyes gleaming with love and promise as she smiles down at Azzi. 

“But here you are anyways,” Paige whispers as she presses her lips languidly to Azzi’s forehead, before moving down to her cheeks, then to her lips, “loving me,” she bites the lower one softly before moving onto Azzi’s neck and her collarbone, “wanting me,” her lips drift lower, gently lifting her shirt so she can leave a trail of delicate kisses starting at rib cage and then continuing down, a teasing smirk on her face, “needing me.”

“Paige,” Azzi moans, her fingers curling against the sheet as Paige settles between her legs, hands toying with the waistband of her sleep shorts as she looks expectantly up at the brunette. 

“What do you want, baby?” Paige asks, looking at Azzi like she’s already drunk off of her. 

“I want it slow,” Azzi says quietly, reaching a hand down to brush away a strand of unruly blonde hair, “I want you to make it last.”

“Whatever you want Az,” Paige promises, rising back up so she can pull Azzi into a searing hot kiss, “I’ll give you whatever you want baby.”

And she does. 

It’s slow and steady and perfect. They make love like they could make it last forever, like they have all the time in the world, like tonight won’t change into tomorrow unless they want it to. And when they finally fall apart, wrapped so tightly in each other arms, grounded by the feeling of being each other’s anchor, it feels like a vow; a vow to be un-ruin-able. 

April 14th 3:47 p.m.

Paige’s knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since she’d taken her seat on the hair and make-up chair. She’s acutely away of everything going on around her, of Haley’s curling iron putting the finishing touches on her hair, of Brittany making sure all of the pieces for her outfit change later on in the night are ready to be transported, of teammates -past and present- walking in and out of the room with praises of how good she looks and how proud they are of her. And Paige is thankful for all of them -is almost a little overwhelmed with how her village has come out to support her- but she can’t pretend that she’s not counting down the moments till her hair and make-up are done, till she can jump out of this chair and run down the hallway to her girlfriend. 

Beyond the quiet moment they’d shared when they’d woken up -at a far too early hour- this morning and a quick glimpse of each other before they’d been whisked away to get ready for the night, she hasn’t seen Azzi nearly enough today. They’d texted of course, like they always did when they were apart for longer than a minute. But no amount of messages back and forth could replace the exhilaration that came with actually being together, that came with being able to see her and touch her and feel her. 

God Paige is so fucking gone, has been since she was fifteen and she’d walked into the gym to see the most perfect arc on a three-point shot that she’d ever seen. And then her gaze had landed on the girl who’d taken the jumpshot. 

That was it. 

The moment Paige’s life had been permanently altered. 

And now that girl, the girl with the perfect jump shot but an even more perfect soul, was going to be by her side on the biggest night of her life so far, just like she had been for every milestone -every moment, big or small, happy or sad- since they’d met. 

Paige remembers when they’d first talked about being drafted and playing the W. Back then, it had felt like a dream, attainable but something that was still years and years away. But still, she’d been adamant, if not cocky, that she’d be a high first-round pick and Azzi -even though she’d started with a sarcastic quip and a teasing joke about you? nah Bueckers, you’d be lucky if you go late second round-had said with absolute certainty, her eyes sparkling with an emotion Paige couldn't quite decipher, that she was going to go number one overall.

And it had caught Paige off-guard, that fluttering in her stomach as her chest had expanded with pride. It wasn’t the first time someone had complimented her, wasn’t even the first time someone had said she’d go number one but there was a certain conviction in Azzi's voice that made Paige feel like she really believed it, believed in her. 

That belief was going to pay off tonight.

And Azzi -just like she’d promised, when they were just two girls lying on a blanket under the stars, pinkies brushing together as they’d talked about their future- would be right there to watch it happen. 

“Are we done yet?” Paige asks impatiently, looking imploringly at her entourage through the mirror. 

“Why?” Hayley’s eyes twinkle with mirth as she spritzes copious amounts setting spray against Paige’s hair, making the blond wheeze, “you have somewhere you need to be Bueckers?”

“Me? No. I got nothing to do,” Paige denies, “but Brittany has another client she has to go see I think and like you know, we shouldn’t keep her from doing that right Britt?”

Her stylist raises an amused eyebrow, “no one’s keeping me from seeing my other client Paige. In fact, you’re basically done and I’ve got your second look read to go, so I think I’m gonna go over and see her I think,” Brittany smirks as she walks towards the makeup chair, winking at Hayley, “but since you have nowhere to be yet, how about we do a little-”

“NO,” Paige shrinks back, a crimson blush creeping up her neck and overriding the artificial one at how loud her protest had come out, “I mean um- I already look great I think and you guys uh- you guys have worked so hard. We wouldn’t wanna ruin that by adding more and um- doing too much or something.”

Brittany laughs at her client’s rambling, shaking her head fondly at Paige’s familiar antiques as she comes to stand in front of the girl, “you’re a horrible liar.”

“I know,” Paige admits with a slight pout, “I just- I wanna see her.”

“She wants to see you too,” Brittany whispers like it’s a secret as she hands over her phone and Paige’s eyes light up when she sees her girlfriend’s name above a series of texts. 

Azzi: heyyyyyyy auntie B 

     ��    just wondering how everything’s going over there?

          if you’re almost done?

          are you coming over soon? 

Paige laughs, a warm sensation wrapping itself around her heart at the desperation that mirrors her own, reflected in the texts. She can practically picture her girlfriend, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip as she’d likely overthought what to send to their stylist. 

“Y’all are just as bad as each other,” Brittany says, “but come on lovebird, let’s reunite you with your other half and put us all out of our misery.”

Paige grins like a child who’s just been told they’re being taken to disney world, standing up from her make-up chair so quickly that it makes her stumble a little bit, much to the entertainment of all the people around her. She catches a glance of herself, the finished product, in the mirror and can’t help the slightly arrogant smirk that crosses her face. 

She looks good. 

Fashion hadn’t initially been one of Paige’s passions but perhaps that was more because she wasn’t aware of what fashion could be for her before. She’d never understood the hype of the overly feminine dresses and jewelry her mother seemed to want her to wear but she’d done it with a smile until dressing herself like that had started to feel more like a punishment than an indulgence. And it hadn’t been until she’d started venturing into the more ambiguous style, into something that felt more her, that Paige had really begun to understand just how much she enjoyed dabbling in fashion, just how much she could use it as a venture to express herself, as a way to fall back in love with herself for who she is. 

By the time they make the short walk to Azzi’s dressing room, Paige’s palms are sweating. She feels like a highschooler who’s waiting to see their prom date. Ironic, because Paige hated every second of the day leading up to Azzi’s prom night, annoyed at the idea of someone else taking her girl as their date. Still, she’d played her part as a dutiful best friend, driving Azzi around to get her nails done, laughing with her as she'd gotten her hair and make-up done, taking candid pictures of her when she wasn’t looking and a couple more when she was. But every second had felt like torture, like a ticking timebomb waiting to explode the moment Azzi’d date had shown up at the Fudd’s doorstep. It wasn’t until Azzi had stepped into  his car -turning around to wave up at Paige with an uncertain smile- and the blonde had watched it drive away from the window of the guestroom, that she’d finally broken down. 

But then Azzi had come back early, a thousand and one excuses on her lips of why she’d skipped out on the after party, none of which really made sense but neither of her parents, and definitely not Paige herself, had called her out on it. And she hadn’t said the truth out loud that night -just gotten out of her dress and curled into bed next to Paige, putting on Love and Basketball for the hundredth time- but it had been enough, enough for Paige to know that it wasn’t all in her head, that Azzi felt the electricity that hummed between them too. 

The sweet scent of a citrus-y perfume engulfs her sense as Paige pushes open the door to her girlfriend’s room. She doesn’t quite recognize it, isn’t the one that Azzi normally uses, but something about it matches the brunette’s aura. Paige’s eyes scan the room, throwing the peace sign up at Amari who’s perched lazily on the bed and giving polite nods to the glam squad who are bustling around the space. She scrunches her face at not immediately catching sight of her girlfriend, her impatience catching up to her, until she hears it. 

Azzi’s voice. 

Coming from the direction of the bathroom; her tone carefree and light as she talks to who Paige assumes is Mackenzie. She hears the shutter of a camera, a quick work it girl, followed by her girlfriend’s familiar giggles and Paige feels her heart beat start to slow down, that calm she only feels when Azzi’s near her starting to seep through her skin like a the perfect hit of indica settling her frazzled nerves. 

“Baby,” she calls out, blushing at the fact that she can hear the sappy smile in her own voice, “c’mere. I wanna see you.”

On the bed Amari pretends to gag, “still as gross as ever I see.”

Paige flips her off, shifting her weight from side to side as she waits for Azzi to come out of the bathroom, desperate feeling like too mild a term to describe how badly she wants to see the brunette. 

And when she does- 

Fuck. 

It’s like they forget how to breathe at the same time, the world fading away as the two of them stare at each other, eyes wide, mouth parted, that same how did I get so fucking lucky expression written over both of their faces. And the thing is, Paige swears Azzi is the most gorgeous thing she’s laid her eyes on every day, thinks she’s the prettiest girl in the world even when she’s in nothing but that one old Georgetown shirt and her shorts covered in red hearts, with no makeup on. But tonight? 

God, tonight, Azzi is ethereal. 

Like nothing Paige has ever seen before. 

Like an angel fallen from heaven that was so gorgeous, she’d been banished by Aphrodite herself. 

Paige had seen the black dress on Azzi during her fittings, had already been enamored by the low cut neckline and the way the material went sheer at the bottom. But still, nothing could have prepared her for this final look. For the hair, wavy in a way Paige has never seen it before, the makeup that makes Azzi’s doe eyes pop and enunciates the plumpness of her lips, the minimal jewelry that enhances the entire outfit and makes Azzi look expensive. 

And Paige can’t tell if she’s floating or flying or falling, but she knows the ground has been snatched from underneath her in the best way possible. 

“Paige,” Azzi recovers first and Paige blinks -still dumbfounded- as her girlfriend glides across the room towards her and she’s struck with the fact that Azzi looks just as mesmerized as she does. 

“You look-” the brunette swallows, her hands moving like she doesn’t know where she wants to put them before they finally settle on the lapels of the older girl’s blazer, “fuck baby you look beautiful.”

“Me?” Paige finally finds her voice, her own hand moving to wrap around Azzi’s waist as she pulls her girlfriend closer, eyes still roaming all over her body, “baby have you fucking seen yourself.”

Azzi lowers her eyes bashfully, a soft pink color gracing her cheeks, “you like it?”

“No,” Paige says without hesitation, causing her girlfriend to look back up at her in confusion, “I hate it. I hate that you’re wearing it tonight. I hate that everyone else is gonna get to see you like this,” she continues possessively, eliciting a laugh from Azzi, “you look so fucking perfect baby, everyone’s gonna fall in love with you. I’m gonna end up in jail or something by the end of the night.”

“How do you think I feel,” Azzi bites back, pressing herself closer to Paige, “they’re already in love with you and then you’re gonna show up like that? I’ll be right there in jail with you at that point.”

“So what I’m hearing is that we should just stay here for the rest of the night? Just you and me and nobody else,” Paige smirks crookedly, “I mean I’mma get drafted even if I don't show up right?” 

Azzi shakes her head, tangling her fingers in the black cross chain dangling down the valley of her girlfriend’s chest, “tempting but no,” her eyes shine with pride, “I wanna watch your dreams come true tonight. I wanna hear your name called. I wanna see you walk on that stage and get handed that jersey. And I- I wanna be the one clapping the loudest when it all happens.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else,” Paige whispers, her voice trembling as she tightens her grip around Azzi’s waist, “you know that right baby? That I wouldn’t wanna live out any of my dreams with anybody else but you?”

“I know, me too,” Azzi nods, gently tapping their foreheads together, “I’m so proud of you P. So proud. And I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you more,” Paige says, somehow managing to press their bodies even closer together, “thank you for being here. Not just tonight. For all of it. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“Always,” Azzi breathes out, “I’m always gonna be here. No matter what.”

It’s a promise Azzi intends to keep and a promise Paige plans on holding her to, forever. 

April 15th 5:35 a.m. 

Their hotel room is quiet now, the last of their friends having drunkenly departed to their respective rooms. The high of the night still lingers in the air, echoes of the cacophony that had surrounded them since they’d woken up this morning still ringing in their ears. The room is a mess to say the least, remnants of drunk shenanigans woven into the couch and carpet. It’s the scene of the after-after party that had only involved the people closest to them, a not-so-quiet affair that had happened rather spontaneously after the Nike event had ended and their little circle -none of them particular sober- had agreed to reconvene in Paige and Azzi’s room instead. Champagne had flowed, the music had been loud and the chatter had been practically incoherent. 

But God, had it been fun. 

The perfect celebration of a monumentally perfect night. 

And now it was just the two of them, tired, aching bodies lying side by side -Paige, with her eyes closed, on her back, one arm wrapped around Azzi’s who’s curled against her chest, the other propped under her head- as they finally get a moment to themselves. Neither of them have changed, but at some point Paige’s white shirt had ended up wrapped around Azzi’s body, leaving the blonde in nothing but her white camisole now. Azzi doesn’t remember how exactly that had happened but she’s not complaining, not when she’s now engulfed by the scent of all things Paige and she has a first-class view of her girlfriend’s toned arms. 

“So,” she begins quietly, her voice scratchy and hoarse from the occurrences of the night, “when are we going shopping for a cowboy hat and cowboy boots?”

Paige laughs, a deep belly rumble that Azzi’s can feel from where her fingers are splayed over the blonde’s stomach, “as soon as we get to Dallas baby.”

We. 

Azzi hides a smile into Paige’s chest at that. She likes when her girlfriend speaks about them like that, like the package deal they have been since they were fifteen years old. Her eyes flicker across the room to the Dallas Wings hat that’s perched on the mirror, a relic of what’s to come and the thrill of what had happened tonight. Everyone had known this was what was going to happen since December, a foregone conclusion but that hadn’t made the moment any less special. Not when Azzi has been waiting for it -praying on it even before she’d truly discovered her faith- since the first time Paige had confided in her -with uncharacteristic quiet vulnerability- that she hoped one day she’d go number one in the draft. 

And tonight, that had finally come to fruition. 

There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe how proud of Paige, Azzi is. She’s never doubted this moment would come, never doubted that this would be another mountain her girlfriend would conquer, but she knows -better than anyone- that the climb to the top had been riddled with obstacles. Hurdle after hurdle, Azzi had watched Paige jump over them all, maintaining a smile for the crowds but letting herself crumble in the brunette’s arms behind the scenes. And Azzi had held her, whispered reassurances into her ears until the blonde was fast asleep with tear-tracked cheeks and her own arms had hurt from holding Paige. But the idea of letting go had never once crossed Azzi’s mind. Instead she’d held her girlfriend a little tighter, had made herself stronger, so that whatever burden Paige was carrying, Azzi would always be there to make it lighter. 

Now here Paige is, a national champion, the #1 draft pick, a person who’d dared to dream despite it all, and the dreams had finally become a reality. 

And as she observes her girlfriend, eyes closed in peace with the smile of someone who’s really and truly happy, Azzi thinks no one deserved this more. 

“You’re staring,” Paige teases, eyelids still pressed shut as she brushes her hand up and down Azzi’s arm. 

The brunette bites her lip, only a little embarrassed at having been caught out, “I’m allowed to. You’re mine.”

“Oh?” Paige cracks open one eye, her lips stretching into that familiar arrogant smirk, “feeling a little possessive are we Az?”

“It’s the alcohol,” Azzi justifies with a grin, reaching up to steal a quick kiss from her girlfriend’s lips, “it makes me say the craziest things.”

Paige hums cavalierly before pulling Azzi fully on top of her, both eyes now open as she grins lazily up at the girl in her arms and it’s uncertain if the intoxication gleaming in them is from the ample amount of liquor coursing through her bloodstream or just the sheer amount of love she feels for her girlfriend.

“I like when you say crazy things,” she says softly, her thumb caressing the brunette’s cheeks, “especially things like that.”

“Like what?” Azzi breathes out. 

Paige’s tongue traces her bottom lip and Azzi finds herself following every movement, “like when you call me yours.”

“You are mine,” Azzi repeats, “and I’m yours.”

“I know,” Paige whispers as she brushes away a loose strand that had slipped out of the dark-haired girl’s bun, “and now the world knows it too.”

“You think so?” Azzi asks softly, a thrill inching up her spine at the idea of them officially being an open secret. 

“They should,” Paige snorts, “at least anybody with brain cells. I bet you, when I scroll through social media tomorrow morning, we’re gonna be all over it.”

Tonight hadn’t been a planned coming-out or anything; it wasn’t like they were trying to announce their relationship to the world. But they’d known what it would look like, what assumptions would be drawn from Azzi sitting pretty at Paige’s table, from her being the first person Paige hugged. They’d been acutely aware that this would firmly cross them over the threshold of being primarily known as best friends to people -as in the general public and not just a certain subsection of the internet who had already caught on long ago- questioning if there was more there. 

But that hadn’t been why they’d done this, albeit Azzi will admit that she likes the idea of being less hidden and the slightly possessive part of her enjoys the idea of people knowing, or at least speculating, that Paige is taken.  They’d done this because they deserved this moment together. They deserved to love each other out loud in the biggest of moment of Paige’s life, without fear, without inhibition, without giving a flying fuck about what anybody else would say. 

“Tonight was pretty amazing huh?” Paige says after a second, awe and tired blending into one smooth, low, cadence. 

Azzi doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches the girl underneath her, memorizing the marvel in her eyes, the joy that outlines every inch of her face. She presses a hand against Paige’s chest, exactly over where she knows her heart is, letting herself feel the rhythmic vibration of her pulse, like it’s the beat to her favorite song that she could listen to over and over again. 

“Was it everything you’d ever hoped for?” she asks finally. 

Paige chortles, “it was better.”

“I’m glad. You deserved it baby,” Azzi smiles, pressing her lips to Paige’s, letting it deepen for a second before she pulls away and rests her head against the older girl’s chest. 

“I can’t wait to do this again next year,” Paige says slowly, her hands rubbing up and down Azzi’s back as her words come out slightly slurred,“my turn to clap the loudest when you get picked number one.”

Azzi lets out a sleepy giggle, “alright hold on babe, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Nah,” Paige shakes her head, arms tightening their hold on the girl in her arms, “I already know.”

“Okay baby,” Azzi whispers, her eyes beginning to droop, powerless to the exhaustion shrouding every inch of her body, “can’t wait,” she yawns, burrowing herself further into her girlfriend’s warm embrace, “I love you. Good night P.”

“Good night Azzi,” Paige echoes back, reaching over the younger girl’s to turn the lights over, "love you more baby."

And as she slowly begins to succumb to the wiles of sleep, Azzi can’t help but think about how everything had changed tonight. They were going to spend a couple more days in New York, then a few more in Connecticut -maximizing their time together- before Paige would head off to Dallas, off to her new life. Azzi would follow her eventually, of course she would. But not forever, not to stay. 

Summers have always belonged to them. Since they’d met that fateful summer, they’d spend every single one together, attached at the hip. In the beginning, when they were still kids and less aware of how they felt, they’d still been apart for a few weeks but the last few summers? They’d barely been apart for a few days. But this summer would be different. Paige will be playing, traveling, learning the ropes of her new life and Azzi knows she needs to use this summer to get her prepared to do the same next year. Everything has changed. 

“Hey Az,” Paige whispers in the dark, her voice hesitant like she’s not sure if she say the next part, “next year when you get drafted, do you think- do you think maybe I could kiss you?”

Azzi hides her smile in the older girl’s chest. And she thinks everything has changed, but perhaps nothing has. 

Because she’s still Azzi, and Paige is still Paige, and the two of them are still the same, still them, still just two girls, desperately in love with each other, dreaming of their future together. 

“Yeah,” she answers finally, pressing a quick kiss against the side of Paige’s neck, “I think I’d like that.”

[jaeminvore]

Credit Card Baby | Z.CL — PREVIEW (read here)

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda).

TEASER WORD COUNT: 770

FULL FIC WORD COUNT: estimated 15K (more or less)

RELEASE DATE: June 26, 2025 — 11 PM PST

TAGLIST: send an ask if you want to be notified when the full fic is posted!

NOTE: if you listen closely, you can hear me screaming because no one is more excited than me, who finally got around to writing a Chenle fic after so long of telling myself that I will. Eventually. And now we're here YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid one towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head–” (“I did not need to know that.”) “–anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” You were sure that wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating–” Yizhuo made air quotations “–on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn clock app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying.”

On the other hand, Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna

[teaboot]

TOP 10 PERSONAL FAVE MOVIES TO WATCH WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE ASS

I don't like movies that stress me out because life is already stressful but I DO love catharsis comedy found family friendship fantasy and violence so here are my top 10 movies and series to have a good time watching

Numbered for convenience but not in any particular order

John Wick 1 and 2: An ordinary man grieving the loss of his wife gets dragged back into his past as a shadowy, invisible world of international killers for hire is slowly revealed to be living among us. A love note to set design, lighting, and choreography. My favourite part is fixating on the symbolism. DO NOT WATCH 3. 4 is okay. DO NOT WATCH 3. There is a dog death in 1 that will make you cry so skip that part if you have to. DO NOT WATCH 3.

The lord of the Rings, all 3, extended edition best watched if you're on the couch with the flu and expect to fall asleep OR if it's your day off and it's raining outside OR if you have like 5 people lounging around in pajamas

Six Underground: Essentially an hour and a half long car commercial music video with found family and a fresher take on acommon plot. Ryan Reynolds essentially writes and directs a Michael Bay movie where 6 independant criminals gather together to overthrow a violent foreign dictatorship. You show up for a dumb heist and walk out ready to build a guillotine. TW for violence, car crashes, chemical warfare, and genocide. A very cathartic ending. Does unfortunately do the whole "vague, impoverished middle-eastern country" thing but the citizens are actually show as human beings which is a nice change of pace and oh wow that's depressing isn't it

The Princess Diaries 1 and 2: A sort-of-a-loser teenage girl, played by a 2001 Annie Hathaway, learns that her late father was a king of a foreign nation and must become a confident and responsible leader for his people. There is a scene in the rain where you will experience emotions. Best watched with snacks. 2 features an enemies-to-lovers type deal with Chris Pine.

Ella Enchanted: A shrek-style semi-musical fantasy romance in which a young woman is cursed at birth to do everything anyone tells her to do. Features several Queen songs and dance numbers sung by Annie Hathaway and that guy who plays the sad dog guy in Hannibal.

Stardust: A huge loser travels from 1800s England (?) to a magical world in order to fetch a fallen star for the insufferable love of his life before she marries a massive douchebag. The huge loser? Charlie Cox. The star? A living person. Also a whole bunch of princes are ALSO looking for them as a race for the throne while discreetly killing each other off. And also a bunch of witches want to eat her so they can be young and sexy. 11/10. I used to watch this 10 minutes at a time on a YouTube channel that posted it in chunks filmed on a digital camera in their living room

The Last Holiday: Queen Latifah, playing someone played by Queen Latifah, has been working an underappreciated minimum wage job for years, living a safe and conservative life trying to lose weight and save money. Then she finds out she has months to live, and decides to finally quit her job and blow it all on one massive luxury holiday vacation complete with five-star dining, making friends and finding love and confidence along the way. It's definitely corny but it makes me so happy thank you Queen Latifah

Zathura: It's the plot to the original Jumanji but in space instead of the rainforest. But listen to me: There's a twist reveal at the end that you need to pretend isn't there. It is vitally important when you get to that part- and you will know what part when it happens- that you pretend it didn't. Otherwise, a fresh and enjoyable adventure for any age!

Redacted cause I haven't seen it in a long time and it may be worse than I remember, gotta rewatch

Bullet Train. You go in expecting a ham-fisted find-the-mcguffin style action comedy and are blindsided by excellent narrative symmetry and genuinely likeable characters. Fresh takes on old themes and creative action sequences. My little brother said "It's good", and he's a man who once sincerely argued that Lord of the Rings could have been better. It's fun and punchy violence with just enough smart stuff to not let your brain get bored

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | you're mine

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i'm actually going to murder my keyboard i am so done with the extra letters and spaces you're gonna yell at me about the end but i'll pick up straight where this leaves off tomorrow :)

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, language, the girls are fighting!! he's big mad, they yell, etc. gets saucy near the end but no smut

< part 5 | part 7 >

Jack loves working on the night shift. He loves his coworkers, being able to watch the sun rise, and he loves the relative peace in his shift when compared to what he knows the day shift is like.

Lately, he's been thinking about the downsides, though.

When the baby is here, god, he's having a baby, but when it's here does that just mean that its your job to take care of it all night and then go to work all day? He can afford daycare no problem, but maybe he should look into nighttime nurse for you. He adds it to the mental list of things he needs to figure out.

There's approximately 4 million other things on his list as well.

It's another of his string og three days off, and he's seated on his couch trying to enjoy a movie that he put on. He'd much rather be with you, but you're out with your friends at some new country bar that popped up.

When you had first told him your plans for the night, he cringed. Thinking about the hot, sweaty environment you must be in, the opportunities for slips and falls on the sticky dance floor, and in his darkest thoughts, the possibility of you getting something put in your drink, regardless of if it was just water or a soda.

But be a controlling ass he will not, so he wished you and your friends a fun night and left it at that.

He's regretting that now as he looks at his phone and the message he got from your friend Emily. He scrambles for his reading glasses, slips them on, and inspects the text message thouroughly, trying to decipher it.

'miss girl fully eating with her fit'

She had sent along a photo as well, highlighting your cowgirl boots, your cute little sundress, and the intricate way that you had styled your hair for the evening. Jack, however, is focused on the tall cowboy character that you're talking to in the picture, smiling up at him as he looks down at you.

He puts his phone down, biting his lip and thinking about how hard he wants to take this. He's not taking it well overall.

'Do you guys need a ride home?'

He asks. It's about 11:30 now, so he would be able to get there at midnight, which he thinks is a perfect time to leave a country bar.

He's already up and changing out of his sweatpants before he gets a text back.

'uhhhh we were all going to get an uber home'

Emily had texted back.

Jack rolls his eyes.

'I'm on my way, be there in 30'

Jack has a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel as he gets closer to the bar and finds a parking space.

He has to wait in line to get in and pay a $15 cover, which only sours his mood more. He's borderline seething as he enters, his eyes quickly scanning the open space.

He finally spies you, standing at the bar talking to someone.

Instead of being your friends, it's a tall, cowboy-hat wearing tool with a few too many buttons undone on his shirt.

He makes his way through the bar to you, and you don't even notice his presence until he has wormed his way into your conversation, standing directly in front of you.

Your eyes flick over, at first just preturbed about the man in your space, then your expression shifts to shock and a little bit of fear. The look on his face must be severe.

"Jack..." you trail off, "what are you doing here?" you ask.

"Emily texted me." he says, "I'm here to give you all a ride home." he says.

The man you've been talking to seems to think now is a good time to speak up.

"Hey, man, we're in the middle of talking," he argues.

"Not anymore," Jack says, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along with him as he turns to go.

"Jack," you start to argue as he sucessfully pulls you away from the man, deeper into the bar and looking for the other three.

"Not right now." he cuts you off harshly, not letting go of your wrist.

You trail behind him as he finds the other three, and goes to leave with the four of you trailing behind him like ducklings. You give Emily a severe look, pointedly looking down at your wrist caught in his grasp and back to her.

She looks a little guilty, but the look she shares with Jada afterwards tells you that they're enjoying this.

Jack unlocks hiis truck, opening the passenger door for you and then shutting it hard after you're seated.

As he climbs in the drivers side, he opens his phone and gives it to the backseat.

"Where am I going first?' he asks. Jada lives closest, so she types in her address and Jack pulls out of his parking space.

The car is silent, an unseen tension filling the air as he makes his way around the city dropping off your friends.

As Jack pulls up to his home, you scoff.

"What?" he asks in a monotone voice.

"Can you take me home, too? I thought that was where we were going." you ask snidely.

"No," he disagrees, "we're going to go in and we're going to talk." he tells you.

"Oh, are we?" you argue.

"Yeah," he says, getting out of the car and rounding to the other side, opening your door. "Come on," he urges.

You roll your eyes and clilmb out of the truck gingerly. Jack keeps a hand on yoour shouder like you're about to run away as you walk to his door.

As soon as his door is shut behind him, you lay into him.

"What the fuck was that?" you ask, not quite yelling but definitely close.

"I was trying to have a good time with my friends," you complain.

"Your friends? Your friends who were halfway across the bar while you flirted with some guy?" he spits.

"Oh, fuck off," you scoff.

"No, no tell me." he insists, "Tell me about how much fun you were having."

You roll your eyes again and turn away from him. He grabs your shoulders and angles you towards him. He's standing close enough that your head has to be tilted back to look at him.

He looks pissed. His eyes are wide, a red tinge covering his whole face and neck, and his intense look is focused soley on you.

"I told you," you start, measured, "that I was going out out of courtesy," you spit, "I can do what I want, and it was not okay for you to show up and ruin our night-" you're interrputed when Jack cuts you off.

"Ruin your night?" he repeats.

"Yeah, ruin our night!" now you really are yelling. "You show up, make us all go home, and for what? For what, Jack, so stake some kind of claim?" you yell. "You're not my boyfriend, Jack!" you yell.

Jack chuckles wryly, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.

"You know," he starts, crowding into your space again, grasping the tops of your arms. "I don't have to stake any claim," he tells you lowly. "I don't have to, because I already fucking did," he says, pressing you against the length of his body. "I didn't think I had to spell it out for you, but I will." he continues.

"You're mine," he says, and you open your mouth to argue, but he stops you before you can.

"And don't argue, okay? I'm telling you." he's all but whispering now, his face a few milimeters from yours as he speaks with an intensity that has your toes curling in your boots.

"You're mine," he repeats. "I'm not just around because of the baby, but it gives me a damn good excuse." he tells you. "Call me your boyfriend, or your baby daddy, I don't give a shit. You want to call me your fiance and I'll go get a ring right now," he growls. "But whatever you want to call it, you're all mine, and you need to get that through your head."

Despite being 100% sober, his words give you a floaty feeling in your heads as you struggle to put together a string of words, intoxicated by his presence.

"And I get no say in this?" you finally ask.

"I think," he starts, "that if you really wanted to put up a fight, that I wouldn't have even gotten you out of that bar, let alone into my house." he argues. "I think you just wanted to put up a fight and be a little brat."

You don't say anything, but look up into his eyes and keep your gaze locked there.

"Am I right?" he asks.

You roll your eyes and try to move away, only to be stopped by his renewed grasp on you, pulling you into him as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"You wanna be mine, baby," he says into your cheek, "that's okay," he assures. He drags his lips down the side of your face and presses his lips to yours in a messy kiss.

His tongue plunges into your mouth annd tangles with yours, overpowering any attempt you make at turning the tides of the kiss. He wrenches his lips from yours and skims them down your neck, leaving licks and kisses and at least one bite, for good measure.

"Yeah, I do," you agree breathily as his mouth works on your collarbone.

"Yeah, you do," he parrots around your skin, "good girl," he sighs.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog

let me know if you want a tag!

[sweater-equestrian]

just went back to tag thordak and garmelie separately!