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ijustmissyouraccenths · 6 months ago

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It’s You

Where Y/N’s chaotic energy clashes with her grumpy, tattooed neighbor, her mission to get on his good side turns into stolen glances, quiet moments, and a connection she never expected.

Au Harry

Word count: 13,395

Content warning: Cursing, smut, alcohol.

The warm glow of string lights illuminated Y/N’s cozy Los Angeles apartment as the sound of laughter filled the air. The small space was a mix of bohemian chic and personal touches—a gallery wall of polaroids, a cluttered coffee table covered with open bags of snacks, and a few empty wine bottles standing like trophies from their earlier indulgence.

Y/N flopped back onto the couch, a glass of red wine in hand, her cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and nonstop giggling. Her two best friends, Harper and Lila, sat cross-legged on the floor, snacking on popcorn and chips, fully embracing the childlike joy of their adult sleepover.

“This feels so right,” Y/N said, her voice slightly tipsy. “Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Because we’re responsible adults now, remember?” Harper teased, adjusting her oversized hoodie. “Nine-to-five, bills, and pretending we know what we’re doing.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lila quipped, popping a gummy bear into her mouth. “I’m thriving in my chaos era.”

Y/N snorted, and Harper rolled her eyes with an affectionate grin. Lila was the wild card of the group, always coming up with unpredictable ideas. And she didn’t disappoint tonight.

“You know what we should do?” Lila suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “Karaoke.”

“Yes!” Harper exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Oh my God, yes. Do you still have that mic we bought for New Year’s Eve?”

Y/N groaned dramatically, but her smile betrayed her fake reluctance. “You mean the mic that nearly got us evicted? Of course, I still have it.”

Lila grinned wickedly. “Perfect. Let’s wake up the entire building with our stunning renditions of 2000s throwbacks.”

Without waiting for further approval, Lila dashed to the hall closet and pulled out the karaoke mic, triumphantly waving it in the air. Harper grabbed her phone, already scrolling through a playlist.

“You’re starting,” Harper declared, pointing the mic at Y/N.

“What? No!” Y/N laughed, holding her hands up defensively. “I’m not ready!”

“Too bad,” Lila said, shoving the mic into Y/N’s hands. “You can’t escape destiny. Pick your song.”

Y/N sighed theatrically before smirking. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when your ears bleed.”

As Y/N queued up Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, the room erupted in cheers. The first few notes played, and soon enough, Y/N was belting out the lyrics with unrestrained enthusiasm, her friends joining in for the chorus. It didn’t matter that they were slightly off-key; in that moment, they were superstars in their own private concert.

Wine glasses were forgotten, snacks spilled, and every lyric was sung at full volume. It was the kind of night they’d remember for years—a reminder that no matter how grown-up they pretended to be, some things never lost their magic.

The girls were in full swing, harmonizing (poorly) to “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. Lila stood on the couch holding the mic as if she were performing at Madison Square Garden, while Harper played air guitar with a half-empty wine bottle. Y/N was doubled over in laughter, her cheeks aching from smiling so much.

Just as they hit the iconic, “Tell me why—” part, a loud knock echoed through the apartment, cutting through their drunken fun like a record scratch. The girls froze, their voices trailing off mid-note. Y/N straightened up, exchanging wide-eyed looks with Harper and Lila.

“Uh… did someone order pizza?” Lila whispered, her voice unsure.

“Nope,” Y/N said, setting her wine glass on the coffee table. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

With a mix of nerves and annoyance, Y/N padded to the door. She peered through the peephole and groaned. It was her new neighbor, Harry. She’d only exchanged a polite “hello” with him in passing, but he’d already struck her as the brooding, grumpy type.

Bracing herself, she opened the door.

There he stood: tall, disheveled hair pushed back in a lazy attempt at taming it, wearing a faded gray hoodie and black joggers. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he took in her flushed face and the muffled chaos behind her.

“Good evening,” he started, his British accent dripping with sarcasm. “I just wanted to say how much I’ve been enjoying your concert tonight. It’s like living next door to a live music venue. Only… worse.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned by his dry humor. “Oh. Uh, sorry about that. We didn’t realize how loud we were being.”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I figured. Thought I’d come over before I lost the ability to hear entirely.”

From behind her, Lila’s voice chimed in drunkenly. “Is it a noise complaint? Tell him to sing with us!”

Y/N turned and shot Lila a glare. Harper muffled a laugh.

Y/N sighed and looked back at Harry. “We’ll keep it down. Promise.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching into the faintest smirk, though his tone remained gruff. “Appreciated. Just… try not to turn it into a full-on festival.”

With that, he turned to leave, but Y/N couldn’t help herself. “You know, you could’ve just sent a passive-aggressive text or something.”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder, one brow arched. “I thought this had more impact.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N closed the door, leaning her forehead against it for a moment. When she turned around, Lila and Harper were staring at her like she’d just walked off the set of a rom-com.

“Um, who was that?” Lila asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Harry. My new neighbor,” Y/N replied, walking back to the couch.

“And Mr. Grumpy Pants is cute,” Harper added, grinning.

Y/N rolled her eyes, picking up her wine glass. “Yeah, yeah. He’s cute and cranky. Now can we please move on before you two start planning a love story?”

But the mischievous glint in her friends’ eyes told her they weren’t letting this go anytime soon.

The karaoke mic had been put away, and the girls now lounged in the cozy living room, passing a bottle of wine between them. The earlier buzz of excitement had mellowed, but the energy was still warm and lively. Lila was sprawled on the couch with her legs dangling over Harper’s lap, while Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping from her glass.

“I mean, let’s just talk about him for a second,” Lila began, her voice dramatic. “The mopey neighbor with the accent? And did you see those tattoos? They were peeking out, Y/N. He’s giving mysterious bad boy energy.”

Y/N groaned, her cheeks warming instantly. “Oh my God, Lila. He was literally just here to tell us to shut up.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not hot,” Harper chimed in, grinning. “He has that whole ‘I’m grumpy but secretly charming’ vibe. Like, did you see the way he smirked when he made that little joke?”

Y/N tried to hide her flustered reaction by taking another sip of wine, but she couldn’t stop the blush creeping up her neck. She’d noticed too—his smirk, his sharp jawline, the tattoos curling up his forearm, just barely visible under his hoodie sleeves. She’d noticed everything.

“I mean, he’s okay, I guess,” Y/N mumbled, keeping her tone nonchalant.

“Okay?” Lila shot up, nearly spilling her wine. “You’re lying. You’re the worst liar ever.”

“Shut up,” Y/N said, laughing as she buried her face in her hands. “Fine, he’s cute. So what? He’s also my neighbor, and he’s probably annoyed with me forever now.”

“He’s not annoyed,” Harper said, nudging her with her foot. “If he were, he wouldn’t have made the effort to come over himself. He would’ve sent an email to management or something. He wanted an excuse to see you.”

“Right,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes. “Because nothing’s more attractive than a drunk girl singing Backstreet Boys at full volume.”

“Exactly!” Lila exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. “You’re memorable. He’ll never forget you now.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing despite herself. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Harper said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “But I bet he thinks you’re cute too.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed deeper, and she quickly changed the subject. But as the night went on, she couldn’t shake the image of Harry standing in her doorway, his messy hair, his smirk, and those tattoos. Maybe her friends weren’t entirely wrong.

The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Y/N’s apartment, illuminating the chaos left behind from the night before. Wine glasses, half-eaten snacks, and the abandoned karaoke mic were scattered around the living room. The girls were tangled up in blankets, sprawled across the couch and the floor like a scene from a sitcom.

Y/N was the first to stir, groaning as she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Harper was curled up on the couch with a throw pillow over her head, while Lila lay on the floor in a makeshift nest of cushions, one arm dramatically draped over her face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Y/N teased, nudging Lila with her foot.

Lila groaned. “Why are you awake? It’s illegal to be this alive right now.”

Harper peeked out from under her pillow, her voice muffled. “What time is it? Do we even have the energy to exist today?”

“Barely,” Y/N replied, standing and stretching. “But I’m starving, so I’m making breakfast. Come help me.”

Harper and Lila grumbled but eventually dragged themselves up and into the kitchen, where Y/N was already cracking eggs into a bowl. Together, they whipped up a chaotic but delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and a mountain of coffee.

The girls sat around the small dining table, eating in comfortable silence at first. Then Lila broke the quiet with a wicked grin.

“So… Harry.”

“Oh my God,” Y/N groaned, covering her face. “Not again.”

“Listen, I was just thinking,” Lila said, smirking. “Next time we do this, we should make it even louder. Really make him come back over.”

Harper snorted into her coffee. “Yes! Like, full-blown karaoke night but with amps and disco lights.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “You two are the worst.”

“But you love us,” Harper said, nudging her with an elbow.

After breakfast, the girls cleaned up and packed their things before heading out. Harper hugged Y/N tightly. “We definitely need to do this again.”

Lila nodded enthusiastically. “Louder next time. You know, for research purposes.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing as she walked them to the door. “You’re both insane, but I love you. Drive safe.”

Once they were gone, Y/N flopped onto the couch and opened their group chat. Almost immediately, messages started flooding in.

Lila: Next sleepover, let’s bring a fog machine. If Harry shows up, we’ll just act like it’s a concert.

Harper: Or we could rent a spotlight. Make it an event

Y/N: You guys are unbelievable. No more wine for you next time.

Lila: Admit it, you want him to show up again.

Y/N: …maybe.

Harper: KNEW IT.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at her phone, her cheeks warming yet again. As ridiculous as her friends were, they weren’t entirely wrong.

The day passed in a blur of cleaning and tidying as Y/N tried to get her apartment back to its usual organized state. By the time the sun started to dip low in the sky, the chaos from the night before had been erased, leaving her apartment looking like a picture of calm domesticity. Feeling accomplished, Y/N decided to check her mailbox before settling in for a quiet evening.

She padded down to the mailroom in her building, dressed in a casual but presentable outfit—high-waisted jeans and a simple white top. As she rifled through the usual junk mail and a couple of bills, the sound of someone entering the room caught her attention.

Glancing to the side, she saw Harry walking in, his hoodie replaced by a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. His tattoos were on full display now—intricate designs that wound up his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. He barely glanced at her as he moved to his mailbox, unlocking it with practiced ease.

Y/N swallowed her nerves and decided to seize the moment. It was better to make a proper introduction now than to let the awkwardness from last night linger. Turning slightly toward him, she cleared her throat.

“Hey, neighbor,” she began, keeping her tone light. “Figured I should introduce myself officially now that I’m not, you know, half-drunk and screaming karaoke at midnight. I’m Y/N.”

Harry turned his head, his green eyes locking onto hers. His expression was neutral, almost unreadable, as he gave her a quick once-over. “Harry,” he said simply, his voice low and clipped.

Y/N bit back a grin, determined not to let his gruff demeanor throw her off. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Sorry again about last night. I promise we don’t usually host impromptu concerts. Unless, of course, you’re a fan of boy band throwbacks.”

Harry let out a soft exhale that could’ve been a laugh—or just a sigh. “I’ll survive.”

Encouraged by the hint of amusement, Y/N decided to keep the conversation going. “You know, if you’re ever feeling nostalgic, you’re welcome to join us. We could use a fourth member for our extremely off-key girl group.”

Harry’s lips twitched slightly, but his expression remained mostly stoic. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Y/N tilted her head, giving him a mock-serious look. “You’re really hard to read, you know that? Most people at least chuckle at my jokes.”

Harry glanced at her, his gaze steady and calm. “Maybe I’m just not most people.”

For a moment, Y/N didn’t know how to respond. There was something almost challenging in his tone, but it wasn’t harsh. If anything, it piqued her curiosity even more.

“Well, Harry,” she said finally, flashing him a bright smile. “Challenge accepted. I’ll make you laugh one of these days.”

He didn’t respond right away, instead closing his mailbox and tucking the letters under his arm. As he moved to leave, he paused, looking over his shoulder.

“We’ll see about that.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Y/N standing there with her stack of mail and a strange mix of frustration and intrigue swirling in her chest. One thing was for sure—Harry might be grumpy, but he was far from boring.

As soon as Y/N got back to her apartment, she tossed her mail onto the counter and grabbed her phone, already smirking to herself. She opened the group chat with Harper and Lila, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Y/N:

Guess who I just ran into in the mailroom?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with replies.

Lila:

Was it… oh, I don’t know… Mr. Grumpy Hot Neighbor?

Harper:

Harry! Tell us everything right now.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, typing out her reply.

Y/N:

Yes, it was Harry. I introduced myself properly. You know, as a fully functional adult and not a drunken mess.

Lila:

And? Did he swoon? Did he drop all his mail and propose on the spot?

Harper:

Or at least crack a smile?

Y/N sighed and leaned back against the counter, smirking to herself as she typed.

Y/N:

Absolutely not. He was… well, Harry. Polite but distant. He might’ve almost smiled, but I can’t be sure.

Lila:

Ugh, he’s really sticking to the mysterious moody thing. It’s so hot. What did you say to him?

Y/N:

I told him he was hard to read and said I’d make him laugh one day.

Harper:

Bold move, I love it. What did he say?

Y/N:

He said, ‘We’ll see about that.’

Lila:

STOP. That’s basically flirting.

Harper:

Right? That’s flirty! Subtle, broody flirting.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. It wasn’t flirting. He’s just… like that.

Lila:

Y/N, this is your rom-com moment, and you’re living in denial. Grumpy guy + sunshine girl is literally a trope for a reason.

Harper:

Exactly. Next step: get him to join us for karaoke.

Y/N:

Oh, sure, because he definitely seems like the kind of guy who wants to sing ‘Toxic’ with us.

Lila:

You never know. Maybe he has a secret karaoke voice that’ll blow us all away.

Y/N laughed to herself, shaking her head. Her friends were relentless, but she couldn’t deny that their enthusiasm made her smile. As much as she tried to brush off the encounter, she couldn’t stop replaying it in her head—the way Harry’s green eyes lingered just a second too long, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.

It had been a couple of weeks since Y/N’s encounter with Harry in the mailroom, and she’d managed to push him to the back of her mind. Between work, friends, and her usual routine, she hadn’t bumped into him in the halls or around the building. Life went on, and the memory of his grumpy smirk became just another amusing anecdote to share with Harper and Lila.

Until one night.

Y/N was jolted awake by the blaring sound of the fire alarm. Disoriented and groggy, she stumbled out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over her pajama tank top. She shoved her feet into sneakers, grabbed her phone, and headed for the door. The hallway was chaotic, filled with neighbors in various states of sleepiness and confusion, all heading for the exits.

Once outside, Y/N joined the crowd of residents gathering on the sidewalk. The chilly night air bit at her skin, and she crossed her arms to keep warm. She craned her neck, scanning the crowd to see if there was anyone she knew—until her eyes landed on a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost.

It was Harry. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and he wore a hoodie over loose sweatpants. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which, to be fair, he probably had. His expression was pure exhaustion, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he yawned.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She made her way over, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. “Hey, neighbor,” she said, coming to a stop next to him.

Harry turned his head, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he registered her. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. “This is… unexpected.” He waved his hand around.

She grinned, shifting her weight to one foot. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But hey, at least it’s the fire alarms being obnoxiously loud this time and not me.”

Harry’s lips twitched, and for a second, she thought she’d finally gotten him to crack a smile. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he asked dryly.

“Never,” Y/N replied, a teasing lilt in her voice. “It’s too good of a story.”

Harry exhaled softly, almost like a laugh, and shook his head. “Fair enough.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as a fire truck pulled up and a couple of firefighters headed inside to investigate. The air was crisp and carried a faint chill, but Y/N barely noticed. She glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you think it’s an actual fire?” she asked.

“Doubt it,” he said, crossing his arms. “Probably just someone burning their midnight snack.”

“Sounds like a riveting Saturday night,” Y/N joked, earning another small exhale from him.

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, glancing down at her. His gaze lingered for a moment, and Y/N could feel her cheeks warm, though she tried to play it cool.

“Well,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “If it turns out to be a drill, I’m demanding a formal apology from management for ruining my beauty sleep.”

Harry’s lips quirked, just enough for her to notice. “I’m sure they’ll get right on that.”

For the first time, standing outside in the middle of the night with Harry didn’t feel awkward or forced. It was easy, natural even, despite his perpetually tired and broody demeanor. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe her persistence was finally wearing him down.

Before either of them could say more, a firefighter emerged from the building, shouting to the crowd that it was a false alarm. People groaned, some laughing as they shuffled back toward the entrance.

Harry pushed off the lamppost and looked at Y/N. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Looks like it,” she said. “Catch you later, Harry.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Night, Y/N.”

As she headed back to her apartment, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a small spark of satisfaction. Sure, he was still grumpy, but she was getting closer to breaking through. And honestly, she didn’t mind the challenge.

By the time Y/N woke up the next morning, she had already drafted the text she knew Harper and Lila would demand. Still half-asleep, she grabbed her phone and opened their group chat, typing out the full story in detail.

Y/N:

So… guess who I bumped into at 3 a.m. when the fire alarm went off?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with rapid-fire responses.

Harper:

Oh my God. HARRY?

Lila:

Please tell me you were both standing there in your PJs like the meet-cute of the century.

Y/N:

No, it wasn’t a meet-cute. We just talked. Very normal. Nothing groundbreaking.

Harper:

What did you talk about?

Y/N:

I made a joke about how this time it wasn’t me being loud, it was the fire alarm.

Lila:

YES. Classic Y/N. What did he say?

Y/N:

He just… smirked. Or sighed. I’m honestly not sure anymore. He’s so hard to read.

Harper:

Smirking counts as flirting. I’m logging it.

Lila:

Definitely flirting. He wouldn’t have smirked if he wasn’t secretly interested. Men don’t waste smirks on people they don’t like.

Y/N:

Or he was just tired and didn’t care enough to argue.

Harper:

Nope. Not buying it. He’s interested. He’s just grumpy interested.

Lila:

Exactly! Brooding types like him don’t wear their feelings on their sleeves, but trust me, he’s intrigued. You just need to keep working on him.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile.

Y/N:

You two are absolutely ridiculous. We talked for five minutes, tops. Nothing more, nothing less.

Harper:

Sure, keep telling yourself that.

Lila:

Face it, Y/N. This is your slow-burn romance, and we are here for it. We’re already planning the playlist for your wedding.

Y/N:

Oh my God. I can’t with you two.

Despite her protests, Y/N couldn’t stop replaying the interaction in her mind—the way his eyes lingered on her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Harper and Lila were reading too much into it… weren’t they?

Shaking her head, Y/N tossed her phone onto the couch. She had no intention of indulging their wild theories. But deep down, a small, stubborn part of her couldn’t help but wonder.

Y/N lay in bed, staring at the faint shadows cast by her bedside lamp on the ceiling. The city sounds outside her window were faint but constant—cars in the distance, the occasional murmur of voices. She’d been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, her brain refusing to shut off.

It didn’t help that every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was Harry.

It wasn’t intentional, or at least that’s what she told herself. She’d been trying to push him out of her mind all day, but now, in the stillness of the night, his image seemed to surface unbidden. The way his messy hair stuck out when she’d seen him by the mailboxes. The tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, the intricate designs winding across his arms like a story she desperately wanted to read.

And then there was his face—sharp jawline, green eyes that seemed to pierce through her defenses, and that faint smirk he’d given her last night when she’d cracked her fire alarm joke. It wasn’t a full smile, but it had been enough to spark something in her. Something she couldn’t quite shake.

She groaned, rolling onto her side and burying her face in her pillow. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself.

But it was no use. She kept thinking about the way his voice sounded—low, calm, almost soothing in its quiet confidence. The way he seemed perpetually unimpressed but not unkind, like he was holding back a part of himself from the world. And the way, despite all that grumpiness, she felt drawn to him.

The worst part was that she barely even knew him. A few brief encounters, a handful of words exchanged—it wasn’t enough to warrant this level of overthinking. And yet, here she was, wide awake at 2 a.m., her thoughts spinning in circles around a guy who probably wasn’t thinking about her at all.

She sighed, flipping onto her back again and staring at the ceiling. “You’re losing it, Y/N,” she whispered into the dark.

But no matter how hard she tried to distract herself—counting sheep, replaying her favorite movie in her head, anything—her mind kept drifting back to Harry. How frustratingly attractive he was. How much she wanted to figure him out. And how, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she kind of liked the challenge.

The next afternoon, Y/N tied her apron around her waist and stepped onto the floor of the bustling Italian restaurant where she worked. The warm scent of garlic, fresh basil, and baking bread filled the air as the sounds of clinking silverware and cheerful conversations hummed around her. It was her favorite kind of shift—steady but not overwhelming, just busy enough to keep her energized.

She loved being a server. There was something satisfying about knowing the menu by heart, from the way the chef perfectly folded the handmade ravioli to the rich, velvety tiramisu that always left customers raving. She enjoyed the rhythm of it all: taking orders, making guests laugh, weaving between tables like she was part of a well-rehearsed dance.

By the time her shift ended, the sun was low in the sky, casting a soft golden glow over the city streets. Y/N slipped her bag over her shoulder, said goodbye to her coworkers, and began her short walk home.

The evening was warm, the kind of weather that made her glad she’d chosen this neighborhood to live in. She liked the convenience of being close to work, the charm of the old brick buildings, and the occasional vendor selling flowers or roasted nuts on the sidewalk.

But as she rounded the last corner toward her apartment building, the sky darkened suddenly. Heavy clouds rolled in overhead, and before she could process what was happening, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

“Seriously?” Y/N muttered, looking up at the sky as if it might offer her an explanation. Within seconds, the light drizzle turned into a full-on downpour. She didn’t have an umbrella, of course—it had been sunny when she left for work—and now she was too far from the restaurant to go back.

She quickened her pace, pulling her bag closer to her body to shield it from the rain. Her hair was already plastered to her forehead, and her clothes clung to her as the rain soaked through. She groaned in frustration but couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

By the time her apartment building came into view, she was drenched. She jogged the last stretch, her sneakers splashing in puddles, and darted toward the lobby entrance. As she reached for the door, it opened from the inside—and there, standing in the doorway, was Harry.

Of course, it was Harry.

He was holding a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. His green eyes widened slightly when he saw her, taking in her rain-soaked appearance.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice dry but laced with faint amusement.

Y/N brushed a wet strand of hair out of her face, shaking water from her arms. “You could say that. Apparently, the weather decided I needed a shower.”

Harry stepped back, holding the door open for her. “You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Thanks for the observation,” Y/N said with a wry smile as she stepped inside, water pooling around her feet. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary before he nodded toward the elevators. “You should probably get upstairs before you flood the lobby.”

“Wow, you’re so thoughtful,” she teased, her sarcasm barely masking the warmth in her voice.

Harry didn’t reply, but his lips twitched like he was holding back a comment. He stepped aside, letting her pass, and as Y/N headed toward the elevator, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. He was still standing by the door, his attention now on the rain outside, but she could’ve sworn she caught him sneaking a glance at her as she walked away.

Y/N stepped into her apartment, water dripping onto the floor as she kicked off her soaked sneakers. She stripped off her rain-soaked clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket before heading straight to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower was bliss, washing away the chill of the rain and the lingering frustration of getting caught in it. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, her skin was warm and her mind was clearer.

Slipping into her favorite pair of soft pajamas—shorts and an oversized t-shirt—she towel-dried her hair and grabbed her phone from the counter. She hadn’t checked it since leaving work, and the screen lit up with a few notifications. Most were unimportant, but one text made her freeze.

Unknown Number:

Hey, it’s Harry. Got your number from the resident book. Hope that’s okay. I, uh, ordered way too much food. If you’re not busy and don’t mind eating with someone who’s terrible at small talk, you’re welcome to join me.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry had texted her? She stared at the message, rereading it a couple of times, unsure what to make of it. The grumpy, brooding neighbor had gone out of his way to invite her over for dinner?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she thought about what to say. She could easily come up with an excuse, blame the rain, or even politely decline. But something about his message—how he’d gone through the trouble of looking up her number and even made a self-deprecating joke—made her hesitate.

Finally, she started typing.

Y/N:

Hey! I’m surprised you didn’t mention how loud I was running through the lobby earlier. I’d love to join, but fair warning: I’m in my pajamas. I’ll bring wine to make up for it.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself and immediately got up to rummage through her small wine rack. She picked out a bottle of red, grabbed her favorite corkscrew, and texted him again.

Y/N:

Give me five minutes to make myself look less like a wet dog.

His response came almost instantly.

Harry:

I wouldn’t have said anything about the lobby, but now that you’ve brought it up… five minutes works. Apartment 4D.

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. She quickly towel-dried her hair a little more, tossed it into a loose bun, and grabbed the wine. As she stood by her door, nerves fluttered in her stomach, but she pushed them aside.

Whatever this was—neighborly dinner, an olive branch, or something else—she was curious enough to find out.

Y/N stepped out of her apartment, the bottle of wine in hand, and made her way to the elevator. As she descended a floor, her nerves started to tingle, though she shook them off. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just dinner with her neighbor. Her very attractive, grumpy neighbor with tattoos and a British accent. Nothing to overthink at all.

When she reached Harry’s door, she raised her hand to knock—but before she could, the door swung open. Harry stood there, leaning casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised.

“I could hear you coming down the hall,” he said, his tone dry but his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

Y/N let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I’ll take that as your way of saying you’re happy to see me.”

“Something like that,” he replied, stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N walked in, glancing around as she entered. Harry’s apartment was similar in layout to hers but had an entirely different vibe. The walls were painted a deep, moody gray, with shelves lined with books, records, and a few small plants that looked suspiciously well cared for. A guitar rested in the corner by the window, and the faint smell of takeout wafted from the small kitchen.

“Nice place,” she said, setting the wine on the counter. “Very… broody chic. Fits you.”

Harry arched a brow as he closed the door. “Broody chic? Is that a compliment?”

“Depends how you take it,” Y/N shot back with a grin.

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he moved toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have overestimated how much I can eat on my own.”

She followed him, glancing at the spread on the counter. There were containers of what looked like Thai food—pad thai, green curry, fried rice, and spring rolls. Definitely enough for two, if not three.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “Planning on feeding the whole building?”

“Only the loudest resident,” he said, smirking again.

She gave him a playful glare before grabbing plates from the counter and handing him one. “Lucky for you, I came prepared,” she said, holding up the wine. “This should balance things out.”

As they settled at the small table, Y/N couldn’t help but notice how relaxed Harry seemed. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something softer about him tonight. Less guarded. And as they started eating, trading sarcastic comments and occasional small talk, she realized she didn’t mind the challenge of cracking through his tough exterior one bit.

Harry handed Y/N two wine glasses, their fingers brushing briefly as she took them. He didn’t say anything, but his lips moved slightly as if he was trying not to smirk. Y/N poured the wine, filling each glass just enough before sliding one over to him.

Meanwhile, he plated the food, carefully dividing the dishes between two plates. His movements were deliberate, almost methodical, and Y/N found herself watching him for a moment before realizing what she was doing. Shaking herself out of it, she grabbed her glass and followed him to the bar counter.

They sat side by side, the warm glow of the pendant light above them casting a cozy atmosphere. Y/N took a sip of her wine, her gaze flicking to Harry as he started eating in silence.

For a while, she stayed quiet, enjoying the food and the unspoken rhythm of their shared meal. But her curiosity got the better of her. Setting her glass down, she turned toward him slightly, resting her elbow on the counter.

“So,” she began, her tone light but probing, “why are you always so grumpy?”

Harry paused mid-bite, his fork hovering over his plate as he looked at her. His green eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but as if he were trying to decide how serious she was.

“Grumpy?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, grumpy,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You know, the whole emo, barely-smiling, ‘I don’t have time for your nonsense’ vibe you’ve got going on. Is it like… your thing?”

Harry leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his wine as he considered her question. “Maybe I’m not grumpy,” he said finally, his voice calm. “Maybe you’re just too… cheerful.”

“Cheerful?” she echoed, laughing softly. “That’s your explanation? I’m cheerful, so that automatically makes you grumpy?”

“Something like that,” he said, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re deflecting.”

He raised his glass, meeting her gaze over the rim as he took another sip. “Maybe.”

“Come on,” she pressed, leaning in slightly. “There’s got to be a reason. I mean, you’re not actuallymiserable all the time, are you?”

Harry sighed, setting his glass down and leaning his forearms on the counter. For a moment, he seemed to be debating whether or not to answer. Finally, he shrugged.

“I’m not grumpy,” he said, his voice quieter. “I just… don’t see the point in pretending all the time. People put on this front like everything’s great, but most of the time, it’s not. I’m just… honest about it.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. There was something in his tone—something unspoken but heavy, like he was revealing more than he intended.

“Well,” she said softly, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think being happy is the same as pretending. And I’m not pretending.”

Harry glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “I noticed,” he said simply.

Her cheeks warmed, and for a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Then Y/N picked up her glass and raised it toward him.

“To being honest,” she said with a small smile.

Harry’s eyes flicked to her glass before he picked up his own, clinking it against hers. “To being honest,” he echoed.

And for the first time that evening, his smirk softened into something closer to a smile.

Harry swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the deep red liquid for a moment before setting it down and looking at Y/N. His expression was more open now, his usual guarded demeanor softened.

“You seem nice enough,” he said, his tone casual but sincere. “I could use a friend around here.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the admission. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond. Then a warm smile spread across her face.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” she said, her voice light with humor. “I thought for sure you hated me after the whole karaoke fiasco.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching in amusement. “Hated you? No. Annoyed, maybe. But hate’s a strong word.”

“Good to know,” Y/N said, laughing softly. “Because I was convinced you’d written me off as the world’s loudest neighbor.”

“I’ll admit,” Harry said, smirking now, “the karaoke was… a lot. But it’s hard to hate someone who sings ‘I Want It That Way’ with that much enthusiasm.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing harder. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember the song. That’s so embarrassing.”

“It’s unforgettable,” he said with mock seriousness, taking another sip of wine.

When her laughter died down, Y/N looked at him, her expression softening. “For what it’s worth, I’d be happy to be your friend. You don’t seem as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Scary?” Harry echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” she teased. “You’ve got the whole ‘grumpy lone wolf’ thing going on. It’s a little intimidating.”

Harry shook his head, but there was a faint smile on his face. “I’m not scary.”

“No,” Y/N said, grinning. “You’re not. You’re just… Harry.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Finally, he nodded, his tone soft but certain. “Yeah. Just Harry.”

As they continued eating, the conversation grew lighter, the initial tension between them fading into something comfortable. By the time they finished their meal, Y/N realized that beneath Harry’s gruff exterior was someone she genuinely wanted to know better. And judging by the way his smirk had softened into something warmer, she suspected he felt the same.

After finishing their plates, Harry leaned back in his chair, resting his forearm on the bar counter as he glanced at Y/N. There was a comfortable silence between them, one she hadn’t expected when she first showed up at his door.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said finally, his tone quieter but sincere. “I don’t usually… do this.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, swirling her wine in her glass. “What? Order too much food or invite people over?”

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “The second one. I’m not exactly the ‘neighborly dinner’ type.”

“Well, I feel special then,” she teased, tilting her head at him. “Although, if you’re not usually this social, why’d you invite me? I mean, not that I’m complaining.”

Harry shrugged, glancing down at his glass. “You seemed… different. I don’t know. Most people I meet just seem fake, like they’re putting on a show. But you’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Real.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty of his words. “Oh,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, thanks. I think.”

“I mean it,” Harry added, looking at her directly now. “You’re… not what I expected when I moved here. In a good way.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she tried to play it off with humor. “Careful, Harry. You’re starting to sound like you actually like me.”

“Don’t push it,” he said with a smirk, though his eyes were softer than usual.

They fell into another comfortable silence, sipping their wine and letting the moment stretch out. Y/N felt herself relax more with each passing second, realizing how easy it was to be around him now that some of his walls had come down.

After a moment, she broke the quiet. “You know, for someone who claims not to be social, you’re pretty good company.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” she said, her grin widening. “You should let yourself be social more often. You might surprise yourself.”

He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “One step at a time.”

They shared a small laugh, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel like this was a turning point. Whatever Harry had been holding back before, he was letting her in now, even if only a little. It felt… nice.

Eventually, she glanced at her phone and realized how late it had gotten. “I should probably head back,” she said, setting her empty wine glass down. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

Harry stood as she got up, shaking his head. “You haven’t. But… thanks for coming. I mean it.”

She smiled, grabbing the bottle of wine. “Anytime, Harry.”

As she walked to the door, he followed her, leaning casually against the frame as she turned back to face him. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at her, a softness she wasn’t used to seeing from him.

“Goodnight,” she said, her voice lighter now.

“Night, Y/N,” he replied, his smirk returning.

She headed back to her apartment, her heart unexpectedly lighter. Maybe Harry wasn’t as grumpy as he seemed—or maybe she was just getting used to it. Either way, she found herself smiling as she closed her door behind her. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t overthinking anything.

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sunlight filtering through her blinds and a faint smile lingering on her lips. The night before with Harry had been… unexpected, but not in a bad way. She stretched, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and immediately opened her group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

So, guess what? Harry invited me over for dinner last night.

It didn’t take long for her phone to explode with notifications.

Lila:

WHAT. DETAILS NOW.

Harper:

DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!

Y/N rolled her eyes, her cheeks warming despite being alone.

Y/N:

No, I didn’t sleep with him. Calm down.

Lila:

Boring. But continue.

Harper:

Okay, but like, did it feel like it was going there?

Y/N:

No! It wasn’t like that. He said he had too much food and could use a friend, so I brought wine, and we had dinner. That’s it.

Lila:

You brought wine. That’s a date move.

Harper:

Right? Totally a date.

Y/N:

It wasn’t a date. We ate at his bar counter, talked a little, and that’s all. But…

Lila:

BUT WHAT?!

Harper:

Spill, Y/N. Don’t make us beg.

Y/N sighed, biting her lip as she typed out her next message.

Y/N:

Okay, fine. I wouldn’t mind if something happened, but it’s not like I know much about him. I don’t even know what he does for work.

Lila:

Oh my God. You want to bang the mysterious, tattooed neighbor. I KNEW IT.

Harper:

This is your grumpy/sunshine romance, and we are living for it.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. I’m just saying he’s attractive, okay? That doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.

Lila:

It’ll happen. The sexual tension alone is probably unbearable.

Harper:

Agreed. You just need to ask him questions about himself. What he does for work, what his favorite food is, if he’s single—

Lila:

Definitely ask the last one. For research purposes.

Y/N groaned, shaking her head but smiling despite herself.

Y/N:

You two are impossible. But fine, if the opportunity comes up, I’ll try to find out more about him. Happy?

Harper:

Ecstatic.

Lila:

Can’t wait to hear how this unfolds. We’re already planning the wedding playlist.

Y/N laughed, tossing her phone onto the bed. Her friends were relentless, but they weren’t wrong about one thing—she was curious about Harry. And as much as she tried to deny it, she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better… or seeing where this strange connection between them might lead.

Later that month Y/N walked into her apartment after a long day, expecting the usual cozy warmth to greet her. Instead, an icy chill hit her the moment she stepped inside. She frowned, rubbing her arms and heading straight for the thermostat. She fiddled with it for a minute, but no matter what she did, the heater refused to turn on.

“Great,” she muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. It wasn’t unbearably cold outside, but inside her apartment, it felt like a freezer.

With no other options, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She didn’t know many people in the building—just Harry, really. And as much as she hesitated, her fingers hovered over his name before she finally sent a text.

Y/N:

Hey, random question. Do you happen to have a small heater or something I can borrow? My heater’s broken, and it’s freezing in here.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Harry:

Why don’t you just stay here tonight? I’ve got heat, and I don’t own a portable heater.

Y/N stared at the message, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t expected that. Borrowing something was one thing, but staying at his place? She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against the screen. Before she could overthink it, she typed out a response.

Y/N:

Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

His reply was quick.

Harry:

You’re not intruding. Besides, it’s better than you freezing to death in your apartment. Bring whatever you need.

She bit her lip, a mix of nerves and curiosity swirling in her chest. Finally, she grabbed a bag and threw in some essentials—pajamas, a toothbrush, and a few other things—before bundling up and heading out.

When she reached his door, she knocked softly. It opened almost immediately, and there was Harry, leaning against the frame with his usual calm demeanor.

“Figured you’d take me up on the offer,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Yeah, well, hypothermia didn’t sound appealing,” Y/N replied with a small smile, brushing past him into the warmth of his apartment.

As she set her bag down by the couch, she glanced at him. “Thanks for this, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

He shrugged, closing the door. “No problem. It’s just one night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow, Harry. That almost sounded like you’re happy to have me here.”

He gave her a dry look but didn’t respond, instead gesturing toward the couch. “You can take the couch if you want, or I can grab some extra blankets for the guest room.”

She looked at the couch, then back at him. “Guest room? You have a guest room?”

“Barely,” he said with a shrug. “It’s more of a storage room, but there’s a bed in there.”

“Well, as long as it’s warmer than my apartment, I’ll take it.”

Harry nodded, heading toward the hallway. “I’ll grab some blankets.”

As Harry disappeared down the hallway to grab blankets, Y/N called after him, her voice light and teasing. “By the way, I brought some wine as a thank-you! You know, for saving me from my frozen wasteland of an apartment.”

She heard him chuckle faintly, his voice drifting back from the other room. “Thoughtful of you. What kind?”

“Red. A classic, nothing too fancy,” she replied, smirking as she started to take the bottle out of her bag. “Figured you’d prefer something a little understated, given your whole ‘mysterious and broody’ vibe.”

Harry reappeared in the doorway, carrying a thick blanket over one shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think you enjoy calling me broody a little too much.”

“Well, it fits,” she shot back, grinning. “Speaking of which, I realized something earlier—I don’t even know what you do for work. So, enlighten me, oh mysterious one. What is it that you do?”

Harry paused for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I own an art gallery,” he said simply, setting the blanket on the couch.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “You own an art gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning casually against the back of the couch. “Small place over in Silver Lake. Nothing flashy, just local artists and smaller exhibitions.”

She stared at him, her curiosity piqued. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“What did you see coming?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted, laughing softly. “Something more… I don’t know, corporate? Like sitting at a desk all day and brooding at spreadsheets.”

Harry actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that surprised her. “Sorry to disappoint. No spreadsheets involved.”

“No, it’s not disappointing,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just… unexpected. I mean, you own an art gallery. That’s cool. Artistic and grumpy? You’re full of surprises, Harry.”

He shook his head, but there was a faint warmth in his expression, like her enthusiasm had caught him off guard. “It’s just a business.”

“Just a business?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Don’t undersell yourself. That’s impressive.”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze steady. “Thanks.”

They fell into a brief silence, and Y/N felt the air shift slightly. It wasn’t awkward—if anything, it felt… comfortable. She gestured to the wine. “So, should we open this or what?”

Harry nodded, stepping into the kitchen to grab two glasses. “Why not? You’re my guest, after all.”

As he poured the wine, Y/N couldn’t help but think that for someone who seemed so guarded at first, Harry was slowly becoming an open book—one she was eager to keep reading.

Y/N leaned against the counter, swirling her glass of wine as she watched Harry pour his own. “So, how did you end up owning an art gallery?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I mean, that’s not exactly the most common career path.”

Harry took a sip of his wine, his gaze thoughtful as he set the glass down. “I’ve always loved art. Painting, sketching… that sort of thing. But it’s not exactly the easiest way to make a living.”

Y/N nodded, understanding the struggle. “So, the gallery was a way to stay involved in the art world?”

“Something like that,” he said, leaning his hip against the counter. “I came into some money after my mom passed a few years ago. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make me think about what I really wanted to do. I didn’t want to sit in an office or work for someone else. I wanted something that felt… personal. The gallery felt like the right choice.”

“That’s incredible,” Y/N said, her voice soft. “I mean, turning something you love into a business? Not many people can say they’ve done that.”

Harry shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “It has its challenges, but I don’t regret it.”

Y/N smiled at him, feeling a new layer of respect for her neighbor. After a moment, he tilted his head, his eyes flicking to her. “What about you? What do you do?”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh, nothing nearly as impressive as you,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a server. I work at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, frowning.

“Like it’s nothing. You said you’re ‘just’ a server,” he said, taking another sip of his wine. “You’re in food service, right? That’s an art in itself. Just… a different kind.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his perspective. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

He nodded, gesturing with his glass. “Think about it. You’re part of creating an experience for people. The way the food’s presented, the way you interact with customers—it’s all part of the artistry. Doesn’t matter if it’s a painting on a wall or a plate of pasta. It’s still something people connect with.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over her. “That’s… actually really nice of you to say.”

“It’s true,” Harry said simply, his green eyes meeting hers. “Stop selling yourself short.”

She smiled, feeling unexpectedly lighter. “Thanks, Harry. I guess I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time someone complains about their breadsticks not being warm enough.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Breadsticks or not, it sounds like you’re good at what you do.”

Y/N sipped her wine, the corners of her lips curving up.

Y/N swirled the wine in her glass, glancing at Harry over the rim. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to push the conversation a little further. “You know,” she began, her voice softer now, “you have a really nice way of thinking about things. The way you look at art, even food… it’s kind of impressive.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with an amused expression. “Is that your way of saying I’m not just a grumpy neighbor?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small grin, her tone almost teasing. “But seriously, you’ve got a smart mind, Harry. You see things in a way most people don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes studying her as if trying to figure out her angle. “Are you flirting with me, Y/N?”

She laughed, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. “And if I was?”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving hers. “Then I’d say it’s about time you stopped pretending you find me intimidating.”

“I never said you intimidate me,” she shot back, her grin widening. “I said you have a grumpy vibe. Totally different.”

“Right,” he said, his tone dry but his smirk giving him away. “Good to know I’m not scaring you off.”

“Not even close,” Y/N replied, her voice confident now. She leaned her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at him. “You’re not as scary as you think, Harry. In fact, I think you’re kind of… interesting.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

“Right back at you,” she said, her gaze warm.

For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playful banter was still there, but beneath it was something quieter, something unspoken. Y/N didn’t know what exactly was happening, but she wasn’t in a hurry to break the moment.

Harry finally set his glass down, his expression softening just slightly. “Careful, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but with a hint of amusement. “You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”

“Maybe I do,” she said simply, holding his gaze.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and for the first time, he didn’t deflect her comment. Instead, he just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes. Y/N felt her heartbeat quicken, but she didn’t look away.

The mood in the room shifted as Harry leaned forward, his green eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine.

He tilted his head slightly, his voice low and teasing as he said, "You wouldn't be able to handle me."

Her breath caught, but she wasn't about to let him have the last word.

"Try me," she challenged, her voice steady but laced with anticipation.

Harry's eyes darkened, the playful smirk on his lips giving way to something deeper, something more raw. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and placed his hand lightly on her throat-not gripping, just resting, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. The warmth of his touch made her heart race, and she felt her breath hitch as he leaned in closer.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to disappear, the only sound her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, without another word, Harry closed the gap between them, capturing her lips in a deep, searing kiss.

It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rushed either-it was deliberate, like he'd been holding himself back and was finally letting go. His lips moved against hers with a confidence that left no room for hesitation, and Y/N melted into the kiss, her hand instinctively reaching out to grip the edge of the counter for balance.

She kissed him back just as fervently, tilting her head to deepen the connection. His fingers slid from her throat to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as though he couldn't get enough of her. The heat between them was undeniable, and in that moment, nothing else mattered-not the chill of her broken heater, not the wine, not the playful banter that had led them here.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads nearly touching. Harry's green eyes searched hers, and for once, his usual guarded expression was nowhere to be found.

"Still think I can't handle you?" Y/N whispered, her voice a little breathless but tinged with humor.

Harry smirked, his hand still lingering at the nape of her neck.

"Guess I underestimated you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "But l'm not done yet.”

Harry's hand slid down from Y/N's neck to her wrist, his grip firm but careful as he led her through his apartment toward his bedroom.

Her heart pounded in anticipation, her breath catching when he opened the door and gently but deliberately pushed her onto the bed.

Y/N gasped softly, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked up at him. The intensity in his green eyes made her pulse race, and the energy between them was electric, the room feeling heavier with every passing second.

Harry stepped closer, his movements slow and controlled, like he was savoring the moment.

He placed a hand on her throat again, this time with a gentle but deliberate squeeze that sent a shiver down her spine. His thumb brushed along her jawline as he leaned in, his voice low and commanding.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he asked, his tone dripping with authority and heat.

Y/N's breath hitched as she nodded slowly, unable to look away from his piercing gaze.

Her voice was caught somewhere in her throat, so she let her actions speak for her, tilting her head slightly into his touch.

Harry smirked, leaning down until his lips were just a breath away from her ear. His voice dropped even lower, a whisper that made her skin prickle with anticipation.

"I knew you would be," he murmured, his tone both teasing and possessive.

The words sent a jolt through her, and she felt her body react instinctively, her cheeks flushing as she surrendered to the moment.

Harry's lips brushed against the corner of her jaw, trailing down her neck as his hand stayed firmly but gently in place. Every movement felt deliberate, like he wanted her to feel every second of his attention.

Whatever control Y/N thought she had going into this was slipping fast, and the way Harry's touch consumed her made it clear—he knew it, too.

Harry paused, his intense green eyes meeting Y/N’s as he leaned over her. His hand lingered on her throat, his grip light but enough to hold her attention completely. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, didn’t move any closer. He just looked at her, his gaze softening slightly, as if he were silently asking her a question.

It wasn’t just a look—it was a pause, a chance for her to stop him if she wanted to. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now open and searching, silently asking for her consent.

Y/N’s heart raced as she looked back at him, feeling the weight of his unspoken question. She swallowed, her breath shallow as she gave him the answer he was waiting for. Slowly, purposely, she nodded.

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, a mixture of relief and satisfaction crossing his face. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with an edge of tenderness.

He leaned down again, his lips brushing hers as his hand on her throat tightened just slightly, enough to make her feel both safe and completely at his mercy. And as the space between them disappeared, Y/N felt herself giving in fully, her trust in him unwavering.

Harry's piercing gaze never left Y/N's face, his touch as light as a butterfly's wings. He slowly pulled her to the edge, his hands on her hips. The soft rustle of sheets filled the room as she sank into the bedding, eyes darting up to meet his.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him undoing his pants, revealing his hardness beneath. She gulped audibly as he climbed onto the bed with her, their bodies pressed together from chest to knees. His hand trailed down her side, stopping just above her thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. His touch sent shivers of anticipation up and down her spine.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against her earlobe, his hot breath causing goosebumps to form on her skin.

She bit her lip, hesitating for only a moment before whispering back, "I want you to take control."

Harry's smirk was both predatory and reassuring as he nodded once in understanding. His hand slid underneath her shirt, tracing patterns across her stomach before moving higher till it reached its destination: her lacy black bra. He palmed one of her breasts through the fabric, eliciting a moan from deep within her throat that echoed around them. His thumb circled her nipple roughly, making it harden into a tight bud underneath his touch.

His lips followed suit, kissing along her jawline and trailing down towards that erect nipple. He flicked it with his tongue teasingly while simultaneously tug

His smile was wicked as he leaned back, a glint in his eye. "Is that so?" He trailed kisses down her neck, his stubble grazing against her sensitive skin, making her shudder with pleasure. His hand slid between their bodies and brushed against her center, indulging in the wetness there. She gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch.

"You're so ready for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pushed her shorts aside and slid one finger inside her slowly, feeling the tightness surrounding him. Y/N moaned softly, her hips grinding against his hand in encouragement.

Harry removed his finger, teasing her as he lowered his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. He growled softly against her skin, sucking gently as he began to thrust two fingers inside her in short, quick motions that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She cried out softly, gripping the sheets beneath her as he continued his ministrations. He quickly undressed her and stared at her body. Y/N felt hot under his eyes.

They quickly lost themselves in each other's touches. The squeak of the bedframe echoed in the room as Harry positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside her slowly. She gasped at the fullness but welcomed it, urging him on with a nod of encouragement.

He slowed down, taking deep breaths to regain control as he braced himself above her. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked hoarsely, gaze locked onto hers.

Y/N nodded fiercely, signaling him to continue. With a low growl of approval, he began moving inside her slowly but steadily, their

bodies meeting in a dance of desire. Every thrust sent ripples of pleasure through them both, their skin slick with sweat under the dim light of the bedside lamp. The air was thick with an almost palpable tension as they moved together, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.

Harry's grip on her hips tightened, his rhythm becoming faster and harder, mirroring the desire that flared in his eyes. Y/N met him stroke for stroke, their eyes locked on each other as if they were the only two people in the room. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the silence beneath the duvet, broken only by their heavy breathing and soft moans.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she neared her climax, his name falling from her lips in a whispered plea. Without missing a beat, he quickened his pace, his cock driving into her with urgency. Their connection was intense, overwhelming, everything she could have asked for and more.

As she cried out in ecstasy beneath him, feeling her orgasm wash over her like a wave, Harry followed close behind. His body tensed as he groaned loudly, filling her with his warmth and love. Their hearts raced in unison as they finally collapsed onto each other, panting heavily but content.

He rolled off her slowly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before rolling onto his back beside her.

Harry lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he looked down at Y/N. His green eyes were softer now, a flicker of mischief dancing in them as he smirked.

"So," he said, his voice low and teasing, "are you going to text your little girl chat and tell them we fucked?" Y/N let out a surprised laugh, turning her head to look at him.

"What? No! They'd never let me live it down."

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

"You should. Tell them the hot, mysterious guy was really grumpy the whole time."Y/N laughed even harder, covering her face with her hand.

"Oh, right. That'll really sell it. 'Hey, girls, just an FYl, my grumpy neighbor is not only hot but also excellent in bed. Highly recommend.'"

Harry chuckled, his grin widening. "Not bad. Make sure you add in the part about how I stayed in character the whole time-grumpy and all."

She rolled her eyes, still smiling as she nudged him playfully. "Fine. I'll throw in that your scowl is even sexier up close. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he said dryly, though the amused glint in his eyes gave him away. YN shook her head, the laughter subsiding into a warm smile.

"You know," she said, her tone softening, "you might be mysterious and grumpy, but you're also a little cocky. Just saying."

Harry leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "But I think you like it."

Her cheeks flushed as she looked up at him, biting back a grin. "Maybe I do."

"Good," he said simply, before capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss that made her forget about everything else-including her friends waiting for updates in the group chat.

The week passed in a blur of near-misses and brief encounters between Y/N and Harry. She saw him in the mailroom once, where he gave her a small nod and the faintest hint of a smirk before disappearing upstairs. Another time, they crossed paths in the hallway, exchanging quick hellos but nothing more.

Neither of them brought up the night they spent together, and while Y/N tried to brush it off as a casual hookup, part of her couldn’t help but wonder if he was deliberately avoiding the topic. She didn’t want to push, figuring Harry would open up if and when he was ready.

Then, one evening, as she was curled up on her couch with a glass of wine and her laptop, her phone buzzed with a text.

Harry:

Hey. Sorry I’ve been so distant this week. The gallery is getting ready for a new showing, and it’s been… a lot.

Y/N stared at the message for a moment, her stomach fluttering. She hadn’t expected him to reach out, let alone apologize.

Y/N:

Hey, no worries. I figured you were busy. New showing sounds exciting though!

A moment later, her phone buzzed again.

Harry:

It is. Stressful, but worth it. You should come by. It’s this Saturday night. Bring your friends if you want.

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry inviting her to his gallery? That felt… significant.

Y/N:

I’d love to. Are you sure you want me to bring my friends? They’re a little… loud.

Harry:

If they’re anything like you, I’m already prepared for chaos.

She laughed softly, shaking her head.

Y/N:

Fair warning: chaos is guaranteed. But I’ll be there.

Harry:

Good. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.

Y/N set her phone down, a small smile tugging at her lips. For all of Harry’s grumpiness and guarded demeanor, this felt like his way of extending an olive branch—a step toward something more. And she couldn’t deny that the idea of seeing him in his element, at the gallery, intrigued her.

She grabbed her phone again and opened the group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

Ladies, clear your schedules for Saturday night. We’re going to an art gallery.

Predictably, her phone exploded with responses almost immediately.

Lila:

Wait, is this Harry’s gallery?

Harper:

The grumpy tattooed neighbor has an art gallery?

Y/N:

Yes. He invited me. And before you ask—no, we’re not talking about the other night.

Lila:

Boring. But fine, we’re in. Is there wine?

Harper:

And snacks?

Y/N:

I’ll ask. But behave yourselves. He already thinks I’m loud.

Lila:

Oh, honey, we’re just getting started.

Y/N laughed, already imagining the chaos her friends would inevitably bring. But deep down, she was looking forward to Saturday more than she cared to admit.

The week crawled by as Saturday approached, each day slower than the last. Y/N found herself obsessing over small details—whether Harry would be too busy to notice her, what kind of people attended art gallery showings, and most importantly, what to wear. She wanted to look effortlessly put-together, like someone who appreciated art but wasn’t trying too hard.

By Saturday afternoon, her room was a battlefield of discarded outfits. Finally, she settled on a sleek black jumpsuit paired with a cropped denim jacket and ankle boots—stylish but not over the top. She added a few gold accessories and a swipe of lipstick before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

On the way to Silver Lake, she picked up Harper and Lila, who were already buzzing with excitement when they climbed into the car.

“You look hot,” Lila said, eyeing her outfit. “Very ‘I like art but I’m too cool to talk about it.’”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, laughing as she started the car. “I’m going for low-key, not intimidating.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Harper chimed in, adjusting her blazer.

Y/N glanced at them in the rearview mirror, grinning. Harper wore a bold red jumpsuit, while Lila had opted for a metallic skirt and leather jacket.

By the time they pulled into Silver Lake, the sun had set, and the neighborhood was alive with energy. The gallery came into view, its windows glowing warmly against the evening sky. People were milling about on the sidewalk, chatting in small groups with glasses of wine in hand, while others filtered in and out of the bustling space.

“This is it,” Y/N said, parking the car and taking a deep breath.

“It’s so fancy,” Lila said, practically bouncing in her seat. “Look at all these people!”

Harper leaned forward, peering out the window. “I’m already picturing Harry brooding in a corner, glaring at anyone who talks too loud.”

“Probably,” Y/N muttered, her heart fluttering as she got out of the car. She grabbed her bag and adjusted her jacket before turning to her friends. “Okay, let’s not embarrass me too much, yeah?”

“No promises,” Harper said with a grin, looping her arm through Y/N’s as they headed toward the gallery entrance.

Inside, the space was even more vibrant. The walls were adorned with bold, eclectic pieces of art—paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media pieces that immediately drew attention. Soft music played in the background, and servers wove through the crowd with trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation filled the air, blending with the occasional burst of laughter.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room, searching for Harry. She didn’t spot him right away, but she noticed how carefully curated the space felt—each piece arranged with intention. It was a reflection of him, she realized, meticulous and thoughtful.

“This is amazing,” Harper said, grabbing a glass of wine from a passing server. “He really knows what he’s doing.”

Lila nudged Y/N. “Speaking of, where is Mr. Grumpy Art Dealer? I want to see him in his element.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, glancing around again. “He’s probably—”

Before she could finish, her gaze landed on him. Harry stood near the back of the room, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showcasing his tattoos. He was talking to a small group of people, but his eyes flicked toward her as if he could feel her presence.

Their gazes locked for a moment, and he gave her a subtle nod before turning back to his conversation. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt Lila squeeze her arm.

“Oh, he definitely saw you,” Lila said, grinning. “And I’m not imagining the way he looked at you.”

“Stop,” Y/N hissed, her cheeks flushing. But she couldn’t deny it—there was something in his gaze that felt personal, even in the middle of the crowd.

“Go say hi,” Harper urged, giving her a nudge.

“Not yet,” Y/N said, grabbing a glass of wine for herself. “I’ll wait until he’s free. Let’s just look around first.”

As they wandered through the gallery, admiring the artwork, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry’s eyes were on her—even when she wasn’t looking his way.

Y/N wandered through the gallery, sipping her wine as she admired the artwork. Each piece was so different—some abstract, others intricate and detailed—but all of them carried a sense of purpose. It was easy to see that Harry had a good eye for curating.

She glanced across the room and saw Harper and Lila chatting animatedly with a group of women, likely bonding over their outfits or the wine. Typical, she thought with a smile, shaking her head.

As she moved to the next painting—a striking piece of layered colors and textures—she felt someone step up beside her. There was a shift in the air, a quiet presence that made her turn her head.

It was Harry.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the painting. His black shirt, with the sleeves still rolled up, contrasted sharply against the warm tones of the art, and his tattoos seemed to blend seamlessly into the aesthetic of the space.

“It’s acrylic and resin,” he said, his voice low but steady. “The artist used palette knives for the texture and then poured resin over it to give it that shine. Took weeks to cure properly.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard for a moment before she found her words. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, turning her attention back to the piece. “I love the depth in it. It feels like you could reach in and get lost.”

Harry glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s the idea. The artist wanted it to feel immersive, like stepping into an emotional landscape.”

She looked at him, her curiosity piqued. “Do you know all the details of every piece in here?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, his smirk growing. “Part of the job. I like to understand the process—it helps me connect with the artists and explain it to people who come through.”

Y/N smiled, sipping her wine. “It’s impressive. You’ve created something really special here.”

Harry looked at her again, his green eyes studying her for a moment. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It means a lot, coming from you.”

She tilted her head, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Why me?”

He shrugged slightly, his gaze flicking back to the painting. “Because you actually look at the art. Most people just see it, but you’re trying to understand it.”

Her cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment, and she turned back to the painting to hide her flustered expression. “Well, you make it hard not to appreciate it. The way you talk about it… it’s obvious how much you care.”

He didn’t respond right away, and the silence between them felt comfortable, almost intimate. Finally, he leaned in just slightly, his voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

Y/N turned to look at him again, her heart skipping a beat at the closeness between them. “Me too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the bustling crowd around them faded into the background, leaving just the two of them standing there, the art surrounding them as if it were part of their story.

Harry slipped his hand into Y/N’s, his fingers warm and steady as he gently tugged her through the gallery. She followed without question, her curiosity mounting as they weaved between groups of people. He didn’t say a word, just led her down a quieter section of the space where fewer people were lingering.

When they stopped, Y/N noticed the piece in front of them was a painting—bold yet delicate, with strokes that somehow conveyed both strength and softness. She tilted her head, studying it, drawn to the way the light and shadows played across the figure in the painting. There was something familiar about it, something that tugged at her memory.

She took a step closer, her heart beating faster as the realization slowly dawned on her. The painting wasn’t just beautiful—it was her.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned to Harry, her eyes wide. “Is this…?”

He nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “It’s you.”

Y/N stared at the painting again, her mind racing. The details were unmistakable—the way her hair fell, the soft curve of her face, the hint of a thoughtful expression she’d never realized she wore. But it wasn’t just her likeness; it was the way the he had captured something deeper, something vulnerable and raw.

“How?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “I started it a few weeks after I moved in. I didn’t even know your name then. I just… saw you.”

Her chest tightened as she turned to him again. “You saw me?”

He nodded, his green eyes softer now. “In the mailroom. In the hallway. On your balcony once, drinking coffee. I didn’t know why, but there was something about you that I couldn’t get out of my head. So, I painted.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of emotions swirling inside her—flattery, disbelief, and something she couldn’t quite name. “Harry, this is… incredible. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I just thought you should see it. This is the first time I’ve shown it to anyone.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she took a step closer to him, her voice soft. “Why me?”

Harry’s gaze locked on hers, his expression open and sincere. “Because it’s you, Y/N. I couldn’t have painted this if it wasn’t.”

The noise of the gallery faded around them as she stood there, her hand still in his, staring up at the painting of herself. For the first time, she saw herself through someone else’s eyes—not as the loud, chaotic neighbor, but as something worthy of being captured in art.

And Harry, the grumpy, mysterious neighbor, was the one who had done it.

2K notes · View notes

mishappeningss · 15 days ago

Note

can u write smth about driver!yn brining back iconic celebrations. love your writing!

she drives everyone insane when she stands on that podium. she’s honestly everyone’s favorite when it comes to podium celebrations!

more about driver!yn

Singapore GP

She wins under the lights. Sweat-slicked and glowing, she steps up to the top podium step with her arms raised like a warrior queen.

And then… her race engineer hands her something.

It's a plastic Burger King crown.

Cheap. Silly. Gold and red.

She slaps it onto her helmeted head like it's royal regalia and bows to the crowd — dramatic, sweeping — before spinning around and pretending to knight Lando with her champagne bottle.

Lando just stares at her. "You can't be serious."

"I'm always serious when I win," she says, placing the crown on his head next.

He keeps it on. Because how can you say no to that?

user: not her pulling out a BURGER KING crown mid-singapore i'm actually losing my mind

user: lando getting knighted with a champagne bottle while wearing a paper crown… bro i love this stupid sport

user: SEB JS LIKED A POST OF THIS MOMENT. SOMEONE TEXT HER RN

user: lando didn't even flinch. like yeah this is normal. yeah crown me.

Brazil GP

Brazil broke the internet.

That race was poetry - wet track, a safety car restart, a flawless double overtake into Turn 1 that made Crofty scream so loud Sky Sports' audio cut out.

She won. Deservedly.

And the moment the car stopped and she stepped out everything snapped into place.

Helmet off. Hair soaked. Eyes gleaming.

She climbed up onto her car, trophyless and breathless, and just stared straight into the lens of the trackside camera.

Then she kissed it. Like she was in a movie.

One hand gripping the halo, the other holding the camera by the lens as she leaned in and gave it a soft, slow, smirking kiss.

The camera fogged up. The crowd lost their minds.

The cameraman stumbled back like he just got slapped. FIA officials were spotted in the background visibly sighing.

She didn't care.

user: THE CAMERA KISS??? | SCREAMED. WHO EVEN THINKS OF THAT???

user: yn just soft-launched a lens. is that her boyfriend? is she dating the camera now??

user: yn after winning a race:

1. bites her trophy

2. kisses the camera

3. throws her glove at a ferrari engineer

4. winks

5. signs someone's hat mid-podium

SHE'S UNHINGED

user: her podiums aren't even podiums anymore they're one-woman shows. i need a ticket.

Mexico GP

Third place and she still showed up with a plan.

The camera pans to the podium and-BOOM.

She's holding a T-shirt cannon. Where did it come from?

Who gave it to her? No one knows.

She shoots a YN-themed shirt into the crowd. Then another.

One hits a security guard. Another lands on the halo of the P3 car.

She turns to the camera and screams: "Merch drop coming soon!”

user: MERCH DROP? WITH A T-SHIRT CANNON? i'm eating this up

user: how did she even smuggle that cannon onto the podium???

user: the t-shirt hit a man square in the chest he didn't even flinch BRO DOESNT KNOW HOW LUCKY HE IS

user: i'm not even a fan but that was the funniest podium i've ever seen

user: every time she steps on a podium it's like live comedy hour

Netherlands GP

It's chaos in Zandvoort. Roaring fans.

And she gets a little too confident. She stands on the second step, nods at the crowd like she's about to do something stupid.

Then she climbs the railing. "NOOOO," Lando yells. "DO NOT."

She jumps. Well- half-jumps. One leg gets caught. She ends up dangling halfway into the grandstand barrier.

Security grabs her, helps her down. She brushes it off and bows.

"I was trying to connect with the people," she says.

She has scratches on her elbow and no regrets.

user: YN REALLY TRIED TO CROWD SURF IN ZANDVOORT. GIRL THIS ISN'T A CONCERT

user: lando's "DO NOT" sounded like a father stopping a child from jumping into a pool fully clothed

user: someone check the security cam angle of her dangling like spider-man halfway through the jump

user: "i wanted to connect with the people" YES BABY BUT NOT BY BODYSLAMMING THEM

1K notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year ago

Text

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago.

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch.

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you.

“I wanna see Max.”

“She has to be here somewhere.”

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest.

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here.

Steve frowns at you worriedly.

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers.

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips.

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes.

“Is it awful?” you ask.

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult.

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask.

“Dustin. He’s outside.”

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.”

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes.

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?”

“Like you like him.”

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?”

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?”

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings.

“Looks like something. Are you dating?”

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.”

“He was touching you a lot.”

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely.

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh.

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s—

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder.

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug.

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly.

Oh, boy, you think.

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy.

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet.

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.”

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.”

“Steve.”

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.”

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty.

“What?” he asks.

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.”

“I sounded weird?”

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you�� I don’t know. Sorry.”

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it.

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do.

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.”

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice.

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.”

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something.

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie?

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged.

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews.

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way.

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused.

“You were in the way of the light.”

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself.

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?”

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks.

“It’s good.”

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.”

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you.

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise!

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this.

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing.

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs.

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek.

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen.

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say.

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.”

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.”

“I thought…” And of course he did.

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.”

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.”

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes.

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious.

“Yeah.”

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.”

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.”

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.”

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks.

“I like you too!” he says loudly.

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?”

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again.

“You okay?” he asks tightly.

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?”

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.”

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?”

You nod vehemently.

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm.

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.”

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you.

“You can be my parasol.”

“Your what?”

“It’s a sun umbrella.”

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up.

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.”

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay.

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur.

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?”

“That’s perfect.”

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly.

“No… I’m thinking.”

“Nothing good ever comes of that.”

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight.

“It’s a question.”

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world.

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.”

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.”

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.”

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start.

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem.

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur.

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it.

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke.

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington drabble

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enwoso · 2 months ago

Text

hall of fame | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

as promised pt2 of lovie enjoying the champions league win!

grumpy masterlist

‘one trophy. one wild five-year-old. one iconic chant. welcome to what could be arsenals most unforgettable homecoming.’

the emirates was still buzzing long after the final whistle. banners waved. chants echoed into the summer day. red and white confetti clung to every surface. and in the middle of it all — the stage, glowing under floodlights, filled with laughter, dancing, and raw, unfiltered joy.

arsenal women — champions of europe.

alessia stood near the center, hair a little messy as sunglasses clung to her head, her medal glinting under the lights. around her, her teammates bounced, hugged, and chanted with the fans who packed every corner of the stadium.

katie had taken over the mic and, predictably, all chaos followed. "COME ON YOU GUNNERS!" katie roared, hands raised triumphantly.

the crowd thundered back. "what do we think of tottenham?!"

"SHITE!"

katie spun around on her heel, dopey but proud smile on her lips. "thank you!"

to alessia's left, beth was still doing a full-body shimmy with vic and manu, while steph tried to pull laia out of the line of fire of frida's rogue confetti cannon. kim stood in the back sipping from a paper cup and shaking her head fondly like a parent watching a school play spiral out of control.

and there, right beside alessia, sitting squarely on her hip with confetti tangled in your hair and a little arsenal flag in your hand — was you.

five years old. wearing a tiny russo 23 jersey which admittedly was all you had worn all weekend. already the most talked-about figure of the celebration.

"careful with that confetti lovie," alessia said as you prepared to fling another handful.

"it's like sparkly rain," you whispered dramatically, throwing it into the air with both hands.

alessia winced as a bit stuck to her lip. "fabulous! we are both walking disco balls now."

a few of the girls gathered around, drawn to the tiny dynamo. "tiny's gonna start charging appearance fees," beth laughed, crouching beside you. "i swear she's more famous than us."

"i told her that already," kyra added with a wink. "she said she wants her own locker."

you grinned nodding your head. "yes! with stickers, lots."

alessia just sighed with a wide smile. "we've created a monster."

and then came leah as she stepped up to the mic, wearing her champions league medal over the champions shirts the entire squad were wearing, face flushed from celebration but eyes soft. leah glanced around the stage, taking in her teammates, her family, and then turned slightly to look at alessia and you.

her voice cracked a little as she spoke. "this club... this team... my club, my arsenal. we've made history. but none of it happens without the people behind the scenes. the mums, the dads, the siblings. the little ones. the future."

leah paused, and her gaze finding yours, as you were now proudly standing on the crate someone had pulled out for you, mere inches away from leah.

"i want to shout out one person in particular," leah said, voice thick with emotion. "a very special little girl, who has managed to keep me a little bit more grounded and make the lows of this season that little bit bearable even if you do call me lord farrquad each time i cut my hair. this trophy's for you my angel."

the crowd let out a collective "awww."

alessia blinked quickly, her arm tightening around her daughter's small frame. you, however, took it a very different way.

you raised both arms, looked out into the sea of fans, and shouted at full volume: "WHAT DO WE THINK OF TOTTENHAM?!"

there was a beat. silence. and then—absolute chaos. the crowd screamed back: "SHITE!"

you grinned like you'd just scored the winning goal in the champions league final.alessia closed her eyes as she couldn't believe you'd managed to turn such a sweet and wholesome moment into this. "oh my god."

"WHAT DO WE THINK OF SHITE?!"

"TOTTENHAM!"

"THANK YOU!"

katie dropped to her knees in laughter, rolling on the stage. "yes!, tiny! raise 'em right!"

"she's gonna be a menace at school on monday," leah whispered to alessia as she quickly planted a kiss to her cheek, smiling even as she wiped her eyes. "that's our child, by the way."

"don't remind me," alessia groaned playfully.

you stood proudly, clearly thinking you'd just saved the entire event. then you turned and waved dramatically at the crowd, your flag in one hand and your arms in the air.

"hi nonno!" you shouted. down by the front barricade, alessia's parents were in stitches. her dad had both hands up clapping. her mum had tears in her eyes, shaking her head.

"did you teach her that?" alessia called down to her brother giorgio, knowing it was right up his street of tricks.

"not guilty," he shouted holding his hands up in innocence. "that was all mccabe!”

"she's got lungs, i'll give her that," alessia's mum said, leaning over to wave. "you were never that loud."

"she's brave too," added alessia's dad. "the whole audience!"

you cupped your hands around your mouth. "mummy said i could swear once!"

"i said maybe in ten years," alessia corrected, exasperated, ruffling your hair as you held onto the barrier.

giorgio just laughed. "i think the mic picked that up."

"brilliant," alessia muttered, shifting you on your hip. "hope she enjoyed her fifteen minutes of fame — and grounding."

"no grounded," you said confidently. "m' a champion."

"your something alright."

back on stage, confetti cannons exploded again. you flung another handful over katie's head, which made her dramatically pretend to faint. emily made a face as she plucked glitter from her hair. kim just shook her head, sipping her drink.

"she's one of us now," steph said, watching the chaos.

"oh, she's captain material," leah added with a grin, still watching you fondly. "just give it fifteen years."

alessia glanced around at her teammates, her family, you — who now had the entire emirates wrapped around her finger.

in the background, the champions league trophy stood tall as it was passed around the group. but right now? that didn't matter nearly as much as your giggling frame in your mummy's arms.

because right now, the world belonged to arsenal... and you!

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weirdmarioenemies · 3 months ago

Text

Name: Yorgle

Debut: Adventure

Dragons are such a staple of fiction and fantasy, it's hard to imagine a time when they were not part of human imagination! But that's the world people lived in before 1980. That fateful year, Adventure released for the Atari somesequenceofnumbers. This is a game about a square going on an adventure. Though this charismatic square may have been the hero, it was someone else that captured the hearts of gamers... it was the Dragon. And his name was Yorgle!

To be honest, dragons tend to bore me with their designs, usually using the same design aspects I've seen sooo many times before... so when I see one that's a weird seahorsey thing, I am rejuvenated! And better yet, his name is Yorgle. Yorgle! Official lore states that Yorgle, among the game's three dragons, is not ferocious.

But wait! Don't take that as an invitation to mingle with Yorgle! He is not ferocious, but he is- and I quote- "just plain mean". If you asked Yorgle for an autograph, he wouldn't give you one, and he would say "ah, put a sock in it, bub". Mean! He's lucky he looks so funny, otherwise I wouldn't let him hang out at my house and degrade my mental health with his harsh words.

When he opens his mouth, Yorgle looks less like a seahorse and more like the proverbial "freakin' duck"! The dragons in this game have the ability to eat our handsome square hero, and you can actually wiggle around in his stomach afterward, since the closed-mouth sprite has a transparent belly. That's weird but a fun little detail. It feels like a toy feature!

From what I can tell, there have not been many official "redesigns" of Yorgle, the most notable being this one from The Sandbox. And learning about this one made me realize that The Sandbox, which I once knew as a very cool mobile game about physics and creativity, became some metaverse nonsense for nitwits to play with their NFTs in. Yuck! Let's return to the past before that existed.

I mentioned other dragons earlier. There are three! The yellow Yorgle, the green Grundle, and the red Rhindle. Here they are if they were singing in a glee club and Yorgle was off beat, making the other two disappointed in him. Grundle is mean and ferocious, but Rhindle is the most ferocious of all! No mention of him being mean, though. I guess it's implied.

Maybe it's just because of Homestar Runner, but Yorgle is iconic to me! I would love to see this funny dragon appear more often in the modern day, in GOOD games, and of course, resemble his classic seahorsey self! Atari has been letting various developers revitalize their franchises recently... we may be entering a new age of Yorgle! Or at least an age where we get a new mediocre look at Yorgle. I'll take what I can get!

#yorgle #dragon #adventure #atari #adventure enemies #not mario #funky friday #mod chikako

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, I love your writing style :)

I would love one, where the reader is his race engineer and he falls for her :)

This would be lovely :)

𝒯𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓉

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Another one-shot for you to enjoy! Thank you so much for the kind words and support. Praying for Ferrai rn🤞🏻🤞🏻 Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis joins Ferrari and falls hard for his new race engineer and she takes a little longer.

Warnings: mild swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’d only seen Lewis Hamilton in person once before 2025. It was back in 2019 in Bahrain, maybe. You were still one of the background engineers for a midfield team, young and green, glued to a clipboard and desperate not to look too wide-eyed in the paddock. He’d walked past you like a force of nature. Not loud. Not arrogant. Just composed. Radiating this kind of quiet gravity that made everyone stop talking mid-sentence without realising they’d done it.

You remembered thinking: He doesn’t just walk into a room he takes it.

And now, six years later, he was walking toward you.

He was dressed in the iconic Ferrari red brighter, bolder than it looked on camera and somehow, it suited him already. His movements were unhurried, measured. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but you could still feel his attention shift as it landed squarely on you.

Fred stood beside him, arms loosely crossed, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. The team principal had been oddly smug all morning. Now you knew why.

“Lewis,” Fred said, stepping aside with a brief nod, “this is your new lead race engineer. (Y/N) (L/N).”

The moment hung there, suspended in the brief silence before you extended your hand.

You kept your expression even professional and calm though your pulse had quickened. “Welcome to Ferrari.”

His hand met yours, warm and steady, adorned with the usual statement rings sterling silver, some chunky, others sleek. The cool metal pressed against your knuckles, grounding you for a second longer than it should’ve.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was low and smooth, a little softer than you expected. “Been looking forward to this.”

As he spoke, you noticed the smallest flicker of something beneath the polished exterior a nervous twitch of his thumb against the edge of his silver cross earring. It wasn’t exaggerated, but it was telling. A detail most wouldn’t catch.

But you were trained to read micro-behaviours, even when they didn’t show up in telemetry.

He was nervous.

And somehow, that disarmed you more than anything else could have.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t the practiced media-smile you’d seen in countless interviews. This one was more instinctive smaller, softer. And right in the centre of it was that charming gap in his front teeth.

You weren’t prepared for the way it struck you. The way it made him look boyish, almost shy. The way it immediately pulled at something warm and unexpected in your chest.

Careful, you warned yourself. Focus.

“Let’s get to work, then,” you said, straightening your posture and nodding toward the garage. “Plenty to recalibrate.”

He gave a quiet chuckle and followed your lead without hesitation, his boots falling into step beside yours.

As you walked, you caught him rubbing a ring between his fingers absently, like a fidget. Another tell.

It surprised you, how quickly the reality of him began to separate from the myth. You’d expected sharp edges, swagger, that unshakable confidence that had carried him through hundreds of races. But what you were seeing what only someone this close would notice was something softer. Quieter.

It wasn’t the world champion walking beside you now. It was just a man. New team. New garage. New systems. And maybe despite everything he’d achieved still wondering if he’d measure up to the expectations.

As you entered the garage together, the hassle of activity wrapped around you as mechanics adjusted wing angles, laptops clicked through data sets, air guns hissed from the far corner.

You guided him toward the engineering bay, glancing sideways at him just once.

“You’ll be testing in the SF-75 development car this week,” you said. “I’ve already adjusted your seat fit to your 2023 specs, but we’ll fine-tune today.”

“Appreciate that,” he said, nodding, eyes scanning the setup.

His gaze settled briefly on you again, then dropped to the tablet in your hand. “You always this prepared?”

You allowed a small smirk. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Another smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. He just watched you thumb once again brushing over the silver earring, a subtle, nervous rhythm that gave him away.

Whatever this season had in store, you could already feel it: this wasn’t going to be an ordinary driver-engineer relationship.

And somehow, deep down, you didn’t want it to be.

Fiorano felt different that morning. The sky was a soft, pale blue, painted with streaks of early sunlight, and the cold bit gently at your cheeks as you zipped up your Ferrari team jacket. There was no roar of fans, no broadcasters calling out for soundbites, just the quiet hum of anticipation the kind that settles deep into your bones when you know something new is about to begin.

The tarmac of the private test track still glistened faintly with dew, and the SF-75 development car sat low and waiting like a coiled predator. Sleek. Red. Temperamental.

You watched as Lewis walked across the garage floor in his black fireproofs and new red team gear, the iconic prancing horse stitched over his heart. He looked calm, but his fingers played absently with the string of pearls around his neck as he approached the car. It was a subtle tell, but you’d already noticed he had a few: the way his thumb would trace the edge of his dangling cross earring, the way he’d twist his rings when deep in thought.

He climbed in fluidly, settling into the cockpit like he belonged there. Of course he did. Still, this was new territory for both of you. New machinery. New dynamics. New voices in his ear including yours.

You stood just outside the garage now, headset snug over your ears, watching him through the hum of your own pulse and the early stream of data already dancing across your screen.

He gave a thumbs-up to the crew, and with one smooth, practiced movement, lowered his visor. The car came alive beneath him, its growl low and throaty, vibrating through the floor and into your chest.

You keyed into the radio, your voice calm and crisp. “Radio check, car one. You copy, Lewis?”

A heartbeat of silence. Then—

“Loud and clear. How’s my voice?”

That voice. Smooth. Unrushed. With the slightest undercurrent of amusement like he already knew the effect it had.

You glanced down at your telemetry screen, the flicker of a smile tugging at your lips. “Crystal.”

He rolled slowly down pit lane, the car purring like a restrained animal on a leash. You tracked him through Turn 1, the sensors catching every breath of movement, and kept your eyes trained on the readout's engine temps, tire pressures, throttle application.

But beneath all that data, you were listening. Really listening. To his tone. His pauses. The rhythm of his breathing between corners. It told you just as much as the numbers did.

After Turn 3, his voice came through again. “Brakes feel a little spongy. Not bad, just different.”

“Copy that. They’re still warming. You’ll feel a change in a couple of laps. Focus on pedal modulation for now build the feedback.”

“Copy.”

Another quiet beat.

Then, lower, almost to himself: “Feels a little like taming a new beast.”

Your lips twitched. “It’s not about taming. It’s about syncing.”

That earned a low chuckle in your earpiece, static brushing the sound like wind through feathers.

“You always talk like that over the radio?” he asked. “Sounding all calm and poetic?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the pit wall as you tapped your screen. “Only when I’m trying to impress the new guy.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them - light, a touch flirtatious. For a second, you wondered if you’d crossed a line.

But the pause that followed wasn’t awkward. It was... charged.

“Well,” he said finally, voice warm, laced with that familiar sheepishness. “Mission accomplished.”

You bit your lip, the grin threatening to break across your face. Thank God for privacy in the comms channel.

Lap after lap, he pushed harder. You adjusted his settings in real-time with ERS deployment, brake migration, differential tweaks. Every suggestion you gave, he executed cleanly, without hesitation. It was rare, that kind of immediate trust. Most drivers pushed back, tested your reasoning, questioned everything. But not Lewis.

He listened.

Not just because he had to but because he chose to.

By lap 11, his times were already dropping. Nothing radical, not yet. But steady. Controlled. He was learning the car fast.

“Exit of Turn 9’s still costing you a few tenths,” you said, eyes tracking the sector deltas. “Try a wider line. Brake earlier and let the car rotate more freely.”

“Copy that. Wider on entry. Earlier brake.”

He repeated your instructions back with perfect clarity. Then, after a pause:

“You always this good?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. “Good?”

“At reading the car. And me. You don’t hesitate. Like you already know what I’m gonna do.”

You glanced toward the track, heart skipping a little at the way he said you, like it meant more than it should.

You exhaled slowly, voice softening just a notch. “It’s not about knowing what you’ll do. It’s about listening. And I do.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then: “Not many people say that to me.”

Your chest tightened just slightly. It wasn’t about pity. It was about the quiet kind of loneliness that echoed behind his words. Fame, legacy, respect all of it, and still not always heard.

You said nothing. Just kept your hand on the tablet and your voice waiting if he needed it.

By the time he rolled into the garage after the run, the sun had climbed higher, cutting a slant of gold across the floor. The car hissed and clicked as it cooled. Mechanics moved in a practiced flurry, adjusting, checking, murmuring.

Lewis climbed out, tugging off his gloves, then unhooked his helmet. His curls were damp, stuck to his forehead. The pearl necklace around his neck glinted as it caught the light. He ran his fingers through his hair once, then instinctively reached up and touched his earring - his tell.

He found you instantly, like a magnet. Walked over, chest rising and falling, still catching his breath.

“How’d it feel?” you asked, already pulling up the run log on your tablet.

He exhaled through a grin. “Like it’s the beginning of something.”

You raised a brow. “The car?”

He hesitated. Then looked at you properly. No helmet. No visor. Just Lewis.

“No,” he said softly. “This.”

You blinked, lips parted as if to respond but nothing came.

Before you could gather a thought, he added, with a self-deprecating laugh, “And I’m not just saying that ‘cause you’re the voice in my head.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the warmth rising to your cheeks. “Don’t get used to flattery.”

But when you looked up, he was still smiling at you. That same sheepish grin, lips parting just enough to reveal that small, unmistakable gap in his front teeth.

And there it was again his fingers idly twisting one of his silver rings. Nervous. Hopeful. Real.

“I already am,” he murmured, almost like a confession.

And for the first time since the session started, it wasn’t just the car syncing anymore.

It was the two of you. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

By the third race weekend, it was clear: Lewis Hamilton was different.

It wasn’t just the way he handled the car, though that alone was a masterclass in patience and precision. It wasn’t even the gravity of his seven titles or the way people instinctively shifted when he entered a room, parting like a tide as if some current pulled them to notice. Those things mattered, of course. But they weren’t what struck you, not really.

It was how he moved through this new chapter with his guard lowered just enough to let the right people in. Enough to let you in.

How he listened. How he trusted.

You.

And in Formula 1, where secrets were currency and egos flared hotter than brake discs, that kind of trust was rare. Priceless.

You sat in the garage with your headset on, legs crossed, a tablet resting lightly on your knee as the team ran long-run simulations. Japan’s afternoon sunbathed the Suzuka paddock in liquid gold, filtering through the open garage doors in slants of amber. A crisp breeze curled around your ankles, carrying the mingled scents of rubber, oil, and sakura blossoms from the trees lining the circuit’s outer rim.

On the screen in front of you, Lewis was preparing to start another push lap. The telemetry scrolled in real time based on engine temps steady, tire degradation manageable, ERS fully charged, brake balance nudged a fraction toward the rear.

“Push on the next lap,” you said into the mic, voice calm. “But watch your entry into Turn 6. Wind’s shifted crosswind from the left now.”

There was a beat of static. Then his voice came through, low and grounded, like always. “Copy. Adjusting now.”

And he did. Every time.

Lewis trusted your calls, even the small ones that couldn’t be seen on paper adjustments born from instinct, repetition, the kind of intuitive understanding that only came from seasons of long nights poring over data, chasing tenths in silence while others were asleep. Some drivers questioned you. Some ignored you. A few rolled their eyes, or let the radio fall silent when they didn’t like what they heard.

But not him.

In meetings, he didn’t bulldoze the room. He sat beside you not out front, not taking up unnecessary space, but just close enough that you could feel the quiet thrum of his presence. You’d glance sideways and catch him lounging with effortless poise: long legs stretched out beneath the table, arms folded, fingers toying with the strand of pearls around his neck.

But when you spoke, his attention shifted entirely.

Not to his phone. Not to his notes. Not to the wall of post-session strategy printouts lining the room.

To you.

That week in Japan, something changed. Or maybe it had been changing all along, a slow simmer that finally reached its boiling point.

The tension between you wasn’t dramatic or theatrical. It was quieter than that. Deeper. Like a low frequency only the two of you could hear, humming beneath the surface of every shared glance, every brush of shoulders in narrow hallways, every inside joke whispered under your breath during debriefs.

It built in the gaps. The pauses. The held breaths.

That Friday evening, after FP2, the paddock was winding down. Mechanics stripped the cars for inspection, engineers ducked in and out of the garage with exhausted smiles, and the golden hour wrapped everything in softness.

You were tucked in the engineering room, legs drawn up beneath you on a rolling chair, the glow of your laptop screen illuminating the gentle slope of your face. Telemetry data blinked across your display of sector deltas, throttle traces, tire temperatures. The air was filled with the comforting scent of burnt rubber, espresso, and the faint cologne lingering from drivers who had come and gone.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you felt him.

“Hey,” Lewis said behind you, voice low and warm, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

He stepped closer. You felt the shift in the air before anything else his heat, his presence. One hand braced lightly on the desk beside your elbow, the other rising to his neck, fingers absently twisting one of his rings. That gesture had become something you recognised. Something he did when he was thinking. Or nervous.

He leaned in, looking over your shoulder. His proximity pulled a subtle current through the room, one that raised goosebumps along your arms despite the temperate air.

“That corner speed - that was better, yeah?” he asked, his voice a whisper against your ear as he pointed to the Turn 13 split.

You tilted your head just slightly, tracking his line on the screen with the tip of your finger. “Better,” you said, drawing out the word. “But not perfect. You turned in half a beat late.”

There was a pause. Long enough for your pulse to quicken.

Then—

He let out a soft, breathy laugh, wide and sheepish, glancing sideways at you from under his lashes. “Was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. “I always notice.”

His gaze lingered on you then, and for a moment, it was as if the room fell away. The sound of the paddock outside grew distant. All you could hear was the tick of your own heartbeat and the soft, nervous breath he exhaled.

You caught it then, barely there but unmistakable.

The pink tint brushing the tops of his ears. Creeping toward his cheeks.

A blush.

Lewis Hamilton, blushing.

He looked away quickly, clearing his throat, fingers resuming their nervous twist around his ring. Again. And again. Like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

“You’re ruthless,” he said with a crooked smile, trying to play it off. “You know that?”

You arched a brow, playful. “It’s my job.”

He studied you for a second longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, softer now, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard:

“Yeah, well. You’re really, really good at it.”

You blinked. Something in your chest tightened not from nerves, but from the warmth in his voice. The way he said it like a truth he’d been holding onto for a while.

And then, without thinking, you responded. “Thanks, Lew.”

The nickname fell out like a slip of the tongue. Easy. Natural. Like you’d said it a hundred times before.

But you hadn’t.

You froze.

So did he.

His eyes snapped to yours, searching your face, as if needing to confirm what he’d just heard. Then his smile faltered not in a bad way. Just softened. Surprised. Like something in him wasn’t quite sure what to do with the feeling it stirred.

“Lew, huh?” he repeated, voice low.

You swallowed. “Sorry. That just…slipped out.”

He shook his head slowly. The corner of his mouth tugged up again, but this time it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something smaller. Quieter. Earnest.

“It’s nice,” he said after a moment. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Silence stretched between you, not awkward. Just full.

Full of all the things you hadn’t said. All the tension you’d been dancing around since Bahrain.

You turned your attention back to the laptop, needing something to ground yourself. “Well. Lew,” you repeated deliberately, nudging your elbow lightly into his, “your turn-in timing at 130R still needs work.”

He laughed, sharp and bright, his whole body relaxing beside you. The tension cracked like sunlight through storm clouds.

“See?” he grinned. “Ruthless.”

But when his eyes met yours again, the laughter dimmed into something more intimate. Not gone just soothed. Like the sound had settled into the quiet space between you and left something tender behind.

And that tension of the quiet, slow-building kind was no longer just beneath the surface.

It had taken root.

And in just a few hours, you’d help him channel it into something more than heat. You’d help him win.

And neither of you were ready to name it. Not yet. Maybe not even out loud. But it was there, growing quietly in the background of everything you did an invisible thread that tugged tighter with every exchanged glance, every mic check, every breathless second in the engineering room when his fingers brushed too close to yours.

It showed up in the smallest ways.

In the lingering moments between strategy debriefs, when Lewis stayed after the rest of the team had cleared out, leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. In the way his voice softened ever so slightly when he said your name like it meant something more than just a label. In the half-smiles he gave you when you passed each other in the paddock, when no one else was looking.

By the time Saturday rolled around, that tension had begun to settle into something familiar. Palpable.

Sprint day.

The Suzuka Circuit shimmered in the morning light, the early sunbathing the track in gold and casting long shadows behind the garages. The air was sharp and crisp enough to sting your nose, clean in that rare way only Japan could offer. Wind tugged at the edges of your team jacket as you walked through the paddock, its sudden gusts rattling the banners above the garages and flapping sponsor flags in bursts of colour.

In the garage, it was business as usual on the surface.

The team hustled through final prep, energy drink cans stacked half-finished beside laptops, the constant hum of tire blankets and the low whir of cooling systems filling the background. Mechanics moved with clinical efficiency, murmuring to each other beneath the sound of engines idling.

But you weren’t watching them. You were watching him.

Lewis sat in the car already, helmet on, gloves flexing slightly as he adjusted the wheel. Through the visor, you could see the faint glint of his eyes - focused, calm, but every so often they flicked to the side, to where you stood with your headset slung around your neck and your tablet hugged to your chest.

Your breath caught when his gaze locked with yours. Just a second. But it was enough.

You turned quickly to the telemetry screen, trying to shake it off. Focus.

“Everyone’s scrubbing mediums,” one of the engineers beside you noted, tapping a rhythm against his clipboard. “But degradation’s going to hit heavy mid-stint. He’ll lose pace halfway through.”

You were already ahead of him, fingers flying over the touchscreen as you overlaid track temp data with tire simulations. The numbers didn’t lie. Everyone was playing it safe. But safe wouldn’t win today.

“Not if he lifts through Spoon and saves tire life in Sector 2,” you murmured, eyes narrowing. “Then pushes on the straights. We’ll tell him to go long.”

You reached for the comm switch, thumb brushing it slowly. “Lewis,” you said, voice even, “adjust your plan lift slightly through Spoon, conserve rear tire temp in Sector 2. Then attack on the back straight. We go long on this first stint. Trust me.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Maybe two.

Then his voice crackled through, steady and low. “Copy. I trust you.”

That pause you felt it. Heard what was unsaid.

He meant it. Not just in a technical sense. He trusted you.

The lights went out cleanly at the start.

Lewis had a flawless launch, slotting into P2 by Turn 1. The driver ahead aggressive, burning rubber like it was free went full send from the first lap, gapping by a few tenths. But you knew. It wouldn’t last.

Because Lewis was patient.

You could see it unfolding like you’d written it yourself. Lap by lap, your calls weaving into his rhythm: lift 2%, deploy energy earlier in Sector 3, adjust brake migration into Turn 11 with the crosswind each adjustment precise, each decision measured. And every time, Lewis followed your voice like it was instinct.

And maybe, by now, it was.

By lap 10, he was still behind, but the gap was shrinking. The car ahead had started to slide by its rear grip fading, tire degradation setting in. But Lewis?

Lewis was flying.

Lap 13. You barely blinked.

He hooked into the draft on the back straight, pulled out at the last moment with millimetre precision. The car ahead twitched. Lewis didn’t. He braked late - so late that he threaded the needle into 130R like the laws of physics didn’t apply, and made it stick.

Your heart slammed into your ribs as the garage exploded with cheers around you. But you didn’t join in. Not yet.

You were still watching. Still tracking.

And when he crossed the line six laps later P1 the noise was deafening. The pit wall staff high-fived, engineers hugged, one of the mechanics shouted so loud it startled a passing camera crew.

You didn’t move.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, headset still on, mic open. And without even realising it, you breathed—

“Perfectly done, Lewis.”

You weren’t sure he heard it. Not until a pause filled your ears, and then—

“Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t just what he said, it was how he said it. Quiet. Honest. Like a secret just for you.

The line clicked off, and yet you stood there, unmoving, the echo of his voice replaying over and over in your mind. Your name lingered in the silence like a fingerprint on glass. Warm. Intimate.

And when Lewis returned to the garage helmet off, curls damp against his forehead, race suit unzipped slightly at the collar he didn’t soak in the applause. He didn’t mug for the cameras.

He looked for you.

Eyes sweeping past the team, the monitors, the open pit lane beyond until they found you. Standing just behind the monitors, hands still clenched around your tablet like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

He walked over, slow but certain, until he was standing right in front of you. The noise of the garage seemed to fade again, the buzz of the world fading out like someone had hit mute.

He leaned in.

A little too close again.

Close enough that you could feel the heat of his skin, the faint scent of sweat and engine grease and something unmistakably him.

He grinned, and when he spoke, it was only for you.

“Told you,” He said, his voice soft, rough with adrenaline. “I trust you.”

You swallowed, your throat dry.

You didn’t mean to smile but you did. Small. Unstoppable. “Good,” you managed, pulse hammering behind your ribs. “Because I’m not planning on being wrong anytime soon.”

His laugh was low, quiet, filled with something warmer than victory. He looked at you, and you saw it again that nervous little tell. His fingers twisting his ring, turning it slowly between his thumb and middle finger.

That quiet frequency between you?

It wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was humming loud and clear, stitched into every word, every breath, every glance.

And somehow, it felt like the season had just started. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It started in little moments.

The kind you could pretend weren’t anything until they started to add up.

He’d linger after practice runs. Wait just a beat longer before removing his helmet, sweat still beading at his temples, curls damp beneath the padding. You’d be checking sector times or squinting at the track surface on the screens, but you’d feel it. That quiet pull. You’d glance up and there he’d be, watching you from across the garage with that unreadable look in his eyes.

And every time, right before you had the chance to say something, he’d smile.

Not the media smile. Not the carefully measured, camera-ready grin that made headlines.

But the real one.

The soft one, slightly crooked. The one with the gap.

You heard your name differently now. Over the radio. In debriefs. Even when he passed by in the hospitality tent, coffee in one hand, helmet bag in the other. He’d say it quieter, lower. Like it was something private. Like it didn’t belong to the rest of the world.

And then there was the teasing - subtle, thoughtful, never crossing the line.

You’d be scanning FP1 tire wear data, and he’d sidle up beside you, pointing at the overlay.

“You just like when I lift through Turn 5 because it proves you’re smarter than me.”

You’d glance sideways, hiding a smirk. “You need me to be smarter than you. Otherwise, who’s going to keep you in one piece?”

Or before qualifying, when the tension climbed so high the air felt like it could snap:

“You’ve got this one, Lewis. Stay focused,” you’d tell him, voice low in his ear as he sat in the cockpit, visor still up.

And without fail, he’d glance at you with that familiar softness. “Only ’cause you told me to.”

Then he’d drop his gaze, grin sheepishly, and fidget fingers grazing his earring or tugging the edge of his necklace like a nervous tick. It made him look younger. Softer. Like there was still something untouched beneath the years of podiums and pressure.

You tried not to find it endearing. But you did.

Barcelona arrived with heat and headwinds. The paddock baked under the afternoon sun, the scent of rubber and burnt brake dust lingering in the air like a warning.

FP1 had gone surprisingly well. P3. Solid pace. Strong sector 2.

You watched from the back of the garage, arms folded, headset snug, calling tiny adjustments through the session. You caught Lewis’s eyes in the mirror as he rolled back into the box his expression beneath the helmet was calm but pleased, and when he climbed out, he walked straight to you.

“Balance still isn’t perfect,” he murmured, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. “But that setup change we tried? You were right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Of course I was.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Dangerous confidence.”

“You like it.”

He didn’t respond just gave you a glance. One that said too much.

FP2 didn’t go quite as cleanly. Wind shifts played havoc in Sector 1, and timing didn’t line up with traffic. P11. The media would spin it. You already knew.

But he didn’t seem rattled.

After the session, you found him on the folding couch in the engineers’ room, scrolling slowly through corner entry overlays. You slid into the seat beside him, setting a fresh bottle of water next to his elbow.

“You’re overthinking Turn 3,” you said gently. “It’s not the car. You’re just overcompensating for the wind.”

He sighed, leaned back, ran a hand over his face. “Feels off.”

“Because you’re pushing too hard to make it right.” You paused. “Trust your flow. Tomorrow’s a reset.”

He glanced at you, eyes tired but steady. “You always know what to say.”

You gave him a small shrug. “I read telemetry like poetry. Doesn’t mean I’m right.”

But he looked at you like you were right. Like he believed you more than he believed the data. And it shook you more than it should have.

That night ran long. Debriefs dragged. Engineers debated strategy well past dinner. You stayed, laptop open, headphones around your neck, eyes glazed over as you adjusted energy deployment graphs on your screen.

At some point, you noticed he was still there too leaning against the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, watching you more than his data.

You handed him a protein bar without looking up. “You’ll make improvements tomorrow,” you said. “You always do.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly: “You really think so?”

You finally glanced up. He was turning the bar slowly in his hand like it meant something. Like it was more than just calories. The overhead lights caught on the silver of his necklace.

“I’ve seen the numbers,” you said simply.

He bit his lip. That same slow smile curved up again, crooked and real.

“Then I will.”

FP3 came and went P9. Better, but still not where he wanted. Still not where you knew he could be.

And qualifying? It was a fight.

Every sector counted. He wrung everything out of that car like it owed him something. And when he crossed the line for his final Q3 lap and landed P5, you exhaled for the first time in minutes.

It wasn’t pole. But it was earned. Gritty. Strategic.

And when he pulled into the garage, climbed out, and peeled off his gloves, you were already there headset off, tablet in hand.

He reached for his water bottle, but didn’t drink. Instead, he tilted his head toward you.

“You smiling because I proved you right again?” he asked, voice low.

You gave him a look. “You’re catching on.”

He smirked, took a long sip, then leaned in just a little, like the noise of the garage couldn’t touch the space between you.

“Race tomorrow,” he murmured, eyes on yours. “I want you on comms again.”

Your breath caught.

“You know I will be.”

He nodded, like that settled it. Like your voice in his ear was the only one that mattered.

And as he turned to debrief with the team, he brushed past you just close enough that your sleeve caught on his. The smallest touch.

But you felt it for minutes after.

Another sign.

And you were starting to see all of them. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Canadian Grand Prix was chaos.

The good kind - the electric, heart-rattling, over caffeinated kind that made your blood feel like it pulsed with engine oil.

Montreal had always been one of those circuits. The kind that didn’t just test the car but tested the nerves. Tight corners. Unpredictable weather. A track that punished the smallest mistakes and rewarded pure instinct. The fans were relentless in the best way. Drenched in red, waving flags, drumming on barriers until it echoed through the paddock like a heartbeat.

From the moment your plane touched down, everything moved at double speed. You’d barely set foot in the team hotel before your phone was ringing for briefings, simulation tweaks, new aero projections. Lewis had barely gotten through media day without someone asking about his form, about Ferrari, about whether this would be the weekend everything clicked.

By the time qualifying rolled around, the air itself felt tight.

And then P2. A tenth off pole.

The garage erupted. But you didn’t. You were too deep in it, tabs open on your tablet, headset still on, heart thudding because of everything yet to come. There was always more.

Still, somehow through the flurry of data and diagrams and DRS deltas he always managed to find you.

A glance over the crowd of engineers during briefings. A low, offhand comment in your ear, only meant for you something that made your lips twitch before you remembered where you were. A touch on your back that lingered longer than necessary when you leaned too close to the telemetry monitor.

You told yourself not to read into it. That it was just part of the unspoken rhythm the two of you had developed this season. Teammates, collaborators. Partners, in the purest, most professional sense.

But by race day?

You weren’t so sure anymore.

The race was a blur.

There were moments of near disaster spitting rain around lap 17 that caught half the grid off-guard. A lockup in Sector 2 that made your stomach drop. A strategic misfire by McLaren that almost backed him into dirty air. But Lewis?

Lewis danced through it.

Clean. Controlled. Relentless.

You saw him on the screens, the way he handled the car like it was an extension of himself. And even with all that going on when he clicked the radio to speak it was your name he asked for.

“Where is she?”

“Tell her I felt the bite in the rears again.”

“Let her know I’m trying the lift she suggested into 6.”

Over radio, your voice cuts through static - calm but charged, firm with just a hint of something deeper:

“Lewis...it’s me. It’s Hammertime.”

The words hit him like a jolt through the cockpit - "Lewis...It's me. It's Hammertime." His breath stalled for just a fraction of a second, heart thudding louder than the engine for once. That voice - your voice saying those words. Not Bono. Not Mercedes. You. His engineer, his person. A slow, stunned smile pulled at the corner of his mouth beneath the visor. His grip on the wheel tightened, not from nerves, but from something rawer, deeper. He didn’t need to answer right away. He just exhaled, focused in, and pushed harder into the corner, fuelled by something more than strategy something personal. Finally, low and steady, came his response: "Copy. Let’s fucking go."

Like your presence, your guidance, was the edge he needed. And when he crossed the finish line in P3, it felt earned. A fight. A win without being first.

The garage exploded around you claps on the back, champagne half-sprayed before the bottles were even opened.

But Lewis?

He didn’t celebrate.

Not yet.

While the team moved like a hive, shouting, cheering, replaying the final lap, he stepped out of the car and pulled off his helmet. Slow. Deliberate.

His curls stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. His pearl necklace shimmered under the fluorescents. The red of his race suit was half-zipped, sleeves tied around his waist.

And then he walked straight through the crowd.

Past the cameras, past the reporters, past Fred Vasseur who was already preparing for a post-race interview. Past everyone.

Until he was standing right in front of you.

Your heart skipped. But your face stayed neutral, barely lifting from the tablet still in your hands.

“Nice work out there,” you said smoothly, fighting the heat climbing up your neck.

He tilted his head, giving you that lazy, crooked smile that always knocked the breath out of your lungs just a little. “I only clipped the apex at Turn 9 'cause I remembered what you said. Mid-session. You told me not to force the rotation.”

You looked up at him now, finally meeting his eyes.

“I did.”

He stepped closer only half a pace, but enough. Enough to feel the space between you tighten like a thread being pulled.

His voice dipped lower, almost a whisper. Not dramatic, just quiet. Meant for you and no one else.

“You’re the only voice I hear in that car, you know?”

The line landed heavy. Not flirtation. Not hyperbole.

Just truth.

You blinked. Your fingers curled tighter around your tablet, knuckles white.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when something mattered more than he wanted to admit. His fingers grazed the chain at his collarbone, then shifted to the small hoop in his ear. His tell. You’d seen it enough times now to know this was him nervous.

Lewis Hamilton, nervous.

“I really like working with you,” he said, his gaze searching yours. “Maybe too much.”

There was no smirk. No ego.

Just the man behind the name.

Your chest ached. Because part of you wanted to let the moment fall. To lean in. To say something bold and reckless. But you couldn’t not yet. Not with everything still at stake.

“You’re not making this easy on me, Hamilton,” you murmured.

He laughed quietly, looking down at the floor between you before glancing up again cheeks faintly pink, that gap-toothed grin peeking through like a boy caught out in something sweet.

“I’m not trying to,” he admitted. “I just want to know if it’s more than working with you. Because for me?”

He hesitated.

“It already is.”

That thread between you pulled tight. The moment held.

You stepped forward. Just slightly. Just enough that your voice didn’t have to carry.

“Ask me again,” you said softly, “when the season ends.”

His smile widened. Slow. Glowing. Like you’d handed him something precious and breakable and he knew how to hold it.

“I will,” he said, and you believed him.

After that, everything changed.

Quietly.

He lingered after meetings. Waited for you when you didn’t ask him to. He started showing up with coffee in the mornings your order, always right. You teased him once, asked if his assistant told him. He just smiled and said he paid attention.

He did. More than anyone ever had.

You caught him watching you sometimes eyes tracking you across the garage, expression unreadable but soft. He didn’t look away when you caught him.

And on race weekends, when his voice came through your headset, it was calmer. Steadier. Not because the car was perfect but because he trusted you to help fix it.

You were his constant. His anchor.

He was falling.

And you?

You were fighting it.

Trying to hold your ground, tell yourself it was professional. Necessary. Safer.

But the way he looked at you after podiums like the roar of the crowd was just white noise and you were the thing that made it worth it?

The way he held the door open for you after press events, hand on your lower back like a silent reassurance.

The way your name sounded from his lips, spoken like something he never wanted to give back?

You were starting to fall.

Not all at once.

But slowly.

Irrevocably.

And somewhere, deep down you already knew. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

He didn’t push. Didn’t bring it up again. Not directly.

But the way he moved around you, looked at you lived in a different register now. Lower. Closer. Warmer. Like someone tuning into a frequency only the two of you could hear.

And you felt it.

It started small. Lingering after meetings, letting his fingers skim the edge of your notes when he reached across the table for his bottle. Waiting until the last PowerPoint click faded and everyone else had filed out before saying something only meant for you.

Sometimes it was technical. Setups. Ride height. Rear traction.

But more and more, it wasn’t.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked once, walking beside you down the paddock corridor, his hand brushing yours not quite holding, not quite accidental. “You looked like you were running simulations in your dreams.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s because I was. Fred sprung that floor stiffness data on us at eleven p.m.”

He glanced over, smiling. “Still. You’ve got that look. The one where your brain’s moving faster than your body.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And you know my looks now?”

Lewis grinned, all teeth. “Don’t need to. I read you like telemetry.”

And then there were the other comments. The ones that didn’t pretend to be professional.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you changed your hair.” His voice low, quiet, like the words weren’t meant to travel far. “Suits you. You look sharp.”

You hadn’t thought anyone noticed. Hell, you barely noticed. Just a slight shift in how you wore it, pulled back tighter, a few curls let free around your temples.

But he noticed.

Of course he did.

He wasn’t nervous anymore. Not like before. There was still a softness to him, but it had shifted become something steadier. Sure-footed. A kind of patience that didn’t feel passive. It felt like a man who knew what he wanted, and knew you did too, even if neither of you said it yet.

He started bringing you coffee in the mornings your usual. Always right. Not just the drink, but the temperature, the amount of milk, the tiny note sometimes scrawled on the side of the cup in barely legible Sharpie.

“High grip day. You’ve got this.”

“Easy on me in the debrief, yeah?”

“Your coffee’s strong today. You might be dangerous.”

You never asked for it. Never gave him your order.

When you finally raised an eyebrow and said, “Guessing you’ve got a mole in catering,” he just smiled, slow and amused.

“I pay attention,” he said, as if that explained everything.

And maybe it did.

Because he did pay attention in ways that felt impossible to ignore.

You’d be in the middle of a debrief, rattling off numbers and scenarios, pacing the garage floor in that tunnel-visioned headspace, when you’d suddenly feel it his eyes on you.

Not in the way men look at women.

In the way people look at something they’re not ready to touch, but already treasure.

Like you were the only still point in a spinning room.

He started sitting next to you more often during strategy meetings. Not across from you next to you. Always. Close enough that your elbows brushed when he shifted his arm, close enough that your knees touched when space got tight. Close enough that his cologne the warm spice and something citrusy beneath it lingered long after he was gone.

And when he leaned in to point something out on your screen? You could feel the breath of him on your jaw. He never said anything in those moments. Just hovered there close enough to make you forget the metric on your screen.

There were jokes, too. Teasing, smarter now. Sharper. Laced with a kind of warm mischief that felt more like memory than fantasy. Like he was building a shared language, one quip at a time.

“You coming to the driver briefing, or just here to keep me humble?” he asked one afternoon, voice low enough that no one else caught it.

“Depends,” you said, barely glancing up from your screen. “Do you need humbling?”

“From you?” he said, his voice dropping just slightly. “Always.”

Or another time - rain delay at the Austrian Grand Prix, both of you standing under the edge of the awning, watching the weather turn the track into a river.

“Bet you hate this,” he said, watching your fingers twitch with unused energy.

“I hate waiting,” you admitted.

He glanced sideways, eyes shining. “Same. But some things are worth the wait.”

You looked up. Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t smile either.

Just held your gaze with a softness so sincere it cracked something open in your chest.

The line between professional and personal didn’t blur.

It shifted.

Quietly. Inevitably.

Because how could it not, when someone made you feel so completely seen?

He remembered the small things. Your go-to stress snack. That you hated flying through turbulence. That you preferred briefing notes in landscape mode because you thought it looked “less hostile.” He remembered your mother’s name after you mentioned her once in passing. He knew you bit your lip when you were trying not to say something you wanted to say.

He noticed everything.

And you?

You were still trying not to fall.

But every time he touched the small of your back after a press event just a light, guiding pressure, like you were gravity itself.

Every time he turned his head to laugh at something only you had said, the way his eyes lit up like you were the punchline and the reason both.

Every time he leaned close and murmured something into your headset in the middle of chaos, a secret in a storm.

You felt it.

You were falling. And there was no pretending you weren’t already halfway gone

You barely had time to register what was happening before you saw him helmet under his arm, fire suit unzipped to his waist, gloves forgotten somewhere on the tarmac and sweat glistening on his skin. He was all adrenaline and velocity, and he was sprinting.

Not jogging. Not striding coolly.

Running.

Straight toward you.

The paddock blurred around him engineers, photographers, crew members, all turning in confusion, in awe, some cheering, some just stunned but you didn’t see any of them.

You only saw him.

He closed the distance like he couldn’t bear one more second apart. Like the win, the glory, the cameras, the champagne none of it mattered unless you were in it, with him.

Your breath caught in your chest as he skidded to a stop just in front of you, his chest rising and falling like the ocean in a storm. His eyes locked on yours, wide and glassy, full of so much relief, and want, and something deeper that had been burning there for longer than either of you had been willing to name.

You felt every molecule in your body tilt toward him, drawn by something magnetic and irreversible.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there, breathless, face flushed, hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them.

And then, voice low and raw and edged with disbelief, he said:

“Still want me to ask?”

Your heart stuttered.

That damn question again. The one he’d been teasing you with since Bahrain, half a season ago, before the glances started lingering too long, before you memorised the sound of his voice in your headset better than your own name.

But this time there was no smile on his lips. No smirk.

Just earnestness. Just him.

And something inside you cracked open completely.

You looked up at him, throat tight, breath short, and answered the only way that felt right.

“No,” you whispered. “I want you to kiss me instead.”

Time folded in on itself.

He froze for a heartbeat. One long, suspended breath. His eyes searched your face like he needed to be sure - really sure that you meant it. That this wasn’t a dream or a moment he’d wake from in the quiet of his hotel room later, alone again.

And then?

He moved.

One hand lifted, tentative at first, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers like he was afraid you might disappear. The other slid behind your neck, calloused palm curling gently against your skin, grounding himself in your warmth.

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot.

Certain.

Aching.

It wasn’t smooth or careful it wasn’t practiced. It was all rushing emotion, months of tension snapping at the seams, the weight of everything left unsaid spilling out between your lips.

You gasped softly into him, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he was making up for every night he’d stopped himself. Every time he’d walked away when he wanted to stay. Every time your fingers had brushed in passing and he hadn’t held on.

The noise of the paddock disappeared completely. You didn’t hear the shouts, the clapping, the distant hum of machinery cooling. You didn’t even hear your own thoughts.

Just the frantic beat of your heart, matching his.

Just the sound of his breath catching when your hands slid around his waist and pulled him closer.

Just the press of his lips against yours, over and over, like he couldn’t get enough.

Like he wasn’t going to let you go this time.

When he finally pulled back reluctant, eyes still closed, nose brushing yours and his hands stayed where they were. One thumb stroked your jaw, reverent. His other hand slipped lower, pressing gently to your back like he needed to keep you right there.

He rested his forehead against yours, still catching his breath.

“God,” he murmured, voice cracking, “I should’ve done that months ago.”

You smiled, barely able to speak past the tangle of emotion in your throat. You curled your fingers into the soft fabric at his waist and let out a shaky laugh.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But this was pretty damn good timing.”

He laughed too low and breathless and utterly unguarded and then he kissed you again. Slower this time. Like he had all the time in the world now. Like he’d waited this long and now that he had you, he wasn’t in any rush.

You melted into it, into him. Letting your eyes fall shut. Letting the taste of champagne and adrenaline and something achingly familiar wash over you.

This wasn’t a celebration.

It was a homecoming.

When he pulled back again, he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Like the win had only meant something because you were there to see it.

“I’m not letting this go,” he said, quiet but fierce.

“I know,” you replied, just as fierce.

And you didn’t.

Neither of you did.

Because after everything after the long flights and the late nights and the held breath and the possibilities you had finally found something worth holding onto.

Each other.

At last.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2026

The engine went quiet behind you cutting out mid-growl like the final exhale of a beast that had just given everything.

The garage moved instantly.

A flurry of motion swept around you technicians gliding into place, mechanics moving like clockwork, their every step practiced and purposeful. Tyres hissed against the floor as trolleys were rolled into place. Radios crackled. Data streamed in real time across the cluster of monitors, illuminating with new lap times, temperature fluctuations, brake wear, delta changes each number a language only a few of you could read fluently.

You didn’t flinch. You barely blinked.

“He’s in,” you said, voice low but firm through the headset as your eyes tracked a series of numbers on your screen. “Rear right was dragging a touch looks like a balance shift coming out of seven. We’ll check the damper setting again, maybe soften it a click. Front grip’s holding. Rear temps are better than expected that’s a win.”

You were mid-sentence, finger dragging across the touchscreen to isolate throttle traces, when you felt it.

Him.

Lewis.

His presence, immediate and unmistakable, flooded behind you like a returning tide. You didn’t need to look. The heat came first - body-warm and electric even through the thick layers of your team jacket as his frame closed in behind you.

His arms wrapped around your waist in one smooth, unhurried motion. No fanfare. No warning. Just instinct. Like his body knew yours better than the rest of the world.

He pressed himself close chest flush to your back, the weight of him settling in like it was the most natural thing in the world. He smelled like sweat and race fuel and fabric-softened Nomex. His gloves were gone. His race suit peeled down to his hips, the fireproof undershirt damp and clinging to the shape of his torso as he exhaled still catching his breath from the stint.

His chin found its usual place on your shoulder, right against the curve of your neck. A quiet place. A place that was just his.

And he didn’t move.

Not for several long seconds.

He just stood there anchored to you while the rest of the garage spun at full speed around you both. Radios pinged. Air compressors whined. Engineers rushed past. But Lewis Hamilton stood completely still, wrapped around you like the chaos couldn’t touch either of you as long as you stayed in this little space, together.

“You didn’t go to debrief,” you murmured, eyes still glued to the data, fingers adjusting overlay views and predictive modelling without missing a beat.

“I will,” he said softly, voice rasped and low. “Just needed you first.”

You exhaled, a long breath through your nose, lips twitching despite yourself.

“You always need me when I’m trying to concentrate,” you replied under your breath, the edge of a smile creeping in.

“You say that like it’s a problem,” he said, not even pretending to look at the monitors.

You shifted slightly in the chair, expecting him to back off.

He didn’t.

If anything, his grip tightened slightly palms flat over your stomach, thumbs brushing slow, lazy arcs just beneath your ribs. Like he needed the tactile proof that you were still here. Still his. Still real.

“Okay,” you said finally, slipping back into work mode. “Last run entry into turn five looked cleaner. That adjustment on the diff’s giving you more predictability mid-corner. But you’re still a fraction late on throttle pickup.”

He didn’t respond. Not really.

Just a hum. Low and soft.

You paused. “Lewis…”

“I’m listening,” he said, a blatant lie. His voice warm and teasing, and far too focused on the line of your jaw to be anywhere near the data.

You could feel his eyes burning a path up your neck, across your cheekbone. You could feel the smile forming on his lips before he even said it.

“You’re saying I’m perfect,” he whispered, “but I should try harder next time.”

You didn’t laugh, but your smile pulled wider as you tapped your screen, cycling telemetry. “That’s not remotely what I said.”

“Close enough,” he murmured, nose brushing the side of your neck now. Slow. Soft. Just enough to send a jolt of awareness zipping down your spine.

You stiffened slightly, caught off-guard by how gently he did it like a habit. Like something he did when no one was watching.

“Lewis,” you said, glancing quickly over your shoulder. “There are at least eight cameras pointed in this direction.”

“No one’s watching,” he murmured into your skin, clearly unbothered. His mouth hovered at your jaw, breath warm, lips parted.

Then swift as a heartbeat he pressed a soft nip just beneath your jawline.

Not hard. Not showy.

Just enough to steal your next breath.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice spiking into something breathier than you intended. “What are you doing?”

“Just checking where you keep all your race notes,” he said with a grin you could feel, not see. “Pretty sure it’s right here.”

Another kiss. Slower this time. Just behind your ear.

You turned your head slightly toward him half a warning, half a surrender. “You’re supposed to be processing corner entries and throttle traces. Not…getting me fired.”

“You won’t get fired,” he said easily. “They all like you too much.”

His lips curved into a smile against your neck.

“And if they try, I’ll just force the team to hire you all over again. Personal engineer-slash-girlfriend-slash-everything.”

“Very professional,” you muttered, biting back a smile.

“Super professional,” he agreed, with zero shame.

And then, without warning, he leaned in again this time slower, more deliberate. He nipped at your neck once more, right at the edge of where your collar met your skin. Just light enough to pass unnoticed. But not by you. Never by you.

Your pulse jumped. Your fingers faltered on the screen.

You inhaled slowly, grounding yourself, and then pointed to the telemetry. “Alright, Romeo. Look here your line into turn ten. Still a bit wide on entry.”

He actually looked this time.

Briefly.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically, resting his chin on your shoulder again. “But only because you’re the one telling me.”

You shook your head, lips curving. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, soft and certain.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Just leaned back into him slightly enough for him to know that yes, you did. Every impossible, frustrating, heart-melting inch of him.

The garage noise pressed in again. Tools clanked. Radios chirped. A tire gun fired off somewhere near the pit lane entrance.

But none of it touched you.

Not here.

Not in this moment.

There was only the rhythmic hum of data on your screen, the thrum of blood in your veins, and the quiet, steady heartbeat of Lewis Hamilton behind you pressed close, breathing against your skin, holding you like nothing else in the world mattered except this.

You didn't need to look at him to know what he felt.

He was home.

And so were you.

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