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brainddeadd · 6 days ago

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Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Female reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

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There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness

#bang chan x reader #° braindead reccs

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brainddeadd · 7 days ago

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The Handmaid's Tale

☆ 4/5

#the handmaid's tale #☆ bellebelle reviews

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brainddeadd · 7 days ago

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Fear Street 1994

☆ 4/5

Why didn't anyone tell me that Fear Street had lesbians ??

#fear street #fear street 1994 #☆ bellebelle reviews

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brainddeadd · 8 days ago

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˖ 𐔌 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥࿐ . ۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Lando Norris was known for his partying ways, his loud and exciting ways, at least by the media. So, it began to make those close to him wonder what attracted him to a single mother such as you. ||

ᯓ★ Lando Norris x Fem! (Single Mom) Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Angst, Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: This one is longer than the others, so please be aware but hopefully this holds you all over. Much love.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Being a mother wasn’t something you had planned—at least, not this soon. You were in your twenties, the so-called “prime years,” the time for reckless freedom, house parties that turned into sunrise conversations, or spontaneous trips with friends that felt like the world belonged only to you. Your nights were supposed to be lit with fairy lights strung across living room ceilings, wine glasses clinking, and the endless chatter about relationships, careers, and everything in between.

But instead, your twenties became a symphony of lullabies, muffled cartoons, and the quiet creak of a baby monitor in the middle of the night. They were no longer about heels and lipstick but about stepping over rogue LEGO pieces that threatened to take you out with one misstep, about mopping up juice spills and wiping sticky fingers and tired tears. You were reading the same bedtime story three times in a row because your son loved the way you did the voices, checking under the bed for imaginary monsters with the same seriousness you once saved for final exams.

It wasn’t easy. Especially not when people you thought would be there for you—those who once claimed they'd be aunties and uncles in all but blood—began to drift away. Some didn’t understand. Others didn’t try to. The baby shower promises and “I’ll always be here” texts faded like echoes, and in their absence, you carried the weight of motherhood alone. It stung in the quietest way.

But then came Sebastian.

Your beautiful baby boy with soft curls and eyes that held the galaxy. He changed everything. From the moment he was placed in your arms, the chaos didn’t matter. The sleepless nights, the fear, the uncertainty—they all became worth it the second he smiled. He was three now. A tiny tornado of joy and curiosity, who gave your life a sense of grounding and wonder you never knew you needed. Raising him wasn’t always easy, but somewhere in the mix of tantrums and toothy grins, your confidence as a mother began to bloom. You figured things out, step by shaky step, and you were proud of who you were becoming—for him.

Still, late at night, when he was tucked into bed and the silence stretched long between the walls, you wondered if love would ever find you again. The kind that made your chest ache with excitement, the kind that whispered comfort into the hollow places. You had loved before—young love, teenage love, the firsts that shaped you—but now? Now you weren’t the same girl anymore. You were a woman, a mother, and that felt like a world apart from who you used to be. Who would want to step into this life mid-chapter?

But little did you know, love wasn’t far. In fact, it lived just behind the screen you scrolled through at night.

Lando Norris. His name echoed across social media like a song on repeat. A man whose life seemed impossibly full—speeding through cities, smiling on podiums, partying in places you only dreamed of. He was freedom personified. A life in fast motion, captured in highlight reels and championship circuits. To the world, he was laughter and youth and charm, adored by millions, a modern-day rockstar in a race car.

He was everything your life was not.

And yet—somehow, fate was quietly working behind the scenes.

Because what neither of you realized just yet...was that love was about to collide with your life. Not with fireworks or headlines—but with small moments. A conversation. A look. A gesture. Something real, in a world that often felt anything but.

Despite his young age, Sebastian had already found a passion that made his eyes glow with wonder: Formula 1. It started subtly—he’d pad across the floor in his little socks, dragging his blanket behind him, only to stop and stare at the TV whenever fast cars zipped across the screen. The vibrant colors, the roaring engines, the animated commentary—it all lit up something inside him.

You didn’t expect it. After all, he was just three years old. His world should’ve been centered on coloring books and stuffed animals, not tire strategies and pit stops. But every time you flipped past a Formula 1 broadcast, he’d make a sound, a pointed squeal, or a clumsy run toward the screen. It was obvious: he was captivated.

So, naturally, you followed his excitement. You became the mom who ordered F1 merch online late at night, building a miniature racing wardrobe for your son. T-shirts in all colors. Hats far too big for his little head. Plushie cars he’d vroom around the living room. Whatever he showed the slightest interest in—you got it. And soon enough, the drivers became household names not just to the world, but to him.

Sebastian would burst into laughter whenever Max Verstappen gave his famously direct interviews, his young mind not grasping the words but fully recognizing the face. And Yuki—now part of the Red Bull team—became his source of infectious glee. Every time Yuki’s voice rang through a press conference or onboard radio, Sebastian would shriek with laughter, his eyes twinkling. He didn’t need to understand Japanese humor to adore Yuki’s presence.

Charles Leclerc? Sebastian pointed him out like an old friend. Lewis Hamilton? He’d watch him like he was listening to a storybook read aloud. And George Russell, ever graceful in his silver Mercedes, was often mimicked when Sebastian ran around the apartment in circles, pretending he was on a flying lap.

But the real surprise came with Kimi Antonelli—Mercedes' youngest and most buzzed-about addition. Whenever Kimi’s name popped up onscreen, Sebastian’s full body seemed to light up. “Kimi!” he’d shout, over and over, jumping as if the two were best friends. He didn’t care that there was a more famous “Kimi” from before—this one was his. Young, daring, full of raw potential. Sebastian’s toddler heart was loyal in a way adults often forgot how to be.

Yet, through all the teams and drivers he loved—Red Bull, Ferrari, Mercedes—it was always McLaren that stole the biggest piece of his heart. He adored the bold papaya orange livery, the sleek cars, and most of all, the drivers. Every time Lando Norris appeared on screen, Sebastian would clap like he was watching fireworks. And when Oscar Piastri came on, he’d spin in a happy circle, unable to contain his joy.

“Lando! Look, mama, it’s Lando!” he’d shout, tugging your arm with his tiny fingers, eyes wide in awe like he was seeing a superhero. If Lando waved to the camera, Sebastian would wave back, completely convinced it was meant for him.

You watched all of this unfold with warmth blooming in your chest. Parenthood hadn't been something you planned for your twenties—but moments like this made it feel like life had rewritten itself for the better. Amid the mess of snacks on the carpet, bedtime stories, and tiny shoes always misplaced—you found beauty. In Sebastian’s passion, in his smile, in the way he pointed to his heroes like they were friends—you found your peace.

And somehow, in between your world of routines and his world of racing, you both found something else too: hope. Joy. And a shared love for the chaos and color of Formula 1.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The gentle steam curled from your mug as you sat at the kitchen table, your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, grounding yourself in the stillness of the morning. Across from you, your mother sat with the familiar calm she always brought—an anchor in your often-chaotic days. The soft hum of the TV filled the space between your conversations, and the distant clatter of plastic toys played backup to the soundtrack of your life as a mom.

Every so often, you'd rise from your seat to peek into the living room where Sebastian was busy pushing his toy cars across the rug, his tiny feet kicking in excitement, curls bouncing with each animated laugh. He was three years old, full of energy, and already fascinated by the world of Formula 1—a love you'd discovered through the way he lit up at the sight of the cars, the drivers, the roar of the engines on screen.

You returned to the table, a tired but content smile forming on your lips.

Your mother took a slow sip of her tea before looking up at you gently. “So… has his father called? Checked in at all?”

Your chest sank a little, and you exhaled a sigh that felt like it had been stored up for weeks. “No. Not once,” you said quietly. “He’s never really made the effort. And honestly? I’m done waiting for him to care. Sebastian doesn’t even notice. It’s just been me and him for so long, we’ve got our own rhythm.”

Your mom nodded solemnly, her eyes reflecting both pride and sorrow. “I’m sorry, honey. You deserve more support than that. But you’re doing an amazing job. I mean it.”

You gave a soft smile, one that came with both gratitude and a hint of weariness. Your gaze wandered again to the living room. Sebastian was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, practically vibrating with excitement. The race had started, and you could hear his delighted squeals every time a car zoomed across the screen.

“He’s obsessed,” you chuckled. “Formula 1, of all things.”

“I noticed,” your mom said, a twinkle in her eye. “He talks about the cars like they’re superheroes.”

You smiled wider. “Yeah. He has a whole routine. Points at Charles and says, ‘Zoom!’ Every time he sees Kimi or George he claps like he’s at a concert. Don’t even get me started on how excited he gets over Lando and Oscar. It's... it’s kind of adorable.”

There was a pause, the soft kind that usually comes before something unexpected.

“Well,” your mom started, setting her mug down and reaching into her handbag slowly, “since he loves it so much… and since you could really use a little joy, I thought this might help.”

She slid a small envelope across the table toward you.

You blinked, confused, then slowly opened it.

Your heart skipped.

Inside were two glossy, official Formula 1 paddock passes—one adult, one child.

You looked up at her, stunned. “Mom… what is this?”

“It’s for the Grand Prix this weekend,” she said, her voice gentle. “I pulled a few strings. A friend from my old job still does hospitality for events like this. It’s not VIP, but it’s paddock access. You and Sebastian can go. See the cars, the drivers, the team garages… the whole thing. I thought he’d love it. And you, too.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you laughed, a bit breathless from the shock. “Are you serious? Mom… this is too much.”

“It’s not too much,” she said, smiling. “You give that boy the world every day with what little you have. I figured it was time the world gave something back. And who knows? Maybe this is the kind of moment he’ll remember forever.”

From the living room came the unmistakable shriek of joy—Sebastian jumping up and down, arms raised as a car zoomed across the screen. “Mama! It’s Lando!! Look! Orange car!!”

You turned, your heart softening at the sight.

You looked back at the passes, then to your mother, your eyes glossy. “Thank you,” you whispered. “He’s going to lose his little mind.”

She reached across and squeezed your hand. “That’s the plan.”

The two of you chatted between soft laughs and thoughtful silences—the kind that only exist in the presence of someone who has known you your whole life. It was one of those rare, warm moments of peace—something you didn’t get to feel often in your whirlwind life as a single mother.

The conversation drifted between topics: Sebastian’s latest fascination with “Zoom cars,” your job, the things you missed, and the things you learned to live without. It was soft. Safe. Your mother’s voice was a balm, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe everything really would be okay.

Meanwhile, halfway across the world, in a completely different atmosphere, Lando Norris groaned into his pillow.

The curtains of his penthouse suite were drawn tightly shut, but even the tiniest sliver of sunlight that slipped in felt like an attack. His head throbbed in waves, a dull pulsing at his temples that matched the beat of the club music still echoing in his brain. The drinks from the night before had tasted better going down than they did now, swirling in his stomach like regret. His mouth was dry, throat burning faintly from too much liquor and not enough water, and all he could remember was the wild chorus of bass drops, laughter, bodies dancing under neon lights, and a few blurry flashes of cameras aimed directly at him.

Another tabloid moment. Another night added to his growing online image—Lando Norris, the fun-loving party king of Formula 1.

He groaned again and shifted in bed, a pillow dragged over his face. "Never again," he muttered to himself.

“Right,” came a dry, amused voice from the doorway.

Lando peeked one eye open, lifting the pillow just enough to glare at Oscar Piastri, who stood just inside the room, arms crossed, and a disapproving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You look dead, mate,” Oscar said, eyeing the chaos of clothes strewn across the floor, the abandoned shoes by the door, and Lando himself—still in last night’s wrinkled t-shirt, half-draped in his sheets like a child mid-tantrum.

Lando gave a weak thumbs-up, his voice hoarse. “I feel sick.”

Oscar snorted. “Yeah, I wonder why. Maybe the six tequila shots? Or was it the bottle service you insisted on ordering at two in the morning?”

“I was celebrating,” Lando groaned.

“Celebrating what exactly? A hangover?”

Lando flopped onto his back, wincing. “Shut up. I'm mourning my youth.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You’re twenty-five.”

“Exactly,” Lando muttered. “Quarter-life crisis.”

Oscar shook his head, making his way over to pull open the curtains—Lando hissed dramatically as sunlight flooded the room. Oscar rolled his eyes and tossed a bottle of water at him. “You’re lucky your schedule’s clear for once. I should make you go for a run.”

“Run?!” Lando looked offended. “Oscar. I’m dying.”

“You’re hungover. Same thing every time. You act like the world’s ending, and then you’re back on a yacht tomorrow.”

Lando took a long sip of water, the coldness soothing his throat and dulling the nausea just enough. He looked out the window at the skyline—vibrant, alive, and completely removed from any form of normalcy. The contrast between his life and the real world had never been sharper than now.

And though he lived for the thrill, the freedom, the glamor... somewhere, buried under the hangover and the jokes, a part of him wondered what it would be like to wake up in a quiet house.

To the world, Lando Norris lived a dream dipped in neon lights and champagne. He was the poster boy of F1’s nightlife—flashing cameras, velvet ropes, smoke-filled lounges, the glittering pulse of clubs across Monaco, London, Ibiza. His name often trended beside headlines of afterparties and appearances, linked to whispers of flings, mystery women, and flirtatious smirks caught on video.

The “party boy” image clung to him like cologne—loud, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.

At first, Lando had laughed it off. He gave the media their smiles, tossed fans a wink, and leaned into the persona. Why not? He was young, rich, successful. The parties were fun, the people lively, the noise almost enough to drown out the emptiness that sometimes followed when he returned home alone.

But the more the world assumed, the harder it became to shake the narrative. Social media only cemented it further—comments under photos speculating who he’d slept with, sarcastic tweets calling him the "Formula 1 Casanova," and fan threads dissecting his every interaction with a woman. At times, the world didn’t seem to believe he was capable of real love—only fleeting fun.

And that started to sting.

Behind the filters and club lights, Lando was still just a twenty-five-year-old guy who sometimes questioned where his life was going. Fame had given him everything, yet it also took so much. Privacy. Trust. Stability.

He'd see posts about Oscar and Lily—his teammate and his long-time girlfriend—and it would stir something unfamiliar in him. They had history. Quiet affection. A love that felt warm and grounding. The kind of relationship fans loved to root for. There was no gossip about Oscar’s loyalty, no speculation over his weekend choices. Instead, there were cute couple pictures, supportive tweets, and heartfelt comments.

The contrast couldn’t have been sharper.

Sometimes, in the silence after a night out, Lando would lie in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, wondering if the path he was on led to something fulfilling—or if he’d just keep spinning in circles. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him craved something deeper. Someone to laugh with on quiet mornings. Someone who didn’t just love him for the spotlight, but in the silence too.

And yet, he wasn’t sure how to find her. Or if he even knew what he was looking for.

His “type,” as people so confidently assumed—tall, stunning models with glossy hair and flawless smiles—was starting to feel like a shallow box he’d been stuffed into. He thought back to past flings—women who were beautiful, yes, but left him feeling emptier than before. Conversations that rarely went past the surface. Nights that blurred into mornings with no plans for the day after.

Was that really love? Was that really what he wanted?

Or was he just playing a role he no longer fit?

The world saw him one way—carefree, reckless, living in luxury. But beneath the surface, Lando was beginning to feel a quiet shift. A question forming in the back of his mind: What if I want more?

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

When you told Sebastian that he was going to see Formula 1 in person, it was as if the entire world stood still for him. His little face froze in pure, stunned disbelief—mouth parted, eyes wide, eyebrows lifted in that exaggerated toddler way that could only come from raw joy. Then, in a heartbeat, he was squealing, launching himself into your arms with such excitement that it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Tank you, Mommy! Tank you!” he repeated over and over, voice high with joy, arms wrapped tight around your neck. His mispronounced “thank you” was so pure and sincere that tears threatened to gather in your eyes.

This was it—this was the kind of moment that made every hard day worth it. Every sleepless night, every quiet cry when no one saw you, every sacrifice. Just to give him this joy.

He ran off seconds later, unable to contain his excitement, and started listing the drivers he hoped to meet, barely forming the names in between giddy jumps and giggles. “I gonna see Maxy! And Yuki! And Chawles! And Georgie!” he chanted as he spun around the living room, arms wide like airplane wings. “And Kimi too! And Ockar! Lan’dooo!”

You sat back on the couch, smiling through the wave of emotions. His joy was contagious, a kind of magic that settled deep in your chest.

The days leading up to the paddock visit were filled with a chaos that only love could fuel. You buried yourself in planning, not because you had to, but because you wanted it to be perfect. This wasn’t just a day out—this was a gift, a dream come true for a little boy who’d fallen in love with fast cars and faster drivers without even fully understanding the sport.

You spent evenings scrolling through online shops, adding team merch to your cart, checking sizes twice, and triple-checking the weather forecast. You mapped out packing lists, planned snacks, checked your camera storage space, and googled things like “best ear protection for toddlers at F1 races.”

But the biggest debate of all? Outfits.

You carefully laid out options on your bed—tiny team shirts, pint-sized hats, mini race suits, and soft fleece hoodies. You imagined how he'd look in each one, how his face might light up when he saw someone wearing matching colors.

“Which team should we wear first, Sebastian?” you asked one afternoon, crouching beside him as he built a racetrack out of magnetic tiles and blocks. He paused mid-play, finger on his chin in deep thought.

After a moment, he turned to you with absolute certainty.

“I wear McLah-win. All days,” he said, nodding to confirm his own decision.

“All three days?” you teased.

He nodded more firmly this time, curls bouncing. “Lan’do and Ockar are da best.”

So that was settled.

Day one: his bright papaya hoodie and matching cap—simple, bold, unmistakably McLaren. You paired it with black joggers and white sneakers, letting him choose his favorite little backpack with the lightning bolt keychain.

Day two: his mini Oscar Piastri race suit. It was perfectly tailored for a toddler, down to the stitched belt and sponsor logos. You’d even sewn his name—Sebastian—onto the chest in orange thread. When he saw it, his jaw dropped like he was holding the holy grail. “It me!” he shouted, tracing the letters.

Day three: Lando’s race suit replica. Slightly too big, but in his eyes, it made him look like a real driver. He practiced imaginary starts and finishes, sprinting across the hallway, mimicking Lando’s winning gestures, making vroom-vroom noises until bedtime.

Every night that week, he fell asleep clutching one of his toy cars, his beloved McLaren cap tucked beside his pillow. Some nights, you found him sleep-talking about drivers, whispering garbled names and “I so fast” with a tiny smile.

And you? You watched it all with a full heart.

You weren’t just preparing for a trip—you were making memories. You were giving your son something to remember long after his toddler years had passed. The joy in his eyes, the bounce in his steps, the way he counted down the days like it was Christmas. This wasn’t just about F1. This was about sharing something magical with your little boy.

And in the quiet moments, after Sebastian had fallen asleep, you'd sit in the living room, sometimes staring at the orange hoodie or listening to the faint hum of past races playing from your laptop. You didn’t have every piece of life figured out—but you had this. You had him.

You thought about how far you’d come. A single mom, navigating motherhood without the kind of support others had, building your own traditions, your own life. It hadn’t always been easy, but in these moments, the love made it feel more than enough.

Now, paddock passes in hand, suitcases packed, tiny shoes lined up at the door, it was almost time.

Three days. Three days of noise, excitement, laughter, and a front-row view to something your son loved deeply.

Airports were a world of their own—blaring announcements, rolling suitcases, the blend of perfume and coffee in the air, and the shuffle of people rushing from gate to gate. Among it all, you stood just past the security checkpoint, your carry-on slightly slipping from your shoulder, one hand firmly wrapped around the handle of Sebastian’s tiny suitcase—blue with orange race car stickers he insisted on putting on himself—and the other guiding your excitable three-year-old who was practically vibrating with anticipation.

It was Sebastian’s very first flight, and while you had spent days preparing, no number of travel blogs or TikToks could have truly braced you for the full-body energy your son was currently radiating.

He hopped along the polished tiles in his McLaren hoodie, a stuffed car plushie in one hand, backpack bouncing behind him. “Mommy! We goin’ in da sky! Da sky, da sky, da—!”

“Sebastian,” you called gently but firmly, your tone threading calmness into control. You reached for his shoulder and he paused, looking up at you with that sunshine-smile—one so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. He didn’t speak, just beamed at you like he was keeping a little secret with the clouds he was so eager to meet.

You crouched beside him for a moment, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I know you’re excited, baby, but we have to stay close, okay? No running. There’s too many people here today.”

“Okay, Mommy,” he whispered, slightly breathless, like the airport was a magical maze he was being told not to touch.

You stood again and reached into your tote bag. “Here,” you offered, pulling out the snack bag you’d packed that morning with military precision. “Pick a snack, sit tight.”

Sebastian peeked in, his small fingers rifling through pouches of gummies, crackers, and his ultimate comfort choice—Goldfish. His eyes lit up. “De fishes!”

You tore the bag open and handed it to him, watching the way he cradled it carefully in both hands, like it was treasure. He sat down cross-legged near the window of your gate, Goldfish in hand, gaze drifting to the planes outside.

You took a breath, letting the buzz of the airport fade into the background for a beat. The weight of the moment hit you gently—not heavy, but meaningful. This wasn’t just a trip. This was a first. His first time flying, his first Formula 1 race, his first steps into something that felt big and unforgettable. And you got to be the one by his side, showing him all of it.

You sat next to him, watching him crunch quietly, the reflection of the airplanes gliding along the tarmac gleaming in the wide glass ahead. The clouds above were beginning to part, sun dappling in streaks across the runways.

“Do you think we gonna go super fast like the cars?” he asked, cheeks puffed with snacks.

You laughed softly. “Not quite that fast. But we’ll be up in the clouds soon.”

“Like... where birds go?”

“Exactly where birds go.”

He turned to you, and in a whisper, said, “I hope Lando go there too.”

You chuckled again, heart full. “Maybe not today. But we’ll see him soon.”

It was then that boarding was announced, and the line began to form. You packed up the snack bag, helped Sebastian to his feet, and adjusted his hoodie once more. As you grabbed his hand and headed toward the gate, you felt it again—that quiet sense of rightness.

Despite the chaos of travel, the work of planning, the worries of being enough as a mom—you were here. Together. On an adventure. And that was more than enough.

As you stepped into the jet bridge, your son looked up at you once again, eyes sparkling with wonder. “Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I gonna fly like Oscar.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The flight buzzed with a quiet hum, the occasional ding of seatbelt signs and the low chatter of passengers blending into a white noise symphony. Yet, in the middle of row 14, two seats near the window were alight with joy.

Sebastian was electric with energy, practically bouncing in his seat, his McLaren hoodie slightly oversized and his cheeks flushed from all the excitement. Every person who met his eyes—even if only in passing—was greeted with an enthusiastic, “Hi! I go see cars! I go see McLaren! I go see Lando!”

You smiled, half-apologetic to the flight attendants who offered polite, knowing chuckles. But none of them seemed to mind. In fact, they leaned into his excitement, letting him help “check” the snack basket, praising his race car backpack, and slipping him extra juice boxes like he was royalty on board.

“He’s adorable,” one attendant whispered to you as she passed, her smile soft. “Reminds me of my nephew.”

You thanked her quietly, watching as Sebastian munched on the little cookies she had offered him. He kicked his legs softly under the seat, recounting every topic under the sun: cartoons, new toys, dinosaurs, his favorite car toys, and somehow even Santa Claus—despite it being months away from Christmas.

You couldn't help but giggle when he whispered, “Santa gonna bring me new tires for my cars.”

“Really?” you played along.

“Yeah, da fast ones. So I can beat Max.”

His logic was flawless.

But all that energy had a price. After a flurry of words and crumbs, your little boy's lids grew heavier. He curled slightly into his seat, and you, ever the prepared mother, pulled out his checkered-flag throw blanket—one he insisted on packing himself. You tucked it around him, brushing a hand over his forehead.

The screen ahead played SpongeBob, flickering softly. His eyes were half-lidded, still trying to focus, but the gentle sway of the plane, the warmth of the blanket, and the comfort of being beside you finally coaxed him into rest.

His lashes fluttered, and then—sleep.

You leaned back into your seat, a peaceful exhale leaving your lips. Looking down at your sleeping son, his cheek resting softly against the seat, arms wrapped around his plushie, you couldn’t help but pull out your phone. One quick snap, the image so sweet and pure it made your chest tighten. You posted it to your story with a caption:

“First flight ever—and he’s already dreaming of podiums 🏁✨ #McLarenFuture #PiastriJunior?”

The replies would come fast. Friends gushing. A few mutuals tagging McLaren. A couple of comments about how cute he looked in the gear. You smiled, tucking the phone away and letting your head rest against the seat as well, your heart warm with pride.

Meanwhile, miles ahead and hours earlier, Lando was nestled in the calm before the chaos.

The drivers’ hospitality suite was abuzz with low conversation. It was one of those rare quiet moments before a race weekend—the lull before the storm of flashing cameras, screaming fans, microphones, and paddock chaos. Drivers lounged on couches, some eating, some gaming, others just catching up.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folded, nursing a bottle of water as Oscar settled beside him, hair still slightly tousled from the heat outside.

“You win in Australia and you’re gonna party?” Carlos asked, amused.

Lando smirked. “Hell yeah. Wouldn’t you?”

Charles chuckled. “I guess it’s deserved.”

“Party responsibly,” Lewis added with a half-smile, giving a small nod toward Max who was currently laughing with Yuki across the room.

Max’s voice drifted over: “At least I don’t party in public every other weekend.”

Lando laughed along with the others, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The banter continued—Lewis talked about Roscoe’s latest spa visit, Max mentioned Kelly and the girls, Carlos shared plans of flying back home to unwind. Everyone had someone. Someone who waited at home. Someone who traveled with them. Someone they could call when the helmets came off.

Lando had always told himself he didn’t need that—not yet. He was 25, living the dream. He had the cars, the spotlight, the money, the fans. But lately, the silence after the adrenaline wore off… it felt a little heavier.

Sure, he had his parents. He loved them deeply, was grateful for their unwavering support. But still, it wasn’t the same. His Instagram tags were flooded with girls fans assumed he was dating, models or influencers caught near him at clubs, the media labeling him “F1’s golden bachelor.”

And yet here he was, scrolling through his phone, staring blankly at filtered stories and half-hearted DMs, wondering what it would feel like to have someone to call after a long day—not just someone to party with, but someone to talk to.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Finally, the sweet relief of the hotel room washed over you like a warm wave. The plush bedding, the crisp air conditioning, and the gentle hum of the city beyond the windows made it feel like a well-earned moment of peace. The journey had been long, and while you were used to doing things alone, the toll of traveling with a toddler wasn't light—especially one who vibrated with joy the entire way here.

But the moment your shoes hit the carpet and the door clicked shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

Sebastian was already off exploring the room, the smallest adventurer you’d ever met. His tiny feet padded softly over the hotel floor as he opened closet doors and peeked under the table like he was on a treasure hunt.

You smiled, watching him tumble through the pile of travel bags you’d placed near the bed. With delight, he unearthed the small toys you had carefully packed—ones he insisted on bringing because, “I want to show Lando my cars, Mommy!”

The bed looked like heaven, and you longed to collapse into it. Tomorrow would be the first of the three-day Paddock adventure. You'd need to be up early, need time to get Sebastian dressed, fed, and possibly wrangled into his mini McLaren gear without incident. You were sure you’d be chasing him around with a juice box in one hand and sunscreen in the other.

Still, it was worth it. Every bit of effort, every dollar spent, every long hour on your feet… all of it was worth the look on your son’s face. The world hadn’t always been kind to you—but Sebastian was your reason to fight harder, smile bigger, and hope again.

You watched him laugh at nothing in particular, giggling as his cars zipped across the polished hotel floor.

How could anyone not want to be part of this?

That thought crept in again, quietly but painfully. You never said it out loud, but sometimes—when you tucked him in at night or watched him dance around to a cartoon theme song—you wondered how anyone could look at this child and choose not to stay.

But that aching thought was abruptly interrupted by the buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand.

You frowned when you saw the name on the screen. That name. That past. That man.

The one who chose absence over fatherhood.

You stepped away toward the corner of the room, throwing a quick glance over your shoulder to ensure Sebastian was still happily distracted with his toys. He was. You answered.

“Hello?” you said quietly.

There was a pause—then that voice. Tired, lazy, like it hadn’t changed a bit. “Y/n… hey. It’s been a while.”

A scoff built in your throat. You clenched your jaw, already done with the conversation before it truly began.

“‘A while’?” you repeated, voice low and sharp. “It’s been more than a while. It’s been two missed birthdays. It’s been holidays with no call. It’s been me raising a child while you send the occasional drunk text at 2 a.m. about how we should get back together. Which, by the way, is sick. Because let’s be honest—you hated me. And I hated you.”

Your voice trembled—part anger, part exhaustion—but you kept it contained, steady. Because you couldn’t let Sebastian hear this. You wouldn't let his joy be tainted by a man who only called when he remembered he used to be a father.

There was silence on the other end of the line. No apology. No excuse. Just silence. The kind that confirmed what you already knew.

You ended the call without another word, letting your finger hover over the red button for only a second before pressing it.

Then you turned back toward the bed, your chest tight but your expression softening the moment you looked at Sebastian—who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, making car noises and whispering to himself about which driver he was going to talk to first.

And just like that, the ache in your chest shifted. Not gone—but lighter. Because you had him. And he had you.

You walked over and knelt beside him, pulling him close into a warm hug, letting him nuzzle against your shoulder. “I love you, baby,” you whispered.

He looked up at you with that same big smile and messy curls, his arms wrapping around your neck.

“I wuv you too, Mommy.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning felt like a whirlwind dressed as routine chaos — the kind that makes you question every decision leading up to it. It started far too early, in a hotel room that still smelled faintly like fresh linen and room service. The alarm blasted through the soft silence like a siren call from hell. You startled awake, jolting upright with a groggy huff and instinctively smacking the snooze button with more aggression than necessary. Sebastian, curled up under the covers beside you, let out a long, loud whine — the kind of exaggerated noise toddlers save for their biggest complaints — before burying his messy-haired head under the blanket.

You mumbled a curse under your breath — something just strong enough to release the frustration but quiet enough that your three-year-old wouldn't catch on. Or so you thought.

The first words he mumbled were, “Mommy… that noise hurt my ears.”

“I know, baby,” you said softly, brushing hair from his eyes. “Mine too.”

Breakfast came next, which turned into a full-on negotiation. You’d offered a simple, reasonable suggestion — cereal and sliced strawberries — something quick and clean, something you could manage while half-awake and still brushing your teeth. But Sebastian had other plans, declared with all the authority of a Michelin-star critic: “Waffles. Hotel ones. And fruit. And muffins. And orange juice. The big cup.”

You blinked. “All that?”

He nodded solemnly, lips pursed like this was a very serious matter.

You gave in, of course. You always did when he got that specific sparkle in his eyes — wide, hopeful, and full of such raw excitement that saying “no” felt like a crime. Soon, he had a plate overflowing with buttery waffles drizzled in syrup, a rainbow of cut fruit, two muffins (one chocolate chip, one blueberry), and a comically large glass of orange juice that he insisted on holding himself with both tiny hands. He looked far too proud of his breakfast, swinging his legs from the chair and beaming up at you between bites.

You had no idea how such a small person could eat like that. You didn’t even question it anymore.

Then came bath time — your battlefield. You’d hoped maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be too hard today. But the second the tub started filling, he was bouncing with energy, throwing plastic toy cars into the water like a pre-race ritual.

Getting him in wasn’t hard. Getting him to stay still? Impossible.

Water splashed everywhere — the floor, the walls, your shirt. When it came time to wash his hair, the protest began. His face twisted into a dramatic pout the second your fingers touched the shampoo bottle.

“Nooo, it goes in my eyes!”

You kept your tone soft, soothing. “I’ll be careful, sweetheart. Eyes closed like a superhero, okay?”

He whined. Then sniffled. Then let you do it — reluctantly, with some side-eye — as you hummed the theme song to Paw Patrol just to distract him.

After what felt like a small war, he was finally clean, dressed, and smelling faintly of baby lotion and sunblock. You helped him into his outfit for the day — his prized papaya-colored McLaren hoodie, proudly zipped up to his chin, paired with a matching McLaren cap that looked just a little too big and kept sliding down his forehead. His joggers were black, and his tiny white sneakers were spotless… for now.

He looked like a mini superfan ready to storm the paddock with purpose.

You turned to yourself next, slipping into the dress you’d carefully chosen — a soft milkmaid-style dress that flowed like poetry around your calves. The fabric was weightless and cool against your skin, white with delicate blue florals scattered like petals caught in a spring breeze. The bodice was gently structured, the sweetheart neckline adding a touch of softness and femininity that made you feel — for the first time in a while — pretty. Really pretty.

The wide-brimmed straw hat you packed sat perfectly atop your head, giving you just enough shade to guard against the harsh Australian sun you knew would be relentless later. It felt right — the dress, the hat, the moment.

Sebastian slung on his small backpack with the same dramatic flair he used for everything. You grabbed the paddock passes — laminated, bright, and full of promise — and with one last deep breath, you stepped out of the hotel room and into the day.

The paddock was a different world entirely.

The moment you arrived, it swallowed you whole — the sounds, the motion, the life. Fans pressed against barriers, shouting names, waving signs, laughing and crying and reaching. The scent of rubber and heat hung in the air, the low growl of distant engines thundering beneath it all like a heartbeat.

Sebastian’s hand stayed firmly in yours, but his eyes were everywhere. Wide, lit with a pure joy that was impossible to replicate or fake. He looked around like he’d walked into the gates of a dream — and in a way, he had.

Meanwhile, not too far from the chaos, Lando Norris stood in the middle of it all — a sea of movement around him. He was used to this part: the cameras, the fans, the autographs, the media questions that danced on the edge of personal and professional. He gave polite smiles, half-jokes, the occasional wink that sent fans squealing. He did his part, and he did it well.

But then, something — someone — caught his eye.

A woman in a blue and white dress moving slowly through the crowd, careful and calm, with a little boy in McLaren gear walking beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lando’s heart stuttered.

Not because he knew you. He didn’t — not yet.

But in the way her dress moved with the breeze, in the way the little boy held her hand with absolute trust, in the way she looked down at her son with the kind of love that softened even the harshest corners of a place like this… something in Lando shifted.

He didn’t know why, but for the first time all morning, he wasn’t thinking about the race.

He was thinking about them.

Sebastian gasped—audibly and dramatically—the way only a toddler could. His small hands flew up with excitement as he pointed toward a nearby setup, where bright banners and colorful displays celebrated each team with proud fanfare. The McLaren signage, bold and unmistakable, had clearly captured his entire being.

You let out a soft chuckle, reaching down to gently rest a hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna get ourselves a tour of the garages, okay?” you explained, crouching slightly to meet his excitement with calm. “We just have to wait for the tour guide.”

Sebastian nodded, eyes still gleaming as he rocked on his heels, the cap on his head slightly tilted from his animated movements. He didn’t say anything else, but his joy was bubbling over — it was in his posture, his wiggling fingers, and the bright way he scanned the paddock like it was an amusement park made just for him.

The buzz of chatter around you was constant — conversations blending into each other, fan voices raised in awe, the faint beat of music pulsing somewhere in the background. It was overwhelming, in that kind of magical way only big, exciting places could be.

And then… he appeared.

Lando Norris, threading his way through the crowd with casual familiarity, a soft “Excuse me,” here, a small nod there, eyes scanning ahead until they landed directly on the small boy in papaya orange. In mere moments, he was in front of Sebastian, lowering himself into a crouch, eyes kind and lit with recognition.

“Hey, little guy,” he greeted warmly, his voice soft in contrast to the buzz of the paddock. “Supporting McLaren today? You’re gonna be our mini driver, yeah?”

Sebastian went completely still.

Not just quiet — frozen. His jaw dropped slightly, arms limp at his sides, as if he had just spotted a dragon, a real one, casually crouched right in front of him. He blinked rapidly, eyes wide and unblinking, unsure whether to cry, run, or explode with happiness. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you — quiet, surprised, utterly endeared. Lando had that effect on fans, sure, but seeing it happen to your own child? Surreal. You fumbled into your small white purse, pulling out your phone and readying it as you approached gently.

“Sebastian?” you asked softly. “Are you gonna pose so I can take a photo of you two?”

Nothing.

He still stood there, stunned and starstruck.

Then — without warning — he let out a high-pitched scream of joy, the kind of shriek that made nearby heads turn, and yours nearly snap off your shoulders. You winced. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—!”

But Lando was already laughing, waving a hand with ease. “It’s okay,” he reassured, glancing up at you with a grin that softened you instantly. “He’s okay. Totally okay.”

His gaze lingered for just a second longer than expected — drawn to your face, your soft expression as you watched your son. Then to the way your dress moved ever so slightly with the breeze, the light catching the delicate floral pattern like a watercolor in motion. Your perfume drifted toward him, subtle and clean with something sweet woven in. It hit him harder than expected, that scent — or maybe it was everything about you, compacted into that single moment of wind and sunlight and childlike joy.

Sebastian flung his arms around Lando in a burst of affection, burying his face against the front of his McLaren zip-up. You watched with your heart in your throat as Lando returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Sebastian without hesitation, effortlessly soft in a way that came so naturally it stunned you.

“Okay!” you said through a smile, stepping back with your phone. “Let me get a cute photo of you two.”

Sebastian and Lando posed — or rather, Lando posed with Sebastian, crouching back down with one knee on the ground, chin resting gently on Sebastian’s small shoulder. Their cheeks touched, curly heads leaning into one another. Lando held up a single finger in a #1 pose, smiling like he meant it. It was perfect.

You snapped a few photos, and as you did, you couldn’t help but notice it — their hair. The curls. The way they framed both of their faces almost identically. You smiled to yourself. It wasn’t exactly a coincidence. After all, when Lando had kept his signature curly mullet look last season, Sebastian had seen a photo online and announced with unwavering confidence: “I want that hair.” He had pointed at Lando like it was gospel. And you? You’d booked the salon the next day.

As the hug ended, you stepped forward, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Thank you so much for taking a photo with him,” you said warmly, genuinely.

Lando stood, brushing the knees of his pants. “It’s no issue at all,” he replied, glancing down at Sebastian once more with fondness. “I think I’ve just met my teammate of the future.”

Sebastian beamed, still too shy to speak.

“You gonna drive for us one day?” Lando added, teasing, nudging the boy gently. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you.”

Your heart tugged at the sight — your son, so young and yet so full of love for a world like this. And Lando, surprisingly sweet and attentive, entirely present in a way that told you he wasn’t just putting on a show for the cameras or fans.

You smiled to yourself, glancing at the paddock around you, then back at them — Sebastian, the driver he idolized, and this unfolding moment you hadn’t expected.

"Come on, we have to let him go now," you said gently, wrapping your fingers around Sebastian’s small hand, trying to coax him away. The toddler let out a soft pout, his eyes still wide with admiration as he looked up at Lando like he was the sun itself. But even with his protest brewing, he gave in with a tiny sigh, slipping his hand into yours.

Lando chuckled, the kind that warmed the air around him. “He’s fine—he’s a cutie,” he replied, his voice light, fond even, as he glanced down at the boy once more.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be sweet with fans, especially kids. He’d always had a soft spot for the younger supporters—their joy was so pure, so unfiltered. But something about Sebastian tugged at a different thread inside him. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just Sebastian who had caught his attention.

His gaze lingered, just for a second longer than it should’ve. Not on the excited toddler now hugging his leg again, but on you.

The subtle curve of your smile as you looked at your son. The soft sweep of hair tucked behind your ear. That floral milkmaid dress—light, ethereal—danced a little in the breeze, brushing gently against your calves, the blue and white print making your skin glow beneath the sunlight. He caught the scent of your perfume again, something sweet but grounded, and it almost made him forget the paddock noise surrounding him.

But then reality nudged him.

He was Lando Norris. And with that name came the constant click of cameras, the headlines that twisted simple kindness into something scandalous, and the ongoing ache of knowing that privacy was a luxury he didn’t own. He couldn’t afford to let curiosity become anything more.

Still, he offered a smile. Genuine. “Thank you for letting us get a photo,” you said, your voice soft with gratitude, and maybe even a hint of admiration tucked behind it.

“It’s no issue at all,” he answered, his voice equally soft now, more personal somehow.

Just then, Sebastian broke free of your hold once more, bouncing with renewed energy. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Lando’s leg in one last goodbye hug. Your lips parted in mild surprise, but you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped.

You already knew what was coming.

“He’s going to ask for Oscar now,” you said knowingly, an amused look on your face as you tucked your phone back into your purse.

Lando laughed, bending slightly so he could meet Sebastian’s gaze again. “Oscar, huh? Can’t blame him. We’ll have to make sure he gets that photo too.”

Your heart swelled at the kindness in his tone. And even if the moment had to end, it left an impression—gentle, fleeting, and maybe more meaningful than either of you could admit.

“We can find Oscar—he’s somewhere around here,” Lando said, crouching slightly to meet Sebastian’s eye again. His voice had that calm, charming tone kids seemed to respond to instinctively, and sure enough, Sebastian’s tiny hand found his with total trust.

You smiled, your heart quietly aching in the best way as you watched the two of them. There was something surreal about it—your son hand-in-hand with a driver he’d looked up to for months, someone whose posters decorated his bedroom walls, whose name he babbled about nonstop. And yet here they were, side by side, like they’d known each other longer than a few minutes.

You followed behind, just a few paces, letting the moment play out in front of you like a movie. The scene looked too perfect: Sebastian looking up, talking animatedly about his toy car collection, while Lando nodded and listened as if each word was of utmost importance.

But even as warmth filled your chest, something inside you whispered not to get carried away. This was Lando Norris. He was always kind to fans, especially to kids. This wasn’t special. It couldn’t be. It was just part of his image, part of the charm that made millions adore him.

And yet… he didn’t let go of Sebastian’s hand.

As the three of you walked deeper into the paddock, the vibrant atmosphere buzzed louder. You could hear the faint hum of tires being rolled out, radios crackling with chatter, distant bursts of laughter from fans lining the barricades. The scent of asphalt, heat, and oil mixed with the soft floral trace of your perfume, which the breeze occasionally carried toward Lando—who didn’t seem to mind at all.

When you finally reached the McLaren garage, it was like walking into the heart of something electric. Engineers paced with purpose, monitors lit up with telemetry, car parts glinted under sharp fluorescent lights. And standing a few feet inside, Oscar Piastri turned just as Sebastian caught sight of him.

There was a beat—a tiny, loaded moment—and then Sebastian let out the kind of squeal only a three-year-old could make, bursting from Lando’s side and sprinting to Oscar like he was reuniting with a long-lost friend.

Oscar laughed, catching him in a half-squat hug, lifting him off the ground a few inches. “Woah! Look who’s here!” he said, clearly charmed.

You stopped just at the threshold of the garage, your feet hesitating for the first time. Cameras lingered near the entrance—journalists, team photographers, random flashes—and for a second, insecurity tried to creep in. You didn’t belong here. This was their world. You were just visiting.

You adjusted your grip on your purse, suddenly more aware of your dress, your posture, your hair. But then Lando turned. He wasn’t looking at the cameras. He wasn’t scanning the room. His gaze found you—just you.

And in that second, something in his expression softened.

“This is the garage—McLaren, for all you little fans,” he teased, gesturing toward the bright orange and blue world surrounding you both.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms playfully. “Little fans? Excuse you—I’m not little.”

He laughed, quick and genuine. “Apologies—to you and your little McLaren fan.” His eyes dropped for a brief second, catching your smile.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Better.”

It was an innocent exchange, lighthearted and quick—but it buzzed in the air between you both like a hidden signal, an unspoken something neither of you could fully name. Not yet.

Then came the gentle tug at your heart again—Sebastian. He was still chatting to Oscar, waving his tiny arms, recounting something that involved race cars and dragons, by the sound of it. Your fingers itched for your phone again. These were the moments he’d remember forever. So would you.

And then, just as you reached to adjust the strap of your bag, Sebastian did something that caught you off guard: he ran back, arms wide, and wrapped himself tightly around Lando’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was safe.

You felt something twist inside your chest—something warm and unexpected.

Lando looked down, blinking in surprise, then softened, his hand gently resting on Sebastian’s back. “He’s got a strong grip,” he joked, chuckling.

“He gets attached easily,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry if he’s clingy.”

Lando shook his head. “He’s not. He’s just… cool.” His voice dropped slightly, sincere and quiet. “You’ve got a good kid.”

You smiled—small, but real. “I know.”

Conversation between you and Lando had started off light, naturally flowing like you’d known him longer than a morning. You stood beside him in the garage while Sebastian trailed Oscar, clinging to every word and gesture the older driver made as he proudly led him on his own version of a pit lane tour. From where you stood, you could still hear Sebastian’s tiny giggles echoing through the hum of machinery and distant radio chatter.

Lando leaned against one of the workstations, arms folded, a casual smirk on his lips as you shared a story about how Sebastian once raced his Hot Wheels down the hallway so fast he crashed into the front door and blamed "aerodynamics."

Your laughter blended with his, light and genuine, for a moment making you forget where you were and who you were talking to. For once, it didn’t feel like you were speaking to a world-famous athlete. It felt... easy.

But then, just as you caught your breath mid-laugh, a voice chimed in—clear, curious, and edged with mischief.

“Who are you?”

Your head turned, and your smile faltered just slightly as Carlos Sainz approached. He was dressed in his Williams team gear, looking effortlessly put-together, a water bottle dangling from one hand and a subtle smirk playing on his lips.

You stood a little straighter. “I’m just a fan,” you said lightly, offering a small smile. “With a very enthusiastic mini fan.”

You gestured toward Sebastian, who was now seated on a tire stack as Oscar showed him the wheel gun. He was clearly in heaven.

Carlos raised a brow at your answer, his gaze flicking toward Lando, who remained unusually silent beside you. You caught the way Lando gave the subtlest shake of his head in Carlos's direction—a quiet warning, or perhaps a signal that this wasn’t what it looked like.

Carlos’s lips twitched with amusement. “I see…”

He turned his eyes back to you, sharp yet unreadable. “Any chance that little one over there’s gonna like me too?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, hiding a smirk. “Maybe. He’s got quite the open taste. He’s been known to cheer for at least five teams depending on how cool their cars look.”

Carlos grinned. “Smart kid.”

Without waiting for a reply, he gave you both a mock salute and walked off, passing between you and Lando with the same confident stride he probably used walking to the grid.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you turned back to Lando, who looked amused but a little irritated too. “Next thing you know,” you joked, “they’ll be fighting over who gets his love.”

That broke Lando’s brief tension. He laughed, a soft, low chuckle that felt more personal than anything you’d heard from him before.

“He better stay loyal to McLaren,” Lando joked, glancing toward Sebastian again, his voice tinted with a sort of pride that didn’t quite make sense—unless it wasn’t just about the team anymore.

You smiled, feeling a subtle shift in the air. The kind that left you a little warmer, a little more aware. Of him. Of the way his gaze lingered when he looked at you. Of how close he was standing now, a casual closeness that felt just slightly charged.

Still, you reminded yourself to stay grounded.

Because at the end of the day, this was still the paddock.

This was still Lando Norris.

And this was probably still just part of the charm.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Practice ran smoother than expected, the sound of engines roaring past and tires screeching against the asphalt forming the soundtrack of the afternoon. From the elevated view inside the pit building, where guests and team members could observe from above, you stood with Sebastian tucked securely in your arms. The vantage point gave you a perfect view over the track, the bustling pit lane, and the vibrant, living pulse of the paddock beneath.

The air buzzed with excitement, even as the sun began to dip slightly in the sky. A warm Australian breeze slipped through the open balcony space, tousling your hair and carrying the lingering scent of gasoline, rubber, and fresh grass. Your heart was full—soaking in the atmosphere, the hum of conversation around you, the thrill from the crowd cheering just meters away, and most of all, the joy radiating from your little boy.

Sebastian was a firecracker in your arms—restless, wide-eyed, and utterly consumed by the action. “Go, Lando!” he shouted, his tiny fist pumped in the air. “Oscar! Look, mama, Oscar’s goin’ fast!”

You laughed gently, holding him a little tighter. “I see him, baby,” you said, amused by his commentary. “They’re both doing so good today, huh?”

He was completely immersed, like a sponge absorbing every detail. His enthusiasm didn’t waver, not even as the session neared its end. He clapped wildly when the McLaren cars zoomed past, shouted out names like they were old friends—“George! Kimi! Max! Charles!”—and even pointed with giddy excitement when Lewis appeared on the screen.

“Yuki! Look, mama, Yuki funny!” he giggled, slapping his hand against your arm.

You couldn’t help but smile. Seeing the world through his eyes—full of color and awe��made the chaos of travel, the fatigue from the long day, and even the stress you carried feel a little bit lighter.

But as the final laps came to a close and the cars began trickling back into their garages, the adrenaline began to fade. You felt it first in the way Sebastian slumped slightly against you, his arms slowly wrapping around your neck, his cheek brushing your shoulder. The spark of excitement still lingered in his little heart, but the rest of him—well, it was giving in.

He fought sleep like a warrior.

His lashes fluttered, his eyes red and heavy, but still he insisted, “No nap, mama.”

“I know, I know,” you said softly, brushing your hand over his curls. “Just a break, right? Just rest your eyes for a minute.”

But he wasn’t done yet. With a sudden jolt of energy, he shifted in your arms and pointed toward the paddock area just below. “Kimi, mama! Me see Kimi!”

His voice cracked from all the yelling he’d done, but the determination in his tone was still strong. He wiggled, trying to slide down from your hold.

“Kimi’s probably doing interviews right now,” you murmured, trying not to laugh at his stubbornness. “We’ll find him later, okay? Maybe he’ll even say hi if we’re lucky.”

He squinted into the distance as if willing the Mercedes driver to materialize on command. “Him wave me. Kimi wave me!” he insisted, rubbing his eyes and stamping his little foot down as if that would summon Kimi by pure toddler force alone.

You took a breath, your heart full to bursting. This was everything to him—the drivers weren’t just names or faces. They were superheroes. They were friends. And in his world, seeing one more of them—just one—before the day ended felt like the most important mission ever.

You leaned down and kissed his temple. “I believe you,” you whispered. “And I promise, we’ll try to find him. But you need to be strong for me, okay? Can you be strong, just for a little while longer?”

He nodded with all the gravity a three-year-old could muster, despite the way his thumb crept into his mouth and he tucked his head under your chin.

You shifted your weight, gently rocking him side to side, taking in the fading light on the horizon. The practice was done. The paddock buzz was quieter now, people trickling away, laughter floating from somewhere below, mechanics wheeling tires and boxes past in a practiced rhythm. The day had been long, but good. There was a softness in the air that hadn’t been there this morning. A calm.

And as you stood there, swaying slowly with your child in your arms, you couldn’t help but feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Right here, in this in-between moment, holding the person you loved most in a place he already adored.

Sebastian let out a soft sigh, curling closer into your chest. His voice, thick with exhaustion but still clinging to hope, came again in a sleepy murmur.

“Mama... Kimi come back?”

You kissed his cheek, tucking the blanket from your bag around his shoulders.

“We’ll see, baby. I promise. You rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

And with that, his tiny body finally relaxed, sleep pulling him into a peaceful slumber, the sounds of the paddock slowly fading into the background.

You didn’t want to wait much longer — the day had worn you down, and Sebastian had finally dozed off in your arms, his head resting against your shoulder, lips parted in soft snores. But despite your fatigue, a small flame of hope flickered inside you. Maybe, just maybe, if you held on a little longer, Kimi would appear. You knew how much it meant to Sebastian.

The paddock had finally begun to settle. The blinding flashes of cameras, the swarming fans, the echoing voices of reporters — all of it had died down to a hum. And somewhere in that calm, Lando spotted you again. For once, he wasn’t surrounded by media demands or tugged in different directions by obligations. It was just him now. And his eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

He approached with that familiar casual stride, a chuckle slipping from his lips as he glanced at the boy cradled in your arms. “He’s out,” he said gently, almost amused, as if the excitement had finally caught up to the little one.

You smiled in return, the kind of tired but warm smile only a parent could offer. With care, you took off Sebastian’s slightly tilted McLaren cap, brushing his curls away from his damp forehead. “He’s been holding out just to see Kimi,” you murmured, almost apologetically.

Lando nodded with sincerity. “I’ll make sure Kimi stops by. He won’t miss this,” he promised. There was something earnest in his voice — not performative, not the usual ‘fan-service’ charm — but genuine, like he wanted to make it happen for Sebastian. For you.

You shrugged a bit, not wanting to impose. “If not, it’s okay. We’ll be back tomorrow. Got ourselves the full three-day access.” You hadn’t meant for it to be anything special when you said it, but it lit something quietly inside Lando. You were coming back — that meant more chances to see you. Maybe talk. Maybe… something more.

“In the span of just a few hours,” you added with a faint chuckle, “he managed to get photos with Charles, Lewis, Carlos, Alex — even Liam and Isack. Now all that’s left on his dream list is Kimi, George, Yuki, and Max.”

Lando smiled at that. “He’s ambitious. I like it. And he’ll get them — I’ll make sure of it,” he said firmly. He wasn’t just saying it to be nice — he meant it. Maybe it was the way Sebastian lit up around them, or maybe it was how you looked at your son like he was your whole world. Either way, Lando found himself caring a little too much.

A lull in the conversation opened a new window — a chance to ask more. To know more. And he took it.

“So… earlier you were saying a bit about the little guy and yourself. Dad didn’t come along?” Lando’s voice softened, carefully treading that line between curiosity and respect.

You looked down at Sebastian’s sleeping face, brushing a hand gently along his back. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms,” you said, voice low. “We’re not together. Haven’t been in a while.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, just honest.

And then the words spilled — maybe because Lando was easy to talk to, or maybe because you were just so tired of keeping it all inside. You told him how your ex had missed both of Sebastian’s birthdays. How the only contact came in the form of late-night, drunken texts that always circled back to the same twisted narrative: “Let’s try again,” followed by declarations you’d long stopped believing in.

You didn’t notice, but Lando’s expression shifted — a quiet intensity in his gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something deeper. He hated it for you. Hated that someone had been foolish enough to walk away from a life with you and Sebastian. And worse, that someone had left you to handle it all on your own.

But then, that guilt crept up his spine — uninvited and sharp. He was Lando Norris. He didn’t do strings. His world was fast and fleeting. Privacy was a myth. Relationships were speculation fodder. And the idea of being involved with someone — someone who came as a package deal — was overwhelming. Terrifying, even.

Still… he couldn’t ignore how naturally it all felt just then. You, him, and Sebastian.

For a second, he wondered what it might be like if things were different.

And that scared him.

So, instead of speaking his thoughts, he simply nodded, offering the kind of half-smile that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. “He’s lucky to have you,” he said quietly.

And even though he didn’t say more, even though he buried whatever stirring he felt, the way he looked at you lingered longer than it should’ve.

Just as you were preparing to gently excuse yourself from Lando and finally head out with Sebastian asleep in your arms, a small wave of movement caught your attention. You looked up — and sighed in sheer relief.

Kimi had appeared at last.

He strolled in with a calm, almost unreadable expression, still in his race suit, hair slightly tousled from removing his helmet, and a bottle of water in hand. He hadn’t even fully stepped into the area before his eyes landed on you and Lando. He tilted his head slightly, brows pulling together in mild confusion as if trying to place the scene — a woman holding a sleeping child, standing with Lando Norris.

“I am so sorry to bother you,” you began gently, stepping forward just enough without jostling Sebastian. You didn’t want to startle him awake. “But you’re here and— I know I don’t have anything Mercedes for you to sign, but… signing his backpack would mean a lot.”

You offered a small, hopeful smile, holding out a black marker and the tiny, well-loved backpack that was slung over your shoulder. Its fabric was soft from use, and one of the zipper pulls had a keychain shaped like a Formula 1 car.

Lando gave a small, encouraging nod, his expression warm. “They’ll be back tomorrow,” he added, his voice casual but his tone protective. “Kid’s been waiting just to see you.”

At that, Kimi's face softened. Something about the sincerity in your voice, and perhaps the tone Lando had taken on — almost like it was his job to make sure this moment happened — made Kimi nod without hesitation.

He reached forward and gently took the backpack from you, uncapping the marker in one hand and holding the fabric taut in the other. “How old is he?” Kimi asked, his voice quiet but curious, eyes glancing at Sebastian’s sleeping face.

Before you could even open your mouth to respond, Lando beat you to it — his voice calm and full of a surprising kind of certainty.

“He’s three. His name is Sebastian.”

Your gaze flicked to Lando, eyes softening as a small lump formed in your throat. The way he said it — like he’d memorized it — made your chest feel tight. You hadn’t expected him to remember. Not when he’d been bombarded by faces and questions all day, caught in flashes of cameras and interviews. You assumed you and Sebastian would be forgotten as quickly as you appeared — just another moment in a long blur of fan interactions.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

He remembered your son’s name. His age. The way he fought sleep just to see Kimi. And it wasn’t just that he remembered — it was the way he cared. Lando said it like it mattered.

Kimi hummed thoughtfully as he signed his name across the backpack in neat, bold letters. Then, handing it back, he gave a small nod toward you. “He’s got good taste in drivers.”

You chuckled quietly, adjusting Sebastian in your arms. “He thinks all of you are superheroes,” you replied, voice hushed with affection. “Each time he sees a car or hears a name, it’s like the whole world lights up for him.”

Kimi offered a rare, faint smile before giving a polite nod and stepping away, blending back into the quiet shuffle of drivers finishing up their day. You watched him go, grateful — but it was the man standing beside you that still held your attention.

You turned your gaze to Lando. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his race suit, curls still a little damp with sweat from earlier, eyes on you like he hadn’t stopped watching you since Kimi arrived. There was something calm in his face now. Thoughtful. Open.

You exhaled slowly, shifting Sebastian’s weight against your shoulder. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Lando tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “For what?”

“For remembering,” you answered simply.

And for a moment, nothing else needed to be said.

There you stood — you, a tired mother clutching her dreaming son, and Lando Norris, not the F1 star, but the guy who remembered a little boy’s name and helped him chase down a dream. And as the last rays of sunlight poured in from behind the pit building, painting the garage windows in a honey-gold glow, you felt something warm settle in your chest.

Bidding Lando a bye, you carried Sebastian, his now signed backpack, and his McLaren hat to the car, with Lando on your mind and a busy day ahead tomorrow.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Day Two arrived with a quiet stillness, the kind that promised potential before the world fully woke up. You stirred before the soft alarm had a chance to sound, quickly silencing it so Sebastian could remain curled up, blissfully asleep in the warmth of the hotel bed. He was tangled in the covers, one arm flopped dramatically over the stuffed car he’d won yesterday, the other hand loosely holding a toy McLaren.

You stole a moment to just watch him—his chest rising in slow, peaceful breaths—and then slipped away for a shower. The water felt grounding, warm against your skin, helping you wash away the exhaustion of travel and the high emotions of yesterday. You reminded yourself that today was supposed to be simple: enjoy the second day, support Sebastian’s little dream, and keep things… uncomplicated.

But then, there was Lando.

You knew better than to entertain anything. Yet his laugh, the way he’d remembered Sebastian’s name, the ease in his voice when talking to you… it all lingered heavier than you expected.

Once dressed, you stood before the mirror. You’d chosen the outfit intentionally—something that felt bold, fun, and just the right amount of spirited McLaren energy. A vivid orange halter top hugged your figure with flattering ruching, tied delicately at the back of your neck in a neat bow. It matched Sebastian’s bright Oscar Piastri race suit with near-perfect coordination. Paired with light wash high-waisted jeans that sculpted your shape and ended in a relaxed straight leg, the look balanced sleek and casual effortlessly.

You slid on a pair of orange braided heels, the square toe giving it a modern edge, and completed the outfit with stacked bangles in shades of ivory and burnt orange. A McLaren cap sat nestled on the hotel dresser—Sebastian’s idea for you to wear it today. “So we match!” he’d squealed yesterday. And of course, you’d promised you would.

You turned to gently wake Sebastian, who stirred the moment you whispered his name. His tiny brows furrowed sleepily at first, but when you pulled out the miniature Oscar suit, he shot upright like a rocket. “Today is Ows-cah day!” he cheered, bouncing on the bed in his onesie.

You got him dressed with a bit of effort and a lot of giggles, and once his race suit was zipped, name stitched proudly over his chest in orange thread, he did a full spin in front of the mirror. “We look like twins!” he declared.

Meanwhile, Lando was stirring in a completely different world.

He sat upright in the plush, oversized bed of his penthouse suite, the muted morning light trickling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. His room felt too pristine, too still. He rubbed a hand over his face, his curls messy, and let out a low breath. The first thing he did was grab his phone, swiping through headlines and Instagram notifications. Race prep, news alerts, tagged posts, and—

Rumors.

He knew they were coming. Media always got wind of the smallest things: a photo, a glance, a conversation held just a second too long. And yesterday had definitely given them fuel. A few posts had already surfaced—pictures of him crouched next to Sebastian, you laughing beside him, a blurred shot that captured the spark in your eye mid-conversation.

Oscar caught him just as he made his way into the hotel lobby. “Did you check the media?”

“Yeah,” Lando said flatly, already bracing.

Oscar raised a brow. “They’re spinning stuff already. You and that girl—”

“Her name is Y/n,” Lando snapped back, more sharply than he intended. “And I know. I’m just not dealing with it right now.”

Oscar held his hands up, not pushing it further. But the look in his eye said it all. There was something different in the way Lando spoke about you. He wasn’t denying it. He wasn’t even hiding it well.

And Lando knew it too.

Because while his eyes scrolled past the usual stream of bikini models and car edits, it wasn’t them he was thinking about this morning. It was the way you’d tucked Sebastian’s curls under his cap. The way your smile flickered with hesitation at first, but then warmed once Lando said your son’s name.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

But he was starting to.

And that… scared the hell out of him.

The paddock was alive, electrified with the kind of energy only sprint day could summon. The air buzzed with adrenaline, fan chants echoing between the walls of garages, reporters weaving through mechanics and engineers, and flags fluttering like excited hearts. Today was qualifying, high-stakes, no time to breathe—yet somehow, you found a pocket of peace.

Oscar stood beside you, grinning as Sebastian—dressed in his perfectly tailored mini Oscar Piastri race suit, complete with his name stitched proudly in orange thread—hugged his leg. You held up your phone to capture the moment, crouching just enough to get the perfect shot: the contrast of the little boy’s bright orange suit against the sharp navy of Oscar’s own, and the pure smile they shared.

A few fans and even paddock staff paused to admire the adorable sight, some snapping their own pictures, others simply smiling and whispering to one another. Sebastian basked in the attention like it was his own victory lap. The moment felt so light—so warm.

And the day only got better.

With the help of Lando, Oscar, and even a few kind PR team members, Sebastian managed to meet the last of his dream list—Yuki gave him a high five and posed with an exaggerated grin; Max knelt for a photo and ruffled his curls; George crouched beside him with a thumbs up; Kimi gave a rare soft smile while crouching to sign Sebastian’s cap, and Charles even pulled him into another hug for one more picture.

You couldn't stop smiling. Everything had fallen into place—Sebastian had met his heroes, and their kindness brought out a glow in him that made every early morning and long walk worth it.

Until it didn’t.

You had barely turned to look toward the walkway when the buzz of conversation around you shifted, energy twisting from joyful to alert. The media had spotted something—or someone—and they were closing in fast. You looked up, confused by the sudden interest. The camera flashes began before the questions did.

“Can I help?” you asked softly, arms instinctively wrapping tighter around Sebastian’s small form as he clung to your hip, sensing the change.

“I’m with Sky Sports,” the man said smoothly, flashing a press pass like a shield. “Just need you to confirm or deny some rumors—”

His gaze dropped from your face to Sebastian. That subtle implication in his eyes made your stomach turn. Was this about Lando? Your fingers curled protectively into Sebastian’s back.

“I’m just a guest. We’re fans, we’re not—” you began, but the man didn’t seem to hear. He stepped forward again, camera crew behind him, mics angled toward your face like accusations.

Before your heart could even pound harder, before you could form words to push back—he was there.

Lando.

He moved with sharpness, unhesitating, stepping between you and the cameras like a shield. His shoulders squared, his jaw clenched tight as his hand subtly moved back, nudging you behind him.

“We’re here to talk about qualifying and the race, not harass the fans,” Lando said, voice low but laced with command, a warning hidden beneath the smile he didn’t wear.

The reporter hesitated, startled. “I—I apologize,” he stammered, backing off slightly as Lando’s gaze stayed fixed.

The air shifted again—awkward tension bleeding out slowly as the media retreated, their interest deflated by the firm dismissal. You didn’t even realize your hand had clenched Lando’s sleeve until he turned slightly, checking on you and Sebastian.

You nodded, still stunned. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely carrying over the renewed hum of paddock life.

Lando’s expression softened when his eyes met yours. “Anytime,” he said simply. Then his eyes dropped to Sebastian, who was now blinking up at him from your arms.

“You okay, buddy?” Lando asked, letting a small smile return.

Sebastian gave a tiny nod before curling into your shoulder, thumb in his mouth—exhausted again, the rush of attention too much.

You looked back at Lando, still a little shaken, still trying to process the way he stepped in like that. It wasn’t just fan service.

It felt like care. Like protection. Like something more than it was supposed to be.

And that terrified you—because for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t sure you wanted it to be less.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

For the rest of the event, the tension that had rattled your nerves earlier melted away, replaced by an unexpected calm that settled around you like a warm blanket. You and Sebastian stayed nestled in the rhythm of McLaren’s world—cheering, watching, laughing, and sharing quiet moments behind the velvet ropes of paddock life. Despite the constant whirl of noise, camera clicks, and mechanics shouting over engine whines, you felt at peace.

And it wasn’t just you. Sebastian was glowing with energy, his little race suit slightly rumpled now from running about, his curls springing up with every bounce of excitement. He cheered loudly when the McLaren team passed, and when Oscar or Lando appeared on the screens, he clapped as though they were superheroes instead of real men in fireproof suits.

You didn’t realize it until the day had almost ended—but you felt like you belonged there.

You didn’t feel like an outsider anymore, not just some guest with a pass, not just a mother of a young fan. Somehow, between the knowing smiles from engineers, the high-fives from Oscar, and even the nods from other teams, it felt like you were part of something. Like you fit.

Lando felt it too. Though he’d never admit it out loud, the thought had slipped in more than once during the day, threading through his mind between practice runs and interviews. Every time he spotted you in the distance, chatting with a team member or crouching to fix Sebastian’s laces, it hit him harder—this felt right. Too right. Too fast.

Too soon, he told himself. And yet, he kept looking anyway.

After qualifying—an intense battle that left him finishing a proud P2—Lando was spent. His body ached from the push, his skin glistened with sweat under his race suit, but his thoughts weren’t on lap times or team briefings.

They were on you.

He barely waited until he was out of the post-race huddle before nodding to a McLaren staffer. “Can you bring them to the garage?”

Within minutes, you were walking in—Sebastian clinging to your hand, wide-eyed at the inner sanctum of the McLaren team. Lando saw you and immediately crouched, his face lighting up despite his exhaustion.

“Sebastian! Hey buddy!” he called with a grin.

The three-year-old didn’t hesitate, sprinting the short distance into Lando’s open arms, giggling as he was scooped up in a warm, sweaty hug. You followed behind, letting out a soft chuckle as you watched them.

Lando laughed as he pulled back just slightly, eyebrows lifting when he caught sight of the small smudges dotting Sebastian’s cheeks and the suspicious trail of crumbs on his suit.

“What is on your face?” he asked with mock horror, trying to bite back another grin.

Sebastian flashed a proud, sugar-fueled smile. Before he could respond, you chimed in with a hum, arms folded loosely as you leaned slightly on one foot.

“Cookie crumbs,” you said, amused. “One of the drivers—pretty sure it was Fernando—had a secret cookie stash. He gave him two, and now he’s on a full sugar rush.”

Lando looked at Sebastian with a mix of disbelief and adoration. “You bribed Alonso? I’ve been trying to get a cookie from him all season,” he teased.

Sebastian giggled, holding up three fingers instead of two. “Three cookies,” he corrected proudly.

You and Lando burst out laughing, and for a beat, the world outside the garage didn't matter. It didn’t matter what had been said or what rumors had started to swirl. It didn’t matter how complicated things might get.

Lando had barely caught his breath from qualifying, the adrenaline still running faintly through his veins when the words slipped from his mouth like they’d been waiting all day for a place to land.

“Do you and Sebastian want to… go to the aquarium?” he asked casually—though his tone was careful, soft in a way that didn’t quite match the high-energy buzz of the McLaren garage around you.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Us?” you asked, your voice small, uncertain.

He nodded, brushing a loose curl from his damp forehead. “Yeah. I’ll head back to my hotel, clean up, and then I can swing by wherever you two are staying. We’ll head over together.”

Before you could process your reply, Sebastian practically burst with excitement, jumping in place. “YES! Fishies, Mama! Can we go see the sharks?!”

Lando chuckled, clearly entertained by the sheer enthusiasm bursting from the tiny human now bouncing beside him. Your eyes darted toward him again, cautious and conflicted.

Part of you wanted to go. God, you wanted to go.

But another part—the part that had learned how cruel the world could be when it noticed something good—whispered a thousand hesitations into your mind. The media. The cameras. The attention.

You looked away, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But the media…” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the team still moving about the garage.

Lando tilted his head, as though hearing your fear and meeting it without judgment. He took a step closer, and his voice dropped lower, quieter.

“I’m human too,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. My team will push back as much as they can. I promise.”

His eyes were sincere—none of the typical charm or cheeky arrogance people expected from Lando Norris. Just truth. Just softness.

“So?” he added, a flicker of hope curling around the question.

You stood still for a moment, unsure what to do with the comfort that suddenly wrapped around you like a familiar coat. It was crazy, impulsive, dangerous even—but above all… it felt safe. Safe with Lando.

And real.

You glanced down at Sebastian, who was now hugging your leg, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes.

“Sure,” you said at last, and the word felt like stepping into sunlight.

“We’ll go.”

Sebastian squealed in delight, nearly tripping over himself as he ran in a circle. “YAY!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, loud enough to make a few heads turn and laugh nearby.

Lando grinned, flashing you a look that made your heart skip just a beat too fast. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way,” he said, reaching down to ruffle Sebastian’s hair gently. “Sharks beware—this kid’s coming for them.”

You laughed—full, open—and suddenly, the weight that had been pressing on your chest all day lifted just a little.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The aquarium was quiet—softly lit by the glow of gently moving water and illuminated tanks, casting a subtle shimmer onto the smooth floors. It was a far cry from the earlier frenzy of the paddock. Peaceful. Settling. A rare pocket of calm where, for a moment, life could breathe without pressure.

You walked alongside Lando, with Sebastian happily toddling between the two of you, his small hands occasionally brushing yours or Lando’s as he pointed with wide eyes at stingrays and reef sharks gliding overhead through the tunnel of glass.

You wore a warm brown, body-hugging one-shoulder dress that fell down to your ankles like liquid silk. A soft, beige duster cardigan hung off your arms like a gentle frame, catching the light as it swayed with each step. A sleek black crossbody bag rested snugly at your hip, golden hardware catching the occasional shimmer from the glowing tanks. Simple, elegant—but comfortable enough to chase after a toddler if needed. You hadn’t planned to end up on a spontaneous evening out, but somehow, the moment welcomed you.

Sebastian was a walking ball of color and softness. He wore a playful vintage cartoon T-shirt, vibrant with reds and blues, tucked slightly into wide-legged beige corduroy pants that made his tiny legs look even tinier as he waddled forward. A chunky, lavender knit cardigan was draped over his shoulders—one sleeve constantly slipping down as he chased after his thoughts. His shoes, little white sneakers, already scuffed from adventure, squeaked lightly with each step.

Lando, walking beside you, looked comfortably cool in an oversized navy and white striped rugby shirt with “Quad” embroidered across the chest. The sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing a few friendship bracelets that danced slightly as he moved. His jeans were baggy, worn in the right ways, and his white sneakers were casual but clean. There was an effortlessness to him—a contrast to his usual track-ready look.

“So... is it true?” you asked, glancing up at him as the three of you strolled past a glowing blue jellyfish exhibit. “You’re a party boy?”

He looked down at you, one brow lifting in curiosity before he grinned. “Depends... how curious are you?” he teased.

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just wanted to know what I’m getting into.”

Lando chuckled, nodding slowly. “I am, yeah. Was. Still am sometimes. Comes with being twenty-five, I guess.”

You smiled softly. “Twenty-five and still going strong? God, I need your energy.”

He glanced over at you again, this time his gaze lingering a little longer. “It’s fun sometimes. But... it gets boring. All of it. It’s loud. Flashy. Temporary.”

You nodded in understanding. “Too much stimulation. No peace.”

That was all that needed to be said. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was comforting. A shared understanding that there was something quieter, something softer, in the simplicity of this moment.

You and Lando watched as Sebastian ran up to a floor-to-ceiling tank. His hands smacked against the glass, face lit up in awe as a school of colorful fish darted past. Lando instinctively crouched beside him, resting his arms on his knees.

“They look cool, huh?” he said softly.

Sebastian nodded furiously. “They’re swimming really fast!”

You slowly approached, ignoring the buzzing of your phone deep in your pocket. You didn’t need to check to know who it was—reality could wait. For now, you lowered yourself beside Lando, the soft fabric of your cardigan pooling on the ground. All three of you sat together, faces bathed in aquatic blue light. Lando smelled faintly of clean cologne and sun-drenched grass, while your perfume lingered lightly in the air between you.

No flashing lights. No rumors. No curated stories or whispered headlines.

Just you, Lando, and Sebastian—laughing gently over the shapes of fish and the stories Sebastian made up about them. For a second, it looked like a little family portrait frozen in time. You caught Lando’s gaze and looked away quickly, your cheeks warming. He didn’t say anything—but the way he looked at you, like you were already something more, said enough.

The rest of the evening moved like a lullaby—soft, smooth, and glowing with the quiet joy only shared moments could bring. Between the tanks and tunnels, you and Lando took turns capturing fleeting snapshots and short videos—Sebastian pointing excitedly, or giggling mid-run, or narrating his own marine documentary with impressive confidence for a three-year-old.

“Fish!” he shouted, his voice echoing gently in the cavernous tunnel as Lando lifted him up, effortlessly resting him on his hip so he could get a better look.

You stood close—closer than you realized—shoulder brushing his, warmth shared through fabric. Your head came to rest lightly on Lando’s shoulder, your laughter bubbling softly as you pointed at the glass.

“That would be a pufferfish,” you said, lips quirking as the spiny little creature floated past. “They get all bloated like a balloon, and their faces go—” You puffed out your cheeks dramatically and crossed your eyes.

Sebastian let out a full laugh, tilting backward slightly in Lando’s arms as he mirrored you with his tiny face puffed like a marshmallow. “You’re right, Mommy!”

Lando hummed in amusement. “She’s pretty smart, huh?” he said, casting you a sideways glance, playfully nudging you with his shoulder. “Should we give her some credit?”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed as he considered. “Hmm… Can I drive da car?”

Lando crinkled his nose and gasped like the question was dangerous. “Oof… You might need a few more years of training, mate.”

Sebastian huffed in disappointment, only for Lando to lean in. “But after that? Formula 1. Full speed. Number one racer in the world.”

Sebastian’s eyes went wide. “Really?!”

You smiled, your heart tugging as you watched them—how naturally Lando folded into these moments with him, not a trace of forced charm. It wasn’t performative. It was just… who he was. You looked ahead and noticed something through a wide arched entrance.

“They have a gift shop,” you said casually, pointing.

Sebastian’s head whipped toward you like you’d just offered him the moon. “Can we go?! Please, please, pleaaaase?”

You giggled, eyes still on the small sign and bright display lights beyond the glass tunnel. “Eventually.”

Lando nudged Sebastian with a knowing grin. “We will. But first,” he paused and pointed to another glowing section, “I have to take you to see the turtles.”

You gasped, perhaps louder than necessary, clasping your hands together in exaggerated excitement. “Turtles?! Oh no, I love turtles!”

Sebastian mimicked you perfectly—hands clapped, mouth agape. “Let’s goooo!”

With that, Lando gently set him down and took his hand, the two of them walking ahead with energy, you trailing close beside. When they reached the next room, the ceiling curved above like a dome, casting light down onto the huge, gentle creatures that moved with ancient grace through their tank.

Sebastian was mesmerized, standing completely still for a moment before he started talking. Asking questions. Making up names. Pretending one of the turtles winked at him.

You leaned quietly against the railing next to Lando, your arms folding across your chest, watching your son point and babble beside the glass.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” you said under your breath, just loud enough for Lando to hear. “If someone had told me a year ago I’d be at an aquarium in Australia... with Lando Norris and my three-year-old son... I’d have laughed in their face.”

Lando smiled, just slightly. “I think I would’ve laughed too.”

You stood there for a long while, close enough that you could feel the space between you buzz—something soft and thrilling that hadn’t quite found its voice yet.

Eventually, Sebastian—never one to hide his needs—rubbed at his eyes and laid his head against Lando’s shoulder.

“Hungry,” he murmured.

You and Lando both glanced down, and then up at each other, exchanging the same silent question and answer.

“Gift shop, then dinner?” you asked softly.

Sebastian nodded sleepily, already perking up again at the idea of shopping. You smiled and brushed a hand over his curls.

The gift shop was bright and playful, a sudden burst of color after the ambient blues of the aquarium. Sebastian was back to full energy, dashing toward shelves of plush animals and glittery keychains. His eyes sparkled at everything—but then, they stopped.

“That!” he shouted, pointing with such conviction you and Lando both turned to follow his finger.

A massive, soft, gray shark plush towered over the others, nearly the size of Sebastian himself. It was outrageously big, comical even—but the awe in his voice made it impossible to resist.

“I want that!”

Lando didn’t hesitate. He reached up, grabbed the plush by its fin, and brought it down into Sebastian’s arms, where it nearly swallowed him whole. Sebastian gave a muffled “yes!” and hugged it like it was the best gift he’d ever received.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “That thing is bigger than his carry-on.”

Lando laughed. “Yeah, well... he loves it. Besides,” he plucked a shark tooth necklace from a nearby display, handing it to you, “a souvenir for Mom too.”

You blinked. “Lando—”

“Don’t even,” he said gently, his voice calm and sure. “I want to.”

You didn’t argue. Maybe because you knew he meant it. Maybe because it felt nice to let someone else take care of things, just for a moment.

At the register, Sebastian was trying to hoist the shark up by himself, only for Lando to step in and help. You watched them—man and child, natural in step, smiles matching. And maybe, just maybe, your heart tugged in a way that scared you a little. Because it felt like something real.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That evening, the three of you found your way into the quiet warmth of a refined little restaurant tucked beneath the pulse of the city—a place with dim lights that danced like soft candle flames against crystal glasses, white linen napkins folded like paper birds, and the gentle clink of silverware marking a chorus of elegant chatter. The ambiance was calm, inviting, the kind of place made for connection and quiet reflection.

You and Lando sat opposite one another, your chairs turned inward toward Sebastian, who had been nestled in the middle like the radiant center of your shared universe. A glass of chilled apple juice sat in front of him—his ‘grown-up’ drink—its amber tone glistening like gold under the glow of the table's candle. Earlier, he'd asked for "what Mommy and Lando are having," curious about the tall glasses of red wine swirling in both of your hands. Lando had leaned down, voice patient and warm, explaining that apple juice was the exact same thing, only better for superheroes like him. Sebastian had accepted that logic instantly, nodding proudly before lifting his glass and declaring a soft “cheers.”

Now, menu in hand, Sebastian squinted at the words like they were ancient texts.

“I want this,” he declared, pointing with conviction to a line near the middle of the kids’ section.

You leaned over and read the item aloud with a hum. “Chicken tenders… classic. And some fries to go with it?”

Sebastian nodded with all the confidence in the world. “Fancy dinner,” he grinned.

Lando chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass. “Feeling fancy tonight, huh?”

Sebastian nodded proudly. “Yup. Like you.”

When the waitress approached, Lando took the initiative, smoothly placing your orders. “Two pasta dishes—one with extra parmesan, please—and the chicken tenders and fries for the little gentleman. Oh, and we’ll take a side of roasted vegetables too,” he added, giving you a quick, almost playful glance.

You arched a brow knowingly. “The vegetables? Bold move.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” he said, smirking.

As the waitress disappeared with a promise that dinner would be quick, Sebastian received a coloring page and a small packet of crayons. Instantly absorbed in his artwork, his little brows furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of his mouth.

It gave you and Lando a moment. A bubble of stillness inside the restaurant’s soft symphony. A moment to just talk, without the world demanding too much.

“So…” Lando began, voice quiet and cautious. “Have you heard from his—”

He gestured slightly, not needing to say more. You knew who he meant. The shadow. The absentee. The person who helped create Sebastian but somehow forgot what it meant to stay.

You shook your head, your fingers tightening slightly around your wine glass. “Only when he feels it’ll benefit him,” you said, the bitterness hidden behind a composed tone. “Usually to ask for something. Or to argue about things that don’t matter.”

Lando leaned back slightly, frowning. “I don’t see how he can just… pretend you two don’t exist. Like, how do you walk away from someone like Sebastian?”

You looked down, exhaling softly. You didn’t have an answer. You never really had.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I’ve come to terms with it. I don’t think Sebastian’s missing anything by not having him around. He’s happy. He’s loved. And if I’m being honest… I’m at peace with it too.”

Lando studied you, his gaze holding something more complex than sympathy. Admiration, maybe. Or something even deeper. There was a strength in you that tugged at something tender in him—how fiercely you loved, how steady you were despite the storm life had thrown your way. It made him think about things. About you.

About settling down.

Why now? Why you? He didn’t know yet. But he felt it. Gnawing and blooming all at once. He took a sip of wine to distract himself.

“Tell me more about you two,” he said, tone lighter now, the weight shifting off both your shoulders.

You smiled, turning your chair just slightly toward him.

“Well, Sebastian’s a big fan of Formula 1… obviously,” you started, throwing him a playful glance. “But aside from that, he’s obsessed with SpongeBob, Paw Patrol, and lately, Tom and Jerry. I think the slapstick makes him feel like he’s getting away with something.”

Lando grinned. “Classic. I loved Tom and Jerry as a kid too.”

“Same,” you said. “And as for me? I’m into dramas, comedies, a little romance. Occasionally cartoons—especially when someone insists I join movie night in a blanket fort.”

Lando smiled at the mental image.

“He’s a waffle lover,” you continued, “but he’ll also go through phases of fruit and muffins in the morning. Grilled cheese sandwiches are his go-to lunch—sometimes crustless, depending on his mood—and for dinner, if it’s not pasta or chicken tenders, you’re in for a battle.”

Lando laughed, leaning forward on his elbows. “Veggies?”

“Oh, those are the enemy,” you confirmed, laughing softly. “We’ve tried dinosaurs made out of broccoli. Spaceships shaped from carrots. I think I once made a full-on zoo with cucumbers and celery. He’s not impressed.”

Lando’s laugh was a little louder this time, catching the attention of a nearby couple.

“He loves bath time, though,” you added, “but hates getting his hair washed. Kicks and squeals every time. Orange is his favorite color—if the McLaren merch didn’t give it away. He says he wants to drive one day, and I believe him.”

Your voice softened as you looked down at Sebastian, still happily scribbling blue stars onto his coloring sheet.

“And I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen for him,” you said. “If that means working extra jobs, if that means staying up late or missing sleep or giving up things I love… I’ll do it. No question.”

Lando’s heart twisted a little in his chest. The kind of twist that comes when something clicks. When you realize you’re watching someone love unconditionally. Fiercely. Gently. And without an ounce of bitterness.

He reached out, lightly brushing the back of your hand with his fingers. It was a small gesture—one that said more than he had words for just yet.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” he said, voice quiet, sincere.

You looked at him, your eyes soft with both gratitude and caution. But in that moment, something unspoken passed between you.

Time moved differently at that table.

It melted between soft glances and shared laughter, weaving through your quiet conversations and the gentle jazz notes that glided in the background like a lullaby. It wasn't just the food or the ambiance. It was the feeling—a rare kind of comfort, like sitting at a table that had always been meant for the three of you.

Dinner had long become more than a meal. It was connection in the purest form.

Plates of steaming pasta were placed in front of you and Lando, the scents of garlic, basil, and cream-rich sauces curling upward in soft waves. Sebastian’s plate of golden, crispy chicken tenders and perfectly salted fries sat in front of him like a crown jewel. His little eyes sparkled with delight, his fork diving in immediately.

Lando, as cheeky as ever, held out a forkful of his pasta toward you. “Try it,” he said, wiggling the fork slightly with an encouraging smirk.

You leaned forward, taking the bite, eyes fluttering shut at the rich burst of flavor. “Mmm… that’s so good,” you hummed in satisfaction.

“Alright, your turn.” You scooped some of yours up and offered it to him.

Lando accepted, eyes on yours as he took the bite. He mirrored your hum, grinning as he swallowed. “Okay, yeah. That’s unreal. We should’ve split both from the beginning.”

Sebastian, never one to be left out, giggled and mimicked you both. “Try mine!” He held out a small piece of his chicken tender between his fingers.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lando said, dramatically leaning in for the bite, followed by you, both of you giving the little boy a grand thumbs up after tasting it.

“This is so good, I might have to order it myself next time,” Lando said, acting genuinely impressed, making Sebastian beam with pride.

With your glasses empty and plates dusted with crumbs and sauces, dessert arrived—a decadent sundae set in a glass bowl, the kind made for sharing. The vanilla was creamy and cold, the chocolate thick and rich, with warm caramel drizzled across the top like golden ribbon. Bits of brownie and nuts rested like treasure at the bottom.

Three spoons. One sundae. One perfect ending.

Sebastian was the first to dive in. “So good!” he declared through a mouthful of ice cream, chocolate smudging at the corner of his lip.

You leaned over and gently wiped it away with a napkin, smiling at him. “You’ve got a little sweet mustache, sir.”

Lando chuckled beside you. “I don’t blame him—it’s amazing,” he said, scooping some for himself, then dramatically dabbing the spoon along his bottom lip. “Oops.”

You arched a brow at him, grinning. “You too?” you teased, reaching over with your napkin, your fingers brushing gently against the stubble at the corner of his mouth as you wiped the chocolate from his skin.

The touch lingered just long enough to feel something.

Something unsaid, soft and magnetic.

Laughter filled the silence that followed, but in those moments between the bites of shared sundae and easy conversation, something had shifted. It wasn't just dinner anymore. It was the idea of something whole. Something healing. Something that felt like it might just last.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Lando had offered to carry Sebastian, who had dozed off in the car almost immediately, his little hands still clutching his new, oversized grey shark plushie like it was a treasure chest. The plush, comically large in Lando’s other arm, bobbed gently with every step as they made their way through the lobby and toward the elevators.

You trailed just beside him, glancing at the way Lando carried your son—not with strain or awkwardness, but like he’d done it a thousand times before. One arm cradling the sleeping boy, the other balancing a plush shark nearly half his size. And somehow, it suited him. All of it did.

The elevator dinged softly as it opened, and the ride up was wordless, only the soft rise and fall of Sebastian’s breathing between you and Lando. When the doors parted again, it was just a short walk to the room. You fished out the keycard with one hand, the other gently brushing Sebastian’s back as Lando stood still, waiting.

Inside, the room welcomed you with that familiar dim hotel glow—soft lights above the bed casting a golden warmth over the tidy, lived-in space. The bed was unmade from earlier, pillows fluffed messily, blankets a bit rumpled, still marked by your shared laughter and rest from the afternoon.

“Here,” you whispered, stepping aside so Lando could carry him in.

Careful, like every movement held meaning, Lando walked over to the bed and gently laid Sebastian down, easing the shark plushie beside him so it tucked perfectly against the boy’s side. Sebastian stirred only slightly, lips parting with a sigh before his small hand instinctively reached for the shark, pulling it close in his sleep.

You knelt beside the bed, brushing back a few curls from his forehead. “Goodnight, baby,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

Lando stood back, watching in silence. He had never seen something so stilling. So complete.

After a moment, you rose, standing beside him in the quiet glow of the room. You both looked down at Sebastian, tucked in between hotel sheets and a plush shark almost as long as he was.

“He really knocked out,” Lando said quietly, his voice just above a whisper, as if anything louder might break the spell.

“He always does after a full day like this,” you murmured, wrapping your arms gently around yourself. “He gets so excited, burns through every ounce of energy, and then…” You smiled. “Out like a light.”

Lando chuckled softly, his gaze still fixed on the sleeping boy. “It’s kind of amazing. The way you just… have it all handled.”

You shrugged gently, your voice low and thoughtful. “I try. Some days feel easier than others. But when I see him like this… it’s worth everything.”

You looked up at Lando then, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, really looked—like he was seeing every piece of you that had gone unnoticed for too long. Not the mother, not the friend, but the woman. The one who loved deeply, gave endlessly, and somehow still had space for more.

His voice broke the silence gently. “Can I stay? Just for a bit.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And so you sat together at the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound filling the room. Sebastian’s breathing stayed steady. The shark plush sat like a sentry beside him. And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you weren’t carrying everything alone.

Both you and Lando held a conversation, quiet enough for just you two, getting to know him more, and you more.

And just like that, an hour struck back when Lando signaled he had to leave, he had to get up early for the grand prix tomorrow, something you and Sebastian would be able to witness thanks to your 3-day paddock club passes.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun had barely kissed the track, and already the paddock buzzed with energy—media personnel weaving through, mechanics checking and re-checking, fans beginning to trickle in with banners, merch, and wide-eyed anticipation. But all eyes briefly shifted when you and Sebastian stepped through the paddock gates.

You, dressed in a sleek, body-hugging white ruched dress that shimmered in the sunlight like liquid porcelain, turned more heads than you intended. The dress, simple yet impossibly elegant, contrasted playfully with the bold orange McLaren cap atop your head and the matching McLaren racing jacket draped effortlessly over your shoulders. The crispness of the white Air Force 1s on your feet gave the look a relaxed finish—fashion meeting fandom in perfect balance.

At your side, Sebastian practically radiated pride, striding confidently in his mini Lando Norris race suit. The suit clung just right to his tiny frame, complete with patches, sponsor logos, and even the little McLaren emblem on the chest. His messy curls poked out from beneath a pint-sized matching orange cap, and his face lit up anytime someone complimented him or gave a high-five.

He gripped your hand excitedly, his other arm wrapped tightly around the jumbo grey shark plushie he refused to leave behind. "I want Lando to see me like this," he said proudly, giving a small tug to your hand as he looked up at you with sparkling eyes. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

You looked down at him with a soft smile, brushing a curl off his forehead. “He’s going to love it, baby. You look like his number one fan.”

Sebastian beamed, his small boots clunking lightly as he walked. “That’s because I am!”

Your Christian Dior tote bag rested in the crook of your arm, holding all the little essentials a mother might need—snacks, wipes, sunscreen, and of course, a sharpie, just in case Sebastian wanted another autograph. The handmade beaded bracelets around your wrist—one reading "Norris", the other "Piastri"—were Sebastian's latest paddock project, and you wore them with pride.

The two of you made your way deeper into the paddock, receiving nods, warm smiles, and a few amused looks at the sight of your fashion-forward fit paired with your tiny race-suited shadow.

Cameras flashed subtly. Whispers of “That’s her—Lando’s…” didn’t faze you. If anything, they added a quiet confidence to your stride.

Sebastian looked up at you again, eyes wide with anticipation. “Do you think he’s here already?”

You smiled knowingly, tightening your grip on his hand. “I’ve got a feeling today’s going to be a really good one.”

The entrance to McLaren hospitality was buzzing with activity—team members moving briskly with radios clipped to their belts, PR assistants glancing over schedules, and cameras from F1TV floating by to capture glimpses of the drivers’ pre-race routines. You adjusted your cap slightly, offering a polite smile to someone who gave Sebastian a thumbs-up.

Before you could step inside, a familiar voice called out.

“Well, look who’s ready for race day,” Oscar Piastri said with a grin, walking toward you in full race kit, a McLaren water bottle in one hand and a relaxed ease in his walk. “That suit might be a little better than Lando’s, to be honest,” he added, squatting slightly to meet Sebastian’s eye level.

Sebastian beamed. “Thanks! I’m his biggest fan today. I brought Sharky too!” He held up the oversized plush with both arms, causing Oscar to laugh.

“Strong choice,” Oscar nodded approvingly. Then his eyes flicked to you. “And you—definitely win best-dressed in the paddock today. You sure you’re not the one about to race?”

You smiled, cheeks warming lightly. “If I were, I'd be aiming for champagne.”

Oscar smirked. “Spoken like a winner. Come in—Lando’s somewhere inside, probably eating his tenth pancake.”

You and Sebastian followed him into the hospitality suite, a wave of cool air greeting you as the bustle of the outside paddock melted into a more private space. The orange and black interiors were bright, clean, filled with quiet team chatter and the soft clinks of silverware from the breakfast spread.

And then—there he was.

Lando, standing near the buffet with his back partially turned, chatting with two engineers and a trainer. His hair still slightly tousled, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the relaxed smile on his face faltered slightly when he turned and spotted you.

You could see it—the brief flicker in his eyes, soft and surprised. And then, the warmest grin tugged at his lips.

“There he is!” Sebastian shouted, breaking into a run, nearly dragging Sharky behind him. Lando bent instantly, arms wide as Sebastian jumped into him, and Lando caught him with a practiced ease, spinning him in a playful half-circle before hugging him close.

“Well, if it isn’t my lucky charm!” he said into Sebastian’s ear, before glancing up at you. His gaze held for a moment too long—just enough to make your heart squeeze.

“You guys came,” he said, softer now.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” you replied, matching his smile even though something about the whole thing tugged deep under your skin.

Lando set Sebastian down, his hand gently ruffling the boy’s curls. Then, as a few team members came up behind him, he motioned toward the two of you casually.

“Oh—uh, this is my friend Y/N,” he said, glancing at you before adding, “and this is Sebastian.”

Friend. Just a word. Harmless. Simple. But it sank somewhere heavy inside your chest. Not because he was wrong—but because, for a moment, you forgot that this wasn't something more. And maybe you’d let yourself believe otherwise.

Still, you smiled, your voice gentle. “Hi, nice to meet you all.”

The team greeted you both warmly—one even joking with Sebastian about being the team’s new mascot. Lando, meanwhile, had knelt down to adjust the strap on Sebastian’s mini race suit, talking to him about pit strategies like he was part of the crew.

You stayed quiet, watching them. You could’ve let it sting longer. But you knew the truth—there were no promises made, no titles given. Just shared moments, private smiles, and one night at an aquarium that left your heart hoping.

So instead, you brushed it off. Like you always did.

Because if today was about supporting Lando, then you’d do just that.

Even if he only called you a friend.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting golden flares across the asphalt as the pre-race grid walk commenced. The tension in the air was thick with adrenaline—crew members moving swiftly around the cars, broadcasters weaving through interviews, and fans leaning against the barriers for a glimpse of their favorites.

You held Sebastian’s hand tightly, navigating the chaos beside one of the most recognizable orange cars on the grid. The roar of engines testing systems vibrated under your shoes, and the smell of hot tires and fuel clung to the air. It was a world unlike any other—and Sebastian's eyes were wide with wonder.

“There he is,” you murmured, pointing as Lando stood next to his car, helmet off for now, laughing with a mechanic as a camera hovered nearby.

Sebastian tugged at your hand. “Can I go say good luck?” His voice was almost shy, though you could tell he was trying to be brave.

You gave a small nod. “Go on, buddy. Just stay where I can see you.”

The moment Sebastian let go of your hand, he marched with purpose through the buzzing grid. His little race suit was slightly rumpled from the excitement of the day, the McLaren logo and "4" on his back catching Lando's eye just before he turned fully.

Lando’s expression instantly softened when he saw him.

“Hey, mate,” he said, crouching down as Sebastian reached him. “You look like you're about to start this race with me.”

Sebastian grinned wide. “I just wanted to tell you good luck.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up briefly to find you watching nearby. You gave him a gentle smile, mouthing go get ‘em.

Back down to Sebastian, Lando said, “Thank you, buddy. Means a lot. I’ve got you cheering for me, so I think we’ve already got the edge.”

Sebastian held up his palm for a high five, and Lando met it without hesitation, then pulled him in for a quick hug. “This one’s for you,” he whispered, gently tapping his forehead to Sebastian’s helmeted head.

As Lando stood back up, he nodded toward you, walking over with a slow exhale. You could tell his mind was starting to flip into race mode—but still, there was a softness in his eyes as they met yours.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, voice low beneath the noise around you. “Both of you.”

“We’re always rooting for you,” you replied, meaning it more than you could say.

He hesitated for a second—like he wanted to say something more—but instead just smiled and backed away as one of the engineers handed him his helmet. He slid it on, the reflective visor clicking into place like a final shield.

Sebastian gave a little wave as Lando turned toward his car, stepping into the cockpit like it was second nature.

You placed a hand over your chest, watching him settle into the machine, surrounded by people—but somehow, still feeling like the only one on the grid.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself, hand finding Sebastian’s shoulder as the grid began to clear. “Let’s watch him fly.”

The lights would go out soon.

And whatever the outcome, you knew this moment—this quiet, private piece of his very public world—would stay with you forever.

The atmosphere in the grandstands was electric. Fans in every direction waved orange flags, their cheers rising in a crescendo as the lights above the grid turned red one by one. The engines screamed in perfect harmony—then silence.

Lights out.

Twenty cars exploded off the line, tires gripping the asphalt as smoke trailed behind them. You and Sebastian sat just above the pit wall in a McLaren viewing box, hearts pounding as you watched Lando’s car surge forward, fighting for position into Turn 1.

“He’s in second!” Sebastian shouted, clutching your arm as Lando tucked behind the leading Red Bull car, timing his move.

Lap after lap, the field spread, then compacted again like a slingshot. Strategy came into play. Rain clouds loomed for a moment before disappearing. Pit stops became a test of perfect precision. McLaren nailed it—Lando out in clean air on Lap 32, tires fresh and focused.

Radio: “Alright Lando, we’re racing for the win here. Let’s push.”

And push he did.

Lap 41: He was closing the gap—half a second behind P1, DRS enabled. You leaned forward, barely blinking as the tension crackled through your bones.

“He’s gonna do it, Mommy!” Sebastian whispered, wide-eyed.

Lap 45: On the main straight, Lando darted left, then right—then made a daring lunge down the inside at Turn 4. Rubber screeched. His rival tried to hold on, but Lando was relentless, using every inch of the track, claiming the corner with the precision of someone who wanted this more than anything.

He was through.

The grandstand erupted. McLaren crew members leapt to their feet. You stood too, hands over your mouth in disbelief as Lando flew ahead.

Lap 48. Lap 52. Lap 56.

Every second stretched like eternity. But Lando held his line, controlled the pace, fought the wind, the pressure, the world.

Final lap.

You and Sebastian were on your feet, cheering, voices hoarse with anticipation. The McLaren pit wall was already half-standing in wait. Lando rounded the final corner, and with the checkered flag waving wildly in the air—

He crossed the line.

P1. Lando Norris wins the Grand Prix.

Tears flooded your eyes without warning, the emotions crashing over you like waves. Sebastian jumped up and down, shouting, “HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”

“YES, HE DID!” you laughed through your tears, sweeping him into your arms.

Radio: “Lando, you are a Grand Prix winner! P1, mate. You did it!”

His voice cracked through the radio, raw and overwhelmed: “Oh my god, finally. Finally. Thank you, team. That one was for all of you... and for someone watching up there too.”

You knew that "someone" was closer than he realized.

In the cool-down lap, he swerved left and right, waving at fans, helmet still on—but you could feel his smile. He stopped on the grid, climbed onto his car, raised his fists into the air, and the world lost its mind.

Trophies, champagne, confetti—those moments came next.

But nothing compared to the instant he saw you and Sebastian outside the garage afterward.

Helmet off, eyes scanning through the haze of celebration, his gaze landed on you both—and that’s when it hit him.

The roar of the crowd had softened into the background now—cheering still echoed in waves, but inside the back corner of the McLaren motorhome, it felt like the world had slowed down for just a moment.

Lando had just showered and changed into a clean team polo, though his curls were still damp and tousled. His skin carried the subtle pink flush from the heat, and his eyes—god, his eyes—looked exhausted but alive. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he got out of the car.

You sat on the couch with Sebastian, who had finally calmed from all the excitement, his small head resting against your side as his fingers absentmindedly played with the lanyard still hanging from his neck. He looked up as Lando stepped in.

“Hi, Champ.” you smiled, soft and genuine.

Lando looked at you, his expression faltering for just a moment—relief, disbelief, emotion. His voice dropped, quieter now than all the shouting and applause from earlier.

“I still can’t believe it,” he murmured, dropping down onto the seat beside you, careful not to crush Sebastian’s legs.

“You earned every bit of it,” you said. “It was yours from the start.”

Sebastian sat up, crawling into Lando’s lap, wrapping his arms around him. “You were so fast! Like zoooom,” he said, making a whooshing sound. Lando laughed, burying his face in Sebastian’s shoulder for a second.

“Thanks, buddy. I told you I’d win today if I saw your suit.”

Sebastian beamed, proud as ever. “I’m your lucky charm!”

“Yes, you are.”

The moment was warm, cozy. The three of you felt like a little island in the middle of all the chaos. But that peace only lasted a beat before Carlos barged in through the door without knocking, grinning from ear to ear, still sweaty and in his Ferrari kit.

“Landoooo!” Carlos called, pointing a finger at him. “You said—if you ever won—you’d party.”

Lando groaned playfully. “Carlos—”

“No excuses!” Carlos waved off the protest. “We’re going out tonight. Whole paddock’s buzzing. It’s your moment, hermano. You're not skipping this.”

You looked over at Lando, who glanced back at you as if waiting for your response.

“It’s okay,” you smiled. “Go celebrate. You deserve it.”

“But I wanted to spend time with you two,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to you and Sebastian again. “I don’t really care about—”

“Lando,” you interrupted softly, brushing your hand against his. “You can have this moment. We’ll still be here tomorrow. Go dance, drink, scream if you want to. You only get your first win once.”

He hesitated, then squeezed your hand.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Promise. We’ll be in bed, watching SpongeBob reruns or something. Go.”

Carlos threw an arm around Lando and smacked the back of his head. “Come on, before she changes her mind!”

Lando finally cracked a grin, standing up with Sebastian still in his arms. He looked at you once more—an unspoken thank-you in his eyes—before gently setting Sebastian down on the couch.

“I’ll text you when I get in,” he said.

“I’ll be asleep,” you teased, “but I’ll read it in the morning.”

As Lando and Carlos disappeared down the hallway, laughter echoing behind them, you leaned back on the couch, Sebastian curling up at your side again.

And though Lando had gone to celebrate with the world, it still felt like his heart had never really left that room.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Somewhere in Australia, while the soft hum of the hotel’s AC wrapped you and Sebastian in a cocoon of sleep, a different world pulsed to life just down the city blocks.

The club was dimly lit but alive—bass thrumming through the floorboards, the strobe lights slicing the shadows like flashes of lightning. Music thundered. Laughter echoed. Bodies moved in rhythm with careless joy. It was the kind of chaos that made the air feel electric, where sweat mixed with spilled liquor and every fleeting moment felt like something worth chasing.

And there he was—Lando.

Shirt half-buttoned, the edges loose and dancing with the rhythm of the club’s fan. His curls were damp at the edges, the scent of his cologne clinging stubbornly to his skin, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey and champagne that hung in the air. His cheeks were flushed pink from both alcohol and adrenaline, and his smile—crooked and disoriented—never quite left his lips.

The celebration was real. Electric. He had finally done it—P1. The first win. The first taste of it. And everyone wanted a piece of him.

Carlos was lost somewhere in the blur of bodies, likely dancing on some table and encouraging shots with people Lando couldn’t name. McLaren team members toasted, DJs hyped him up. Strangers—women—slid into his space like gravity pulled them toward him.

He leaned slightly against a girl, laughter bursting from his chest, and she reached up, fingers brushing his jaw as if she belonged there. Cameras snapped in a flurry—flashes of light capturing a moment out of context but full of implication. Lando didn’t even register the blinking of notifications piling up in his back pocket. His phone was the last thing on his mind.

He was smiling. Drunk. Buzzing. Floating.

And in that moment—between the glass in his hand, the warmth of touch that wasn’t yours, and the loud encouragement of friends and strangers alike—he didn’t see the cracks beginning to form.

Because back in a quiet hotel room, wrapped in cotton sheets and the soft light of the night lamp, Sebastian slept soundly beside you, one hand still holding onto the tail of the jumbo shark plush, the other curled into your side.

And you? You were asleep. Or trying to be. Somewhere in your subconscious, maybe something felt... off. A small shift. A ripple. Like a thread tugging just slightly, signaling something had come undone while you weren't looking.

But Lando didn’t know. Not yet. Not as laughter swallowed him. Not as hands rested where they shouldn't. Not as the night captured a version of him that he might not even remember in the morning.

And certainly not as the world watched, waiting to see how this celebration would cost him something he hadn't yet realized was priceless.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun was high in the sky when you stirred awake, Sebastian’s soft breaths nestled against your side, the morning light seeping in through the cracks of the curtains. It was peaceful—at least, it should have been.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand, wiping the sleep from your eyes, not prepared for the barrage of notifications that had flooded in overnight. Headlines. Photos. Mentions.

A single image opened first—Lando, flushed and smiling in a dim-lit club, his shirt undone, a girl’s hand resting on his chest like she belonged there.

Your chest tightened, breath catching just slightly. You scrolled slowly. More photos. More angles. One of her whispering into his ear. His smile wide, his body comfortably close. He didn’t look forced. He looked... happy. Drunk, yes, but happy.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

You stared for a long while, heart sinking, and yet—you said nothing. No text. No confrontation. No storming call demanding answers. What would be the point? You weren’t his. He had introduced you and Sebastian as his friends, hadn’t he? Not even close to what you thought you might have been.

So instead, you placed the phone down, slid out of bed, and began to pack.

Lando hadn’t texted that morning. Nor that afternoon. You made the decision to leave it at that.

At the airport, Sebastian clutched his stuffed shark, happily babbling about the turtles and fish, unaware of anything heavier lingering in the air. You smiled at him, fixed his little McLaren hoodie, and carried on as if the last few days hadn’t cracked something quietly inside you.

Lando met you at the gate, out of breath and sheepish, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie. “Hey,” he panted, “I was hoping I could say goodbye before you left.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course.”

He crouched to give Sebastian a hug, the little boy clinging to him like always. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he said softly.

“Okay,” Sebastian beamed.

Then Lando looked up at you. “We’ll stay in touch?”

You nodded, keeping your voice calm and pleasant. “Definitely.”

But definitely started to feel more like barely.

Weeks passed. Conversations that once felt effortless turned into polite check-ins. Lando would text, and you would take hours—sometimes days—to reply. You became harder to reach, more brief, no longer offering the warmth he had grown used to.

He noticed.

And eventually, Oscar noticed too.

They were in the paddock weeks later, preparing for another Grand Prix when Oscar finally confronted him during a quiet moment in the garage.

“Do you even know what you did?” he asked, arms crossed.

Lando blinked, startled. “What are you talking about?”

Oscar scoffed. “You don’t get it, do you? She saw the photos, mate. The club. The girl. That night you celebrated like a legend. She never said a word about it, but that’s why she pulled back.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

Oscar continued, “She cared about you. I mean, really cared. She didn’t have to come to your race. She brought her son. Wore your colors. Stood in your world. And you—”

“I didn’t know,” Lando muttered, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

Months slipped by like sand through fingertips.

Your messages came less frequently. Then they stopped altogether. But your Instagram didn’t. Every few weeks, Lando would find himself opening the app, searching for your name. There you were, always glowing.

One photo showed you and Sebastian at a pumpkin patch, his little arms wrapped around that same grey shark. Another had you walking on the beach with him, your smile soft but distant.

In one, you were dressed up for a night out. No tag. No mention of who took the photo. That one he stared at for too long.

The digital distance cut sharper than any silence ever could.

And now, the only way Lando kept up with the life he once dipped his toes into—was through a screen.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three Months Later Off-season Break, Quiet Day in Monaco

Lando was sprawled across the sofa in his apartment, TV playing something he wasn’t watching, phone in his hand as his thumb hovered over Instagram. It had become a routine now — checking your page, looking for any glimpse of your life, of Sebastian, of the family he let slip through his fingers.

And then he saw it.

A hand. A delicate ring sitting neatly on a manicured finger. Resting against a familiar sweater he swore he’d seen on you.

The caption? A simple heart emoji.

And the comments —

“Engaged?! Omg congrats!! 💍” “Wishing you all the love and happiness!” “You deserve this 🥹💖”

His stomach dropped.

He blinked. Read it again. Scrolled. His hands began to shake slightly as he locked his phone, but it didn’t stop the pounding in his chest.

He didn’t even realize Carlos and Oscar had entered the apartment until Carlos tossed a water bottle at him.

“Earth to Norris,” Carlos called out. “What’s with the face? You look like someone just stole your car.”

Lando didn’t answer.

Oscar flopped into a chair and frowned. “Lando?”

He finally sat up, holding his phone like it was evidence in a crime. “I think she’s engaged.”

Carlos blinked. “What?”

“She posted a picture. A hand. A ring. I don’t know if it’s hers but everyone’s congratulating her and—” he stood abruptly, pacing. “I knew I lost her. I just didn’t know it was already this far gone.”

Oscar leaned forward. “You haven’t talked to her in weeks, mate.”

“I didn’t know what to say!” Lando’s voice cracked. “I messed up. I let her walk away. And I’ve been watching her raise Sebastian like the strongest woman I’ve ever met while I sit here doing nothing.”

Carlos exchanged a glance with Oscar before stepping in front of Lando, voice firm. “So do something. Fly out there. Talk to her.”

Lando shook his head. “What if she doesn’t even want to see me?”

Oscar stood, crossing his arms. “Then at least you’ll know. But right now? You’re acting like a coward. You love her. Anyone with eyes could see it.”

Carlos nodded. “And that kid adored you. So either go tell her how you feel or spend the rest of the season wondering what might’ve been.”

Lando stood frozen for a moment — heart in his throat, chest tight — before he turned and grabbed his keys.

“Book me a flight,” he said, voice low. “Tonight.”

The next day Your doorstep – early evening

You weren’t expecting company, especially not when the sun had barely begun to dip behind the trees. So when the knock came, sudden and sharp, you wrapped a cardigan around yourself and padded over.

You opened the door slowly.

Lando stood there. Hoodie half-zipped, sneakers slightly dusty, hair messy like he’d run straight from the airport.

You froze.

He looked like hell. Beautiful, aching hell.

“Hi,” he breathed out. “I—I saw the ring post. I thought you were engaged. I thought you were gone.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. “Wait, what?”

He shook his head. “The picture. I thought it was your hand. I didn’t read the caption, didn’t check anything, I just... I panicked. I flew here without even thinking. I had to see you. Had to know.”

You let out a breath, eyes wide. “Lando, that’s my best friend. She got engaged. I was posting for her.”

Lando blinked like he was waking up. His shoulders dropped as he let out a strangled laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

You stood aside. “Come in.”

He walked in slowly, glancing around as though memorizing everything. Like the home you built with Sebastian was a life he’d only dreamed about.

He turned back to you and the laughter died.

“I thought I lost you,” he said again, voice cracking. “I’ve already been losing you. You’ve been slipping away since Australia, and I knew it. And I let it happen.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

“I know I never said the right things. Or showed up in the right way. I messed up — at the club, and every day after when I said nothing.” He looked down. “But it was never because I didn’t care. I was scared. Scared that what I wanted was too much. That you’d realize you didn’t need me.”

“Lando—”

He stepped closer.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I love you. I love Sebastian. And it’s not some temporary, easy feeling. It’s deep, and messy, and real. I’ve felt like a ghost since I left. I check your Instagram just to feel something. Every time Sebastian smiles in a post I think, that used to be mine too.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was trembling now, the weight of months of silence collapsing in on him.

“I want to be there. Not for show. For real. I want to be the one Sebastian tells his secrets to, the one who packs school lunches, the one who kisses you goodnight, and doesn’t run when things get hard.”

You stared at him — eyes glassy, chest tight.

“You left,” you whispered. “You let me think I didn’t matter.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And if I have to prove otherwise for the rest of my life, I will.”

A small yawn echoed from down the hall.

“Mommy?” came the sleepy voice.

You turned just in time to see Sebastian peek out, hair messy, eyes wide. “Is Lando here?”

Lando crouched down gently. “Hey, buddy.”

Sebastian grinned. “You’re back.”

You looked between the two of them — the connection, the hope in Sebastian’s voice, and the pleading in Lando’s eyes.

And finally, your resolve cracked. You walked to him, wrapped your arms around him, and let yourself feel everything you’d pushed down.

“I’m scared too,” you whispered.

He pulled you closer. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Sebastian was five now — bright-eyed, sharp with his words, and carrying more energy in his little frame than the entire grid on race day. The flat you now called home was tucked into a hillside in Monaco, where the sea kissed the edges of marble balconies and every window glowed with golden sunset light. Fancy, yes — sleek and curated — but warm with laughter, scattered toys, and the fingerprints of a real life being lived inside.

The kitchen smelled of rosemary and lemon, the sauce simmering gently as you stirred with one hand, the other resting absentmindedly over the curve of your belly. The moonlight filtered in through the glass doors, casting silver across the tiled floor. Music drifted low and slow in the background — something jazzy and nostalgic.

Peace. You had found it, and better yet, you had chosen it.

The door opened with a click and a rush of laughter. Sebastian’s giggles filled the flat as he kicked off his shoes, running to his room with the thud of socks against hardwood. Lando followed, gear bag slung over his shoulder, curls tousled from the wind.

You turned, smile playing at your lips. “How’d he do?”

Lando leaned in, stealing a brief kiss before answering. “He’s good. Like, really good. We might be raising the next world champion.”

You chuckled. “He gets it from you.”

Lando’s gaze softened. His hand moved instinctively to your bump, resting over the swell of new life. “And how’s this one doing?”

“She finally stopped her karate routine,” you joked, glancing down. “I think the smell of dinner soothed her.”

“A girl after my own heart,” he said with a grin.

Dinner was cozy, full of overlapping conversation — Sebastian animatedly recounting how he overtook someone on the final lap, and Lando grinning proudly at every word. Between bites, he’d chime in about his own upcoming races and how Sebastian’s form was already better than his at that age. You caught your gaze wandering now and then to the photo in the corner — your wedding day — frozen in time with the sound of the waves and laughter behind you, your veil tangled in the wind as Lando looked at you like he was seeing color for the first time.

After the dishes, which Lando insisted on doing — “Can’t have both of my girls stressed,” he’d said with a wink — the house quieted. Sebastian had curled up in bed with his shark plush and a bedtime story. And now, the two of you were lying in your bed, blankets tangled at your feet, your heads close, voices low. This was the part you loved most — not the trips or photoshoots or champagne showers, but the calm. The pillow talk. The shared world no one else got to see.

You’d once been a single mom fighting your way through life with tired eyes and a hopeful heart, never sure what the next day would bring. But here you were — Mrs. Norris now. With a son who bore that name proudly, and a daughter soon to join the world who would never have to question her father’s love.

The phone buzzed once. Lando rolled to check it.

“Old mate wants to go out tonight. Some club in town,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to you — your belly, your soft smile, your fingers gently tracing patterns across the duvet.

He paused. And then the decision came without thought.

“I’ll be home with the wife and kids,” he said aloud, tapping his screen off. “But you boys have fun.”

He tossed the phone on the bedside table and rolled closer to you, one hand sliding to rest over your belly, the other entwining with yours. He kissed your knuckles and sighed like someone who had run every race just to arrive here, in this exact moment.

“I really did change everything, huh?” he asked softly.

You nodded, resting your forehead against his.

“No,” you whispered. “We did.”

And outside, Monaco slept under a velvet sky, but inside that home, love stayed awake — breathing, growing, anchoring everything that mattered.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

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#lando norris x reader #braindead reccs

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brainddeadd · 9 days ago

Text

chasing ghosts

dr. abbot x f!resident!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, lots of angst, age gap, swearing, alcohol, mentions of child death/multiple casualties at the beginning during a shift words: 8.1K synopsis: you and jack share a kiss during your second year of residency and you spend the next two years trying to outrun those feelings. until the pitt's annual summer party. jack abbot is down absolutely fucking horrendously. like i meaaaaan unprecedented levels of yearning. a/n: hi, i think i blacked out while writing this. eyeeeee had so so much fun. i hope i did jack justice. let me know what you think!!!!

The annual summer party for the Pitt is an all day affair in order to make sure everyone, regardless of who’s working what shift that day, has a chance to stop in.

You wouldn’t think it, but the ER knew how to throw a good party. In the morning, it started with brunch at a place downtown with bottomless mimosas, top tier pancakes, and a drag performance. After brunch, they’d go hang out at the park by the river for a few hours before reconvening for dinner and bar hopping downtown.

Jack Abbot was off today, but still skipped all the morning and afternoon activities in favor of the evening. His sleep schedule was built that way now and even on his off days, it was rare for him to be out during the day. Besides, he was hoping he’d run into you there after your own shift.

You never came to these types of events, but that didn’t stop him from hoping every time. His eyes were always searching, hoping they’d stumble upon yours.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to you much in the last two years, since you switched to the day shift. When shift change occurred, you largely avoided him. He asked Robby about you and Robby always said the same thing, “She’s a great doctor, but she keeps to herself.”

It hadn’t been like that when you were on the night shift. You were shy, sure, but it hadn’t taken Jack very long to pry you out of your shell.

He wondered sometimes if you regretted it, now. Letting him in.

Now, he was making the rounds at the first bar of the night, not so subtly looking for you.

“You’re pathetic,” Robby teased as he sipped his beer.

“Huh?” Jack said, finally bringing his eyes back to the man in front of him.

Robby smirked knowingly, “She is here, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He said, “But her boyfriend is supposed to be meeting her here.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, “Boyfriend?”

Robby nodded, “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone until today. I overheard her mention it to Heather.”

Fuck. Not only were you seeing someone, you were bringing him here, to meet everyone in the Pitt. You must’ve been serious about him, then.

“Do you know where she is?”

Robby tilted his head as he looked at Jack, “You sure you wanna go down that road?”

“I just want to talk to her.” He said, and it was true. Mostly.

The two of you hadn’t had a real conversation since the week before you had requested the shift change. That night on the roof. He felt it was long overdue for the two of you to sit down and talk about it like adults. Maybe Robby was right, maybe it was much too late for that.

But Jack couldn’t accept that.

Robby sighed heavily, “I saw her go upstairs to the rooftop bar with Heather and Samira twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, brother.” Jack clapped him on the back as he headed up the stairs.

***

You liked the quiet of the night time. Being awake and working when everyone else was asleep brought with it a sort of peaceful solitude you couldn’t quite explain.

But Jack hadn’t needed you to explain, he had understood it intrinsically.

The night shift, of course, could become hectic and even nightmarish at times. But if you stepped outside for some air, either on the roof or the ambulance bay, the quiet of the night cocooned you in safety.

And that’s where you were that night two years ago, on the roof and leaning over the railing, trying to catch your breath.

There had been a six car pile up almost immediately rushed in after the day shift had trickled out. Ten patients. Four of them were in critical condition when they arrived, in that terrible purgatory between life and death. For five hours, you, Abbot, Shen, and Ellis had bounced between them. Still, you lost all four of them.

You had kept it together for the half hour after you had called the last patient, despite the fact that you had felt Jack’s eyes on you the whole time.

But he seemed able to keep it together, to not fall apart, so you would too. The knee jerk response to impress him, to make him proud of you had never quite dulled in your two years of residency. It felt a bit fucking pathetic, actually.

Worse, still, that he seemed to notice how badly you craved his validation and so gave it freely.

“Hey,” He stepped close to you, his warm breath caressing your cheek, “Go take a break, I’ll come find you in fifteen.”

“I don’t need a break.” You said quickly.

“You do,” He said, undeterred, “You’ve been staring dead eyed at the board for the last two minutes. Shen tried to call you over for a code stroke thirty seconds ago and you didn’t blink.”

You turned to him finally, panic on your face, “Fuck, seriously?”

You started to walk to go find Shen and the stroke patient, but Jack grabbed your arm, “Nope, uh-uh. Break first. Now.”

It was rare that Jack wasn’t joking with you, trying to make you smile. Now he looked deadly serious. Like he would physically remove you from the floor himself if you refused. You must’ve looked like shit.

“Okay.” You said finally, “Fine.”

He released your arm, but his eyes trained on your every step as you walked away, “I catch you on a patient in the next fifteen minutes and I’m sending you home.” He called after you.

You raised your hand over your head in a thumbs up to signal that you’d heard and kept walking.

And that was how you ended up on the roof. Bathed in the moonlight with the quiet midnight streets of Pittsburgh below, silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you greedily sucked the night air into your lungs.

You weren’t aware of time passing and your mind had gone blissfully blank until you heard him come up behind you.

“How come you, Ellis, or Shen didn’t need a break?” You asked, your voice wavering, “Is there something wrong with me?”

He leaned over the railing at your side and turned his head to look at you, but you avoided his eyes, knowing they’d be soft and warm and inviting. You did not need to see him looking at you like that right now. Just like you had been trying not to notice the way he watched you more than the others, touched you more than was necessary, handed out praise to you more generously.

“Not even a little bit.” He said softly, voice rough, “You were perfect down there. Nothing else you could have done.“

You breathed out a shaky breath, “Then why does it feel so bad?”

“Because you’re human,” He said softly, “And because you were the only one of us to call time of death on a seven year old tonight.”

You swallowed, tilting your head up towards the sky so you could see the moon. A moon that seven year old kid would never see again. “Does it ever hurt less?”

“Fuck, no.” He sighed, “But it makes you a better doctor, I think. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself to try to make it all mean something.”

Finally, you looked at him, and the sight of your red rimmed eyes wrecked him, “It does make you a better doctor,” You hiccuped and gave him a small smile, “The best, probably.”

He shook his head, smirking, and looked down at his hands, “Careful, kid. You keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

Feeling brave, you nudged your shoulder against his, “I mean it. I feel really grateful that you’re my attending. I wouldn’t want to learn under anyone else.”

He pushed his shoulder back against yours and your hands brushed where they each grasped the railing, “I came up here to make you feel better and somehow you’re the one comforting me. How did you get so good at deflecting?”

You laughed through your tears and he relished the sound, “I learned from the best,” You said pointedly as you looked over at him.

“See,” He pointed at you, teasing, “That’s what I’m talking about. Much better. You’re way less unsettling when you’re mean.”

You smiled and he found himself staring at your mouth, enraptured by it, really. The truth was, he had noticed the ways in which he was better when he was around you. Both as a doctor and a teacher. You made him want to be better. He knew he had been giving you more attention than the others, bordering on an inappropriate amount. And he knew, before he came up to the roof, that he’d have a hard time being alone with you and not imagining what you taste like or what your soft skin would feel like under his calloused hands.

He thought you felt the same, but you could be hard to read sometimes. Sometimes, he swore you leaned into his touch, other times you jumped away from it as if he had burned you. Sometimes you went whole days seemingly trying to avoid him, others you followed him around like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head and for him to tell you what a good girl you are.

But now, fuck, now you were gazing at his mouth, too. And he tried, really fucking tried, to rein in the desire. He shouldn’t have kissed you. And he would think about it every day for days and weeks and months and years how badly he wished he could take it back. Not because he didn’t mean it or didn’t want it, but because it had started this downward spiral of silence and distance until you were so far away he hadn’t really seen you up close in two years. If he could go back, he would’ve told himself it wasn’t worth it. Because having only this much of you day in and day out while he yearned for more was better than having nothing at all, than you slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

But he didn’t know then what he knew now.

Cautiously, he moved his face towards yours, waiting for you to pull back. But inch by inch he moved, and you stayed put. And when he was close enough to share breath with you, he met your eyes and was greeted with pupils that had completely devoured your irises. No color in sight, just an endless abyss of desire and want. Your breath faltered when his lips just barely brushed yours, and he stilled for a moment before his self restraint crumbled.

The kiss was hesitant and gentle, at first. Jack kept his hands to himself, slowly kissed you in a way that repeatedly seemed to ask Is this okay? Is this alright? Are you okay? Are you sure?

It was you who deepened the kiss first, tongue darting out to swipe gently at his lower lip.

And the cord between you, that was already so tenuous and frayed, snapped.

His hands shook as he touched you, moving from your waist, to your neck, to your face. It was like his body knew first what his brain didn’t, that he was taking too much and not enough, that hours and days and months and years of touching you would never satiate him anyway and he should just fucking quit while he was ahead. His traitorous mouth that moaned into yours was a bottomless, greedy pit and it could never have you, not really, not even as it sucked desperately at your neck in a useless attempt to mark you as his.

The marks would fade and you would fade from him along with them.

He thinks now he probably knew as soon as you pulled away, at the panic in your eyes, that he had lost you before he had even really had the chance to have you.

But he would deny it to himself, even as you ran off the roof ignoring the way your name came out strangled from his throat.

He would deny it when you didn’t look at him the rest of the night, when you pretended not to hear when he tried to talk to you after the shift change that morning.

He would deny it when you handed him your shift change request form after a week of avoiding him, asking for his signature as you looked anywhere but at him.

He would deny it when his broken voice asked “Is this really what you want?” and you only silently nodded.

Jack Abbot knew he had lost you, he wasn’t delusional, but he could convince himself it was only temporary. He was patient. So fucking patient. He’d find you again, when you were ready.

***

Jack could admit that you having a boyfriend had not been part of his plan. Not that he had a plan, more so an overwhelming sense that if he waited long enough, you’d fall back into him.

But you had still been fleeing the ER at shift change without acknowledging him. He was patient, but it aggravated him to no end, the way you seemed so unaffected. Sometimes it made him feel like maybe he had made it all up in his head and that you had never wanted him at all. But then the film would play on loop again in his head and he knew he didn’t imagine your blown out pupils or the way you deepened the kiss first or the way you moaned when his mouth plucked bruises from your neck like ripened strawberries.

You had wanted him just as badly, he was sure of that. He just couldn’t understand why you were still acting like he didn’t exist.

When he got to the rooftop and looked around, he found you first at a table in the corner, eyes glued to your phone. Another quick glance around and he saw Heather and Samira talking at the bar.

Perfect. You were alone.

When he crossed the roof and sat in the empty seat next to you and you didn’t immediately look up, he realized you had marked his presence on the rooftop as soon as he got here.

The man was like a fucking sonar to your brain. You knew when he was in the same room as you before your eyes could track him. Tonight was no different.

“You look like you could use a drink.” Jack said.

Oh, you hadn’t realized how much you had missed the pleasant roughness of his voice, how it soothed you effortlessly. It practically sent chills down your spine.

You swallowed, continuing to stare at your phone. The second you met those warm hazel eyes, it would be over for you, you knew. It was the reason you had avoided him so diligently the last two years.

“Heather and Samira are getting me one.”

He wordlessly held his own drink out to you. When you stared blankly at it for a few moments, he shook it lightly, ice rattling against the glass, “It’s just a tequila soda. It’s not poison.”

Against your better judgment, and perhaps to indulge that stupid fucking instinct in your head that demanded you not disappoint him, you took it from him. You did your best not to pay attention to the sensation that shot across your skin when your fingers brushed, but the traitorous goosebumps spread across your arms anyway.

You took a sip and handed it back to him, still looking at your phone.

“Why aren’t you with them at the bar?”

“I had to take a call.”

“From your boyfriend?” Finally, fucking finally, you looked at him. It was disdain all over your face, but fuck it, he’d take it. He smirked and held his hands up in surrender, “I didn’t ask, Robby told me. Said he was meeting you here.”

Quickly, you looked back at your phone and he saw your throat bob, “He called to say he couldn’t make it, so.”

Jack watched you carefully, the way you frowned and your mouth turned down just slightly. You were upset, and not just at him.

“I’m sorry,” He said softly, but you scoffed at his apology and shook your head. And that pissed him off, “Look, you may fuckin’ hate me, but I still care about you and I mean it. I’m sorry if he stood you up. I don’t like seeing you sad.”

You rubbed at your forehead in agitation, “I don’t hate you. I’ve never fucking hated you. That’s the problem.”

Well, that was news to him. But he decided not to comment on it. He didn’t want to piss you off anymore than he already had, which seemed to be an awful lot considering he had just got here.

“How long have you been together?” You shot him that annoyed look again, “Christ, I’m just making conversation.”

“Right,” You said sarcastically and shook your head, but you answered all the same, “Two and a half years.” You said quietly. It hadn’t quite caught up to you yet, what you were admitting when telling him that. It took a couple of moments for your brain to catch up, but by then it was too late.

But Jack’s brain was already there, making the mental calculations you had long forgotten about.

Two and a half—? No, that—That couldn’t be right. Because that would mean—

Your face and ears had reddened and you wouldn’t look at him.

Jack’s ears were ringing. He started to say your name—

“Dr. Abbot,” Heather and Samira were back, the latter handing you a drink, “Catching up with your old resident?”

He forced a smile and stood, acted like his world wasn’t fucking falling apart around him, like you hadn’t just dropped a fucking bomb on him in casual conversation.

He was impressed with his ability to hold damn near cheerful conversation with Heather and Samira until he was able to excuse himself.

And this time, it was you who called after him when he left the roof.

“Jack,” Your voice was a soft plea behind him. It was a language he used to be fluent in, but clearly, he didn’t fucking know you anymore. He was starting to think he never had, “Jack, wait—“

He rounded on you in the stairwell, you still a couple of steps above him so the two of you were eye level, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

You seemed to be caught off guard that he had actually stopped, and just blinked at him for a moment, “What difference would it have made?”

“What difference—?” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “All this time I’ve been driving myself out of my goddamn mind trying to figure out what I did wrong when it turns out I was your fucking, what, side piece? Affair?”

“Affair?” You hissed incredulously, “We kissed once!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head, “Does he know?”

“What?”

He was quickly becoming frustrated with your inability to keep up with the urgency this situation demanded. To him, at least, the whole world had shifted around him. And you were behaving as if he was the one acting crazy.

“Your boyfriend, does he know? About us?”

“Jack,” You said breathlessly, “There is no us. There was never an us.”

Jack shook his head, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” You asked, exasperated.

“I’ve been pining after you for two fucking years and you’ve compartmentalized so goddamn well that you’ve convinced yourself it was nothing. That it meant nothing.”

For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of the version of you he used to know. Your face faltered for just a second, but then the walls were immediately back up, “I don’t owe you anything.” You said coldly, “It’s not my fault you’ve spent the last two years chasing a ghost.”

You stared each other down for a few more moments, the rage pulsating between you, before Jack broke your stare by tossing back the rest of his drink, “You’re right,” He said finally, and turned away from you to head down the stairs, “I’m sorry I disrupted your evening. Won’t happen again.”

You sighed, “Jack—“

“It’s Dr. Abbot,” He said coldly, turning back to face you again, “If you don’t mind.”

Your face fell marginally and he almost took it back when he thought he saw your lower lip wobble, but he couldn’t be sorry. If you wanted to pretend like there was nothing between the two of you, then he would do the same.

He turned again and jogged down the rest of the stairs. He needed another drink. Or seven.

***

Your hands were shaking. You stood in the stairwell staring stupidly after Jack for longer than was acceptable. You couldn’t go back upstairs to Heather and Samira like this, they’d know something was up. And you certainly couldn’t follow after Jack.

You should just go home. It was a stupid fucking idea to come here in the first place, you knew it was. And still you had come, why?

Because some part of you wanted to see him? No matter how much you denied it? Never mind the fact you had basically only invited your boyfriend because you knew his presence would keep you accountable if you were forced to be alone with Jack?

You hadn’t wanted him here, not really. Not for reasons that made sense. If you were honest with yourself, which you hadn’t been in a long, long time, your relationship had been over for at least six months.

Seeing Jack again, hearing his voice again made that very clear to you. And a part of you hated Jack for it. You had been able to convince yourself for two years that your current relationship was as good as it would get. Your mistake with Jack on the roof was just that, a mistake. Nothing more.

You had thought after all this time Jack must’ve felt the same. He fucked up and kissed his hot, younger resident, just once. He hadn’t meant to and he would be glad it was all over. You had been doing him a favor, you thought.

But when you had allowed yourself to look at him, really look at him tonight, that hadn’t been what you’d seen. In fact, he was angry with you. He had looked at you with such hurt and betrayal as if all this time he had been in love with you.

It didn’t make any fucking sense. You sat in the stairwell and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. None of it made any fucking sense.

You should go home.

***

Robby eyed Jack with silent suspicion when he joined him back at the bar and ordered two tequila sodas. He knocked the first one back in one go and then rested his head in his hands on the bar top.

“So it went well, I take it?” Robby asked mildly.

Jack glared at Robby and then looked back at his drink, “She has a boyfriend.”

Robby nodded, “Right. I’m glad we’re on the same page about that, now.”

Jack shook his head and felt the tequila make its way through him, “No, you see, she’s had a boyfriend. Since before she moved to the day shift. The same one.”

Robby was silent for a moment, then, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jack knocked back his second tequila soda and ordered another.

“Alright, I can see you’re upset, but all the tequila sodas in the world aren’t going to make you feel better.”

“No,” Jack agreed, “But maybe it’ll stop me from thinking about her for just a while.”

Just then, as Robby was trying to subtly get the bartender to cut off Jack, Robby’s phone buzzed with a text from Heather.

What did Abbot say to Y/N? Found her crying in the stairwell. She won’t stop.

He sighed heavily and turned back to Jack, “You made her cry?”

“What?” Jack looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“Heather says she’s sobbing in the stairwell.”

Oh, he hated the way that sent an ache through him. There was a time when he would’ve taken off running to get to you if he had heard that. Maybe even just earlier today. Not now, though.

“Believe me, her eyes were fucking bone dry when I left her.”

Robby’s phone buzzed again.

Never mind. Finally got her to say something coherent. Broke up with her boyfriend over the phone. Nothing to do with Abbot.

Christ. Nothing to do with Abbot. Right, Robby thought and rubbed a hand down his face, somehow he doubted that very much.

Robby looked back at his friend, debating if he should deliver this news to Jack or not. But Jack was very drunk now and he’d probably just tear after you like a man on a mission. Neither of you needed that right now, Robby thought. He’d tell Jack in the morning.

***

Heather and Samira sat on either side of you as you tried and failed to explain everything to them. You were very bad at this. Having work friends. Shen and Ellis had tolerated you, always including you, buying you coffee, but you knew really you were mostly third wheeling. And you hadn’t minded it. You had always tried to draw a firm line between your work and personal life, which is probably why the situation with Jack fucked you up so badly.

Heather started again, “So you and Abbot—“

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you switched to the day shift.”

“Yes.”

“And Jack also wanted you moved to the day shift?”

This is where things got murky for you. Tiredly, you rubbed your eyes, “I don’t know what Jack wanted because I never asked.”

“He didn’t know about your boyfriend then, either?”

You shook your head slowly, “I thought the fact that I was his resident was excuse enough. I left because I didn’t trust myself around him and I thought it’d be easier on us both.”

“And today was the first time you’d really spoken in two years?”

“Yes.”

“And this one conversation spurred you to break up with your long term boyfriend on a whim?”

You looked at Heather and smirked, “So you’re getting it now? Why I should be institutionalized?”

Heather and Samira both laughed, but Heather shook her head, “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re finally being honest with yourself about your feelings. Which is really fucking brave.”

“I say we go to the next bar and get very drunk.” Samira said, standing.

“Oh, I— No,” You shook your head, panicking, “What if he’s there?”

“Oh, I hope he is.” Heather laughed and the two of them linked arms with you.

***

Robby walked silently next to Jack as they made their way to the next bar, his hands stuffed in his pockets, “Brother, I really think maybe you should just sleep this one off.”

Jack turned to Robby, “It’s only 10 PM which is roughly 10 AM by my standards. So there will be no sleeping from me for a while. But you, by all means, can go home.”

Robby inhaled slowly through his nose. He was fucking exhausted, but he didn’t trust Jack in this state. And he had seen you go off with Heather and Samira not too long ago, headed in the same direction they were walking in right now.

So he kept walking, eyeing Jack every so often until they got to the bar.

He should have just gone home, probably.

Because once they got to the bar, all hell broke loose.

***

The room was spinning. The text had come in just moments after back to back lemon drop shots and your vision was blurred. You were unsure if it was from tears or the alcohol.

“Hey, what happened?” Samira was shouting in your ear over the din of the bar.

You passed the phone to her wordlessly as you ordered another shot. You needed to be belligerent if you were going to survive this.

Samira’s jaw dropped as she watched the video. She scrubbed back and forth a few times before she handed the phone back to you.

“This is the boyfriend who couldn’t meet you here because of ‘work’?”

You nodded.

“Well, you made the right call then, breaking up with him.”

You laughed humorlessly, and then you were sobbing, “I don’t know… why I care…” You hiccuped, “I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time.”

Samira sighed, rubbing a hand down your back, “It sounds like you tried really hard to salvage the relationship. Probably feels like a waste of almost three years of your life now,” This renewed your sobs and Samira looked at you with alarm, “I’m not saying I think you wasted three years, I just mean, it probably felt that way— I’m gonna go find Heather, she’s much better at this sort of thing.”

Alone, you ordered a drink and wiped at your cheeks. You knew Jack was next to you before you smelt his cologne and sighed heavily.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “I’m just getting a drink and then I’ll go as far away from you as possible.”

You only nodded. The man you had chosen to fight for had stood you up to go to a bar across town and make out with the coworker he swore for months you had nothing to worry about while your best friend unknowingly filmed him from across the room.

The man you were beginning to suspect had been in love with you for close to four years now, you had spent the last two years running away from and now he hated you.

It felt like a big cosmic joke.

You rested your head on your arms and willed him away so you wouldn’t have to confront the long string of bad decisions you’d made that had led you here.

But Jack just couldn’t resist when you looked so miserable, “Are you alright, kid? Hate seeing you like this.”

You pushed your head up and met his eyes. Despite your earlier argument, he was looking at you with tenderness and concern. He meant it, that he cared, you could see it all over him. It made you want to burst into tears again. And maybe that’s why you decided to poke the bear, see how far you could push, what would make him really, truly loathe you? It was what you deserved after all, right?

You turned your head away from him and unlocked your phone, tapping to the video your friend had sent, hitting play and sliding it over the bar top to Jack, “You’ll be happy to know this is what my boyfriend was too busy doing to meet me tonight. Some sort of fucked up karma, I suppose.”

Jack’s face betrayed nothing as he watched the video, but you thought maybe a muscle in his jaw ticked. He slid the phone back to you, “Whatever you think of me, I’m not enjoying this.”

You scoffed and shook your head, looking down at the bar top.

“I’m serious. I would never—“ You hear him sigh in frustration, “Just because I’m hurting doesn’t mean I wish you were hurting, too. If anything, if you were happy, maybe it’d all make more sense to me.”

He tapped his finger on top of your phone case, “That guy’s a fucking idiot. You deserve way better than that.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, carefully avoiding looking at him, “Hey,” He said and crooked a finger under your chin, gently pulling until you met his gaze, “You deserve better, okay?”

You were conscious of the fact that you wanted to kiss him. And you knew he saw the way your eyes drifted dangerously to his mouth.

“I did the same thing to him.” You said quietly, still staring at his mouth, “Only seems fair.”

Jack released your chin and shook his head, “Don’t compare what we did to… To that.”

He sounded disgusted and it made you want to laugh, “How is it any different?”

“That is just drunken lust.” He leaned towards you on his forearms, “What we did meant something. Maybe not to you, but it did to me.”

“And that makes it better?”

“Did it mean something to you?” He shot back.

His face was very close to yours now, you could smell the tequila on his breath.

“Tell me,” He said slowly, “Tell me it didn’t mean anything to you and I swear to God, I’ll walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the watering of your eyes. Of course you couldn’t tell him it meant nothing. You had thought about it nearly every day for two years.

But you were drunk and a fucking wreck and you didn’t know anything anymore except that you still remembered exactly what Jack Abbot tasted like and that he was looking at you right now like he would get on his knees for you in this crowded bar if you asked.

“I should go.” You whispered softly, broken, and slid from your bar stool.

He let you pass, but then called after you, loudly enough that people around you quieted, “What the fuck are you so scared of?”

You turned back, knowing that your face was flushed from the attention of others, “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.”

***

“Hey, let her go,” Robby stood in front of Jack who was now trying to exit the bar and follow after you, “You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted, and when he looked around Robby, he saw it had started to downpour outside, “She’s drunk and it’s storming out there.”

“Heather will check in with her and make sure she gets home okay.”

Jack looked from the door to Robby a few times before sighing and running a hand through his hair, “Sorry, I just… She really gets under my fucking skin.”

Robby nodded and tried to stifle a yawn, “I noticed.”

Jack sighed, “Go home, Robby, seriously. I’m not gonna do anything stupid. I promise.” He shook his head, “I should probably just go home, too.”

Robby offered a sad smile and clapped him on the shoulder, “It’ll all make more sense in the morning, brother.”

Jack snorted, “Historically, that has never been true for me.”

***

It felt pretty melodramatic to be standing in the park overlooking the river as it poured. It was all very Jane Austen of you, you decided. Except Mr. Darcy would not be showing up to declare his love for you, Mr. Darcy was likely dry and headed home in his UberX.

You didn’t know where home was anymore. Luckily, you hadn’t moved in with your boyfriend yet. It was one of the many things that should have been a red flag, the fact that you hadn’t had a desire to cohabitate with him. You liked when he left in the morning and you liked the nights where he got home too late and went to his own apartment so as not to disturb your rest.

But still, there were traces of him all through your apartment. You didn’t want to be there.

You’re not sure how long you sit in the warm rain before your phone buzzed. You expected Heather or Samira, but were shocked to see Jack’s name on the banner, alerting you to a text.

Jack hadn’t texted you in something like two years.

I know I shouldn’t be texting you, it read, But I just want to be sure you got home safe. Please text when you’re home.

After staring at your phone for a few minutes, now soaked with the rain, you attempted to dry the screen with the sleeve of your jacket. It worked only slightly, but allowed you to hold down the text and “like” it.

After about thirty seconds, the speech bubble appeared on your phone to indicate he was typing.

Well don’t just fucking like the message. Are you home?

You could lie, you supposed. Probably, you could walk into PTMC and sleep in an empty room upstairs.

But you were growing tired of all the pretending.

no. You replied finally.

His reply was immediate, Where are you?

in the park.

It’s raining.

excellent observation, dr. abbot.

You stared at the screen as his speech bubble appeared and disappeared, over and over, for a couple minutes.

Send me your location. Then, almost as an afterthought, Please.

This was a bad idea, probably. After the events of today, you should not be sending Jack Abbot your location. You should not be speaking to Jack Abbot at all. After today, you should probably resign from your residency and maybe join a convent.

You watched as seemingly of their own volition, your hands tapped all the right buttons to send Jack a pin.

A few moments later, he texted a screenshot of an Uber being sent to your location with the car information and license plate.

i don’t want to go home. You sent him in a rush.

Yeah, I got that, he replied, The Uber is bringing you to me.

You blew a long breath out between your lips, you sure that’s a good idea?

Nope. Uber’s pulling up now.

Sure enough, headlights lit up the raindrops behind you. You turned to see the car, quickly giving the license plate a cursory once over to make sure it matched what Jack sent.

You could send the car off. Say it was a mistake. Not get in. Showing up at Jack’s apartment soaked to the skin in the middle of the night, still drunk and emotionally unstable felt like boarding a train you knew would derail.

You still got in the car, though. You didn’t have anywhere else to go.

***

When Jack opened the door to his apartment, the frigid air from his AC assaulted you and you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stepped aside to allow you in and you kicked off your water logged shoes.

You had been here only once before, the first week of your residency. Jack would host a team dinner (early, so you could all still make your shift in time) whenever a new resident was added to the night shift.

You had been really nervous you recalled, until Jack had cracked a joke that made you choke on your soda.

It had been almost four years, but his apartment hadn’t changed much at all. It was neat and tidy, nothing out of place. The furniture was well taken care of, but everything was in varying shades of gray and blue. The only hints of personality being some pictures on his fridge, vinyls by a stereo, and some books on a shelf.

But one photo on his fridge caught your eye and before you knew what you were doing, you were walking to it.

Early in your second year of residency, you had presented your research on cardiogenic pulmonary edema outcomes in the ER at a conference in New York. Jack had shown up without telling you he was coming. He stayed near your poster all day while you presented to interested passersby, giving you a thumbs up or “solid work” when you needed it, smuggling you snacks, making sure you drank water. And at the end of it you remembered he took you out to dinner and told you how proud he was of you and what a great emergency medicine doctor you would be.

You had taken a picture with him in front of your poster and this was the photo on his fridge. You had a huge smile on your face and Jack had an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“I didn’t know you had this.” You said softly.

He didn’t say anything so you turned to look at him, but his eyes were trained on the photo, “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” He said finally, walking by you to his bedroom.

You watched in his doorway as he pulled a pair of clean sweatpants and a t shirt from his closet and placed them at the edge of his bed, “The shower’s in that room,” He pointed to a door off the bedroom, “There’s clean towels under the sink, use whatever soap you like.”

He started to walk past you, but you grabbed his arm, and he stopped, eyes snagging on the hand that was touching him, “Thank you.” You said softly.

His eyes slowly roved upwards until they met yours. He searched your face, though you weren’t sure what he was looking for, then pressed a kiss to your forehead before he left the room.

***

After you were showered and changed, you wandered out to the living room where Jack sat on the couch, an arm draped over his forehead. He had taken his prosthetic off and it was propped up next to the coffee table.

When he heard you pad into the room, he cracked his eyes open, “Feeling better?” You nodded. “Good. Take the bed, I’ll sleep out here.”

But you still stood there, staring at him, arms wrapped around yourself, “Do you love me?” You asked, voice small.

He stared at you for a moment and sat up, running a hand over his face, “Have I not made it painfully obvious?”

“For how long?”

He shook his head and smiled at you incredulously, “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You’ve been in control of this,” He gestured between the two of you, “From the second I fucking met you and now you’re trying to what, decode the situation? See what outcome is most advantageous? I mean, Jesus Christ, what do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“Yes,” He said, “Not what seems correct, not what seems rational, what is it that you want?”

“I—“ You shook your head, “I don’t– I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He said firmly, “Do you want your cheating boyfriend?”

You frowned, “No.”

“Did you ever want him?”

You huffed in frustration, “What do you mean?”

“I mean when you chose him over me, was that what you wanted?”

“That’s not a fair characterization of what happened—“

“Was it what you wanted?”

You faltered, “It was what was safest.” You said softly.

He smiled at you sadly, “He couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t love him, right?”

You stared up at the ceiling, willing the tears back into your eyes, “I didn’t think it meant that much to you.”

“You never gave me the chance to tell you.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, “I’ll ask you again, what do you want?”

You looked at him, eyes watering, and you swallowed hard before you moved to him. He watched you as you placed a knee on either side of his legs, straddling his lap. His eyes followed your every movement reverently, your face just above his as you rested your forehead against his. His hands knotted themselves in your hair, “I’m scared,” You breathed shakily into his mouth.

“Of what?” He asked, his mouth near centimeters from yours.

“Of you. Of wanting you too much. Of losing you. Of everything.”

“I can’t promise you that this will work,” He said softly, “But I can promise I’ll fight like hell to make it work.”

You swallowed, “Because you love me?”

Finally, he laughed, “Yes, I fucking love you. Now be quiet.” He said before he kissed you.

He tasted exactly like you remembered, except tonight, there were remnants of tequila on his tongue. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, the way he kissed you on that couch. He pushed his tongue into your mouth almost immediately, like he was searching for something he’d lost. Already, you were out of breath, hips grinding down on him without realizing. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently, groaning when you rubbed yourself on his growing erection.

“Slow down,” He chastised.

“You started it.” You reminded him.

“Fuck,” He moaned and then pushed you off him so he could crawl over you, “You’re sure?” He asked as you looked up at him, hair fanning around your head on the couch cushion like a halo.

You nodded, “I want you.”

He smirked and lowered his head to yours again, pulling kisses from you as one hand worked its way under your t-shirt. Your skin was smooth and soft there and he inched up slowly, until his fingers just brushed the underside of your breast. Touching you like this, he thought a lot about that night on the roof, the way he had kissed you like he knew he was already out of time.

Now… Now the world seemed to open up. He could take as much time as he wanted. You weren’t going anywhere, not this time. You were his and he wouldn’t let you go so easily again.

Gently, he tugged the t-shirt over your head so he could look at you and he was unable to suppress the sigh that tumbled from his lips. He squeezed your breast with one hand, thumbed your nipple and watched it pebble as you sighed. Still watching you, he pinched your nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger and your eyes rolled back into your head as you writhed beneath him.

He kissed you, fingers still teasingly rolling your nipple between his fingers, and then he began to kiss down your jaw and neck until he was able to suck your nipple into his mouth. The moan that fell from your lips when he swirled his tongue around you went straight to his cock.

He was overly conscious of the fact that because he had imagined this very moment for two years minimum, likely longer, because he had imagined it hundreds of times while getting himself off, it was likely he would last all of thirty seconds once he was inside you, once he felt the real thing. So he would make this last for you.

Jack shimmied the sweatpants off of you and forgot that because you were here and you had just showered, you weren’t wearing panties. And suddenly, he felt feral.

“Jesus Christ,” He shook his head looking at you, it felt like maybe he was dreaming a little, having you naked beneath him. He felt almost delirious with it.

You looked up at him, those pupils once again whole saucers, “Touch me, please?” You whined.

He kissed you again, licking into your mouth as he reached a hand down between your thighs. You gasped as he fully sunk a finger into you. When he moved his mouth back down to suck on your other nipple, your back arched and it sent him into another dimension, being able to make you feel like this.

With two of his fingers pumping you slowly and a thumb on your clit, he felt the moment when you climaxed before you cried out, “That’s it, sweetheart,” He said softly, “Look so pretty when you come for me like that.”

As you caught your breath, you watched as he pulled his fingers out of you and then sucked your juices from his digits. “Taste so good, too.”

Your eyes stayed locked on one another as he reached for a wooden bowl on the coffee table. He took the top off, pulled out an aluminum packet, and closed it again. And suddenly you were giggling, “What?” He asked, ripping the package open.

“D’you fuck mad bitches on this couch or something, Jack?”

He rolled his eyes, but smirked, “Shut up.”

When he slid into you, forehead pressed to yours, you gasped at the sensation. You had thought about this countless times before, Jack Abbot above you, like this. What you had never really thought about was that maybe while he did it, he’d be looking at you like he was in love with you. And it nearly shattered you.

“I love you,” You murmured into his mouth as you felt him beginning to come undone, “I love you so much.”

He moaned your name as he finished and collapsed against you, damp and breathless, “You love me, huh?” He said after a moment.

You lightly scratched the back of his head, “I’ve loved you for years,” You said softly, “Just spent a lot of that time denying it.”

He pulled his head back and kissed you messily, your chin grasped firmly in his hand.

“Better late than never.”

#jack abbot x reader #° braindead reccs

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