cannelley - Tumblr blog

cannelley · 1 day ago

Text

forbidden taste.² // ln4

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, smut, fluff, fewtrell!reader, brother’s bestfriend au, friends to lovers, kinda forbidden love??, slowburn, hurt-comfort

word count | 15.4k (part two)

warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, soft sex, p i v, oral (m, f), hair pulling, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, virginity loss, slight voyeurism, aftercare), forced proximity, makeout scenes, pet names (sunshine, baby), secret relationship, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.

music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy

summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.

a/n: read part one here <3 hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡

The next morning, the villa seemed to hold its breath. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, heavy with the scent of saltwater and jasmine, and already the weight of the morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence where you could almost hear the thoughts racing, the weight of the air pressing in as though something was about to break.

You sat at the end of the dining table, one leg tucked beneath you, a loose hoodie slipping off your shoulder. You stared down at your cereal, which already started to become mushy, your spoon abandoned in the bowl. You weren’t really eating—you were just there, staring down at the swirls of milk and flakes while your thoughts looped back to last night.

Your thighs still tingled. Your skin still remembered the brush of his fingers, the way he whispered praise into your ear with a voice so low it made your lungs forget how to breathe.

And then he just left.

You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. You just stared at the ceiling until the sun started spilling across your sheets, your lips curving without your permission, heat blooming across your cheeks.

Footsteps padded across the tile—not rushed, not hesitant. Just calm, and easy. You knew it was him before he even came into view, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t move, yet your breath still caught anyway. You hid the smile quickly, biting the inside of your cheek as though that could erase the evidence.

He walked into the kitchen without pause. Hair tousled, his curls messy and falling over his forehead. A simple black t-shirt stretched across his torso, sleeves tight against his arms. Navy shorts hung low on his hips. He didn’t look like someone haunted by the night before. He looked… effortless. Like this was just another morning.

Your heartbeat was a slow, steady thud in your ears. He hadn’t said anything after last night. Not when he left with your name still clinging to his lips. And now, he was here, barefoot and relaxed, as if the memory of his fingers deep inside you wasn’t still thick in the air between you.

He reached for the orange juice in the fridge, the sound of the cap twisting echoing in the silence. You wondered if it was too loud, but to you everything felt too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant swoosh of the waves from the ocean, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He poured himself a glass, the golden liquid cascading smoothly into the cup, the way his fingers curled around the glass—so strong, yet effortlessly delicate.

He never once acknowledged you, but somehow you could feel his awareness. He knew you were there.

Lando leaned against the counter, still not looking at you. But you looked, you couldn’t stop yourself. The curve of his throat, the faint red mark on his collarbone—had you done that? Or was it a different girl? Your eyes dropped lower, to the veins in his forearm, to the way his fingers flexed around the glass with tension he probably didn’t realize he was holding.

The seconds ticked by like hours, stretching the air between you until it vibrated with unspoken words. And then, as if finally deciding to break the stillness, he looked at you. But it wasn’t just a look or a small glance. Lando watched you, his eyes locked on yours, sharp and knowing, and then that damn smirk tugged at his mouth. Slow. Crooked. As if he was letting you know—without words—that he remembered everything.

Your stomach flipped. You should have looked away, pretended to be too busy with your cereal. But instead, you smirked right back. A tiny one, more playful than defiant, like you’d just agreed to play along in this silent game. You remembered the way he looked at you last night—right before he slid his fingers between your thighs—with reverence, like he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it.

The tension wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was charged. Like teenagers daring each other not to break first. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to your mouth, before flicking back up. He took a slow sip of juice, as though he wasn’t caught, but his eyes never left yours.

You leaned your chin on your palm, tilting your head at him. “Morning, Lan.” You said, casual, but your voice carried more than that—like you were testing how much he’d give away.

His smirk deepened, one eyebrow ticking up. “Morning, Sunshine.” He echoed, smooth, easy, but his eyes sparkled with something far less innocent.

The air between you thrummed, like the universe had reduced itself to nothing but glances and smirks across a breakfast table.

Suddenly, Max’s voice broke through the air like a slap, loud and oblivious as he stomped in, “Where the fuck is my charger?” He muttered while ruffling his hair, already half-complaining.

You jumped slightly at the sudden interruption, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He was still a bit drunk from the night before, his words slurring together as he dug through the drawers, looking for his charger.

Lando shifted immediately, the tension vanishing like it had never existed. You, on the other hand, were still frozen, while your heart was beating too fast. Your palms suddenly went cold as you clenched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that wasn’t the pull of his gaze.

“Hey, are you seriously still looking at your cereal?” Max’s laugh was grating, but it was easy to let it wash over you, pushing away the tension that was still hanging in the air like fog.

Lando, however, didn’t break. He didn’t let the interruption completely pull him away from whatever had been between you. He just bit his bottom lip, eyes darting from Max to you in the span of a heartbeat. The smirk remained, like a secret only the two of you shared.

The moment stretched long as Max rambled something uncomprehendable under his breath, as Lando’s attention remained fixed. His eyes flicked from Max to you, and back again. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that held you captive in place, even as the noise from Max’s antics continued in the background.

You tried to breathe, but it felt like you were suffocating. The space between you and Lando seemed infinite and too close all at once. Every time your eyes met his, there was an undeniable, magnetic pull. And yet, he didn’t break the silence. He didn’t rush forward to fill it. He just watched—eyes gleaming, smirk softer now, but just as dangerous.

Max continued his tirade about his charger, finally locating it under the couch, and tossing it carelessly onto the table. Then finally, Lando placed his glass in the sink and moved toward the hall. But as he passed behind your chair, something happened. His hand brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like the memory of the touch from the night before. But your body flinched anyway—every nerve sparking to life, your skin burning beneath where his fingers had grazed. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t stop his tracks. But you felt it.

Max was wandering across the room, completely unaware of the situation between Lando and you. But you knew better.

Everything between you two had changed, and though the world seemed to spin on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

────୨ৎ────

Laughter was bouncing off the walls in the villa, and music was thumping through the thick summer air as the glasses clinked in careless celebration. Only a few days have left in Ibiza.

It was too loud, and too hot. Too crowded with people who had no idea what had passed between you two just a few nights ago. No one knew that Lando had had his fingers buried deep inside you while your breath hitched, gasping his name like it was the only thing tethering you to life.

Now, here you were, both pretending that night had never happened. Well, sort of.

Lando lounged across the pool, sunk into one of those overstuffed chairs with a glass of something cold in his hand. His curls were messier than usual, dark and wild, shadows playing over his jawline that was clenched tighter than anyone pretending to be relaxed should be. He wasn’t looking at you—at least, not openly—but you could feel him. Like a pulse beneath your skin, drawing your eyes back to him, again and again.

Finally, your gaze caught his. It was slow, deliberate. Neither of you willing to look away first. Your eyes locked like some silent challenge, electric and heavy. You didn’t smile, and neither did he. But the tension between you snapped into place like a taut wire, humming with everything you weren’t saying, everything simmering just beneath the surface.

Then, without a word, Lando stood up. He wasn’t in a rush, no sudden moves. Just smooth, deliberate steps, passing close enough that his fingers brushed your hip—light as a feather, but you knew better. It was never accidental.

He disappeared inside the villa, footsteps fading down the hallway until a door clicked open, but it didn’t close. You knew exactly what that meant. You waited, heart pounding loud in your ears, counting the seconds-ten, fifteen-before you followed, steady and sure.

The bathroom was dim, bathed in the soft golden glow leaking from the hallway lights. The bass of the party thudded muffled beyond the door, but here, time slowed.

Lando was already there, leaning against the sink like he had all the time in the world-like he hadn't been eyeing you from across the room all night, like he hadn't traced your every step in that little sundress that barely brushed your thighs.

He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at you-dark, unreadable, jaw tight, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was already winning. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his shorts like he didn't trust himself to touch you again.

“Took you long enough.” He finally murmured, voice low and smug.

“You didn’t exactly rush me, Norris.”

“Didn’t need to, Fewtrell.” His eyes roamed over you with a dark heat, each slow sweep like a silent claim.

You moved first—one step, then two, until you were close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath against your face.

“Sunshine…” He said finally, almost like a warning.

Your nickname—tender and teasing—the one he always used when he wanted to sound playful. But now it was tight in his throat. It made your stomach twist because he never said it like that. Not with his mouth this dry, and his eyes already glued to your lips.

“This is a bad fucking idea.”

You tilted your head. “You think I don’t know that?”

He sighed, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as he looked you over again—really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your bare legs, and the shine of want in your eyes that matched the one in his.

And he cracked. Again.

“Fucking hell…” He muttered, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You stepped closer, one slow, deliberate movement at a time, until you were standing between his legs. You didn’t touch him yet—just looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft.

“You didn’t stop me that night,” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “But I should have. You’re—”

“Max’s little sister?” You cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m also the one you’ve been thinking about every time someone walks into the room.”

The look on his face—God. It was like you’d cracked something open.

His expression faltered for a second, just a flicker, but enough to see it all pour through. First came surprise—barely there, just a flick of his brows. Then irritation, not at you, but at himself—for being so obvious. For letting you see how tightly you’d wrapped yourself around his every thought.

His jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew you were right.

Then came the worst part, the one he tried to bury beneath a half-lidded stare—the longing, plain and aching. It flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken, curling in the corners of his mouth that wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite get there. Like he hated how much he wanted you. Like he was two seconds away from either kissing you stupid or walking away before he could ruin everything. But he didn’t walk away, and that silence, thick and electric, was answer enough.

You didn’t give him time to argue again. You dropped to your knees in front of him— slow, controlled—watching the way his eyes went wide, then half-lidded with lust all over again.

“Fuck, wait—” His voice caught in his throat as your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of his shorts.

He reached down like he might stop you, but his touch faltered the second your fingers looped into his waistband. “I’m serious,” He said, though there was no heat in it. “We can still walk away from this, and forget it all.”

You looked up at him with a smirk, easing his shorts down. “Then go.”

Lando didn’t move. He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between guilt and desire. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained somewhere on the ceiling, like if he didn’t see you, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. That you weren’t happening.

Because fuck, you were Max’s little sister. You were off-limits for him, and he had no business in being this close to you, especially not like this—seconds away from crumbling for you, with your hands on his thighs while kneeling in front of him like this. So damn tempting, and so utterly unfair.

It was wrong. It was reckless. But it was inevitable.

His fingers flexed against the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going white. He was using every last bit of restraint he had left—every warning, every memory of Max’s voice in his head—to stop himself from losing control. But you were there, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, and a mouth he had no right to want on him as badly as he did. All he could think about was how you’d felt the other night—how warm, how wet, how desperate you’d been beneath his fingers. How badly he wanted more.

A slow smirk curled on your lips, while observing his silent struggle. “That’s what I thought, Lan.”

And then you began—your secret, sweet mission, practiced in the quiet dark for months, now brought to life with every touch, every breath, every pulse between you.

You didn’t rush, not yet. You let your lips skim along the edge of his waistband, hot breath ghosting over the fabric as your hands tugged his shorts down slowly. Your fingers grazed along the hard line of him through his boxers, and the way he was already so hard it made your mouth water.

His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, and you gave it a single, deliberate stroke, letting your thumb swirl over the head and smear the precum. He groaned, biting down on his knuckle to muffle it.

“Don’t fucking tease me, sunshine.” Lando warned, but his voice was strained, betraying him. He liked it. Liked the way you looked on your knees, like sin wrapped in summer heat and lipstick, ready to make him break.

“You didn’t mind teasing me the other night,” You murmured, voice silk. “Thought it’s only fair this way.”

That earned you a quiet, desperate laugh through his nose, but it was cut off the moment you fully wrapped your fingers around him—finally. Warm skin, heavy in your hand, already aching for you. You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick at his tip.

He hissed, eyes fluttering shut, jaw flexing like he was biting back a groan.

“Keep quiet, Lan,” You teased, tongue flicking out just enough to briefly taste him. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”

Lando didn’t answer, though. He just stared down at you like you were unreal, his hand tightening in your hair as you moaned softly—needy, and breathless.

“Holy shit,” He groaned, his hand tangling tight in your hair. “You’re unbelievable— fuck, Sunshine…”

You looked up through your lashes, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. “Just for you, Lan.”

When your lips finally closed around him, the tension cracked. His hips jerked forward, breath hitching as you took him slowly and deliberately, desperate to feel every inch of his cock. His fingers tangled in your hair as he tried to steady himself, but every moan caught in his throat betrayed him.

“F-fuck—” His free hand flew over to his mouth, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “Don’t do that— d-don’t fucking look at me like that.”

Like what?

Like you were proud of this.

Like you wanted to ruin him.

Like you could anything to him in that moment.

You sucked him deeper, letting your lips glide down until the head bumped the back of your throat, and he made a broken sound that sounded too close to a moan for comfort. He gripped the counter hard as the hand from his mouth travelled down, trying to keep still—trying not to fuck your pretty little mouth with his dick, even though every part of him wanted to.

Oh, but you weren’t done, not yet.

You set a rhythm, letting him slide deeper and deeper each time, your spit slicking down his length. You hollowed your cheeks, and slid up just to swirl your tongue around the tip, making Lando choke out your name.

When you finally pulled back just to stroke him, spit trailing between your lips and his tip, he looked down at you like he was going to fall apart.

“Where the hell—” He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” You just smiled around him, refusing to answer.

And fuck, if only he knew. If only he knew that you had spent months sneaking quiet moments at night while trying to keep quiet from your parents’ and Max. Earphones in, watching soft porn and imagining it was him, and not the actors, not the fantasy.

You’d watched girls do this a hundred, even thousand times—perfect mouths, heavy eyes, desperate to please. Every single time you imagined it was him. Imagined you, on your knees, giving him what he deserved. Imagined his hands in your hair, voice ruined and strained whispering your name like a fucking prayer.

And now? Now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was moaning for real, for you, trying so hard to keep quiet but failing more with every swirl of your tongue, every slow suck that made his knees threaten to give out.

“Sunshine— fuck, you know I can’t be loud,” He whispered, biting down on the back of his hand as your mouth moved expertly on him—tight, messy, and hungry. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not now.

Lando whimpered your name like a prayer, “Yes, fucking amazing. What did I do to deserve you?” You moaned around him, sucking harder as he twitched on your tongue.

He was holding on by a thread—hips barely jerking, knees wobbling, knuckles white where he gripped the counter behind him.

“Shit, baby—” He whimpered again, wrecked and desperate. “I’m gonna— fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m not gonna last long.”

You moaned in response, sending vibrations down his length that made him stutter and curse again.

His hand tightened in your hair. “Fuck— you’re gonna make me—” Lando breathed, eyes glassy now, chest rising fast. “You keep going like that and I’ll come in two seconds, I swear to god...”

You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him with your hand, spit shining down his length. “That bad, huh?”

“That good,” He corrected through clenched teeth. “That fucking good.”

And then you ducked back down, this time even more eager, letting him sink into your mouth again—deeper, messier, your fingers sliding to cup his balls, teasing lightly while your tongue worked him in every way you knew he liked. His thighs flexed under your touch. His hips rolled forward just enough to chase it—desperate now, so close it made your own thighs clench in sympathy.

The tension in his whole body wound tighter and tighter, until finally he groaned, raw and broken, “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby— I can’t hold it—”

And then you felt it—the twitch of him in your mouth, the sudden shaky breath he sucked in, the grip of his hand in your hair going rigid as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled down your throat with a muffled groan, head dropping forward, eyes half-lidded and stunned, like you’d just taken every last bit of control he had left.

He bit back all the sounds, biting his knuckle, the other hand gripping your shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him. His body was trembling from the pleasure you just gave him, head falling backwards, both of you lost in the moment.

You swallowed every single drop of his release, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him—eyes dazed, smug, and soft.

When you stood up, fixing your hair, Lando’s eyes were still hazy—dazed with pleasure, lips parted in disbelief. He stared at you like you’d just ruined him, only sending you a smirk.

“If your brother knew about this, he would literally kill us, Sunshine.”

────୨ৎ────

The last day in Ibiza had arrived far too quickly, though the memories of the week already felt heavy and golden, threaded into your skin like sunlight.

The trip hadn’t only been about hazy nights and crowded clubs pulsing with music—you had filled the in-betweens with memories that felt softer, and golden.

Afternoons spent on being stretched out beneath the sun, skin sticky with salt, laughter echoing between you as you shared fruit and drinks that tasted like summer. Hours wandering through local markets, fingers grazing over handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, jars of honey that glowed amber in the light. A boat trip that left your hair wild with sea air, the water glittering endlessly around you as you couldn’t help but smile and laugh.

Countless evenings were spent by the shoreline, your toes buried in cool sand while the whole group was trading funny stories, jokes and secrets, the waves softly rolling in and out in the background, as if the ocean itself was keeping you company. The sky turned from bruised purple to inky black, the stars pinpricking the quiet above you.

Every day had been eventful, and every night was brimming with restless energy. But this specific morning, you wanted something different. Something quieter, and something that belonged to just the two of you. You felt bold and you knew this idea was the best way of spending your last, normal morning on Ibiza during this trip.

The villa was hushed when you slipped out of your room, the air cooler in the early hour, scented faintly of salt drifting through open windows. The tiled floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded down the hallway, the silence broken only by the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant whoosh of waves hitting the shore. Outside, the world was only just beginning to wake, the sky brushed with the soft blues with the moon still proudly shining on top of the sky.

Behind the closed doors you passed, everyone was still wrapped in their sleep, their breathing heavy and unbothered after another long night. Everyone, except you.

Your heart beat faster the closer you got, until it was pounding in your chest as you stopped outside his door. You hesitated, just for a moment, fingers grazing the wood. He was in there, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. And you—dressed in your two-piece swimsuit, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders, nerves buzzing in every vein—were about to wake him up.The thought alone sent heat blooming low in your chest.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the flutter of anticipation rising in your chest, and finally pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked faintly, though the sound was swallowed in the hush of the room.

It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, but not enough to block the soft seep of the early morning light. The air smelled faintly of him—clean, and warm, the trace of his perfume and suncream that clung to his skin all week.

Your gaze found him instantly. Lando lay diagonally sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted loosely around his waist. One arm was thrown lazily across his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark curls were mussed and flat on one side, his lips parted slightly as he slept.

In the dim light, he looked impossibly young and yet unfairly beautiful, softened and peaceful in a way you rarely saw when he was awake and grinning or teasing.

You crept closer, each step careful, until you were crouched by the side of the bed. For a moment, you just looked at him, letting yourself take him in. His lashes curled against his cheeks, longer than they had any right to be. His skin was bronzed from the week spent beneath the Ibiza sun, golden and warm, dotted here and there with soft freckles.

He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, unfairly so, and something inside you whispered that you shouldn’t be staring at him like this—but you didn’t stop.

Tentatively, you lifted a hand. Your fingers hovered in the air for a beat—heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears—before you finally let them brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, smooth, and under your fingertips you felt the faintest twitch of muscle as he stirred.

“Lan…” You whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt to say his name like that, soft and tender.

Lando stirred in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. His lips twitched, his breathing hitched just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes opened. At first his gaze was unfocused, glazed with sleep. But the moment they found yours, recognition bloomed across his face, and with it came a slow, lazy smile that curled across his mouth, soft and genuine. It made something in your chest twist.

“Morning, Sunshine.” He muttered, voice low and rough, thick with sleep. It was the kind of sound that slid down your spine and made your stomach flip.

Before you could even think, his hand lifted from where it rested against the sheets. He covered yours, still cupping his cheek, with his own. His palm was broad and hot, enveloping you in his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed faintly against your knuckles, a fleeting unconscious gesture that made your stomach twist with happiness.

Your lips curved as you leaned in slightly, your voice soft, hopeful. “Everyone’s still asleep,” You whispered, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Are you up for a morning swim with me?”

His lashes blinked heavy, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he pushed himself up onto an elbow. His curls fell over his forehead, messy and boyish, and he squinted as if trying to process your words.

“Wait, what time is it?” He rasped, but there was a spark of curiosity there.

“Four fifty-five.” You admitted, unable to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth.

He groaned again, this time louder, more dramatic, and flopped back onto the pillow like the world around him had just ended. “Woman, you’re fucking insane.” He muttered, voice muffled from the pillow.

You couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “Maybe,” You teased, eyes glinting. “But you’re coming with me. Besides, the sunrise is in a couple of minutes. Are you really going to miss that… with me?”

You let the words hang between you, teasing, daring. And when he peeked out at you from beneath his arm—eyes sleepy but glinting—you already knew.

He was coming. Because Lando Norris could never say no to you.

The villa was still asleep, every room sunk deep in silence, but the two of you moved through it like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. You held your phone in one hand, flashlight glowing faintly to guide the way over the uneven tiles. Behind you, Lando trailed like a reluctant shadow, his hair a wild mess of curls flattened on one side, hoodie thrown lazily over his shoulders, swim shorts hanging low on his hips. He was barely awake, dragging his feet dramatically, muttering under his breath.

“This should be illegal to wake up at such an hour,” He whispered, voice rough and still thick with sleep. “Five in the fucking morning. The moon is literally still out!”

“Shh!” You hissed over your shoulder, though your lips already twitched with a smile.

“You’re fucking insane. Go and seek help.” He groaned, louder this time.

You spun on your heel, nearly crashing into him. “Shut up, Lando. You’ll wake them up!”

That made him grin, teeth flashing in the dim glow of your flashlight. “You’re acting like we’re robbing the place.”

“We kind of are,” You whispered, pushing at his chest with your free hand. “Now move!”

He stumbled backward dramatically, accidentally bumping into a small table. A glass vase with fresh flowers in it wobbled on its edges, making both of you freeze in your movements, eyes wide, until it settled with a soft clink. For a moment, neither of you dared to breathe. Then you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to mute your laugh in your palm. Lando was doubling over, muffling his chuckle into the sleeve of his hoodie.

“See?” You wheezed between your own quiet giggles. “This is exactly why I told you to be quiet.”

“The fuck? But you’re worse than me, Sunshine!” He shot back, grinning. “You look like a cartoon villain with that flashlight.” You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but your laughter betrayed you.

The two of you stumbled down the hallway, shoulders bumping, your combined giggles echoing faintly. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot, but instead of worrying, you only laughed harder, hearts pounding with the reckless thrill of sneaking around. It felt like being a teenager again, sneaking out, except this time the stakes weren’t your parents catching you.

Finally, you slipped out the back door. The air hit you instantly, cool and crisp, smelling faintly of salt and jasmine from the villa’s garden.

The world was suspended between night and morning. The sky was lika a shifting canvas—inky indigo at its highest point, softening into deep navy streaked with pale blue closer to the horizon. The moon still hung above the water, pale and luminous, while a faint wash of silvery light spread across the sand. The stars, dimmer now, still blinked stubbornly against the glow of dawn.

You hugged yourself against the early morning chill before glancing at him. Lando was watching you with that crooked, sleepy grin, shaking his head.

“We’re actually insane for doing this.” He repeated, but his voice was lighter now, filled with amusement instead of complaint.

“Maybe,” You said softly, catching his hand and tugging him toward the beach. “But trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.”

The beach was completely empty, untouched, just the two of you, the ocean, and the endless stretch of sky preparing for the sunrise.

You dropped your hoodie—which Lando insisted on you wearing—and the towel in the sand, shooting him a daring grin. “Race you!”

Before he could react, you bolted away. Your laughter split the quiet, the sand flying behind you as you sprinted toward the water.

“What the— hey, that’s cheating!” Lando shouted, his voice cracking with amusement as he tore right after you.

You squealed, pumping your legs harder, but the sand dragged at your ankles and the water’s edge loomed. You hit the shallows first, the icy shock biting into your calves and thighs, and you gasped, stumbling forward with a squeak. The next second, he barreled in behind you, sending water splashing high into the air.

“Fucking hell, it’s freezing!” He yelled, laughing through his shiver.

“Nah, you’re just dramatic!” You shot back, splashing him with both hands.

He retaliated instantly, water slapping against your face, your hair plastering against your cheeks. You shrieked, diving sideways to escape, only for him to lunge, grabbing at your ankle. You kicked free, giggling so hard you could barely breathe, then shot a wave of water straight at his chest.

“Alright, that’s it.” He grinned wickedly, charging at you with both arms open.

You screamed, laughing, trying to swim backward, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly out of the water before dunking you under with a triumphant cheer.

You surfaced, coughing, hair plastered everywhere. “Are you insane?!” You spluttered, wiping the salty water out of your eyes.

He coughed, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Absolutely.”

And just like that, it devolved. You chased each other in circles, splashing, squealing, darting beneath the waves only to pop up on the other side. At one point, you tried to sneak up and launch yourself onto his back, and he staggered, carrying you a few steps before flipping you both under the surface. The ocean became your playground, each wave rocking you into new fits of laughter.

When you surfaced, gasping and dripping, he was already there—hands finding your waist without even thinking, grounding you as the water tugged at your bodies. You looped your arms lazily around his shoulders, both of you breathless, grinning like idiots.

The chill of the water barely registered anymore. He was warm against you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The playfulness between you softened, and the world around you seemed to exhale.

The horizon was shifting—the blues started to bleed into pastel pinks and soft oranges. The moon still glowed faintly in the sky above, but already the light of day was spilling over it, chasing the shadows away.

Lando tilted his head back, watching the light spill across the waves. His curls dripped, droplets sliding down his temples, his skin glowing with the first trace of sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to yours, instantly softening, as if the sunrise had nothing on you. And for him, it clearly hadn’t.

“Okay, I have to admit it,” Lando murmured, voice low, reverent, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “It was totally worth it.”

Your chest tightened. Maybe it was the sunrise. Maybe it was the way his arms held you steady, as if he wasn’t letting go of you. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time all week, it felt like the world only revolved around the two of you.

And as the sun climbed higher, painting the ocean in colors you couldn’t name, you stayed there in his arms—warm against the chill, held steady against the tide. Time slowed, stretched, until it felt like the sunrise belonged only to the two of you.

By the time you both finally trudged out of the sea, your bodies were heavy with the weight of saltwater and laughter. The horizon had shifted completely—what had been a watercolor wash of pinks and silvers earlier was now painted in golds and pale blues, the sun climbing steadily higher, its reflection glittering across the ocean’s surface like a trail of fire. Droplets rolled down your skin, catching the morning light, making you shimmer as you padded barefoot over the sand.

The chill of the water still clung to your body, but the warmth of the sun kissed your shoulders, drying you slowly. You each grabbed a towel from the spot you’d left them, wrapping yourselves up, though your hair clung stubbornly in damp strands, salt-stiff and wild. You laughed at the sight of Lando trying to shake his curls into submission, and he rolled his eyes, shooting a playful glare before flopping dramatically onto the sand.

You followed, spreading your towel beside his, lying back so the sunlight could soak into you. The sand was warm beneath the thin fabric, grounding you, while the air smelled like salt and wildflowers carried from somewhere inland.

Around you, the beach was still deserted—just the hush of the waves, the occasional cry of a distant gull, and the gentle rhythm of his breathing beside you.

You started talking then, softly at first. Nothing important—just observations, half-formed thoughts, silly jokes about how insane you both were for being up at this hour. He teased you for dragging him out of bed, and you teased him for pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it. But slowly, the conversation meandered, stretching out like the sunlight itself.

His voice was lower in the morning, still rough with sleep, and it blended with the rhythm of the waves until you weren’t sure where his words ended and the ocean began.

You talked about places you wanted to see, about old memories from home, about things that didn’t matter and yet felt like everything in that moment. At some point, you caught yourself watching his mouth as he spoke, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the way he bit down on the edge of his towel to wipe at his face.

And there, wrapped in warmth and salt air, you realized this was true happiness. Not the wild nights, not the crowds or flashing lights, but this. Slow, golden, stretched out like time had stopped just for the two of you.

The air was thick with salt and warmth, carrying the cries of seabirds and the slow hush of waves rolling in and out. For a while, you both just lay there, listening, breathing, existing.

It was you who broke the silence, your voice hushed as though you might disturb the spell. “Do you realize that we might be the only people in the world who saw that sunrise from the water today?”

Lando cracked one eye open, turning his head lazily toward you. “Deep thoughts this early?” His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice was soft, as though he didn’t really want to ruin the quiet.

“I’m serious,” You protested, rolling onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “It felt like… like it was just for us.”

He gave a small hum, closing his eyes again. “Mhm. Don’t get used to it though. I’m never letting you wake me up before five again.”

You laughed, tossing a bit of sand at his arm. He flinched dramatically, brushing it off like it had been an attack, then retaliated by flicking his damp towel at your legs. That started a brief, ridiculous back-and-forth, both of you muffling your laughter, trying not to disturb the tranquility of the empty beach.

When you both settled again, breathless from laughter, he turned his head toward you once more. This time, his expression was softer, more open. “Still… it was worth it.”

The way he said it—quiet, almost shy—made your chest tighten. You wanted to bottle this moment, keep it safe forever.

It was nearly eight when you finally gathered yourselves, towels draped loosely over your shoulders as you made your way back to the villa. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the beach had begun to change—the distant figures of early walkers appearing further down the shore, the hum of a boat engine carrying faintly over the water.

Inside, the house was stirring. Doors slowly started to creak open, sleepy voices filled the hallways, footsteps padded toward the kitchen. People emerged, hair mussed, eyes heavy, yawns stretching their faces as they shuffled toward coffee and food.

No one asked where you’d been. No one looked at you too closely, or noticed the way your hair was still damp at the ends, or how faint grains of sand clung stubbornly to your legs. The secret of the morning swim was yours to keep—tucked quietly between you, something fragile and precious that belonged to no one else.

As you moved through the room, you caught Lando’s gaze across the table. His curls were still a bit damp, darker where they clung to his forehead, his cheeks faintly flushed from the sun and sea. His lips curved just slightly, subtle, private—as if he were remembering it too.

And in that moment, with everyone around and yet no one noticing, you knew you were both carrying the sunrise with you.

────୨ৎ────

The last evening in Ibiza had a softness to it, the kind that clung to the air when you knew something was ending.

The villa was buzzing with chatter and laughter, the group still gathered around the long dining table, the remains of dinner scattered between half-drunk bottles of wine, cocktail glasses, and plates smudged with sauce. Someone was telling a story, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the stone walls, but you slipped out quietly, your glass of wine in hand.

The terrace greeted you with the cool kiss of evening air. The heat of the day had softened, and a light breeze carried the faint tang of the ocean. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs, tucking your legs up beneath you, the glass cradled loosely between your fingers.

The view before you stole your breath. The sky was painted in layers—gold bleeding into pink, pink fading into lavender, and all of it slowly surrendering to the deepening blue of night. The sun hovered at the horizon, its last light shimmering across the water like molten copper. Already, the moon was visible, pale and patient, waiting for its turn to rule the sky. The waves rolled gently against the shore in the distance, the sound a low, steady rhythm beneath the hum of voices inside.

You sighed, the sound soft and almost wistful.

Last night in Ibiza.

It had been more than just a holiday. More than just chaos and late nights. It had been a chapter, one you weren’t quite ready to close.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

The voice made you glance over your shoulder. Lando stepped out onto the terrace, curls backlit by the glow of the villa, a drink in his hand. His white shirt hung loosely over him, the sleeves rolled up, and there was an ease about him that almost made your chest ache.

He leaned against the doorframe first, looking at you with a small, crooked smile. “Hiding?”

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m not hiding, just watching the sunset.” You tilted your chin toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was melting away. “Can’t believe it’s our last night here.”

He let out a hum, his gaze following yours toward the view. Then he pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped into the chair beside you. His knee bumped yours as he sat, and neither of you moved away.

“Yeah,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “Feels like it went by in a blink.”

You laughed quietly, swirling the wine in your glass. “Probably because you all made me drink so much tequila I lost track of time.”

That earned you his laugh—the real one, unrestrained, warm enough to seep straight into your bones. He shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to keep up with Max.”

At your brother’s name, you groaned dramatically, hiding your face in one hand. Lando’s laugh grew louder, and soon enough, you were laughing with him, the two of you caught in a bubble of your own amusement while the voices inside blurred into background noise.

The laughter ebbed into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, and easy. The kind of silence you wanted to linger in. Your gaze drifted to him again. The last of the sunset light traced across his features, softening the sharp lines, making him look almost boyish while painting his skin in gold and rose. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was curved in that faint, unreadable smile.

He caught you staring. His eyes met yours, steady, curious, holding you in place. And suddenly, it felt like the air between you shifted, heavier, charged.

Your heart thudded—brave, and reckless. That spark inside you flared to life. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in. Just a little at first, testing, your breath mingling with his. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and that was all the courage you needed.

Your lips gently brushed his. It was soft, barely a touch, the kind of kiss that could almost be passed off as nothing if you wanted it to be. But it was enough to send a jolt through your chest, enough to make the world tilt for just a heartbeat.

When you pulled back, Lando was frozen, wide-eyed, his lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

A grin tugged at your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t let Max know about this.”

For a beat, he just stared at you. Then a laugh broke out of him—quiet at first, then fuller and warmer, filling the night air. He shook his head, curls bouncing, his hand coming up to rub across his mouth as if he could hide the smile tugging at it.

“You’re insane, Sunshine.” He muttered, though his voice was laced with amusement. And something else. Something that made your stomach flip.

You laughed too, your cheeks flushed, giddy with the thrill of what you’d just done. “Maybe,” you teased, raising your brows. “But you didn’t exactly stop me.”

His eyes softened, his grin tilting crooked. “Didn’t want to.” He said, quiet but certain.

Your laughter tangled together again, mingling with the distant murmur of waves and the soft hum of cicadas in the garden. The villa’s noise carried faintly through the open doors, but out here, it felt like you were in your own little world.

Side by side, shoulders brushing, hearts a little too fast, you sat beneath the indigo sky as the first stars bloomed above. A secret smile pulled at your lips, mirrored by his.

Without saying it, you both knew—this trip wasn’t something either of you would forget.

────୨ৎ────

Later that night, when everyone finally decided to call it a day and went to their room, the villa had finally gone quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door creaked as someone went for painkillers and a glass of water, but otherwise the only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant, lazy crash of waves on the shore.

You sat propped up in bed, hair damp from your shower, skin still warm and sweet-smelling from the lotion you’d rubbed in. Lando’s oversized t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, brushing your bare thigh where your pajama shorts ended.

Your phone screen glowed faint blue in the dimmed room, but you weren’t really scrolling anymore—just staring, looking at the same posts without taking them in. Your chest felt tight, restless, like there was something waiting, pressing against your ribs.

The sudden knocks on the door came so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it. Four gentle taps, hesitant but still deliberate. Your brows furrowed, having in mind that everyone should already be asleep. You slid out of bed, heart already beating faster, and padded across the room on bare feet.

When you cracked the door open, the sight on the other side knocked the air from your lungs. Lando. He leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t thought this through. His curls were mussed, eyes burning with something raw and urgent. A plain black tee clung to his shoulders, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a rush.

You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, he spoke—his voice low, rough, like he’d been chewing on it all night. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” He whispered, jaw flexing as his fingers drummed against the doorframe. “I know I tried to stay away, but I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—permission, rejection, maybe salvation.

You gripped the edge of the door tighter, your pulse loud in your ears. “Lando…” You breathed, but he cut you off, stepping inside the room, the door slipping shut behind him with a soft click.

He raked a hand through his curls, pacing a step before turning back to you, desperation in every line of him. “Every time you laugh, every time you look at me— it’s fucking torture,” He said, his voice breaking around the words. “I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to be good, to respect all the boundaries Max had set, and to not cross a line I can’t uncross. But fuck…” His eyes found yours again, blazing. “I can’t. Not anymore.”

For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at each other. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and the muffled crash of waves outside. His confession still vibrated in the air, still in your chest.

Lando looked at you like he’d just confessed to a crime—like he was waiting for you to push him back out the door, to slam it shut and lock it forever. His fists were clenched now at his sides, his jaw tight, but his eyes were full of yearn.

And maybe you should have thought about it. Maybe you should have told him to leave. But instead, a slow smile curled at the edge of your lips.

“You know…” Your voice was soft, teasing, cutting through the tension like a spark in dry grass. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this forever.”

Before Lando could process your words, and before he could speak again, you stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to you.

Your lips crashed together, desperate and hot, the kiss messy in the way it only could be when both of you had been holding back for far too long. His breath hitched against your lips, like you’d stolen it straight out of him, and for a split second Lando didn’t move. His body went rigid, every muscle taut, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away.

It was wrong—so fucking wrong. He wasn’t supposed to want you nor need you. But then your fingers tightened in his shirt, keeping him close, and he felt the way you trembled against his mouth. That hesitation, that thin thread of resistance he’d been clinging to—it snapped.

Lando groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, like he’d been starved for this and suddenly couldn’t breathe without it. His body melted against yours in an instant, the hand that had been frozen now instinctively sliding to your waist, gripping hard, and pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear any second.

When you finally broke away, gasping for air, his pupils were blown wide, his lips wet and parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a race. He looked utterly wrecked already, the last of his restraint gone.

“Fuck,” Lando whispered, his voice ragged, forehead leaning against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

And you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wicked and playful. “Can you finally fuck me now, Lan?” You whispered, throwing his own restraint back at him like gasoline on a flame.

He groaned at your words, low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. Your laugh came out breathless, shaky, because you weren’t sure how much longer your knees could hold you up. His touch was fire, his words molten, and you knew with every nerve in your body, that this was only the beginning.

Lando’s lips found yours again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere at once—sliding under his your shirt, skimming along the curve of your waist, and up your ribs. His touch was greedy, rough like he was making up for every single time he’d held himself back.

You gasped against his lips when he lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as he carried you the few stumbling steps toward your bed.

“You think it’s funny?” He growled against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He pressed you down into the mattress, caging you with his body, curls falling into his eyes. “Smiling at me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me?”

His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were already aching for him. You arched into his touch, your laugh breaking into a shaky breath. “What if I did know?” You whispered, eyes locked on him.

Lando smirked, dangerous and devastating. And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slower and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you writhed beneath him. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, then lower, sliding past the waistband of your shorts, fingers teasing along your heat without giving in just yet.

“Lan—” Your voice cracked on his name, half-plea, and half-warning.

“God, you sound just like I remembered,” He murmured, lips dragging along your throat, nipping lightly at your skin. “Drove me fucking insane every night, replaying it over and over.” His fingers finally slipped where you needed him most, drawing a startled moan from your lips. “But this time, you’re not just in my head. You’re finally mine.”

Your hips bucked up into his hand instinctively, chasing more, but Lando only chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “This desperate already, Sunshine? Haven’t even touched you properly yet.” His voice was rough, the restraint barely hanging on by a thread.

Lando slid one finger through your slickness, teasing, spreading it over you before pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Fucking hell… you’re soaked. And all of that for me?”

Your answer came out in a gasp. “Always for you.”

That completely shattered him. His mouth crashed into yours again, desperate and messy, his teeth clashing against your lips like he couldn’t get close enough. His fingers pressed harder, stroking you until your thighs trembled. Then suddenly he pulled back, leaving you panting and wide-eyed on the bed. You nearly whined at the loss, but the sight of him tugging his shirt over his head shut you up fast. His sun-kissed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, golden and flushed, the lines of muscle shifting as he leaned over you again.

“That one night in the bar, when you leaned across the counter in that little dress, and asked me that ridiculous question… fuck, I almost lost it. Almost took you right there in front of everyone.” Lando said, voice husky, catching your chin between his fingers so you had to look up at him.

Your laugh came out breathless, nervous, but playful all the same. “Maybe you should’ve.”

The look in his eyes darkened. “Don’t test me.”

Your body lit up under his touch as he stripped you out of your pajama shorts and underwear in one smooth tug, tossing them carelessly aside. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and for a heartbeat, Lando just looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Your breath caught as he leaned towards you, his mouth ghosting down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His voice was rough, low, vibrating right into you. “You have no fucking idea how much I wanted to do this after I caught you, moaning my name.” He murmured, his eyes flicking up to yours, pupils blown wide with hunger. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, right where your pulse hammered. “I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing it. For just walking away.”

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your mouth opening but no sound coming out. You could only watch him—how he looked at you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could fix him.

“But I’m not going to keep myself away from it now.” His lips brushed your hipbone, soft, hot, and teasing.

The words struck through you, your whole body tightening in anticipation. You barely had a chance to inhale before his mouth was finally on you, his tongue sliding hot and eager against your slick folds, and every thought shattered. A broken gasp tore out of you, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you could stop yourself. His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his grip firming on your thighs as if to say, don’t run from this.

“Fuck, Lando—” Your voice cracked, desperate, still trying not to be too loud.

He lifted his head just enough to smirk at you, lips glistening with your wetness. “That’s right, baby. Say only my name.” Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling, teasing, dipping inside until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.

Every flick, every groan from him felt like it was unraveling you one string at a time. And you could feel it in the way he moved—this wasn’t just about making you fall apart. This was about making up for every second he’d denied himself, every second he’d forced the distance between you. But there was no denying that he wanted it just as much as you did. Maybe even more.

His grip on your thighs tightened as if he feared you’d slip away, holding you open for him like he’d been dreaming of it for weeks—maybe months. His mouth was merciless, tongue working you with a hunger that made your whole body quake. You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration rolling through your core until your back arched off the bed.

“Holy shit—” The words came out high, almost a sob.

He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening as he dragged his tongue slowly up your folds before circling your clit with deliberate, devastating precision.

“Fuck, you taste just as sweet as I remember, Sunshine.” He rasped, the words muffled against your skin.

Your hips bucked at his confession, and he pinned you down harder, his thumb sliding in to press right where his tongue wasn’t, overwhelming you with sensation. Every movement of his mouth was calculated—slow enough to tease, fast enough to destroy. He pulled back just slightly, his breath hot against your swollen, aching clit.

“You gonna come for me now?” He murmured, his voice low, hoarse with need. He nipped lightly at your inner thigh before flattening his tongue against you again, harder this time. “Right on my tongue? Let me have it, baby.”

Your whole body convulsed at his words, heat spreading so quickly you barely had time to gasp his name before it tore through you. The orgasm hit hard, sharp, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as you cried out, tugging his hair, desperate and raw.

But he didn’t stop. Even as your body writhed and your hips jerked, he lapped at you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was desperate to drink down every sound, every shudder. His moan vibrated through your core, drawing out the high until you collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin.

“Shit— Lando, I can’t—” You whimpered, your whole body still quivering, every nerve raw.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, slick with your cum, his curls mussed from your fingers tugging at them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, then leaned forward to press his tongue flat against your clit one last time.

The shock of it made you jolt, your thighs trembling against his grip. “Lando— please…” You gasped, but he only smiled against you.

“You think one orgasm’s enough for me?” Lando said, his voice wrecked, low. His index finger slid through your folds, circling slowly, dragging your sensitivity to the edge of unbearable. “Not when I’ve waited this fucking long.” He pressed two fingers inside you again, curling them just right, making your back arch off the bed. “I told you, Sunshine,” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face, “I’m not keeping myself from this anymore. Not from you.”

You squirmed under him, your hands clutching at the sheets, your breath breaking apart into desperate whimpers. Every time you were close, every time the heat coiled too tight, he slowed down, pulled away, forcing you to the edge but never letting you fall.

“Lan— fuck, please… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, Sunshine.” He cut you off, his tone sharp but dark with desire. His lips brushed your inner thigh before he bit it lightly, sucking just enough to leave a mark.

You tried to grind against his fingers, desperate, but his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down. His smirk grew when you let out a frustrated whine.

“Look at you,” He whispered, watching the way you squirmed. “So needy… you want my cock that bad?” He flicked his tongue over your clit, quick and precise, just enough to make your body convulse. “Beg me for it, Sunshine. Let me hear you.”

Your pride tried to resist, but the ache inside you was unbearable, your body trembling with denied release. Your nails dug into the sheets, your voice breaking as you finally gave in. “Please, Lan… fuck me already, I need you—”

He whimpered like the words alone had undone him, his lips parting as if the sound was too good, too addictive. Lando dragged his fingers out of you slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan before leaning over you.

His lips brushed yours, teasing, so close but not giving you the kiss you craved. “Say it again.” He demanded softly, his breath hot against your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered shut, desperation spilling out of you. “Just fuck me, Lando. I’m begging you.”

That was all it took. He crashed his mouth back onto yours, hungry and rough, his body sliding against yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. His hands roamed around your waist, your thighs, and your breasts—touching you like he was making up for lost time.

You could barely breathe when you felt him grind against you, the hard line of his cock straining through his sweatpants brushing your slick folds through the thin barrier of his pants. The friction sent a desperate whimper tumbling out of you, and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.

“F-fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, his voice jagged with restraint. His hips rolled once, slow, making your body jolt beneath him. His forehead pressed against yours, curls damp against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me, Sunshine. I can’t—”

His words broke off into a groan as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest rising hard against yours. Then, with hands trembling more from need than hesitation, he gripped the hem of your top and peeled it upward. The cool air kissed your heated skin, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed. His jaw clenched, his breath catching.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, like the sight of you had gutted him. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling slowly over your nipples until your back arched. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and he gave a broken laugh, shaking his head as if you were undoing him with every tiny move. “Yeah, fuck— don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

In a rush of clumsy urgency, he yanked his pants down, tossing it blindly across the room. His cock sprung free, heavy and flushed, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.

He noticed your stare and smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck, his voice husky against your skin. “Like you see something you like, huh?” He teased, his voice husky and wrecked, the cockiness in his tone making your cheeks burn.

Your laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere between breathless and needy, and the sound only made his grin widen against your skin. He didn’t give you a chance to answer—his touch lingered over your hip, firm yet reverent, before he leaned over to fumble in the drawer, cursing low under his breath until he finally pulled out a condom and tore it open with his teeth.

He sat back on his knees, chest rising and falling fast, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolled the condom down over himself. The sight alone made your thighs press together, your body begging for him.

When Lando’s eyes met yours again, they were full of hunger, but also something softer. He bent down, his lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss. “You ready, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice low, wrecked with both restraint and need, searching your eyes for any hesitation or restraint.

And then—just as he slid the tip of himself against your entrance, your breath caught, panic flickering in your chest. “Lando— wait.”

Immediately, he froze. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. His hands stayed steady on your hips, not forcing, not moving. “What’s wrong, Sunshine? Talk to me.”

Your throat felt tight, your lips trembling, but you forced the words out. “I…” Your voice broke. You shut your eyes, cheeks burning before finally admitting, “Fuck, I’ve never done this before.”

Silence.

When you dared to look, his expression was stunned, caught between disbelief and something achingly soft. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You mean…?” He swallowed, searching your eyes. “You’re still a virgin?”

You nodded, barely breathing, every nerve in your body screaming with fear that this would change everything.

For a long moment, Lando just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just trusted him with. “Fucking hell, I didn’t know… I thought you—” His voice was wrecked, almost breaking. “And you— you’d give that to me?”

You lifted a hand to his face, brushing your thumb over his lip, steady despite your trembling. “There’s no one else I’d ever want to. Just you. Only you.”

His breath left him in a rough exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and head hanging low as if the words undid him more than anything else ever could. When he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen, raw and burning just for you.

“Are you sure?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to yours again. “Tell me right now if you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop.”

“I’m sure,” You whispered, your voice trembling but true. “Please, Lan. I want you.”

He kissed you then—not rough, not hungry, but slow and reverent, as if he was sealing a promise. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the other tracing slow, grounding circles on your thigh.

When he finally slid down, lining himself up with you, he did it with infinite patience. He pressed the tip against you, watching your face the whole time.

“This might hurt a bit, Sunshine,” He murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “But I’ll go slow. So fucking slow. Just hold onto me, and tell me if you need a break.”

You nodded in response, and that was a green light for him. Lando pushed in, inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight as he held himself back, his breath ragged against your cheek. You gasped at the stretch, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he immediately froze, cupping your face.

“Hey— look at me. You okay?”

You nodded quickly, even though your eyes watered, your chest heaving. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… don’t stop.”

His face crumpled with something between agony and devotion. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth, whispering against your skin. “Good girl. You’re so perfect. Taking me so well…”

And when he finally sank fully into you, he held still, buried deep, his whole body shaking with the effort not to move too fast. “F-fuck,” He groaned into your neck, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven, sunshine. Absolute fucking heaven.”

He stayed like that, kissing away your nerves, whispering sweet nothing until the pain dulled, until you shifted beneath him and whispered the words that tipped him over the edge of restraint. “Move, Lando. Please.”

He groaned like the sound alone shattered him, burying his face in your neck as his hips finally shifted. The first drag of him moving inside you was slow, his cock filling you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thighs tremble.

“Holy shit,” He breathed, his voice guttural, shaky with restraint. “You’re so tight—”

Each movement was careful, his hand gripping your thigh, the other stroking your cheek as if to remind you he was there, that you weren’t alone in this. He pressed kisses across your jaw, down your neck, his words tumbling out against your skin. It still hurt a little, but beneath it there was heat—sweet, dizzying sparks that curled low in your stomach.

“Lando…” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “Don’t hold back— please.”

He pulled back then, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, but the softness was still there—woven deep into the hunger. “You sure?”

“Yes,” You breathed. “I want all of you.”

The groan that tore from him was broken, and desperate. His forehead dropped to yours, curls damp from sweat against your skin, before his hips snapped forward in a deeper thrust. You cried out, clinging to him, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound. His rhythm built, still controlled but heavier now, deeper, until every roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth. His hands gripped your body like he never wanted to let go—one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as if he needed you closer, always closer.

The heat inside you coiled tighter with every movement, your body matching his rhythm instinctively. You dragged your nails down his back, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. “Lan— I think—”

“I know, baby, I know,” He panted, his lips crashing into yours again, hot and desperate. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And when it hit you—when your body clenched around him, your cry muffled against his mouth—he lost himself too. His thrusts stuttered, his hips pressing deep as he groaned your name, spilling into the condom with a shudder that rattled through his whole body.

The world had gone quiet again, save for the sound of the air conditioning and both of your uneven breaths slowly settling into rhythm. Lando was still inside you, his body heavy and warm on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips pressed absent, feather-light kisses along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Finally, after a long moment, he shifted with a soft groan, careful as he pulled himself out, and took the used condom off, throwing it away to the bin next to your bed.

Then, he came back to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “You okay?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but so gentle it made your chest ache.

You nodded, brushing his messy curls from his forehead with shaky fingers. “I’m more than okay, Lan.”

His mouth curved into a tired, crooked grin before he leaned down to kiss you—slower this time, sweet and lingering. He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, then gathered you against his chest like you were something fragile.

“You’re amazing, Sunshine,” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “Didn’t hurt too much, did it?”

You shook your head against him, smiling softly. “Only at first. But then it was perfect.”

He tightened his arms around you, his chin resting in your hair. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, your leg hooked over his, his thumb tracing mindless patterns across your arm. The room smelled faintly of your shower gel and his cologne, mixed with the salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.

When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hushed, almost shy. “I meant it, you know. About not wanting anyone else. I’d only ever want you.”

Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his aquamarine eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he kissed you again, slow and deep, as if words couldn’t come close to what he felt.

He whispered your name softly when he finally pulled away. “You’ll ruin me, you know that?” You giggled softly, snuggling closer, hiding your face in his chest. He chuckled quietly too, his hand smoothing down your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

After a long silence, you exhaled shakily. “Can I tell you something?”

He hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Always.”

“I was… scared to tell you it was my first time.” Your voice was so small it almost vanished into the space between you. “Scared you’d think I was… I don’t know. Less attractive or boring. Or—”

“Hey.” Lando’s hand stilled against your back. He tipped your chin up gently, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was sharp, almost offended, but softened with warmth. “Sunshine, you’re insane for thinking that.” Your breath caught as his thumb brushed your cheek.

“None of it made you less attractive. Do you have any idea how much it meant to me that you wanted it to be me? That you trusted me like that?” His voice dropped lower, softer.

Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes, but you smiled anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. “Still… I probably sucked at this, and looked clueless.”

Lando’s lips curved into a slow grin, his tone slipping into a teasing drawl. “Clueless? You? Oh, please.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You didn’t look like someone inexperienced in that bathroom, kneeling in front of me on the floor the other night…”

Your face burned instantly, and you swatted his chest, giggling despite yourself. “Lando!”

He laughed with you, the sound low and husky, wrapping you up in it as much as his arms. “I’m just saying,” He teased, his grin smug. “Pretty sure virgins aren’t supposed to look that sexy while also begging for me to fuck them.”

“Shut up.” You muttered, burying your face against him, but your laughter betrayed you.

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, still holding you tight. “Never shut up about it. Not when it’s you.”

The night blurred into warmth, into shared kisses, and into the slow weight of Lando’s breathing evening out beside you. You had never felt so safe, so full, and so undone yet held together all at once.

Eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted to sleep in his arms. His chin was gently tucked against your hair, his thumb still brushing your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even unconscious.

When the faintest pale light crept through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and lavender, you stirred. Lando was still there, one arm heavy around your waist, his curls messy, his lips parted in the softest, almost boyish way. For a moment, you just watched him, memorizing him like this—unguarded, and all yours.

But then he shifted, blinking awake slowly. His gaze found yours, sleepy but softened by a small smile. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Morning, Sunshine.” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You wanted to keep him there forever. But you both knew you couldn’t.

With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away, sitting up. “I think I should…” He glanced toward the door. “Before anyone notices.”

Your chest squeezed, but you only nodded, fingers catching his wrist before he could pull away. He looked back at you, and leaned back down. But this time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, like he wanted it branded into both of you.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, breath warm, “Love you.”

When he whispered those two words, something inside you cracked open, soft and trembling, like you’d been waiting years just to hear those two words in his voice.

For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe. Because how could this be real? How could it be that the same boy you’d been hopelessly in love with since you were fourteen—the boy you used to watch from across crowded rooms, the boy who smiled at you like you were just Max’s little sister—was now in your bed, skin still warm against yours, telling you he loved you?

It felt impossible. Unreal. Like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.

You smiled through the sting in your eyes, tugging him close for one more kiss. “Love you too, Lan.” The words slipped out with ease, though your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs.

When he pulled away, forehead resting gently against yours like neither of you wanted to let go, you closed your eyes just to memorize the moment. His breath mixed with yours, his fingers brushed your cheek, and his love wrapped around you like it had always been meant to.

Then he finally pulled back, quiet as he dressed, careful with every movement. Before going, he mouthed one last goodbye paired with a soft grin that made your heart ache. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sunshine.”

And finally, the door clicked softly behind him.

Moments later, the sheets were still cooling from his absence as you lay there, staring at the ceiling with your heart aching in the sweetest, sharpest way. Because you were still that fourteen-year-old girl somewhere deep inside—still the girl who doodled his name in margins, who blushed when he looked your way, who whispered your feelings into the dark where no one would ever hear them.

And now… now he had finally said them back.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue of dawn slipping through the villa windows. Lando padded barefoot toward his room, every step quiet and careful—until he froze.

Max was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and hair wild, clearly just woken up. His eyes narrowed immediately, flicking from Lando’s disheveled curls to the wrinkled tshirt, then back to the door he’d just slipped out of.

Lando’s chest tightened, his heart dropping. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but Max just tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered one second longer, sharp, suspicious, then without a word, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the kitchen. Lando exhaled silently, forcing his legs to move again. He ducked quickly into his own room, shutting the door with a quiet thud.

The storm hadn’t come yet, but the air in the villa was already heavy, humming with the weight of what Max had seen, and chosen not to say.

────୨ৎ────

21 & 25

The football match had ended hours ago, but neither Max nor Lando seemed ready to call it a night. They were sprawled across the couch in Lando’s apartment, an empty pizza box on the coffee table between them, cans of beer lined up like trophies from a war well fought. The city glowed faintly beyond the tall windows, muted in the haze of late evening.

Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh. “You know what’s still the wildest thing to me?”

Lando arched a brow, sipping his drink. “What?”

“That you—” Max jabbed a finger at him, grinning like he’d caught him in some grand hypocrisy. “‘Mr. I’m not interested in dating’ actually managed to get yourself a girlfriend. Like, a real one. Not just a fling as you used to.”

The words made Lando’s heart skip, but he schooled his expression into something casual, even amused. He chuckled lowly, swirling the can in his hand. “Yeah, well… stranger things have happened, mate.”

Max laughed, shaking his head. “No, seriously. Never thought I’d see the day.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So… who’s the unlucky girl dating you, huh?”

For a split second, Lando froze. His mind flashed with the truth—the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you whispered his name in the dark when you both lay in his bed late at night.

“Well— about that...” Lando started hesitantly, scratching his neck.

It’s your little sister—he wanted to say.

But his composure held. He smirked faintly, masking the way his pulse had spiked. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you nosy bastard.”

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that. You finally settle down with someone and you won’t even tell me who she is? What’s her name, at least?”

Lando only shrugged, leaning back lazily into the couch, as if the subject bored him. “She’s shy, and we’re taking things slowly. So some things aren’t for public knowledge yet.”

Max rolled his eyes, grabbing another can of beer from the table. “You’re fucking impossible. But fine, keep your little secret.” He smirked, lifting the can toward Lando in mock salute, “However. I can’t wait to finally meet her. Hopefully, you’ll introduce me soon.”

Oh, but he didn’t have to introduce you two to each other.

Lando’s lips quirked, a laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah… maybe one day.”

Before Max could press further, Lando pushed himself off the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. “Speaking of introductions, I’m introducing myself to whatever snacks are left in the kitchen. You want anything?”

“Sure.” Max muttered, distracted by the match highlights flickering on the TV.

Lando padded into the kitchen, his heart still racing from the conversation. His apartment was dim, the only light coming from Monaco's skyline outside, bathing the living room in a muted orange glow. The hum of the fridge and the regular tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds, except for Lando’s muffled cursing as he dug through the kitchen cupboards.

“I swear to God, I need to fire whoever stocks my pantry,” Lando called, his voice light, oblivious. “Where the fuck are my tortilla chips and Kinder chocolates?”

Max chuckled dryly from his spot on the couch, lounging lazily, one ankle perched on his knee. “Maybe you should stock your bloody kitchen by yourself, mate.”

“Not when I’ve got friends like you bringing me beer and all the goodies.” Lando shot back with a grin, still hidden from view.

Max shook his head, grabbing his own beer from the table. His fingers tapped absent-mindely against the can, eyes drifting over the clutter in front of him—controllers, half-empty takeout boxes, and Lando’s phone buzzing lazily against a coaster. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen flashed again, bright and insistent in the dim light.

And as he leaned to see who texted him, the name on the notification twisted his stomach into a knot.

Sunshine:

see you later, Lan <3

His blood turned cold. For a second, Max thought maybe it was the beer messing with him, maybe his mind was playing tricks. But the way his chest clenched, sharp and suffocating, told him otherwise. He furrowed his brows, blinking once, twice. His brain stuttered over the words. The casual familiarity of the message—the nickname—clung to his mind like a hook.

Lan.

His stomach twisted. He swiped his tongue across his teeth, blinking as if to reset his thoughts. He let out a slow, measured exhale through his nose, the weight of that message sinking deeper than it should have. His fingers tightened slightly around the can as the pieces began to stir, forming a puzzle he had been too blind—or too unwilling—to solve.

The first day you met him. You always being somewhere around them. Ice skating. The whole Ibiza trip. You in Lando’s shirt as a pajama. That one morning when Lando walked out of your room, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. The way you always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Lando’s gaze had started to linger on you—longer and softer, like you were the only person in the room. The gentle touches. The way you had always hovered near him, always watching, always… there.

He had been a fucking idiot. He had been blind. Or worse—he had ignored it.

But this? This message? This felt like a punch to the gut. His little sister, and his best mate. Holy fucking shit. Max felt the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins, ready to kill both of you.

How could you do this to him?

The sound of footsteps on tile jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Lando returned, snack bag in hand, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, no tortilla chips but I found pretzels and those spicy peanuts you—”

“Lando.” Max’s voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp, lethal in its stillness.

Lando froze mid-step, bags of snacks dangling from his hand. He glanced up, casual smile still lingering—but faltering the moment his eyes met Max’s. “What?”

Max’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His gaze was sharp, dripping in a cold fury that had Lando’s throat tightening instantly. He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, beer can hanging loose from his fingers, but his body was coiled, electric with tension.

“We need to talk.”

A moment of silence stretched, the weight of those words suffocating.

“About what, man?” Lando asked, his tone light, attempting casual, but his body betrayed him—shoulders stiffening, grip tightening on the snack bag as if it could shield him.

Max smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Lando.”

Lando’s mouth opened, ready to toss a joke, deflect, anything—but the weight of Max’s stare pinned him in place.

“Was it nice to play behind my back?” Max continued, tone low, dangerous. “You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Lando’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Max, it’s—”

“It’s what?” Max snapped, cutting him off. “It’s nothing? You gonna tell me that text was nothing too?”

Lando’s stomach dropped. So, that’s what this was about. He cursed internally as his pulse was racing. His first instinct was to joke, to deflect, but the weight of Max’s glare pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was quieter now, threaded with truth. “It just… happened.”

Max’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as his fists curled at his sides. “You think that makes it better? You sneaking behind my back? You sneaking into her fucking bed, Lando?”

Lando stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Max, look at me. I didn’t sneak, and I didn’t manipulate her. I didn’t— she’s not a kid anymore, mate!”

Max scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I know.” His voice dropped, a deadly whisper now. “You were supposed to be her friend.”

“I am!” Lando said firmly, standing his ground now, eyes burning. “I am her friend. But I’m also in love with her.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. The truth, raw and unavoidable, hung in the charged silence that followed. It made Max’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, confusion, and protectiveness, all tangled in a knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.

Max scoffed, dark and bitter. “You fell for her? Christ, Lando. What the fuck!”

Lando didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I fucking did. And if you’d open your eyes, you’d see this a long time ago, and not only now.” Max’s breath hitched. Because deep down, some part of him knew. He had always known that despite how much he had tried, it was inevitable.

But knowing and facing it—those were two very different things.

Max didn’t even realize how hard his fists had clenched until his nails dug into his palms, a sharp sting that barely registered. His breathing was shallow. Every time he tried to speak, the words just burned his throat. “You—” He started, but it fizzled into nothing.

His thoughts were a mess, tangled between anger and something deeper. Betrayal? Guilt? Loss? He didn’t know.

The words hung heavy in the air, the room suddenly too small to contain it. “You don’t get it,” Max’s voice was low, dangerous. “She’s not just someone you can fall for. She’s my little sister.” He growled, his voice dropping. “You know she’s always been off-limits for you.”

Across from him, Lando wasn’t fidgeting anymore. He stood still, but his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His eyes weren’t apologetic, they were certain.

“Max…” Lando’s voice was quieter now, not as defensive, not cocky. Just real. “I’ve loved her for a long time. You just never wanted to see it.”

And that—that hit.

“You think this is about me not seeing it?!” Max snapped, his voice louder now, shattering through the apartment. “You think this is about me pretending? You’re my fucking best friend, Lando. And she’s my little sister. You’re both all I’ve got.”

The air was thick, suffocating. The room felt too small for the both of them, as if the walls themselves were bracing for impact. Max’s fists trembled at his sides, and for a second, Lando wondered if this was it—if the fistfight was about to happen, if years of their deeply-rooted friendship were about to shatter right here, right now. But Max didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.

Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and ragged. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.”

The words dropped heavy between them. Max turned abruptly, his footsteps sharp against the floor as he stalked toward the door. Lando flinched at the slam of the front door rattling the frame. And then—silence.

Lando’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want it to be like this. Not with Max. Not with you. You both had wanted to tell Max, together, carefully. Not… like this.

Outside, the city lights flickered against the night sky, but inside the apartment, the air crackled with unspoken truths and the weight of inevitable consequences.

And Lando knew—he was fucked. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

But now, the secret was finally out. The lines were blurred, and rules were broken. She was off-limits from the very beginning, and he knew it. She knew it. Yet what’s forbidden always tempts the most, and they had been tasting it for far too long.

After all, the forbidden taste is always the sweetest, and it’s just impossible to resist it.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

@norristrii <3 xx

632 notes · View notes

cannelley · 1 day ago

Text

forbidden taste.¹ // ln4

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, smut, fluff, fewtrell!reader, brother’s bestfriend au, friends to lovers, kinda forbidden love??, slowburn, hurt-comfort

word count | 20.2k (part one)

warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, fingering, dirty talk), forced proximity, pet names (sunshine, love), emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.

music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy

a/n: ohmygod. i finally posted :') at the very beginning, this is the first part! i def recommend reading part two <3 but omg this idea had been sitting in my head for far too long, and ngl i'm glad that it's finally finished. hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡

14 & 18

You weren’t supposed to be listening.

Your older brother, Max, had told you sternly, and for what felt like the thousandth time, not to come downstairs. “Stay upstairs, preferably in your room. Don’t be annoying, and don’t even think about coming down here.”

He’d given you that older-brother look, the one that made it clear he thought you were the most embarrassing person alive. But as a nosy kid you’ve been, you of course had to do otherwise, and it was simply impossible not to do it. You’d wanted to stay out of sight, out of earshot, but the thing was, you couldn’t stop your mind from racing with curiosity.

You weren’t even sure why you cared so much. Max was always bringing friends over—loud, annoying teenage boys who smelled like sweat mixed with their deodorant, always calling you stupid names like “brat” or “shrimp”.

Usually, you avoided them, staying alone in your room. But this time it was different. This wasn’t just anyone—this was Lando.

You didn’t even know what he looked like yet, and what he was like, but you’d been hearing about him for weeks. You hadn’t even realized how much you wanted to see him—not until the second you heard his name.

Lando. It sounded like something straight out of a movie. It felt cool and electric on your tongue, like a name a girl would write in her diary a thousand times, testing how it looked with hearts around it. You’d never met someone with a name like that before, it was definitely special in a good way.

But the way Max talked about him? God, it was obsessive. He would casually drop little mentions of him during dinner: “Lando’s so fast, Mom.”, “Lando’s insanely talented.”, Lando’s this, Lando’s that.

You’d pretended to roll your eyes, acting like it didn’t matter. But deep down, every mention of his name made your stomach twist with a strange, unexplainable curiosity. If Max—the most impossible-to-impress person you knew—thought Lando was that amazing, then he really had to be someone special.

And today, you’d finally get to see what all the fuss was about. So yeah, you were listening. Of course you were.

You sat on the staircase, tucked behind the wooden banister, head tilted just enough to peek between the rails. Your knees were tucked to your chest, one arm wrapped around your legs, the other gripped tight around the wooden post like it might keep your body from floating off.

Then after some time, the front door finally opened.

You felt it before you even heard it—your pulse skipping, your stomach twisting in the most unfamiliar, ridiculous way. A breeze swept through the hall, and for a moment you felt suspended in time, perched at the top of the stairs in some kind of ridiculous, girlish trance.

Why was your body reacting like this? Your fourteen-year-old self hadn’t known the answer to those questions.

Max’s voice came first, loud and careless as usual. “Don’t touch anything, yeah? Mum will murder me if you break something.”

Then another voice answered, one you didn’t recognize. “Relax, mate. You act like I destroy everything I touch.”

You froze. That was him.

You didn’t expect his voice to feel like that. It was softer than you imagined, yet still smooth with that kind of amused confidence. Like a ribbon curling its way through your stomach and looping around your lungs, and like sunlight breaking through blinds and landing warm on your cheek.

Your heart thudded once, then again, faster than before, and you told yourself to breathe, to stop being stupid, but the idea of turning away was impossible now. You leaned forward just a little more, carefully and silently. And then you finally saw him.

He walked in behind Max, shoulders relaxed, hands buried in the pocket of a navy hoodie that looked two sizes too big—but on him, it didn’t look sloppy, it looked effortlessly cool. He wasn’t overly tall, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made him seem bigger than he was. His dark hair was a mess, falling into his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His skin was tanned and warm, and as he looked around, his lips were twitching into a faint smile.

There was something about the way he moved around, like the world just opened up for him. Like he never had to force a thing.

It was stupid how just looking at him made your chest feel tight. He wasn’t even doing anything, and yet he was doing everything to you. He had this air about him, this effortless confidence that made it impossible to look away from him.

Lando turned to Max, grinning at something your brother just said, and that’s when he laughed out loud. It was the kind of laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm and easy, as if the world itself bent to his mood.

Your cheeks flushed, and you clutched the banister tighter, trying to figure out what was happening to you. Why did your heart feel like it was trying to escape your chest? Why did the sight of him make your stomach flip like you’d just gone over the top of a rollercoaster?

Then suddenly, his eyes flicked upward, towards you. You jerked back instinctively, hoping he didn’t notice you. But it was too late. The floorboard creaked beneath you, giving you away.

Max noticed immediately, sighing while letting out a soft sound of frustration. “Oh my God, seriously? Can you not?”

You tried to play it off, running off the stairs and grabbing a random book from the side table. “I was just… getting this.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you winced at the sound.

Lando turned to you fully now, and you felt like the oxygen had just disappeared from the room. His eyes were bright and curious, and when they landed on you, it was like the rest of the world faded away. You felt seen in a way you hadn’t before, like his gaze wasn’t just looking at you—it was taking you in. It was stupid, but you felt your cheeks burn under his attention.

“And who’s this?” He asked looking at Max, his voice playful but kind. He tilted his head slightly, a small, easy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Max groaned beside him, scratching the back of his head. “My annoying, little sister. Unfortunately.” And just like that, the bubble popped.

Your chest dropped, and your fingers clenched around the book. You wanted to scream at Max, tell him to shut up, that you weren’t annoying, that you were a normal person, that—

“I’m fourteen.” You blurted out, defensively but it was too fast, and too desperate. You immediately regretted it.

Fucking fourteen, when they were eighteen.

You wanted to disappear into the floorboards. Your face burned hotter, your lungs constricting around the words like they’d betrayed you. But Lando didn’t laugh, didn’t try to mock you like Max’s other friends. He just blinked at you once, and then that soft and warm smile spread across his face like sunlight through a half-open window. Like you hadn’t just embarrassed yourself in front of him.

“Watch out, Max,” Lando said, his eyes still on you. “She’s fourteen, almost as old as us.”

You couldn’t help it—your lips twitched, the corners of your mouth curling before you could stop them. A tiny, traitorous smile. His tone was light, like he was inviting you to laugh along with him. But you couldn’t. Your brain was too busy trying to process the fact that someone like him was even talking to you.

Max groaned loudly and grabbed Lando’s sleeve. “Just ignore her, mate. She’ll try to follow us around because she’s obsessed with attention.”

But Lando didn’t move. He turned back one more time, right before Max dragged him away, and when he looked at you again, there was something different in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Affection, but definitely not romantic, it wasn’t like that. Yet, still, it was kind, gentle, and real.

“See you later, Sunshine.” He uttered before joining your older brother in the living room.

And that? That ruined you.

Sunshine.

Your chest tightened at the new nickname. It was like the gentle teasing of it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, only it was suffocating in the way that made you ache.

You hated it. You loved it.

You stood frozen long after they vanished into the living room, your fingers pressed white against the book, your heart thudding so hard it made your chest ache. It should’ve made you mad, it should’ve made you feel small. But the way he said it? It felt like a nickname no one else in the world could get away with.

You sat in your room for a long time after that, knees curled up to your chest, eyes blurry, and head spinning. You were just fourteen. You didn’t even know what love was. You didn’t know anything about it or why he made you feel like that. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice felt so smooth, nor why the sound of his laughter made your heart race.

But when Lando Norris smiled at you, and called you Sunshine—you knew. You knew that something had begun that day.

────୨ৎ────

16 & 20

The house was louder than usual. Voices echoed through the hallway, laughter spilled out from the living room, and it smelled faintly of some perfume and the greasy comfort of takeaway leftovers.

Max had invited over a whole crew of friends this time—boys you recognized in passing, most of them racing guys, some you’d seen before, and others that just blurred into a crowd.

But it didn’t matter, not really. Because he was here, Lando.

You had caught a glimpse of him when they all stormed through the front door. Max was yelling at them to take off their shoes, while someone nearly knocked over the lamp by the stairs. Lando trailed in at the back of the group, eyes lit up with laughter at something one of the guys said. Now he looked a bit older and more mature than before, as he was now twenty years old. A little broader in the shoulders, his jaw a little sharper, with that same easy smile. His hair was still messy, but now they were starting to curl. And still, when he laughed, it sounded like sunlight—effortless, unbothered, and warm in a way that wrapped around your ribs and stayed there.

The familiar smell of your mom’s baking filled the house. Fresh pastries, warm bread, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon drifting through the hallways made your stomach rumble. It was a Sunday tradition, one that had never changed since you were a little kid.

But today? Today, everything felt different. Maybe it was because you were getting older, or maybe it was because of the way your heart raced when you thought about Lando.

And of course, you had to be the one tasked with carrying the trays to Max and his friends. You had tried to get out of it, pretending that you were too busy with homework or anything else that could serve as an excuse to avoid the living room full of Max’s friends. But it was futile. Your mom had already started setting everything up in the kitchen, and you knew better than to argue with her when she had her mind set on something.

“Be a love and take this for Max and the boys, okay?” She asked, and you nodded, already reaching for the first tray.

So here you were, hands full with two trays of snacks, balancing them precariously as you made your way into the living room.

You were older now—sixteen, to be exact. Still a kid to Max, but old enough to know things. Old enough to realize the way your heart beat faster when Lando was in the same room. Old enough to hate the way your voice shook around him.

The trays were heavier than they looked. You tried not to wobble as you stepped carefully over the threshold of the living room, your fingers curled tight around the edge of the silver platter, a nervous flutter dancing in your stomach. The scent of your mom’s fresh-baked focaccia and chocolate cake clung to your skin, warm and comforting like home. But nothing about this moment felt comforting. Your heart was a mess of beats in your chest.

They were all there—Max, surrounded by a ring of his friends scattered across the couches and floor like it was their house and not yours. The energy in the room buzzed with loud laughter, the kind only a group of twenty-year-olds could conjure. Bottles of beer clinked, some video game commentary echoed faintly from the muted TV, and the windows were open to the sound of late-summer birdsong.

And then there was Lando. As usual, he was leaning against the wall, looking completely at ease in the chaotic mix of people.

You had to force your eyes to stay neutral, keep your face blank, because if Max caught so much as a single flicker of what you were feeling, he’d drag you out of the room by your hoodie and lock you in your room.

Stepping inside quietly, you tried to be invisible, even though you felt like a spotlight was burning into the back of your neck. Your heart fluttered a little, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

“Uh— I brought snacks.” You managed to mumble, your voice quiet and awkward, the tray wobbling a little in your grip.

Max barely looked up. “Great. Put them down and go.” His tone was dismissive, not even bothering to hide his irritation.

You knew the drill by now—he didn’t want you in his space, didn’t want you interrupting his time with his friends. But as you approached the table, trying to find a spot to set the trays down, you caught Lando’s eye. He was watching you, that trademark smile of his playing at the corners of his lips.

“Hey, Sunshine.” He said, his lips curving into a smile.

That nickname. It had been a while since he started to call you that, but it still made your skin flush with warmth. His voice was calm, soft, familiar in a way that made your chest flutter like it had forgotten how to settle.

“Need help with those?” He asked, his voice smooth as ever, not a hint of judgment in his tone, like he wasn’t about to brush you off like everyone else.

You blinked, caught off guard by his attentiveness. For a moment, it felt like the whole room disappeared, and it was just you and him. God, you hated how that made you feel.

You gave a small nod, trying not to drop the tray in your flustered state. “Uh… yeah, sure. Thanks.” You muttered, struggling to steady the trays in your hands.

Your heart started pounding as you realized he was actually going to help you. He moved closer, his presence filling the space, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he towered over you, his broad shoulders almost making you feel smaller than you already were.

Lando took one of the trays effortlessly, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief second, and you felt a shiver run through you at the contact. His grip was warm, steady, and confident. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, of how good he looked standing there, holding that tray like it was nothing.

There were little things about him that made your brain short-circuit: the way his collarbone peeked through the neckline of his shirt, the way his eyelashes curled up at the edges, the tiny scar near on the bridge of his nose you always found yourself staring at for too long.

And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he did to you. Or maybe he did. Maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

As Lando placed the tray, he gave you a playful look, that glint of amusement in his eyes. “You know, you didn’t have to bring this all by yourself. Max is a pain in the ass, he should have prepared it by himself.”

You could feel your cheeks go warm by the way he was looking at you. “He’s always a pain.” You replied, not entirely able to contain the sarcastic edge in your voice.

Max always acted like you were an inconvenience, like everything you did was somehow too much.

Lando chuckled, “That’s an understatement.” His words made you laugh, and the sound of his chuckle made your stomach flutter.

Max, of course, chose this exact moment to finally look up from whatever he was doing. His eyes narrowed immediately, his lips pulling into a scowl.

“Seriously?” He snapped, glaring at you. “What did I say, huh? Leave the food and go.” You flinched, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you’d expected.

Your smile dropped immediately, feeling the heat creep up your neck, and the embarrassment blooming bright and painful in your chest. You weren’t even trying to bother them. You were just helping and trying to be near him.

“Max. I was just…” You stammered, but Max was already waving you off, like you were nothing but a buzzing fly in the room.

“Out. Go.” He grumbled, nodding his head towards the door.

And just as you turned, cheeks burning, heart sinking, Lando’s voice cut in, cool and calm but sharper than before. “Jesus, Max. Chill out, mate.” Lando was looking at Max now, his brows raised, that amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “She’s just bringing snacks. It's not the end of the world.”

It took you by surprise. You’d never seen Lando take a stance like this before, especially not against Max. But there it was. The way he stood up for you, even just in this small moment, made your stomach do a flip. You wanted to say something back to Max, something witty or biting, but Lando had already set the tone.

Max’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression flickering with something close to annoyance, but also a hint of surprise. He opened his mouth to retort, but Lando gave him a pointed look that shut him up instantly. Max grumbled, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t say anything else. He turned back to his friends, dismissing you like he always did.

But Lando? He didn’t turn away. Instead, he flashed you that same soft, genuine smile—the kind that made your heart race every time. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just him, Lando, acknowledging you in the way you had always wished for.

“Thanks for bringing the snacks,” He said softly, his eyes never leavinf yours. “You’re a good sister.”

His words hit you like a wave, knocking you off balance. A good sister. That was all you were to him. Max’s little sister.

But somehow, in the way he said it, you could almost convince yourself it wasn’t as simple as that. His voice was low, rich with something you couldn’t place, and the weight of his gaze made you feel like you were more than just a background character in the story Max and his friends were writing.

You smiled back, though you felt a pang of disappointment you couldn’t quite shake. “I know, I’m trying.”

Lando’s smile deepened, and there was something in it—something that made you want to hold onto that moment forever, even if you knew it couldn’t last.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Max doesn’t make it worse for you.” He said, the light humor still lacing his voice. But there was something else, something protective in the way he said it, as if he truly cared about how Max treated you.

“Thanks.” You whispered, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn that the way he looked at you made it feel like the whole world was suddenly different. You weren’t just Max’s little sister. With Lando, for just a heartbeat, you were someone who mattered.

You turned to leave, but before you could fully escape the room, Lando called out to you again, his voice warm, almost as if he didn’t want you to go.

“Sunshine,” He said, making you pause and look back at him. “You’re welcome here anytime, by the way.”

And as you walked back to the kitchen, you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the small but meaningful things, like him standing up for you in front of Max, or the way his presence filled the room in a way that made you feel seen, for once. But whatever it was, it made your heart beat just a little faster.

And you couldn’t deny the truth, no matter how hard you tried. You were falling for him. Hard.

────୨ৎ────

18 & 22

The crisp winter air bit gently at your cheeks as you stood awkwardly by the entrance to the ice rink, the sharp scrape of skates against ice echoing all around. The air was biting, the kind of cold that turned your breath into mist and made your fingers ache even through gloves.

Your hands were buried deep inside your jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up against the cold as your breath curled into the air in pale clouds. You tugged at the cuffs of your oversized jacket, glancing around nervously. The outdoor rink was strung with fairy lights, soft yellow bulbs glowing like stars against the fading winter sky. Laughter rang through the crisp evening air, and blades scraped and whispered over the ice, carving lines that criss-crossed like heartbeats. But all you could feel was the absence of him.

Max’s friends were already there, loud and full of energy, their voices bouncing off the rink walls. You lingered by the benches, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes flicking toward the parking lot every few seconds. Your skates were already laced tight, and your scarf pulled up high but you stood there like a misplaced piece of the puzzle, off to the side, just barely tolerated.

“He’s late,” Max muttered beside you, his tone flat and annoyed. Then, without looking at you, he sighed. “And you are still here. Don’t you have your own friends or something?”

You looked away, blinking hard at the sudden sting in your eyes. “I do,” You muttered under your breath. “But they’re just busy today.”

“You’re already fucking eighteen,” Max had muttered when you asked to come. “Why do you need to tag along everywhere we go?”

He hadn’t even tried to hide the irritation in his voice. That sting had stayed with you, gnawing at your insides while you silently followed him and the others to the rink. You tried to brush it off, act like it didn’t matter. But it did, of course it did.

You wouldn’t have wanted to come if it weren’t for Lando. But Lando was running late, and without him, it all felt wrong.

The wind stung your cheeks, and your gloves didn’t do much to keep your fingers from going numb. Max’s friends were loud, obnoxious, their easy camaraderie only highlighting how out of place you felt. They threw teasing comments at you, half-joking but sharp-edged enough to boil your blood. You tried to laugh it off, but the knot in your stomach tightened every time.

When you finally slipped onto the ice, the chill bit deeper. Max and his friends swarmed together, skating effortlessly side by side, chatting and laughing, leaving you alone to wobble on shaky legs. They skated around you like you were invisible.

You pushed off slowly, awkwardly, trying to find your own rhythm. It wasn’t that you couldn’t skate, you could, but it was different when you were alone, and when every mistake echoed louder.

You made it halfway across the rink when a sudden slip caught you off guard. You fell hard—knees first, then palms—and the air punched out of your lungs. The shock of it made your eyes sting with tears instantly. The cold rushed through your clothes, biting into your skin. A hush rang in your ears, though the world around you kept moving. Skates zipped past in a blur. Laughter echoed just a few feet away.

You sat up slowly, pain throbbing in your joints. Your breath trembled as you looked around, hoping and praying that someone could help you stand up. Max skated by just a few feet ahead. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. Not once. He didn’t stop. He didn’t see you. And that hurt more than the fall.

“Max, wait!” You shouted, trying to get his attention while rubbing your knees. But just as you expected, he didn’t hear or rather pretended not to hear you yell his name.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Binking fast, you were trying to clear the sting from your eyes. It wasn’t just the embarrassment of falling but it was the raw, sharp edge of being overlooked, and completely ignored. You weren’t some little kid anymore, begging to be included. You were fucking eighteen, and still, somehow, you were still invisible and always in the way.

You sniffed hard and wiped your gloves against your eyes, scolding yourself under your breath. Don’t cry. Not here, and not now. But the loneliness crushed down on you like a weight, and the sting was both physical and something deeper. You were hurt, but mostly just felt humiliated.

You stayed there for a moment, knees burning, pride aching even more. And just when you thought you’d be left alone untilsomeone finally notice your absence, a familiar voice broke through the noise, soft but unmistakable.

“Sorry, I’m late, Sunshine.”

Your breath caught in your lungs. You turned your head slowly, and there he was. Lando glided towards you on his skates, his curls damp with mist, and cheeks pink from the cold. He had that damn smile on his face—soft, crooked, and warm in a way the cold couldn’t touch. A white hoodie peeked out from under his jacket, and he looked flushed from running.

His eyes scanned your face, instantly catching the mix of pain and embarrassment. The way the fading sunlight hit his loose hair, the genuine concern in his tone—it was like the world softened around you.

“You look like you could use a hand.”

Your lower lip trembled as you sank back onto the ice, feeling raw and exposed while Lando stood in front of you, steady and calm. You blinked fast, trying to stop the tears before they could fall. But something about his voice, his presence, the way he looked straight at you like you were the only person that mattered, made your throat tighten. You stared at him for a beat longer, a shiver crawling up your spine. He looked warm, like safety. Like everything you needed in that exact moment.

“I’m fine.” You muttered, but your voice cracked just slightly, betraying you.

Lando crouched in front of you, not caring at all about getting his jeans wet. His aquamarine eyes searched yours. “Well, you don’t look fine to me.”

You looked away, embarrassed, a dry laugh escaping from your mouth. “Funny that my own brother can’t even notice that.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, looking at you questioningly, “What do you mean?”

“Ugh, Max didn’t want me to come. He said I should just hang out with my friends, and now they’re all just…” You gestured vaguely toward the blur of figures skating across the rink. “They just left me here. I’m sorry, this is so stupid, and I’m acting like a child. I should have stayed at home.”

Lando’s expression shifted—a crease between his brows, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“No, it’s not stupid, Sunshine. And you’re not invisible, you know?”

Your eyes met his, and something in your chest clenched. “Well, I feel like I am.” You chuckled awkwardly.

But that was all it took. Something cracked wide open inside you. A sharp breath escaped your chest, and tears finally spilled over before you could stop them. You ducked your head, shame curling in your stomach like fire. But he didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He just watched you, gently and patiently.

You sniffled, wiping your glove across your cheek. “I just feel like I’m this annoying, unwanted shadow which Max wishes he could shake off. But believe me or now, I’m just trying not to be alone, and I hate this,” You muttered, voice shaky. “I hate always being treated like I’m unwanted. Like I don’t matter. And I know I shouldn’t care, but fuck, it still hurts.”

You looked down at your feet, ashamed of the crack in your voice. But Lando gently tipped your chin up with one finger. His eyes were kind and warm. “You matter, Sunshine. And Max can be oblivious sometimes, but I see you, okay?”

You bit your lip to hold back the sob building in your throat. He saw you. God, you needed that more than anything.

Lando didn’t speak for a moment. The quiet between you was soft, heavy, but not suffocating. “And I’m sorry.” He added, and you could tell he meant it not just for being late, but for all of it—for Max, and for the way this entire day had unfolded.

He glanced out at the rink, then back at you. “Let’s get you warm. You deserve better than freezing out here alone.”

You blinked, looking at him with concern visible in your eyes. “But… you just got here, Lan. You didn’t even get to skate with them.”

He reached forward and took your hand, slowly helping you up from the ice. His grip was firm and warm, steadying your shaky knees. You realized just how cold you were only when his touch made your skin ache in contrast.

Lando gave a little half-shrug, his smile soft again. “Nah. I think you and I need hot chocolate more than we need bruised asses.”

You laughed, the sound small but real. “You sure?”

Lando smiled down at you, his grin shining brightly. “I’m sure. Come on, Sunshine. My treat.”

He took your hand, not even thinking about it, and you let him. He helped guide you off the rink like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as he walked with you toward the little café by the rink, your hand still tucked inside his glove-warmed one, you felt that flutter in your chest again. Not because of the fall but because when everything felt cold and hollow, he showed up.

The café was a warm wooden hut, lit by soft lamps and smelling like cinnamon and melted marshmallows. Inside, you both ordered drinks and found a booth near the window. Your hands wrapped around the paper cup, fingers thawing slowly as the heat soaked into your bones. Outside, you could still see Max and the boys skating in the cold, totally oblivious.

Inside, however, everything had slowed. You sat across from him by the table, a soft haze of steam curling from the mugs in front of you, the warm scent of cocoa mixing with the faint sugary smell of whipped cream. The windows fogged slightly from the contrast of cold air and warmth inside, blurring the snow-dusted world beyond.

Lando sat with his gloves off, hands wrapped around the ceramic mug like he needed the heat too. His hoodie was slightly crooked, cheeks flushed pink, curls a little damp from snow. He looked so effortlessly good, like warmth incarnate. Like something you’d dream up on a night when everything felt a little too heavy.

You didn’t speak right away, and neither did he. He just looked at you, softly and patiently, like you were someone worth waiting on. And maybe that’s when it started to really hit you. That the little flutter in your chest that had existed for a while now wasn’t just a silly crush anymore. It wasn’t a passing thing or some half-formed idea of romance. No, this—he—was different. Because no one else saw you like he did. No one else noticed the cracks you tried so hard to keep hidden. No one else crouched down beside you when you were hurting, let you fall apart without rushing to fix it. No one else ever made you feel like you mattered, like you could be more than just Max’s little sister. And it made your heart ache in an almost unbearable way.

You watched him bring the mug to his lips, his fingers long and slender around the rim. There was a faint smear of whipped cream on his upper lip that he didn’t notice—and you couldn’t look away from it.

God, he was beautiful.

And the way he looked at you tonight? Like the second he saw you on the ice, everything else just faded. It made your skin prickle with awareness. Like your body suddenly remembered it was his presence that made you feel alive—always had. You curled your fingers tighter around your mug, trying to ground yourself.

And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you. He never had. And that only made it harder. That kind of softness? That kind of instinctive care? It was lethal.

You’d fall for him a hundred times over if he kept looking at you like that. And yet you knew, deep down, it still didn’t mean anything could happen. There were lines, unwritten rules and set limits. Max would kill him if he knew. Everyone would call it wrong.

But if it was wrong, why did it feel so right?

You lowered your gaze to your hot chocolate, suddenly overwhelmed with it all—the longing towards him, frustration about Max, and ache in your body.

Lando, still quiet across from you, must’ve sensed the shift in your energy, because he leaned forward slightly, his voice gentler than before. “You okay?” He asked, voice low and genuine.

You hesitated. “I don’t know. It just… sucks. He used to care more, and we used to be much closer. Or maybe I just imagined it.”

“He does care,” He replied carefully. “But he’s also an idiot.”

You let out a small, unexpected laugh. “Yeah. A loud, arrogant idiot.”

Lando smiled at that. “He’s lucky to have you, though.”

Your cheeks flushed, and your eyes dropped to your cup. “He doesn’t act like it.”

“Well, I think you’re great,” He said, tone lighter, but something in his eyes stayed serious. “And honestly, I’m kind of glad I was late.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because if I wasn’t, I might’ve missed that perfect moment to be your hero.” You rolled your eyes at him as he bursted out laughing, but still, you smiled and this time it stayed.

Outside, the snow had started falling in slow, heavy flakes. But in the warmth of that tiny café, it didn’t matter that Max acted like a complete asshole or that you fell. Or that you’d spent the first half of the evening trying not to cry. Because Lando had seen you, and that was enough.

You were still holding the half-empty mug, the rim cooling against your palms. The silence between you and Lando was soft, companionable. That comfortable sort of quiet you didn’t often get. He was leaning back in his chair now, legs stretched under the table, watching you with an unreadable expression—like he was trying to figure something out but wasn’t sure how to ask.

“I really didn’t mean to ruin your night.” You mumbled after a beat, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t,” He replied instantly, a little too fast. “If anything… I think I needed this.”

You blinked, surprised. “Needed…?”

He didn’t answer you. Lando just gave you a soft, lopsided smile that made your heart do a dangerous flip and leaned forward to take your hands into his warmer ones. But before you could fall deeper into that moment, the bell above the café door chimed.

“Are you serious right now?” Max’s voice cut sharply through the quiet, and your stomach dropped.

His tone was unmistakable—sharp, defensive, the kind of tone he usually reserved for pissed-off arguments and stupid racing banter. But this wasn’t stupid. This was you, and Lando. Together, alone.

You turned your head to see him standing by the door, his arms crossed, brows drawn together. He looked between the two of you—your hands brought together at the untouched skates beside Lando’s chair, at your flushed cheeks, and at how close your mugs were sitting on the table.

“Lando,” Max barked, stepping closer, “Hands off my sister.”

The silence shattered like glass, and your face went hot instantly. You could barely look at Max, his voice slicing into you like you’d done something wrong just by being here. But Lando didn’t move away from you. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something hard to name.

And then he said it—voice calm but cutting. “At least I noticed she fell.”

Max’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying…” Lando’s jaw clenched as he looked back at Max. “She fell, Max. Hard. Everyone was off doing their own thing, laughing, skating around like she didn’t even exist. You didn’t even look back, and I shall remind you that you are her older brother, not me.”

Max looked at you again, and it hit him. The way your eyes wouldn’t meet his. The way you leaned just slightly closer to Lando when he stepped forward. The tightness in your shoulders. The way you hadn’t said a word to him all evening. He knew that look. You were angry and hurt.

“She’s eighteen, Lando,” Max muttered, more to himself. “She doesn’t need babysitting every fucking second.”

“She doesn’t need babysitting! She’s perfectly fine on her own,” Lando replied, his voice cooler now. “She just needed someone to care and help her get up. That’s the difference.”

That struck something inside Max. You could see it behind his eyes—the way his brows drew together, the flicker of guilt that passed quickly across his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening. And then, slowly, his eyes dragged back to Lando, studying him, and processing everything. Something about the way Lando looked at you, about the way you looked back. The way your body language shifted when he was near.

Max’s lips parted for a moment, a breath caught in his throat, as if some subconscious part of him was beginning to do the math. But instead of solving the equation, he backed away from it.

“Yeah, whatever,” He muttered, shaking his head. “We’re leaving in ten. Don’t be late.” He turned on his heel and walked off, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. But not without a final glance over his shoulder. A long, narrowed look that didn’t say much aloud but said enough.

You watched him disappear into the crowd of other boys, your heart hammering in your chest, everything suddenly feeling more fragile than it had just moments ago. You looked up at Lando again, who was already glancing in the direction Max had gone, his jaw still set.

“I’m sorry.” You said softly, not sure what you were even apologizing for.

Lando shook his head, looking back at you. “Don’t be. You deserve better than being left alone like that.”

He held out his hand again—gentler this time, more careful, and you took it, neither of you saying anything more. But deep down, you both knew something had just shifted.

And Max? He definitely knew something was off. Like maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as innocent as he’d always believed.

────୨ৎ────

You had been waiting for this summer. Not just any summer—the summer where everything was supposed to finally shift.

Ibiza.

The annual summer trip. The one that had always been off-limits for you when you were younger. A trip only for them—Max and his friends. Every year, it was a highlight for them, full of beach days, late nights, and photos you weren’t allowed to see because 'you’re too young'.

But this year, you had hope as you were finally eighteen. Not a kid anymore, not just Max’s sister. And most importantly, you were certain that something between you and Lando had changed.

Slowly, subtly, like the tide pulling out. It wasn’t just a crush anymore. Not some schoolgirl fantasy you’d outgrow. You felt it in the way he laughed when you teased him, in the way his gaze lingered longer than it used to, in the way he told Max to chill out when you usually joined them in the living room. You knew he still saw you as the younger one, maybe even a little untouchable, but there were cracks forming in that wall. You could feel them.

So when you decided to visit Max after he moved to his new apartment, he decided to casually drop the announcement over breakfast, saying, “We have flights for Ibiza this night.”

You blinked, assuming that of course he meant you too. “Should I go back home and pack?” You asked, while trying to hide the smile already tugging at your lips.

Max didn’t even look up from his cereal. “What? No, not you. Just our group. You can stay here for the night, and then come back home.”

The words hit like a slap. “What? Why not?” You countered immediately, frowning at your older brother.

Max sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not a family holiday. It’s just our group. And you’re not coming.”

Your heart clenched. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Max. And after all, you always repeated that when I’ll be eighteen, you will take me.”

Max finally looked up at you, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Still my little sister, though. And it’s Ibiza. So no, not happening.”

You felt your jaw tighten, the flush creeping into your cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from anger. “But Mom would let me—”

“Oh, she won’t. I already talked to her, and she agrees. End of the story.”

End of the story, my ass—you thought.

“Max, I’m not fucking stupid,” You snapped before you could stop yourself. The words came out like venom, sharper than you intended. “I know exactly what Ibiza is. I’m not asking to go clubbing and drinking. I just want to go with you there.”

“What can’t you understand, huh? You’re not going. I don’t want to be responsible for you there,” He answered firmly, “And you’d still be the youngest.”

The youngest. There it was again. Always the afterthought. Always the one no one trusted, no one took seriously, no one really saw. And yet, your parents let Max do whatever he wanted when he was your age. No questions, no concern. But you? You were a whole different story.

You pushed back from the table so hard the chair legs scraped against the floor. “Of course,” You snorted, heart hammering in your chest. “Because why would anyone want me there anyway, right?”

You whipped around before you could stop yourself, and your eyes locked immediately with his. Lando. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing that soft hoodie again, the one that hung off his shoulders and made him look like a goddamn movie scene. His hair was a little messy, his skin tanned from early summer karting days, and his smile—ugh. It made your anger feel even more childish, which somehow made it worse.

He looked at you and grinned. “Hey, Sunshine.” You didn’t smile back, you couldn’t. Lando frowned slightly, eyes flicking to Max and then back to you. “Everything’s alright?”

No. Nothing was alright.

“Never been better.” You hissed, gritting your teeth in anger.

Max decided to answer Lando for you. “She’s mad because she’s not coming to Ibiza.”

Lando raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t known. “Wait, you wanted to come with us?”

Of course you did. You’d imagined it a thousand times—walking on the sun-warmed streets, swimming in that infinity pool, sipping drinks you weren’t supposed to have, brushing his hand “accidentally” under the stars. You had even planned outfits already. You had dreamed of this.

“I thought maybe I could,” You muttered, trying not to let the hurt show. “But apparently I can’t because I’m Max’s sister.”

Something shifted in his expression, but only for a second. You couldn’t read it. Sympathy? Or maybe it was regret?

Max snorted at your response. “It’s not for a debate. End of the story.”

Lando didn’t add anything to Max’s words, and that was even worse. He just gave you a soft, unreadable smile—not cold, but distant—and approached the kitchen counter to grab a glass of orange juice as if nothing had changed. Like you weren’t standing there with your heart breaking quietly in your chest.

You locked yourself in the bathroom, the tears burning your eyes before you could blink them away. But you didn’t want to cry. You refused to cry over this, and over Max because what really hurt—what cracked something open inside your chest—was the thought of Lando.

You had spent the last couple of years memorizing him. Every smirk, every time he ruffled his hair or leaned back in a chair like he owned the universe. Every warm, gentle “Hey, Sunshine.” that made you feel like the earth tilted just a little on its axis. He made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than Max’s kid sister. Something worth noticing. And now he’d be gone for a week with music, beaches, tanned girls in bikinis who didn’t stumble over their words or blush when he got too close. Girls who were his age, and who weren’t you.

It hurt so much that you could be there if not for Max’s selfishness and stupidity.

Your jealousy was ugly, and you knew that. It coiled inside you, black and bitter, twisting around your ribs until it hurt to breathe. You could picture it too clearly: Lando lounging poolside, a drink in hand, throwing his head back in laughter as some girl ran her fingers down his arm. The thought made your stomach twist.

He’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t he? You were just the sweet, harmless Sunshine he teased and smiled at like a big brother. He probably didn’t even think of you once when they booked the flights.

And the worst part? You knew he’d be kind about it. You knew if he realized how much it bothered you, he’d flash that boyish smile and say something like “Next time, yeah?” as if it meant anything. Like you weren’t already drowning in the idea of him being too far away.

You hated everyone at that moment. Max, for shutting you out. Lando, for not saying anything. And mostly yourself, for thinking this year would be different.

You stayed in the guest room for most of the day, the sound of them finishing packing and laughing made your heart ache with every passing hour.

Later during night, you cracked your door open to get yourself a glass of water, and that’s when you saw Lando with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Your breath caught. He looked so… effortless. Tanned already, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, his cap put backwards on his head, and his smile easy as he hummed something under his breath.

He noticed you, smiling at you instantly. “Hey,” He said with that familiar warmth. “What’s up? You hiding from us?”

You offered a tight smile, trying to seem unaffected. “M’just tired.”

“You okay?” He asked, slowing down. There was genuine concern in his eyes, and for a second, it almost undid you.

“I’m fine,” You answered, looking away from his gaze. “Have fun in Ibiza, Lan.”

He tilted his head, stepping closer. “Wish you could come, though. It’d be fun with you there.”

You blinked at him, a hundred unsaid things gathering like a storm behind your lips.

“Yeah,” You uttered, pausing for a second. “It would.”

His eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have. You felt it—the question that hovered in the air, the moment that could’ve been something else if only he let it. But then he smiled, and gave you a playful little wink while turning away. And just like that, he was gone.

They said they said their goodbyes, Max left you the spare keys to the apartment and then the front door finally shut close. The laughter faded, and you were left alone in a house that suddenly felt way too quiet.

For the first time, you realized that you weren’t just crushing on Lando. And you hated how much you wanted him to miss you when you weren’t there.

────୨ৎ────

The first few days felt like a blur. You tried to busy yourself, throwing yourself into hobbies, hanging out with friends, but it was impossible to ignore the space they’d all left behind.

The house was too quiet without the sound of Max laughing, without Lando’s easy banter that always seemed to make you feel lighter. It was as though the entire world had shifted, and you were stuck in place, waiting.

You spent the first days trying not to check Instagram but your fingers betrayed you every time. Lando had posted a photo on his story—shots clinking together at a rooftop bar, the glow of sunset turning the entire sky gold behind him. Max was in the background, grinning from ear to ear. Someone else had tagged Lando in a blurry club video—strobe lights, sweaty dancing, the camera panning just fast enough to catch him whispering into some girl’s ear.

Your stomach turned. You threw your phone onto your bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to let your imagination run wild. But it was no use. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. Lando, sunkissed and effortless, head tilted back in laughter, eyes lit up with the wildness of freedom.

And worse—you saw him with someone else. Someone older, someone who could walk into a club next to him like she belonged there, and someone who wouldn’t blush when he touched her arm or stammer over words when he smiled. And each time, it stung. He wasn’t yours, and he was never going to be yours.

You tried to ignore it. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. He was Max’s friend. He had never looked at you the way you’d wanted him to. You were just the little sister who was supposed to stay out of their way, who wasn’t supposed to get caught up in the whirlwind of their world. But every time you saw those photos, every time you heard Lando’s laugh in the background of Max’s voice message, your stomach twisted. You were jealous—and you hated it. You hated how much you cared. You felt pathetic. Eighteen and lovesick, aching for someone who probably hadn’t thought about you once since the plane took off.

Still, you found yourself walking into the guest’s room at your house, where Lando usually stayed when he visited your family. It smelled faintly like his cologne—clean, expensive, a little warm. You sat on the edge of his bed, fingers grazing the stitching of his pillowcase, and let yourself imagine what it would be like to be beside him. Not just as Max’s little sister but as you, a girl he could potentially want.

You laid back, curled into the scent of him, eyes fluttering shut as you remembered his laugh, the sound of him calling you Sunshine, the way his eyes sometimes found you and lingered there just long enough to make your breath catch. You imagined him whispering your name instead—slowly, like he meant it.

After a few days of not being able to do anything else than stay at home, you decided to somehow try to distract yourself. You finally joined your friends for a day at the lake, but even the sun felt colder than usual. You turned down a summer party because you couldn’t bear the thought of pretending you were fine in a room full of noise that didn’t sound like his voice.

At night, when everything slowed and the world dimmed, your thoughts always went back to him. You’d scroll through his photos, pausing on the ones where he looked especially carefree—shirtless on the beach, hair a mess from saltwater, sunglasses pushed up onto his head. He looked like someone who belonged in a different world than you. And still—you wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted anything.

It was a quiet kind of torture. Wanting someone who was both so close and completely out of reach.

By the end of the week, you almost forgot about this all. Then, one night, your phone buzzed. It was him.

Lando:

helloooo

how are things going back at home? :)

hope you’re not too mad at us for going without you

you’d probably be running circles around all of us here anyway

max’s been insufferable btw

You stared at the message, your heart doing that stupid somersault it always did when it came to him. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t a confession but it was something. Proof that he had thought about you, even if only for a second.

You typed out a response, deleted it, and typed again.

You:

it’s going alright

and i’m not mad

just saving all my energy for when i finally get to go next year

And a second later, without thinking twice, you decided to send a risky text.

You:

bet you miss me already :p

You waited thirty seconds. A minute. Two. You started biting your lower lip, overthinking if it was a good idea to text him that. Then finally, he read it and started typing.

Lando:

course I do, sunshine ;)

And just like that, you were smiling again through the ache in your chest. Because even though he was far away—probably drunk and laughing somewhere on an island with a sky full of stars and sand between his toes—he had still chosen to think of you.

And that one message was enough to keep the fire alive. At least for now.

────୨ৎ────

20 & 24

After months of surviving college, stupid assignments, and even more insufferable professors, the most anticipated moment of your life had finally arrived— the trip to Ibiza.

A year ago, when Max told you that the group wasn’t going to Ibiza—because no one could seem to agree on a date or commit to the planning or figure out whose villa to use—you were livid.

After all those years of being left behind, being told you were ‘too young’ or ‘it wasn’t the right vibe’, last year was supposed to finally be your year. You were old enough, you had planned everything, daydreamed about those humid Ibiza nights, imagined the smell of salt on your skin, the sound of Lando’s laughter by the pool. You’d waited for it, and then they all just… didn’t go? Not because of you this time, not because Max slammed the brakes, but because the group simply couldn’t get their act together. It was infuriating, and you felt robbed all over again.

But this year, thank God, they got it together.

You got your parents’ permission (despite Max’s protests), and soon the flights were booked, the villa chosen, and playlists made. This time, you were going. And you had no intention of blending into the background.

The island that had only ever been a dream, a place of reckless abandon that you’d spent countless nights imagining yourself in. And now, you were finally here, standing at the front of the villa with your suitcase in hand, staring up at the imposing stone walls and the vast stretch of sparkling ocean in the distance. The place was exactly as you had imagined—vibrant, chaotic, and utterly alive.

But what really made your heart race wasn’t just the fact that you were on the island you’d always dreamed about. No, it was the thought of him. Lando was here. With Max, with the group, and they had no idea what you were about to bring to the table.

There was a subtle excitement in the air that you couldn’t shake off, a charged anticipation that hummed through your veins. Every summer, you watched from the sidelines, only allowed to catch glimpses of Lando and the others as they had fun without you. But now, at twenty, everything was different. You weren’t a little girl anymore. You were ready to prove to him that you weren’t just Max’s little sister. It wasn’t even about impressing him, not really. It was about finally being seen and being noticed.

As you stepped inside the villa, the cool air hit you, mixing with the salty scent of the sea that had already started to crawl onto your skin. Max, George, and the rest of the crew were lounging in the common area, chatting and laughing.

You took a deep breath, adjusting your sunglasses as you walked toward them. Max caught sight of you first and smiled, but it was Lando who made your stomach do a flip. He looked… different.

He had always looked confident, sure, but now there was a touch of something more—something she wasn’t used to seeing. The way he leaned back on the sofa, his arm stretched across it, his gaze lazily drifting around the room before landing on you. That moment, that slow sweep of his eyes, made your pulse quicken.

“Sunshine,” He called out, his lips curving into that playful grin you knew so well. But there was something about the way he said it now—something warmer, more knowing. “Finally made it to the famous Ibiza trip, huh?”

You smiled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you stepped closer. “Had to wait a little longer but I think it was worth it.” You answered, your voice a little lighter than you intended.

Lando chuckled. “Well, we’ve been waiting for you. Ibiza’s not the same without you.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them made you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to the statement. Like he actually meant it.

Max shot you a playful glare as you took a seat, clearly not happy to see you join the group. “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” He teased. “This is supposed to be our time.”

You just smiled, sitting back on the couch, trying not to look too eager. Lando, though—he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed happy to see you. And that little twist in your stomach? It was definitely not from nerves.

You couldn’t help yourself. The longer you sat there, watching them all joke and laugh, the more you realized just how much he had always been the missing piece. The way he moved, the way he laughed—God, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Your fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the chair, your mind spinning with the possibilities. Could you finally make your move? Now that you were here, now that you were no longer just Max’s little sister?

Lando caught you looking at him. His lips twitched, a small, amused smile playing on his face. There it was again—that subtle warmth. That pull, that thing that made you feel like you could reach out and touch him, even though he wasn’t exactly within your reach.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Lando asked, his voice smooth but teasing, the corner of his lips curving just enough to make your heart skip a beat.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking down to your lips before he looked back up, meeting your gaze. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you two were. Of how dangerous the moment felt.

The moment lingered for a beat too long before Max cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Can you fucking move a bit?” He asked, clearly annoyed. “You’re taking up the whole couch. Maybe go to your room or something.”

Lando chuckled, a deep sound that made your pulse flutter. “Max,” He said, his tone light but firm, “Don’t be a buzzkill. She’s allowed to hang out. Plus, we could use her company.”

The way Lando defended you, made your stomach flip again. But Max wasn’t having it. “Ehh, whatever.” He muttered, rolling his eyes as he went to grab another drink.

He didn’t understand, he didn’t see. But Lando? Lando seemed different. There was something else there now, something unspoken.

As the evening progressed, the group gathered around the large table on the patio, everyone sharing drinks and laughing as the sun dipped below the horizon. Music pulsed in the background, and Lando kept glancing over at you, his eyes following your every move. You caught him once, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary, before he quickly averted his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line.

But it was when they were all standing by the pool, the moonlight reflecting off the water, that everything changed. Lando was standing a little too close. His hand brushed yours by accident when he reached for his drink, and that simple touch was enough to send a jolt through your body.

Your breath caught. God, he was so close. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle weight of his gaze on you as he turned slightly, eyes darkened under the dim lights.

“Having fun?” Lando asked, his voice low, his lips curling slightly.

“Yup,” You replied, your heart pounding in your chest. “And you?”

His grin widened, but there was something else there now. Something you hadn’t seen before. “Even more now as you’re here.” He said softly, his gaze trailing over you again.

And then it hit you. This wasn’t just some random flirtation, and he wasn’t just being nice. He wanted you. But something held him back. Maybe it was Max, maybe it was your history. But you could feel the tension between you two, the unspoken words, the crackling electricity that only intensified the closer you stood.

Your mind raced, heart pounding as you slowly let yourself get lost in the moment. This was your time, and your chance. And you weren’t going to let it slip away.

────୨ৎ────

The night had settled in, the air warm with the sounds of laughter and the low hum of music from the speakers by the pool. The villa had transformed into a lively, almost chaotic place as everyone mingled, drinks in hand, the weight of the sun finally fading as the stars took over the sky.

You stood with the group of girls, but your attention was fully on Lando—how could it not be? The way he moved, the way he interacted with everyone else so effortlessly—it was impossible to ignore. He was so comfortable here. So at ease, like the place belonged to him.

But tonight, you weren’t just the little sister, the girl lingering on the outskirts. You were here to make your presence finally known to everyone. You had been biding your time, testing the waters with every conversation, every touch, every glance. But tonight, you felt bolder.

You casually walked over to the edge of the pool, the cool water reflecting the soft glow of the lights. Lando was standing nearby, chatting with some of the others, but when you stepped closer, he seemed to feel your presence.

His eyes flicked to you, that same little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the kind of smile that made your heart race. “Everything’s okay, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.

You nodded, but your gaze didn’t leave his. “Yeah, just enjoying the view.” You said, your voice teasing.

You stepped a little closer, just enough that the distance between you two was almost nonexistent. Lando glanced at you sideways, an eyebrow raising, his lips curling into that familiar grin that always made your stomach twist. But this time, you weren’t backing down. You weren’t just the girl who stood at the edge of the group, hoping for a chance to be noticed.

You took a deep breath, leaning in slightly. “And you?” You asked, your tone light, but your eyes holding a challenge. “Enjoying the view too?”

The way his eyes flickered down to your lips made your heart skip. And just like that, the playful tone in his voice shifted, becoming a little more serious, a little more heated.

“Always, it’s Ibiza, after all,” He replied, voice low and almost too smooth. “And I must say I like the view better when it’s you in it.”

It was the first time he’d said something like that, and you felt the rush of excitement surge through your veins. This was it. The moment you had been waiting for. The line between teasing and truth had blurred, and you weren’t going to let it slip away.

You smiled, your lips curving with a newfound confidence. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I think I’m starting to like the view here, too. It’s Ibiza, after all.” You added, mocking his words with a small smirk wandering on your lips.

He watched you, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. It was just you and him, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off each other, the air between you charged with something undeniable.

But then, just as quickly as it started, the tension broke. Max walked over, clapping his hand down on Lando’s shoulder, pulling him back into the conversation. “Lando, stop flirting with my sister and come help me with the music.”

You felt the air leave your lungs as the moment shattered. Max had ruined it, again. He always did. But Lando, at that moment, did something unexpected. He gave you one last lingering look, his gaze flicking to Max, then back to you, as if weighing something in his mind.

With a grin, Lando answered, “I’m not flirting, mate. Just having a good chat with your sister.”

Max shot him an incredulous look but shrugged, unaware of the tension that was still hanging in the air between you and Lando. It felt like a victory, even if only for a moment. You had gotten his attention. And now, you knew for sure—he was also paying attention to you.

The night wore on, and as the group started to get louder, more rowdy, you couldn’t help but feel the electric charge between you and Lando grow. He didn’t leave your side for long. Every time you turned around, he was there, standing just a little too close, his gaze holding a bit more than the usual friendly banter.

At one point, you found yourself near the bar, chatting with the others when Lando casually leaned against the counter beside you. He was so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear the rhythm of his breathing as he watched you. You could sense the shift in the air.

“Do you always get this close to everyone?” You asked, trying to keep your voice light, but there was a trace of something else underneath.

Lando chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully as he shifted closer. “Only to people I actually want to talk to.” Your heart raced at his words, and before you could respond, he added, “And sometimes, it’s nice to be close to someone you can trust.”

You paused, the weight of his words sinking in. Was he talking about you? Or was it just him being Lando—flirty and charming without even realizing the effect he had?

But before you could overthink it, he stood up straighter, his attention momentarily diverted by something else happening around the villa. The air seemed to shift again, and for the briefest of moments, you felt something crackle between you both—an unspoken understanding.

The night continued, full of music, dancing, and laughter, but you couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he seemed to seek you out, how every time he looked at you, there was that spark, that quiet intensity. It wasn’t just a game anymore, and you knew it. He knew it.

But there was something in the way he always pulled away, something that kept him from crossing that final line. Max—the friendship. His own internal battle between his desire and his loyalty. And yet, even as he tried to distance himself, every glance, every word told you the truth. Lando was fighting it too.

As the night wore on, you found yourself alone, sitting by the edge of the pool again while the moonlight casted long shadows over the water. It was quieter out here, the only sound being the soft lap of the water against the tiles and the occasional murmur of voices drifting from the house. For a moment, it felt like time had paused. Like the world was holding its breath. The group had already moved inside the villa except him, and you.

Lando was watching you from the doorway, leaning against it. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were what gave him away.

You turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. “You know,” You started, your voice bold, “I’ve been sitting here long enough, wondering when you’d stop staring and come over. I think it’s your turn to make the move, Lan.”

Lando’s head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes didn’t meet yours right away—instead, they flicked toward the pool, where moonlight danced across the water like it was in on the secret too.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, casual as ever, but his tone was just a little too careful, too practiced.

His jaw tightened as he fought the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at you, and there it was—that familiar, maddening smile. The one that made your stomach twist and your thoughts scatter.

“But I think,” Lando murmured, low and smooth, “I’ll keep you waiting a little longer, Sunshine.”

But there was something in his eyes—something that said it wouldn’t be much longer before that waiting was over. And that made the anticipation all the sweeter.

With that, he disappeared into the house, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, every nerve on edge. You stayed by the pool, your mind racing with everything that had just happened. The way his eyes had said more than his lips ever could. You knew. He felt it too.

But there was something else there. Something you hadn’t quite figured out. What was he so afraid of?

The night continued, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Lando’s presence, even though he was no longer nearby. Every glance you caught from him, every moment where his eyes met yours across the room—it was like a game, a dangerous, thrilling dance you both seemed to be playing. But Lando was trying so hard to hold himself back, and then you realized, for the first time, that it wasn’t just about Max anymore.

Lando was afraid of what could happen if he let go—afraid of the consequences.

And that only made you want him more.

────୨ৎ────

The villa was heavy with sleep. The kind of quiet that sinks deep into the walls after a long day—after too much sun, too much wine, and just enough laughter to leave the air still buzzing, even if the house itself had gone still.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the echo of laughter and music from earlier was replaced with the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of old floorboards. The party had gone late, but you’d peeled off early, skin sticky from the saltwater pool, and the Ibiza heat.

You were freshly showered—towel wrapped tightly around your body, hair damp against your shoulders—and you realized, with a tiny internal scream, that in the emotional packaging you’d forgotten to pack your pajamas. It was a rookie mistake, but you couldn’t face crawling into bed with just a towel wrapped around you.

You stepped quietly out of the bathroom, your skin still damp and goosebumps prickling along your arms from the cool night air inside the villa. The halls were dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the large windows. The house was silent, everyone else either asleep or lost in their own worlds.

With careful steps and the towel clutched tighter around you, you tiptoed down the hallway, soft-footed on the tiles. Max’s room was just a few doors away. You told yourself it was harmless. Just one oversized shirt—he’d never even notice.

You opened the door softly and slipped inside, closing it behind you without a sound. The room was dark, moonlight spilling in through the open window and casting soft silver patterns across the bed, the walls. It smelled faintly of Max—a mix of soap, cologne, and the salty air from the beach.

You moved over to his dresser and pulled open a drawer. There was no need to be picky, just a shirt big enough to cover you for the night.

Your fingers rifled through shirts until you found one soft and loose, smelling faintly of detergent and someone else. Familiar. You didn’t question it, just pulled it over your head, feeling the fabric drape over your damp skin.. It hung low on you, grazing mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The hem brushed your bare legs, and for some reason, it felt more intimate than it should.

You exhaled, almost a laugh. Whatever. It was just a shirt. You didn’t care.

Quiet as a shadow, you slipped out of Max’s room and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. The villa was dead silent, moonlight pooling through the windows, casting silver paths across the tile floor. Your bare feet made almost no sound, but your heart thundered too loud in your ears.

The fridge door creaked softly as you opened it, cool air brushing your face. You grabbed a bottle of water, taking a slow sip. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and herbs left from the day’s cooking And then you felt it—that subtle shift in the air. Before you could turn around, you heard him behind you.

“Is that my shirt?”

You froze, heart catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned. And sure enough, there he was. Lando. Standing at the edge of the kitchen, barefoot, his hair still damp from the pool, curls a little messy and his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His voice was quiet but not sleepy. Not surprised, either.

You blinked, looking down at yourself instinctively. “Is it?” You feigned surprise.

“You didn’t know?” His eyes didn’t leave you, a smirk already spreading on his lips.

“I grabbed it from Max’s room,” You answered, shrugging. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

Lando nodded once but he didn’t take his eyes off you. “I must have left it in his room the last time we stayed here,” He said. “Figured he’d steal it, not you.”

You felt your skin prickle under the fabric, heat crawling up your neck. You bit your lip, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, I’m sorry but I forgot my pajamas, and it was the first thing I found. Didn’t stop to sniff it and guess which boy it belonged to.” You sipped the water, trying not to let your hand shake.

“Sure,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You’ve got good taste, at least.” You rolled your eyes at him, but your heart was a mess.

You raised a brow, looking at him questioningly. “Excuse me?”

He smiled. That slow, teasing smile that made your breath catch and your legs feel less than stable. “You could’ve taken anything. But you picked mine.” His voice dropped slightly, velvet smooth. “You sure that was just an accident?”

“I didn’t look that hard,” You mumbled. “It was the first thing I saw. I wasn’t exactly thinking—”

“No?” He asked, stepping a little closer. He looked at you differently now—like he could see through you. Like he knew.

His eyes dragged down your body, slow and deliberate. “You’ve got nothing underneath, haven’t you.”

Your heart kicked up a notch. “You don’t know that.” You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the fabric clung to your thighs. “Why are you even here, huh?”

“I was heading to bed but saw the light in the kitchen.” He paused, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed just a little. “And then I saw you, Sunshine.”

Your breath came slower now. Your hand still rested on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He took one more step, close enough that you could smell the faint hint of his cologne, the same clean citrus and sea air scent from the shirt.

The silence between you stretched—thick, electric, and hot enough to burn. You glanced up at him, tilting your head. “Oh my god, if it bothers you so much I can take it off.”

His mouth twitched like he was about to laugh, but it died before it could come out. His eyes darkened instead. “Careful.”

“Or what?” You challenged, heart pounding. “You’ll tell Max I stole your shirt?”

Lando took one step closer—just one. But it was enough to fill the space between you with something. “Nah. I’m more worried about what I’d do about it. You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” He went on, his voice dropping, low and teasing. “Walking around the villa in nothing but my shirt.”

You smiled despite yourself, but it trembled. “I wasn’t planning to run into anyone.”

“Lucky me.” He snickered.

The way he said it—playful, and hungry. Yet still, he didn’t move any closer. Like he was daring you to do it instead.

Your breath hitched. “Should I take it off, then?”

His gaze flickered to your lips, your collarbone, the hem of the shirt swaying around your thighs. “Don’t.”

The air pulsed between you. Every breath, every look—it felt like you were already touching. “Why not?” You whispered, suddenly reckless.

He closed his eyes like you’d just cursed him. “Sunshine…” He whispered, like it hurt. His soft side suddenly returned as if reminding him that he was going way off the limits set by his best friend, crossing the invisible lines between you.

And then a shuffle came from the house—footsteps. Fast and clumsy down the hall.

Your stomach dropped. You both turned your heads sharply just in time to see Max emerge, yawning, scratching the back of his neck, eyes still hazy with sleep.

“What are you two doing up?” He asked, blinking slowly.

You backed away from Lando as if your skin had caught fire. “Couldn’t sleep.” You said quickly, the lie almost too easy.

“Yeah,” Lando added, voice calmer now, like a switch had flipped. “Just grabbing water.”

Max grunted, barely registering you as he passed. He pulled open the fridge, cracked open a bottle, and drank in silence. You didn’t move.

Lando’s eyes met yours for one fleeting moment—just long enough to remind you that your pulse was still out of control.

And as Max turned to head back down the hall, Lando leaned in ever so slightly, voice a whisper only you could hear. “Keep the shirt. It looks better on you anyway.”

Then he was gone, retreating down the hallway, his steps light but urgent, like if he didn’t walk away right now, he wouldn’t walk away at all.

You stood in the kitchen, the cool air licking at your bare legs. Your pulse was still thundering, and the shirt suddenly felt too thin to contain everything you were feeling. You clutched the fabric tighter. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh, cry, or run after him.

But one thing was certain—you were past the point of pretending this was nothing.

────୨ৎ────

The night was alive with music, the kind that vibrated through your bones and made every inch of your body feel electric. The club you decided to go to was packed with people, their bodies moving in sync to the pulse of the beat. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol—a heady mix that made your mind spin with anticipation.

You stood with the group outside, the warm night air brushing against your skin, feeling the heat of the moment on the horizon. Tonight was different. The black dress you wore clung to your body in all the right ways, cut just low enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving too much away. The heels were higher than you were used to, but they made you feel powerful, confident—a version of yourself that wasn’t the quiet little sister anymore.

Lando, of course, looked like he belonged on a runway. His sharp jawline was highlighted by the dim glow of the neon lights, and his dark shirt was tight enough to accentuate his muscles, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. His eyes caught yours when he turned toward you, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, his lips curling into a subtle smirk.

You caught it. The way his eyes tracked your every move. You weren’t sure if it was because the alcohol—which you decided to drink back in the house for some courage—was starting to buzz through your veins or if it was the fact that tonight felt different, more intense. The air around you was charged, and every step you took toward the club made your heart race faster.

Inside, the music blasted so loud it rattled your bones, the lights flashing in time with the beat, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that swirled around you. You let the music take over, moving in time with it, surrounded by the chaos of the crowd. But through it all, you could feel Lando’s eyes on you, watching you as you danced, his body close, but never quite close enough.

The drinks kept coming. You weren’t one to shy away from a little fun, and tonight, you were feeling particularly bold. One shot, then another. A cocktail to wash it down. The alcohol was starting to warm your body from the inside out, the edges of your thoughts becoming a little hazy, but the clarity of one thing—the one thing you couldn’t shake—remained. Him.

It was like everything around you had blurred into a haze, and he was the only clear thing left. The way his eyes followed you across the room, the way his body leaned closer when he spoke to you. He wasn’t exactly avoiding you, but he wasn’t exactly encouraging anything either. And that only made you want him more.

The group had dispersed, everyone off to their own little corners of the club, but you didn’t care. You were focused on him. You needed to know.

You took another shot and felt the heat spread through you, making your skin tingle. The alcohol started to make you feel bold, fearless even. And it was then that you decided—tonight, you weren’t going to let anything stand in your way.

You spotted him at the bar, broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned in to say something to one of the guys. The neon lights painted his profile in shifting colors, his chain glinting against the open collar of his shirt. Your pulse thrummed harder the closer you got, each click of your heels echoing in your chest like a countdown.

As you walked up to him, your heels clicked against the floor, your heart pounding in your chest. By the time you slid up beside him, you were already trembling with anticipation. Your bare arm brushed against the fabric of his sleeve, deliberate but subtle, just enough to make him turn.

His head whipped around, brows lifting in mild surprise, but then his gaze caught yours. That spark you knew too well flickered instantly in his eyes, like a flame reigniting. His eyes lingered a second too long, dropping from your mouth to the curve of your throat before snapping back up to your eyes.

You swallowed hard, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of him so close it made your skin prickle. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until the words tumbled out, slurred slightly from the alcohol but crystal clear in intent.

“Lando…” You mumbled, his name leaving your lips like a secret, low and ragged.

He stilled, every trace of amusement draining from his face. His eyes sharpened, scanning you with something caught between warning and curiosity.

You stepped closer, your body grazing his—just the whisper of contact, but enough to set you alight. Tilting your head back, you let him see the desire shining in your eyes, and the way your lips parted, trembling with words that tasted dangerous.

“I want you to fuck me.”

The words hung in the air between you two, raw and unapologetic. It was as if everything stopped at that moment. The music faded, and conversations dulled into white noise. For a heartbeat, it was just him and you. The air between you crackled, charged, like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Lando’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face before it quickly shifted into something unreadable. His lips parted, his throat bobbing as he exhaled a sharp breath. A soft, nervous laugh, his voice thick with disbelief.

“What did you just say?” His voice was tight, husky, as though he already knew but needed to hear it again, needed to give you a chance to take it back.

But you didn’t back down. You were beyond caring whether he was surprised or not. You had made up your mind, and you were tired of playing games.

You leaned in, letting your lips nearly brush his ear as you repeated, firmer this time, dripping with reckless desire. “I said, I want you to fuck me, Lando.”

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move. He just stared at you as you moved away from him a bit, eyes dark and unreadable. His body locked like every muscle inside him was bracing against what you’d just said. The seconds stretched unbearably, each one dragging like molasses, and your pulse pounded louder with every flicker of hesitation on his face.

His jaw tightened, lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. You could see the battle in his eyes—the struggle between the attraction he clearly felt, and the boundaries and limits he had set for himself.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, almost like it hurt him to say the words. “Sunshine…” The pet name slipped out instinctively, tender and broken. “You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

The dismissal cut sharper than you expected, making your chest ache. But you weren’t about to back down. Not when his voice cracked like that, not when his hand gripped the edge of the bar so tightly the tendons strained.

You stepped closer, lifting your chin to lock your eyes with his. “I know exactly what I’m saying, Lando. I’m not drunk, and I know what I want.”

For the briefest second, something in his expression faltered. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze darted down your face to linger on your lips before tearing away like it burned him. Lando turned his head, jaw clenched, dragging a shaky breath through his teeth as though he needed air before he drowned. His hand gripped the edge of the bar, his knuckles white. The tension between you two was so thick that you could practically feel it suffocating you both.

Lando let out a breath, trying to regain his composure. “Fuck… you’re Max’s little sister. I can’t do this, and I won’t.” He muttered, sharper this time, but even that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

The words were final, his voice laced with restraint, but you could hear the hint of something else underneath it. The attraction was still there, raw and desperate, but so was his guilt. His loyalty to Max—the barrier he’d been trying to maintain between you—was slipping. You could see it in the way his body reacted to you, in the way his gaze flickered over you like he was fighting an inner war. And you weren’t going to let him win this time.

“I don’t care, Lando,” You whispered, closing the space, your voice steady despite the racing in your chest. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m asking you to fuck me. And I’m not going to stop until you actually do it.”

The words made him flinch like you’d struck him—not out of disgust but out of want. Out of restraint snapping, just a little, around the edges.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again, and for a fraction of a second, you thought he’d finally break. That he’d grab you, kiss you mindlessly, do something reckless and irreversible. But then Lando shook his head, almost violently, his hands coming up as though he physically needed to hold himself back.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” He repeated, his voice shaking a little more than before, though there was something else in his eyes now. Something darker, filled with regret and desire. “You’re not thinking straight.”

You smirked faintly at his response, because you knew him. You knew he was lying.

You pressed your palm to his chest, heat radiating beneath your fingertips, his heartbeat hammering fast and frantic against your touch. His body betrayed everything his words denied.

“But I’m thinking perfectly straight, Lan,” You murmured, softer now, more intimate. “I’ve been thinking about this for years.”

He flinched slightly at your words, his lips parting, but no words came out. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and wrecked. The struggle was written all over his face. He wanted this—he wanted you. But he was holding back, clinging to whatever moral line he had drawn between you. And it was clear that you were getting under his skin.

You leaned back just slightly, letting your fingers trail down his shirt, your voice dipping into something teasing, dangerous.

“Maybe I’ll ask you again tomorrow,” You said, your voice softening, the teasing returning to your tone. “When I’m sober, and you can’t hide behind the excuse that I’m just a drunk, little girl. But don’t think I’ll forget this, Lando. And don’t pretend you will either.”

And with that, you swiftly turned around. The click of your heels echoed through the haze of music and chatter as you walked away from him, spine straight, every step deliberate. You didn’t look back—you didn’t have to. You felt his eyes follow you, heavy and searing, as if memorizing the sway of your hips and the tilt of your head.

The air between you two had shifted—charged with something dangerous, inevitable, and forbidden.

And deep down, you knew. Next time, he wouldn’t let you walk away.

────୨ৎ────

The sun filtering through the curtains was casting soft light over everything in your room. The group was still recovering from the night before, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you as you tried to slip into the background.

You had hoped that the discomfort would fade away by morning, that the weight of yesterday’s night would lift as easily as the hangover, but it didn't. It was like the moment you’d said those words to Lando had somehow become a part of the air in this house, invisible yet so undeniably present.

You had asked him—no, you demanded from him—something you weren’t sure you even had the right to. As bold as you may have acted yesterday, now you were just overpowered by the feeling of embarrassment. But the desire and the need still smoldered within you, making everything feel ten times more complicated.

It felt like you were walking through a dream, as if everything was happening in slow motion. You could still feel the heavy beat of the club music in your chest, hear the sound of your own voice breaking through the haze of alcohol, and see the way Lando had looked at you. The shock, the disbelief, and then that careful laughter as he’d deflected your words, made them feel small, as if it hadn’t been important at all. But to you, it was crucial.

Max had dragged everyone out of beds to spend some time by the pool. With your head still hurting slightly, you settled on sitting at the edge, your feet skimming the water as your thoughts were miles away. You hadn’t meant to retreat into yourself, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to face Lando, to face what had happened the night before.

That’s when you felt it—a shadow falling over you, stopping the scorching hot sensation from Ibiza's sun. And when you looked up, there he was. Lando’s figure blocked out the sun, and your heart skipped a beat, your stomach doing that anxious somersault it always did when he was near.

“Hi Sunshine,” He said softly, his voice calm but something unreadable in his tone. “Do you mind helping me prepare some lemonade for the group?”

Your stomach dropped. The last thing you wanted now was to be alone with him, but at the same time, you couldn’t say no to him. You nodded quickly in response, pushing yourself up from the poolside and following him away from the group, your heartbeat louder in your ears than the sound of the others.

Lando led you inside the villa, his movements slower than usual, like he didn’t want to crowd you or rush anything. The two of you walked quietly through the living room, passing the others without a word, until you found yourself in the kitchen—just far enough from the others to be alone. He took the big, glass jug from the counter, and started pouring cold water inside it. You reached for the lemons that were in the fruit basket, and went to wash them in the sink before slicing them.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you both, thick with unspoken words and thoughts that neither of you could find the courage to voice. It felt like you were both caught in the aftermath of something fragile, something that had the potential to either shatter or grow stronger, depending on how you navigated this.

While you were busy cutting the lemons, Lando finished pouring the water. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before it softened. There was a hint of something behind his eyes. Guilt? Concern? Or maybe a little bit of both.

Finally, Lando was the first to break the silence, his voice quiet but steady. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

There was a hesitation in his tone, a carefulness, like he didn’t want to overstep, but also like he was waiting for you to do or say something.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak at first. When you did finally speak, your voice was a little too quiet, your words too shaky to hide the vulnerability behind them.

“I’m fine.” You answered shortly, focused on slicing the lemons. But even as you said it, you could hear the lie in your own words. You weren’t fine, not at all.

The moment you had asked him for something so raw, so real, had felt like it shattered something inside you, and now you weren’t sure how to piece it all back together.

You didn’t look at him even for a second, unable to meet his gaze. The air between you felt so thick, and your nerves were on edge.

You put the already cut lemons inside the jug. “Really. I just… I don’t even know what I was thinking last night.”

There it was—the admission. The guilt that had been eating at you all day. You couldn’t even look at him without feeling heat creeping up your neck.

“You were right, I was drunk,” You muttered, almost too quietly. “And I didn’t mean it.”

You did.

Lando didn’t speak right away. He just watched you as you squeezed the lemon juice into the jug, his gaze soft but intense, like he was trying to read you, and your every word. It was like he was searching for something in you, something that he didn’t quite know how to find.

“I just… don’t want you to think that what happened last night was nothing,” He finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you were drunk, Sunshine. But you don’t need to say things like that to get my attention.” His lips twisted in something close to a half-smile, but it was strained. “You’ve always had it.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment you wondered if he just confirmed what you’d been secretly hoping—that he felt it too. But then the doubt crept in. Maybe you were reading too much into it?

You didn’t respond right away, afraid of saying something wrong again. So you just let the silence stretch on between you, as the moment hung in the air, thick with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lando said eventually, his voice low. “I know you, and I know that now the regret is probably eating you alive, but… I just want you to know that it’s okay. I mean it.”

You swallowed hard, halting your movements. His words should have comforted you, but they didn’t. They only made the whole situation more complicated for you, and more confusing. The things you said, and the things you wanted—it was all too much now, too close, and too real.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” You uttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “That I said it, or that you brushed it off like it was nothing.” You added, before going back again to squeezing the lemon juice.

Lando flinched at your words, his face flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. It was almost like a mixture of surprise, guilt, and something else.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sunshine,” He countered quickly, his voice thick with sincerity. “I just— fuck, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed or pressured to anything.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that you didn’t feel pressured, but the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t explain it, not in a way that made sense. You felt something for him, something that was impossible to ignore, and even now, with the space between you, the tension still hung there—sharp, and palpable.

Lando shifted closer, his movements slow, almost like he was testing the waters, making sure you were okay with his proximity.

“Look,” He started, and you finally moved your eyes on him, immediately noticing the hesitation in them. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me now. But also, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you away.”

His words struck something deep inside you. It was like he was tiptoeing around the truth, just as you had been. You knew he was holding something back, but you didn’t want to push it. Not yet.

“I’m not… mad, Lando.” You said, your voice a little more steady now, but there was still a vulnerability in it that you couldn’t mask.

Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking with yours. “I get it. I’m not going to bring it up again. But just so you know…” He paused, his voice thick with something unspoken. “I’ll forget about it if you want me to.”

You looked up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. “Lan,” You murmured, your voice barely audible, but thick with meaning. “You don’t have to forget about it.”

Your words hung in the air, neither of you saying anything. After a heartbeat, you finally felt the weight of them, heavier than you had expected.

The distance between you two—both emotional and physical—felt too wide, and yet at the same time, you could sense the quiet longing between you. It wasn’t something that would just go away.

Looking away from his overwhelming gaze, you came back to making the lemonade. You started mixing the water in the jug with the juice, adding some sugar to it.

You weren’t ready to dive into the complexity of what this whole conversation meant. Not yet. But somewhere deep inside, you knew this wasn’t over. You hadn’t even begun to figure out what it all meant for you both.

“The lemonade is done,” You announced, the words barely above a whisper. “Let’s get back to the others.”

Lando gave you a soft smile, but it was filled with so much more than just reassurance. It was an unspoken promise.

And even if neither of you acknowledged it outright, you both knew the truth—neither of you could forget about what happened.

────୨ৎ────

The villa was silent in the aftermath of laughter and thudding footsteps, the echo of the group’s excitement still lingering in the warm night air as the cars pulled away. Ibiza nights were never quiet—unless you chose for them to be. And tonight, you did.

The others had left twenty minutes ago, off to the club downtown, heat and music waiting to swallow them whole. You were supposed to be with them. You even got dressed for it, makeup on, heels clicked against the tile as you floated through the rooms. But the moment you saw Lando in that loose white shirt, the top few buttons undone, the chain around his neck catching the golden light… something in you snapped.

You couldn’t go.

“Guys… uh,” You started, your voice purposely casual, like you weren’t about to combust, “I think I’ll actually stay in tonight. My head hurts, and I don’t think too good.” You added a small laugh, waving your hand as if that would make it less suspicious. It didn’t.

“What?” One of the girls spun around, looking at you with a dramatic pout. “Nooo, babe, you can’t stay in! We already got all dressed up and ready to go, don’t be lame!”

“Yeah, come on, just take a painkiller and you’ll be just fine.” Another chimed in, already half-drunk and swaying to the music.

Max, who was digging through his jacket for his car keys, didn’t even look up. “Do as you want.” He said over his shoulder, tone dismissive, too focused on corralling the group into the cars. You knew him—he was in his herding cats mode. As long as you weren’t actively causing trouble, he didn’t have the bandwidth to care.

But there was one person who cared. One person who wasn’t fooled by you.

Lando stood frozen. He was mid-buckle with his watch, but his fingers had stilled. His head lifted, eyes finding you across the room, narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but something softer, something curious. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

“You sure?” His voice was low, barely audible over the chatter, but it sliced through everything else like a blade. His gaze held yours, heavy, lingering, like he could see every thought swirling behind your fake smile. The concern in his tone made your stomach flutter. You’d forced a small smile, waving him off like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just consumed your entire body with one look.

The last time you’d been to a club with him… oh god. You still felt the scorch of humiliation creep up your neck when you thought about it. The moment that spilled out of you, reckless and desperate—the way you grabbed his arm, leaned into his ear amidst the chaos and blurted out words you hadn’t even planned to say.

But that was in the past. And now, tonight, he was standing there again—looking devastatingly perfect while doing absolutely nothing, and you knew if you stepped out of this house and into that club, you’d do something you couldn’t undo. So you didn’t.

You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah,” You answered quickly, forcing your lips into a curve. “I’ll be fine. You guys go.”

But Lando didn’t move. He stood there for another beat, eyes flickering over you—your flushed cheeks, your fidgeting fingers, the way you avoided looking directly at him for too long. You could tell he was working it out in his head.

“Alright then,” He answered, voice tighter than before, finally tearing his gaze away. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of tension, like he knew damn well you were lying.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving you alone in the villa. You stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, pulse racing as the silence wrapped around you like a velvet blanket. You exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You had spent years holding back. Watching him, trailing behind conversations like a ghost. You’d perfected the art of stealing glances, of laughing too loudly at his jokes, of brushing against him like it meant nothing. But it had always meant everything. Every little thing he did sunk into your skin, settled into your bloodstream.

You knew his habits, his moods. Even the way his eyes changed when he was tired, when he was buzzed from two drinks or when he was focused. And this year he had been looking at you like he finally saw you. Not as Max’s little sister, and not as the awkward teenager who once blushed whenever he sat too close. He finally saw you as a woman, and you felt it. And yet… nothing. Always nothing.

You couldn’t blame him, though. Max was his best friend, and you understood the unspoken rule. But God, how long could you be expected to live in this tension? How long could you take being this desperate?

You pressed your fingers against your temples, trying to will the ache in your chest away. The tight, burning throb that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with want.

Slowly, you walked back to your bedroom, immediately taking your dress off and leaving it on the floor behind you. Left only in a thin cotton thong and a bralette, you climbed onto your bed. The sheets were cool at first, sending a shiver across your thighs, but your body warmed them quickly. Or maybe it was the heat beneath your skin, your pulse pounding in places you couldn’t ignore anymore.

Your skin was warm, almost feverish, and you could still smell his cologne in your clothes. Fuck. You felt him like a presence, even when he was gone.

The air conditioner hummed faintly in the background, and some cicadas chirped outside. Everything else was quiet.

You laid on your back, arm slung over your eyes. But the moment you let yourself relax, his image returned. Lando in that white shirt, buttons open, collar falling lazily across his collarbone. That chain glinting against his warm skin. The veins on his forearms, his smooth hands and long fingers, and that damn smirk.

The sound of your name on his tongue, the way he looked at you during dinner. The moment your fingers brushed when you passed him a drink. The way he laughed, head tilted back, mouth open, throat exposed.

Your hand drifted lower, grazing over your stomach. Your skin was already tingling, goosebumps spreading beneath your touch. You closed your eyes and let out a breath, imagining his hand instead of yours. Bigger, rougher, warmer and stronger. The way his hands would explore you, slap you, and fuck you mindlessly.

You slid your fingers down to the heat between your legs, shoving aside your underwear, hissing softly at how wet you already were. The moment your fingers finally found your pussy, you gasped quietly. You spread your legs wider, your thighs brushing against the sheets, heat pooling between them.

Your fingers started to move slowly at first, tracing gentle circles around your clit, your breath growing unsteady as you gasped softly, already embarrassingly wet. It didn’t take much, to be fair. It never did, not when you were thinking of him. Your other hand moved to your chest, slipping under the bralette, squeezing your breast as you imagined him doing it. The way his hands would be so much larger than yours, more sure.

Your back arched slightly, the tension in your belly winding tighter. “Fuck— Lando…” You breathed, the name falling from your lips before you could stop it. And you kept saying it softly, but desperately.

However, while being lost in the sensation, you didn’t hear the click of the front door opening, and you didn’t hear the soft creak of floorboards. You were too far gone. What you didn’t know, was that about a minute after leaving, Lando realized he’d forgotten his wallet. That he came back, keys still hanging in his hand.

When he came inside the villa again, Lando didn’t expect to hear it—his name, trembling and breathless, coming from behind your door. He froze immediately. He should’ve walked away, left it alone, as it was none of his business.

But the door to your room wasn’t fully closed, it was cracked open just enough to peek inside. And curiosity? It got the better of him.

He moved slowly, each step quieter than the last, every nerve ending screaming at him to stop, to turn around and leave before he saw something he couldn’t unsee. But when he reached the doorway and looked through the small sliver, the breath caught inside his throat. There you were—spread out on the bed like a goddess, one hand between your legs, the other gripping your breast. Your back was arched just slightly, eyes shut, and mouth parted.

He could see everything.

Lando stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth opened. The wallet in his hand dropped noiselessly onto the floor as he stared at you. He should have left, he knew that. Every fiber in him screamed that this wasn’t right, that this was a boundary he couldn’t cross, that this was his friend’s younger sister. But there you were, bathed in the warm golden light of your bedside lamp, glistening with sweat and need while whispering his name over and over again. Your hips kept rocking into your hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

As he gripped the doorframe, Lando’s knuckles went white. His heart was thundering in his chest, louder than the sound of your moans. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. But he couldn’t look away from your breath-taking figure. You were beautiful—stunning, undone, and raw.

Lando felt like he was dreaming.

He had no idea how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough to feel like he was going to lose his mind. But then, he finally snapped, not being able to stop himself anymore.

His voice was low when it came—rough and broken. “Fucking hell, Sunshine.”

You froze. Every muscle in your body tensed as you gasped, eyes flying open. You scrambled for the blanket, your heart hammering in your chest. “What the fuck! Lando, what are you—”

His eyes were dark, and unreadable as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I forgot my wallet,” He explained, a smile wandering over your lips, and voice barely above a whisper. “But then I heard you.”

Your face burned from the embarrassment. “Oh my God…” You hid your face in your hands.

“You moaned my name, Sunshine,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You were thinking of me.”

Lando’s words hung in the air like a challenge, a command, and your breath caught in your throat. You looked up to face him, his eyes never left your face. The heat between your legs was unbearable now, your entire body on fire from the tension, from the way your pulse hammered in your chest.

You didn’t need to hear him say anything more, but when he knelt beside your bed, his hand pressed against the mattress, his weight sinking just a fraction, everything in you screamed for more.

“Tell me to leave, love,” He murmured, the words strained, but his body was still drawn toward you, close but not yet touching. “And I will.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry with both nerves and desire, but the ache inside you was more powerful than any shame.

“Stay.” You whispered, your voice trembling as you gave in. You wanted this, you needed this.

A sharp intake of breath followed as he exhaled shakily, eyes dragging slowly down your body. His gaze was almost possessive now, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, soaking in the vulnerability you offered, and the hunger he saw reflected in your eyes.

His hand reached up then, lifting your chin gently with his fingers, his thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip as if he was tasting you without touching.

“Good girl.” He whispered, the words thick with a mix of approval and something darker.

The moment those words left his mouth, a tremor ran through you, like a live wire snapping into place. It wasn’t just the compliment—it was the fact that he said it, that he saw you, truly saw you for what you were—his, in that moment. And that thought sent a shock of heat straight to your core.

Without another word, he let his hand fall from your face, trailing slowly down your neck, brushing over your collarbone, your chest. His fingers, long and soft, brushed over your breast, just teasing the sensitive skin of your nipple before moving lower, across your stomach, and finally to where you needed him most.

You gasped at the first touch of his fingers against your wetness, a sound you couldn’t hold back if you tried. The simple touch sent a ripple of pleasure straight through you. Instinctively, you arched into his hand, your back pressing further into the bed as you exhaled in a shuddering breath.

He wasn’t gentle, but neither was he rough. His touch was slow, deliberate—almost like he was testing you, pushing you to the edge without fully breaking you. His fingers worked skillfully, tracing the outline of your folds, sending shocks of pleasure with every calculated movement.

You were trembling, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your belly, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of the fire that built each time he brushed against your most sensitive spots. His fingers never rushed, each stroke sending waves of heat through your body as your chest heaved with every breath.

You were a whimpering mess beneath him, your body wanting more, desperate for him to push you further. “P-please, Lan—” You gasped, your words strangled, unable to hide the need in your voice.

You didn’t know how much longer you could hold back from completely breaking apart. His gaze stayed unwavering, never leaving you as he worked his fingers against you, each stroke coaxing a moan from your throat.

“Please, what?” He teased, his voice low and rough with the tension that clung to him.

He could feel your pulse under his fingertips, could sense the way your body responded to his touch, but he wasn’t done yet. Not yet.

You couldn’t stop the whimper that left your lips. “Fuck… don’t stop,” You breathed, the words escaping in a rush. “I need you.”

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’ve been so patient, sunshine,” He murmured, his voice a velvet promise of something more, something even deeper. “You deserve this, don’t you?”

You nodded right away, your head spinning, not even aware of how your hips were grinding into his hand now.

“Y-yes, Lan! Fuck, please…” You begged, the desperation in your voice a mixture of need and want, the ache inside you unbearable as he continued to move his fingers inside you, slow but steady.

And then, without warning, he slipped deeper, his slim fingers curving just right as he found that one, sweet spot that made your whole body jerk against him.

“Oh,” He chuckled mischievously, “There is it.”

The breath left your lungs in a strangled gasp as he worked you closer and closer to the edge, the tension so tight now it felt like you might snap at any second. You clung to the bed, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you, as your body fought against the pleasure he was pulling from you.

“Look at me.” He ordered, and you did, your eyes locking with his, but there was nothing playful in his gaze now.

His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed with barely controlled hunger, and for the first time, you saw the restraint he was holding back, the way he was keeping himself on the edge—just like you.

You moaned again, a broken sound this time, your body unable to hide how much you craved him. You gasped his name like a lifeline, a desperate plea for something you didn’t even fully understand.

The way his fingers worked inside you sent shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire body, and your hips pushed into his hand, needing more, needing to feel him in a way you couldn’t put into words.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He rasped, his voice so low you barely heard him over the sounds of your own desperate moans. “In the club that night? You were fucking insane for saying those words, right next to your brother.”

His words were dark, edged with a raw hunger that sent another wave of heat through you. The admission made you tremble harder, the thought of him wanting you that badly sending your mind into overdrive.

The pressure built and built until you couldn’t hold back anymore, your whole body tensing as the release you had been so desperate for finally came crashing over you in waves.

“That’s it,” He whispered, his voice rough with desire, his thumb brushing against your clit in teasing circles as he continued to thrust his fingers inside you. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see your pretty face.”

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as your body quivered with the intensity of it, a blissful shudder taking over every part of you. Lando’s name tumbled from your lips in a broken cry, and he only watched, his gaze dark, almost possessive as he continued to finger you through your orgasm, making sure to stretch it out, to draw every ounce of pleasure from you.

When the final wave of pleasure ebbed, you were left breathless, trembling beneath him, your body feeling like it was on fire.

You have never come so hard in your entire life.

Lando didn’t move away immediately. Instead, he stayed close, his breath coming as heavily as yours, his fingers slowly pulling out of you, leaving a lingering ache behind. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged, thick with the tension that had been building for so long.

Finally, Lando kissed your forehead gently, his lips lingering there for a moment as if trying to anchor both of you in this fragile moment. You were still too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed by everything that had just happened.

And then, without another word, Lando stood up, pulling away, his fingers still glistening from your juices.

“See you later, Sunshine.” He whispered, his voice soft. And then he put his fingers into his mouth, licking every bit of your release off his finger.

That view, alone, could make you come again.

He didn’t look back as he turned and left you lying there, the weight of what had just happened still pulsing through your veins, and your body still humming with pleasure.

Lando left the house with the wallet in his pocket. The weight of your sweet moans still echoing in his head as a smirk wandered on his lips.

Max would definitely kill him.

read part two here!

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

@norristrii <3 xx

586 notes · View notes

cannelley · 1 day ago

Text

monaco yacht club

pairing: kimi räikkönen x reader

summary: the iceman didn't think love was in the cards this summer, but he's proven wrong when it walks right onto his yacht, the iceman.

a/n: monaco 2006 you will always be famous xx

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had precisely three things on your summer checklist (well, it was only May, but these things were a technicality):

Get a tan.

Find your sea legs.

Avoid boring men in polo shirts.

So when you sashayed down the Monaco marina in your oversized sunglasses and silk scarf blowing dramatically in the sea breeze, you were convinced life was going exactly to plan. Until it wasn't. Because, apparently, you got on the wrong yacht.

"I don't remember hiring a crew," a voice said, low and unimpressed, behind you.

You turned around from where you were sprawled dramatically across the cushioned sunbed, sipping sparkling water and admiring your own pedicure.

And there he was: tall, sun-drenched, and scowling at you like you'd committed a federal crime instead of simply boarding what you thought was your family's boat.

"You're not wearing shoes," you pointed out, lifting your sunglasses just enough to glare at him properly.

"You're not supposed to be here," he replied coolly.

"I'm always supposed to be wherever I am," you said, standing now, a little flustered, a little thrilled. Who was this little boy? Well, not boy. He was certainly a man in his own right. But he shouldn't be talking back to you! "This is my yacht."

He crossed his arms, a small smirk playing on his lips. "That so?"

You blinked, looked around at the deck, at the gleaming chrome railing, at the Finnish flag. Oh. It might've slipped your mind.

"…this isn't the Phoenix, is it?"

"No. It's the Iceman," he said. "And you're on it."

You stared at him, then down at the deck, then back at him. "Okay. So, maybe I got a little lost."

"You 'got lost' onto a private yacht?"

"Maybe I got excited about getting back onto a white boat. It's hot. I was thirsty. Don't people trespass all the time in Monaco?"

"No."

You smiled at him, batting your lashes just a little. "Are you always this fun at parties? Who's paying for the yacht, pretty boy? Is it your daddy?"

"Yes," he said. And to your second question, "me. I race cars."

You blinked and looked him up and down, mostly with the purpose of figuring out who this racecar driver was, but also because he was a little attractive. Not Schumacher. Okay, that was it. What other blonde F1 driver did you know? Finnish...you scoured your mind and found two!

"Wait. You're either Mika or Kimi."

“Mika's retired."

"So you're Kimi."

"You say that like you expected me to be taller."

"Well, you probably seem taller in the tabloids. They don't want broody strangers."

"I'm not brooding," Kimi said flatly. "I just don't like strangers on my boat."

"Well then," you said, brushing imaginary lint off your dress and walking--gracefully, thank you very much--past him, "maybe you should have locked the door, Iceman."

You paused at the top of the plank, looking back at him. "Thanks for the drink. Even if it was technically theft."

He didn't say anything until you were almost gone, and he called out, "Next time you want a tan, ask first."

You turned around, eyes wide. "Next time?"

He--Kimi--shrugged, already walking inside. "You know where to find me now."

Your heart did an extremely uncool little flip.

And you added:

4. Come back to the Iceman.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You did not come back on purpose.

Okay, maybe you did. But only a little. It was your friend's idea. Sort of. She said you should "accidentally" walk by his boat again just to "see if he's real" and not a "fever dream with cheekbones."

Also, you wore the pretty white cover-up. Not for him. It was for the, uh, aesthetic.

You had every intention of walking right past the Iceman this time. A quick stroll down the dock, head held high, pretending like you weren't thinking about the man who didn't smile but made your heart do aerial stunts.

And yet.

"There's no way this is accidental," came the now-familiar voice from the deck.

You froze mid-step, toe hovering over the dock, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of your nose. "Excuse me?"

Kimi was shirtless this time. Unfairly so. He had one hand on the railing, the other holding a half-eaten nectarine like this was a Botticelli painting, and not your life.

"You're back," he said, as if that was the entire sentence. Clearly, he was a man of few words.

You huffed. "Don't flatter yourself. Maybe I'm scouting yachts. Maybe I have options."

He raised an eyebrow. "Girls with options don't wear lip gloss and look lost."

"I'm not lost," you insisted.

"You always say that when you’re lost."

You crossed your arms. "Okay, not always. It's the second time. And what are you doing? Standing there like a Bond villain, eating fruit and judging tourists?"

"I like fruit," Kimi said. "And I don't like tourists."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And then--then--the corner of his mouth tilted. Just the tiniest bit. A smirk, barely there, like he wasn't sure if he was going to find you funny yet.

"I have champagne," he said casually.

You blinked. "Are you bribing me to stay?"

"Maybe."

"Is it cold?"

"Of course."

"And are there snacks?"

"There can be."

You paused for dramatic effect, then turned back toward the yacht, walking up like it was the Queen's invitation. "Fine. But only because my heels hurt and you're marginally less rude than the sun."

"You're not wearing heels."

"Don't ruin the moment, Kimi."

He handed you a glass of champagne and your fingers brushed, just barely.

You sat, legs stretched out, toes pointing toward the sea. He leaned against the rail again, watching you. He wasn't staring, just looking?

"So," you said eventually, swirling the glass, "do you offer all your trespassers drinks? Or am I special?"

He looked at you so intently you almost forgot how to breathe. "You're the first one who came back."

Your heart? Gone. Floating somewhere between the Mediterranean and Monaco's skyline.

"Oh," you said quietly, smiling into your glass. "Well. Good thing I like fruit."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The plan was simple: one drink, maybe a quick dip, then you'd float off back to reality before things got complicated. But the weather didn't care about your plans. And neither, apparently, did Kimi.

You were mid-laugh, ankles swinging off the side of the yacht, when thunder rumbled low in the distance. You glanced up from your glass.

"Was that--"

"Storm's coming," Kimi said from behind you, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from the sea breeze. God, you wanted to run your hands through it too. Never thought you'd be envying nature.

You raised an eyebrow. "And you were going to tell me this when?"

"I thought you liked surprises."

"I like presents, Kimi. Not atmospheric threats."

But the sky was already turning dramatic--clouds rolling in with a moody kind of poetry that would’ve been beautiful if it didn't mean your tiny white dress was about to become a very damp, very clingy problem.

"We should get back to shore," you said, slipping off your sunglasses.

He glanced toward the dock, then back to you. "Too late."

Sure enough, the rain started--slow at first, then all at once. Warm, chaotic, soaking you in seconds. You shrieked, holding your arms out like you could stop it with sheer annoyance.

"Great," you muttered. "I'm going to look like a drowned heiress."

Kimi just watched you, completely unfazed, rain dripping off his brow like he was made of stone. A slightly amused, highly attractive stone.

"You could've warned me sooner," you said, pushing wet hair off your face.

"You were busy talking about horoscopes and olives."

"I was being charming."

He tilted his head. "You were being loud."

You squinted at him. "Do you even like me, or are you just too polite to throw me off the boat?"

He didn't answer right away. He only stepped forward until you were almost toe-to-toe, rain pattering around you like applause.

"I don't usually like people," Kimi said. "But you're strange."

"Wow," you deadpanned. "Romantic."

He smirked. "It's not a no."

Before you could respond--because you absolutely had a witty comeback brewing--thunder cracked again. This time, closer.

He jerked his head toward the cabin. "Inside. Come on."

And that's how you ended up dripping and barefoot in the cozy cabin of a multimillion-dollar yacht that wasn't yours, wearing his hoodie (gray, soft, slightly too big) and sipping something warm he wordlessly handed you.

You glanced at the rain still lashing the windows. "Sooo, you're telling me I'm stranded?"

He nodded. "Well. If you really wanted to, no. But if it doesn't matter that much, yes, you are stranded for the night."

You tried to play it cool, because fuck if you wanted it. "Is this where you tell me there's only one bed?"

Silence.

You blinked. "Wait. Is there actually--"

"There’s a couch," he said, poker-faced. "But I'm not offering it."

You nearly choked on your drink. "Are you flirting with me, Kimi Räikkönen?"

"Maybe."

You stared, then smiled, then whispered, "Took you long enough."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The storm had no intention of stopping.

You stood in the little cabin barefoot, hair wet, legs cold, staring out the porthole like you could will the rain to let up. It didn't. It just pressed harder against the glass, wind whistling like some moody movie score.

"Bed's made," Kimi said behind you.

You turned. He was leaning in the doorway, towel-drying his hair with one hand, wearing a plain black shirt and grey sweatpants like he hadn't just walked out of a lifestyle magazine shoot.

"Thanks," you said, voice small. "I can take the couch."

He gave you a look. Just one of those slow, unreadable ones. "There's no point pretending. It's raining sideways. Just take the bed."

"And where are you sleeping?" you asked, not quite teasing.

His mouth twitched. "Also the bed."

"Fine. But no funny business."

He raised an eyebrow, totally unimpressed. "You snore."

"I do not!"

"You don't know what you do in your sleep."

You huffed, climbing into bed with dramatic flair, turning your back to him. "You're incredibly rude for someone offering me shelter."

"You could leave, you know. I'm sure you could find someone willing, if you family owns a yacht. You're also incredibly dramatic for someone stealing my hoodie."

You rolled over just to stick your tongue out at him and caught him smiling.

When the lights flickered again, you both froze.

And then--almost instinctively--he slid into the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped with his weight. He didn't touch you. Not even close.

You stared up at the ceiling. "This is weird, right?"

“No.”

You turned your head toward him. He was lying flat, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling too. He was very pretty, you admit, with his long lashes fluttering lazily. You asked, "you don't think this is a little bit emotionally loaded for two people who met via trespassing?"

"You weren't trespassing," Kimi said calmly.

You blinked. "I wasn't?"

"You just got confused."

Now, he had you smiling in the dark.

"I like your boat."

"I know."

"And I like that you let me stay."

His voice was barely there. "I like that you came back."

There was a silence after that.

Eventually, your eyes got heavy. You turned on your side, facing away from him, but not all the way to the edge.

Then you felt it--the brush of his fingers, careful and slow, against your hand.

You didn't say anything. You just let your hand fall back into his and he held it. He didn't grasp tightly, like it was a declaration. There was just enough pressure. Just enough.

You fell asleep like that, rain at the windows. Your body was warm and quiet and his fingers were loosely twined in yours.

In the morning, when sunlight cracked through the clouds and your head was tucked under his chin, you didn't pretend to be surprised.

You just smiled into his shirt and whispered, "told you I don't snore."

And he murmured, half-asleep: "I know. I wanted you closer."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were mid-bite when the door slammed. Slammed-slammed. Like 'Ferrari just lost a front-row seat to Monaco glory' slammed. Of course, because that was basically what had just happened. Except, of course, you had figured out now that Kimi drew for McLaren.

You paused, olive halfway to your mouth.

You heard boots. Heavy steps. Muted Finnish cursing. Well, it might've been some other language but that was your boy out there and he certainly wasn't speaking English.

"Kimi?" you called from the kitchen, mouth still full. You liked his other yacht more, Iceman, but this one was nice, too. It was called 'One More Toy' and Kimi'd asked you to come here with all his friends. The Iceman, he said, was a lot more personal. You supposed that made you two close. You wouldn't ask him that now, though, because he looked angry. "Is that you or an extremely pissed-off ghost?"

No answer.

Just more cursing and the unmistakable sound of a helmet being launched onto the couch. It didn't hit you, thankfully.

You popped the olive in your mouth. "I'm guessing the race didn't go great?"

He appeared in the doorway like an angry cat dragged backwards through gravel. His fireproof suit was half off and his hair a mess. It was kind of hot, actually. Even with his face doing that thing where he looks like he might kill someone but he's too tired to commit. It was especially hot.

"Engine failure," he growled.

You nodded solemnly, like a priest. "Tragic. Want an olive?"

Kimi just stared at you. Like he couldn’t decide whether to yell or marry you.

"Why are you in my hoodie again?"

"It's my coping mechanism," you said, offering him the jar. "Also, it smells like you, and I like it."

He groaned, stalking past you to the bar, where he poured himself three fingers of something probably older than your childhood dog.

You followed, jar in hand. "Do you want to scream into a pillow? Punch a baguette? I have options."

He downed the drink in one go, eyes closed, breathing like the car personally insulted his grandmother.

"I walked off the track mid-race," Kimi muttered.

"I know. It was very dramatic. Ten out of ten for mysterious recluse energy. Did you hear your friends celebrating as you came on? Oh, wait, sorry, you were brooding again."

"I'm not mysterious. I wasn't brooding."

"You're an international man of monosyllables who just disappeared during a Grand Prix and materialized on a yacht. That's the definition mysterious behavior."

You held up your hands when seeing his look. "I support you."

Kimi finally--finally--cracked the tiniest smile. You loved it when he smiled. Then, he sank onto the couch like his bones had given up.

You sat beside him, jar between you, quietly nudging it toward him.

He took one olive and chewed slowly.

"...fuck. These are good."

"'Course they are, my sister-in-law comes from a family that makes olive oil."

He glanced sideways. "Wow. Didn't know that was a thing."

"You're messing with me. Whatever. If you didn't know, you do now. You know what else is a thing? You coming here every time your life explodes."

Kimi didn't argue. Instead, after a long pause, he admit, "I didn't want to be around anyone else."

"Oh."

"I don't talk much."

"Really?"

"Hey."

"Sorry, go on." You gestured with your jar.

He swallowed. "You make it quiet in my head. In a good way."

The olive jar hit the floor. Metaphorically. Though you did actually fumble it a bit in surprise.

"I--"

"I'm not good at this," Kimi added, clearly distressed by his own emotional vulnerability. "The people stuff."

"Well, you're doing amazing, sweetie," you said, placing a very gentle hand on his very tense knee. "You stormed in here like a Nordic pirate and admitted you like me. That's practically a marriage proposal."

He narrowed his eyes. "I did not say that."

"You meant it."

He opened his mouth to argue, then gave up. He took another olive and had you grinning.

Kimi didn't smile, exactly, but he did press a kiss to your temple five minutes later, like he couldn't not.

You added another thing to your mental summer checklist, the last one. It was actually summer, soon. Almost June.

5. Spend lots of time with one (1) brooding, shirtless, Finnish blonde that's bad with emotions, or: Iceman.

But how were you going to do that? He had his job and you...actually, travel certainly wasn't a problem for you.

Kimi looked at you funny, as if he'd read your mind. "What are you thinking about?"

"Can I come to work with you?"

He coughed. "Work? Like my job?"

"Formula One."

"We'll have to leave the yacht," he said, almost ruefully. "You can handle that?"

"Fuck the Iceman," you responded, though at heart you loved the boat that'd brought you to him, him to you. "I have my own Iceman right here."

"You're sappy," he noted. And this time he smiled.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: i've never written for a retired driver so this was fun! i adore kimi lol and hope you liked the banter

959 notes · View notes

cannelley · 2 days ago

Text

please, bother me | mv1

✎ — max verstappen x fem!personal assistent!reader

✎ — summary: You only took this internship as his personal assistent, because in order to be considered for promotions into the communications department, you needed some paddock experience. But you weren't prepared for the rather charming driver, who seemingly has never had a good personal assistent before.

✎ — word count: +15.2k

✎ — warnings: fluff, slow burn, use of [Y/N][Y/LN]

masterlist

Thursday – Media Day

The early Budapest morning drapes the hotel driveway in a warm golden haze, softening edges but catching just enough light to make everything sparkle in a way only the 8 AM summer sun can. You lean against the sleek navy Honda Red Bull rented for the weekend to get their driver from the hotel to the paddock and back. The quiet hum of the waking city is surrounding you while you wait for him, wide-leg pinstripe trousers grazing your hips with effortless precision, black high-neck top hugging your frame in all the right places. Your dark brown leather tote hangs heavy at your side, stuffed with the day’s arsenal of necessities: folders with important notes, chargers, snacks, deodorant, basically a lifeline in this chaotic new world. From the hotel entrance, a tall figure steps into view. Max Verstappen. His gaze sweeps the driveway laying out in front of his feet, expecting the usual—driver, assistant, perhaps a nervous intern—but then it lands on you. His breath catches, a flicker of surprise—or maybe pleasure—passing through his eyes. You don’t flinch. Confidence is your armor. You step forward, voice calm and professional, but threaded with a hint of unapologetic ease. “Good morning, Mr. Verstappen. I’m [Y/N][Y/LN]. Your new assistant, as you should probably know.” You extend your hand. He takes it like a pro, not someone thrown off by the latest addition to his team. “Max, please. It’s my pleasure.” A slight smile touches his lips—brief, measured, kind in his own way. You pull the car keys from your purse and reach out to hand them over. “I figured you’d want to drive us to the paddock.” Max blinks, just enough to lose the perfect moment for grabbing them unfazed but not enough to lose control. His fingers brush yours for a heartbeat—electric, casual—before he walks around the car, scanning your face, noting the way you stand: poised but relaxed, the kind of presence that says you know exactly what you’re doing. You slide into the passenger seat without hesitation, the click of the door sealing the start of something quietly charged. Outside, Budapest hums to life, the race weekend just beginning, and already the air between you feels like a fast, unforgettable lap. The city blurs past as you head onto the highway to get to the track —ornate buildings, shuttered balconies, the slow churn of a tram. The Honda hums steadily, Max’s left hand loose on the wheel, the right shifting with practiced ease. He hasn’t said much since leaving the hotel, just a polite, “Did you put on the seatbelt?” and a nod when you adjusted the AC. So you open the black folder resting on your lap ever since you pulled it out right after getting in. “The PR team expects the media to lead with the incident at Silverstone. Obviously.” You flick through the notes, schedule already annotated in your head. “There’s the press conference around noon, then a one-on-one with The Race. Dutch media in the afternoon. I’d suggest drawing a line—early.” Max’s jaw tightens slightly; you catch it in your periphery. “I don’t want to talk about the fucking crash,” he says, voice cutting through the calm like gravel on asphalt. “It’s stupid. We all have to move on from that. There’s a race ahead, and I can’t live in last Sunday. I can only change the outcome of the next one.”

You look at him, not startled—just thoughtful. There’s no apology in his tone, but there’s something in it. Something tired, maybe. Grounded in a way, that is beyond his age. “I fully agree with you on that. Learning from mistakes is crucial, and so is applying that at the next opportunity.” A small pause, not for effect, just to let the words land. “Honestly I’d advise you to be as real with the media as you were with me just now.” Max glances over—not a long look, just a flick—but enough to register something: that you’re not here to smooth his edges or rewrite his tone. That maybe — just maybe — you get it. The car rolls to a stoplight. A cyclist pedals past. A man with a coffee waits at the corner, the last branches of the city buzzing around him. “You said ‘advise,’” he mutters, quiet, almost to himself. You catch the curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth and raise a brow, teasing. “Too formal for your taste?” “No,” Max says, shifting into gear. “Just not used to assistants who talk like comms directors.” You smile. “Well, maybe you just never had any good assistants so far.” The Honda hums on. The circuit is still a few kilometers of road away—but something has already started to click into place between the two of you already.

The sun hits the tarmac of the Hungaroring sharp and clean, warming the outdated, gravelly paddock paths as the Honda glides to a stop in the parking lot. Max steps out first, cap flattening his hair, lanyard already taken out of his navy backpack and clipped around his neck, his pace effortless — years of race weekend routine distilled into instinct. You follow two steps behind, phone in hand, thumb gliding over the lockscreen. Slack notifications, one calendar shift, two journalists pinging for “a quick five minutes” of Max’ time. “Media briefing first at the motorhome,” you say before he can ask for the schedule again. “Then the official FIA press conference. Lunch after. The Race with Jon Noble. You finish with an interview for some junior reporter from Autosport NL.” He glances back, the visor of his cap shadowing his eyes, but not the amused puff of breath that escapes him. “You read minds too?” “No, just emails,” you answer, not looking up from the screen. The paddock hums around you—mechanics in fireproofs and team polos, camera crews wheeling gear, heat rising in soft waves from the concrete. Conversations pause mid-sentence, heads tilting subtly at you and Max. You’re not in team kit. No logos, no navy polo like he is wearing. Just your black high-neck top and pinstripe trousers, effortless and precise, the kind of outfit that says you belong everywhere but nowhere in particular. A Sky cameraman does a double take. A Red Bull junior ducks his head, confused. You don’t flinch. Max doesn’t slow either—but now he’s walking beside you instead of ahead. By the time you reach the motorhome steps, he’s firmly at your side. You slip your phone back into your tote, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “I’ll have coffee brought up,” you say as the door opens. “I don’t like coffee,” he adds automatically. You blink, unbothered. “Noted. Anything else you want then?” He shakes his head. “They’ve got Red Bull up there, so I’m good, thanks.” He steps inside first, and for a heartbeat, the paddock’s gaze lingers on you, just long enough to make you aware of the quiet gravity you carry, effortless and precise.

You quickly learn Max, besides coffee, also doesn’t like having to wait — not in line, not for journalists, definitely not for answers. So you don’t make him. By noon, the two of you have already slipped into some sort of an unspoken rhythm. You move beside him through every hallway, just out of frame in every camera shot, handing him a water bottle when he needs it, making it vanish again when he doesn’t. When his hair starts to rebel before the next interview, your fingers fix it with a light touch, and an even lighter comment: “You look like someone who slept on a plane in some ungodly uncomfortable position. Let me fix that real quick.” He grins and doesn’t protest. No one else notices, but Max does. The calm. The smoothness. No scrambling, no last-minute panic, no forgotten details. You answer his questions about details from the PR briefing he forgot with quiet efficiency, deflect unreasonable requests of journalists with charm, always one step ahead. You’re good at this—too good for someone who hasn’t done this before. It throws him off his game just slightly, and he’s not used to it. After the press conference, you’re already waiting when he descends the steps, loosening the collar of his race kit. In your hands: a simple boxed lunch, iced Red Bull, protein bar tucked neatly between napkins. “Media team said you’ve got a free hour,” you offer. “I found a calm spot near the hospitality exit if you want to eat there. But if not, I’ll eat with the comms girls.” He blinks, caught a little off guard. Then: “No—stay.” You raise a brow, amused. “I should know who my PA is, right?” he adds, lips twitching. “You could be an axe murderer for all I know right now.” You laugh, soft and slightly surprised. “You sure about that? Maybe I’m more of a poison kind of killer. Could have spiked that lunch.” “I don’t know, but you gotta take risks in life, you know,” he mutters, already following you toward the quiet corner you scoped out.

Tucked behind a row of motorhome trailers, shaded and hidden from the worst of the heat and attention. You both settle on the low edge of a service crate—makeshift, but comfortable. “So,” he says, unwrapping his sandwich, “assume you studied this somewhere by how good you’re at this. Where’d you go to uni?” “St. Andrews,” you reply, sipping your drink. “Did my bachelors in communications and marketing.” “Isn’t that… like an elite school?” He nods, mock approval in the gesture. “So you’re what — a posh little English girl?” “It wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Half my time I spent finishing group projects alone. It’s remarkable how little effort some people put into a degree they’re basically paying 200 grand for.” “That is glamorous. In an F1 sort of way.” He smirks. “Favorite school subject?” he presses next, interrogating you. “History,” you answer automatically. “Though I’m guessing yours was anything but math?” “I actually liked math,” he shoots back, almost offended. “And physics. Didn’t hate them as much as everything else. But I wasn’t doing homework between kart races either way, no matter the subject.” He leans back on the crate, posture relaxed, gaze flicking toward you as he pretends this is casual. You cross a leg, toe tapping lightly on the gravel as you finish your lunch. “Okay,” he says, eyes bright, “big question. Is Red Bull your favorite team?” You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “I think I’m supposed to say yes.” “I’d rather you be honest.” “Then no,” you admit. His eyes glint with mischief. “Now I wish you had lied. Am I your favorite driver at least?” You let the pause stretch, teasing. “You’re… in my top five.” He scoffs, dramatically offended. “Top five? That’s it?” “I’ve known you for like four hours, Verstappen,” you deadpan. “Let’s see how the weekend goes before I make any life-altering decisions and betray my family.” “Oh, so you come from a family of racers?” “No, but my dad watches the race every Sunday and he thinks there’s no one better than Charles Leclerc in a red Ferrari car. If I disagreed, he’d probably have a heart attack,” you joke. Max throws his head back, laughing—real, unpolished, open-throated. Lunch stretches longer than it should, neither of you mentioning it. Somewhere behind you, the paddock churns on. But here, tucked behind the trailers, it’s quiet.

By five, the sun has grown heavier on the tarmac, stretching long shadows across the media pen as the last interviews wrap up for the day. You’re still shadowing Max, always just a step behind or beside him—offering subtle signals, nodding at PR coordinators, guiding the rhythm of questions with clipped one-liners and quiet eye contact passed between handlers. Max breezes through it all, confident, almost careless. He has the experience of having done this a hundred times before and the silent confirmation that no matter if he would mess up an answer, there is nothing Red Bull could do. They need him too much. You don’t say a lot, but he’s attuned to the shifts in your posture: the tilt of your chin in disbelieve of the audacity when a question is about to veer too sharp, the way you linger a moment longer at his side when the cameras click off. There’s a quiet system. Unspoken, but understood. Back inside the motorhome, the air is cooler and you peel the sticker tag from your lanyard and pull a small protein bar from your tote. “Hungry?” you offer casually, holding it out to him. Max shakes his head, but his expression softens at the gesture. “You’re the most considerate, well-prepared PA I’ve ever had in my career.” You blink, snort a quick half-a-laugh, disbelief wrapped in amusement. “And it’s only my first day.” He tilts his head, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t feel like it.” You glance at him, unsure whether to thank him or deflect, but he keeps looking—serious now, stripped of performance. “You don’t strike me as someone just trying to get a first impression right,” he adds quietly. The words land differently. Not flirtatious, not flattering. Just… his honest take on you, his perception of your character after mere hours. And somewhere in your chest, something clicks. Not loudly. Just a shift, a subtle change in gravity. You cap your water bottle and nod. “Well, you’re right about that. I’m not.”

The paddock is quieting now, around 5:30 PM. The golden light of a sinking sun stretches across the grid of trailers and fences, catching on every chrome edge, every helmet visor on the shelves. A few engineers still linger near the back of the hospitality unit, voices lower and tired, going over data for tomorrow. You check your phone. “I have to go by comms,” you say, half to Max, half to yourself. “Quick debrief on tomorrow’s media timings. I’ll head back to the hotel with them.” Max nods, grabing his backpack and throwing it over his shoulders. Then, as you reach for the door handle, he says it—not loud, almost uncertain, almost as if he’s testing the words: “But you will ride to the paddock again with me tomorrow morning, right?” You glance back at him, trying to read his expression and make something of his question. He’s not teasing. Just looking at you with that quietly focused attention, like he’s already thinking about the next day, the next briefing, the next circuit—but wants to pencil you into the plan. You smile, that same soft one he caught earlier at lunch. “Yeah, Max,” you nod gently. “I will.” He gives a short nod, like that’s all he needed to know. The door swings open, warm evening light spilling in, and this time, you step out first—not behind him, but side by side, walking him to the exit of the paddock before heading back to the motorhome for your last meeting of the day.

Friday – FP1 and FP2

On Friday, the air smells of rocks and stones warmed by the sun and the last bit of moisture from last night’s rain evaporating — the unmistakable scent of a European summer morning, one could say. It’s barely eight o’clock yet, but Budapest is alive already: mopeds buzzing in the distance, hotel staff moving with quiet efficiency around the entrance to make everything perfect, and your phone vibrating twice with reminders before you even see him. You’re early. You always are. Standing by the sleek navy Honda like yesterday, you shift your weight onto your back foot, folder tucked neatly under your arm. Today you’re in white straight-leg jeans— trying to look polished without looking like you’re trying — paired with a Red Bull shirt tucked in. Loafers are the same as yesterday, your leather purse slung over your shoulder with that just-prepared-enough confidence. You flip through the first page of the day’s schedule while the sun climbs steadily, golden and unobtrusive. The jingle of car keys announces Max descending the hotel stairs. You glance up, offering a lazy smile. His hair is perfectly glued in place with wax, though he pushes it to the right repeatedly, a habit you’ve already noticed. He aims the key fob toward the car; the lights flash once in acknowledgment that the holder has arrived.

His gaze finds you before you can greet him properly —and lingers a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You always this early?” he asks, his tone casual. You glance over the top of your folder. “When the e-mail says 8:30 sharp, I’ll be there to leave 8:30 sharp.” That earns you a grin, but before you can launch into your neatly rehearsed breakdown of his Friday media and race obligations, he softens, interrupting with something different: “Did you get back okay last night?” The question catches you slightly off guard—not because it’s odd, but because it’s considerate. Something about the way he asks it—as if he thought about it after you left—makes your posture shift subtly. Though you recover quickly, arching an eyebrow, mock smugness in your expression, but you don’t feel smug at all. “There are shuttles for team members like me, you know.” He unlocks the car again, just to be certain and opens his own door, but his gaze drifts across the roof toward you. “Then why were you riding with me yesterday?” You let the question hang just long enough before meeting his eyes again, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Because,” you say, snapping your folder closed with satisfying precision, “it’s much cooler to arrive with the future world champion in a nice, fast car.” Max stares at you for a beat — doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak. And then the corners of his mouth tug upward in a slow, quietly pleased smile. There’s a subtle shift in his posture too, like you’ve just said something he’ll replay later, not necessarily the car part, maybe not even the compliment itself. Just the way you said it—effortless, certain, like you already knew something he’s still having a hard time learning to believe. “Future world champion, huh?” he murmurs, sliding into the driver’s seat with that easy, practiced motion. You shrug, slipping in beside him. “Well. Let’s see how free practice goes first.”

The engine hums to life beneath you, a soft vibration that seems to fill the cabin without rushing it. This time, the silence doesn’t feel like space that needs to be filled. It’s comfortable in a way, expectant. You tilt your folder toward him eventhough he wouldn’t glance at it, the paper crisp beneath your fingers. “First up,” you begin, “Sky Sports at the garage. They want a bit before practice. Thoughts on—I don’t know—what. They always want your thoughts on something. You’d think they got everything yesterday, but…” He glances sideways, a flicker of amusement over your commentary tugging at his lips. Outside, the Honda glides toward the circuit, tinted windows reflecting the rising sun to anyone catching sight of your car, the engine’s low hum steady and confident. The river flashes silver to your left, light bouncing off the water in little joyful sparks. Max drives like he always does: smooth, controlled, but with a quiet intensity that makes the car feel alive. You open another page in your folder somewhere between two traffic lights, catching a glimpse of the Parliament building in the distance as it proudly sits next to the Danube. The pages are tabbed, corners annotated in neat ink. “So,” you continue, scanning your writing in the print, “FP1 is scheduled for 11:30, but you’re supposed to be in the garage at 10:30 for pre-session briefing with your team. Media debrief is after FP1, then another sit-down with your race engineer. Quick lunch today — no more than 30 minutes. FP2 starts at 3pm, which means you gotta be in the garage by 2:30. Strategy meeting for saturday is at 4:30 sharp.” Max snorts lightly at the seriousness in your tone and how you list all of his different schedule obligations. You don’t look up. “Then one final media round in the hospitality suite, and you’re officially released.” “Released,” he repeats, amusement in his voice. “You make it sound like I’m being let out of prison.” “Well,” you reply, flipping the page, “depends how FP2 goes, honestly. And it’s you who hates media and doesn’t make it a secret.” He throws another side glance, the smile he bites back betraying him anyway.

Traffic slows as you get closer to the paddock parking lot, engines of other cars humming and tires crunching over gravel and asphalt. Max checks the mirror, shifts gears, then — like an afterthought — asks, casual but deliberate, “You gonna be in the garage today?” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head in playful challenge. “I mean… if that’s what you want.” He doesn’t answer right away, just smiles and looks at the last bit of road ahead, the circuit already in sight. It’s not the measured, press-friendly smile. It’s a real smile. He shifts lanes, easy, natural. “It is,” he says eventually, voice even. “What if I need something last-minute before a session? Or someone has to tell me if my hair’s doing that stupid thing again like yesterday?” You roll your eyes, light and teasing. “Guess I’ll be there then.” “Thanks. I wouldn’t survive it without you.” A small laugh escapes you—soft, genuine, caught off-guard. “How did you do it before me then?” “I don’t know… I must have been dead before I met you,” he mutters under his breath. You both pretend not to hear it. Outside, the landscape shifts: chain-link fences, directional signage, the occasional cluster of fans pointing toward some other car, another driver inside perhaps. The paddock is just around the corner. You tuck your notes back into the folder, glance out the window to ground yourself. “Alright,” you say, voice low, steady. “Ready to do this?” Max exhales slowly, like flipping a switch. Focus snaps into place, hands firm on the wheel. “Yeah. Let’s go to work.” But as he eases the car into the paddock lot and slows near his assigned spot, his gaze flicks toward you one last time before he gets out. “And you’re staying in the garage, right?” You smile, quiet but certain. “Well, I’m not backing out now.”

You step out into the paddock parking lot, the car door clicking shut behind you, and the roar of activity hits immediately—cameras snapping, radios buzzing, mechanics pushing trolleys over asphalt, fans screaming and shouting and pointing, PR handlers striding with precise purpose. You sling your purse over your shoulder, folder again tucked tight under your arm, and fall into step beside Max, matching the subtle rhythm of his pace. You can feel the glances the moment you cross into the Paddock bubble behind the security gates — curiosity flickering in sharp, almost imperceptible arcs. Today you’re in uniform, but walking with Max makes you belong here immediately, even though yesterday was the first time anyone had seen you in the paddock. He doesn’t glance back at anyone as he moves toward the motorhome, tugging absently at the hem of his polo. You follow a step or two behind, the sounds of the paddock folding around you, until the sliding doors swallow him and you. He veers left toward the drivers rooms; you go right, heading straight for the garage. The temperature shift hits you before anything else: cooler, clinical, a haven of mechanics and machinery. The air carries the scent of engines warmed and worked, a subtle metallic tang mixing with rubber and oil. It’s alive, pulsing with purpose—the mechanical heartbeat of the team. A junior engineer barely glances at you as he passes a headset across the narrow stretch of floor beside the monitors. “You can stand here,” he says without introduction, voice clipped and overly confident, almost careless. “That way you won’t get in anyone’s way.” You nod, sliding the headset into place, adjusting it just so that it doesn’t flatten your hair too much. Around you, the garage breathes: voices crackle over comms, tires roll into view, laptops and iPads flicker to life and screens go back to black. You’re part of the scene—but only just. No one asks your name. No one tells you what’s happening. They probably assume you’re just another intern or maybe even only a guest, another temporary shadow in their world. You let the quiet that headphones bless you with linger for a heartbeat, letting the visual rhythm of the garage settle into your bones. Then you pull out your folder again, pen poised, notes ready—because Max will ask, and you intend to have answers before he even thinks to voice the question.

He strides in, race suit half-zipped, fireproof undershirt clinging to his abs, chest and shoulders like it was sewn onto him. The second his body entered the garage he is papably at ease—like his body belongs in this noise, like the garage is muscle memory, home and refuge. His eyes skim the room, catching every detail in half a second, until they catch on you. And then—light. A quick spark that makes the corners of his mouth twitch upward. You lift a thumb in his direction, a silent code: All good. Don’t worry about me. Go do your job. But instead of brushing past, he angles toward you, wiping a hand down the back of his neck. “You alright?” His voice cuts through the static of comms and air guns. “Why are you standing over there?” You gesture toward the barricade separating the observation area from the part of the garage where actual work is being done. “That’s where they told me to go. Figured it’s better not to get in the way.” Max frowns, quick and sharp. “That’s bullshit.” You blink. “It’s—” “No, really,” he says, cutting you off softly, but firm, like he’s making room for you and gently tries to push you into it. “You work for Red Bull. You’re not in anyone’s way. How are you supposed to help me from behind a barrier?” Before you can answer, he’s already reaching over, fingers brushing the inside of your elbow. “C’mon.” “What?” “Just jump over. It’s quicker than walking around.” For a second, you hesitate—conscious of the eyes, the lines you shouldn’t overstep, the unwritten rules. Then you plant one hand on the railing, and he steadies you as you swing over. It’s awkward, graceless, but threaded with a flicker of adrenaline. A couple of mechanics glance over, eyebrows raised. Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t make it a scene. “This is my new PA,” he says, almost casually, to the engineers at the workstation. “She’ll be around from this weekend on. Probably running circles around us.” One by one, heads turn. GP, then Tom, Brad, Lee—each giving a nod or a brief smile. “Christian’s floating around somewhere,” Max adds. “But I assume you’ve met him already.” “Hi,” you say, folder clutched against your chest. It comes out steadier than you feel. You don’t belong in this part of the garage. You know it. They know it. But Max just rewrote the script—and now you do. While he leans in to discuss something either highly important or impossibly silly with GP, you hover a half-step away and thumb open your phone. A sponsor rep you chased earlier needs a follow-up, so you hammer the reply out right there—noise pressing at your skull despite the headphones that loosely only cover on ear, smell of hot brakes thick in the air. This isn’t where that kind of work is supposed to happen. Media unit, hospitality, anywhere quieter—yes. But here? It is where Max left you, and so you stay.

Just before he slips into the car, he glances back. That unreadable, half-lidded look. Then a small nod, as if to say: good. Please stay. Somewhere behind you, the in-house Red Bull photographer lifts his lens. The wide shot catches everything—Max, suited and smiling faintly, engineers leaning close, you standing with headset and folder, typing furiously on your phone. Later, when socials announce FP1 is underway, that’s the picture they choose for some odd reason.

FP1 winds down in a familiar blur — tyre blankets are being tugged back on, laptops snapping shut, a few grumbles about grip in sector two. Max peels himself out of the car, helmet and gloves quickly dumped onto the shelf, race suit unzipped just enough to breathe. He’s reaching for his watch when you appear at his side, not hovering, just there, as if you’ve always been. “You’ve got fifteen until the data meeting,” you say, offering him a bottle of electrolyte water and a protein bar — the same kind you handed him yesterday, the one he demolished before even glancing at his lunch. He takes them with a short huff of relief. “You’re a lifesaver.” “It’s just a bar,” you shrug, downplaying it. “Lunch isn’t until after the briefing. Didn’t want you to crash.” Max tears the wrapper open with his teeth, laughter soft in his chest. “You’d be surprised how many people forget how tough racing is on the body.” You glance toward the engineers, who are already shoulder-deep in data. “Well. I read somewhere, that the future world champion needs balanced blood sugar.” That earns you a look featured by a smile — amused, but steadier underneath. “You’re gonna keep calling me that?” he asks, voice lower now, casual only on the surface. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.” He swallows, lifts the water bottle to his lips. “No. I like it.” Then, with the same ease he shifts gears on track, he’s already sliding toward debrief mode. “See you after for lunch?” “Be waiting,” you reply, already walking away, folder tucked close, stride brisk, heart hammering in ways you refuse to acknowledge.

You’re already waiting when Max finds you — plate in front of you, water half-finished. He arrives with his own tray and a can of Red Bull, sliding into the chair across the small window table. The umbrella outside throws a patchwork of shade over his face, softening him in a way the garage lighting never does. He digs in without checking the time, without twitching toward the door. It looks like he trusts you to keep the day moving. Between bites, his eyes lift — not hurried, just curious. “So how’d you end up in motorsport, anyway? Not exactly your standard summer internship.” You swallow, sip your water. “Well like I said yesterday, my family’s always been into it. I kind of grew up orbiting F1. When it came time for uni, I figured it’d be nice to work in this world somehow.” Max leans in a fraction, nodding. “So you’re one of those.” “One of what?” “The ones who actually like this circus.” That earns him a laugh from you. You try to hide it with your hand. “Yeah. F1 comms is fascinating — watching how it all gets shaped. It’s perhaps one of the most carefully threaded public images out there. But… I also used to steal my brother’s kart on weekends. At six I thought I’d be the next Susie Wolff.” You grin at the memory. “Turns out, I was not very good.” “Really?” He raises a brow, skeptical. “I crashed more than I finished,” you admit, dry as dust. “And I hated getting my hands dirty. This”—you gesture at your folder, your crisp Red Bull polo—“this is probably as close as I’ll ever get to motorsport.” Max tilts his head, assessing. “Let me be the judge of that.” You blink, lips twitching. “What, you gonna challenge me to a kart race? So I can humiliate myself in front of you?” He shrugs, mock-casual. “Could be fun, you know.” Your smile lingers longer than it should. His too. A beat stretches — warm, almost familiar — before Max exhales, pushing back his chair with reluctance. “Shame lunch isn’t longer.” You rise as well, brushing a crumb from your shirt. “You’ll survive. Think of the protein bar after FP2.” He smirks. “And the world champion pep talk.” “That too,” you say, and the two of you fall back into a stride — not you trailing behind this time, but side by side, all the way to the garage.

This time entering the garage, you walk straight through to the monitors and workbench. No sidestepping barricades this time, no pretending you don’t belong. The late sun slants soft gold across the clean white garage walls, spotlighting the shift in you as much as the space. Max is half-listening to something Christian is going on about, tugging his race suit into place. For a heartbeat, his gaze flicks over. The corners of his mouth twitch upward — not quite a smile, but something like recognition. You meet it with an amused look, and he answers with a small nod before turning back to Horner. The garage breathes like a single, restless organism. Mechanics move in tight choreography only they know, cords snaking across the floor, telemetry feeds glowing blue and red. You weave through it as though you’ve been doing this for years — though your shirt still smells faintly of discount detergent and plastic packaging, and your phone keeps buzzing with calendar alerts you’re afraid to miss. You settle into the control alcove behind the engineers, headset hanging around your neck like jewelry you were gifted and are unsure to wear. Nobody stops you. One of the older engineers even nods as he passes you — distracted, but not dismissive. Progress from this morning. Meanwhile Max is being strapped in, helmet on, gloves flexing over his fingers. His visor is still lifted, and you catch the way his eyes narrow — the exact moment the switch flips to race mode. You glance at the screens, then down at the neat paper printout spread across the counter: tire compounds, wind data, run-plan notes. You don’t understand half of it, but the nearness to the heartbeat of the race is thrill enough. Definitely not what the job description had promised.

The second practice session opens with an eruption — engines roaring alive, vibration tearing straight through your chest. It should rattle you, but it doesn’t. You stay rooted, eyes locked on Max’s data feed, mentally ticking through the boxes you prepped for. Ten minutes in, your phone buzzes. Comms. You answer with the clipped calm of someone who doesn’t have time to waste. “Eighteen-oh-five is fine. I’ll make sure he’s briefed… yes, I know we already moved that. No, it won’t run long.” You hang up, slide the phone back into your jeans pocket — only then notice the media camera across the garage aimed straight at you. Red light on. Probably collecting B-roll. It’s too late now.

On track, Max is carving Sector 2 like it owes him a debt. The timing screens flash: purple, green, green. When he rolls back in for tweaks, he looks almost casual inside the noise and frenzy of the garage. His visor lifts. “[Y/N] — can you get Brad that thing you mentioned this morning in the car?” The tire guns shriek around you, but you don’t even blink. “Already sent it.” A grin cracks under the sweat-damp hair clinging across his forehead — a knowing look, like this is what it feels like to share a wavelength. The rest blurs: tire changes, telemetry lines chasing each other across glowing screens, Max sending lap after lap into rhythm. You forget the clock in the way only people who love what they do can. Him in the car. You by the wall. Head nods lining up like you’ve done this for years. By the time he climbs out of the car again — flushed, smiling — the online feed is already humming. Someone’s clipped the shot of you behind the monitors, lip caught between your teeth as you study a screen. The comments are multiplying, fast.

username1 i don't think i have seen this girl in the rb garage before username2 That’s not his usual PR rep, is it? username3 why does she kinda look like she’s running the place?

You don’t see the comments. You don’t see anything but Max cutting through the knot of engineers, gloves half-peeled, words already forming. “Good session, don’t you think?” You glance at the screens on the wall. “P3 overall, long run looked sharp. I heard GP mention something about the rear, though. Don’t know what that’s all about.” His eyes flicker, quick and impressed. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him and Tom. We need to fix it or the weekend’s screwed.” It’s nothing. Just debrief chatter. Just another line in the noise of the garage. And yet— the way he looks at you, like you’ve always belonged here, makes it feel like everything.

The sun slips behind the Hungaroring paddock, soft orange bleeding into brushed pink. The sharp edges of the day have dulled — no more tire smoke, no more headset crackle, no more logistics shouted over engines. Just the afterglow. You lean against the low wall outside hospitality, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through the day’s content, ckecking what was relevant today. The glass beside you reflects streaks of sunset, turning your hair molten, your expression unreadable from the outside. Your lanyard sways with each idle refresh of Instagram. Then — footsteps. You don’t have to look up to know who it is. He walks like he has all the time in the world, yet somehow is always exactly on time. Max’s hair is damp from the shower, darker at the temples, freed from the last stubborn bit of wax. He’s swapped fireproofs for a Red Bull polo and skinny jeans, one shoe half-laced like he gave up halfway. Heat still lingers on his cheeks, a faint pink. “You waiting for me?” You glance over. “That depends. You driving me home again? Also, your left shoe isn’t tied. Don’t trip.” He grins, bends to lace it. “Guess I am driving you back.” You push off the wall, and as he comes up — now with two laced shoes — you fall into step beside him like it’s muscle memory and something you have been getting used to. No instructions needed. Your strides sync without thought. Near the paddock gates, you tap his shoulder with your phone. “By the way,” you say, opening a photo you found when you waited for him, “social team’s having a field day. Meme accounts too.” He squints at the screen. A screenshot from FP1 — the second he’d helped you over the barricade. Overlaid text: When your PA intern has main character energy and you’re just a side quest. Max snorts, loud enough to turn heads. “That’s criminal,” he laughs, shaking his head, leaning closer to squint at the caption again. “I should frame that.” You’re both still laughing when the shutter clicks. A soft snap from somewhere in the distance. Unnoticed. Unimportant. Except the frame is good — too good. Good lighting, perfect angle, Max’s smile tilted toward you, real and unguarded. By the time you reach the exit, the photo’s already climbing through fan accounts. You’re not tagged. But that doesn’t stop the comments.

username1 did any of the gossip pages find out who the f*ck she is?? username2 that's the same girl who was also in the garage during fp2... new wag alert? ↳ username3 i mean she did make him laugh rather lively

But those comments are still somewhere in the near future, a storm for overnight, when everyone who works in the paddock sleeps but fans are wild awake around the globe. Right now, it’s only the two of you, slipping past the last stragglers of camera crews into the lavender wash of a Hungarian dusk. You don’t touch, but the air between you hums with something practiced — like a song you both know by heart but aren’t comfortable to sing aloud. Max glances sideways. “You want to grab something to eat before we head back?” “Depends,” you say, lips tugging at a smile. “Are you buying?” He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “I just drove fifty laps. You should be buying.” “You really have no clue how much an intern makes, do you? If I’m buying, I can’t pay rent, dumbass.” His laugh spills out, quick and unguarded, and then he nods — deal struck. And just like that, you both fade into the falling light: two silhouettes slipping out of frame, and straight into speculation.

Saturday – FP2 and Qualifying

You’re five minutes early on Saturday morning. As you always are. The hotel lobby doors sigh shut behind you, soles gliding over the polished tiles without quite clicking annoyingly. Your leather tote swings lightly from one shoulder, on your phone already half-dialed with the driver’s number in case Max makes you wait. The sky above is a flat, pale gray, the kind of overcast that presses down on you, thick with humidity — storm-brewing, expectant.

You’re prepared. Of course you are. Soft-shell jacket zipped halfway, dark jeans neat but easy, black loafers catching the faint damp in the air. Hair pinned back just enough to look intentional and to withstand any showers of rain or mist. It’s saturday. Quali day — some would say the most important day of the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. You walk towards the car, to be on time, to be there first. But someone else beat you to it. Max leans against the Honda like it’s his throne, one foot casually crossed over the other, arms folded across the navy of his team polo. A cap covers his hair, his watch glints faintly in the gray light. Dark skinny jeans. Not scrolling through his phone. Not checking the time. Just there. Waiting. For you. You blink once. Then a second time in utter disbelieve. “You’re early.” His mouth curves, smug in a way that’s maddeningly subtle. “You usually get here at 8:25.” You falter mid-step. “So… you came at 8:20?” He shrugs, loose and easy. “Thought it’d be nice if I waited on you for once.” It shouldn’t catch you off guard. It really shouldn’t. But the way he says it — no edge, no joke, just plain and sure — settles warm in your chest. Or maybe it’s the way he moves forward, hand finding the door handle on the passangers side and swinging it open like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You stop, pulse kicking up as the hinge creaks open. His hand rests light on the frame, his gaze steady on yours. No performance. No irony. Just a gesture. You clear your throat. “What’s this?” Max tilts his head, eyes glinting. “It’s a car door. It opens.” “That’s not what I—” The words break, too thin, too breathy, a little frustrated perhaps. And his smile sharpens, just enough to tell you he heard it. You slide inside, careful, because suddenly the scent of his cologne feels too close and your pulse is distractingly beating in your ears. He shuts the door with a neat flick of his wrist, and a moment later the driver’s side opens. He settles in with a low exhale, the casual kind that still feels deliberate. You catch it — the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He likes this. Catching you unsteady, making you forget what you were trying to say, getting under your skin. You’re usually so composed, scaffolding built from years of knowing your worth, your goals, your red lines. Sharp edges, steady footing. And now here’s Max Verstappen — Formula 1’s Dutch lion, racing monster in human form — quietly savoring the fact he can make you stammer. The car pulls away from the curb. You glance sideways. He’s watching the road, but the corner of his mouth is still lifted, smug as ever. You shake your head, half-smiling despite yourself. He’s dangerous, maybe. But at least he’s polite about it.

The car glides through Budapest’s waking streets, the tires humming softly against damp asphalt, before rolling onto the highway to the track. Early cafés flicker awake, their neon signs half-lit, spilling warmth onto wet sidewalks. Beyond them and the city borders, fields stretch green and quiet, the sky still brooding above like it hasn’t quite decided whether to rain or just keep everyone on their toes. Inside the car, it’s a bubble of calm. Max’s hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the soft glow of the dashboard. Every now and then he glances sideways. “Alright. Let’s hear it.” You don’t look up from your notes. “Engineering briefing at 9:10, media touchpoint with Sky Sports at 10:15, and then it’s time to get ready for FP3.” He nods once, absorbed, leaning slightly into the rhythm of your voice. You flip the page. “You should be in the garage no later than 12:10 sharp. FP3 starts at 1. After that, lunch, a quick pre-Quali meeting in the garage, and we’re hopefully good to go into Qualifying at 3pm.” Another nod from him. Both hands settle on the wheel, back straight, listening like you’re reciting poetry. But it’s just logistics. Your logistics. You tap the next line, voice steady. “Assuming a Top 3 quali — and I do assume that — post-session media is staggered: Qualifying photo first, F1 press conference second, then general press.” Max glances at you. “And if not?” “If not, it all shifts by fifteen minutes and you’ll have to get the ‘we’ll bounce back stronger’ line ready in three languages,” you reply deadpan, eyes still scanning your notes. A beat. Then Max laughs — low, warm, the kind of tired, early morning laugh that fills the small space around you and drifts into the dashboard hum. “You’ve already planned the comeback speech?” “Well, it’s either I do it now or someone will text you later,” you shrug, page still poised. He studies you, more thoughtful now. “You really think I’ll be Top 3?” You finally look at him. “Have you lost your sanity overnight? Of course I do. You don’t? You’ve been nothing but great all season.” Not flirtation. Not blind optimism. Just plain, steady truth. And it catches him a little off guard. A thousand people in the paddock want him to perform. Dozens expect it. But your belief isn’t transactional. It isn’t performative. It’s measured, practical, unwavering — the quiet sort of confidence that feels like a hand on his shoulder without touching him. You flip to the final page. “Oh — and I rescheduled the Dutch radio interview to after the race. Didn’t want you worrying about it before Sunday afternoon.” He hums softly. “Good call.” You close the folder. “That’s the day.” Max nods, thoughtful, eyes briefly drifting to you before returning to the road. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and gently places it on the stick shift. Just slightly, he leans closer, like he wants to linger in this bubble of order and calm a moment longer. “Thanks,” he murmurs, quieter now. “For the Quali pep talk… and all the other stuff.” You just nod. It’s your job. But something in the air between you tells you it’s becoming more than that, a pulse that doesn’t need words to exist.

The car hasn’t even rolled to a full stop before the air tilts — a current of noise and light waiting to swallow you whole. Cameras click in rapid bursts, phones lift like antennae, voices rise and blur together into one restless thrum. The paddock lot is much more alive with motion than the days before: fans pressed to barricades trying to get a glimpse of their stars, photographers circling like flies drawn to sugar, team staff weaving past with coffee cups gripped like lifelines, lanyards flashing as they move. Max steps out first. The moment he does, flashes ignite, a ripple of recognition breaking across the crowd — warm, immediate, and already bordering on suffocating. You slip out a beat later, bag slung over your shoulder, jacket zipped halfway against the morning chill. Without thinking, you fall a step behind. Not submission — strategy. It’s smoother this way: he commands the spotlight, while you orbit at its edges, free to watch, to manage, to keep things flowing. That’s when you see her. A girl no older than sixteen, standing just off the barricade in a faded Verstappen 33 cap, unofficial jacket hanging loose on her frame. Her phone trembles slightly in her hands, screen glowing. You catch her standing there like this before Max does — the nerves, the longing hovering in her small, shaky stance. So you nudge his elbow gently, tilt your chin toward her, guiding him wordlessly in her direction. “Want me to take it?” you ask softly, already extending your hand as if to tell her it’s okay. She nods, eyes wide, the brim of her faded cap dipping with the motion. You take her phone, step back, frame them against the paddock chaos. “Big smile,” you prompt, gentle but sure. “This one’s going on the wall in your room, right?” Max flashes a grin on cue. Click. Then it’s two boys next — twins, no taller than your legs, sneakers scuffing nervously against the asphalt. Then another girl. Each time you move quickly, efficient, one clean shot per phone, all vertical. Max doesn’t resist, doesn’t need to. The rhythm steadies under your direction, smooth as a well-oiled engine. He barely speaks; you keep him flowing forward. By the last one, you hand the phone back with a quiet, “Here you go, sweetheart,” a small nod at the grateful dad beside her. And then you’re moving again. Sidestepping a camera crew, slipping back into position just half a step behind him. Max glances over, the faintest tug of amusement at his mouth. “What?” you ask. “You might’ve missed your calling as security detail,” he murmurs under his breath. You smirk, rolling your eyes. “If I did that instead of being your PA, you’d be late to every meeting.” A beat. He exhales, almost like he’s trying not to let it show. “I know.” You check your watch, the habit automatic. “Engineering briefing in the motorhome in five. Then media. Sky’s been moved to the right paddock lane, so we’ll need to loop back after.” He doesn’t ask how you know, doesn’t question the logistics. Just a single focused nod, and he keeps walking. The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. The air is thick with hot brakes and warm asphalt, the background hum of engines bleeding through. Someone calls Max’s name behind you, but neither of you turns. You just keep moving — fluid, aligned, unknowingly choreographed. Past team reps, junior drivers, crew balancing laptops and precarious trays of coffee. No one stops you. And that’s the part that catches you off guard: the strange, quiet gravity of it. How natural this feels already. Like you’ve been doing it for years. Like you were built for this pulse, this rhythm. But it’s only day three. Only just the beginning. And yet — you’re already waiting in the garage when he arrives for FP3. Because of course you are.

The garage hums alive like it already did yesterday, only is it even more electric today — engineers bent once again over glowing monitors, the low drone of generators threading through clipped shouts for tools and static-laced comms. You slip in along the edges, ducking past a tire trolley, brushing against someone’s elbow. GP stands hunched at the workbench, coffee in one hand, pen in the other. He barely looks up. “You’re here early,” he says. “Not possible,” you counter, sidestepping a coil of cables. “Max is just late.” That earns the faintest twitch of a smile. You’ve only exchanged fragments with him these past two days — nods, logistics, the occasional dry jab across Max’s shoulder — but there’s already an ease to it now. A kind of shared orbit, born more from necessity than choice. “Where the hell even is he?” you ask. GP sips his coffee, shakes his head. “Probably still fixing his hair.” You huff a soft laugh. “As if it won’t be ruined the second the helmet goes on. Not exactly sponsor-friendly conditions in here.” “You’d know,” GP replies, dry as sand. “Aren’t you the one scheduling all his charm offensives?” You’re halfway through a retort when the atmosphere shifts. Heads turn. The current changes. It’s a clear sign that Max has arrived. He slips in through the side entrance, racesuit half-zipped, damp hair re-styled by a simple hand gesture after the walk between motorhome and garage. His eyes cut quickly through the room, scanning, weighing — then settle on you. A flicker of a smirk touches his mouth before he speaks. “Good. You two are getting along,” he says, nodding between you and GP. “That should improve my performance — if the people closest to me can actually communicate.” “Right,” GP mutters, eyes never leaving the data. “Because F1 is basically group therapy with occasional laps.” “Careful,” you murmur, not quite smiling. “Communication is important. I’d know.” The comment slides out too lightly, almost unthinking. But Max stiffens, arms crossing. His jaw tenses, a line sharpened by something unspoken. GP raises a brow, clearly ready with another dry remark — but Max cuts him off. And that’s enough.” The words are casual, half-joking, but edged. GP chuckles under his breath and retreats into his sheets of numbers, muttering about “focus” and “less drama, more delta.” You don’t rise to it. You only check your watch, nodding toward the car. “Ten to green. You ready to go?” Max unfolds his arms, steps closer. His voice drops low. “Yeah. Thanks for staying on top of it.” You meet his eyes. “Always.” For a breath, there’s something else under the routine — something charged, too delicate to name. But a mechanic calls his name, and just like that, he turns away. Climbs into the cockpit. Helmet down. Visor sealed. The spell breaks. FP3 begins.

The pit lane thrums like a living thing — metallic growls stacking one on top of another until it’s more vibration than sound, rattling up through your legs as the cars streak past. Max is gone in a blur of navy and colorful sponsor logos, the echo of his engine cutting sharper than the sunlight flashing off the tarmac. From where you sit at the garage’s edge, you catch only the afterimage. The rest you read on screens: green sectors blooming, delta lines holding steady, but you are mostly staring at the monitors broadcasting the scenes from the track or your phone. Your headset rests half-cocked, like you can’t quite decide if you want the world piped into your ears or not. The folder on your lap is forgotten, a prop more than a tool. Sunlight angles through the shutters in warm slices, catching on floating dust until the whole air seems painted in gold. Around you, the crew moves with seamless precision — not chaos, though it seems like chaos to you, only rhythm. And on the timing sheets: Verstappen P2. +0.173. Not disastrous. But not what Max wants. You track his car through Sector 2, watching the throttle traces, brake pressure, wheel angle — data that should feel cold, yet hums with life when it’s his. He drives like he’s a neurosurgeon holding a scalpel, not a racing driver holiding steering wheel. Slicing, exact, inevitable. And then your name breaks into your ear. Low, amused. “Hey. Camera’s on you.” It’s Lee laughing from a couple meters away. Your head snaps up, too late. One of the trackside feeds has betrayed you: world feed, garage shot. You. Just sitting there. Too still, too focused on Max’ onboards. You can already imagine the captions, the freeze-frames, the Twitter threads spinning into existence. Who’s the girl in the Red Bull garage? Heat creeps up your neck and ears. You force a small, professional smile, nod once, then drop your eyes to the data like it’s the only thing that matters. Posture straight. Face neutral. Sip from your bottle. Pretend you don’t feel your skin buzzing with a million invisible eyes. Four minutes later, Max barrels back in. Tyres screech, the car halts on the marks, the swarm descends. He doesn’t move much, doesn’t lift the helmet, but when the visor slides up, his eyes find you instantly. Just for a beat. You’ve learned his expressions these past two days — the sharpness, the restraint. But this one is different. Not frustration. Not relief. Something quieter, but alive. Calculation, threaded with pulse. He says something into the radio, his tone as even as ever. But his fingers tap one-two-three-four against the wheel, restless, betraying. And though the camera isn’t on you anymore, it feels like his gaze still is. And your stomach drops — not unpleasantly, not entirely. More like a step missed on a staircase. Or maybe like gravity just remembered you.

The lull after FP3 feels like exhaling after holding your breath too long. The garage thins, voices scattering — GP deep in conversation with Bradley, Horner tossing Max some thumbs-up quip you can’t quite catch. The air is warm with the ghosts of worn-down tyres and lingering engine heat, layered faintly with the bitter trace of someone’s abandoned coffee. It’s only early-afternoon, but your body swears it’s lived an entire day already. “I’m hungry,” Max says suddenly, quiet enough that it brushes past only your ears. A beat. “Wanna grab lunch?” You blink — surprised, but pleasantly so. He’s asking this time. “Yeah,” you answer a bit too quickly, too eager. “Sure.” The hospitality suite feels like stepping into another world. It’s cooler than the garage. The lights here don’t shine as clinically bright. Air-conditioned hush pressing against your skin until the chaos of the pit lane feels like a dream receding. You both take plates — pasta, chicken, nothing that could weigh him down — and find a table tucked near the window. Golden light cuts across the table in soft stripes, painting the moment in something that feels less like work, more like… something unnamed, hovering at the edges.

Max eats like an athlete: mechanical precision, bites measured out of habit. But his shoulders aren’t drawn so tightly anymore, and the edges of his posture have blurred. He looks less like a driver between sessions and more like a man finally letting adrenaline sink into his bones, like he’s thinking about something he’s unsure to share. Then, without warning, his voice cuts the quiet. “I have to win this championship.” Your fork pauses mid-air. You glance up. He’s not looking at you — not directly. More like somewhere past your shoulder, like the thought has been sitting there all along, waiting for daylight. “I know I should say I want to,” he continues, voice low but steady. “But it’s not that. I have to.” You don’t interrupt. You let him speak. “2020…” He exhales, shakes his head. “I was okay. I gave everything I had. But it didn’t matter. That car couldn’t take the fight to Lewis. Not the way I needed it to. Or maybe…” His jaw flexes. “…maybe I didn’t do it justice enough.” “And this year?” you ask softly. “This year,” his eyes finally meet yours, sharp and unblinking, “I’ve got a chance. Not a guarantee. But a shot. And I’m not going to waste it.” Conviction rings in him like a struck chord — clear, resonant, impossible to ignore. You set your fork down, nodding slowly.

“I know you won’t,” you say. “I’ve seen the work you put in. Every second of it since I started at Red Bull, even before to be honest. You’ve got the car, the team, the discipline. And the talent, obviously.” A faint, almost reluctant smirk tugs at his mouth. “But more than that,” you add, leaning in just slightly, “you’ve got the mindset for it. You don’t crack. You don’t flinch. That’s what it takes to win a title. At least, from what I’ve seen… as a long-time spectator. So you might not want to make too much of what I’m saying.” The smirk lingers, softer now. His gaze holds yours a little too long, steady, deliberate. It doesn’t feel like silence. It feels like weight. Like intention. You sip your water, letting the glass linger at your lips a beat longer than needed, as if the coolness can rinse the weight of his words from your chest. “So,” you say, aiming for lighter, “how do you switch off? From all this championship pressure?” A quiet laugh escapes him, not unkind but dry. “I don’t.” Your brow lifts. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” He shrugs, deliberate, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I get home, I eat, I go sim racing. That’s how I stay sharp. I keep my head in it.” “Full immersion. Twenty-four seven.” You tilt your head. “Doesn’t that ever burn you out?” “No.” The answer lands with the same precision as a braking point. “Because the only thing worse than burnout would be losing. This—” he gestures with his fork, vague but weighted, “—this is everything right now.” You let the pause stretch, then try again, softer. “And the people in your life? Friends, family… partner?” He leans back, folds his arms, the posture more thoughtful than defensive. “My dad’s worse than me,” he says. “Sometimes I think he dreams in lap times. He might actually want this championship even a little more.” The corner of your mouth pulls upward, quietly, even if it pinches somewhere beneath your ribs. “My friends understand. They know I’m not the guy who texts back right away or shows up to birthdays. They let me be who I am.” He taps his fork against the plate, then stills. “And I don’t have a partner, so… that’s nothing I have to worry about.” Your pulse skips — one sharp misfire — before steadying again, like nothing happened. “Oh.” The word is too quiet, too small, and you bury it under another bite of pasta, as if chewing could disguise the way it lands somewhere you weren’t expecting. If he notices, he doesn’t say. Or maybe he does and chooses not to. “I don’t think I’d be a good partner anyway,” he adds after a beat, voice even. “Not right now. It’s hard to explain to someone that the championship always comes first.” You nod, slow. You think about what the most casual seeming answer to this could be and settle for “Makes sense.” The silence that follows is longer, denser — not heavy, not empty, just charged in a way you can’t quite name and would rather not have to think about. You clear your throat, check the time, push gently at the air between you. “You’ve got a strategy meeting in ten. Want me to walk you over?” He nods once. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” When you rise, your shoulders brush for a second — barely. But neither of you moves away.

The walk back from hospitality settles into a kind of companionable quiet. Max drifts half a step ahead, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze narrowed not on the path but on some thought chewing at him from the inside out. Not the pasta. Not the strategy. Something heavier and private. You don’t ask, don’t press what has his brows furrowed like that. You just match his pace, let the silence breathe. By the time the garage comes into view, the air has shifted once again — sharp, electric. Mechanics moving around the car for some final touches before Qualifying with practiced precision, tyres stacked in the corners, screens glowing with reruns of data streams. Another phase of the weekend is already beating forward, and you slip into it without thought, stream with the flow around you. “Meeting in seven,” you murmur as you draw level with Max again, your voice pitched low for his ears only. “Tom and Lee have the sector data ready. You’ll cover Q1 through Q3 projections now, then race prep tonight, depending on how quali shakes out.” He nods, barely turning his head — but this time, when his shoulder grazes yours, it lingers an instant longer. Deliberate. Anchored. “And GP wants a quick check on the balance changes from FP3,” you add, eyes forward. “Thinks you’ll like the tweaks on rear grip.” A flicker at the corner of his mouth, more felt than seen. “About time we do something about that,” he mutters. You allow yourself the smallest smile in return, quick as a spark from a match.

The clock tumbles forward, minutes dissolving into briefings, whiteboards, and data sheets scrawled with deltas and projections. Max slips into his focused persona— sharp, economical, eyes darting between telemetry and his team of engineers, every gesture precise, measured. You hover close but never in the way, a quiet shadow in the current of motion, offering only what’s needed from you, which frankly spoken isn’t a lot. Every second counts now, and everyone knows it. When the garage shifts gears for Qualifying, the atmosphere charges like static before a thunderstorm storm. Radios spit updates minute after minute. A torque wrench clangs against concrete. Mechanics dart with focused urgency, their movements almost balletic in their coordination. You find yourself by the car just as Max reappears from the driver’s room, race suit zipped, gloves dangling from his hand. Light slips through the shutter gaps, striking across his face in streaks of molten gold. He starts on the earpieces and pulls his balaclava over his head, adjusts the fit, when you step closer — not too close, just enough. “Not luck,” you say, your voice threading neatly through the garage noise, “but I’m wishing for your success out there.” He glances over, one brow arched beneath the edge of his helmet. “And,” you add, bone-dry, “a little well-timed traffic for Lewis. Maybe an Aston Martin mid-sector two?” The sound that bursts out of him is quick and unguarded — a laugh, bright enough to cut straight through the hum of the garage. “Let Hannah know. Maybe the junior team can pull a few strings.” He clips the radio pack into place with practiced ease. You tilt your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. “But you don’t really need that, do you? You can beat them fair and square.” For a breath, his gaze catches yours — steady, unflinching, something unspoken tugging between you. And then, with a soft click, the visor drops, cutting you off from him again. You step back, headset in hand, pulse quickening — not for lap times, not for data. For him.

You don’t blink through the final sector of Max’s push lap. Not when the delta ticks down — +0.02, +0.01 — not when the rear twitches slightly at Turn 13. And not when the clock stops once he crosses the finishing line. P3. Just 0.101 off Bottas. The garage deflates in a ripple of disappointment — radios stay calm, shoulders drop, a wrench is clattering harder than intended onto the floor. Max doesn’t join them in their misery. No scream, no swear. Just helmet off in parc fermé, gloves stripped sharp, and the walk back: wordless, rigid with the kind of fury that hides behind clenched teeth. You’re already waiting by the monitors, folder in hand, expression perfectly neutral. Or almost. Because he sees it — a flicker across your face. Disappointment. Not in him. For him. And somehow that slices deeper than the tiny gap to Bottas ever could. He stops beside you, helmet swinging loosely in his grip. Neither of you speak until the cameras are gone, until it’s just the two of you and the flat replay running overhead. “Media in twelve,” you say softly. “Comms is leaning into the margin. Promising launchpad for tomorrow — strategy advantage, tyre life. You know the drill.” He exhales hard through his nose, still staring at the screen. “But I told them,” you add, gentler, “you might want to speak freely instead of repeating the empty words of good pr.” It’s small, but something shifts at his mouth. Not quite a smile. A release. He unzips his suit halfway, heat rolling off him as the anger begins to bleed into exhaustion. “You’re allowed to be pissed off,” you tell him, voice low. “You drove the wheels off that thing. They know it. We know it.” That word lands. We. His eyes snap to you — really look at you. For a moment, the atoms inside him realign. “I had the pace,” he mutters, half to himself. “Don’t know where I lost it. I’ll check the data. But I can win tomorrow.” “I know you can,” you say. And you mean it. The PR girl hurries past, clipboard raised, waving him toward the pen. He doesn’t move. Not right away. “Just be honest,” you tell him, holding his gaze. “You’re better when you are.” A beat. Then he pushes off the wall, tugging his sleeves higher. “Right. Let’s get this shitshow over with.” But as he brushes past, his fingers tap once against your arm. Just once. Like a silent thank you. You feel it long after he’s gone and it feels oddly good. So good, it scares you a bit.

After media, the paddock feels unhinged. Not from any scandals or headlines, but from the weather. Wind claws at the vinyl walls of hospitality tents, ripping at them like sails. Umbrellas skitter across the asphalt in terrified flight. Rain doesn’t fall so much as hurl itself sideways, slashing anyone caught in the open underneath the almost anthracite sky. It growls overhead, low and vindictive, like it’s been personally offended by the presence of everybody in the paddock. You duck just under the lip of the Red Bull awning, rummaging through your leather tote without flinching while the storm does its best to unmake the Hungaroring. Behind you, someone curses their drenched team polo. A cameraman further down the row wipes at his fogged-up lens, swearing under his breath. And then Max is there. At your shoulder. Cap pulled low, jacket zipped to his chin, the faint scent of cologne and sweat clinging to him in equal measure. You don’t even look up, just snap open the small, black umbrella with a flick of your wrist — clean, precise, a tiny act of control in weather chaos. A smug little smile tugs at your mouth. “Prepared?” His voice is warm, amused, a tease carried on the storm. “Always,” you deadpan, stepping out into the downpour like it’s nothing. He falls into stride with you instantly, so close his elbow bumps yours now and again. The umbrella tilts between you, straining against the wind, more symbolic than useful. You feel the shift before you see it — the subtle lift of his arm, the pause, the way it hovers just behind your shoulders. Not touching. Not quite guiding. Just… there. Present and trying to keep some of the raindrops off of you. It doesn’t protect you from a thing. You’re both soaked in seconds anyway. But the gesture softens the storm, and that softness stays. You don’t bother with words — the rain drowns every noise, pressing against your eardrums until the rest of the paddock feels on mute. Just you, Max, and the hiss of water on asphalt. Jacket sleeves slick. Shoes splashing. His nearness steady, like instinct. At the lot, the car sits exactly where he left it that morning, wipers on the windshield sitting still at the streams that run down the glass. Max moves ahead, jogs the final steps, and pulls the door open for you like it’s second nature. Routine, even. You look up at him from beneath the umbrella. No words. None needed. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, a heartbeat stretched thin, before you slip inside, rain dripping from your collar. He shuts the door carefully — like you’re something breakable, as if you were made out of sugar — before circling around to the drivers side. The windows fog as he starts the engine. Outside, thunder rolls deep and insistent. Tomorrow is race day. But tonight, the storm has the final word.

Sunday – Race

The rain carries that grounding, earthy tang of wet asphalt, the kind that belongs only to early Sunday mornings on race weekends at the track. You push the Honda door open and snap the Red Bull Racing umbrella open with a satisfying click. Droplets scatter off the navy canopy, the fabric taut and gleaming. The paddock is slick and silver-grey, puddles holding fractured reflections of team jackets and fans huddled close together under shared umbrellas or cheap plastic raincoats, the air humming with that peculiar cocktail of nerves and anticipation a wet race always brings. Max doesn’t move out of the car. He stays in the driver’s seat, wipers dragging back and forth in a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. His gaze is fixed on the rain-streaked glass, jaw tight. You can’t quite tell if it’s nerves or focus, and that little mystery makes you linger. Leaning casually against the car, folder tucked to your chest, you angle the umbrella like a shield against the mist. “Good news,” you say, voice light, teasing but laced with the polish of professionalism. “Today you only have to do what you’re best at — just racing, a bit of media, and a press conference earned by winning. No team lunches, no awkward sponsor smiles, no handshakes with billionaires.” The corner of his mouth twitches, shoulders easing just enough to betray amusement. A soft chuckle slips out, low and quiet. “A wet race will be fun,” he says at last, eyes still following a single bead of water tracking its way down the glass. “More of a challenge.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “Isn’t throwing yourself into a carbon-fiber rocket at 300 kilometers an hour challenging enough?” This time, his eyes flick toward you. Brief. Sharp. Warm.

“Not for me.” Something in your chest flutters, traitorous and insistent. Charming. Infuriating. Entirely magnetic. You steady your posture, refusing to let it show, and instead toss him a small, conspiratorial smile. He finally moves, shaking himself out of whatever quiet space he’d been in, turning just enough to catch the curve of your expression before his focus shifts again toward the paddock entrance. Then, with the easy confidence that always seems stitched into him, he pushes the door shut and starts striding forward. You fall into step beside him, umbrella tilted just so the space between you feels deliberate — close, but not forced. Rain splatters against your shoulder where it’s not covered by the umbrella, its muted rhythm creating a strange kind of privacy inside the chaos of Hungaroring. The journalists and fans realizing who’s just arrived, even the distant thunder of engines firing up — all of it fades to background. Just you. Just him. And the quiet electricity that hums in the space where his laughter usually lives, in the split-second heat of his gaze when it meets yours. “Ready to face the chaos?” you ask, words laced with teasing. He grins, eyes sparking even against the storm. “After you.” With a quick motion, he plucks the umbrella from your hand and holds it over both of you, the gesture threaded with a subtle intimacy neither of you comment on. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, leather strap biting against your team jacket, and fumble for your paddock pass. He glances down, umbrella steady above you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Paddock pass ready?” he asks, tone playful, edged with softness.

You shoot him a sideways look, half-smile tugging at your mouth. “Always.” With a practiced flick, you snap the lanyard free from your bag — multiple cards clattering together in a little fanfare of preparedness. Max raises a brow, mock-impressed. The amusement sparks between you, light and unspoken. Then the first wave of fans surges inside the paddock, cameras flashing like lightning, and the moment slips away in a staccato of shutters and shouts.

Max’s pace slows, and suddenly the dynamic shifts — the umbrella is back in your hands, angled carefully as he leans over to sign autographs. You lean a little closer as well to shield him from the drizzle, your knuckles grazing the sleeve of his jacket each time you adjust. The rhythm of the crowd is wild — pens tapping, voices rising, flashes firing — yet there’s something oddly private in the way you move with him, syncing the click of your umbrella with the clatter of Sharpies across glossy photos. “You’re doing really well for your first weekend,” he murmurs, low enough that only you catch it. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, as if it’s half a tease, half a truth. “Do you think they’d let me do this if I wasn’t?” you shoot back, eyes catching his for just a second too long. His glance in return is sharp, deliberate — a look that says he notices, really notices, you in the middle of all this chaos. When the crowd finally thins, you step aside, offering the umbrella back to him with a polite gesture. He only shakes his head, easy and stubborn, taking it himself but keeping the cover over both of you. And just like that, the roar of the paddock recedes to background static. Now you walk in step, shoulders brushing lightly as you navigate puddles that mirror the washed-out banners from the motorhomes to your left and right. It feels less like dodging chaos and more like sharing a rhythm no one else sees — his quiet checks to make sure you’re still beside him, the way his eyes soften when they catch the outline of your profile in the grey light, the silence between words that feels anything but empty. Professional, yes — but threaded with something warmer, something playful and spiy that hovers in the space between you. By the time you reach the Red Bull motorhome, the rain dripping steady around you, it feels like the world has folded into a bubble: rain, cameras, noise on the outside, and just this… whatever this is, walking with him. He holds the door open with an exaggerated little flourish, a wink under the edge of the umbrella. It dips between you as you pass, and for a heartbeat the air hums — sharp, charged, the kind of awareness that lives just beneath the surface, daring both of you not to name it.

The Red Bull garage thrums like a living thing when you arrive — a heartbeat of motion and light and heat. Mechanics lean over the car like sculptors, fingers tracing metal lines with precise obsession. Engineers pace in tiny arcs, tablets glowing in their hands, screens flickering with data that pulses and hums like a biological organism, translating metal and motor oil into its own secret code of DNA. The smell of burnt rubber, warm tires, and just a faint hint of espresso floats in the air, grounding you in the controlled chaos. You linger a few steps back, headset snug over your ears, folder clutched like a talisman, watching Max materialize already in fireproofs, his race suit lazily zipped to his waist, sleeves dangling behind him like careless banners. He glances at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for his water bottle. “You look… serious,” he says, low, casual, but carrying that flicker — amusement or charm, you can’t tell. You tilt your head, letting your hair fall back, and step closer. “I don’t envy you out there,” you say evenly, but the weight behind your words is unmistakable. “Wet track, limited visibility, full grid of egos, everyone scheming for any sort of advantage.” Max chuckles — low, confident, a laugh that belongs to someone utterly in his element. He flexes his fingers around the branded bottle, taps the flexy straw a quiet rhythm.

“It’s fine,” he says simply. “Wet races… they feel better to win.” His eyes flick to yours, almost daring you to argue. You raise an eyebrow. “So, the risk of landing in the wall and perhaps getting a concussion is part of the fun?” you tease. “I mean yeah,” he grins, leaning forward just slightly, energy coiled sharp as wire. “Everyone else is nervous, cautious… I like the chaos. Makes it feel better when you come out on top.” You nod, half-smiling, letting a sliver of admiration creep into your posture. “I’ll… be here, keeping the chaos contained from this side,” you reply, tapping your headset lightly. “Make sure the media, PR, and the world see the right Max.” He tilts his head while starting to zip up his suit, scanning you a beat longer than necessary. “You make it sound… way too easy. You know the British have it out for me,” he says, tone dropping subtly, intimate. There’s a warmth there, just for you, subtle and unspoken. You straighten, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “Easy isn’t the point. You make winning look easy. I just… make sure people see it that way, even the British media.” Max smirks again, flapping his gloves together like a challenge. “Then… I better not let you down and ruin your plans.” You glance at the monitors, then back at him. “You won’t. Just… trust yourself. And maybe don’t forget there’s a [Y/N] watching, who hates when things don’t go the way she intended.” He shakes his head, grabbing his balaclava and helmet next. “You’re going to ruin my reputation as a cold, unshakable driver,” he mutters. Then, with a sharp grin: “Or maybe… I’ll lean into it. Makes me even more unpredictable out there.” And just like that, the garage pulses with a different electricity. You’re not just an observer today — you’re part of the rhythm, part of the heartbeat. Max is focused, competitive, untouchable in his element. And yet, he’s letting you in, letting you see the calm under the storm. GP pulls Max away seconds later to talk over some last minute instructions for the race. You watch him as he nods at whatever message GP has for him. He pulls the balaclava over his head and you unfortunately loose the sight of his dark blond hair. That’s before you loose sight of his face entirely as he straps on his helmet and gets into the car. It’s your moment to take your place by the screens and let the crew do their thing before it’s time to go to the grid and wait for the lights to turn off.

Rain hisses against the Hungaroring asphalt, each drop catching the gray sky like liquid mirrors. You grip the edge of the garage railing, headset snug, pulse thrumming not from the storm but from the chaos unraveling before you. On the big screen, the grid launches the moment the five red lights vanish. Engines scream, wet tires spray mist that erupts into blinding sheets across the first corner. Then—snap—crash. Valtteri Bottas loses control, fishtailing across the racing line. You hear the collective gasp through your headset. Cars swerve, some collide. And then—Norris smashes into Max. Your stomach lurches as the navy Red Bull spins, slamming briefly into gravel before clawing its way back onto the track. Hands tighten around the folder you’d only set down a minute ago. Mechanics shout from their seats, voices rising over the low drone of the garage. Engineers pace like predators, eyes flicking from screens to car to screens again. Max isn’t calm on the comms—his voice clipped, edged with anger. “What the fuck happened there? Check my car!” “Max, one of the McLarens hit you. We’re looking. So far everything looks good to go,” GP replies, measured, trying to calm him down, have him focus on the track again. You inhale sharply. He’s okay—he’s not panicking—but the debris strewn across the track glints wet under the rain on the screen. Lap two brings a red flag. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, chaos frozen mid-frame. And then the cameras catch you leaning forward, eyes locked on Max’ onboards, headset on, lips pressed together tight with concern. The commentators notice. F1 TV captions you as “Max Verstappen’s partner.” Your head snaps toward the screen. “What the f—?!” you mutter, half-laughing, half-panicked. Twitter erupts—memes, speculation, wild theories. A few seconds later, the caption updates: “Max Verstappen’s personal assistant.” Too late. The digital storm has already begun. Fans argue, journalists speculate, tabloids light up like fireworks. Max’s car is rolled into the garage. He remains strapped in, helmet still on. GP approaches, tight smile in place, leaning into the halo. Max nods a couple of times, then throws his head back, laughter breaking through, low and genuine. GP glances toward you, smirking, and gestures for you to join them. You hesitantly step forward. Max turns his head just enough—visor up—and you catch the glint of his blue eyes framed by lines that hint at a grin. His voice is low, amused, but there’s still steel underneath. “You okay over there? Don’t let the internet chaos get to you.” You bite your cheek, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. Just… focused. I know how the circus rolls.” Focused. That’s the truth. You track hashtags, relay messages, thread the team’s rhythm. The outside world may misread your role—or your presence—but you know exactly where you belong: here, beside him, monitoring, protecting, silently ensuring he has every advantage he can get off-track, even when rain and chaos conspire against him in the race. Max roars back onto the track once the red flag lifts. Damage slows him slightly, but he’s relentless—muscles taut, eyes narrow inside the helmet. You jot down notes for the post-race debrief, but your gaze keeps flicking to his onboards. He’s unshakable in his determined own way, magnetic in focus, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, a small thrill runs through you: you’re part of this storm now. You’re part of his rhythm. And the world—confused, speculating—can wait until the final lap is over.

The media pen is a swarm of umbrellas, microphones, and camera lenses—a jostling, chaotic contrast to the slick, rain-soaked track you just left behind. You fall just a step behind Max, letting him take the front, but your eyes never leave him. Even battered, even stretched thin by the red-flag chaos, he carries that unshakable calm and carelessness that makes your pulse skip anyway. Journalists pivot toward him, pens poised, flashbulbs snapping. Someone leans in, voice sharp through the drizzle: “So, Max… I’m sure you saw the F1 TV captions. Can you clarify?” Max leans casually against the barrier, one hand wrapped around a water bottle, the other propping him up as if the chaos were nothing more than background noise. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—the kind that says he’s amused, aware, untouchable.

“Well,” he starts, eyes glinting, mischief tucked into every word, “I wouldn’t trust F1 TV for reporting my or anyone relationship status…” He pauses, letting the tease hang just long enough to make everyone lean forward. Then he gestures toward you—two steps beside him, phone in hand, team jacket still damp from the rain. “She works for Red Bull. She’s been my PA this weekend—a very good one.” Journalists lean closer, hunger in their eyes for a follow-up. Max gives none. No concrete denial, no concrete confirmation—just the faintest shrug, a blink, that lingering smirk. You roll your shoulders back, keeping your expression measured, professional, even as a little thrill snakes through your chest. “That’s everything he said,” you murmur quietly into the voice memo you’re recording, tapping send to PR. You catch his eye. He nods ever so slightly, half-smile still teasing, longer than it should. Cameras click. Tweets will fly. Headlines will explode. But here, in this pocket of controlled chaos, you and Max share a private understanding: no one outside the garage—or the paddock—needs the real answer. Not yet. Especially not when neither of you could give the other one abou what there is between you, not even if pressed. He isn’t just shielding you from the press. There’s a little spark of mischief in him, too—maybe because the assumption hasn’t been corrected. Maybe because he likes the thought. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel the same thrill, though you wouldn’t admit it out loud. You step back just enough to give him space, fingers tightening around the folder. In the rain, among microphones and flashing lenses, you’re a quiet anchor—and he seems to need it.

You leave the Hungaroring together, the bustle and flash of media fading behind you. Max is once again in the drivers seat controlling the car. The city lights coming closer and smear against the misted windows, turning the car interior into streaks of warm amber. Rain taps softly on the roof, a gentle percussion that mirrors your still-racing heartbeat. Max drives with quiet focus, but there’s an ease now — shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching — the subtle exhale after a weekend that could have gone sideways a dozen times. You glance over, catching him in profile. Streetlights flicker across his face, painting shadows and gold over the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his smile. You can’t help it — a small grin escapes you. “Well,” you begin, voice teasing, light, almost conspiratorial, “you survived your first weekend with me. I’d promise not to bother you during the break but—” He cuts you off, that devilish half-smile in place, one that’s been dancing in your mind all weekend. “Please bother me. Actually—let me bother you. How about dinner sometime? I’m kinda tired of always only having lunch with you.” Your stomach flips. Heat creeps up your neck, into your cheeks. Professional composure deserts you entirely. A soft, unsteady laugh slips out. “Then I’d be happy to bother you during the break,” you say, trying for casual, but it’s impossible to hide the flutter in your chest. He chuckles, low and easy, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the wet road ahead. The silence that follows hums, thick with electricity — not awkward, just charged, like the calm pulse between two magnets drawn together. Your hand brushes the edge of your folder, meaningless, a quiet anchor in the shared tension. For the first time this weekend, it’s not about schedules, cameras, or chaos. It’s just the two of you, the rain pattering, the glow of Budapest spilling over the dashboard, and the quiet understanding that whatever this is — professional, personal, or something thrillingly in between — it’s no longer fleeting. The car hums along, tires whispering over wet asphalt. In that moving, intimate cocoon, something delicate and undeniably real has begun that potentially could threaten your career.

radio: i had this in my drafts for a couple of weeks now and felt too insecure to post it, cause I don't think it's particularly good... but I'm currently also working on a longer Oscar fic and didn't want to leave you hanging without anything... therefore: enjoy it and leave some love if you did <3 kind regards as always!

2K notes · View notes

cannelley · 3 days ago

Text

➤ THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WANT AND NEED | MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: ancient roman chariot racer!max verstappen x childhood crush!reader

summary: having made a name for himself in the world of chariot racing, max had earned more money and respect than he ever could have imagined. despite his newfound stardom, he does not forget the world where he came from, or who helped him escape it.

wc: 14.6 k

warnings: minors dni!! mature themes: mentions of ancient roman slavery, misogyny (not from max), exploitation and death, and smut: porn WITH plot, unprotected sex, first time, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving) dirty talk, multiple orgasms, aftercare

➤ MASTERLIST

It's a blistering morning in the Circus Maximus, but it was one of the many little details Max had learned to tune out over the years. The hunger, the thirst, the pain, the sweat, the heat, the torture of it all.

He had spent enough time on rough straw beds to sleep anywhere, spent enough hours hauling stone and growing callouses to not feel the pull of the horse's reins in hand. He had, miraculously, been trained to be the perfect chariot racer, without any training at all, and been raised to be a winner despite being born a slave.

It was this upbringing, the gruelling labour and long hours, that had crafted him into the racer he was today. He might be barely above the lowest ranks of Rome, but the trials Rome put him through now saw him earning as much as the senators spectating above.

The others around him, however, were not as fortunate. They were babies, really, he thinks as he still smashes into one of the orange racers. The boy, not even a man, couldn't be older than 20.

The crowd roars at the destruction, egging him on as he makes the corner and pulls into the lead. He was well within his rights to wreak havoc where he went, but it didn't make him feel any nicer about it. That boy, now trampled underfoot by the rest of the chariots, could be dead, broken, or dying. It was a thought that Max was, unfortunately, used to.

It's not that he wanted them dead, though he wasn't exactly on good terms with most of them. Outside of the arena, he'd say he wasn't hostile. He gave them pointers, whether they wanted them or not. He shared a coin or two with the much younger boys, the ones who wouldn't survive the coming weeks, who could use a proper meal. Inside the arena, however, they were all just casualties waiting to happen.

Max refused to die in the dirt he fought so hard to crawl out of.

They could try all they like, battering into his chariot without concern for their own safety, riding on his heels like they were something he could fear, but nothing would stop him from crossing the finish line, and like the last fifteen races, he does exactly that.

It's still a new feeling, respect, when he finally crosses the finish line first. When the crowd roars, the banners fly, his patrons grinning ear to ear, it's easy to forget that this life was once forced upon him, that it was something to abhor. Doing his rounds around the track, he's getting used to soaking up the attention, allowing himself to revel in it for just a moment, to see thousands of people standing and applauding him.

Not an emperor.

Him.

This is the closest he thinks man could ever get to feeling like one of the gods, but that's not a thought anyone should think without dire consequences. His eyes scan the crowd as he finally wipes his brow, taking in the betters yelling profanities, the younger boys chaotic in their appreciation, and somehow, amidst the chaos, he sees a ghost wrapped in blue, a phantom if he's ever known one.

After all, it's about ten years since he's seen you, and that palla, and that knowing gaze, striking him through despite the distance. You shouldn't be here, he finds himself thinking with gripping fear.

Then, even worse, you shouldn't be here alone, and his brain sends him back to the days when seeing you alone was something he craved.

It was a scandalous thing, Max is well aware. To be alone as a slave is one thing; to be alone around someone as pretty and as young as you are, as a slave, is another.

Yet, here you were, as Max aided in clearing out the perimeter of your back garden. He hauls one of the fallen logs onto his shoulder, purposeful in ignoring your presence as you dip your feet into the small pond your father had Max carve out. He was another family's slave, but he was often on loan to others in the community, meaning he could get glimpses of paradise like your bare ankles and the fruit bowl that sat beside you.

Your head raises as he passes, and he tries his best to remain stoic, face emotionless as he moves forward. He was not the kind of boy any girl would want to look at: he was tall and awkward, lean yet appearing weak, his clothes stained from the hours at work, not to mention how much his hair must be a mess.

For most of his life, he was never aware of those things. They were just how life was, the dirt, the grime, the work, but then he saw you talking to one of the village boys, and all Max could think about was everything that boy had that Max didn't. He probably went to the communal baths, was smart, could play instruments, in much better and richer clothes than Max could even fathom.

You were destined for a boy like that. Not Max. "Are you hungry?"

The log hoisted on Max's shoulder nearly teeters off, and he regains his composure without answering. Surely, you were talking to someone he couldn't see. Not asking him if he was hungry.

It just wasn't possible. He keeps moving forward, dropping the log off at the front of your estate, where your father stood, waiting. Neither of them said a word as Max turned to head back to the clearing, where, rather than the dirt-worn path, Max is met with you, standing so close he can make out the soft scent of your soap.

You blink up at him, not in disgust, as he had expected, nor in confusion, but rather with a strange sort of spark in your eye that Max tried desperately not to think of. "I asked you if you were hungry."

"You're just like your mother." Your father answers wistfully, squeezing Max's shoulder. "Never letting anyone leave with an empty stomach. Well, boy? Are you hungry?"

"Not really, sir." He answers politely. "I can manage."

"That is not a no." You answer somewhat smartly, though he imagines everything you say is smart. You extend a green fruit to him, one that he'd never had before, and he lets it rest in his hand.

"Thank you, sir." Then, realizing the mistake, he's quick to correct it. "Uh, miss."

Your father laughs heartily, squeezing his shoulder tight before letting go. "Go enjoy your pear, boy, then get back to work."

"Yes, sir." Max bites into the fruit and savours it, sweeter in a different way than his typical apples or figs. He walks as he eats back toward the edge of the forest, and he can hear you walking behind him, returning to your pond, and he wants to say something, wants to thank you again, because he doesn't know what else to do.

It's not often in this world he's offered kindness or random fruits by pretty girls. He glances up to find you staring intently at him as he wipes the juice from his cheek, having finished the pear in almost a minute flat. He picks up his axe and returns to work, and every time he swings, he catches a glimpse of you still staring at him, and he can feel the heat rise on his cheeks. If anyone asked, he'd say he was just exerting himself, despite the fact that this was light work.

He had never been properly watched before, as a pastime, just for fun. People never looked at him without scrutinizing.

As the tree falls, he finds a new image awaiting him, of you standing atop a bench, arms outstretched as you walk the length of it. He chops the base of the tree into a manageable log and hauls it onto his shoulder again, and tries not to stare as you smile at him as he approaches.

"Thank you," He finally repeats, manners not yet beaten out of him, and his words must startle you as your foot slips. Quicker than he thinks he's ever acted before, Max drops the log to catch you, and you land so perfectly in his arms, like you were meant to be there. You blink up at him, eyes wide, as he's quick to help you to the ground, putting distance between you.

He was filthy. He must've gotten sweat and grime all over your tunic from his hands, and he doesn't quite know what to do, because he's never touched a girl like that before. You were a light thing, much lighter than the log, yet your touch haunted his arms, the softness of it, how whole it felt. It might have only been a split second, but it was an eternity to touch. For some ridiculous reason, he thinks he might like to hold you again some day as he hauls the log back to his shoulder. "Thank you." You echo, fingertips gently trailing on your arms, likely trying to wipe off the dirt. "How did you do that?"

"It's nothing, miss." You reach out, fingertips grazing his arm, and his whole body jolts.

"How did you react that quickly?" It's not something he's ever really thought of before. He's just needed to his whole life, to be first in line for rations, to avoid being hit, to catch things before they broke. Being quick was just a means of survival, but rather than share that anecdote, he stays silent as he keeps walking, delivering the log wordlessly to your father and returning back to the wood to chop up the same tree.

You should not be conversing. He should not have touched you, though he did save you. You should not have touched him, even if it was perfect and kind and sweet. You watch him wordlessly as he moves the rest of the tree, rooted in the same spot he had left you, now properly examining him.

It was wrong, and you knew that, and he knew that. Plain and simple. You were both young, anyway, in your teenage years, though Max thinks he might be older than you. He had just had to grow up fast, he supposes. Returning to fetch his axe, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and wills the action to also remove the memories of you, lest they haunt him tonight. Much to his horror, however, he seems to have brought you back to life with it, and you approach with a nice cloth.

"I can't." He states instantly, awkwardly pushing your hand away. "That's nice."

"We can get another." Your father is going to kill him. You have a reputation to uphold, and even if Max is just dirtying a cloth, it feels like he's dirtying a lot more.

"For both of our sake," He whispers, so as not to let your father hear. "Do not talk to me. I thank you for your kindness, but this must stop."

He leaves without another word, returning to your father, who commends him for the good work, comments on the weather, and how nice the fruit harvest has been.

That night, Max dreams of pears and girls in soft, blue dresses, and the feeling of something else on his lips that he cannot describe.

So, you were discovering that certain childhood fantasies never seemed to leave. It had been a stupid infatuation to begin with: Max was just some boy, owned by another family, who occasionally helped your father with yard work. You weren't some noble that he couldn't have, but you were in two very different worlds, plain and simple.

That didn't stop him from filling your mind when you could afford it in your youth, fantasizing about the day he was revealed to be some foreign prince and would sweep you off to be a princess in a faraway land. Being a chariot racer wasn't exactly as glamorous as what you had in mind, but he looked like the prince you had imagined.

He had filled out that lanky body, his hair seemed to know what to do, his eyes just as piercing, even with an arena between the two of you. He had to have seen you, as embarrassing as the thought is. Your roles had almost entirely reversed, considering he was now, according to those around you when you had asked, the best chariot racer, the richest and most well-regarded, and you were...nothing.

No father, no husband, no dowry. You had moved to Rome to find work, found a little apartment for yourself with the last of your family's money, and had devoted yourself to the skills you had learned on a whim as a child. The weaving you had rolled your eyes over once was now your livelihood, and you worked hard enough that you, in your time spent here, hadn't even tried to attend any of the spectacles Rome had to offer.

That was, of course, until today.

It was a shameful thing, to be wrapped in the same cloth he had last seen you in, to be some spectator to the world he'd filled. You were proud of him, really, but it wasn't without understanding your own failures in life. Well, not quite your own, but your family's. You had gone from relatively well standing to selling everything you own, from a proper estate to a single room. You had gone from ignoring Max to envying him.

But he was no longer something you could afford to stew over. You weaved your way back through the streets, despite the hours you had wasted around the arena, thinking just maybe you'd get a glimpse of him again.

Instead, you were just making a fool of yourself.

"Little one," Someone drunkenly calls from a doorway as you pass, which you ignore. "Hey, little one!"

You keep walking, head down, and someone's hand ravels itself in your palla and pulls, forcing you backward toward him, and your heart falls into your stomach. Not today, not now, not here. There were rules about these things, after all, but who was really here to enforce them for you? Despite the bustle after the race, in this alley, you were alone. "Please, I-"

"I'm raising rent." You blink up at your landlord, who studies your palla between his fingers. "There are plenty of people who are willing to share rooms for the same price."

"What?" He had promised, when you had explained everything to him, to keep your space alone, the price stable. You were completely defenceless to the world, and he was one of the only men who could have helped. "But you promised."

"You never thought to get a husband?" He rasps, swaying on his feet from the copious amounts of wine he must've consumed at the race. "Pretty little thing."

"You know-" He shushes you, then, stumbling out and forcing you toward the other wall of the alley.

"You need the money? I'll pay you." He looms over you as you try and press yourself as flat as you can against the wall. You'd never take up such an offer, but the look in his eyes didn't seem to allow refusal. "Be your first, won't it?"

Then, before you can answer, your landlord is peeled away from you, tossed back towards the tavern door he emerged from, colliding harshly with the stairs. You let out a deep, shaking breath, taking a step to the side to run, when you finally see your saviour, and find that you can no longer move your feet.

Max.

He stares at you like always, words unspoken as he adjusts your palla to sit properly on your head, having fallen in the confrontation. It's the sort of soft touches you always found so strange from a man who could be so violent, treated so poorly by the world around you, but Max wasn't just any man.

Your landlord shakily rises with a slew of profanities, and Max turns back to him. "Think you're so tough," The man spits, blood hitting at Max's feet, "Being a big racer? You're nothing but fucking dirt-"

Max gets one, clean hit out, punching the man across the face. You gasp, pressing your hand over your mouth at the violence, but it truly doesn't surprise you. Max had always been there to protect you, after all, so it should be no different today, despite the years that have passed.

Your landlord lands in a heap on the road below you, matching your action as he cradles his nose.

Then, without another word, because Max had always preferred silence, because you had always said everything you need to without words, his hand comes to hover over your lower back, waiting for you to move. He would never touch you, grab you, do anything to you without permission. You offer the smallest nod, and he gently places his hand on the small of your back to leave down the alley with Max at your side.

It shouldn't be that surprising of a rescue, really. Max has always been there to protect you, but this time around, it wasn't just gratitude that the action stirred within you.

It was something much, much deeper.

You hadn't meant to scream that loud, really.

But there was a snake in your kitchen, and your father was out doing yard work, and your mother had passed years ago, and with no other siblings, it was either you or the snake.

So, you screamed, and probably alerted half of the empire as you did. You jumped up onto the kitchen counter as it hissed at you, a menacing thing that spiralled in the middle of the floor. You weren't even sure how it got in, but you weren't letting it anywhere near you.

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall, and you expect your father to appear, but instead, it's Max. After his comment about not speaking to each other, you had chosen to admire from a distance, but now he was here, your guardian, though he seemed just as confused as you were scared.

"Are you-" He freezes, taking in the snake, and quickly pulls the knife from his belt. Your father is not far behind him, and watches, impressed, as Max snaps down onto the wretched creature and cuts it in half, each spasming for a moment before rendering still. He's quick to glance up and check on you, and if it weren't for the fact you were already red in the face from the snake, your blush would've given your infatuation with him away. "Did it bite you?"

Max wasn't like the others. The others were...good, by all means, handsome, attainable, perfect potential husbands, but Max had a certain something about him, the fact that he was forbidden making him all the more enticing. He was strong, he was kind, he was even soft, around the edges. You were watching him grow before your eyes, and he seemed to be turning into quite the man. He had also caught you once when you slipped, and his arms were better than any bed you've ever rested in, but that might just been the teenage hormones speaking. "No." You finally answer from your curled-up position, and Max extends a hand to let you back down, and it's calloused and rough yet entirely right in yours. "It just scared me."

"You scared us!" Your father exclaims, pulling you into his arms. "I didn't know you had that sort of sound in you."

"I didn't either." You answer sheepishly. "Sorry."

Max obediently picks up both halves of the snake and carries it outside, and does not return. Your father spends a moment checking you over, the last of his legacy. You'd asked him, once, why he'd chosen to never remarry. Everyone else wanted, seemed to need sons, but he had stopped after you, after your mother passed.

He had explained that sometimes, love overrules what the world wants you to do. He would rather mourn your mother and take care of you than find a lesser woman to give him a baby he doesn't need at his age.

Maybe, you think, someday love would overrule what the world wants you to do, and Max could be yours.

"Perhaps we need to get you a guard," Your father jokes softly. "Save you from any more rogue snakes."

"I'm sure Max would be up to the task." You say, and he laughs, like it's some kind of joke, and you laugh to hide that it isn't. Your father's gaze then turns over to the small tray you were arranging to take out to them and the rest of the workers, and his face softens. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"You know Octavius? The butcher's son?" He asks, and as much as you can daydream about Max, reality hits. "He's working with us today. I'm sure he would enjoy the gesture, if you brought that out to him."

You move to the tray, gathering the last of the grapes and placing them on, before turning and offering a smile. "I'll be out in just a moment, then."

He leaves, and you stare at the trace amount of blood left by the snake on the floor. Octavius would be used to blood, you think, but he hadn't been the one to come running, was he?

Finally, after sitting in a daydream of unattainable men, you decide to focus on the ones waiting for you. You carry the tray out to the few men repairing the road, or more specifically, the men overseeing those actually repairing the road. Octavius's eyes awkwardly skim over you and the tray, likely having been told all about you all morning.

Max holds your gaze as you set down the tray, and you offer him, and then Octavius, a smile. "A little thank-you for coming to my aid," You say first to Max, "And an apology for disrupting the rest of you."

"A thoughtful girl." You father boasts, grabbing the cask of wine and pouring it into one of the cups. He offers it to Octavious first, then the rest of the men, and with the last glass, he drinks it himself. Max and the other workers don't seem to pay any mind, focusing rather on Octavius, who now has worked up the courage to actually look at you. He's not unattractive, but he's also not exactly attractive either, having yet to lose the baby fat around his face. "I'm sure you've met Octavius in your runs to the butcher?"

You nod, shifting your palla up your shoulder. This one is a deep brown, more plain than your other, nicer ones. It would look best wrapped around Max, you think, and your brain supplies an image of him wrapped in it and nothing else. "Yes, we have. I believe your brother is marrying my cousin."

"He is." Octavius answers somewhat squeakily. The cask of wine, seemingly having been drained, is passed back to you, and with little thought, you extend it to Max.

"A thank you," You say, "For my rescue."

Max takes the bottle and presses it to his lips as Octavius continues talking. "Pretty runs in the family." He says, and Max's gaze drifts from Octavius to you, something new in his eyes.

The men laugh as you blush, and Max raises the empty tray and wine bottle to you, which you gladly accept back. You shift the bottle and find the smallest trace amounts left in it, and your father picks up on your examination of the bottle. "What? Sad none's left for you?"

"Max is a kind man," You offer instead, bringing the bottle to your lips to drink the last of it, thinking about what his mouth might taste like left over on it. "Left me the last bit."

"Man?" One of the workers says with a chuckle. "Boy. Look at those arms! At least Octavius has some meat on him."

Max stares at you, as if he knew exactly why you took a drink.

Max's eyes have not left yours since he let you into his apartment, a small yet lavish thing on the ground floor of a nicer building than yours. His eyes have not changed in the years since you've seen each other, but the emotions behind them have. There's something you can't quite trace as he looks you over, ensuring that you aren't hurt.

"Why are you here?" He asks softly as you take in his space. He'd modelled his living room and kitchen, you realize, to look like yours. Everything is laid out exactly the same, from the blanket thrown over the back of the seat by the fireplace to the centrepiece on the kitchen table. He'd made it look like your home. "Where is your father?"

The question brings tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and Max tenses, unsure about the old boundaries that kept the two of you in place. You're both adults, now, but it still feels like you are children, dancing around each other. His hands hover over your arms, terrified to touch, and you make the first move as you step towards him. His arms clutch around you, tight, and you sob into his chestplate. It had been a long, long time since you'd been held like this, and the first time you'd ever been held by Max. He's strong and warm around you, a comfort you'd dreamt of for so many years.

Gently, one hand glides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently threading through your hair, and you wonder if he'd learned, by now, to hold someone like this. "He passed," You finally managed to get out, pulling back just the smallest amount to wipe at your face. "And I could not afford the estate anymore."

"Could not afford-" He looks down at you, concerned, and you shake your head.

"They raised rent prices, I-I had to come to the city to find work." God, you missed your vegetable garden, your walks in the woods, everything. Anything.

"Work?" Max's hands come up to wipe at your face, gently, and you watch the smallest bit of discomfort cross over his face. You pull his hands away to find his one fist bloodied from where he'd beaten your landlord, and you sigh softly.

"You're hurt. Where are your bandages?" You leave his side to move towards his cupboards, and he trails after you, keeping enough distance between the two of you.

"You do not need to worry about me right now." He says, like that's a convincing argument. You're not sure Max has ever had anyone worry about him before. Well, besides you. "I need to worry about you."

You pull open one of the cupboards and find them bare, and Max gestures to the one beside it, where there's a neat shelf of ointments and rolled bandages. "Well, I was fine, until...you know." You turn to look at him and his jaw sets, hands balling into fists again. "Thank you." You try not to think of what might have happened if he hadn't been there. Why he had been there in the first place, you're not quite sure, but you can imagine a fantasy where he followed after you to find you again.

"I don't deserve any thanks," Max states bluntly. "Any man should have protected you in that moment." Then, slowly, he asks, "Is there someone who should be protecting you?"

"No." He should be, but in reality, there had been no one so far from your past who wanted you, and no one from this new life who pitied you enough to ask for your hand. There was nothing you could offer, anyway.

"Why..." Max trails off for a moment as you grab one of the bandages. "Why did you not find someone to marry?" It wasn't your fault, you wanted to say. You could've married anyone, at any time, but you'd delayed, because you wanted something real, wanted to feel like how you did when you looked into Max's eyes, but no other man could offer you that. Then, your father passed, and your money went, and you weren't worth it anymore.

You unwind one of the rolls of bandages and find a cloth dipped in his water basin, and gently begin to wipe down his hand, careful not to drag the skin too much. "I wanted love," You explain softly, "No one seemed interested in that."

"Their loss." He says as his fingers flex under your touch, skin warm. It, somehow, felt more intimate than anything you've ever done before. It felt right. "You always knew how to take care of me." Max breaths out as you set the rag aside to gently begin to wind the bandages over his knuckles. It was a foolish thing for him to do, considering he might have to race again soon, but the thought dies as his words register in your mind. "I never got to thank you for that."

"You have nothing you need to thank me for." You were raised to be kind. That was the virtue that seemed to matter most to your parents, carrying you through life. You always knew how to take care of Max because it was the right, kind thing to do, and because even as a young girl, you knew no one else would take care of him like that.

"Nothing?" Max echoes, his hand beginning to chase after yours once it's out of his grip. Then, thinking better of it, he lets it drop. "You got me out of there."

"I just helped with a lie."

You had awoken to shouting outside. It had to be an ungodly hour of the night, as you stumble from your bed to stare out the window, and you take in the fire consuming one of the estates in the distance. Those awake have begun to leave their homes to rush to aid whoever's home was ablaze, and you watch your father and the neighbours, including Max, join the small stream of people heading toward it.

You're quick to get dressed and follow, piecing together what happened through other people's conversations. They had been away for a few days, a candle left unattended, or maybe the fire from the oven had taken over. It wasn't exactly cohesive, and half asleep, you didn't really care.

Rather, you stood with the crowd, watching people rush for water and things as a few of the men tried to get in to salvage something, to see if people were there, Max included. One of your friends finds you in the crowd, taking in the blaze as you pull back from the heat. "Octavius went in," She whispers in a hush to you. "I heard people say he was one of the first to respond, he had been up late studying."

"No." You breathed out, not because you and Octavius were now on the path to being betrothed, but because you knew he couldn't last that long in any sort of blaze. He was meant for light work, mind work, not...not this. Something snaps and crackles inside the house, and the men stagger out, save for Octavius and Max.

There your two men are, going up in smoke. Neither of them was really yours, and one of them you didn't even want, but it still forces your heart into your throat. You hold your breath, waiting, pleading to any deity that would listen, for them to get out alright, for Max to be okay, when they appear in the doorway, Max all but dragging Octavius's body. He lowers the poor boy to the ground, and Octavius doesn't move.

People rush around to help, calling for doctors, calling for water, and Max scans the crowd until he finds you, something soft and apologetic on his face. Within a few minutes, Octavius is pronounced dead, and your friend takes you into her arms as you try to process it.

"Here, boy." You stare over her shoulder as Max is tossed a roll of bandages, which he awkwardly tries to unwind for himself. "You did your best in there."

The bandages unfurl and land on the ground, and as people move about trying to get Octavius's body away, you realize no one is going to stop and help Max bandage himself.

You part from your friend to pick up the bandages for Max, and he stares, again, like he always does. You both seem to communicate with your eyes more than words, ever, because it's all you're really allowed to do. This time, however, in the chaos of the night, you allow yourself to help him and not feel strange about it. You gently wind the bandage around one long slash on each hand, sharp but not quite thick or deep, which is good. His fingers flex under your touch, soft hisses escaping him, before you gently rub your thumb over his wrist as you work, a soothing touch that renders him completely still. No noise, no twitching, he becomes a statue under your palms.

"Max, was it?" A man says from behind you, and Max's head shoots up to stare at him.

"Yes, sir?" Always so polite. You gently smooth down the last of the bandages on one hand, pinning it in place, and his pinky and ring finger close over yours, as if to hold you there.

"I've never seen anyone move that fast." The man says admiringly, sparing a glance up at the blaze. "You saved a good few men back there."

"Thank you, sir." You move on to the next hand and try to place where you know the man from.

If he were friends with your father, then none of this information should be new to him. Max was fast, a prized possession, really. "Strong, too." The man continues your thought for you. "Catching that beam. Are you used to weight? Pressure?"

"Yes, sir." He caught a burning beam! He's lucky he's leaving with just cuts across his palms and not missing hands. You finish the second bandage, and this time, rather than two fingers, Max lets his whole hand close around yours.

"There you are!" Your father joins, and Max quickly tucks his hands away from you, but for a few seconds, you knew what it was like to be wanted. "I'm so sorry about Octavius, dear." He wraps his arms around you, and you let yourself embrace him. It was back to the drawing board, now, and you let yourself mourn the poor boy who just wanted to help. Your father lets you go to brace a hand on Max's shoulder, squeezing it. "Max, you did...you did a good thing back there, a very good, stupid thing."

"Have you ever worked with horses before, Max?" The other man asks, and there, staring at him in the flickering heat, you realize where you know him from:

He's one of the chariot racing organizers.

Your father had him for dinner more than once, joking about horses, about the men, about how some could even buy their freedom. Staring at Max that night, you came to two conclusions. Max has never worked with horses before, and becoming a chariot racer is his one chance at gaining freedom.

You peer around your father to frantically nod at Max, who takes in your sudden motion with confusion, before trusting your guidance. "Yes, sir. At the, uh, farms."

"I want a word with your master. Come, boy." Max is led away, and your heart aches to see him go, but he needs to. He needs to escape this life, deserves more than his birthright. He turns back to look at you, and you offer a small smile and a wave as he goes.

He doesn't return the gesture.

Of the limited kindness Max has been offered in this life, most of it had been from you, in your youth, choosing to treat him humanely. To anyone else, it would mean nothing - you were just a nice person, but to him, it was everything. It was the first time he'd ever felt normal, ever felt like he was worth something, holding your stare as he worked from across a yard, everything unspoken between you, because there was never a universe where he could.

But then, that night, you had nodded at him so vigorously you'd convinced him he must've worked with horses at some point, and in that lie, you created a world where he was a free man, where he could rise above what he was born to do, where he was now above you. You deserved everything the world could offer, yet everything had been taken from you. Max had not deserved any of your kindness, and yet you had always given it to him.

He lets his hand hold yours, allows himself to feel your skin and not rip the touch away, because you were both grown, and he was in his own home, and you were free to choose him, should you want to. And if you didn't, he'd still shower you with anything you could ever need until you were on your feet again, because you had taught him how to care in a world that didn't bother to.

"That lie changed my life." He continues, and you hum softly.

"You're famous, now. Rome's greatest chariot racer." It feels so strange to hear, but it's true. "You're so grown, too."

"You've grown as well." He reaches up to brush some hair from your face, and even without the make-up you had begun to experiment with back then, you are the sweetest thing he's ever seen. The most perfect being, and so what if it was a youthful infatuation? He had seen enough women, from the highest families to the scantily clad corners of Rome, and none compared. He had waited, and you had come, and he was going to make things right. "More beautiful than the day I left you."

You stare up at him, because words had never been easy between the two of you, and Max stares back. He lets a single bent finger drift up your forearm and stop at your elbow, still well aware of the expectations on both of you, but he has you so close, he just has to touch. It's rare he's granted skin to skin without the expectation of violence to come with it. It's rare for him to be still, to be gentle, and your hand comes up to hold his cheek, and it nearly breaks him.

The years have not been as kind to him as they have to you. He's scarred, sweaty still from the race, clad in his racing gear, but your eyes don't seem to notice any of that as you smile, gently brushing your thumb over his cheek as if he were a warrior gone for years, returning to his wife, and really, that's how it feels. Like he's been gone on some terrible battle to return home to you. This is where you should be, forever, tucked between his arms in your shared house.

His hand glides up your arm to hold your wrist, keeping your palm against his cheek, and he leans into the touch. This must be love, he thinks. This must be how it feels to be loved. Then, because he can't help himself, he turns and presses a kiss to your palm, and your breath hitches.

It's the first time you've been kissed, and Max is happy to steal that from you. It's his first kiss, too. "Max."

"I will only ask once, I promise." He whispers, voice almost hoarse.

"Yes." You answer, staring him down. You hadn't even known what he was going to say, but it was somehow still the correct answer.

Did you feel this way back then?

Did you miss me?

Do you want me?

Will you be my wife? "I can protect you." Gods, he'd do anything for you. There would never be a single thing you should ever want for, ever ask for. "No more landlords, no more work." Max could never really keep anything from you, so he adds, "Unless you want to, of course. I will take care of you as you have taken care of me."

"You could do better." The words hurt more than any wound ever could. This was not an ideal match, Max was well aware. You were the lowest rung of society. You were steps away from poverty, and he steps away from ridicule, but if this were the only outcome that brought you back to him, then Max could only complain about the discomfort it might have brought you, because he would've suffered this fate a hundred times more to have you here.

Really, you could do better. Once, you could have had any great man, and even now, with the conditions you had been dealt. With your kindness and beauty, you could make any man in all of Rome fall for you. Max, luckily, was the first. "There's no such thing." Max steps forward, and you step back, pressing yourself against the counter, and Max looms over you, coming up to cradle your face in his hands. "Tell me to stop and I will."

"Please, Max." It's all the sign he needs before he dips down and kisses you. Kiss, really, isn't perhaps the right word for it, because it's like nothing Max could ever describe. It is every race, every crash, every stare, every touch combined into one heated moment. It is what he's sure the poets were trying to sum up for all these years and failing to; it's like a second nature that Max didn't know he had in him.

Your hands smooth against his chest plate, sliding up to rest on his shoulders to pull him down more to kiss him easier, and he smiles into it, hands slipping from your face to find your waist, and as he'd waited to do for so long, he picks you up and spins you around and you break apart to laugh down at him.

"I will get your things tomorrow morning." He states simply, setting you down. "And we will marry when you wish to."

You find yourself staring at each other at the admission, of having gone from strangers to betrothed in a day, but neither of you were here to argue about it. It was mad, he knew, to anyone who would hear about it, but Max didn't care, unless you did. If you needed, he would prove to you, over and over, whatever you needed for him to be your husband. Though, he supposes in this situation, it's you who really needs this union, needs the protection of a husband, needs the money.

"Do you..." There is a difference between need and want, however. Needing him as a husband and wanting him as a husband are two very different things, and he would never wish to trap you in a marriage if it were something you needed, rather than wanted. "Do you want to marry me? I know this can't be what you imagined."

"I said yes, didn't I?" You say, letting your old personality slip through the cracks, of the petulant girl who'd defiantly try to talk to him and offer him fruit. "And I always imagined you."

"Me?" You always imagined marrying him. Him. Him. "I always imagined you."

You laugh softly up at him, and Max could hear that sound a hundred times over. "The Fates work in mysterious ways, hm? We will marry soon, then." You finally answer, before concern passes over your features. "And until then?"

"You will have my bed, and I will sleep anywhere else."

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Charles glances up from where he's tying his sandals and raises an eyebrow.

Their race today had gone as expected: Max had conquered, and was paid handsomely. However, there was a distinct difference at today's race, that no one knew but him:

That you were waiting for him at home.

"Nothing? What is this, Max? Inviting people somewhere?" Max isn't going to lie, he doesn't always like the people he races with, but currently, they're his only friends, and he's getting married tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you were his, forever and always. It was an adjustment, certainly, but a welcome one.

But, because it was tomorrow, and he hadn't said a word aloud about it, terrified to jinx it, he figures he might want to invite someone, make it a proper ceremony for you.

In the two weeks since he had found you again, you had settled into his apartment, and Max had made the last minute arrangements for your wedding, and he had gotten used to someone filling the seat at the table across from him, laying by his side at night.

He was entirely intoxicated by the fact that he got to return to you in a moment that he didn't even care for the racers teasing. "Wait, we're going somewhere?" George continues with a lopsided smile.

"Not all of you," Max says, drawing the men near. "So be quiet."

"Oh, so this is a special something?" Charles teases, and Max reaches out to smack his shoulder. "Well, come on, get out with it."

"I'm getting married." The whole room comes to a standstill, despite the fact that Max had whispered it to just the two of them.

Charles blinks once, twice, before an incredulous look passes over his face. "You're what?"

"To who?" George continues, which are both fair questions. Max had never once mentioned any romantic interest in anyone, nor any interest in getting married. A thought crosses over George's face before he snaps, tilting his head back to laugh. "The girl!"

"The girl?" Charles repeats, and Max presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"You talk about her when you're drunk." That earns him a few solid punches, and George bats him away. "You found her? And she wants to marry you? Wasn't she rich?"

Max offers a small shrug in response. He isn't sure what to say either, considering you, a goddess among people, wanted to marry him. He'd be in disbelief to hear it too, if it weren't his own life.

"You can't forget he's rich now, too," Charles says, before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations. We'll be there."

"Not all of you." Max insists. After all, he wasn't sure who would be coming for you, though you mentioned talking to some of the girls you'd gotten close to at work. "Just a few. It's small."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando says, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Need any pointers for your wedding night?"

Max would kill him for the comment, if he didn't need the advice.

Nerves were a normal thing before a wedding. It wasn't really about the wedding, or about Max at all, but the fact that you were about to be a wife. That things were finally seeming to go right, and the last thing you wanted was to mess it up.

These past two weeks have felt a bit like a dream, or perhaps waking from one. Everything was a blur until Max appeared, and for the first time, things made sense. It makes sense that he would protect you, that he would hold you, call you beautiful, ask for you. It makes sense for you to say yes, and for you to marry, though it still feels scandalous. It feels like something you could have once lost your reputation for. There was a whole lifetime of lessons before you that no longer applied, about grace and prosperity, about maintaining expectations.

That strange, unknowing feeling was the constant reminder of all that you had lost to get here, and all the people who were not celebrating with you.

Your wedding was not in June, like when all the popular people had theirs. It was not lavish, though you had never pictured it would have been. It was still with the strange, orange veil that didn't quite make sense to you, but it was without any fanfare at all. You were just getting married, like it was any other day.

You and Max had already been living with each other for about two weeks when you managed to get everything settled. Your things first perfectly into his space, the bed you shared just the right size, like he'd been waiting for you to come home. After today, you would properly be man and wife, though it isn't lost on you that years ago, Max would have never been allowed to marry you.

"I came as soon as I heard." You tense in the mirror, staring past your reflection to your childhood friend in the mirror. You knew she had come to Rome and married someone to match her status, and for that exact reason, you had not told her about Max, or about the wedding, or about much in your life. You just happened to see each other in the streets occasionally, and you would pretend like things were fine, that the move out of the estate was a nice change of pace.

Having her here made things feel more real. "How-"

"A friend of a friend of mine works with you, apparently." She's dressed perfectly, as she always has been. She slowly assumes a position behind you, reaching to flip up your veil to reveal your face. The action brings tears to your eyes, and she quickly finds a handkerchief for you to dab them with. "You cannot ruin your makeup, you look beautiful." You laugh softly, dabbing away the tears, and she smiles down on you happily. "I always knew you liked him."

"What? No!" You had kept all infatuations to yourself, despite the many she had shared with you.

"Oh, I saw those heart eyes come out every time he came around." She teases, before lowering the veil and helping adjust it. "Works out that he became a famous chariot racer, didn't it?"

You pause at the words, knowing how lowly most of them were seen. "You're not...put off by it?"

"It's love. I'm not one to judge it." She turns you around to face her, a kind smile plastered on her face that means more than he would likely ever know. "I hope you don't mind, but I did rally the troops."

And there, standing in the doorway, are a few more of your hometown friends and the girls from work. "You didn't have to come."

"And miss this?" One says, gesturing across the hall to where Max is getting ready. "Attractiveness is apparently a requirement for chariot racers."

"Now, let's get you tied into this thing." Another friend takes a position behind you, tying up your tunic in the way you had tied hers at her wedding. It was tradition for the bride's tunic to be tied in a way that only someone else could take it off, being Max. What he'd take it off to do, you'd never been told, but you didn't have much longer to wait to figure out. "You have one lucky, lucky groom."

If asked, Max was entirely present and aware of everything that happened at his own wedding, but really, the second you had flipped your veil up? Max's brain stopped working, and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. You didn't even look that different from your everyday, but there was something about you, something that glowed, something that made his dreams of starting a family, retiring, buying your estate back for you become reality. He wanted you in your garden with his child on your lap as you showed off the place where he and you first met.

So he was not exactly paying attention, but he was well aware of what he had to do. He had gotten rings, got a new tunic, arranged everything. Seeing as you had no family, it made the ending part of the ceremony different, though no one seemed to mind. There was no great dinner, no Max dragging you away from your family to bring you to his house. All he had to do, once the ceremony wrapped up, was carry you home so that you didn't fall.

Someone sniffed from behind him, and Max stole a glance to see the row of chariot racers, most of whom he did not invite, all in varying stages of emotions. Your friends were all so happy for you, some of whom he remembers from his time at your estate. They don't seem to care, however, what Max used to be or who he became, but rather that you were happy.

Your hands squeeze his, and Max squeezes back, smiling down at you. The officiant said something about kissing, and for once, Max wasn't the initiator as you got up on the tips of your toes to kiss him, and Max easily hooked an arm around your waist to dip you, much to the surprise and shouts of those attending.

You laugh as Max lets you back up, grinning ear to ear, and forever, he realizes, starts now. The officiant says something about husband and wife, but Max stopped listening a long time ago, and the small crowd cheers as Max helps you down the stairs and towards the door, where before he steps outside, he sweeps you off your feet.

"What?" He teases as you gasp at him. "I'm supposed to make sure you don't fall."

The wedding party makes a strange little parade as Max carries you to your apartment, exchanging stories, calling out to you and Max. You've twisted to perch your head over his shoulder, saying something to one of your friends, but all falls silent when Max finally gets to his door. Uncaring if it's rude, he opens it and brings you inside before slamming it shut behind him, and he can hear the whistles from outside.

There was a reason he didn't want all the racers there, and as he presses a kiss to your flushed cheek, embarrassment is one of them. This is your night together, after all.

No one else needs to know anything of it. He makes his way through the apartment and drops you onto his bed, and for a moment, you just take in each other.

Married.

His wife. It was a dream that he had had for so long, he wasn't sure how to feel now that it was real. You were wearing a ring he had gotten for you, uncaring about his rank, uncaring that he was now a chariot racer. You were just his, and he was just yours, and you got to spend the rest of your lives together.

You pull off your veil and wreath, kicking off your shoes, and Max waits for some kind of sign that you knew what was going to follow. After all, while he might have heard and learned all about what grooms were expected to do on their wedding night, along with some incredibly personal stories from his fellow racers about pleasing women, you wouldn't have been taught anything at all. It was a virtue to be pure, and as you blink up at Max, he's not sure he's going to be able to do what he wants to you without having to sit you down and explain the repercussions of it.

"Do you..." He awkwardly trails off, trying to think of the best way to ask. "Do you know what we are supposed to do now?"

You flush as Max slowly lowers himself to sit beside you, head ducking to avoid his eyes. He hates it more than he can bear, because if there's one thing you did, even when no one else would, you looked at him. He raises your chin with a bent finger, and your eyes find his as you manage to whisper, "I know some things."

"Like?" You shift closer to him, nearly pressing yourself against him, and Max loops an arm around your waist.

"We are supposed to kiss." His lips capture yours the moment the words leave your mouth, not quite the tender thing you'd been sharing for the past two weeks. Now, it was something heated, something heavy that had Max dragging you into his lap, careful not to overstep or scare you. He pulls back, waiting, and you bite your lip as you stare down at him. "You...you're supposed to take my tunic off."

Oh, fuck. Max reaches around, manhandling the strange knot that keeps you from being able to take off your own tunic, and the fabric falls to pool around you, revealing your skin and undergarments to him, and Max might die before he's able to touch you. It's more than any fantasy he'd come up with before, your perfect, unmarked skin, swathes of it, more than he'd ever dreamt of seeing. His hands come to gently rest on your waist, waiting for the next instruction, but you remain silent. "Beautiful." Is all he can bring himself to say. "Just beautiful."

"I..." Your head disappears into the crook of Max's neck, hiding yourself away. "I don't know what comes next."

"Do you want me to show you?" He asks softly, "Or do you want me to tell you?"

"Show me?" For you, for his own sanity, he knows to take it slow. He bends down, mouthing against your neck, and he'd pay all he has to hear the soft noises that escape your lips again, and again, and again. His lips trail down to your collarbone, and you pull away slightly, enough that Max stops his demonstration to stare up at you.

This was a very new world for both of you. He didn't want to overstep, but at the same time, this was part of what he'd been dreaming of. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life without ever lying with you like this, but he also imagines that getting to do so would be the closest a man could get to heaven without dying.

Rather than giving him some sort of answer, you dip down to match what he did to his neck, and your tongue drags softly against his pulse point, forcing his eyes back into his head at the touch.

"Fuck." He breathes out, before realizing how improper that must sound to you. He had spent too much time around the other racers that his vocabulary was starting to change, but in this situation, it's the only word that sums up how he's feeling.

You pull back with a small, knowing grin, and Max flips you, so that you lie under him. He props himself up on his forearms, just barely hovering, and your arms loop around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. His tunic shifts awkwardly between the two of you, and without much thought, he sits up on his knees to pull it over his head, and your eyes widen as you take him in. It was not the first time you'd seen him shirtless, but every time he was shirtless around you, it garnered the same reaction, which was the greatest ego boost Max had ever known.

Without his tunic in the way, you're now pressed against him, and as he shifts to hover over you once more, the friction between the two of you draws a little noise from both of you. "Do you want me to continue?" He asks, ensuring you're okay, and you nod slowly, the smallest bit of hesitation clinging to you. "I need words, love."

"Please." What man could say no when you ask so nicely? He lets one hand roam down the side of your body, gently tracing idle shapes that draw shivers out of you, before resting at the waistband of your underwear. Your breath hitches as Max gently plays with it, waiting for you to stop him, but the words never come. His fingers finally dip under the band, and he groans softly at the touch.

You're soaked, exactly how he was told you'd feel if you were as into it as he was, and his dick strains against his underwear, hardening at the feeling of you. Your eyes squeeze shut as Max gently runs his fingers through your folds, just letting you get used to the feeling. He had gotten himself off numerous times to the thought of you, but the thought that you'd never been touched down here, that Max was the first, that you'd never experienced this kind of pleasure? It does something to Max that he's never felt before, as if his whole body is on fire, and you're the only thing to put it out.

"Max." You whisper, cheeks flushed. "This isn't-" You cut yourself off as Max pulls his fingers from you and brings them to his mouth, and you're just as sweet as he was told you would taste. "Max!"

"You wanted me to show you." He shifts lower, pulling your undergarments down to replace his hand with his mouth, and the moan it elicits is something he'd expect to hear out of a brothel, not out of you. He's not quite sure if what he is doing is right, considering what the others had told him, but your hands are in his hair, tight as he moves against you, a kind of sting that spurs him on. He must be doing something right, he thinks, savouring the taste and every noise he gets to draw out of you.

"Fuck, Max." He groans into you as you curse, caught off-guard by the vulgarity of it. You were the image of innocence, of perfection, and he'd driven you to such language. Your thighs squeeze around his head, and he wraps his arms around them to keep your legs open for him. You whimper at the lack of movement, and Max finds a strange, deep pleasure in it. "This can't be-it isn't what this-"

He pulls back to look up at you, and just the sight of him has you sighing, head rolling back onto the pillow. It's nice to know that he has the same effect on you as you do on him. "Do you want to stop?"

"N-No," You breathe out, "But are you sure this is right? Have you..."

Ah. It was a stupid thing to confess, but Max had saved himself for a moment like he. Instead of revealing everything he'd done for you, how deep this infatuation went, he presses a series of soft kisses to your thighs, soothing you. "You're the first."

"Good." There's a tone of something possessive in your voice, and it makes Max grind down into the mattress to relieve some pressure.

"And I know this is right." He continues, mouth hovering over you. Even just his breath against you has you shivering. "It feels right, doesn't it?"

You hum an affirmative before he's back on you, and he can feel your legs begin to shake. You're getting close, and glancing up, he can see your face screwed up in pleasure and concern. "Max, it's-it's-"

"Let go for me, love." His lips wrap around your clit, and your back arches up, your orgasm taking over as a soft, high-pitched whine escapes you. He pulls away when your body slackens, careful to not overstimulate you just yet. He's not sure if it would actually hurt, but if this was your first time cumming, then he wanted it to be good. He scoots up to hover over you, expecting you to be exhausted, but you surprise him by leaning up and wiping off his mouth before kissing him, hard. It's Max's turn to moan into it, letting you take the lead for a moment as your fingers dig into his shoulders. "Told you it was right."

"What about you?" You whisper hoarsely, voice somehow already shot, and Max blinks down at you. He gets it, now, why the others boasted about things like this. It was going to take a lot to convince him to get out of this bed. "What do I do to you?"

Slowly, he drags one of your hands from his shoulder down his body, fingers drifting over the plains of his abs before resting at the band of his own underwear. Your breath hitches as your hand slips from under his and dips lower, a sort of confidence he wasn't expecting. Your hand stutters over his dick, hard and outlined by his undergarments, as your eyes widen. Max's head drops to rest on your shoulder, letting out slow breaths to pace himself, but god, it was hard to do when you had reactions like that. "Just like that, love." Your fingers dip under his waistband to touch him, and Max groans softly as you slowly begin palming him. His hand finds yours, helping mould your grip to wrap around him, and he slowly helps you drag your hand up and down.

The touch nearly makes him spill.

Your hand is that much smaller, that much softer, that as you slowly speed up the motion, it punches a moan out of him as he mouths at your neck. His precum acts as the oil he probably should've prepared for this, helping you move more fluidly, hand tightening and loosening to see what can drag a noise out of him.

Your free hand comes up to his cheek, pulling his face towards yours, and the kiss is sloppy, all saliva and tongue, but neither of you really seem to notice. Your hand speeds up, the noise disgraceful as it echoes off the walls, and Max finds himself seeing stars far too quickly. He grabs your wrist with a groan, carefully pulling your hand away, and you jolt. "I'm sorry, did I-"

"Fucking perfect." He grunts out, trying to keep his own orgasm at bay as he squeezes his eyes shut. Tonight, he wanted to last, and he wanted to last for at least a couple more rounds. "Would've cum."

"Cum?" You echo softly, the word dripping from your lips. It's the kind of reminder he needs that you don't know anything about this, or how this works, and he pulls back to stare down at you.

"That pleasure you felt? That was, well, cumming." The words bring a blush to his cheeks, and you nod silently. "If I cum inside you," His voice dips, moving one hand to press against your core again. "I get you pregnant."

Your eyes widen, your own hand coming to rest on your stomach. "Inside?"

"Do you want me to show you," He repeats, "Or tell you?"

"Do you want children?" You ask as you shift up, and Max pauses. He hadn't really thought to ask you that, had he? It was kind of assumed, but he pulls back entirely, terrified he'd overstepped and scared you off by telling you he was about to get you pregnant.

"With you? Of course I do." Then, because he doesn't want to scare you off, "Do you...not?"

"No, no, I do." You soothe quickly. "Just...do you want them now?"

"It takes a couple of tries," Max says softly, fingers gently rubbing at your hip. Maybe he really should've sat you down, explained all this before he began, or maybe even had one of your bridesmaids explain it. "But if you want to wait, I'll wait forever with you."

You hold out a hand, and Max lets you pull him back down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Not exactly where he thought the night would lead, but he's a gentleman. Only when you're ready would he ever do something like that.

Slowly, your hand trails back down his body, and Max pulls away with a furrowed brow. He opens his mouth to question it when your hand finds his dick again and squeezes, and he moans unabashedly. "Do you want kids now?" You repeat softly, and Max just nods dumbly into your shoulder as your hand moves against him. "Words, love."

"Fuck." He says with a soft laugh, though the words go straight through him. He should be the one in charge, but when you said things like that? Well, he could see himself doing whatever you asked of him. "Using my own words against me?" You hum, hand speeding up, and Max finds himself babbling. "Yes, yes please, please, if you'd let me-"

"Show me." Max raises his head to stare at you, and you easily meet his gaze, something soft twinkling in your eye that has Max groaning and moving over you. His fingers dip back down to your folds, gently parting through them before slowly letting one finger push into you. He's slow, careful with the intrusion, but with how soaked you are, you swallow up one finger easily.

"It's going to be a bit of a stretch," He soothes, slowly pumping his finger in and out of you, easily gliding with the remains of his saliva and your arousal. "But you can do that for me, can't you?" He presses his second finger into you, just as slow, and lets you adjust to it. You clench down around him, flushed before you throw an arm over your face to hide yourself. "No, no." He's not exactly in the position to move your arm for you, but just at his words, you slowly let it move from your face to peek out at him. "I want to see you."

"But it's-" You trail off with a broken moan as Max begins to move his fingers again, this time curling upward. He seems to hit something right inside you as you gasp, hands grasping at the sheets. Max repeats the motion, over and over again, drawing noises out of you that go straight to his dick. "Max, Max-" You say his name like a prayer, babbling as your eyes squeeze shut, and he can feel just how close you are. "I'm going-fuck," Your hand reaches up to grab at his bicep, squeezing tight. "Going to cum."

Despite his original embarrassment at all the advice the other racers had for him, he finds it incredibly useful now as he works you through your second orgasm, nails biting into his arm as you tilt your head back, and Max can't resist nipping at the column of your throat. "That's it," He says, not letting up yet. "Tell me how it feels."

"Max," You moan, chest heaving. "Max, Max-"

"Gods, you're beautiful." He lets up as the last of your orgasm washes over you, though he doesn't pull his fingers out. Once you've settled, he drops his head down to whisper in your ear. "Ready for a third?"

You nod, wordlessly, before catching yourself. "Yes, please."

"Good girl." He can tell it's a lot, his fingers stuffed into you where you've never even thought to touch before, and you mewl softly below him, eyes squeezed shut. "Taking me so well, hm?" He dips down to mouth at your neck again, slowly moving, fingers curling and dragging against your walls, and your head rolls to the side to give him more access to your throat. His thumb roams back up to your clit and you jolt, nearly headbutting him, and he laughs it off as you glare at him from the pillow, breaths coming out in shallow pants. "I need you nice and open for me," He explains, fingers moving frantically as he chases your release. "Want you to cum on my fingers one more time before you cum on my-"

"Max!" It's lewd, his name falling off your lips over and over again, and with little warning, you cum, soaking his fingers as he slows his thrusts. He takes the time to lie with you, fingers still gently rubbing at your entrance as you sigh, leaning to bury your head in his neck.

"Too much?" He whispers, and you shake your head, though you can't seem to find the words to speak yet. "Do you want to continue?"

"Please," You say, hand fumbling with his underwear. Max takes his time, slowly pulling it down, and he watches concern slowly return to your expression. "That's...that's not going-"

"Relax for me?" You let out a slow breath as Max slowly eases his fingers out of you, and you make a small noise at the loss. He uses your slick to prepare himself, loosely fisting his dick as you watch him, a pink flush spreading from your cheeks to your neck to your chest. "Always so good for me," He says, unsure if this is what you'd like to hear. You moan at his words, or maybe his voice, and Max finds himself saying nonsense as he continues. "My girl," He says, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Going to make you feel so good, yeah?" He braces himself overtop of you, dick sliding against your folds to wait at your entrance. "You say the word and I stop, okay? It's going to be a stretch."

Max finally presses into you, and he lets his head fall to your chest as you both moan. Fuck, you're tight and you're hot, and Max is not prepared for it atl all. He knew how tight you were around his fingers, but didn't expect the pleasure that would come from it being around his dick, keeping him so close to the edge. He waits with just the tip in you to let you adjust, and your hands scramble to find purchase on his shoulders again. He slowly lets his head rise to press soft kisses to your breasts, still covered by your undergarments. Right now, he just needs you to relax and focus on him, and his hand slips down to find your clit, and you tighten so quickly around him, you almost force him out.

"Shit," He groans out, and he stops his ministrations to let you relax again, hands coming to rub softly at your hips. "I've got you," He says, and slowly, inch by inch, he bottoms out and leans over your shoulder to bite into the pillow, terrified of hurting you as he tries to contain himself.

He was just a man, he knew he had urges, but god, he just wants to press into you and never come out again, wants to fuck you until all you can say is his name and his name only. Wants to breed you until you can't walk, stuck in his bed for the next week as he fills you up and truly makes you his. "What're you-" Your voice brings him back to reality, and you expose your neck to him again. Somehow, you knew exactly what he wanted, and he finds himself moaning wantonly.

"So perfect for me, shit-" He sucks and bites his way down your neck, still refusing to move, and you experimentally clench around him. The shock of it forces his teeth into you, and he's quick to withdraw, but the look on your face is anything but pain. "Liked that, huh?" He breathes out, pressing soft kisses to the mark. You squeeze again, and Max groans, pulling away to stare down at you. "If you want something, you have to use your words, love."

"Please?"

"Oh, you can do better than that for me." But, mercifully, he slowly drags himself out before pushing back in, and your head falls back to the bed with a heavy thud. "Tell me what you want."

"You," You moan, and Max can't help but speed up, hips easily meeting yours with every thrust. "Want you."

He can't quite reply, too lost in the feeling of you around him, warm and wet and tight, so tight he's terrified that this must hurt, but the way you keep arching your back and moaning is telling him another story. "Got me." He finally manages to grunt out, sucking a spot right under your ear. "Always yours."

His orgasm is chasing him, he knows, can feel it building with every touch, every time your nails bite into his skin, every time he manages to press a kiss to your neck, your mouth, your shoulder. He's lost in the feeling of you, and he knows that he's never going back. He is going to shower you in everything you've ever wanted, going to take such good care of you to keep you under him like this, pliant and perfect.

"Fuck," He breathes out, speeding up as you tense around him. "Feel so good. Dreamt of you like this."

"Want your mouth." Max doesn't have to question where, he just continues his onslaught of kisses and bites up the column of your throat before finding your mouth, never able to keep anything from you. Your hands tangle in his hair, just the smallest tug spurring him forward, and he gasps as he slams into you sloppily, orgasm seconds away.

"I love you." He says, repeating it over and over, the only words that have ever mattered, the words he should've said long ago. He finally let's go, white-hot stars settling over him as he begins to ramble, everything he can think to say spilling off his tongue as he spills into you with a breathy moan. "So good under me, took me so well-"

You tense around him as he realizes you're cumming too, matching his pace, and it's hotter than anything he'd seen before, hotter than however long the two of you just spent tangled together. Max loses all feeling in his body as he slumps on top of you, careful to distribute his weight so as not to crush you, but all that he finds he can do is say your name, over and over, like it's all he's ever meant to say.

Your arms loosely come up to wrap around his neck, holding him down, and it should be uncomfortable, the sweat, the skin, the fluids trapped between the two of you, but he finds that this is the only place he'd ever want to be.

Slowly, when he thinks he might be able to stand, he pulls out of you, your combined fluids slowly spilling out of you. Still not quite able to feel his legs, he pads to the kitchen to grab a cloth, and takes the time to admire you as he comes back.

You haven't changed positions, perfectly laid in his bed with the blankets molded around you, and Max hates to disturb you as he perches himself on the edge, and begins to wipe down your thighs.

You stir momentarily to blink down at him, and Max suddenly feels so sickeningly in love that he can't do anything but stare back. You're his, officially. You'd gotten married today, your ring glinting in the candlelight as you reach out for him, and he happily accepts your hand. You pull him down beside you and you roll into him, curling up and pressing your face back to his neck, and his arms thread around you, tight. Your bare skin under his arms feels like a dream, and he takes just a minute to examine your neck, where a litany of bruises remains.

His fingers ghost over them and you reach up to intertwine your fingers with his. "Did I hurt you?"

You make a strange sort of noise that has Max laughing, pulling away further to look down at you. You're fighting sleep, eyes half-lidded as you shake your head.

"Words?" He teases softly and your head thumps against his chest. He gently places his hand around the back of your neck, positioning you to look back up at him, and even half-asleep, you're more gorgeous than Max could ever describe. He was the speechless one now, despite how much he teased you for it.

"Perfect." You whisper softly, and something deep inside Max breaks, for just a moment. He had never been called perfect before. He'd never had anyone look at him with as much admiration, albeit tired admiration, as you did currently, and he didn't quite know what to do about it. "You were perfect. May I sleep now?" And then, with your old, teasing personality, the moment breaks, and Max rolls his eyes as he presses you to his chest.

He was never going to let you go. Not now, not ever. Even in death, Max thinks, he'd find a way to haunt you. He lets his hands card through your hair, soothing as you finally drift off. There will definitely be a conversation in the morning, he knows, one that will probably be awkward and maybe, he thinks with excitement, lead to something more, but for right now, he's okay to just have you sleep on him as he lets himself soak up the night.

You're his.

It's the only thing that he thinks ever mattered.

"Oh," You breathe softly against him, as if remembering something, and he's quick to glance down at you. "I love you too, Max."

Whatever had broken inside Max had now been reduced to dust, the first time you'd ever said those words to him. If he was honest, it probably wasn't great that the first time he said it to you was in the heat of the moment, but he had meant it, and he had felt it long before he'd ever thought of putting it into words.

"Rest," He finally whispers, and without much fanfare, you fall asleep against him, and Max wills away the tears in the corners of his eyes.

This was all he'd ever need, and all he'd ever want for the rest of his life.

- - -

- - - - -

It was final. Max had retired from chariot racing, despite the protests of his team, and his fans, and, well, everyone. The only person who probably wouldn't complain about Max retiring was waiting for him at home, and was the exact reason he was rushing up the steps to your estate.

It was the first big purchase he'd ever made, getting your estate back to you. He might have pulled a few strings to get it, but it was your family's rightful home, and where you belonged. He had never seen you happier than that day, returning to your garden, getting to leave behind the poor working conditions of Rome to tend to your vegetables and flowers. You deserved it, after all.

You deserved everything. He hadn't actually told you he was going to retire today, considering it was just another race, but he'd made his mind up while leaving this morning, for one very good reason.

"See that?" You whisper softly, kneeling by the pond, that same slice of paradise where once, Max had seen your ankles, and now he sees his future. "That's a frog."

His son babbles beside you, your palla extended to wrap around him. His little fists happily pat away at the dirt, scaring away the small frog that was resting at the water's edge. It was his son who made Max finally decide to retire from racing, along with you. He wanted to be here for these silly, random moments, not dead under a horse.

He had made enough money to last you well enough, and the small income you'd get from the farm would help supply anything extra. He sneaks up behind you, stilling just above you to cast a shadow. You glance up, confused, before a soft gasp escapes your lips, and you angrily bat up at him. "Max!"

"Mama!" His son says as Max scoops him up, resting the boy gently on his hip. You rise to scowl at him, though you break to give him a kiss before returning to your pout. He doesn't get why you get to be upset - his own son won't say his name! That was another reason Max had decided to retire.

He wanted his son to remember him, not like the blur of memories Max had of his own father.

"No, dada. Try it? Dada?" He'd had the same debate this morning, jokingly splayed out on the carpet as he desperately tried to teach the boy any other words, but he was always stuck on the same one:

"Mamamamamama." Max can't really blame him, though. You were worthy of obsession.

If he could only ever say your name, he wouldn't miss the others.

"Did I scare you?" Max teases finally, and you roll your eyes as you brush the dirt off the edge of your palla. "I thought you'd enjoy me being home early."

"I do," You say as you take his arm and lead him toward the kitchen. "But not when you sneak up on me."

"I was just standing there! Could've been a cloud, for all you know." His son reaches up to gently tug on Max's armour, and Max happily swings him around the lounge before gently setting him on the carpeted floor. "I retired," He says over his shoulder to you, like a normal, passive thing, and he watches you freeze over the dining table.

It's a mix of emotions, he's well aware, pride, happiness, confusion. You slowly come to join him on the floor, studying him intently, as if gauging his reaction. "You did?"

"I wanted to be home." He answers softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. You all but throw yourself at him and Max laughs, happily holding you in his lap as you press kiss after kiss to his mouth. "See? This was the reaction I was expecting."

"Are you sure?" You say as you pull back, distracted for a moment to grab your son, trying to crawl away, and you pull him into your lap. Right here, in Max's arms, is his whole world, and there's nothing he could ever do to leave it.

"Absolutely." He answers, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips before letting his mouth trail down your jaw and neck. "Wouldn't want to miss this for anything."

Your son sneezes, bouncing his head back off of Max's chest and begins to cry, and you're quick to coddle him, rising up to bounce him and gently hold the back of his head. This, this was a dream Max couldn't believe once wasn't supposed to be fulfilled. This was a life that meant so much to him, to just be able to sit on the floor and watch you with your son, with his son. To be your equal, to be home, to be happy. "It's okay," You soothe softly. "I know Dada's chest is hard, but it'll be soft soon, now that he's not a mean old chariot racer."

"Hey!" Max stands, offering a soft glare as your son giggles between the two of you.

"Mhm, I'm going to cook so much, make him nice and fat so you'll never get hurt on his muscles again." You move away, up the stairs to find your son's nursery, and Max follows behind like he still can't quite believe you're his to follow.

The nursery used to be your childhood room, Max is pretty sure, considering the angle of the window. He'd watched your silhouette so many times, he's sure it has to be here. It's odd to be on the inside, despite the years since Max worked for your father. He had to remind himself, often, that he was meant to be here, that when you laid your son to rest in his bassinet, it was Max who carved the wood for it, chose where to place it.

Max was allowed to have this.

He was allowed to have you.

"You like my muscles," Max finally argues, picking up where you left off as you join him in the doorway. He flexes his arm, and you watch him unabashedly. He leans over you, bringing you in for another kiss as his hand roams down to palm your ass. "See?"

"You keep that up, and this little guy is going to have a sibling soon." You say against his lips, and Max bends down to pick you up like on your wedding night, and you laugh as he carries you to the bedroom.

"Anything wrong with that?"

You smack at his chest, and he tosses you back onto your bed, which is to say he lays you as gently as he can, because if there's one thing he could never do, it was touch you without reverence. "We agreed to wait, unless you want to be up with two crying babies at night."

"Then I guess we'll just have to keep my muscles around a little longer then, hm?" He strips out of his armour, and your eyes skip down his chest. "I'll make sure not to wear any more armour around. Make sure they don't hurt themselves."

"That'll be for the best." You nod along, biting your bottom lip in thought. "Probably shouldn't wear a tunic around the house, either. Just in case they get tangled in it."

"Oh?" He crawls up toward you, and you loop your arms around his neck to pull him in for another kiss, and then another, and Max grins into every kiss. "So you just want me nude around the house all day?"

With a matching smile, you pull away, and Max decides that there is no sweeter view to be found anywhere else in the world.

"What else is retirement for?"

a/n: so this is the longest fic i've written yet, and my very first smut, so i hope y'all enjoy! as someone studying history this was such a labour of love, and I'm so proud of how it turned out

p.s if i got anything wrong about ancient rome? no i didn't

727 notes · View notes

cannelley · 3 days ago

Text

➤ PROUD | MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: max verstappen x wife! reader, kimi antonelli + max + reader (platonic)

summary: kimi gets his first podium, max finds you crying in a bathroom, and you both realize you want to start a family together

wc: 2.6 k

warnings: none! a few innuendos on max's part

➤ MASTERLIST

You had been married to Max long enough to recognize when his focus shifted. When he stopped paying attention to useless questions, when a car caught his eye, when he heard someone saying something wrong about anything, really. It was the subtlest of changes, the softest of looks, but you saw the way he turned, just slightly, when the TV in the motorhome played a clip of the rookies, talking about pressure and the reality of F1.

He watched from the corner of his eye, his notes still in hand, so that anyone who might walk by would think he was deeply focused, and not distracted by a simple broadcast. You, however, know better.

You push off the counter of the small coffee bar, coming to take the hat from his head, and rake your hand through his hair instead.

He smiles slightly at the action, letting his attention break to look up at you. "Do you think they miss their mums?" You ask, eyes finding the broadcast. Max would've been about their age when he started, so young, so full of dreams. You weren't that much older than them really, but it was still enough to be daunting.

Being 18, like Kimi, was the time of little independent steps, going away to university, starting something new. Becoming a world-famous F1 driver when you're not even old enough to drink in some countries had to be quite the trip. "What?" Max responds, now turning to give the TV his full attention. "The rookies?"

"They just look so young." Doing all this, on their own. They might have teams and managers and fellow drivers, but it had to be terrifying. "It's got to be hard, away from family like that. And on Father's Day, too."

"I didn't miss my parents," Max says, returning to the notes in his lap as he lies. He can never look at you when he does. You never pressed about his childhood, though all you can imagine is that poor boy, charting across Europe alone to do all of these races, with all the stress. It can't be good for children, even if they are racing prodigies. "I turned out fine."

There's a beat of silence where you don't answer, and he lets out a soft breath.

"Fine, relatively speaking." He corrects. "Besides, with all the karting and F2 or F3, they're used to travel."

"Even when they're still in school, poor things." Max glances back at the TV as the clip of Isack hugging Lewis's dad plays, and your heart dislodges in your chest. That's a lot of pressure, something that never goes away with F1, or at least you've never seen it leave Max. He was becoming a beacon for the rookies, maybe because of it. He probably knew better than anyone how to handle that sort of pressure, the lifestyle change.

Someone walks by, cutting through the moment, and you and Max just look at each other as you wait for them to leave. There was so much more to be said on this kind of topic, specifically behind closed doors, but there was more than just Max being a good mentor that played into it. Finally, the person leaves, and Max returns to his notes. "If you're worried about their education, you could help them with their homework."

"Maybe I can cook them a nice meal. You can have them over." Max laughs, then, getting up from his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close to him. The move startles you, so quick and so in public, but you lived for these stolen moments. Max was always like this when he knew no one could see. Little bursts of energy, the hidden romance that was best protected when others weren't around. You didn't mind by now, really. You'd rather your kisses be private than spread across Instagram. "What?"

"You are something else," He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Worry about me for a change, hm? Where's my home cooked meals?"

"They're a treat for when you win," You say as you press a quick kiss to his lips before finally pushing away. The last thing you needed was some photographer walking in on you two. "So go lose, yeah? Saves me from having to do the dishes."

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he prepares to go, and you're struck by a feeling you can't quite describe. It's a strange sort of love that twists in your gut, almost complete but not quite. Loving Max was always just a full-bodied feeling, that some small part of it missing was obvious. It wasn't nerves, though the butterflies still came out as he raced, as he battled for second place.

It wasn't anger, or concern, or sadness, no strange emotion you couldn't place. Instead, it just felt like you were waiting for the last piece to click into place, even if you didn't realize what it was. Max gets second, and the win doesn't really fix it either, though you're happy he placed well. He probably wasn't the most enthused at George's first, but then, as the racers settle, you realize who came in third:

Kimi.

Little Kimi, with his homework and the pressure and now, you realize as you watch the nearby Mercedes garage, without his parents.

That must be awful, you find yourself thinking as your heart sinks further into your stomach. What a race to miss, to have no one there to celebrate. The big screens catch your eye as you see Max approach Kimi, and for a moment, the world pauses as Max pulls him into a quick hug that feels like it might last forever.

That's the missing piece, you think.

Max had always been so good with kids. Whether his little nieces or nephews, or teenagers like Kimi, he had a way with them. He was patient, and funny, and kind, and welcoming. He was saying something to Kimi as your visions swims before you, a mix of emotions that truly catch you by surprise.

It's pride, and heartbreak, and knowing.

That could be your son someday. Maybe he had just done well on a test, or won a competition, you didn't care, and Max was hugging him like a father would. You turn back toward the Red Bull garage's bathroom, quick to try to calm yourself, but it's no use.

Max would make a fantastic father one day, and for the very first time, you realize that's something you can pursue.

There was something going on with you lately. Max hadn't really had too much time to notice it, with the triple headers and your work schedule, but you were just...softer. Not in a bad way, and not in a way he'd ever vocalize, but you were just so utterly irresistible and sweet. He didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave your side, didn't even mind hearing you talk about ridiculous things like rookies being lonely and the best parks near his apartment.

But there was something brewing under the surface, and he didn't really know what.

Then again, he also just got 2nd place, and you're not at the barrier to greet him, so he doesn't really have time to focus on that either. He chalks it up to the crowds crushing in to get to George and Kimi, both for George's first win of the season and Kimi's first podium, both of whom refuse to stop smiling, especially once they get to the podium platform. Even from up above, however, Max can't seem to spot you. He can always find you in a crowd, a skill he prides himself on.

You were wearing one of his hats, and a cute little white dress, so it should be easy, but you're not with his team, not with the crowd.

Nowhere.

Finally, when he gets back to his driver's room, and it's empty, does he start to worry. "Have you seen-" He barely gets the word out before one of his attendants is gesturing towards the restroom with a strange expression, and Max panics at the thought of you being sick, of something being wrong, and he quickly knocks on the door. "Love? You okay?"

"Shit, Max-" Your voice sounds hoarse and Max's heart breaks at the thought of you being sick while he was out celebrating, but when you open the door just a crack, he realizes it's something else entirely. "Sorry, sorry, I'm a mess."

You let him into the restroom, a small space considering it's just a little side room, but that sort of invasion of each other's space had never bothered either of you. What does bother him is the tear-tracks on your cheeks, the way you laugh sadly as you try to wipe away the evidence. "What's wrong?"

You crying is not the most uncommon sight in the world, but the last time you cried at one of his races was because he won his fourth championship title. Maybe you were crying over how poorly he was doing? Maybe something terrible happened? "The video-"

"What video?" Max rushes out, coming to cup your face in his hands. "I swear, if anyone said anything-"

"You hugged," You say with another soft laugh, now truly confusing him. Max tries to wrack his brain for the last time he hugged a woman that might be taken as him cheating, and then what it might take for you to have a mental break. "And his dad wasn't there."

"What?" Then, the pieces click into place. "Kimi?" You nod, sniffing softly as you wipe at your nose with a tissue. "You're crying...because I hugged Kimi?"

"Our little baby got his first podium."

Our.

Little.

Baby.

Oh shit. "Are you pregnant?"

"What?" That seems to snap you from your tears, looking up at him before reaching out to smack his arm. "No! I can be emotional without being hormonal!"

"I wasn't saying that," He soothes, though he finds himself somewhat saddened by the answer in a way he never thought he would be. "You just called him our baby."

"He's your baby," You joke, covering your face with your hands. "He won and you hugged him, and his parents are here, and he's probably so happy I just...I can't. How could you not cry? He worked so hard!"

Max slowly wraps his arms around you and gently rocks you, unable to stop the growing smile on his face. Only you could get emotional about another man getting on the podium. You'd probably be like this for all the rookies, he thinks. He'll need to start packing more tissues. "But you didn't come to watch." I missed you, he wants to say, but right now is not about him.

"I didn't want anyone to see me like this and take it wrong." You say, muffled by his shoulder. "If I saw him in person I'd probably start bawling."

"Well, you should go congratulate him if it moved you to tears." He says, somewhat teasing, somewhat not. It was a very big thing for Kimi to finally get on the podium, and you were right. He worked hard to get here, taking third place in a way many other drivers couldn't currently.

Maybe crying over it was a bit much, but being proud? That was understandable. "Give me your sunglasses."

"Anything for you," He says, reluctantly pulling the sunglasses he'd hung on his shirt collar and handing them out to you. You walk, then, hand in hand through the garages before reaching Mercedes, which Max realizes is somewhat enemy territory, but for you, he doesn't mind. Kimi is off to the side to take pictures with some of the mechanics, all beaming ear to ear, and he hears you sniff beside him. "Hey, Kimi."

Kimi looks up with a grin, and you offer a small wave. "I just wanted to come congratulate you," You say, and Kimi immediately goes in for a hug, which somehow makes Max more emotional as he watches it.

That's the missing piece, he thinks, what he wasn't getting about the tears.

You were always so good with kids. Whether Max's own nieces or nephews, or teenagers like Kimi, you were always so good with them. Even now, Kimi sinks into your arms like you're his mother, like it was the kind of hug he needed. You already were so patient with Max, you had to be with children, so warm and honest and welcoming. Kimi could be your kid someday, maybe after having a hard day, or maybe after a good one, just needing comfort.

You would be an incredible mom someday, and as Max had said earlier, he'd do anything for you. A little baby, clad in Red Bull gear, with his hair colour and your eyes, it would be perfect.

Anything you make would be perfect. "I'm so proud." You say as you pull back. "Your parents must be so proud! Third! You're first podium!"

"You're going to make me cry," Kimi sniffs, and Max watches your bottom lip tremble. "No, no, don't cry too!"

"Alright, alright." Max wraps his arm around you, pulling you into his side. "Both of you."

"Emotions are meant to be felt!" You say stubbornly, a reminder Max has had to hear plenty of times. You had never made him feel guilty when he got angry, never made him feel like he couldn't be sad. It was the sort of thing a parent should have said to him as a kid, the sort of thing that would make you a fantastic parent now.

"You know what they call you?" Kimi says, more to Max than you. "Mother Hen. Now you are Mother and Father Hen."

You tense in Max's arm, and he softly laughs. "We're adopting him." You state bluntly, looking up to Max. "Can we adopt all of them?"

"Bit late to adopt, I think." He says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "We'll just have to make our own."

"Hey!" Kimi says, hands flying to his ears like an actual kid as he laughs.

"You can be our babysitter," Max continues, reaching out to shake hands with the boy, who happily shakes it back. You, on the other hand, are shooting Max a rather strange look. "What? It'll be good for him to have a normal job for once."

"We can all take turns," Kimi agrees eagerly. "Ollie and I-"

You finally laugh, shaking your head as you take a step back, and Max doesn't blame you. Those boys probably got into more strange situations than Max did at that age, which is saying something. "There is no way both you and Ollie are looking after them. That is a recipe for disaster waiting to happen."

"What's a disaster waiting to happen?" George asks, and now it's Max's turn to tense. He was very good at being civil, good at hiding it too, but that didn't cut the tension in the air.

"Ollie and Kimi babysitting for us." You answer for him, head coming to lean back against Max's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. It's the sort of admissions that would make headlines if it got out, but considering what Max was planning on tonight?

Probably wasn't too early to announce the baby.

"Babysitting?" George echoes, shocked. "Are you expecting?"

"Not currently," Max says before he can help it. "Give it about nine months."

"Max!" Your face flushes red, smacking at his arm, and he takes it as his cue to leave. "You are unbelievable!"

"Congratulations, Kimi." Max says as he leads you away, trying hard not to laugh as both Kimi and George exchange looks. "George."

You wave goodbye, turning around to look at them, and Max keeps his arm around your waist to drag you backwards. "You both did so well! You better celebrate tonight."

"I think you are celebrating enough for the both of us." Kimi answers, and George turns on him like a scandalized mother.

You laugh as you turn back around, and Max finds that he missed the sound. You crying was easily one of the things he hated most in this world, meaning your laugh is one of the things he loved the most.

Your hand slips into his, offering a squeeze. Only when you're finally out of earshot, the rest of the crews and the microphones and the eavesdroppers hidden away, do you tug harder on Max's hand, drawing his attention. "Do you mean that? About starting a family?"

"Like I said, anything for you." Then, after a beat, "We're not naming our kid Kimi."

"I know," You answer, leaning up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "I was thinking George."

a/n: KIMI PODIUM! didn't realize i was a kimi fan until i genuinely got emotional at seeing him come third.

2K notes · View notes

cannelley · 5 days ago

Text

yes, chef! ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

the great yuki tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

ꔮ starring: restaurant owner!yuki tsunoda x pastry chef!reader. ꔮ word count: 18.6k. ꔮ includes: implied smut/suggestive, romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: restaurant/service industry. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. yearning, friends to lovers, ensemble of driver cameos. ꔮ commentary box: celebrating turning twenty-something with a monster of a yt22 fic!!! been working on this for what feels like forever. everybody, meet my shaylas 🎂 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Monday mornings always feel like a personal attack.

Your alarm is cruel enough, but the real betrayal is the way sunlight filters through your blinds as if the world is mocking you. You drag yourself out of bed with all the grace of a zombie extra in a B‑list horror film. Teeth brushed, hair tied back, chef’s whites pressed in theory (in reality, the iron stayed untouched), you go through the motions of a routine that has more to do with muscle memory than enthusiasm.

Coffee comes first. Always coffee.

You sip it like medicine, grimacing at the bitterness but knowing you’d be a public safety hazard without it. Bag slung over your shoulder, sneakers squeaking on the pavement, you head out to Venti Due—the only itameshi restaurant along the West Coast and, conveniently, your place of reluctant employment.

The brick façade of the restaurant looks deceptively cheerful in the morning light. You push the door open and step into the familiar hum of pre‑opening chaos. The servers are already buzzing around, though ‘buzzing’ is generous when it comes to Oscar.

He greets you with his usual sleepy smile, one hand still clutching his phone as if he’s been dragged out of bed five minutes ago. Knowing Oscar, it probably isn’t far from the truth. A uni student pulling part‑time shifts, he’s charming in the way of someone who can’t fully hide his exhaustion but tries anyway.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice caught somewhere between dreams and reality.

“You’re awake. Miracles do happen,” you shoot back, tossing your bag behind the counter.

Jules pops her head up next, practically materializing from behind a stack of menus. “Don’t jinx him. He’s fragile in the mornings.” Jules, with her eccentric flair and a tendency to turn even simple table setups into performance art, beams at you. She’s already managed to scatter napkins across three different tables in what looks suspiciously like an avant‑garde arrangement. You decide to let her have her moment.

George, the sommelier, is next in line for introductions whether he wants it or not. He shuffles past with a clipboard in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. Frumpy, yes. Well‑meaning, also yes. He greets you with a distracted nod, muttering something about bottle inventories that you’re not entirely sure wasn’t directed at himself. You’ve seen him lose battles with corkscrews more often than you’d care to admit, but his heart’s in the right place.

The bar clinks with the unmistakable rhythm of Lando at work. He’s got that too‑easy grin, the kind that spells trouble before you even reach the counter. “Morning, pastry princess,” he calls, shaking a cocktail shaker despite the hour. You roll your eyes, already bracing yourself. Lando’s in the middle of his Master’s, somehow balancing academia with bartending and an unrelenting commitment to flirting with anything that breathes.

“You’re not supposed to make drinks before noon,” you point out.

“You’re not supposed to look this grumpy before noon, but here we are.” He winks, and you resist the urge to throw a spoon at his head.

The kitchen door swings open and Alex emerges, still tying his apron. Away from kitchen duty, he’s personable and warm, the type of guy who remembers birthdays and always has an extra pen when you’re short. When it’s time to cook, though, the sous chef is Gordon Ramsey reincarnated. “Don’t let him bother you,” Alex says, shooting Lando a look before offering you a smile.

The rhythm of the morning crew is familiar, each cog in the machine spinning in its predictable orbit. You’re halfway to convincing yourself this Monday might pass without incident when the air shifts.

Yuki Tsunoda steps into the room with the kind of presence that demands attention. Not loud, not showy. He’s only sharp, focused, carrying an authority that instantly changes the tempo of the restaurant. He shrugs off his jacket, ties his apron with brisk precision, and surveys the room with an expression that dares anyone to waste his time.

You hate the way your stomach flips. It’s Monday morning. You’re supposed to be miserable. Instead, all you can think is: here we fucking go.

Yuki sets his knife roll on the counter with a soft thud, pulling the ties loose with the focus of someone already two steps ahead of everyone else. You’ve seen him do this a hundred times. Efficient, precise, and more than a little intimidating if you’re new. But you’re not new. You’ve been here since the beginning, which makes you immune to the brunt of his stormy focus. Mostly.

“Morning,” he says finally, not looking up as he inspects a blade for sharpness.

“You mean ‘good morning, how are you, did you sleep well?’” You lean against the prep counter with your arms crossed. “That’s how normal people greet each other.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed. “If I wanted small talk, I’d ask Jules. Did the flour delivery come in?”

“Wow. Straight to business. My weekend must mean nothing to you.” You slide your phone across the counter so he can see the checklist you’ve already made. “Yes, it came in. Two sacks instead of three. I called the supplier already. They’re sending another one this afternoon.”

Yuki glances at the list, lips twitching in what might almost pass for a smile. “And the pistachios?”

“Safe and sound. Locked away from Lando, in case he gets bored and decides to experiment with nut-based cocktails again.”

“That was one time,” Yuki exhales, lining up his knives like soldiers. He pauses, flicking a look your way. “You remembered to order the hazelnut paste?”

“Do I look like someone who forgets the backbone of her own creations?”

“Sometimes,” he says. But you catch the corner of his mouth fighting upward, and it’s enough to make your pulse skip. This is how it always is. Professional words with just enough bite to keep you on your toes. You can read the rhythm of his moods like sheet music, filling in the gaps with your own easy counterpoint.

“I’ll start on the tarts once the ovens finish preheating,” you say, turning toward your workstation. “If you behave, I might even let you have the first one.”

Yuki shakes his head, feigning exasperation as readjusts his chef’s jacket. “You talk like I can’t just take one.”

“You could,” you concede, glancing at him over your shoulder, “but then you’d miss the fun of me pretending you earned it.”

For a moment, his gaze lingers on you longer than it should, heavy enough that you feel it even without looking directly at him. Then he clears his throat and flips open his notebook. “Inventory meeting in ten. Don’t be late.”

“As if I would ever,” you say, already pulling flour from the storeroom. Your hands move on autopilot, weighing, measuring, prepping for the day ahead. You and Yuki have done this dance so many times, it’s practically second nature. Two halves of the same rhythm, balancing each other without ever needing to speak it out loud.

By midmorning, Venti Due hums like a machine that knows its purpose. Orders aren’t flying in yet, but prep is its own battlefield. Knives chop in rhythm, pans hiss and sputter, and the front-of-house polishes glasses with militant devotion. It’s chaos, but choreographed chaos. You fall into the current without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, fingers dusted in flour before you’ve even noticed.

You catch Oscar fumbling with a tray of wine glasses and Jules swooping in with the dramatics of a knight saving a maiden. George is muttering about pairings to no one in particular, while Lando is teaching himself how to juggle lemons when he thinks no one’s looking. Alex keeps the kitchen calm, redirecting energy like it’s second nature. And Yuki—well, Yuki commands it all with a glance. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. A sharp nod, a clipped word, and everyone falls into line.

You don’t have the luxury of stopping to admire it. The pastries won’t prep themselves, and you’re elbow-deep in dough by the time the clock ticks toward noon. The ovens cycle batches with military precision, trays sliding in and out as you shape and fill with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Your world shrinks down to sugar, butter, and the hum of timers.

By lunch, Alex slips away first, snagging a plate and scarfing it down with the kind of efficiency only a chef of his calibre can manage. Yuki takes his turn after, pausing just long enough to check on the line before disappearing toward the staff room. You wave him off when he gestures toward you. “I’ll eat after this batch,” you insist, shaping another neat lattice over a tart.

You don’t notice time slipping until the next batch cools and the savory scent of lunch is a faint memory in the air. Wiping your hands on your apron, you finally make your way toward the back, stomach growling in protest. The tray of staff meals is nearly empty, save for a few scraps of bread and what looks suspiciously like the last sad bite of salad. Alex shrugs apologetically from across the room.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you grumble, a little louder than you intend. “I slave away over butter and sugar, and this is the thanks I get?”

Before you can work yourself into a proper tirade, a plate slides into view under your nose. Perfectly portioned, still warm, and suspiciously untouched. You look up to find Yuki standing there, arms crossed, expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “I knew you’d do this,” he says simply, “so I saved one.”

You narrow your eyes, though the twist of relief in your chest betrays you. “What are you, my babysitter now?”

“More like the only one here with common sense,” Yuki replies, pulling out a chair with his foot. “Sit. Eat. Before you faint into a tray of éclairs and make me fire you.”

“I’d haunt this place,” you huff, but you sit anyway. The first bite is a revelation, your stomach sighing in gratitude. You peek up at him through your lashes. “You know, some people might think this is sweet.”

Yuki shrugs, deadpan as ever. “Some people don’t know you well enough.”

It’s meant to be a jab, but the silence that follows is heavier than either of you expect. You break it first with a snort, nudging his hand as you reach for your fork again. “Thanks, chef.”

His mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile before he turns back toward the kitchen. “Don’t make it a habit.”

The day’s dinner service winds down with the steady rhythm of plates cleared and chairs stacked. The air is thick with the scent of garlic, wine, and the faint sweetness of the last tiramisu you sent out. You wipe down your station, fingers stiff but satisfied, and listen to the restaurant exhale after another day survived.

Yuki gathers the staff near the pass, arms crossed, expression sharp but not unkind. He does this every night. Quick notes, a pulse check on the team, a reminder that tomorrow demands just as much precision as today.

“Service was clean,” he starts, scanning the group. “Oscar, your pacing was better. Jules—don’t rearrange the cutlery mid-shift. It confuses the guests.”

Jules gasps like she’s been personally insulted. “It was art!”

“Save the art for your apartment,” Yuki replies, tone clipped. “George, good pairing tonight. Lando, stop experimenting during service. Alex, solid work on the line.”

The feedback rolls out like clockwork, efficient and even. The crew listens, nods, takes it in. Despite his dry delivery, you can feel it. The respect humming beneath every word, the quiet trust that everyone here leans on. When Yuki speaks, people listen. Not because they’re scared of him, but because he’s earned it.

Finally, his gaze lands on you. “Pastries were consistent,” he says. “Timing was better too. Keep it up.”

There’s nothing in the words themselves, but the weight of his eyes lingers. You offer a small shrug, as if to say, of course they were.

“God, just kiss already,” Lando mutters from the back, which earns him a snort from Jules and a scandalized look from George. Oscar, barely holding back laughter, pretends to check his phone.

Heat prickles your neck, but you roll your eyes and toss your towel at the bar. “Don’t project your tragic love life onto us, Lando.”

“Tragic? Please. I’m thriving.” He sticks out his tongue at you before Yuki clears his throat, sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“Focus,” Yuki says simply. Just like that, the teasing dies down, the crew dispersing with the tired chatter of people who’ve given their all. Bags are slung over shoulders, goodbyes are murmured, and soon the restaurant quiets to its bones.

You linger at your station a moment longer, stacking trays with more care than necessary. Yuki moves past, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours. “Ignore them,” he says softly, not looking at you.

“Who says I care?” you reply, but the laugh in the back of your throat betrays you.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t tease. He only gives the smallest nod before heading toward the office. You’re left with the ghost of his sleeve against yours, wondering why ignoring them feels impossible.

The next week at Venti Due settles into its rhythm: the clang of pans, the rise of voices calling for orders, the sweet hush of pastry cream thickening under your whisk. Between the noise and the chaos, you find yourself drifting. Thinking back to how it all started, how you ended up tethered to this kitchen and, somehow, to Yuki.

Culinary school feels like another lifetime now, all stainless steel counters and the sterile scent of bleach. Yuki had been the one student who managed to make a uniform look like armor, his sharp focus cutting through every room he walked into. You’d first spoken during a class on fundamentals. He’d been hunched over a cutting board, perfecting a julienne that looked like it had been measured with a ruler. You’d leaned closer, deliberately dramatic. “Going for world’s straightest carrot sticks?” you’d teased.

He hadn’t even glanced up. “Some of us care about precision.”

“And some of us care about not boring ourselves to death.” You’d grinned, tossing him a piece of your unevenly chopped onion. “See? Personality.”

He’d finally looked at you then and said, “Your personality smells.”

It was the start of something neither of you had language for yet.

Between classes and late-night study sessions, you carved out a rhythm. Yuki was disciplined to the point of obsession, while you thrived in improvisation, especially once the curriculum turned to pastries. You remember the first time he tried one of your test tarts, biting into it with a seriousness that made your palms sweat. “Not too sweet,” he’d said eventually, and you’d laughed because coming from him, that was the highest form of praise.

One evening, you found him sitting alone in the library, textbooks sprawled around him, a notebook filled with scrawled ideas. “Itameshi,” he’d said before you could even ask. “Japanese-Italian fusion. Not gimmicky, not watered down. Balanced. Something that respects both traditions.”

You’d sat across from him, intrigued despite yourself. “That’s oddly specific.”

He’d leaned back, expression thoughtful. “It’s what I grew up with. Pasta with shoyu, miso in risotto. My mom didn’t think about it as fusion. It was just… dinner. I want to take that and make it into something that belongs on a Michelin menu.”

You’d nodded slowly, tucking that piece of him away. It explained the focus, the drive that sometimes looked like obsession. It wasn’t just food to him. It was identity, stitched together by memory and taste.

“And you?” he’d asked then, catching you off guard. “What do you want?”

“A patisserie,” you’d answered after a moment of hesitation. “Glass display cases, rows of pastries, the smell of butter and sugar hitting people when they walk in. Something that’s mine.”

He’d given you a rare smile then, small but real. “Sounds fitting.”

Graduation came faster than you expected. A blur of exams, sleepless nights, and too much caffeine. The ceremony itself felt like theater, everyone pretending not to care while secretly waiting for their names to be called. Yuki wore the cap and gown like he wore everything else: with a kind of reluctant irritation, as though the whole pageantry offended his sense of efficiency.

It was afterward, when the crowd thinned and the graduates dispersed to dinners and family celebrations, that he cornered you outside the hall. The sky was slipping toward dusk, a warm June evening wrapping the campus in gold. He stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable, and for a second you thought he was going to comment on how crooked your cap sat.

Instead, he said, “Be my pastry chef.”

Your brows furrowed, wondering if you misheard. “Excuse me?”

“I’m opening a restaurant. Itameshi. You know what I want it to be.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and unflinching. “I want you there. Pastry chef.”

You laughed, nervous but amused. “Yuki, that sounds like a proposal.”

“It is,” he said flatly, his eyes crinkling as he broke out into a proper, toothy grin. “For food. Not marriage.”

“You really know how to sweep someone off their feet.” You had crossed your arms, tilting your head at him. “What makes you think I’ll say yes?”

“Because you already said you want your own place. You won’t waste time at someone else’s restaurant. Not unless it mattered.”

The words hit harder than you expected, like he’d been listening closer than you realized. You rolled your eyes to cover the way your chest tightened. “Fine. But it’s temporary. I’ll help you launch, save up, and then I’m gone. Patisserie, remember?”

He nodded once, solemn, like you’d struck a deal. “Temporary.”

You shook his hand, though it felt oddly ceremonial, and something inside you whispered that this was more binding than either of you admitted aloud.

That was four years ago.

Now, standing in Venti Due’s kitchen with sugar under your nails and the hum of service in the background, you realize the word ‘temporary’ has stretched longer than you ever intended. Every day has carried the same steady gravity of that handshake. An agreement that was never just about work, no matter how hard you both pretended otherwise.

By closing time, the kitchen looks like it survived a small war. Pots stacked high, jam staining your apron, the faint smell of seared fish clinging to your hair. You’re wiping down your station when Yuki approaches, holding out an envelope. “Salary’s in your account,” he says, tone casual. “This is extra. Tips.”

You glance at the wad of cash inside, instantly shoving it back toward him. “No way. I don’t need your charity fund.”

His eyebrow lifts, sharp and unimpressed. “It’s not charity. It’s from the floor. Customers like desserts, apparently. Who knew.”

“Shocking revelation.” You push the envelope across the counter again. “Split it with the servers.”

“They already got their share. This is yours. Take it.” He says it with the stubbornness of someone who will stand here all night until you cave. His arms are crossed now, a silent dare.

You sigh, snatching the envelope before he can start another speech. “Fine. But if I blow it all on overpriced candles, that’s on you.”

“Save it. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

“Thanks,” you add, quieter than intended. He doesn’t reply, only nods and turns back to check on Alex, as if the conversation never happened.

Later that night, your apartment greets you with the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards. You set the envelope on the counter, then reach for the Mason jars lined up in the cupboard. Their weight is familiar, each one filled with neatly rolled bills. Months, years of tip envelopes, savings, little sacrifices. The ritual of stacking them has always been your silent countdown to freedom. You pour the new bills into the jar marked with a strip of masking tape, the one labeled Someday. It’s already full to the brim, crammed so tightly that the lid barely twists shut.

Here’s the truth: you had enough last year.

Enough for the deposit on that storefront downtown, the one with big windows and a perfect corner for displaying cakes that would stop people in their tracks. Enough to hire staff, to design menus, to finally call something yours.

And yet you’re still here. Still showing up at Venti Due every morning, still brushing sugar from your clothes and trading barbs with Yuki across the kitchen. You tell yourself it’s practical. Safe. Sensible.

When you glance at the jar, heavy with possibility, you know it’s none of those things. You’re still here for one reason only.

The weekend market is already buzzing when you and Yuki arrive, shoulder to shoulder in the lazy late-morning sun. Vendors are hawking their produce with theatrical gusto, baskets of tomatoes and eggplants gleaming under striped awnings. You tug your tote bag higher on your shoulder and try to look like this is just another errand, not some weirdly domestic ritual you’ve fallen into with your best friend-slash-boss. “Which one first?” Yuki asks, scanning the rows of stalls like he’s plotting a battle strategy.

“Whichever one isn’t going to tempt you into buying another box of mushrooms we don’t have fridge space for,” you shoot back.

His mouth curves upward. “That’s very specific. Almost like it already happened.”

“It did. Last month. You held them like a newborn.”

“They were good mushrooms.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, weaving through the crowd. There’s an ease to this—how you match each other’s pace without thinking, how he hands you a sample of melon before even tasting it himself. The vendor grins at the exchange, as though the two of you are some couple straight out of a weekend slice-of-life film. You ignore the implication and bite into the melon, pretending the sweetness on your tongue is the only thing worth noticing. “Thoughts?” Yuki asks, expectant.

“It’s good. Very… melon-y.”

“That’s profound. Truly your culinary school tuition at work.”

You elbow him lightly, earning a laugh that draws a curious glance or two. He doesn’t seem to care, and you pretend not to either. Later, while you’re considering a stack of strawberries, he appears at your side with skewers of yakitori, one already half-gone. He holds out the other without ceremony. “Lunch.”

“You just couldn’t wait?”

“Chef’s privilege.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker with mischief as you take the skewer from his hand. You mutter a thanks around your first bite, trying not to acknowledge the fact that you’re sharing food in a way that feels intimate.

You keep telling yourself this isn’t a date. You’re here for produce, for scouting local vendors, for the sake of the restaurant. But then Yuki brushes a stray leaf off your shoulder without comment, and you wonder why the lie has to work so hard to convince you.

The market shifts sometime around noon, when the lazy sprawl of vendors and wandering locals turns into a slow-moving human tide. At first you think it’s just you getting bumped one too many times by an elbow or an overenthusiastic shopping bag, but then you notice Yuki’s face. That pinched look he wears when something irritates him but he hasn’t decided if it’s worth a fight. Spoiler: nine times out of ten, it isn’t.

He lingers closer than usual, not that you’re about to complain. His hand hovers once near the small of your back before he thinks better of it, retreating to the safety of his pockets. Instead he becomes a living barrier between you and the chaos of the crowd, always stepping a half second ahead of anyone who might jostle you. He’s subtle about it, or at least he thinks he is. You can read him too well. “You look like you’re about to start body-checking grandmas,” you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Relax, Yuki. I can handle a market crowd.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says. His eyes dart toward a group squeezing through the aisle, and his jaw ticks. “You’re short, people don’t see you. Easy to get pushed.”

There’s a warmth tucked in that blunt little statement, disguised as irritation. You let it hang in the air, unspoken, savoring it like the last bite of dessert. “Fine,” you grin. “Since you’re obviously seconds away from picking a fight with a produce stand, why don’t we bail? Early dinner?”

He exhales, relief hidden in the smallest curve of his mouth. “My place. Closer than yours. And I don’t want to carry all this stuff any farther.”

You arch a brow at the loaded grocery bags he’s holding in one hand, as if the weight of it is nothing but child’s play. “Uh-huh. Definitely not because you’d rather control the menu.”

You head for his apartment, tucked right next to Venti Due. Convenient for the workaholic. Yuki’s place isn’t new territory. By now, you can navigate it without even thinking. Keys tossed on the counter, shoes kicked by the door, sleeves already rolled to your elbows before Yuki’s even finished locking up. His place is small, but it feels lived-in. Warm. Familiar. The kind of space you drift into without ever needing to ask permission.

You’re already in the kitchen before he joins you, pulling a pan from its usual spot. “You do realize you’ve tricked me into more cooking after a full week of baking, right?” you say, giving him a look over your shoulder.

Yuki shrugs, as if that explains everything. “I’m not tricking. You volunteered. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” You set the pan on the stove, nudging him with your elbow when he crowds in beside you. “And what, exactly, did I volunteer for? Being your sous chef?”

He smirks, reaching for the garlic. “More like my commis.”

You make a face. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He tosses you the knife like it’s a challenge. You catch it easily, slicing into the cloves with more precision than he probably expected. He leans just close enough to watch, and you’re tempted to say something biting, but the way he’s looking at you—quietly impressed—makes you bite your tongue.

The rhythm comes easy, though. It always does with him. He stirs while you chop, you season while he tastes. The banter fills the cracks in the silence, steady as muscle memory. “So,” you say, flicking a piece of garlic at him, “what are we calling this masterpiece? Chef’s special?”

“Chef’s survival.”

“Catchy. Michelin will be begging.”

He laughs under his breath, and the sound sticks with you longer than it should. The apartment fills with the smell of browned garlic and olive oil, something simple and grounding. By the time pasta hits the pan, you’re both shoulder to shoulder, stealing tastes straight off each other’s forks. Dinner ends up being just that. Two spoons, one pan, and no patience for plating. Yuki passes you a bite, and you take it without hesitation, like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t something at all.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful, “I think we might actually be good at this whole cooking thing.”

“Finally noticed?” He chuckles, stealing the spoon back. “Took you long enough.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite smother the smile that follows. Sitting at his tiny table, sharing dinner out of the pan, it feels too easy. Too natural. And maybe that’s what makes it dangerous.

The bell above the café door jingles as the three of you step inside, the smell of espresso and roasted beans wrapping around you like a blanket. Jules makes a beeline for the counter, and Lando falls into step beside her, leaving you trailing with the quiet suspicion you’ve just been set up. “So,” Jules says with an innocence that fools no one, “Yuki seemed in a good mood last night. Wonder why.”

Lando, ever the accomplice, smirks. “Probably has something to do with a certain pastry chef who practically lives at his side.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something. “Wow. Stellar detective work. Truly groundbreaking analysis.”

Jules grins at you over her shoulder as she orders her usual oat latte. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it,” she insists. “You two are practically married already.”

You shoot her a look. “If we’re married, then I want half of Venti Due in the divorce.”

Lando nearly chokes on his laugh, stepping up to the counter to order. “That’s the spirit,” he says offhandedly, “but seriously. You should just date him. It’d save us all the suspense.”

You lean against the counter, the perfect picture of unimpressed. “Right. Because what a restaurant really needs is its manager and pastry chef combusting over a messy breakup. Brilliant idea, ten out of ten,” you bite out.

They exchange a look, conspiratorial in its silence, and you know they’re not about to drop it. You sip your coffee when it arrives and decide you’ve had enough. “You know what,” you say, your voice syrupy sweet, “I think you two should date. Jules, Lando—match made in heaven.”

That does it. Lando goes red immediately, fumbling with the sugar packets like they’re suddenly the most fascinating things in the world. Jules sputters mid-sip, coughing into her sleeve, eyes wide with something close to shame. You grin, mischievous, basking in the chaos. “See? Works every time.”

The walk back is blissfully quiet, the two of them still awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. You sip your coffee triumphantly, knowing you’ve just secured yourself at least a week’s reprieve from their meddling.

The coffee run conspirators are barely out of earshot when Yuki finds you back at the counter, sleeves rolled up again like the morning never ended. He raises an eyebrow, the kind of silent reprimand you’ve come to know far too well. “You could at least pretend to rest when you leave the building,” he says, not looking at you as he straightens a tray of glasses.

“Rest? Never heard of her,” you reply, grabbing a towel for no reason other than to look busy.

He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “One day you’ll thank me for trying to keep you alive.”

“Or curse you when I die of boredom,” you shoot back, and he laughs. Soft but warm, the kind that lingers longer than it should.

You let that moment slip past, choosing instead to busy yourself until George’s bark of laughter cuts through the room. He’s standing with Alex by the espresso machine, both of them suspiciously smug. You narrow your eyes just in time to see Alex slip a bill into George’s waiting hand. “Really?” you say, marching over. “Please tell me you’re not gambling on how long it takes for me to sass Yuki back.”

“Not exactly,” George says, unbothered as he tucks the money into his pocket. “But you two make it too easy.”

Alex shrugs, grin breaking across his face. “It’s good money. Don’t take it personally.”

“Don’t take it personally?” you repeat, scandalized. “You’re making a profit off my tragic, very professional, completely platonic working relationship?”

“Professional,” George repeats, and Alex snorts like that word’s the funniest punchline he’s heard all week.

You swivel to the nearest sane person: Oscar, nursing a mug of black coffee. “Tell me you’re not a part of this.”

He shakes his head, calm as ever. “Nope. I don’t bet.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, “if I had to calculate it, I’d say the odds of you and Yuki ending up together hover around… eighty-one percent? Maybe higher if you count the market trips. Those skew the data.”

You gape at him. “You’re supposed to be my ally.”

“I am,” he says. “I’m just being scientific.”

George and Alex are wheezing now, delighted by your misery. You throw your hands up. “Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by degenerates.”

With that, you storm off, exasperation trailing behind you like the aroma of coffee grounds. Strong, bitter, and impossible to shake. The shift winds down in its usual rhythm, the clang of pots fading into the background as Yuki does his end-of-day ritual. He moves through the kitchen, giving nods, comments, and the occasional dry joke that has everyone smiling despite their exhaustion. There’s something about the way the crew listens when he talks. Not stiff, not fearful, but attentive, like they’d follow him into battle if the battlefield were lined with stovetops and prep counters.

You hang back, waiting for your moment. All day, people have been throwing you into the ring, teasing you about him like it’s a group sport. You’ve deflected, joked, even tried to flip it back on them. Now, you plan to sneak in a jab of your own, something light, something that will finally even the score. When the last of the staff filters out, you sidle closer. “Big day for me,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Apparently I’m starring in a rom-com I didn’t audition for. Thought you’d like to congratulate me on my lead role.”

Yuki huffs a laugh, one hand tucking into the pocket of his apron. “You’re good at improvising. You’ll win Best Actress, no contest.”

You open your mouth to volley back, but then he adds, almost too casually, “Speaking of… I should get going. I have a blind date tonight.”

The words clatter to the floor between you, louder than the pans ever were. Your brain scrambles, reaching for something witty, something sharp. All you manage is a smile that feels too thin around the edges. “Wow,” you say, and your voice sounds a little too bright even to your own ears. “Someone’s adventurous.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s just dinner with a friend of a friend. Who knows, right?”

You nod, even though you want to shake your head until the whole idea falls out of the universe. “Right. Who knows.”

He gives you a small, easy smile before grabbing his things. “Don’t wait up.”

In the next moment, he’s gone—slipping out the back door, leaving you with the hum of the refrigerators and the hollow thump of your own heartbeat. You stay a moment longer than you should, staring at the empty space where he stood, then finally grab your bag and head out into the night.

You make a valiant attempt at salvaging the night, like it isn’t already slightly soured. Distraction is the name of the game: cleaning out the fridge, reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetical, then rearranged back to the order you actually use them in), watching half an episode of some cooking competition before realizing every contestant is making you think of Yuki anyway. You groan, flop dramatically on your couch, and eventually drag yourself to bed.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to fall asleep. It’s a text from Yuki. A TikTok link.

It’s a video of a cat swatting flour off a counter while the baker screams in horror. You snort so hard you have to clutch your chest. The fact that he thought of you—your flour-covered apron, your tendency to leave powdered sugar handprints everywhere—hits a little too close.

You reply with: That cat has better technique than you.

He answers quicker than you expect: Bold words from someone who once dropped an entire bag of cocoa powder on the floor.

You grin at your phone in the dark, but your thumbs hesitate before typing. Finally, you cave: So… how was the date?

Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then his reply comes, simple. There won’t be a second date.

Your stomach does a traitorous little flip. You squeeze your pillow and type back: Their loss.

His reply is slower this time, but it still arrives. Good night.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary, smiling despite yourself. Then, you type the words you mean and don’t mean all at once: Dream of me, Yukino.

I always do, comes his easy response, and you hold your phone to your chest as you feel the thump, thump, thump of your heart.

Chaos is not new to Venti Due, but today it feels like the world is testing how much caffeine-fueled patience one restaurant can hold. Orders are stacking faster than the ticket machine can spit them out, Alex looks one second away from throwing a pan, and Yuki’s temper is sparking like a gas stove with faulty wiring. You try to keep the rhythm, weaving between stations with that too-bright smile you wear when everything’s going to hell. “Table six says they’ve been waiting thirty minutes,” you announce, voice sugar-sweet, as if sugar could soften the blow.

“Tell them it’ll be thirty-one,” Yuki snaps, slamming a pan onto the burner. The clang echoes through the kitchen, and Alex mutters something sharp under his breath. Yuki hears it, of course. He always does.

“Say that louder, Albon,” Yuki challenges, eyes flicking up like knives. “To my fucking face.”

You slide between them, spatula in hand like it’s a peace offering. “Okay, gladiators, how about no one throws cookware today? Pots are expensive.” Your grin wobbles at the edges, but you keep it in place. Comic relief is your best weapon, even when you’re dying inside.

Alex scoffs, tossing chopped herbs with more force than necessary. “Tell your boyfriend to chill, then.”

Heat climbs up your neck, not just from the stoves. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he is very chill. He’s the definition of chill. Like a freezer.”

Yuki slants you a look that’s anything but chill, though his lips twitch like he almost wants to laugh. Almost. The kitchen keeps roaring, plates keep flying, and you keep tightrope-walking between Alex’s sarcasm and Yuki’s sharpness, pretending your heart isn’t racing for reasons that have nothing to do with service.

Oscar and Jules call in almost at the same time, their voices overlapping through the kitchen phone. You catch fragments—“table six wants their third refill five minutes ago,” “guy at four is snapping his fingers,” “if one more person says ‘extra crispy’ I’ll lose it.” Lovely soundtrack for a Friday night.

Yuki looks like he’s two seconds from ripping the apron off and walking out. His jaw’s set, his shoulders wound tight. You can practically hear the steam whistling from his ears. You know that look. You also know the last thing this kitchen needs is Mount Yuki erupting all over the line.

You step in, hand pressing lightly to the small of his back. A tether, a nudge. “George, pour some free wine, make it look like we’re generous saints,” you start.

Alex picks up what you’re putting down. He’s already yelling for Lando to bring out his shaker like it’s a weapon. “Whip up a couple of your science project cocktails,” Alex hollers. “If the drinks are colorful enough, maybe the customers will forget their existential despair.”

It’s not exactly Michelin-star crisis management, but it works. The edge in the air dulls. You feel Yuki breathe out beside you, his shoulders loosening. His hand finds yours, quick, almost stealthy, a squeeze hidden between moments. By the time anyone looks your way, he’s already back to pretending he’s unflappable, barking new orders like nothing happened.

You, of course, are left with your heart pounding harder than it has any right to during a dinner rush.

The aftermath of the shift looks like war survivors slumped against barstools. George has his head tilted back, eyes closed as if he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting. Jules is counting tips with the air of someone too tired to do math, mouthing numbers like they might bite her if she miscounts. Alex is sprawled over two chairs, dramatically near death, while Oscar taps away on his phone with the clinical detachment of someone who has already emotionally detached from the evening.

Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. Yuki is still standing, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he surveys the wreckage. Normally this is the part where he dissects every misstep, precision-knife sharp. You brace for it too, already preparing your counterarguments and deflections. Instead, he sighs. “Good work tonight, everyone.”

The silence that follows is so loud it could count as a new kind of noise pollution. Yuki continues, voice softer. “It was rough, but you all handled it. I know I was short-tempered. Alex, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks as if someone just offered him free real estate. “You’re… apologizing? To me?”

“Don’t make me take it back,” Yuki says flatly, but there’s no heat in it.

A ripple of muffled laughter moves through the room. The tension lightens, shoulders drop. Yuki turns to you. His eyes linger, steady. “And you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”

Cue the chorus of ooooooohs from the peanut gallery. George clutches his chest like he’s about to swoon. Jules mutters, “When’s the wedding?”

You roll your eyes and wave them off, forcing breeziness into your tone. “Don’t be dramatic. Yuki did great tonight.” You look at him deliberately, keeping it light but meaning it more than you should. “Seriously. You kept us all together, chef.”

For a moment, Yuki holds your gaze like he knows exactly what you mean, like he can hear all the words you don’t say. But then he clears his throat, turning back to the group, already moving on. The tips of his ears are a little red.

The spray of the sink is too loud, the plates too slick, and the kitchen too cramped to be having this conversation. Which is exactly why you’re having it now, with Oscar. Poor Oscar, elbows deep in soap suds, eyes wide like he can sense danger coming.

“I swear, he’s impossible,” you grunt, scrubbing at a plate like it personally wronged you. “Everyone else can see it. George, Alex, Jules, even Lando, and he barely notices anything. But Yuki? Nothing. Not even a flicker. How do you miss someone literally spelling it out for you with neon lights?”

Oscar clears his throat. “I don’t think anyone here is using neon lights.”

You flick suds at him. “You know what I mean. He’s oblivious. Painfully oblivious. Like, should I start carrying around a banner? Hire a skywriter?”

Oscar fumbles with a glass, nearly dropping it, and you swoop in to take it before disaster. He looks grateful, then immediately regretful that this means you’re still glaring at him. “You could just tell him?” he offers, voice small, like he knows it’s the worst possible suggestion.

“Brilliant. Revolutionary. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He winces. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m serious, though,” you sigh. “How do you even tell someone like him? He’s either going to laugh it off or think I’m joking. He never takes me seriously unless I’m yelling about oven temperatures.”

Oscar gives you a long, awkward blink, as if calculating whether it’s safer to keep quiet or offer more useless wisdom. “Maybe… yell about this, then?”

You throw your dish towel at his head. “You’re no help.”

He grins, half apologetic, half relieved you’re teasing again. “Didn’t think I would be.”

The dish pit is still warm with steam when you and Oscar finish the last stack of plates. Your hands smell faintly of lemon soap and regret, though mostly the soap. Oscar is drying the last tray of glasses with all the care of someone performing delicate surgery, which makes it an easy moment for him to look at you sidelong.

When you move to leave, tugging your apron off, Oscar catches you just before the door. His voice is casual, but it lands with a strange weight. “You know, you’re pretty oblivious yourself.”

You turn, brows pulling together. “Oblivious about what?”

He just shrugs, retreating back to stack the glasses. “Figure it out.”

The words scratch at the back of your mind all the way into the night, but they don’t get far. Because as soon as you’re free, your phone buzzes with a message from Yuki: Dinner? My treat.

Oscar’s warning evaporates like steam in the dish pit. You don’t hesitate. Sure.

Yuki is already waiting on the sidewalk when you show up, still in your work clothes and very aware that you smell faintly like fryer oil and espresso. You throw your arms out dramatically, as if you’re presenting evidence at a trial. “I didn’t even have time to freshen up,” you announce. “I’m a walking PSA for why service industry workers need hazard pay.”

Yuki just shrugs, easy grin sliding onto his face. “You always look pretty.”

That’s it. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just lobbed a grenade straight into your ribcage. You do the only logical thing and roll your eyes, pretending the heat in your cheeks is from the streetlights. “Pretty tragic, maybe,” you mutter, but Yuki’s already walking ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s perfectly pleased with himself.

The two of you gravitate toward one of the food trucks parked down the block, another one of those rituals you’ve fallen into without ever actually planning it. After nights at Venti Due, when the air inside feels too tight and the noise clings to your skin, you both need the antidote. Greasy paper plates, cheap plastic stools, food that drips down your fingers. It’s become its own tradition, like a sort of rebellion against the polished chaos you both live in during shifts.

You sit side by side on stools that wobble dangerously if you breathe too hard, elbows brushing as you dig into whatever fried concoction you’ve ordered this time. Yuki nudges his shoulder into yours as he chews, expression sly. “This is balance, right? Five-star kitchen by day, suspicious street meat by night.”

You point your fork at him. “Suspicious? Please,” you tease. “This is haute cuisine compared to the stuff I eat when you’re not around.”

He laughs, head tilting back, and the sound pulls something warm through your chest. The street hums around you—passing cars, the hiss of the grill inside the truck, the faint buzz of a neon sign overhead—but it all fades when Yuki looks at you again, still smiling like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he does, and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

Tonight, Yuki actually going front-of-house to greet guests himself. No clipped instructions to Jules, no waving you over. He’s personally out there, polite smile and all, which can only mean these guests are the kind of people that matter. You lean toward George, eyes following the scene like it’s prime-time television. “Alright, ten bucks says it’s a Michelin inspector.”

George smirks, polishing a wine glass he has no intention of using. “Fifteen says it’s his secret girlfriend,” he says, and you try to ignore the twang in your chest.

“Twenty says you’re both wrong,” Lando chimes, “and it’s just some old man who taught him how to cook noodles.”

Before George can counter, Yuki turns, spotting you. “Come here,” he calls, casual but with the edge of someone about to put you on the spot.

You shoot George a look that says pay up before heading over. When you get there, you freeze in your tracks. Pierre Gasly and Isack Hadjar. Head chef and sous chef of Alpha Tauri, one of those French bistros that food magazines worship like a minor deity. They’re sitting at one of Venti Due’s cramped tables like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Uh,” you manage, because your brain is still buffering. “Hi.”

Yuki, apparently thrilled to be the cause of your speech malfunction, gestures between you. “These are my friends. Pierre, Isack. This is—well, this is who keeps this place from falling apart.”

“Flattering,” you exhale, before catching Pierre’s grin. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who would charm his way through both a dinner service and a black-tie gala. Isack, quieter, has the sharp eyes of someone cataloguing everything in the room.

“Ah, so you are the famous right hand,” Pierre says smoothly, his accent making it sound even more like a compliment.

“Famous for what, exactly?” you ask, because sarcasm is easier than admitting your ears are warm.

“Putting up with Yuki,” Isack deadpans, which earns an actual laugh from Yuki and nearly makes you choke.

Isack and Pierre don’t just order like regular customers. They order like men on a mission. No glancing at menus, no awkward pauses. Just a quick exchange in French—one you don’t need to understand to recognize as fluent culinary shorthand—before Pierre rattles off their requests.

It’s not the safe pasta route or a token pizza either. No, these two go straight for desserts, as if they came here with a purpose. Cannoli with a yuzu mascarpone filling. Matcha tiramisu layered with delicate ladyfingers soaked in sake instead of espresso. A chestnut mont blanc with candied ginger woven into its spiral. Even a semifreddo that borrows from kakigōri, shaved ice folded into the cream and studded with shards of caramelized sesame.

You jot it all down, already picturing the chaos this order is about to cause in the kitchen. Dessert-first people are a different breed. When you step back through the kitchen doors, you brace yourself. You pass the ticket along with the kind of caution reserved for live grenades. To your surprise, nobody panics. Lando perks up, muttering something about having wanted an excuse to torch meringue anyway. Alex groans, but you know he’ll secretly enjoy the challenge.

And Yuki. Yuki tries very hard not to look smug as he passes through the kitchen, glancing at the ticket and then at you. His face is the picture of composure, but you know him well enough to see it—the proud little tilt of his chin, the quick dart of his eyes toward you like he’s saying, See? They trust you. They trust us.

You ignore him, or at least you pretend to, focusing instead on plating. The tiramisu layers neatly. The cannoli shells crackle when you pipe in the filling. Each dish hits the pass like punctuation marks in a sentence you didn’t realize you were writing until now.

When you finally carry them out, Isack and Pierre are waiting, watching like hawks. They murmur their approval before forks even touch plates. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to see why Yuki looks so proud.

After the sweetest hour of their life, the Frenchmen’s plates are cleared and their wine glasses sit half-full. Isack leans back with a satisfied sigh. “We want to compliment the pastry chef,” he declares, pronouncing it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at Yuki, half-expecting him to wave you off and take the credit himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward you with the faintest smile, almost as if to say, go on then. You do, your apron still dusted with sugar, sweat threading through the eggshell white of your jacket.

Isack greets you first, his grin boyish and enthusiastic. “Those desserts were brilliant. Clean, balanced, but playful. The panna cotta? It tasted magnifique.”

Pierre nods in agreement, sharper in his delivery but no less genuine. “You’ve got a strong hand. That miso tiramisu was clever without trying too hard. You should be proud.”

You mumble a thank you, cheeks hot, and when the tip comes it’s far too generous to brush off as a gesture of politeness. You try to slide it back discreetly, but Isack just waves you off, already standing to bid Yuki good night.

Pierre lingers a moment longer. He studies you the way chefs do when they’ve spotted talent they don’t want to miss. “Listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “My pastry chef left two weeks ago. I need someone sharp, inventive. Someone like you.”

You gape, caught off guard, but Pierre presses on. “I know you’re loyal to Yuki. But Alpha Tauri pays better, and I can open doors for you. Connections, stages in Paris, maybe more.” He slides a small card across the table, his name embossed, the number beneath it neat and exact. Pierre Gasly, Head Chef of Alpha Tauri. “Think about it.”

With a final nod, he tucks his hands into his coat pockets and heads off to join Isack. The card is still warm in your palm when you head back toward the kitchen, rehearsing excuses you’ll never have to use. Except Yuki’s waiting, leaned against the doorframe like he’s been there the whole time, eyes sharper than usual.

“What did Pierre want?” he asks casually, which is how you know he’s not being casual at all.

You blink too quickly. “Nothing. Just… you know. French people talk a lot.”

Yuki raises a brow. “Talk a lot, or flirt a lot?”

Your laugh comes out too high-pitched, too guilty, and you instantly want to sink into the nearest stockpot. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was just—” You wave a vague hand, failing to find a word less incriminating than ‘offering me a job.’

“So he did try to ask you out.”

The fact that he says it like a joke makes it worse. Your laugh doubles down, nervous and unconvincing. Yuki narrows his eyes, clearly clocking every octave of panic in your voice. He’s not a jealous type, not really, but he’s also not great at hiding it when it slips out. Right now, it’s all over him, disguised poorly as humor.

“Relax,” you say hastily, brushing past him with an overdone roll of your eyes. “No one’s asking me out, okay? You’re imagining things.”

Still, the weight of Pierre’s card in your apron pocket is impossible to ignore. Instead of tossing it in the trash like you should, you slide it deeper, tucking it away where Yuki can’t see.

You’ve known from the start that Pierre’s offer would always be a no.

Not because it isn’t tempting—better pay, prestige, connections most chefs would sell their knives for—but because you already decided your next step wouldn’t be working under someone else’s name. It would be your own place, your own kitchen. The thought is terrifying, but it’s yours. So Pierre’s generous card burns in your pocket, not with possibility, but with a strange sort of ache. The ache isn’t about Alpha Tauri at all. It’s about Venti Due, and how, no matter how many times you swear you’ll eventually move on, you can’t seem to imagine leaving it. Leaving Yuki. That’s the part you don’t say out loud.

You spiral instead, eyes glazed as you plate tiramisu for table six, your thoughts chewing themselves into knots. You barely hear George asking if you’ve gone deaf. You barely register Jules dropping an empty wine glass into the sink. It’s like everything’s muffled, until Yuki’s voice cuts through the fog. “You’re distracted.” He says it like an accusation, sharp enough to slice through your reverie. His brow furrows as he studies you, like you’ve been caught cheating on a test.

You manage a laugh, which comes off as shaky and thin. “Just tired. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” Yuki wipes his hands on a towel, stepping closer, his gaze stubbornly locked on you. He’s trying to read you, as if peeling back layers with his eyes alone.

You shrug, picking up another plate, anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “Really. Nothing’s wrong.”

He doesn’t buy it, not for a second. You can tell by the look on his face. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until he finally exhales and mutters, “If you say so.”

You keep your eyes on the desserts, but you feel him still there, hovering, unwilling to leave you to whatever storm you’ve walked into. It’s why the sting hits before you even realize what you’ve done. Your hand makes contact with the oven door, and the heat bites instantly. You curse loud enough to make the whole kitchen snap their heads toward you. Yuki is back at your side in seconds, rattling off a string of reprimands in Japanese and English like you’ve personally offended every kitchen safety rule in existence.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, snatching your wrist up before you can cradle it against your chest. “How many times have I told you to—”

“I know, I know!” you cut him off, wincing as the burn throbs. “I was distracted, okay?”

“Distracted,” he repeats, unimpressed. “You could have lost your hand.”

“Pretty sure I still have it,” you say, trying for humor, though your voice shakes just enough to betray you. The corners of your eyes sting, and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Yuki catches it immediately. He’s quiet for a beat, just studying your face, before his shoulders drop in a heavy sigh. The lecture dies on his tongue. Without another word, he tugs you toward the back, past the prep stations, and swings open the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer. The cold rush of air hits you like a wall, prickling your skin, but he’s already pulling you inside.

“Here,” he says simply, guiding your injured hand toward a shelf stacked with frozen containers. He presses the burn gently against the icy surface, holding it there with his own hand covering yours. The temperature bites, but it’s a welcome relief compared to the searing heat from minutes ago.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing in the blue-white hum of the freezer, his fingers brushing against yours as he steadies your hand. His breath fogs in the chill, and you can feel his warmth even in the cold. “You scare me when you do stuff like this,” Yuki admits quietly, his usual sharpness dulled to something softer. You look up at him, ready with another joke to lighten the mood, but the way he’s watching you makes the words stick in your throat.

The freezer hums around you, cold air rolling over your skin as you press your burned hand against the icy metal shelf. Yuki’s brow is furrowed, and though he’s still muttering under his breath about how reckless you are, his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s waiting for you to break again.

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” he asks, softer this time. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”

“Like I said, I’m just tired,” you say with a shake of your head.

“Liar.” He says it plainly, no bite, just fact. He crosses his arms, resting his weight against the shelf stacked with tubs of gelato. “You think I don’t notice when you’re lying? You think I don’t notice anything?”

Your silence only makes him sigh. His shoulders drop, and when he looks at you again, there’s something raw in his expression.

“Don’t go,” he says.

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats, firmer now, though his voice trembles at the edges. “Don’t… don’t date Pierre. Don’t move to Alpha Tauri. Don’t leave Venti Due.”

The words stick in your throat. You want to remind him of the truth—that your dream has never been someone else’s kitchen, that it’s always been your own patisserie. That Pierre’s offer doesn’t matter because your loyalty was never up for sale. You open your mouth to say all of it.

But then Yuki takes a step closer. His hands hover like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like touching you will make everything collapse, but his voice breaks when he whispers, “Don’t leave me.”

That’s what undoes you. Because the way he says it, it isn’t about work, or restaurants, or loyalty. It’s about him. About the late nights and food trucks and the way he always looks for you in a crowded kitchen. About every joke and fight and moment that’s been stacking up between you like bricks to a house you didn’t realize you were building.

Before you can get a word out, his resolve cracks completely. Yuki leans in, quick and desperate, and his mouth finds yours in the cold of the freezer, his kiss tasting like salt and nerves. You don’t immediately reciprocate, your brain blanking at the feel of finally getting what you’ve always wanted.

Yuki pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours. His breath ghosts against your lips, uneven, and his eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s caught himself in some kind of crime. For once, he looks nervous—almost shy, like he’s already regretting how impulsive he was. The great Yuki Tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

Before he can take it back, before he can wrap his walls back up around himself, you lean in, kissing him harder, catching him before he even thinks of retreat.

He makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, a half-surprised, half-helpless noise, and then he’s melting into you, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension for years. His hands hover awkwardly before finally finding their way to your waist, fingertips pressing lightly as if afraid you might vanish if he holds on too tightly. The kiss stretches, breaks for a breath, then finds its rhythm again.

In between breaths, in between the brush of his lips over yours, he murmurs, voice ragged and unguarded, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” The honesty in it hits you harder than the kiss itself.

You laugh against his mouth, playful even as your pulse threatens to sprint out of your chest. “Then you’d better make up for lost time.” Your words spark something in him, teasing a spark into flame.

It’s like lighting a fuse. He kisses you again, firmer this time, urgency curling at the edges, no hesitation left. There’s a shift—something determined, something fierce—like he’s trying to prove he means every word, every unspoken thought he’s ever swallowed around you. His thumb strokes the side of your waist, almost absent, almost reverent, and he leans into you as if he’s finally decided this is real, and he’s not about to waste another second.

The cold air of the freezer doesn’t stand a chance against the heat rising between you. The clink of metal shelves and trill of the fan fade into background noise, unimportant, irrelevant. All you can feel is him, close enough that the world seems narrowed to this exact point in space, this kiss, this gravity. For the first time all night, you’re not thinking about burns, or job offers, or all the ways you keep talking yourself into staying at Venti Due.

Right now, there’s only him, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that everything is about to change.

It’s Monday morning, and the first thing you register is that this isn’t your ceiling. You blink at the unfamiliar cracks, the faint water stain that kind of resembles a turtle, and the sudden realization hits: you’re not at your place. You’re at Yuki’s.

The second thing you register is the solid weight beside you, the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still asleep, hair mussed, lips parted in the kind of slack, unguarded way that makes you grin like an idiot. The third thing—your feet are freezing, and you know exactly what to do about that. You wiggle closer under the covers and press your icy toes against his shins. Predictably, he jolts, groaning like you’ve just personally betrayed him.

“Why are you like this?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled into the pillow.

“Because it’s effective,” you reply, unapologetic as you burrow into his warmth. “Human hot water bottle. Don’t complain.”

He cracks one eye open, glaring in the most halfhearted way possible. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re still letting me stay here,” you counter, tracing lazy circles on his chest as if that proves your point. “So, really, who’s the idiot?”

For a second, it seems like he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, Yuki shifts, catching you completely off guard as he flips you onto your back with a speed that makes you squeal and laugh all at once.

“Wait—” you start, but he’s already grinning, playful as ever in the low morning light. “You asked for this,” he says simply, and then he disappears beneath the covers.

Your laughter pitches higher, mixing with a breathless kind of disbelief as you grab at the sheets, your toes curling now for a very different reason.

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen before you’ve even pulled yourself together enough to stand. Yuki’s already moving around, grinding beans, flicking the switch, pouring milk. He doesn’t ask how you take yours; he just sets the cup down in front of you the way you like it, like he’s been keeping track all along. You try not to look too pleased about it, but he catches the gleam in your eye anyway.

“Don’t,” he warns, though it’s half-asleep and half-affectionate, the kind of voice that tells you he’s already lost whatever argument you’re about to start.

You sip the coffee, burn your tongue a little, and grin through it. “I should probably swing by my place, grab clothes, you know,” you say instead of teasing him. “Just to avoid looking like a scandal walking into work.”

His frown is subtle but obvious. “Why? You can just wear what you have.”

“Right, because showing up in the same outfit as last night isn’t suspicious at all.” You tap his cup with yours like you’re toasting him for being so ridiculous. “Let me grab something fresh, then I’ll come back. It’s a quick pitstop.”

He sighs like you’ve just told him you’re moving continents. “You can only be ten minutes late. No more than that.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just long enough to watch the tips of his ears turn red. “I’ll take that as girlfriend privilege,” you half-joke.

The word hangs in the air, light and heavy all at once. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart to yours, startled before settling into something softer. He tries to hide it by taking a very long sip of his coffee, but you see it. The flush that spreads up his neck, the smile he can’t quite hide.

It might be your new favorite way to start a Monday.

The moment you step into Venti Due, the weight of the kitchen settles on your shoulders the same way it always has. The gleam of pans, the rush of prep, the scent of yeast and sugar all return you to familiar ground. Professional. Focused. The kind of atmosphere where there’s no room for slip-ups, especially not the kind that involves stolen kisses and warm glances across stainless steel counters.

You and Yuki made the unspoken agreement clear last night, punctuated with a nod and the brush of his knuckles against yours before he unlocked his front door. Don’t tell the others yet. Don’t make this into a thing. Keep it quiet.

When you pass him in the kitchen this morning, it’s nothing more than a muttered “Morning” and an acknowledging tilt of his chin. He’s every inch the head chef, doling out orders with clipped precision, demanding sauces be reduced faster, knives sharper, plating tighter. You’re every inch his pastry chef, shoulders squared as you pipe cream with steady hands, pretending your chest isn’t buzzing with the memory of his mouth on yours.

There are the moments in between. The way he adjusts the oven timer behind you when he doesn’t need to, close enough that his hip briefly presses against yours. The way your hand lingers an extra second when you pass him a spoon for tasting. The barely-there smile that flickers across his face before he turns to yell at someone else. No one notices, or maybe they do and they’re too busy to care.

And then there’s the freezer.

You both slip in under the guise of checking stock, of making sure the deliveries match the invoices. Inside, it’s a hush of chilly air and dim light, the hum of machinery wrapping around you like a secret. He presses his forehead to yours, hands skimming your waist.

“I’ve got éclairs setting,” you whine, “and you’ve got steaks searing.”

“Don’t care,” he breathes, lips cold from the air as he kisses you deeply.

By the time you both step back out, it’s like nothing happened. The thread of something softer pulls under every clipped instruction, every quiet acknowledgment. Professional. Focused. But different now. Different in a way you can’t hide from yourself, even if you can from everyone else.

The market looks exactly the same as every Saturday. Stalls lined with crates of tomatoes that still smell of vines, herbs piled high in baskets, the air thick with the mingling scent of bread, flowers, and espresso. But you notice how different it feels with Yuki’s hand looped through yours. It’s casual, almost lazy, the way his thumb rubs the back of your hand as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Spoiler: he’s definitely aware.

You pause at the usual olive oil stand, and the vendor offers up tiny wooden spoons dipped in golden green. You lift yours to your lips, and Yuki leans in behind you, bracing his chin against your shoulder so he can taste off the same spoon. “You’re just stealing my sample,” you protest, laughing.

“It tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, lips brushing too close to your skin for you to take it as anything but intentional.

At the cheese stand, he hovers closer than usual, one hand resting at the small of your back as if someone’s about to bump into you every other second. When you roll your eyes at his overprotectiveness, he murmurs, “Crowded. Don’t want to lose you.”

The sourdough stall is the last stop. The vendor, who’s been watching you two banter for years, smiles knowingly. “Finally together, huh? Took you long enough.” Before you can respond, she pushes two warm loaves toward you. “On the house. Congratulations.”

Yuki flushes bright red and mumbles something under his breath in Japanese you can’t quite catch. You thank her quickly, clutching the loaves to your chest, and turn to him with a grin. “Guess it’s obvious.”

He groans, trying to hide his face behind the bread bag. “We should have told her ourselves.”

“Too late. We’ve been exposed.” You lean closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “At least we get free carbs out of it.”

That makes him laugh, finally looking back at you. The sound is delicate, unguarded, and it carries in the crisp morning air. He squeezes your hand, voice quiet but certain. “Worth it.”

You’re mid–bite of a pastry sample when Yuki makes some comment that has you laughing too loud, the kind of sound that makes a few heads turn. He squeezes your hand, and you’re about to shove another piece of croissant in his mouth when you freeze. Because there, weaving between stalls with all the casual energy in the world, are Jules and Oscar.

Panic hits you faster than the sugar rush. You tug Yuki’s sleeve. “Hide.”

“What?”

“Hide!” you hiss, already dragging him behind a stack of crates filled with apples. He nearly trips over your feet but follows, and the two of you crouch down like fugitives in the middle of a farmers’ market.

Yuki whispers, “We look insane.”

“You’d rather they see us holding hands?” You peek through the gaps between crates, spying the two servers.

Jules is animated, talking with her hands, while Oscar listens, amused. You lean closer to Yuki, lowering your voice. “I thought Jules was with Lando.”

Yuki frowns, squinting at them. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

You glance at him, incredulous. “How do you not notice? We literally work with these people every day.”

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I only ever pay attention to your personal life.”

That knocks the air right out of your chest. The worst part? He says it so casually, like it’s not the most devastating thing anyone’s ever whispered to you while hiding behind apples. Heat crawls up your neck and you smack his back lightly, trying to cover it up with indignation. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He’s smiling, and you’re doomed.

You straighten up, grabbing his wrist and tugging. Thankfully, Oscar and Jules are already off in some far end of the market. “That’s it,” you declare. “We’re going back to your place.”

“Now?” He tries to sound surprised, but the spark in his eyes gives him away.

“Yes, now.” You lace your fingers with his again, quickening your pace as you begin to haul him away from the market. “Before I combust from secondhand sweetness.”

“Pretty sure that’s firsthand sweetness,” Yuki teases, but he doesn’t let go.

By the time you get back to Yuki’s apartment, you’re already on him like you’ve been starved for weeks instead of just hours. Buttons, zippers, the trail of your jacket. It all blurs. You can’t remember who stumbles first against the wall, only that you’re laughing into his mouth while trying not to trip over your own shoes. By the time you reach the couch, you’re both half-breathless and entirely lost to it.

Later, once the world slows down, you’re stretched out on that same couch, cheek pressed into the curve of a pillow. Your body is still buzzing with the kind of lazy satisfaction that makes the ceiling look prettier than usual. Yuki lies below you, close enough that your fingers brush his when you move.

Of course, it’s not new—the wanting him part. You’ve always wanted him. You remember culinary school, how your heart raced when he’d glance over your shoulder to critique your knife cuts, his voice gruff and teasing like he had a personal grudge against julienning carrots. You remember thinking you’d put up with a thousand more lectures just to feel his breath on your neck again. So maybe it isn’t such a mystery why you agreed to Venti Due in the first place. Professional growth, sure, but also the chance to be near him. Maybe you’re only admitting that to yourself now, in the afterglow, when your guard’s too low to bother with excuses.

You tilt your head toward him, breaking the silence with the most important question you can think of. “What’s for dinner?”

He hums like he hasn’t thought about it, though his lips twitch like he’s already amused by your impatience. “Probably just takeout.”

You glare at him, mock-offended. “After all this effort I put in today, that’s the best you can offer me? Takeout?”

Yuki smiles widely, turning toward you with the kind of look that makes your stomach flip all over again. “I’m trying to save my energy for something else.”

Before you can fire back with another quip, he shifts, rolling smoothly on top of you. The weight of him pins you down, and suddenly it’s hard to remember what you’d even asked in the first place.

Business has been busier than usual, and you know exactly why. You’ve been experimenting more, letting yourself be bolder with flavors, textures, and presentations. The display case looks like a technicolor dream: glossy tarts crowned with jewel-bright slices of candied citrus, delicate choux puffs dusted with pistachio crumble, and a mousse cake layered so neatly it looks like it belongs in a glossy food magazine. Customers linger, phones out, photos taken before the first bite, and you can’t deny the thrill that rushes through you every time someone swoons over something you made.

Alex notices too. Of course he does. He watches as another pair of customers leave, practically glowing with satisfaction. “I’ll admit it,” he says, his mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Your desserts have been next-level lately. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s working.”

You feign innocence, shrugging as you wipe down the counter. “What, am I not allowed to have creative bursts every once in a while?”

Alex narrows his eyes, still smiling. “Sure, sure. But usually those bursts don’t line up with you glowing all week,” he jabs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You roll your eyes, but Yuki, standing beside you, is visibly stiffer than usual. He clears his throat, a little too quickly. “She’s just working harder. Nothing weird about that.”

“Right,” Alex drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Totally normal. Just suddenly decided to reinvent the pastry case out of nowhere. No possible explanation besides ‘working harder.’”

You and Yuki exchange a quick glance—yours amused, his panicked—and you can’t help but cover a laugh with your hand. “Maybe inspiration struck,” you say, aiming for breezy.

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, clearly unconvinced but entertained. He points between the two of you as he turns to leave. “Whatever it is, keep it up. But don’t think for a second I’m not onto something.”

Yuki mutters under his breath once Alex is gone, “He’s too nosy.”

You grin, nudging him with your elbow. “Relax. Deny, deny, deny. It’s practically foolproof.”

Yuki shoots you a look that’s half irritation, half affection, and you can’t resist leaning close enough to add, “Besides, if Alex thinks my pastry game is suspiciously good, wait until he tries what I’ve been practicing at your place.”

A couple of days and a dozen more pastries later, the bell over the door jingles and you glance up, already halfway into your automatic “Welcome to Venti Due” when you freeze. Standing in the doorway is Doriane. You know her instantly. The same bright smile, the same blonde hair. Culinary school feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago, but here she is, bustling toward you as if no time has passed at all.

“Are you kidding me?!” she squeals, throwing her arms around you. You laugh, startled, returning the hug. The sound of her voice alone drags you back to late nights in the pastry kitchen, sharing half-burnt éclairs and bad coffee while cramming for exams.

You pull back, a little breathless. “Dori. What the hell are you doing here?”

She beams. “Scouting. My bakery just hit one year. Can you believe it? One year, and we’re still standing.” She launches into chatter, telling you about her staff, her favorite customers, the early mornings that nearly killed her and the croissants that made it all worth it.

You smile, you nod, you laugh where appropriate. You mean it—you are happy for her. You are. But somewhere under your ribs something twists, sharp and unexpected, like a knife you didn’t realize you’d been carrying. You keep your hands busy twirling your kitchen towel, because if you don’t, you’ll have to look at her and admit to the ache in your chest.

She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and ignores it. Either way, she hugs you again before she leaves, clutching your arm like she used to. “I’m so glad you’re still you,” she says warmly, then tilts her head. “Though, honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here. I always thought you’d have your own place by now.”

Her words land heavier than they should, sticking to your skin long after she’s gone. You stand there, smile fading slow in the sterile kitchen you’ve overstayed in. For the first time in a long time, you wonder if you’ve been hiding behind the safety of Venti Due, behind the steady hum of it—and maybe even behind Yuki—longer than you realized.

You don’t notice the dip in your mood right away, but Yuki does. He’s running through the day’s feedback, voice steady and precise as always, while you’re staring off at a smudge on the stainless-steel counter like it holds the secrets of the universe. Normally, you’d be volleying back with sarcastic commentary or reminding him he sounds like an overzealous Hell’s Kitchen knockoff. Today, though, your mind is somewhere else, and Yuki’s sharp enough to take note of it.

He doesn’t call you out in front of everyone. He’s too careful for that, too considerate. But when the night winds down, the last tables cleared, and you’re elbow-deep in soapy water, he finally makes his move. You don’t hear him until his arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin settling against your shoulder like it’s been waiting there all day.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, not an accusation but an observation. The kind that makes your chest feel tight. “What’s wrong?”

You force a small laugh, too brittle to pass as genuine but hopefully enough to slip by. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you fib, eyes still fixed on the plates in front of you.

He hums, the kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t believe you, but he’s not going to push. Instead, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, warm and unhurried, a promise tucked into the gesture. “I’ll make you soup.”

The words melt something in you and shatter something else all at once. You nod, letting him believe it, letting him take care of you in the way he knows how. All the while, your heart sinks under the weight of the lie you’ve chosen. The one you’re telling the man you love.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

That’s how Yuki starts, right after you’ve both trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Dinner dishes from your late shift still linger faintly in your clothes, and you brace yourself, heart thudding like he’s about to confirm every fear you’ve been carrying. This is it, you think. He’s caught on. He knows you’ve been off for the past few weeks. Maybe he’s about to call you out for lying, for being distant.

Except then he kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and says it all-too plainly, “I’ve been thinking about expanding Venti Due.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Expanding?”

He nods, totally serious, as if he didn’t just blindside you with a bomb. “Yeah. I’ve been eyeing a property not far from here,” he informs you. “Smaller, more intimate. Different vibe, but still under the name.”

You’re still standing there with your arms crossed, waiting for the trick, waiting for the moment he circles back to the thing that’s been gnawing at you all this time. He doesn’t. He just moves around the apartment like he’s casually announcing he bought a new blender.

“Yuki.” You narrow your eyes. “You can’t just drop the word ‘expansion’ like it’s no big deal. That’s—”

“A big deal,” he finishes for you, smiling faintly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Me?”

“Of course you.” He says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, it throws you off balance. Then he meets your gaze squarely, no hesitation this time. “Because I want you to be the head chef of the branch.”

You blink at him. Head chef. At a branch of Venti Due. The words taste surreal. “Yuki, I can’t,” you say quickly, as though cutting him off before the idea can breathe.

His brows crease. “Can’t? What do you mean you can’t? You can.”

“No, really—”

“Yes, really.” He walks back to you, already in full persuasive mode, like you’ve thrown down a gauntlet he refuses to leave on the ground. “You’re brilliant. Your desserts bring people through the door. Half the reason Venti Due has a line every Saturday is because of you. Don’t even start pretending otherwise.”

You laugh, though it comes out sharper than you intend. “Flattery noted, but this isn’t about that.”

He gestures with his hands in that animated way he does when he’s mid-rant. “You think I don’t see it? The way you’re always experimenting, always pushing,” he presses. “You’d make a perfect head chef. You’ve been ready for it for a while now.”

You match his steps across the living room. “You’re not listening,” you plead. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“Then what is it?” He stops pacing and turns to you, frustrated but still trying to soften it with that boyish insistence, with that love for you that you don’t quite feel deserving of at this very moment. “Because from where I stand, the only thing holding you back is you.”

The words sting more than they should, and you feel the knot that’s been lodged in your chest all day finally snap. “What’s holding me back is that this isn’t my dream!” The volume surprises both of you. You’re breathing harder, anger and something raw bleeding through your voice as you go on, “I didn’t bust my ass in culinary school so I could run someone else’s restaurant. I always meant to open my own bakery. Mine, Yuki. Not yours. Not Venti Due. Mine. You’ve known this from the very start.”

You don’t even mean to blurt it out. The words just slip out: “I’ve had the money for over a year.”

Yuki freezes. His head snaps toward you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Over a year?”

“Savings. Investors. The whole thing’s been ready. I could’ve signed a lease last spring if I wanted.”

The air shifts. Yuki’s quiet, too quiet, and when he finally speaks his voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid of stepping on glass. “Then why haven’t you?”

You swallow, throat tight. The truth pulses at the edge of your tongue, desperate and obvious: because of you. Because you’re here, because every morning at Venti Due means seeing him, because the thought of leaving feels like ripping out a piece of yourself. But you don’t say any of that. You can’t. So instead you shrug, trying to pass it off like it’s nothing. “Timing wasn’t right. That’s all.”

Yuki studies you, eyes narrowing, and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well. His lips press into a thin line, and then, almost hesitantly, he admits, “I thought… maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Your chin lifts at that. “Changed my mind?”

His gaze flicks away, somewhere toward the window where the city hums indifferent outside. “About the bakery. About leaving Venti Due. Especially now.” His voice dips softer, a strange mix of vulnerable and tentative, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to want what he’s hinting at. “Now that we’re… us.”

Because you’re dating. Because you’re together. He’d thought his dreams were suddenly—what? Weightier than yours? Worth bucking for? You reach for your bag without really thinking about it, the weight of Yuki’s words still pressing against your chest. It feels like white-hot humiliation, threading itself with frustration that refuses to dissolve. His apartment, usually warm and safe, suddenly feels stifling, every wall closing in on you.

“Where are you going?” Yuki’s voice is quick, alarmed. You hear the shift of his footsteps, him crossing the room toward you, and you don’t even have to look up to know the crease between his brows has deepened.

“Home,” you say, short, clipped. The bag strap slides over your shoulder, a shield you cling to. You’re not even sure if you mean your apartment or just somewhere that isn’t here.

His hand reaches for your wrist, the way it always does when he wants to tether you to him, but this time you twist free. Your heart stutters at the shock on his face. He wasn’t expecting that. Neither were you.

“Wait,” he tries again, gentler now. “Don’t do this. Don’t just walk out.”

You shake your head. “I’m not doing anything dramatic, Yuki. I just need air.”

“Air here,” he insists, stepping closer, his tone walking that line between pleading and commanding. “Stay. We can—”

But you take a step back, clutching your bag strap tighter, almost like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Not right now.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, but it cuts anyway. His mouth closes on whatever he was about to say.

The silence that follows is thick, the kind that tastes of all the words unsaid. You manage to leave without looking back, even though every part of you wants to.

Venti Due sings with its usual rhythm: pans clinking, knives against boards, the soft hiss of burners catching. You’re in sync with Yuki the way you always are. Plates move from your station to his without a word, garnishes land with exact precision, sauces are poured with timing that borders on instinct. From the outside, it looks flawless.

Inside, though, it’s different. There’s a tightness under your ribs every time his hand brushes too close, a silence that stretches too long when your eyes meet. It isn’t explosive or obvious, but it lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of the kitchen. The others pick up on it.

Jules keeps glancing between the two of you, eyebrows furrowing like she’s trying to do the math. Alex lingers longer at the pass, waiting for a joke or some playful jab that never comes. Even Oscar, who usually minds his own business, looks like he’s about to ask something and then thinks better of it.

It’s Lando who finally cracks. He drapes himself across the counter during a lull, smirking like he’s caught you in something. “What, did you two have a lovers’ quarrel? Or is this just some weird chef telepathy thing I’m not getting?”

Normally, you’d quip back. Yuki would roll his eyes and toss a towel at him. Something light, something that breaks the tension and lets everyone laugh. But not today. You keep plating, hand steady as you drizzle a sauce. Yuki doesn’t even look up from his pan. The silence that follows Lando’s joke is louder than the busiest dinner rush.

Lando’s grin falters. “Right. Cool. Totally normal vibes here.” He clears his throat and slips away, leaving the kitchen to its strange quiet again.

You and Yuki move on, the machine still running, but the heart of it misfiring. Perfect tandem, imperfect everything else. The end of shift debrief runs like clockwork, but without the usual noise of teasing interruptions or side comments. Everyone stands gathered near the pass, waiting through Yuki’s rundown. His tone is even and precise—too precise, the kind of politeness that feels like it’s been scrubbed down with bleach.

“Alex, your timing on the mains was sharp today,” Yuki says. “Keep that consistency.” Alex nods, offering a faint grin that doesn’t quite last before glancing at you, as if to gauge whether you’ll soften the mood with a sarcastic remark. You don’t.

“Lando,” Yuki continues, “good initiative with plating, but watch your portioning. Two grams might not sound like much, but it matters.” Normally, this would be where Lando fires back with a smart remark. Instead, he just mutters, “Got it,” subdued, like the tension is pressing down on him too.

“George, solid work on prep. You were efficient and organized. Keep that up.” George straightens like he’s back in school receiving a gold star, though his eyes flick curiously between you and Yuki, clocking the distance in your voices.

“Oscar,” Yuki says next, “good rhythm with service. Quicker reaction times today.” Oscar nods once, his usual grin absent, like he knows better than to test the air tonight.

Then Yuki looks at Jules. “Jules, strong on salads and support. I noticed you handled the backup on sauces without being asked. Good work.”

Jules, normally bright and easy with her thanks, only gives a polite nod, her smile faltering at the edges when she glances between the two of you. Everyone is too aware of the cracks in the kitchen’s unspoken choreography.

Finally, Yuki closes the clipboard, his voice steady as he says, “That’s all. Good shift, everyone. See you tomorrow.”

No jokes, no lingering chatter. The crew disperses quickly, leaving the silence behind like a dirty pan nobody wants to scrub. The kitchen feels too clean, too quiet. You’re drying your hands on a towel when Yuki clears his throat like he’s announcing himself.

“So,” he says, leaning against the counter like nothing’s wrong, like the air between you isn’t thin enough to snap. “Good service tonight. Your chocolate tart sold out. Again.”

You nod, polite as a stranger. “Yeah. People like chocolate.”

There’s supposed to be a grin, a nudge, a quick-fire joke to bounce back. Instead, his smile dies before it even arrives. He shifts his weight, trying again. “George didn’t burn the sauce today. That’s progress.”

“Miracles happen,” you answer, and it comes out flat.

It feels like watching someone dance with two left feet. Yuki doesn’t give up, but every line he throws lands awkwardly, catching in the silence. The rhythm you always had—the banter, the shared eye rolls—has abandoned you both. Finally, he exhales through his nose, tired. “Do you want to get dinner? There’s that new ramen place down the street. Or anywhere, really. My treat.”

The offer dangles in the air, heavy with hope you can’t touch. You tuck the towel over the sink and shake your head. “Not tonight,” you say simply.

Something flickers in his eyes, but he swallows it down. “Right,” he says, pushing away from the counter. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to argue. “Get home safe.”

You nod, grab your bag, and head for the door. For the first time in a long time, you leave the restaurant before him. When you glance back once, he’s still standing there, hands braced on the counter, like if he stays behind long enough, the kitchen might tell him where he went wrong.

The awkwardness stretches on for a week. Seven whole days of polite hell, where you and Yuki still move around each other in the kitchen, but the heat is gone. It’s all surface-level courtesy, no lingering glances, no teasing brushes of hands at the prep table. You can feel the staff notice it too. Every sidelong glance, every muted conversation that dies when you enter the room. The silence between you and him is louder than the sizzle of pans.

So when Yuki asks to see you after a shift, your stomach twists into knots. He calls it a ‘meeting,’ the word dropping like a blade between the two of you. You scrub your hands clean at the sink, buying time, bracing yourself for what feels inevitable.

The dining area is empty by the time you join him. The low hum of the refrigerators and the soft clink of cutlery being reset by Jules are the only sounds filling the room. Yuki is sitting at one of the tables, posture perfect, face unreadable. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you want to squirm.

You take the seat across from him, pretending you don’t notice how your pulse has picked up speed. “So,” you say. “Is this where you break up with me in a public setting? Very professional.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a little moment with a corner of his mouth. His hands are folded on the table, knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding them together. The silence stretches, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. You swallow hard, waiting for him to just spit it out already, to confirm the thing you’ve been dreading all week.

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and serious.

“You’re being terminated.”

A beat. He doesn’t laugh. He’s not joking.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “but have you lost your fucking mind?”

That’s the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and incredulous, the words ricocheting off the walls like you’ve just lobbed a pan across the kitchen. Your hands are moving as if they have a life of their own, slicing the air, pointing at him, at the table between you, at anything that isn’t his maddeningly calm face. “Completely gone. Checked out. Cooked through. You’ve officially lost it.”

Yuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even try to interrupt at first, letting you get halfway through your tirade about betrayal, about how you’ve slaved in this restaurant, about how you’ve been nothing but loyal. How he’s being unfair, bringing your relationship problems into your employment. His silence only fuels you further, until your voice is tripping over itself, sarcasm and hurt bleeding into every syllable.

Finally, he cuts in. “It’s not your skills,” he says firmly, voice slicing clean through your spiral. “This is about retrenchment. The business is cutting costs.”

You freeze, mid-sputter, blinking at him like he’s just spoken in another language. “Cutting costs,” you repeat, pained. “So, I’m… what, garnish? Disposable parsley?”

He exhales slowly, not rising to your barbs, which only makes them sting sharper when they bounce uselessly off him. “There’s separation pay. I’ve already worked out the numbers. You’ll have enough to—”

That’s when it clicks. The cool tone, the carefully chosen words, the way he’s framing it not as a failure but as some kind of opportunity. You hear the subtext so loudly it drowns out everything else. He isn’t firing you because the restaurant is sinking. He’s firing you because he wants you gone.

“You’re trying to get me to leave.” Your voice is almost stunned, but it settles heavier than any of your earlier shouting. “This isn’t retrenchment. This is you pushing me out.”

Yuki meets your gaze, steady, unreadable. You feel the bottom of your chest drop, because you can’t tell if he’s doing this out of love—or out of fear. In the softest voice, he says, “You know that stupid saying… if you love someone, you have to let them go?”

“Wow,” you say slowly, “quoting fridge magnets now? Should I be worried?”

Yuki’s cheeks go pink and his hands start to fidget with each other, unraveling the neat knot he’d tied them into. “I—I didn’t mean… I mean, we haven’t… I know we haven’t said that. Love. I just thought—God, I didn’t mean to assume. I’m not assuming. Forget I said it. Pretend I didn’t say it.” His words spill in a frantic rush now, each one tripping over the next. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just—”

“Yuki.”

“I just realized I was so stupid, asking you to head the new Venti Due branch when I’ve always known—”

“Yuki.”

“—and I don’t want you to think I hate you or anything, because I don’t, and—”

You’re already climbing across the narrow space of the table before he can finish, balancing on one hand as you reach him. His eyes widen, panic stopping mid-sentence as your mouth presses against his. The table rattles under your knee, a fork clattering to the floor, but you don’t care. He tastes like the peppermint tea he’d been nursing, warm and grounding, and the way his breath catches against you nearly undoes you.

The moment you break for air, his arms are around you, hauling you into his lap. He mumbles against your mouth between kisses, his voice shaky but sure: “Missed you. Missed you so much.”

You don’t feel the pit in your chest, just the weight of him holding you close, as if letting you go had never been an option. You don’t know how long you two are making out—just that you’re still in his lap, his mouth still pressed against yours—when you finally manage to crack a joke against his lips. “What are the ethics here?” you tease. “Making out with my boss. At my place of work. Pretty sure this is an HR violation.”

Yuki’s laugh rumbles low in his chest, and he bites at your lower lip like he’s trying to underline his point. “I won’t be your boss much longer,” he says before kissing you again. His hand has inched up, hovering just above the hem of your shirt, his fingers spreading over the strip of skin there.

You’re caught between wanting to tease him for how cocky that sounded and wanting to let him prove it when the door swings open. “Oh my God!” George’s shriek bounces off the walls, higher than any soprano’s note could dream of reaching.

You both freeze. Yuki’s hand is suspended mid-climb, your lips still parted against his. Slowly, painfully slowly, you and Yuki turn toward the doorway. George is standing there, wide-eyed, like he’s just stumbled into some cursed ancient ruin. “I did not need to see that,” he screeches, his voice pitching higher as he slaps his hands over his eyes. “Ever. Ever!”

You stifle a laugh that bubbles up, half mortification and half delight at how utterly horrified he looks. Yuki, though, is the picture of calm. His arm still securely around your waist, his voice maddeningly casual. “George,” he says, like you’ve been caught discussing inventory instead of each other’s tonsils. “Knock next time.”

George lets out another noise—something between a whine and a yell—before stumbling backward, muttering curses under his breath about bleach for his eyes. The second the door clicks shut again, you collapse against Yuki’s shoulder, laughter spilling out of you in gasps. He grins into your hair, hand finally resting warm against your side.

“Well,” you giggle, still catching your breath. “Guess we’re really terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Mm,” Yuki hums, “I couldn’t keep you a secret if I tried.”

Monday morning pulls you out of bed with more force than your alarm ever could. There’s something about knowing the day won’t end with fluorescent lights and order tickets that makes you stand a little straighter as you dress. By the time you step onto the street, coffee in hand, you already feel the hum of something new, something yours, coursing under your skin.

The storefront waits for you downtown, sunlight spilling across its big windows like a spotlight. The glass gleams, showing off the polished counters and the corner you’ve already claimed. The one perfect for cakes designed to stop people in their tracks. You picture passersby pausing, drawn in by sugar and butter made art, their feet carrying them in almost against their will.

When you push the door open, the smell of yeast and vanilla has already settled in, warm and rich. Chloe is at one counter, already elbow-deep in dough. She glances up at you, grinning with that edge she always has. “Took you long enough,” she sings. “We were about to start without you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you shoot back, slipping into your apron with practiced ease.

Across the room, Rafaela raises a brow, steady hands piping buttercream rosettes onto cupcakes lined up in perfect rows. She’s the picture of efficiency, her voice dry but not cold. “Don’t tempt me. Chloe was one second away from eating the leftover pastry cream straight from the bowl.”

“That was quality control,” Chloe protests.

You laugh, and just like that, the morning begins. Easy, familiar, and bright. It feels like the world has rearranged itself around you, and for once, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Mere minutes after you’ve flipped your sign to Open, the bell above the bakery door rings, crisp and cheerful. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Jules always comes in first—like clockwork, like the sun, like the personification of caffeine itself in her oversized sunglasses and slightly chaotic hair. You’re already bagging a pastry before she even says hello.

“Morning,” she yawns. “Tell me you’ve got a raspberry croissant today.”

You glance at her over the pastry bags, lips twitching. “Raspberry croissant? So it was Oscar last night.”

Her sunglasses tip down just enough for you to see her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she puts a hand to her chest with mock dramatics. “I feel so seen. Next you’ll be reading my aura.”

You shrug, sliding the croissant into her bag. “I don’t need your aura. You give yourself away with your pastry order,” you point out. “Chocolate twist? Lando. Raspberry? Oscar. Plain croissant? Alone, tragically.”

“Tragically,” she repeats, sniffing like a Victorian widow, then peeks into the bag like she wasn’t sure you’d actually give her what she asked for. “God, I miss you at Venti Due. That kitchen’s a disaster without you. Yuki pretends he’s fine, but we all know the truth. You abandoned us.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you fake-crying when I’m sliding you free pastries.”

Jules lifts her hand and mimes dabbing away tears, complete with a hiccup of false sobbing. “You don’t understand. The pain of losing my favorite chef and the joy of gaining free carbs—it’s tearing me apart.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it.”

She beams, unbothered. “Absolutely. And you love me for it.” In one swift move, she leans over the counter, kisses you on the cheek, and straightens up. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

The bell rings again as she leaves, and you’re still half-smiling at the empty doorway, the echo of her theatrics setting the tone of your day.

The bell above the door jingles around lunch, and you glance up just in time to see George slipping in with his sunglasses still on, as though the bakery is paparazzi territory. You don’t call him out on it; you’ve learned that George thrives on delivering his own punchline. Sure enough, he drifts to the center of the room, turns a slow circle, and hums.

“Darling, it’s cute,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s a compliment and an insult at once. “But these chairs? Bold choice. Retro or tragic? The line’s very thin.”

You quirk your lip to one side, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. “Retro, obviously. Are you going to order something, or did you want me to get your input on the wallpaper too?”

“Please. I’d only charge you a small consulting fee,” he huffs. “Friends and family discount.”

By the time you’re sliding him a plate—croissant sandwich, because you know him—he’s already snapping a picture of the pastry case like he’s secretly going to Yelp-review you. When he leaves, you catch Chloe grinning at the jar. A crisp bill, folded neatly, tucked among the coins.

Not long after, Alex wanders in, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, cap pulled low. He pauses just inside the door as though unfamiliar with the place, then meanders toward the counter with the casual air of someone trying not to look like a regular.

“Can I help you, sir?” you ask, playing into the role. “First time here?”

He deadpans back. “Yeah, just passing by. Figured I’d try the… what do you call them… muffins?”

“Wow,” you say. “Bold to insult me to my face before I’ve even taken your money.”

Alex doesn’t crack, though his eyes crinkle with laughter he can’t quite conceal. He takes his muffin to go, but not before dropping a note in the jar on Chloe and Rafaela’s side of the counter. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. They both leave in their own ways—George flamboyant, Alex pretending he’s a stranger—but the jar fills steadily, and your bakers exchange conspiratorial glances every time you turn away. Proof of love, wrapped in regulars and tips and remembered orders.

Your bakery winds down, quiet as it opened. No clattering trays, no chorus of orders being shouted across counters, none of the frenetic heartbeat that defined Venti Due. Just the soft shuffle of parchment, the occasional metallic clink of a tray being stacked away, the murmur of Chloe and Rafaela wiping down surfaces as the golden hour light washes through the front windows. It isn’t adrenaline here. It’s yours.

You lean against the counter, notes in hand, giving them feedback. One of the things you’ve picked up from your time at Veni Due. Chloe listens intently, nodding in all the right places, while Rafaela balances the spray bottle on her palm as she listens to your feedback. Both of them grin at each other whenever you say something particularly earnest, but they still take it to heart. It’s a rhythm, and you like it.

“Honestly, you’re cramping my style,” a voice cuts in from the doorway.

Chloe and Rafaela both swivel toward the sound and then immediately turn back to you with the kind of grins that spell trouble. “Ooooh,” Chloe sing-songs under her breath, and Rafaela raises her brows in mock warning.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Rafaela adds, grabbing her bag and tugging Chloe along toward the back.

You roll your eyes, but they’re already giggling their way out, their laughter lingering long after the bell on the back door jingles shut. Which leaves you with the doorway. And him.

Yuki is standing there like he hasn’t thought this through. Still in his chef’s outfit, hair mussed like he sprinted here. A bouquet of flowers gripped awkwardly in one hand. The sight of him—rumpled, breathless, yet somehow still beaming—is ridiculous enough to make your chest tighten.

You don’t even think about it. You’re already moving, barreling forward like gravity’s got you tethered to him. Yuki steadies you on impact, arms locking around your waist as though he’d been bracing for exactly this, and the sound he makes—half laugh, half groan—is ridiculously fond.

“Are you always going to tease me like this?” he teases, mock suffering painted across his face even as his hands linger at your back. “One day, you’re going to break my ribs. Then what? No more cooking, no more flowers, just hospital food for the both of us.”

“You’d survive,” you say, voice muffled against the warm press of his shoulder, though your grin is sharp enough to betray you.

You lean back just far enough to swipe the bouquet from his hand with practiced ease, turning it in your grip like evidence. The blooms are impossibly fresh, bursting with color, every stem perfectly chosen. “Okay, seriously. Do you have some sixth sense for when your last arrangement dies?” you jab. “Because that’s suspicious. Like, stalker-level suspicious.”

Yuki only shrugs, his eyes lit with something playful. “I take one flower for my office at Venti Due. When it starts to wilt, I know it’s time to bring you new ones.”

He says it like it’s nothing, like it isn’t the most absurdly meticulous, heartbreakingly thoughtful thing anyone has ever admitted. You freeze, bouquet balanced loosely between your palms, suddenly aware that this—this stupid, simple habit—is him in a nutshell. Not grand speeches or flashy declarations. Just steady, impossible attentiveness. The kind of detail only a chef could pull off, as if he’s spent his whole life honing his craft to turn it on you. He notices the smallest things, the almost invisible shifts, the way your world tilts when the petals begin to fall. And he answers it, every single time, with something that says: I see you. I won’t stop seeing you.

It floods you, a strange alchemy of fire and sugar that catches you low in the chest and spreads until you’re nearly dizzy. You’ve tried to outpace this, duck away from it, pretend it won’t undo you. But Yuki’s love, quiet and relentless, doesn’t burn out. It roots itself deeper, until even running feels useless.

The thought barely finishes before you’re kissing him. Not coy, not testing. It’s hungry, reckless, yours. He tastes like the exact thing you’ve been starved for: laughter caught between breaths, a relief so sharp it almost hurts. Your hands fist into his jacket and tug, impatient, demanding.

“Take this off,” you whisper against his mouth, half command, half plea.

His smile slides into the kiss. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, only tilts closer until his words ghost against your lips, warm and teasing: “Yes, chef.” ⛐

344 notes · View notes

cannelley · 6 days ago

Text

someone to hold me down ¹ ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , love island au , strangers to friends to lovers , slow burn tw cheating (in the love island sense) , slight carlos sainz slander for the plot word count 17.8k (part one) author’s note yeah once again i have literally no excuse for this one . probably THEEE most self indulgent fic i’ve ever written as i am proudly the world’s biggest love island fan . during my catchup on love island uk this year , i started thinking about this interview and then the idea of lando on love island just burrowed into my brain and refused to leave me alone . this is part one of two and since i've made you all wait so long part two will be coming tomorrow, monday august 25 !! as always let me know what you think , and my 1k celebration is still open , so if you liked this please feel free to send in a request !! title is from came here for love by sigala ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

You’ve officially been a Love Island contestant for about five minutes, and you’re already questioning every life decision that led you here.

You didn’t even sign up for this. No, that was the work of your friends back home, a completely twisted group response to your bad breakup cooked up over one too many mimosas at a brunch you’d missed because you were crying too hard. When they told you they submitted an application for you, you laughed. You had a real job, one that involved spreadsheets and quarterly reports and tasteful business casual sets. You’d spent most of your adult life trying to avoid situations involving tequila-fueled meltdowns and catfights over semi-pro footballers with clockable hair transplants. You didn’t even watch the show.

And yet here you are, standing outside a Mallorcan villa in your nicest bikini with a mic pack strapped to your ass and your heart pounding in your throat.

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house.

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle.

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again.

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years.

And then there’s the smile.

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go.

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has.

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore.

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads.

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest.

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you.

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry.

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles.

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile.

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago.

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there.

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most.

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long.

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water.

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.”

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end.

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them.

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia.

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets.

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms.

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by.

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious.

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact.

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists.

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh.

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly.

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches.

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears.

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you.

You’re not expecting a second kiss.

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time.

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking.

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod.

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her.

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head.

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara.

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit.

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice.

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie?

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur.

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks.

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is.

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently.

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.”

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos.

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door.

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else.

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing.

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders.

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand.

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.”

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek.

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season.

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently.

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here.

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder.

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above.

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters.

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real.

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.”

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit.

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely.

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!”

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind.

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily.

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it.

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat.

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead.

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil.

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession.

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently.

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work.

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves.

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks.

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily.

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television.

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss.

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally.

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat.

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy.

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen.

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085.

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out.

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack.

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked.

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you.

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise.

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked.

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.”

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek.

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten.

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him.

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in.

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you.

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side.

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin.

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando.

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face.

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you.

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck.

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos.

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens.

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.”

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide.

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you.

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa.

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow.

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.”

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.”

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips.

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss.

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil.

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen.

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles.

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?”

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet.

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink.

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him.

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means.

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days.

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere.

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone.

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too.

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened.

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again.

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds.

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week.

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock.

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa.

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie.

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down.

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine.

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again.

And then your phone buzzes in your lap.

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando.

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.”

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles.

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that.

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.”

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved.

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out.

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right.

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.”

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot.

But you’re also not alone.

1K notes · View notes

cannelley · 7 days ago

Text

OP81: TALKS LIKE AN ANGEL (looks like me)

you’re a fan of surfing. your niece is not. that is, until something suddenly sparks an interest and wants you to teach her. something… like the cute new lifeguard.

pairing: lifeguard!oscar piastri x surfer!reader

word count: 6.6k

contents: non-f1 alternate universe, flustered oscar, mostly fluff, beach vibes, smidge of landoscar sprinkled in there, absolutely self-indulgent gabriel bortoleto cameo

THE BEACH IS QUIET TODAY. Ocean water sparkles with sunlight and salt against the wet sand. It’s not yet noon—which means that the beach is still hasn’t filled with the mass of people that arrive after lunch. Which, in turn, means you still have most of the beach to yourself.

Well, mostly.

Your sister and niece look up as you set down your surfboard next to their parasol, salt water falling in droplets from your hair. Your shoulders are peeling a little from the sun, your arms ache from paddling, and your skin is sand-raw and sun-kissed. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ellie is stiffly sitting on her towel, blowing out a huff as the twelve year old tries to fix her hair against the ocean breeze. She adjusts herself on her towel, body taut as she miserably fails to look casual. Amusement tugs at your lips as you tilt your head down at her.

“That’s a new bathing suit,” you say sneakily. She meets your gaze with a grumpy pout. “It’s pretty.”

Instead of her fluoro pink one-piece swimsuit, today Ellie’s wearing a blue one with cute frills on the straps. It looks unused—like it’s never entered in contact with sand before.

“Mum wouldn’t let me buy a bikini,” Ellie mutters, shooting a glare at your sister. You stifle a laugh, instead kneeling next to her to meet her gaze.

“But I like it,” you say, nudging your damp shoulder against hers. Her big brown eyes blink at you, lips pursed. “I mean it. You look really pretty, El.”

Ellie doesn’t answer, opting to look away from you instead. She brings her knees closer to your chest. Despite not meeting your gaze, you can tell your comment pleases her.

“Alright,” you clasp your hands together, catching the attention from both Ellie and your sister. “I’m gonna go—be back in a few, yeah?”

“But you just went,” your sister protests.

You pick up your board, tucking that familiar weight under your arm. “Yeah, but the beach is empty, the waves are great, and I’m not hungry yet.”

Nina purses her lips, hesitant. “Should you go without your wetsuit on?”

She’s always had that big sister overprotectiveness to her—something she has never been able to turn off. You suspect that ever since she had Ellie, it’s gotten more evident. “It’s like thirty degrees out, Nina. I think I’ll be fine.”

You wave Ellie goodbye, to which she responds halfheartedly. And by the time you’re a few steps away, she’s already looking away from you. Teenagers.

The water is a little over your hips when you finally lay on your board and start paddling past the breaking of waves. It’s nice, feeling the cold saltwater on your sun-warmed skin. You’re almost tempted to stop paddling and let yourself float for a moment. Although you imagine that’ll look slightly disconcerting to the poor lifeguard on duty—and you don’t particularly feel like giving some poor sap a stroke. After all, the majority of serious surfers tend to avoid this beach at this time of year because of all the kids and families. Not you, though—nostalgia and whatnot.

You press your chin against the board as you watch a gorgeous set of waves coming up ahead. An ocean breeze caresses your skin as you inhale, exhale. And then, with that familiar ache setting into your arms, you start paddling.

Lando is giving him that look. The type of look that tells Oscar he’s been asked something that he’s supposed to answer.

Oscar blinks. He hasn’t heard a word Lando has said in the past ten minutes. But still, Lando is giving him that look—something caught between expectation and scrutiny.

Lando presses up his cheek against his palm, green eyes peering back at him. His curls are sticking up at odd angles—something that just seems to add to his natural charm.

Oscar spends another solid thirty seconds blankly staring back before he realizes he still hasn’t said anything.

“Osc, are you even listening?” Lando’s voice is tinged with annoyance, confirming the fact that he has, in fact, been talking to him.

Oscar rolls his eyes, turning away from Lando and looking out to the waterline for an excuse. The beach’s not too crowded yet. There’s a handful of kids building sandcastles by the shore, a few couples swimming in the shallow end. “You know, as a lifeguard, you’re supposed to be keeping an eye out—not just coming over to talk to me.”

Lando shifts on his lifeguard stand next to Oscar’s, whistle carelessly swinging around his neck as he sinks into the chair. “You’re not even listening.”

“‘Cause I’m trying to do my job.”

Lando huffs. “No, you’re just busy staring at the pretty surfer with the yellow board.”

Heat rushes to the tip of Oscar’s ears. “What? No I’m not,” he denies, but he says it too quickly, too loudly. And if Lando’s sudden grin is a sign of anything, then it means Oscar has royally fucked himself over.

“Why’d you sound so nervous, Osc?” Lando croons, and Oscar shifts on his seat uncomfortably.

He sniffs, voice suddenly tight. “I’m not.”

But Lando is only leaning closer to him, threatening to fall off his stand—which would definitely not be great, considering they’re the only lifeguards on duty at the moment. “You totally are! Oh, I knew it.” Oscar’s nose itches as Lando slumps back onto his chair with a wide smile. “Just wait until I tell Franco about this.”

Oscar makes a point to look away from Lando, and instead opts to stare aimlessly at the area they’re supposed to be paying attention to. “Tell him what?”

“That you do have a crush on the surfer,” Lando teases, voice sickly-sweet. He chuckles. “And to think he said I was in the wrong. He just can’t read you like I do.”

Pink warms his cheeks. And it’s the sun, obviously. “I don’t have a crush on her,” he finally denies.

“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Lando sounds utterly unconvinced. The two of them look up ahead, where they spot you propping yourself up on your surfboard as you catch the wave. Your body is balanced and poised with practiced precision as you zig-zag just under the crest. “Have you even talked to her yet?”

Oscar swallows, sinking into his seat. “…No.”

Lando scoffs, shaking his head as if to say this just won’t do. And really, Oscar is starting to regret not signing up for his shifts with Logan. But Lando is insistent. “You just don’t get it, do you?” he asks, a faint disbelief dripping from his voice. Lando hits Oscar’s shoulder with the back of his palm. “You’re a lifeguard, Osc. That’s like, being a guy in sweatpants at an airport.”

Oscar squints at him. “I literally have no idea what that means.”

Lando groans. “It means girls think you’re hot.” He jerks his curly-haired head towards you. “Ask her for her number.”

“Definitely not.”

Lando exhales loudly. Then, as if an idea has struck him, he straightens. There’s a devious look in those green eyes of his that Oscar doesn’t like at all.

“If you don’t, I will.”

“You wouldn’t.” But even as Oscar says it, he finds he’s second-guessing himself. Oh, but he would. And they both seem to know it.

“Teach me,” Ellie demands one afternoon. “To surf.”

She stands over your towel, casting an eleven year old-sized shadow over you.

Today, Nina asked you to bring Ellie while she went out with her husband. Which, of course, meant you were under strict rules to under no circumstance let Ellie out of your sight. Your argument of she’s a teenager, nothing’s gonna happen if I leave her in the sand for a minute did not amuse your sister in the slightest.

Sometimes, you think Ellie being an only child shows. A lot.

You squint up at your niece. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

Ellie shrugs her shoulders in that trying too hard to look nonchalant way. She’s wearing that new swimsuit of hers today too. “You look cool,” Ellie says. “I wanna look cool too.”

Your lips tug upwards into a smile. You wouldn’t technically be letting her out of your sight.

“Okay,” you decide, propping yourself up. “Let’s get you a board, then.”

“This is anything but cool,” Ellie complains fifteen minutes in. She’s standing next to you on a rented board from a surf shack not too far down the beach. Much to her dismay, a big part of learning how to surf doesn’t even involve getting in the water. Instead, you’re both on the sand, with Ellie frowning. “I look silly.”

You click your tongue, pushing your sunglasses up like a headband. “Hey, if you wanna learn, this is how you learn. Now—”

You hear a loud whistle closer to the shoreline, making you turn. You squint, raising a palm over your head to block the blinding sunlight. As soon as you do, you spot a light-skinned boy in red swimming trunks hurrying down and ducking into the water.

You furrow your brows. Then, you spot him—a kid, a few years younger than Ellie, flailing as a wave throws him under. Your eyes widen as you stand up with a jerk. You can’t spot the lifeguard anymore. Should you go help?

But then, miraculously, the lifeguard from earlier resurfaces with the younger kid in tow, carrying him safely to shore. Despite the distance, you can hear the kid crying. The lifeguard ducks down and says something you can’t hear—though you can bet it’s probably a lecture on being more careful. You blink, and an older man—the father, you guess—hurries towards the two of them, exchanging words of gratitude with the boy.

“People just never learn,” you mutter. But when you turn back to Ellie, she doesn’t look scared as you expected. Instead, she’s biting down a smile as she tugs at your hand.

“That’s the lifeguard I was telling you about!” she gushes, and you think getting thrown around by waves has finally gotten to you when you hear Ellie squeal.

Then, it finally clicks. “Is he why you wanted to buy a new swimsuit?”

Ellie turns to you looking horrified. Heat crawls up her cheeks as she stammers, “What? No—shut up!”

You press the back of your palm against your lips, stifling a laugh—which you suspect would only further embarrass your niece. “Okay, whatever—get back into the position I taught you, okay?”

You’re gently correcting Ellie’s posture with your hand when you catch a glimpse of the lifeguard walking back to his stand.

He’s dripping wet now, hair sticking to his forehead. There’s another lifeguard waiting for him at the tall white chairs, saying something you don’t quite manage to catch.

You feel Ellie changing her footing, making you look down and correct it. “You’re gonna fall to the side if you keep leaning—”

She shifts her feet again just as she whispers excitedly, “Oh my god, I think he’s looking at me!”

You scoff a quiet laugh. “I’ll be very concerned if he is.” You look up to meet the lifeguard’s gaze, and you find that he is indeed looking in your direction. He’s shirtless and dripping wet and probably annoyed with that kid’s parents. He gives you a sheepish wave. Cute.

“He just waved at me!” she squeals.

You hadn’t really paid that much attention to the lifeguards, you realize. With the years you’ve spent surfing, those tall white chairs and red parasols have long since become background noise for you. Easily dismissed. So, needless to say, you’re not quite sure why your gaze lingers on him.

You only look away when the curly-haired lifeguard catches you staring.

The next time Oscar sees you, he almost doesn’t recognize you. Almost. For the first time, he sees you without your yellow surfboard tucked between your arm and your hip. He supposes it makes sense—waves haven’t been that great today, and with the sun steadily sinking over the horizon, it’s hardly an appropriate time to go out into the sea.

And maybe it’s better Lando is preoccupied with some kids by the shallow end—because at least then he can’t call him out on his staring. In a non-creepy way, of course.

Wait—oh god, is this creepy? It totally is. Oscar sinks into his chair with embarrassment burning pink in his face. But, in his defense, you’re playing volleyball just a few paces ahead of the lifeguard stand. So, really, it’s not like he’s purposefully—

You’re walking towards him. Why are you walking towards him?

“Hey,” you greet.

Oscar blinks down at you. “Hi.”

You’re looking at him expectantly, and Oscar half expects you to call him out of accidentally checking you out while you played with your friends.

“Sorry, the ball,” you finally prompt.

Oscar feels like he’s missing the entire conversation and he doesn’t know why. “What?”

“The ball,” you repeat, nudging your head towards Lando’s empty seat. “Could you throw it down?”

Oscar furrows his brows, and realizes that the group of friends you’d been playing volleyball with are all trying to casually peer at him. Then, finally, Oscar turns, and spots your volleyball stuck at the back of Lando’s seat.

He didn’t even notice when it landed this way. He’s supposed to be a lifeguard. Alert. Aware of his surroundings.

Oscar fumbles for the ball, then he finally jumps off the lifeguard stand to hand it to you.

“Thanks,” you say with a smile, accidentally grazing your hand. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Oscar says, and he hates how monotone his voice sounds. “Um, you’re good.”

“You’re the lifeguard that saved that kid the other day, yeah?” You tilt your head, hands accidentally grazing his as you retrieve the ball. “Really cool.”

“Yeah.” Oscar swallows. And what was that Lando said, about lifeguards being hot? He straightens, and takes his shot. “I’m Oscar, by the way.”

His fingers toy with the whistle hanging low around his neck. The movement catches your attention as your eyes inadvertently dip. Oh, he’s jacked. Your eyes flick back up as soon as you catch yourself lingering—but Oscar catches it too. It makes the corner of his lips curve upward.

Finally, you offer him your name. “Yeah, I’ve seen you surfing a few times. You’re really good,” Oscar says, and it makes a smile tug up at your lips.

“Thanks.” You tilt your head at him, amusement in your eyes. “Maybe I could teach you some time.”

Oscar feels the tip of his ears turning pink just as his lips part to respond—before the two of you hear your name being called out. Most of your friends are looking at you expectantly, and both of you seem to finally remember the ball tucked between arm and hip.

“I’m going! Oh my god.” You roll your eyes, turning back to the boy. You smile. “See ya, Oscar.” You wave as you walk back to the net, where most of your friends are looking annoyed—except for the one responsible for sending the ball that far off.

His smug grin tells you everything you need to know.

You shove Gabriel’s shoulder. “You did that on purpose you ass.”

But he only hums, tilting his head as his eyes flick back to the lifeguard. He chuckles. “You know he’s been checking you out, right?”

You feel heat flash across your stomach. You throw the ball back to him with more force than you should have. A part of you wonders if Ellie would be pissed at you for flirting with the lifeguard. “You’re on thin fuckin’ ice, Gabi.”

Oscar hears Lando approaching before he actually sees him. “Hey.”

“So?” Lando prompts immediately, slumping back into his chair. Those green eyes of his are peering at Oscar with curious intent. “Did you ask her for her number?”

But Oscar simply smiling like a fool. “I got her name.”

Lando groans, sinking his face into his palm. “Oh, brother.”

You’ve been coming around more often. It’s the middle of summer, and it’s not exactly out of character to find yourself spending entire days at the beach. But you like a little variety. And your surfing buddies have been nagging at you to go spend the day with them at a different one. So far, you’ve gotten away with the excuse that you’re still teaching your niece—that you don’t want her learning to surf at a beach that is so far beyond her level. Kimi, Jack and Aurelia have been cool about it. Jack still hasn’t given up on convincing you, and has taken to texting you pictures of early morning waves with Kimi’s head of curly hair peeking out from the corners of the screen and selfies of him and Aurelia. But Gabriel… he doesn’t seem to believe your excuse.

You hate how well he can read you.

Still, you appreciate he hasn’t exposed you to the rest of your group. In fact, he hasn’t mentioned it since that day at the beach—but on the off chance that he decides to join you, he’s not subtle about his snickers and smug grins whenever he catches you chatting with Oscar.

One particular morning when Aurelia had also decided to join the two of you, he’d caught you laughing with the lifeguard a few moments before hitting the waves.

And then the three of you were paddling on your respective boards, when Aurelia made an off-hand comment about finding it sweet that the lifeguard was so friendly.

“It’s definitely ‘cause of her, though,” Gabriel said, gesturing at you. Your eyes met his and he froze for just a moment.

Aurelia furrowed her brows, switching to Portuguese when she turned to him. “Como?”

Gabriel cleared his throat and waved her off in an attempt to dismiss her. “Ah, nada—nada.”

And though a part of you knew that the comment by him wasn’t malicious, that it had just slipped, you couldn’t help stealing his wave later. And when Gabriel had to cut back to avoid crashing into you and sent himself tumbling into the water, you only felt a little remorse.

You don’t get why it bothers you. You’ve only been talking to Oscar—and though he can be a little awkward at times, you find that the more time you spend chatting with him, the more you seem to like him. But Gabi’s jabs and side-glances make you feel more… self-conscious, maybe. Self-aware. Because while you had started out flirting with Oscar—and you still do, on occasion—it’s not like he’s made any moves or given you any sort of indication that he’s interested in you like that. And the more you think about it, the more you see yourself like Ellie. Glancing off to the side to see if he’s looking at you, feeling like butterflies tickle your skin when he waves at you with that smile of his.

A few days ago, when he was blowing his whistle at a few kids straying too far into the water, he spotted you not too far away. You’d just wrapped up a little practice round with Ellie, and as the two of you came out of the water with dripping wetsuits and your arms holding both your and Ellie’s boards, Oscar had approached you with a smile, and after chatting a little, he’d ducked his head a little towards Ellie, “Sorry, I don’t think I know your name. I’m Oscar.”

Ellie had blinked up at him, cheeks turning red as she nodded dazedly. And when she couldn’t answer, you’d supplied him with, “Ellie. She’s my niece.”

“Oh. Learning to surf, Ellie?” Oscar nodded. “Very cool.”

You hadn’t heard the end of it from her. Did you see his dimples? And his smile? And his hair? Oh my god.

And when Nina asked “Oh, do you have a crush?” Ellie had hidden her face and whined “Mum! You’re so embarrassing!”

And maybe you finally get Ellie. Because it is embarrassing, getting called out on it.

You’ve wondered one too many times if it’d be a little pathetic to ask for his number. It’s not like you’re strangers anyway—

“Don’t turn around,” Ellie suddenly starts, the two of you kneeling on the sand as you wax your boards. “But the lifeguard is coming this way.” You freeze and turn your head near immediately, earning an embarrassed whine from Ellie. “I told you not to turn!” she hisses.

But when you do, it’s not Oscar that’s coming your way.

Oscar is sitting on his chair, back growing stiff the second he spots Lando heading down towards you and Ellie. He strides nonchalantly, waving at you with a bright smile. And it’s not long before you’re standing up, talking to him, and laughing.

Now, Oscar doesn’t think he’s a jealous person. Genuinely. Those things tend to slide for him—they just don’t faze him. And you—you’re a friend. At least, he’d like to think you’d consider him one. But as he watches Lando chatting you up, wearing the exact same red swimming trunks as him, he can’t help but feel a simmering envy twisting in his gut. He doesn’t even understand why Lando’s skin gets tanned into such a pretty color. They spend the same amount of time under the sun! And all Oscar gets is looking as red as the parasol he sits under.

He supposes there might be a silver lining to it. At least his sunburns help hide his blush when the two of you turn to look at him.

Oscar’s first instinct is to duck, but he’s sitting on a tall white chair under a bright red umbrella. There’s not much hiding he can do.

From the shore, Lando waves with a grin, and Oscar can see the malicious intent in his body language. Is this what he gets? He‘s been chickening out of asking for your number, so Lando gets to swoop in.

But then the two of you are walking towards him, and Oscar suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Oscinha,” Lando calls, and Oscar cringes into his palm.

Lando and you look up at him, stopping just a few paces shy of the lifeguard stands. Oscar climbs down, and turns to find Lando with his hands on his hips, deviously smug look in his eyes.

You shake your head at Lando, but you’re smiling—and, surely, that must be a good sign, right?

“As I was telling your friend, I’m flattered, but—”

Dread pours into Oscar’s system like a shockwave. Oh my god, did Lando tell you? It’s over. Bury him in the sand. “—I don’t really think I’d do well as a lifeguard.”

“A lifeguard?” Oscar stammers, brows twitching. He glances at Lando, who tries to hide his amused grin. “Oh. Um.”

“I was telling her that she’s well-suited for the position. It doesn’t pay great, but it’s a good reference to have,” he says, and Oscar hates how he sounds nonchalant, but he can see straight through Lando’s intentions. He narrows his eyes at him. “Plus, you’d get to spend some good ol’ time with Osc. So, benefits all around.” Lando tilts his head, looking at you with an innocent smile. “Don’t you agree?”

Surprise catches on your features for a split second. Lando’s grin widens just as Oscar’s pit of embarrassment deepens.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he quickly adds.

Lando shoots him a look, and Oscar can’t tell if it’s a I’m just trying to help you look, or a quit getting in your own way one. Either way, Lando doesn’t look pleased.

You scoff a laugh, folding your arms over your chest. “I suppose there would be upsides,” you say lightly, gauging Oscar’s reaction carefully. “But I don’t think lifeguarding is for me. I don’t know how you two stay sitting for so long—it just sounds exhausting to me.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Oscar says, shrugging his shoulders. “But there’s always a neglectful parent that leaves their kid in the water, so we do get to jump in occasionally.” Just as he finishes saying it, he realizes just how morbid it sounds. But before he can take it back, he finds you laughing into your palm. His skin tingles at the sound of it, like morning sunlight.

“So the highlight of your day is finding drowning kids?” You ask with an amused lilt to your voice. “I see how it is.”

“No, no, that’s not what I—”

“You’re both morbid,” Lando interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m leaving before you two start talking about, like, dead babies or some shit.”

Oscar makes a sound of protest in an attempt to defend himself—that is not what he’s been saying at all—but the moment that Lando steps behind you to head back to the shoreline, he gives him a thumbs up and a wink. Then it hits him. Oh.

Still. “I feel like I need to clarify that I don’t look forward to kids drowning whenever I—”

He’s cut off by another laugh from you, and this time, he finds himself smiling at it.

“I know. You’re too nice for that. Your friend, on the other hand…”

“Lando? Oh, he’s a smug little shit.”

You snort. “Yeah. And a flirt, too.”

Oscar shifts a little at that. “Oh? Was he making uncomfortable, because I can tell him to—”

”Not with me,” you quickly clarify. “With a friend of mine.”

“Oh,” Oscar says dumbly, feeling his shoulders slump a little. “Yeah, um—he has this theory. About lifeguards.”

You hum. “Does he?”

“He thinks that lifeguards are like—ah, boys at airports.” Oscar cringes. “It made more sense when he said it.”

You pause, before straightening. “Oh, like people think you’re hot?” Oscar feels red bloom on his cheeks at that, making you chuckle. “Yeah, I get it. He’s definitely in the right, though.”

“Ah.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment too long. Did you just imply that you think he’s—

“I mean, ‘cause,” you stumble. “I mean, like, I’ve seen a few girls around here checking you out. You and Lando, I mean. Plus, my niece sort of has a major crush on you. Shit. Don’t tell her I said that.”

Oscar blinks. “Your niece has a crush? …On me?”

“Yeah. Kind of. Um.” You glance back, where Ellie is looking at you and Oscar with rapt eyes. Nina would end you if she knew you left her alone for more than a second. You toss your thumb over your shoulder. “I kind of have to…”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.”

“But just so you know,” you say. “I might not be interested in being a lifeguard, but the offer to teach you to surf still stands. Y’know. In case you’re ever interested.”

A close-lipped smile brightens up his face. “Will definitely be taking you up on that.”

“Good,” you grin.

And if Oscar notices Lando’s smug look afterwards, he doesn’t seem to mind it.

The sun is steadily sinking over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the ocean. Wind is starting to pick up as night falls, fanning the flames from the bonfire.

Nina parks her car. She’d been nice enough to offer you a ride before she and Ellie went back to the house. “Call me when you’re done so I can come pick you up,” she says.

“I can walk back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Really—you don’t need to come out. S’fine.”

She hums. You’re still unbuckling your belt when Nina clicks her tongue.

“Hey, look,” she says. “Isn’t that the lifeguard you like?”

Ellie squints out the window. “No it’s not.”

You follow her line of sight as you step off the Jeep. It’s odd to see him without his red swimming trunks, but you’d recognize his face anywhere. “Yes it is—it’s Oscar.” And just as you say his name, Lando spots you and nudges him. The Brit waves, and Oscar does too. You wave back. “See?”

“Huh,” Ellie says, and you can’t help but feel she sounds a little disappointed. “He’s not a lifeguard anymore.”

“He’s just not on duty, El.”

“Oh,” she says flatly, but she already sounds disinterested.

Nina raises her brows, lips twitching into a teasing smile. “Oh it’s Oscar, huh?”

Something about Nina’s tone makes heat spread across your cheeks. You close the car door behind you without a second thought, already walking away. “Thanks for dropping me off!”

“This isn’t over!” Nina shouts back, before turning the car around and driving away.

You snag a drink from a cooler and open it, drinking in the steady buzz of alcohol.

It’s not long before you’re coming across your self-appointed favorite lifeguard. You greet him with a smile.

“Hey,” says Oscar. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“C’mon—like I would miss a midsummer bonfire.”

Most like to call it an end of the summer bonfire—not because it signals the end of vacations, but rather because the majority of people that come during the first month tend to leave for the rest of the break.

“So, I take it you’ll be staying for the rest of the summer, then?” Oscar asks, tilting his head.

You grin. “Definitely. You?”

“Yeah—my two year track record as a lifeguard kinda depends on me sticking around.”

“That’s good.” You watch him as you bring your drink to your lips. “Means we’ll be seeing more of each other, then.”

Oscar nods with a smile. “Yeah.”

“Two years, though. That’s a lot.”

“Well, it’s more like two summers, but yeah.”

You look up at him, the last rays of sunlight painting his features with a soft glow. Your stomach stirs. And perhaps it’s the alcohol that prompts you to ask— “You get hit on a lot?”

His eyebrows shoot up, a faint pink blush spreading over his cheeks. “That’s more of Lando’s department.”

“Really?” you say. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why’s that?”

‘Cause you’re hot. “No reason.”

You find that it’s easy, talking to Oscar. Still—tonight feels different. It’s the same beach, the same boy, the same bordering on flirting comments. And yet, seeing him without that whistle hanging around his neck, wearing clothes other than a swimsuit, hair looking like it has actually seen a comb. It’s not better. It’s not worse. It’s just… different.

The night goes by a lot quicker when you’re with Oscar. You’re laughing with him, shoulders brushing against each other. He holds his plastic cup loosely, his bunny-teeth smile brightening his face as he listens to you talk. And you can feel yourself getting bolder—him too. How, as the two of you sit on the sand, his hand accidentally lands over yours. He doesn’t move it. Neither do you.

And you’re listening to him talking about what’s left of the summer, what he’s planning to do once he gets back to university—when Lando interrupts.

“Oscar!”

You both turn your heads in the direction of Lando’s voice. He’s a few paces ahead, next to what seems to be an impromptu volleyball match. Except that on the other team, one of the girls is on the floor clutching her leg—and not getting up.

“Osc,” Lando calls out again, looking regretful the moment he says his name. He says something reassuring to the girl before jogging over. “I’m getting the first aid kit from the car. Can you check her f’me?”

Oscar is already on his feet and nodding. “Yeah—yeah, of course.”

Lando pats Oscar’s shoulder once, and you’re nearly certain you hear the Brit mutter a quick “Sorry, mate.”

You follow suit as Oscar heads towards the girl and kneels down in front of her.

You linger just a few steps back, not wanting to block him. “Do you need me to turn on my flashlight?” you ask.

“Yeah, that’d be—”

“Don’t worry, I got mine,” the girl says, barely sparing you a glance. Instead, she looks down at Oscar, who purses his lips in concentration.

“I’m gonna apply a little pressure, okay?” He glances up at her, brows pinched together. “Just tell me if it hurts.”

Oscar’s hands gently press against her ankle. “Mhm, yep,” she hisses, “definitely hurts there.”

“Yeah—your ankle’s definitely sprained,” he exhales. “Must’ve twisted it making a wrong move.”

“Well, you know me,” she says, and from the barest twitch of Oscar’s brow, you’re nearly certain he doesn’t.

“Um. Yeah.” He says after a beat. He turns to you, tilting his head back. “Could you get a cold beer can from one of the coolers?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Once you have a cold beer in your hand, you turn around to spot the girl leaning a lot closer to Oscar. Even from a distance, you can see the way her gaze dips from his eyes to his lips, and you nearly drop the beer can onto the sand. Her hand wraps around his as she says something you can’t make out.

Something simmers in your gut.

You’re not jealous. You’re not. You refuse to be that type of person. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from striding back in their direction, ducking down between her and Oscar, and pressing the ice-cold can onto her ankle.

“There,” you say flatly, ignoring the way she flinches—whether it’s because of the sudden cold or your intrusion, you can’t really bring yourself to care. You smile politely. “Much better, right?”

She blinks at you through long lashes. “Actually, Oscar was fine helping me out, so—”

A green, envious thing in you doesn’t even believe she’s actually twisted her ankle. You narrow your eyes at her, tilting your head to the side. “Oh. Was he?”

Her features twist into a scowl, but before she can add anything—

“Found the first aid kit!” Lando exclaims. He raises it triumphantly before kneeling beside Oscar and patting his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Osc. I got it from here.”

And just as Oscar and you go to stand up, Lando shoots him a not so subtle wink.

After that, the night seems to slow down. And after letting the embarrassment of actually realizing how jealous you probably looked, you’re eventually introduced to Oscar and Lando’s other lifeguard buddies.

Logan’s really nice. Sweet. It makes sense for him to be friends with Oscar. Franco, on the other hand keeps giving you this look. Like he’s on the border of figuring something out. Then, he looks like he finally clocks it, a chuckle escaping him.

“Ohh, I get. So you’re the surfer that Oscar’s been—”

Logan promptly steps on Franco’s foot, earning a glare from him. “Ow? That’s rude.”

You yawn, missing the rest of the silent exchange the two other lifeguards seem to devolve into.

“I think I’m gonna head back,” you interrupt with an apologetic smile. “A few of my surfing buddies sorta roped me into going to South Point tomorrow to check out the waves there. Need to rise early for that.”

Lando raises his brows. “You got a ride?”

“No, no. I’ll just walk.”

“Oscar can take you,” Lando offers, nudging his friend with a not-so subtle grin. “He’s designated driver for the night, after all.”

And, normally, you’d decline—but after your third drink of the night, you’re feeling bolder. And when Oscar is walking you back to his car, your hand brushes against his more deliberately than you’d normally allow yourself.

You’re halfway back to Nina’s house with Oscar driving next to you when you prompt. “So, how do you and Lando know each other?”

“We used to be roommates, back in our first year,” Oscar explains. You lean back against your seat, letting your eyes scan his side profile.

“Huh,” you hum. “I can’t read him very well.”

You signal for him to turn on the next street, and he parks his car across the street from Nina’s. Oscar tilts his head at you, stray tufts of hair falling over his eyes. “How so?”

You shrug your shoulders, leaning over the console. “I can’t tell whether he’s a shit wingman or a decent one.” Oscar pauses at that, one of his hands dropping from the steering wheel as he scans your face cautiously. And, normally, you wouldn’t be as forward—but it’s been weeks of dancing around the subject, of flirting with him without crossing the invisible line you drew for yourself.

You tilt your head, pretty brown eyes looking back at you. “You never asked for my number.”

Oscar swallows, lips parting slightly. “I should’ve.”

“Maybe. But I think we’re past that.”

You can feel him inching closer, meeting you halfway on the console—but still leaving you space. Always leaving you space, as if he’s certain you’ll regret it. He licks his lips, and you’re starting to see past that habitual nonchalance of his.

“So, where are we now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you say, softly. “I just know it’s taking you too long to make a move.”

“Yeah?” He’s breathless—you can hear it in his voice.

“Yeah.”

You don’t know which one of you does it first. But you two close the gap, and meet each other in the middle. His lips are soft against yours, warm, tasting a little like the Sprite he’d been drinking earlier. One of his hands reaches across to cup your face, bringing you closer to him. Your nose nudges against his as you tug at his bottom lip with your teeth.

He huffs breathlessly as you finally pull away. Only then do you actually start to listen to your own heart, hammering away in your ears. When your eyes blink open, you find him staring back at you with a soft, bordering smitten expression on his face.

He presses his forehead against yours. “Hi,” he whispers, burying his nose in your neck.

“Hi,” you murmur back. Tenderly. Softly.

It’s not long before he’s meeting you halfway again.

The sun is high up in the sky—not yet noon, but steadily approaching its apex. The waves are great and the day is too—not that you would know.

As it happens, lifeguard stands are decidedly not the best cover.

Your arms are looped around Oscar’s neck as you bring him closer to you, chasing his lips. His hands are splayed against your waist, fingers gently drawing patterns on your sun-kissed skin. His nose nudges against your cheek as he dives down to press a line of kisses down your neck, before you turn your head and redirect him back to your lips.

“Oi!” Lando exclaims, twisting around to glare at the two of you from his stand. “There’s kids here.” He looks at you pointedly. “Don’t rile him up.”

Oscar huffs, shaking his head. He tucks his face into your neck, his steady breathing tickling your skin. “You helped this, you know.”

Lando groans, pushing down his shades and muttering, “I’m starting to regret my decision.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. You meet Oscar’s gaze again, amusement dancing in those pretty eyes of his. You smile, leaning in to peck his lips again. Oscar hums as he leans closer to you, hands circling your waist.

Lando blows his whistle shrilly. “I mean it! Keep it PG-13 people!”

Oscar groans in embarrassment. You laugh into his shoulder. “Okay,” you say, only for him to hear. He perks up as you tilt your head towards the ocean. “See you later?”

He hums, letting you pick up your board.

Sunlight on your skin. Warm sand under your feet. An infinite expanse of water waiting for you.

You hit the waves.

a/n: yeah i sneaked and name dropped a few of my faves that aren’t from f1 🫵 mentioning aurelia nobels and gabriel bortoleto specifically was purely self indulgent but IDC. I LOVE THEM.

this took quite a bit to get out so consider reblogging and commenting :D

955 notes · View notes

cannelley · 12 days ago

Text

in between ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.

ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader. ꔮ word count: 20.4k. (!!!) ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between. ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Oscar spots them before you do.

You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.

Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.

When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”

They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”

“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”

The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”

The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”

“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”

You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”

The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.

“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.

You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.”

Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.

Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.

It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.

Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.

Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.

Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.

The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.

Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.

Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.

Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”

“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank.

“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”

You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”

Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”

“Oh? What’s the damage?”

“Dinner tonight. My pick.”

Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”

You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”

It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.

And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.

There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.

Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.

When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.

“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”

“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”

“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”

“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”

You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.

The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.

You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”

“It’s called a compromise.”

“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”

“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.

Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.

The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.

There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want.

The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.

By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.

“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.

“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”

“I have a system,” he interrupts.

“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”

“Which is why I’m never locked out.”

You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”

“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”

The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”

“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”

“You loved that one.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You cried.”

“Allergies.”

You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”

He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.

When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.

It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.

He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.

“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.

Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”

Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”

You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”

He levels you with a look. “Three.”

“Six,” you insist.

He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.

“And you love me for it,” you retort.

The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.

Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.

“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.

“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”

“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”

He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”

You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”

“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.

Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.

The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”

You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.

Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.

Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”

He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”

“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!

The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.

“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”

You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.

“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”

You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.

Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”

The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.

“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”

You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.”

“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.”

“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.”

“Oscar.”

The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”

Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”

“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”

The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”

He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”

You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”

“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”

Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon.

The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine.

You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.

“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”

“Headshots.”

“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”

“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.

You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”

Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.

The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.

“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”

Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”

Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!”

Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”

There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”

You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.

You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”

“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.

“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”

“I’m a divorce attorney.”

The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”

“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.

Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”

That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.

And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.

Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.

Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”

Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”

You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.

Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.

Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”

You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”

He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”

“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.

“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”

That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”

The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.

What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?

Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.

“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.

Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.

Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters.

The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.

The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.

His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”

“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”

“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”

Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”

“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.

Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.

“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”

His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.

A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.

He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month.

Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.

Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.

Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”

Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”

Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”

Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”

“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”

“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!”

Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern.

Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”

“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to.

There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.

He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.

The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says.

It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.

Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.

Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.

By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.

You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost.

You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.

He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.

And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.

“You’re my logistics team.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”

“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”

“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”

That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.

The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.

Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.

“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.

Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.

He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”

You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”

“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.

From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.

Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”

At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”

“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.

Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.

He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”

Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.

The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.

You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”

He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”

Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.

Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position.

But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.

It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.

“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”

He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”

“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”

“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”

You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.

Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.

“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”

She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.

On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.

But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.

Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”

“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.

He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.

The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected.

“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”

The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”

Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”

Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.

“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”

The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”

She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.

As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.

The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.

They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”

It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”

Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.

When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.

“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.”

He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.

Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.

You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.

You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”

You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.

He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”

Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”

“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.

You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.

You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”

A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”

He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.

Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.

And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”

“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”

You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.

Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.

The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.

The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.

He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”

You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”

“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.

You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.

Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.

You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.

Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out.

You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands.

“Oscar, I have a million—”

“Eat.”

Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”

The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.

“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.

It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.

He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl.

It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.

He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”

You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”

“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.

But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”

Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.

Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.

The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.

The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.

“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”

“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”

“That’s volunteering.”

He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”

You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.

“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”

“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”

“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”

“And yet you trusted me with it.”

“Desperate times.”

He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.

You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.

Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”

“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.

He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”

“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”

You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”

Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”

It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.

The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”

The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”

“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief.

Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”

You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.

The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.

“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”

He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”

She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.

“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye.

He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.

Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.

“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.”

“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”

There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.

You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks.

“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.”

Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.

“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”

Oscar’s grin freezes.

Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.

He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.

He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”

For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over.

Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.

It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.

He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.

You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.

He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.

It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”

Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out.

“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”

Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”

George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.

“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”

“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”

Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”

There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”

“Scout’s honor.”

As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.

The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.

He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”

“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”

The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”

Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”

George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”

Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”

The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”

Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”

The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”

George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily.

Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”

By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.

The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.

Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.

The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.

There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.

Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.

There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.

The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.

You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.

“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”

Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?”

“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”

Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”

You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”

“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows.

“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”

Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”

“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”

You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.

The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.

The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows.

You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”

He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.

Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.

Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.

Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real.

The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.

Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.

You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.

“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”

“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.

You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.

“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.

Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.

Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.

Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.

You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.

But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”

On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—

You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.

You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”

For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you.

He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.

How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you.

Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.

He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.

Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.

Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.

He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.

He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.

“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.

Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”

“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”

“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”

Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.

He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.

Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”

He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”

Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.

Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.

By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.

Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole.

He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—

Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”

“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”

He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”

Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, call first—”

“I’ve called. Repeatedly. Voicemail loves me. Move.”

She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.

Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.

Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.

He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”

Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”

Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”

“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.

“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”

You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.

You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.

He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”

You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”

“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”

The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.

“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”

Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”

You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”

“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”

You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”

“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”

You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.

Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.

You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.

“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.

He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.

“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.

Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.

“Promise?” you say in a small voice.

Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.”

“Already? You rented it already?”

Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”

You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”

Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.

You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”

“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”

“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”

Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.

Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”

“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”

See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.

You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.

Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.

By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.

The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.

Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.

He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.

Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.

You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”

You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”

Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”

You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”

That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.

You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”

He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”

A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.

“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point.

Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”

You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”

“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.

He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”

Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.

Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for.

The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.

You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”

Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”

“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.

You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.

What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between.

“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.

It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.

Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.

Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.

There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.

Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”

You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”

“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.

“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”

The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading.

You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”

“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”

Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.

“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.”

And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.

The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”

Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.

Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.

He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐

2K notes · View notes

cannelley · 13 days ago

Text

everything you wanted ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

“have you ever got everything you ever wanted?” “no. but i once got very close.”

ꔮ starring: red bull race engineers!yuki tsunoda x reader. ꔮ word count: 9.8k. ꔮ includes: angst, romance, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. childhood friends-slash-karting buddies, time skip e.g. 2029 SEASON!!!, isack hadjar & doriane pin as plot devices, messed up race calendar. title from sydney rose’s we hug now. ꔮ commentary box: i built the whole plot around this photo of yuki, the quote in the synopsis, and the song. this was a rough one to write, but yipee!!! angst!!! 🔒 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ i have a feeling you got everything you wanted / and you’re not wasting time stuck here like me / you’re just thinking, ‘it’s a small thing that happened’ / the world ended when it happened to me.

Bahrain heat curls up off the tarmac like memory. The first race of the season, the first laps of something new.

You speak into the mic. Headset tight, eyes fixed on the telemetry, heart lodged somewhere between your ribs and throat. “Box, Isack. Box. Watch the delta on entry.”

The Frenchman responds with a clipped, “Copy.”

His tone is even. Yours isn’t. You’re trying not to sound like you care too much.

The sun is lowering, bronze light casting long shadows behind the pit wall. Engines scream past in intervals. The data scrolls by like a lifeline or a lie. Isack is running P6. Not great, not terrible. Not enough.

You hear Yuki without having to see him. His voice is low, deliberate, coaxing Doriane through the final laps like he’s tuning a fragile instrument. She’s P4. Cleaner run, better strategy. Just out of reach.

It eats at you, a little. Not because she beat your driver. Because it’s him on the other end of her comms.

He steps back from the rail, pulls his headset off with a practiced flick. He doesn’t look at you at first. His hair is longer now. Neatly cut, but unruly at the edges. When he glances your way, his eyes sweep over you like reconnaissance. Noticing, not lingering. The heat between you exists only in the absence of anything being said.

“Good drive,” he says after a long, nodding toward the track. “Hadjar held it together.”

You nod back. “So did Doriane. P4’s not bad.”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tilting into a ghost of a smile. “Not good either.”

You try not to smile. Try not to notice the parallels between the two of you, even now. “You always did hate anything short of a podium.”

“Yeah,” he says, gaze flicking back to the screens. “Funny how that worked out.”

You shouldn’t rise to it. You do anyway. “Four podiums isn’t nothing.”

He laughs. It’s short, sharp. “Feels like it sometimes.”

You look at him, long and hard. The profile you knew at fourteen is still buried in the one he wears now. Sharper jaw, wearier eyes, same stubborn set to his mouth.

“Could’ve been worse,” you offer. You’re not talking about Doriane or Isack anymore.

“Could’ve been better,” Yuki replies, his response just as vague as yours. After a beat, he adds, “You were good today.”

It’s not flirtation. It sounds like regret. “You, too,” you manage.

He nods, looks away. The pause is long. The moment sits there, between you, weighty and unfinished.

From behind, Doriane and Isack climb out of their cars, helmets tucked under arms. The crowd noise dulls to a hum. Mechanics scatter. The night sets in.

Yuki exhales. You pretend not to hear it. “See you in Jeddah,” you say with the courtesy that your role demands.

“Yeah,” he says, equally civil. “See you.”

The distance holds. It will for a while.

The briefing room is cold with leftover air conditioning and burnt coffee. Isack lounges in his chair like someone who didn’t just spend 57 laps defending from a faster car. He peels the Velcro on his gloves apart slowly, methodically, like he’s counting seconds just to fill them.

You flip through data on your tablet, already cross-referencing tyre degradation and sector deltas. A handful of engineers murmur around you. The door is closed, but your head is still at the pit wall.

“I should’ve pushed harder on Lap 39,” Isack grumbles. “She was slower through Sector 2. I had space.”

You glance at him. “You were managing tyre temps. If you had gone then, you would’ve lost rear grip two laps later. We had the right call.”

“Right call, wrong result.”

You shrug. “That's racing.”

He grins at you sideways, boyish and irritating. “You sound like Yuki.”

You don’t answer. Not right away. Your mind is whirring, trying to figure out whether the words are compliment or insult.

Isack stretches his legs out under the table, eyes flicking toward you like he’s watching for your tell. “He ever tell you he used to mention you? Back when we were teammates?”

Your hands still on the screen. You don’t look up. Isack goes on, tone just a breath away from eyebrow-wagging. “Said you were fast,” he says. “Annoying as hell. But super fast.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s more for show than anything. “He had no idea what he was talking about.”

“He said you used to race together.”

You tap to the next screen. Sector analysis. Anything else but this. “We ran the same karting circles back in the day. Asian nationals. Macau. Suzuka. We were kids.”

“Friends?”

You pause, then tilt your head. “Something like that.”

A lie.

What you don’t say: you were more than that, once. Not lovers, not quite. Something softer, something sloped toward the edge of becoming.

You remember the way he used to wait for you by the paddock gates, helmet tucked under one arm, pretending he wasn’t looking for you. How your names were always within two places of each other on the results sheet. How he taught you the lines through Turn 8 at Motegi, your elbow bumping his as you walked the track.

He got the F4 seat. You didn’t. You remember that part with the clarity of a scar. He climbed, you stayed. Not for lack of trying. Not for lack of speed. Just—the machinery of it all.

You drifted apart after that. Some rivalries come with affection. Some with rot. This one? It just faded. Like something left out in the sun too long.

Isack is still watching you, half-smile lingering like he knows too much.

“Debrief’s over,” you declare, standing. “Get some sleep. We’ll pick up sim work on Tuesday.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Shrugs. A small mercy after a long day. “Nothing,” he hums. “Night.”

You slip out before the others, letting the hallway swallow you whole. Fluorescents buzz overhead. Somewhere down the corridor, Doriane laughs at something Yuki says.

You look. Reflex, really. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching you through the space between the doors.

The moment you meet his eyes, he looks away.

You keep walking. You don’t look back.

You feel him, anyway.

Jeddah is brutal. Fast, narrow, merciless. It doesn’t forgive mistakes, and Doriane makes one.

Lap 17. Oversteer into Turn 13. The rear snaps. You and Yuki wince.

You hear the sudden spike in revs, the sickening silence that follows. When the feed catches up, the RB22 is pirouetting through the runoff, rear tyres carving smoke into asphalt.

Yuki doesn’t move. His hand tightens around the radio mic, knuckles pale. He cusses in Japanese.

Still, Doriane makes it back. Picks herself up, clears the gravel, pits for hards. By Lap 43, she’s P10. It isn’t clean, but it’s resilient.

Isack finishes P3.

He climbs out of the car all charm and relief, tapping his helmet against your knuckle with a laugh in his throat. You grin back, but it doesn’t reach all the way in. Your eyes keep drifting.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and the adrenaline is ash in your blood, you find Yuki alone by the timing screens. His headset hangs loose around his neck, half-lowered like he forgot it was still there. There’s grease on his collar.

“She fought back,” you say.

He doesn’t look at you. “Shouldn't have had to.”

“You know better than anyone that this track punishes more than it teaches.”

He exhales. The sound is tired. “I should’ve pulled her in a lap earlier.”

“Maybe. But you didn’t put her into that corner. She did that to herself.”

It’s cruel as much as it’s a fact. Yuki bristles anyway, as if the criticism has dredged up something long-forgotten. Some echo of commentary that used to get underneath his skin. “She deserves better than to claw her way to points,” he grits out.

You nod. “Then give her better.”

There’s a beat. Just that. Air between you, thick with old things.

You step closer. Not enough to breach the space, just enough to shift it. “You know what happens when they fall short,” you say, voice quiet. “When we fall short.”

He flinches. Not visibly. Just a flicker around the eyes. “You mean because she’s a girl.”

“Because she’s a target,” you amend. “Because she can’t afford the kind of mistakes her teammates can.”

Yuki’s next words slip out sharp as an accusation. “You’re speaking from experience.”

Your spine straightens. He sees it too late.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of a thousand things you never said.

The weight of silver trophies in junior categories. The way press conferences always smiled tighter when it was you up there. The way every mistake became narrative, every weakness confirmation.

F1 Academy gave you a place. It never gave you a future. Not one that reached the paddock.

You swallow. “Don’t turn her into a cautionary tale,” is all you say, even as you feel the bygone resentment churning at the pit of your stomach.

Yuki doesn’t apologize right away. He shifts his weight. Looks down. Nods once. “Sorry,” he says after a long moment, and it lands soft. Genuine.

You breathe out. The fight leaves you all at once.

He stands, squares his shoulders. “She’s probably already tearing herself apart. I’m going to check on her.”

You gesture with your chin. “Be who she needs.”

He hesitates, just for a second. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Then he turns.

You watch him disappear into the hallway. You listen to the echo of his steps. Even after he’s gone, you remember the shape of him beside you. In kart paddocks. In hotel hallways. In a life you almost had.

You wonder if this one will ever be enough.

Imola’s parc fermé smells like champagne and burnt rubber. There’s laughter in the air, high and bright, cutting through the thick musk of adrenaline and engine oil.

You find Doriane by the Red Bull garage, half out of her race suit, fireproofs damp against her collarbones, hair plastered to her forehead. She looks exhausted. Radiant.

“Nice work,” you say.

She turns, breath hitching on a laugh. “Thanks.”

It had been faultless. Controlled. Sharp under pressure, daring in all the right places. P2 after a late-race battle that came down to instinct and brake bias.

“That last overtake,” you muse, hands in your pockets. “Gutsy.”

She grins, teeth flashing. “Figured it was that or regret it for the next three weeks.”

You nod. You understand the calculus too well. You’re about to take your leave, to go nurse Isack’s ego after finishing just outside the points, when Doriane pipes up with, “Can I ask you something?”

You brace for impact. “Go ahead,” you say.

“What made you switch?” The question bursts out of her, fast and furious. Enough to indicate it’s been pondered on for long enough. “From driving. To this.”

You look past her for a beat. To the empty pit lane. The champagne-streaked asphalt. The ghost of your younger self standing by a race car that was never quite fast enough.

“Wasn’t much of a choice,” you say eventually. “At a certain point, the ladder pulls up without you.”

She doesn’t fill the silence. She waits, lets you go on. You sigh, slow and heavy. “I was good, but good only gets you so far. Especially when there’s always someone else ready to say you weren’t quite good enough.”

Doriane nods solemnly. “Because you are a woman.”

You smile without humor. “Not only, but it made everything sharper. Every error. Every interview. Every sponsorship negotiation. I watched the guys crash out and get second chances. I spun once at Spa and they called me reckless.”

She winces. Without saying it out loud, she’s saying, I know what that’s like.

“You’re doing more than I ever got the chance to,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “I hope you remember that.”

“I do,” she says softly, “but I also know I wouldn’t be here without people like you.”

It hits harder than it should. You nod, throat tight. Doriane, to her credit, doesn’t offer pity. Just presence. It’s better that way. You turn to actually leave this time, but she stops you with a hand on your sleeve.

“One last thing,” she adds, “thank you for sending Yuki to me. After Jeddah.”

You raise a brow. “He found you. I just reminded him you might need him.”

“He said you were the reason he was any good at this.”

You blink. The pit lane spins a little off axis.

“He said he learned it from you,” Doriane says. “The care. The precision. The parts that matter more than just winning.”

You let out a breath. It leaves something fragile in its wake. “He talks too much,” you grumble.

Doriane smiles. “Maybe. But not about this.”

You squeeze her shoulder affectionately. “Get out there, tiger,” you say. “You deserve to celebrate.”

She disappears into the crowd, but you stay in the emptied garage a moment longer. The noise presses in, bright and blinding. For a second, you feel seventeen again. The weight of a helmet in your hands. The thrill of a race in your spine.

It doesn’t leave you. It never does. You just learn how to carry it differently.

The ensuing afterparty is loud in the way all winning nights are loud. Music pumping from a speaker no one remembers bringing. Bottles uncorked, glasses raised, limbs flung around shoulders with the sloppy joy of people who spent hours fighting the wind and now getting to drink it in.

You let go, just a little. Enough to be seen laughing, eyes bright, hands sticky with champagne. Enough to say yes when someone presses a shot glass into your palm. Enough to feel the room blur at the edges.

Not enough to forget yourself, but enough to need air.

The rooftop is a solace. Desert wind threading through your hair, night laid out above you like a canopy, each star like a dropped pin on a map you used to chase. You lean against the low wall, glass still in hand, half-full of something amber and warm.

“Didn’t think you’d be the first to duck out,” a familiar voice says behind you.

You turn to find Yuki squinting into the night, tie loose, collar open. There’s a tilt to his stance that gives him away. Tipsy, not drunk. Warmed, not gone. “Didn’t think you’d follow me,” you tease back.

“Didn’t say I was here for you. Maybe I just like rooftops.”

“Liar.”

He joins you at the wall, shoulder brushing yours. This close, you can smell the scent of beer clinging to his clothes. “Remember that night in Okayama?” he says, eyes fixed on the evening sky. “The year you beat me in the rain.”

“You crashed in Sector 3.”

“You lapped me. Twice.”

“I was fast that day.”

“You were always fast.”

The context settles between you, heavy and true. You sip from your glass. He watches the city lights flicker far below. “We got drunk after,” he goes on. “Cheap plum wine. Someone’s older cousin brought it.”

You grin. “You puked in a helmet.”

“You kissed me.”

Your breath catches. Not startled. Just... remembering. Your fist kiss, fruit-flavored and adrenaline-fueled. More teeth than proper. Perfectly imperfect, likely because it was Yuki.

“You kissed me,” you correct, “and then ran away before I could say anything.”

You’re both thinking of it. The rained-out streets of Okayama. Yuki slipping on the slick cobblestone and picking himself up, the tips of his ears red with shame. You, with your lips tingling, watching him bolt.

“You didn’t chase me,” Yuki jabs.

You meet his heavy-lidded gaze. “Did you want me to?”

The pause is longer than it should be.

“I don’t know,” he says, too softly. “Maybe.”

The moment teeters for a second. A coin on its edge. There’s only two ways this can go. Heads, you finish what you started. Tails—

Yuki’s phone rings.

He cusses, mostly to himself, as he pulls it from his pocket. The moment is broken. You stare back down at the city as Yuki sighs, “Fuckin’ Hadjar.”

You nod, step back. “Go. He probably wants to ask if the champagne can be expensed.”

Yuki turns, answering the call, walking away into the gold-lit stairwell. Even now, the two of you know better than to question when the other person runs off.

You look up. The stars haven’t moved. Some part of you wonders if it’s the same constellations from that night, if there’s a part of the universe that still paints you out to be a fool.

You drink the last of your glass.

In Monaco, they both finish top five. Doriane in P4 after crawling back from a grid penalty; Isack in P2 with a solid, measured drive. Not heroic, not chaotic. Everything is good. Only one of them makes the headlines.

Isack Hadjar: The future of Red Bull. Taking the helm from Verstappen. Prost reincarnated, come to redefine racing.

There’s nothing about Doriane.

No photo. No headline. No mention of her radio calls, her pit stop perfection, her overtakes. Nothing about the way she closed six seconds on a fading McLaren and made the move stick into Turn 7.

You don’t feel vindicated. You feel tired.

Isack is already pacing by the time you close the motorhome door behind you. His race suit is half-off, the fireproofs clinging damp to his chest, face still flushed from the heat. The anger is newer. Hotter.

“C'est des conneries,” he cusses. “She did more than me out there. They didn’t even ask her a single fucking question in the press pen!”

You nod once. “Because they never planned to.”

“They should have.”

“‘Should’ doesn’t matter.”

He looks at you like you’ve just kicked something sacred. “You can’t be okay with this,” he gapes.

“I’m not,” you say flatly, “but I’m used to it.”

He stops pacing. Breathes out through his nose. “That’s even worse.”

You say nothing. Because you agree. Because there’s nothing else to say. He slumps down onto the couch, hand dragging through his hair. The room smells like sweat and leftover coffee. Something bitter unfurls behind your ribs.

You’re still trying to entangle it when Isack pipes up, “Why did he quit?”

“Who?”

“Yuki.”

The question hits like a jolt, serrated and out of place. You sit on the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Your silence isn’t a weaponization. Here’s the truth: You’ve wondered, too. A hundred times. Carefully. Soundlessly.

Sometimes, you think he just got tired of being the second option. Red Bull’s curse seat. A career that always hovered near greatness but never broke through.

Sometimes, you think he just wanted out. The travel. The pressure. The lonely hotel rooms in cities that never felt like anything but stopovers.

Sometimes, you think it was guilt. For all the people he passed on the way up. This reason, you know, is self-serving. It implies that some small part of him might have quit for you.

You’ve never asked. Maybe because the answer would hurt. Maybe because he’d give it, and it wouldn’t be enough.

You glance at Isack. “Why are you asking me?”

He shrugs, but it’s too forced. “Just wondering. He doesn’t talk about it.”

You study him. There’s something careful in the way he avoids your eyes.

“Do you know?”

Isack shakes his head. Too fast. “No. I just figured you might.”

You don’t press. The room is too full already. Of silences and what they hold. Of lies dressed up as protection.

You stand, walk to the window. The sun is setting over the paddock, casting shadows across the asphalt.

Behind you, Isack doesn’t say another word.

The podium ceremony in Barcelona is loud. Confetti cannons, champagne, pop music pouring over the speakers like celebration can be manufactured. But there is nothing fake in the way Isack lifts Doriane’s hand on the top step.

She stands beside him, P2, flushed and beaming. Isack reaches for her wrist, raises it like a victory of her own—a silent gesture in front of cameras that never would have caught it otherwise.

The crowd doesn’t know what to do with that. The moment wasn’t scripted.

But you see it. And so does Yuki.

The race had been precise. An exercise in control. Doriane led for the better part of it, nursing her tires with relentless discipline. Isack held back, followed team orders. Then came the final safety car restart. Nine laps to go. Doriane gave him the tow on the straight and didn’t defend the pass. It was the kind of move you only make when you’re thinking long-term.

When you trust the people calling the shots.

You’re standing shoulder to shoulder with Yuki behind the barricade, away from the team huddle. His arm brushes yours as Doriane and Isack spray each other with champagne. Doriane shrieks when it hits her cheek. Isack starts up a one-man chant of her name.

You feel something break in your chest.

The pride. The ache. The memory of every year it wasn’t you. Of everything it cost just to stay close enough to witness it.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Yuki slips a handkerchief into your palm.

You blink, startled. Try to laugh. Fail. “Shit,” you whisper.

Yuki doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you a little closer, turning his body so you’re shielded from the cameras. His shoulder blocks the angle. His hand rests lightly at your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. Then shake your head.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He exhales, soft and understanding.

The crowd roars again when the national anthem starts. Doriane wipes her face on her sleeve, laughing into her wrist. Isack glances her way, eyes full of something like reverence.

You press the handkerchief to your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of salt and fabric softener. Yuki’s thumb brushes the edge of your elbow, steadying. You say nothing, simply letting the noise pass over you.

In the blur of cameras and confetti, in the swell of everything you used to chase, you let yourself feel it all. It’s a good reminder that you’re still alive.

Come Montreal, the radio chatter is strained from the start.

You can hear it in the clipped syllables, the back-and-forth timing calls, the tense pauses when Yuki speaks to Doriane. It happens early. Lap 14 type of early. He calls for her to undercut. You disagree. You tell Isack to hold position, to wait. Tires aren’t falling off yet. Track position matters.

But Doriane dives in.

Yuki’s voice, snide at your side: “You should've told Isack to move.”

You grit your teeth. “Maybe if you’d waited one more lap, she wouldn’t have rejoined in traffic.”

By Lap 26, the rhythm is gone. Isack is boxed in behind a slower car. Doriane’s fighting to keep temps up, stranded in dirty air. The plan—whatever it was—fractures.

They finish P11 and P13. Forgettable. Measured. A waste.

You slam your headset onto the desk in the garage. Yuki’s already there, pacing. “You compromised both our races,” you snap.

He turns, jaw tight. Eyes flashing. “You ignored my data.”

“I followed the data. Yours was just wrong.”

The volume rises. Hands gesture. You don’t even notice people watching until someone from strategy steps in between you. “Take a walk,” she commands. “Both of you.”

You’re pulled out of the garage by a gentle hand at your arm. Your skin’s too hot. Your chest is too tight. You want to keep arguing, just for the relief of the noise.

It’s like you’re back in your teens again. Screaming in a paddock in Suzuka, right after he beat you by a tenth in the wet. The way he had smiled at you after, careless, like winning had cost him nothing. Like it never would.

You think of the way you clung to his slipstream in karts, desperate not to be left behind. The bruises on your elbows. The fingernail crescents in your palms.

You used to joke that Yuki would only make it to F1 with your claw marks all over him.

But the truth was, you were the one who never made it. And the truth is, you still claw.

You lean against a concrete wall, alone now. Chest heaving. Across the paddock, Yuki stands with his back to you. Hands on hips. Head bowed.

You don’t know if he’s sorry. You don’t know if you are either.

Doriane and Isack are not subtle in the aftermath.

You find them waiting outside the Red Bull engineering trailer the next morning, standing like badly disguised guilt. Isack has coffee in each hand. Doriane offers a granola bar with too much enthusiasm.

“You two talking yet?” she asks, far too brightly.

You glance between them. “Are you seriously trying to parent trap us?”

Isack shrugs. “It worked in that old movie.”

“You are not Lindsay Lohan.”

Doriane laughs. “You are both being stubborn,” she complains. “The rest of us had to suffer through the tension on comms yesterday, you know.”

You take the granola bar without addressing the jab. Your hand brushes Doriane’s, and she squeezes it once before pulling back.

Yuki appears at the end of the walkway, his expression unreadable. Doriane and Isack scatter, conveniently. Doriane does pass her engineer his share of the peace offering, though, and Yuki’s expression of distaste almost makes you laugh.

“The kids are trying to play matchmaker,” you warn him once he’s within earshot.

He huffs, dry. “They’re not subtle.”

You both stand there a moment, not touching. Not looking. The ingredients list on the back of the granola bar wrapper is suddenly so interesting.

Eventually, you crack. “I was out of line.”

“So was I,” Yuki replies without missing a beat.

The silence after isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile. It’s only something suspended.

You exhale. Look past him to the scaffolding, the early crew already setting up the next pit lane.

“I think I got so caught up in strategy I forgot this is the closest I’ll ever be to the grid,” you say, and it’s the kind of honesty you might have owed him way back when. Certainly not now. You offer it, anyway. An olive branch.

Yuki doesn’t move, but his voice is soft when he responds. “You’re on it.”

“I’m not in it.”

“I’m well aware.”

You look to him, the words a jolt to your system. He doesn’t flinch away.

“Every time I talk to Doriane,” he says slowly, every word measured, “I think of you. I think of what I would’ve given to have someone believe in me like that, then. Or what it would've meant if you’d had that."

You swallow. There’s a burn behind your ribs that wasn’t there before. “You didn’t need anyone,” you say quietly. “You were always going to make it.”

“So were you.”

You don’t have an answer to that.

Yuki breaks eye contact. “Anyway,” he says. “Tell Hadjar not to launch pit politics in the press. I had to clean that up this morning.”

You almost smile. “Only if you tell Doriane to stop looking for street fights with Mercedes fans on Twitter.”

Yuki actually laughs.

You both stand there for another beat, suspended in something quieter. Not truce. Not closure. Instead, it’s the uneasy tenderness of two people who once clawed at each other, and now just hold space for what could have been.

The moment slips through your fingers, and you resolve to try again.

Suzuka feels like waking up from a dream.

Even with the new paddock structures, the updated tarmac, the louder crowd—it feels the same. The same weight in the air. The same scent of damp pine and heat off the asphalt. The same rush in your veins as when you were sixteen and begging for seconds on a karting track that didn’t forgive anyone. Something about the way the corners fold in on themselves, the way the shadows pool near Degner, makes it feel like the circuit is watching you back.

You’re back in Japan, and it feels like someone’s pried the lid off something you thought you’d buried. The old pressure. The old hunger. The old grief.

Yuki is quieter here.

Not withdrawn, exactly, but whittled around the edges. He doesn’t linger near the coffee machine. Doesn’t make his usual dry remarks. You catch him staring at the main straight more than once, hands deep in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them to stay still. Once, you find him kneeling near the old pit entry, eyes closed. When you call out to him, he pretends he was checking tire marks.

You feel it, too. The tightness in your ribs. The things left unsaid, crowding your throat. You remember watching Yuki race here when you were younger. How the camera would cut to his car even when he wasn’t leading. How your pulse beat out a rhythm of envy, and something else you never named.

The race is clean.

Doriane brings the car home in P4. Isack in P3. The team is happy. There are high-fives, handshakes, good media bites. But the corners of your mouth don’t lift the way they’re supposed to. You aren’t sure you are happy. Yuki wears the same expression.

Afterwards, the garage empties out slowly. The sun sets in pale streaks over the circuit, golden and too gentle for the way your stomach knots. Mechanics strip the car in silence. A junior engineer hums under his breath.

You find Yuki alone behind the pit wall, crouched by a crate with a bottle of water in his hands. His head is tipped back, watching the orange sky peel into blue. He glances up when you sit beside him. Doesn’t speak.

It takes you a minute to build the courage, and another minute to finally ask: “What happened?”

His brow twitches. “To what?”

You keep your voice even. “To you.”

He exhales, leans back against the crate. His shoulder barely grazes yours. He lets the silence stretch, like he’s weighing the cost of honesty. “It wasn’t enough,” he says finally.

“Getting there. Being in F1. I thought it would fix everything. I thought if I just made it, the rest would make sense. That I’d stop feeling like I was trying to prove something to everyone, to myself.”

You don’t interrupt. The air between you is close, brittle.

“But I got there, and I just wanted more,” Yuki exhales. “Points. Then podiums. Then wins. Then a better seat. Then a better teammate. Then a championship.”

He smiles without humor. “I couldn’t stop wanting. Even when I hated it. Even when I felt like I was disappearing in it.”

He pauses. The bottle creaks in his hand. Somewhere, a pit cart clatters against asphalt. “And I didn’t want to be that person,” he goes on. “The one who can’t be satisfied. Who doesn’t know how to live without the next thing. I didn’t want to be the one who supposedly got everything he wanted, and still couldn’t sleep at night.”

You watch the way his jaw flexes. The way his voice stays even, but not detached. There’s a crack just underneath it. “Are you satisfied now?” you ask, the question slipping out softer than you mean.

He looks at you, and in that look is every year between you. Every missed moment. Every almost. There’s longing, and regret, and something like acceptance.

“Not quite,” he says.

The sky deepens. Someone calls out in the distance, but neither of you moves. The wind shifts, and it smells like cherry blossoms and freshly mown grass and a time you still dream about.

The ache in your chest stays where it is.

Yuki stays, too.

The afterparty, such as it is, ends up being a dinner. Just the four of you. A small private room in a restaurant tucked off the quieter end of Tokyo, all wood beams and paper screens, the scent of grilled fish and soy soaking the air. The kind of place with cushions instead of chairs, where voices sink lower with the lighting, and time seems to slow around hot tea and lacquered chopsticks.

It’s not glamorous, not the kind of place you’d pick if it were a real celebration. But this isn’t about the podiums. This feels like a truce. A break between battles. A held breath you’re both still waiting to release.

Doriane kicks off her shoes under the table, wiggling her toes with a pleased sigh. Isack slouches dramatically into his corner seat like he’s just run a marathon instead of finishing third. His tie’s gone, his shirt half untucked. They’re flushed from the sake, voices a little too loud, laughter spilling into every lull in conversation. They talk over each other with the ease of people who trust they’ll be heard.

Next to you, Yuki picks at his rice bowl and doesn’t quite meet your eyes. He’s present in a way that curls around the corners. You’re two drinks in, not drunk, but loose enough to let yourself exhale without bracing.

Your knees brush beneath the table. It’s a small touch. Meaningless. Heavy.

“You two are ridiculous,” Doriane says at some point in the night, grinning as she pours more sake into Isack’s glass. Her elbow nudges his ribs. “You see it too, right?”

“See what?” you ask, already knowing.

Isack smirks. “You and Yukino. You are like an old married couple. Except with more repressed eye contact and no kissing.”

You roll your eyes. Yuki huffs a laugh.

“Please,” you say, dry as bone. “If we were married, I’d have divorced him the moment he suggested intermediates in Qatar.”

“And I’d have taken the cat,” Yuki adds smoothly.

That earns a round of laughter. Yours comes last. It startles you. It feels good. It feels too good.

There’s something about watching Doriane and Isack like this—legs tangled under the table, finishing each other’s jokes, drunk and brilliant and so very young. Their world still unfolding in wide, generous arcs. Something about it twists in your gut.

You and Yuki could’ve been that once. Friends. Co-drivers. Something more than what history hardened you into. The version of you that never fractured in Macau. The version of him that never outgrew you by getting what you wanted first.

Yuki leans a little closer, voice pitched soft just for you. “We could play along just for tonight,” he suggests. “Give the kids a show.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “You think you can keep up?”

His smile flickers, caught between cockiness and yearning. “Try me.”

So you do.

You pass him the soy sauce with a saccharine coo of his name. He pours your drink without asking. Doriane gasps dramatically when Yuki casually brushes your wrist. “Oh mon Dieu, you are a couple,” she declares, grinning over the rim of her glass.

Neither of you correct her.

You lean into it. You fold into the small performance as if it’s muscle memory. Your head tilted slightly toward his. His hand grazing yours as he reaches for sushi.

You laugh at the right times. Yuki doesn’t look away when you look at him. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t shrink from the closeness. It’s not real, but it’s close enough to make you believe it could be.

When the bill comes, Yuki pays for your half without saying a word. You watch him thank the waiter in soft Japanese, head tilted down like the boy you once knew. The boy who shared a packet of seaweed chips with you after your first win. The one who pressed a cracked knuckle to your arm and called you lucky when he lost.

Outside, the street is quiet. The city is dim and gentle in the way only small towns can be at night. Lantern light spills gold onto the pavement. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

Doriane and Isack peel off first, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, singing a tuneless French song. You and Yuki walk slower, breaths and steps syncing without meaning to.

When you reach your hotel, he holds the door for you. He doesn’t follow. There’s a long second where your eyes meet in the reflection of the glass. And then he gives you a half-smile, small and careful. The kind that says he knows the moment’s over.

The night ends, and so does the act. Some treacherous part of you despises it.

The rest of the season blurs in a wash of rubber and rain, champagne and telemetry. Circuits flicker past like old postcards: Spa, Monza, Singapore, Zandvoort.

You memorize every corner again, not as a driver now but as someone whispering the perfect line into someone else’s ear. Brake markers. Apex speeds. A tightrope strung between precision and faith.

There are late nights in the garage, heads bent over data, the electric hum of possibility between all of you. Doriane learns to brake deeper, risk sharper. Isack sharpens his overtakes until they’re surgical. The air smells of rubber and burnt carbon, hands stained with fuel.

You and Yuki trade feedback, strategy notes, clipped insights scribbled on printouts and murmured across laptops. There are arguments, too—about undercuts, weather windows, tire degradation. But you know each other’s rhythms by now. The dance of disagreement. It gets easier. It gets harder.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re raising them. Not as children, but as heirs.

You and Yuki, once fighting your way through junior series with blood in your teeth, now pouring every ounce of that fight into someone else. Every mistake Doriane makes feels like a bruise on your own body. Every win of Isack’s feels like something that belongs in Yuki’s scrapbook.

And yet, sometimes, when they laugh too loud or talk too fast, you wonder how they make it look so light. How you and Yuki ever made it look this easy. If you ever did.

There are moments, too, when the roles invert—when Isack elbows you after a particularly tense quali and says, “You and Yuki need a night off or a good fuck, whichever comes first.”

You nearly choke on your water. Doriane laughs so hard she slides off her chair. She clutches her side and wheezes, “He is not wrong. You two are unbearable.”

Yuki looks at you with an unreadable expression that softens, barely, at the corners. He tells the two drivers to shut up, if only so he can listen to you talk.

After Silverstone, it rains. A soft drizzle that coats the tarmac and leaves the air smelling of petrol and petrichor. You stand trackside with a clipboard pressed to your chest, raindrops seeping into the paper.

Isack finishes P2. Doriane, just behind him.

They had pit at the exact right moment. You and Yuki locked eyes on the call, for once in complete agreement. Both of them arrive at the cool-down room soaked and giddy, helmets off, eyes bright with the high of joy that is shared.

Later, you find a quiet moment. The four of you gathered around a backroom table with takeaway chips out of greasy paper, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline crash. There are two half-empty cans of beer between you and Yuki. Your knees are drawn up on the bench. You don’t remember when your shoes came off.

Isack is recounting a move from Lap 27 with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy, Doriane poking holes in his version with a fry. Yuki listens, a faint smile on his face, head tilted just so.

You watch the shadow of him in profile. A little older, a little larger-than-life than you remember from those old photos you used to keep in your wallet. Before everything.

You say it without meaning to. Just a breath of a thought made real. “Maybe they’re the happy ending we didn’t get,” you muse, the words spoken just loud enough for him.

Yuki looks up slowly. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, deliberate. His voice is lighter than usual. “You say that like it’s too late for us.”

You smile, crooked. ”Isn’t it?”

He shrugs. “I’m still here,” he says, like it’s that simple. “You’re still here.”

You glance at Doriane and Isack. Still deep in some dumb debate about corner exits, too wrapped up in each other to listen. It’s oddly comforting.

You reach under the table. Your hand finds Yuki’s.

Just because you want to. Just because it hurts not to.

There’s a pause. A breath.

Then his fingers curl around yours. You squeeze once, tentative. He squeezes back. Doriane and Isack continue to rant and rave, blissfully unaware of the soft epilogue unfolding in front of them.

The season barrels toward its end like a runaway engine, momentum crashing against you from all sides. Every lap counts now. Every mistake costs more than it should.

You wake up thinking about tire strategy. You fall asleep mid-sentence, dreams laced with telemetry, your mind running laps while your body begs for stillness. The Constructors’ Championship looms like a storm cloud; Red Bull is still within reach of it, if just barely. One bad call could ruin everything. One perfect weekend could make it all worth it.

You feel the pressure in your shoulders, in the way you snap at the junior engineers, the way you retype the same strategy file three times because the margins don’t look quite right. Yuki’s no better. His pacing has gotten worse. He chews through pens, so much so that the mechanics have started buying them by the pack.

The two of you say less and less to each other, maybe because you’re scared that saying anything else might break whatever fragile detente you’ve found. There’s too much at stake now. Too much to lose.

And then there’s the grid.

There’s more women. Not many, but enough to feel it. Enough that it’s no longer an anomaly, just a pattern that hasn’t yet gone mainstream. You remember when you used to scan the timing sheets for names like yours. Nowadays, there is momentum. One that isn’t yours, but close enough to graze.

Courtney Crone drives the wheels off her Haas, bartering for midfield points like she’s owed more than the sport will give her. Rafaela Ferreira makes headlines with every double-overtake she pulls in the VCARB. She drives like she has nothing to prove and everything to burn.

Doriane, still learning, still sharp, still rising. Every time she outbrakes someone into Turn 1, you feel a flush of pride, followed closely by something darker, something sharper.

The future you used to want is now flesh and blood and driving flat-out on Sundays.

At Singapore, something extraordinary happens.

P1: Doriane. P2: Rafaela. P3: Courtney.

The image goes viral before the cooldown room even clears. Headlines bloom. The moment is hailed as a triumph. A revolution. Your comms headset lies forgotten on the table, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. You sit in the shadows of the garage and pretend you’re fine. Pretend your throat isn’t closing up. Pretend this isn’t a dream you buried so deep it shouldn’t hurt anymore.

You think you’re doing a decent job of it until Yuki finds you after the media wrap. His voice is quiet, almost uncertain. “Hey.”

You don’t look at him. Your jaw locks. Your fingers tremble. Your chest feels full of water, too deep to breathe.

“Great podium,” you say. Your voice is too calm. It’s the calm right before everything breaks.

He nods, hesitates, then crouches down in front of you. He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there, on the garage floor, elbows on his knees like he has all the time in the world. And the way he looks at you. God. It’s a tenderness you don’t deserve.

“It’s historical,” he says gently.

“It is,” you whisper.

And then.

The horrible, ugly truth. “I fucking hate it,” you choke out.

The breath you’ve been holding finally lets go. With it, the tears.

They come fast and ugly. No grace, no control. You cry like something inside you is breaking open. Rage curdles in your throat. Guilt follows right behind it. You want to be happy for them. You are. You want to scream. You want to disappear.

“I’m a terrible person,” you hiccup in between sobs. “Fuck, I’m the shittiest person in the world.”

Yuki pulls you into his arms before you can stop him. His body is warm, grounding, unfamiliar in its softness. You’ve never hugged him like this. Not when you were kids, not when you were rivals. Not even now, when you’re something more fragile and more confusing than friends. Still, he holds you like it’s nothing.

It makes everything worse before things can be better.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, words murmured into the crown of your head. “I’m so sorry.”

Even though it isn’t his fault. Even though he knows you know it.

His apology is a place to rest your grief. It gives you permission to break, and so you do. You press your forehead to his shoulder. Let the envy rage and dissolve. Let yourself be held. Let yourself hate everything you shouldn't.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Eventually, your breathing slows. Your hands unclench. You feel hollowed out, scraped raw in the quietest way.

When the worst of it finally passes, Yuki doesn’t let go until you do.

You start to notice it once the grief begins to lift.

The weight Yuki carries. How he folds into himself in the paddock sometimes, hands tucked into the sleeves of his team jacket, eyes drawn not to the screens but to the track beyond them. It’s not just your grief that has shape and color now. His does, too. You see it everywhere, once you learn how to look.

It’s in the names on the leaderboard. People he once raced. People who once shared the same starting grid. You watch him recoil, barely, when the commentators praise Lando’s consistency, or when Oscar nails a wet-weather drive. Yuki never says anything, but you feel it in the beat of silence that follows.

It’s in the way the media talk about him now. Tsunoda: Red Bull’s secret weapon on the pit wall. Tsunoda: the mind behind Hadjar’s title charge. They call him brilliant. They call him calm. They say he’s better here than he ever was in the car.

You don’t think they know what that costs.

It’s in the way he watches Isack in the garage. Not just with pride, but with something else, too. Hunger. Regret. The brittle echo of ambition that never quite found its landing strip. Yuki is pushing Isack towards something he never reached himself, guiding him with a steadiness he never had the chance to master. The irony is thick enough to choke on.

And yet.

Yuki never complains. Never wavers. He does the job with all the precision and poise that used to crack and spark under pressure when it was him behind the wheel. He is good at this, undeniably, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

So you begin to meet him in those in-betweens.

In the moments between debriefs and data runs. In the hush of a garage cleared for the night. In the silence of a shared elevator, a coffee machine humming in the background. You start offering softness like it's a second language. You learn to say, “You did good today,” in a tone that means: I see you.

He leans into it. Not all at once. Not every time. But, sometimes, he lingers. Sometimes he doesn’t brush off the compliment. Sometimes he lets himself sit beside you, knees nearly touching, fingers only sort of pressed together.

You don’t call it a truce. You don’t call it anything. You just sit with him, two people who once wanted the same thing so badly they forgot how to want each other. Now, maybe, you're remembering.

He doesn’t ask for the grace you offer, but he doesn’t push it away either. For the first time in a long while, you’re not holding onto him out of fear or envy.

You’re just holding space.

That feels like something worth wanting, too.

Qatar is a dream.

Everything goes to plan. No miscalculated tire calls, no rogue safety car, no radio miscommunication. Doriane and Isack thread the needle through chaos with the kind of poise that makes your blood sing. You and Yuki stay in sync, your voices alternating on the comms like breath and heartbeat. A rhythm learned, not forced. The work of the season is evident in every choice.

It’s the second to the last race, but it’s as good as gospel: Red Bull will win the Constructors'.

The champagne is cold and sharp. The air is dry and celebratory. Your ears ring with the sound of it all. Victory. Yours, in some large part. Not in the way you once thought you’d have it, but still. It still has to count for something. That’s what you tell yourself.

Later, it’s another dinner.

The four of you at some rooftop restaurant Doriane picked. Glass railings, city lights, a smear of pink desert haze in the sky. You sit next to Yuki, close enough to feel the brush of his elbow when he shifts.

It starts light. Isack makes an exaggerated toast to victory. Doriane cusses him out when he calls it their shared genius. Yuki laughs, shoulders loose for the first time in weeks. Once or twice, you and Yuki ‘accidentally’ touch. A hand on your thigh. Your elbow in his side.

Somehow, it’s your driver who has to go and botch it all up.

“Surely this is enough to get you to stay,” Isack teases, and you realize he’s not talking to you when Doriane stomps on his foot underneath the table.

There’s no crescendo, no dramatic reveal. It’s just a fact laid down between bites of grilled fish.

Your fork stills. Isack clears his throat and mumbles something about never knowing when to shut up. Doriane shovels a couple more spoonfuls of rice in her mouth like it’ll push down the truth of it all.

They already knew.

You didn’t.

Yuki doesn’t even look you at first. He just keeps on eating, pretending that Isack hasn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the dining table. You don’t know where to put your hands. Don’t know what to say.

The wine in your glass tastes bitter all of a sudden. Your skin prickles with something close to betrayal, though you know it isn’t fair. Still. Still.

Yuki turns to you, gently, like he already knew this would be the hardest part. “It’s not official yet,” he says. “Just thinking about it.”

But that doesn’t soothe anything. That doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t told. That this future you thought maybe you were building with him—professionally, personally, emotionally—was probably temporary in his mind.

You swallow hard. You nod. You smile, because you know how to.

He reaches for your hand beneath the table. His fingers curl toward yours.

You pull away.

No drama. No slap of hand against thigh.

Yuki doesn’t try again.

The rest of the dinner is careful. Doriane distracts with stories. Isack jumps in with retorts. You say little. You finish your meal. You keep your face neutral.

Doriane and Isack don’t say anything when you rise from the table. They know better than to intervene—or maybe they know it wouldn’t make a difference. You murmur something about needing air, your voice barely cutting through the low murmur of the rooftop restaurant. Neither of the drivers stop you.

But Yuki follows.

You hear his footsteps on the concrete before you feel him, each one measured like he’s trying not to spook you. He finds you just outside the dining area, by the railing where the city lights scatter across the desert horizon. Below, traffic glides like blood through arteries, slow and inevitable. The wind tugs at your shirt, cool against skin gone hot with feeling.

He doesn’t say your name. He only comes to stand beside you, a little out of breath like he’d jogged to catch up, but trying to play it off.

“You weren’t supposed to find out like that,” Yuki says outright.

You laugh once, humorless. It comes out fierce and ugly. “I wasn’t supposed to find out at all, apparently.”

His glaze down like he can’t bear to hold yours. You keep your eyes on the skyline, where the glass buildings blink back cold and blue, reflecting everything you can’t say.

“I thought you’d want this,” he mumbles. “A track I’m not on. Something that could finally be yours, something you wouldn’t have to share.”

The words hit too many nerves all at once. You turn toward him, all your hackles rising. “Don’t do that,” you say, sharp. “Don’t pretend like you know what I want.”

His face twists. You see every line of it, every flicker of guilt and grief and something else. You keep going. “You don’t get to use me as your reason,” you seethe. “You don’t get to leave and call it kindness.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. His hands twitch like they want to reach for something but don't know where to land.

“I thought I was giving you space,” he says finally. His voice is smaller than before, like even he knows his defense is shaky.

Your exhale shudders on the way out, torn and uneven. “You think you know what that means? Giving someone space? Giving them room to grow? You think leaving is the same as caring?”

“Yes,” he says, and you know it’s not just the now that weighs in on his opinion.

It’s the Yuki of your karting days who thought that outracing you was a form of love that might push you to newer heights. It’s the Yuki that went on to climb the ranks, easing out of your life under the guise of mercy.

You press your palms to your eyes. The ache behind them has nothing to do with the desert dryness. It’s old. It’s layered. It’s seventeen years old, and it’s still there.

You lower your hands, finally meeting Yuki’s gaze. They shine in the half-light, unreadable. “Every day since the season has started, I haven’t found what I needed. Not really. Not on a pit wall. Not behind a headset, not with Isack. Not even with Doriane.”

The silence stretches. It fills every crack between you.

Your voice breaks into it, raw with the decade and the season and everything else. “No one’s come close to you,” you say, “and I don’t think anyone ever will.”

You admit it like a fact. Like telemetry. Like the laws of physics. Gravity, inertia, heartbreak.

Yuki steps closer, and you brace for something. Contact, a kiss, the final wound. It doesn’t come. He only stands there with the wind in his hair, the weight on his shoulders. The grief, co-driver to the love.

“I used to think getting to F1 was it,” he says, delicate and thoughtful and yours in all the ways that matter. “That it would fill something. And then I got there, and I just wanted more. And more. And more. And I hated myself for it. For not being satisfied.”

You think of every time he looked over his shoulder during a race. Every time you were just out of frame. Every time you said goodbye and never called it that.

He looks at the ground, then back at you. “I think I’m just now figuring out what ‘enough’ looks like.”

The last race of the season doesn’t matter the way you thought it would. Not in the grand, cinematic sense. The World Driver’s Championship slips from Red Bull’s grip in the final laps, taken by a Mercedes driver whose car just had the better straight-line speed, the cleaner pit window.

It doesn’t matter that Isack finishes second or that Doriane pulls in a hard-earned third. It doesn’t even matter that both of them drove like hellfire.

Because Red Bull still wins the Constructor’s, and it is chaos.

The garage explodes in a blur of navy and red, engineers and pit crew shouting over the radio, sparklers cracking in the background. Champagne is sprayed from everywhere. Doriane and Isack hoist the team flag up on the podium like a declaration of something hard-fought and finally, finally earned. You—you find yourself colliding with Yuki in the crush of people.

His face is flushed, flushed in a way that might be celebration or heat or something else entirely. His headset is around his neck, half-forgotten. He looks at you like you drove that damn car across the chequered flag yourself. And suddenly it hits you—this might be the last time you do this together.

You lean in, close enough to be heard over the roar. “You should quit, if you want to,” you say, loud enough to be heard over everything unfolding.

He blinks, startled. The words hit harder than intended, but you mean them kindly. Really, you do. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time,” you say. “Don’t be stuck here, watching the world end a little every weekend.”

He studies your face, his smile slowly but surely cracking. “That’s dramatic,” he shouts, “even for you.”

Your shoulders raise in a shrug. “We deserve to be dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I think I still have a couple more years in me. And we deserve to be happy, too.”

You laugh. Something unknots in your chest. You wonder if that’s the most honest answer he’s given all season.

There’s a beat. The kind of pause that could lead to something. He leans forward. You do, too. It could happen, the kiss. It’s almost there, within breath.

But someone barrels past, yelling about more champagne, and the moment breaks.

You both pull back, grinning. “Anticlimactic,” Yuki huffs.

“Story of our lives,” you joke back.

He laughs, really laughs, and you can’t help it. You reach out and hug him, arms looping around his middle. He doesn’t hesitate to hold you right back.

It’s not the kind of hug that sweeps you off your feet. It doesn’t erase the friction of the years gone by, or the losses that stack up for the both of you.

It’s just—Yuki, hooking his chin over your shoulder. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel the curve of his smile even without seeing it.

You learn what it means to want. To need. To hold both in your hands and let it be enough. ⛐

228 notes · View notes

cannelley · 15 days ago

Text

The Hating Game ╰┈➤ OP81

summary: y/n and oscar, two competitive co-workers who can’t stand each other. as they fight for the same promotion, their rivalry takes an unexpected turn—from hate to something much more complicated.

[word count] 16.7k

🎶 crush by ethel cain, cupids chokehold/ breakfast in america by gym glass heroes, imgonnagetyouback by taylor swift, loved you first by one direction, iris by the goo goo dolls, back to friends by sombr, I wanna be yours by arctic monkeys, pink lemonade by james bay + fool for you by zayn

there's always been something off about the elevator at work.

it could be that no matter how many times maintenance replace the lights, they continuously flicker. not enough to be concerning, but just enough to be annoying.

it could also be the mirrors that line every single square inch of the elevator. it looks fancy sure, but you're tired of wiping off finger prints and oil marks of others off the glass—are you the only one who values cleanliness in this place? seriously.

or it could be—yes, most definitely could be—the way oscar piastri stands beside you in it, shoulders back, dress shirt perfectly tailored and ironed, that is the most sinister of it all. because every single day, monday to friday like clockwork, oscar piatsri stands exactly 3 feet away from you on the elevator ride up to your shared space.

neither of you speak. not in the elevator.

it's like a game really.

you both arrive to the lobby at the same time and then wait for the elevator to pick you up. oscar presses the correct button, and you pretend to not notice him eye you irritably when you apply lipgloss in your compact mirror and then smack your lips together for an even spread.

then the doors slide open and you're both walking.

it's been like this for almost 8 months. 8 long months of pretending like oscar piastri doesn't make coming to work feel like entering a war zone.

there are three certainties in your life.

1. you are very good at your job.

2. you loathe oscar piastri.

and 3. oscar piastri knows it, and he despises you just as much.

he works in strategic development for the publishing company you're under, while you work in creative marketing for said company. both used to be very separate sections of publishing, meaning you and oscar used to be blissfully unaware of each other existence—until the third floors pipes combusted leaving no option but for both sections to merge together.

you weren't happy with having to share a space with a development team. mostly because they are all frat bros turned developers who reek of misogyny and cockiness, but also because merging together meant having to share an office space with one of them.

and that one ended up being oscar piastri.

it was a decision that still reeks of bad karma and even worse interior design.

that first day, you'd stepped out onto the second floor with a smile and your desk fern in your hands. despite your distaste for the new arrangement, you wanted to get off on the right foot. after all, you didn't know how long this would last, and being friendly with your office mate was the first step in making it more tolerable.

but when you walked in, introduced yourself to him with an outstretched hand and cardigan, the man who's name you now know is oscar, looked you up and down. slowly. and then walked out of the office space without uttering a single word.

from that moment on, you and oscar have turned into mortal enemies.

your desks face each other. directly. sitting six feet and three inches apart—yes, you measured—separated by nothing except a tasteful area rug and enough shared tension to kill a houseplant.

it's fine. really.

⸻

the morning starts the same as every other morning. you're already waiting by the elevator doors by the time oscar walks over—2 minutes after you—with a steaming coffee in a starbucks takeaway cup in hand, and an expression on his face that suggests he's recently been told emotions are contagious.

he doesn't look at you. just takes a slow and steady drink of his coffee.

the doors open with a rhythmic ding and you step in first—like usual—long winter coat swinging around your sheer tight covered calfs as you spin to face the doors.

oscar presses the button to your floor and then leans back. his coat is open, revealing his black button down and the tie he always wears slightly loose—like he just walked off a damn magazine cover for men who are too handsome to smile.

screw him and his sharp jawline.

but unlike every other morning, the tension filled silence doesn't linger between you. instead, oscar piastri must have decided that he wants to start your daily battle early.

he doesn't look up from his phone when he speaks. "morning sunshine," your shoulders tighten with irritation as the demeaning nickname rolls of his tongue—one he's been referring to you as for months now.

his eyes flick towards you. warm brown. just a flick. "try not to blind anyone with your optimism today."

quickly, you recover from the shock of his voice already, and snap into defensive mode just as fast. "oh, I brought extra sunglasses. want a pair?" you hold your oversized purse, digging around theatrically. "I think I've got a pair next to the hopes and dreams you crushed yesterday."

oscar doesn't even blink. "those weren't dreams. that was a poorly written pitch deck."

"a pitch deck with personality," you retort, "you should try it sometime."

he snorts—his version of laughing. maybe. possibly just a nose issue.

the elevator dings, doors opening again before oscar can respond. and thank god, because you think if you have to hear anything else come out of his mouth before having your own coffee, you might just kill him.

in sync you both step off—like two sides of a coin destined to never face the same way. co-workers all around send you both curious glances, no doubt wondering what kind of blow up between you and oscar will unfold today.

will it be another stapler heist like a few months ago when oscar swore you took his stapler—you did, but denied it anyways. that day turned into both of you taking turns swiping the stapler from one another while the other wasn't paying attention.

will it be him stealing the last keruig pod—lightly roasted. your favourite. and then smugly drinking it while looking at you over the rim of his mug like he's done too many times to count.

or maybe it will be a repeat of yesterday where you and oscar spent the entire 8 hour day sending each other revised versions of the same report back and forth just to prove a formatting point.

only time will tell.

it's 2 hours after you join oscar in your shared space—and only after making that cup of coffee you were needing, while dealing with the rush of morning editing and responding to overnight emails—does the day truly begin.

the afternoon lulls and the fluorescent lighting above hums. you slide a report into the outbox tray with a little more force than necessary, the thunk echoing slightly too loud in the otherwise quiet office.

oscar doesn't look up from his keyboard. "wow. dramatic. did the paper personally offend you or are you just naturally heavy handed?"

you don't miss a beat, "i'm trying to match the energy of your typing. you sound like you're threatening the keyboard into submission."

oscar smirks faintly, but doesn't look up. "it sbmits because it respects me. you could try that with your reports sometime—instead of letting them look like a printer throw up on them."

you spin in your chair, leaning on the backrest with a sweet, venom-laced smile. "funny coming from someone who's last presentation had a typo in the title slide."

that makes oscar glance up. briefly. fingers faltering over the keyboard for a passing beat. "and yet, I still got complimented by upper management. maybe they like their work with a little personality. unlike yours, which is always so clinically precise and painfully dull."

your jaw clicks. god, he's insufferable, you think. always so smug. so composed—like he's never spilled coffee on a single spread sheet in his life. you'd bet money he alphabetizes his groceries.

oscar leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, giving you a once over that borders dangerously close to assessment. "you always get this twitchy when I outperform you, or is this a new shade of professional jealousy?"

you scoff, "please. if I wanted to compete with mediocrity, i'd race a printer."

that makes oscar laugh—low and unexpected and you have to blink a few times to digest the sound. "you're obsessed with printers today," he teases, "you okay? or do you miss the days when you could hit the 'staple' button without overthinking your entire career?"

you're trying to rile him up, oscar decides. you always get a certain glimmer in your eyes when you're about to say something brutal—kind of a smug little glint like you know exactly how to draw blood with words.

and yet, he keeps sparring back. he could ignore you. he should ignore you. but then you bite down on your bottom lip, like you're waiting for his response, and oscar completely forgets what spreadsheets are.

you pick up a glittery stress ball from your desk—something someone decided was a suitable gift during a team bonding seminar that ended it someone crying and oscar rolling his eyes—and toss it lazily up in the air.

"I don't need to overthink my career," you sigh, "unlike you, I'm not coasting on charm and generic cologne."

oscar raises an eyebrow. "so you've been thinking about my cologne?"

your mouth parts in shock for a moment before you compose yourself—narrowing your eyes in his direction. "only because it smells like you bathed in the men's section of abercrombie."

he grins like you've slipped up. you haven't—not really—but oscar takes it in stride and uses the opportunity to rage bait you further. shifting in his chair, he leans further back, hands clasped behind in his head in a way that makes his biceps look huge. "so you've imagined me bathing?"

there's a pause. slight. barley half a second. but enough.

without knowing what to say, you hurl the stress ball at his face.

oscar catches it, smug and unbothered. "aggressive. is this how you express affection?"

"if I ever feel affective towards you, you'll know. i'll send a fruit basket. with a bomb in it."

he smirks. barley. "so dramatic."

"so punchable." you mutter before hastily pushing off you desk, kitten heels clicking against the wooden flooring as you walk out of the office. oscar's triumphant sigh invades your ears and—yup, you definitely need more caffeine.

⸻

you end up leaving only an hour after your tiff with oscar that day. claiming a headache and waltzing out of there without so much as a second look in his direction.

when in reality you couldn't stand to look at oscar's face for a second longer—all smug smirk and annoying typing. it was driving you mental. you had to get out, and prepare for the process to repeat the following day.

it's a thursday now. almost a week later. you're halfway through pretending to work—highlighter in hand as you drag the neon yellow colour across paragraphs that don't really need to be highlighted—when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

it's not oscar—who sits silently across from you—but instead, it's lando. from marketing. he's leaning casually against the corner of your desk, a half shy smile on his face. his tie is loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to look intentionally effortless.

"hey," he says, paper bag clutched tightly in his hand. "just got back from that vendor meeting. they brought extras. grabbed your favorite—a chocolate croissant."

lando sets the bag down on your desk next to a mini captain america action figure you got in a kinder surprise egg, like it's a gift wrapped in gold. his fingers brushing the edge of your notebook—a little too close to casual. you blink, caught off guard.

"no way," you say, surprised. "you remembered?"

he shrugs, like it's no big deal. "told them we had someone on the team who actually appreciates flavor. had to balance out the robots in developing."

lando glances pointedly toward the desk directly across from yours, and you don't even need to look to know that oscar heard that. the subtle twitch in his jaw confirms it.

still, he keeps his eyes glued to his screen—"we may be robots," he mutters without looking up, "but at least we submit reports on time."

you give a light laugh, distracted as you open the paper bag. the buttery scent of the croissant wafts into the air, warm and rich. you bite into the warm croissant. it's buttery, flaky, perfect and you almost groan out.

lando chuckles like he's in on some private joke, eyes dancing between you as you wipe croissant flakes off your top, and oscar's deadpanned expression.

when oscar doesn't join in, lando clears his throat awkwardly, turning his attention back to you.

"you just saved my afternoon. seriously." you moan between bites.

"you can pay me back," lando suggests, leaning in slightly, a hopeful tilt to his smile. "maybe...dinner sometime? just the two of us."

completely oblivious to his suggestion, you nod enthusiastically. "sure! i'm always up for food."

lando seems to linger a beat too long, waiting for something else—maybe a blush, maybe a spark—but you're already halfway through your croissant, more focused on the chocolate than his eyes.

with a small, slightly disappointed smile, he gives a nod and strolls off. it's not like you don't like lando—he's great and handsome and nerdy in a way that all your exes were—you're just...totally oblivious to his flirting and don't see him as anything other than the guy from two rooms down.

you're barely two bites in when oscar's voice cuts through the quiet. "wow," he says, voice dry. "that was subtle."

you look up to see that he's swiveled around in his chair to face you fully, his arms crossed like a shield. oscar's expression is unreadable—part amusement, part judgment, part something else you can't place.

you can't help but frown, confusion lacing your drawn eyebrows. "what?"

"lando. the guy practically wrote 'please love me' across his forehead," he snorts, "you just... accepted the pastry like it was a proposal."

you set the croissant down with exaggerated care. "he's just being nice."

oscar raises an eyebrow, his voice low and annoyingly calm. "sure. because 'dinner sometime' is absolutely what friends say. right before they schedule their wedding."

"you're being ridiculous," you laugh—sharp and humorless. "It's nothing."

he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on top his knees. his eyes are dark, narrowed, searching. "I didn't realize your standards were that low."

the words hit harder than you would expect. you blink, "excuse me?"

something flashes on his face, but he doesn't act on it. oscar just shrugs, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. "lando's fine, I guess. If you like guys who say 'teamwork makes the dream work' and thinks bringing you a croissant is some grand romantic gesture."

you rise slowly from your chair, heart thudding. "why do you even care?"

"I don't."

"you clearly do."

oscar stands now too, almost mirroring your movements like he can't help but to match your energy. his arms cross tightly again, mouth pressed into a flat line.

"I just find it interesting," he notes, voice clipped, "that someone who's constantly harping on me about professionalism is two seconds away from dating the human version of a self-help podcast."

you step around your desk, closing some of the space between you. "are you jealous or something?"

there's a pause. a flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe. guilt. resentment.

oscar's jaw clenches so tight that it looks painful. his eyes dart away for a beat, a deep breath expanding his chest. then, what feels like hours later, he looks back at you. voice quieter.

"If you had half a clue," he says, "you'd realize I'm not concerned about his intentions."

the space between you changes, shrinking and weighing down on your chest. you stare at him with confusion coupled with disbelief. "then whose are you worried about?"

he looks at you like he's trying not to say something. like if he says what's on his mind, it'll burn everything to the ground. oscar's eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

your breath catches in what feels like surprise.

and then oscar exhales through his nose and turns back towards his desk. "forget it," he picks up his pen, muttering as he gets back to work without sparing you another look. "enjoy your croissant."

you watch him silently, analyzing his odd demeanour—the tension lingering in his shoulders. the rhythmic click of his keyboard picks up speed, a little too harsh. a little too loud.

eventually, you too drop back into your own chair, heart still racing—and all you can do is stare at the half eaten pastry in front of you like it's the problem.

what the fuck was that? that wasn't teasing—you note. that wasn't oscar's usual easy smugness. that argument was...quick. something real. something too sharp and way too complicated.

across from you, oscar still doesn't look up, not even when he hears the croissant hit the bottom of your garbage can with a dull thump.

⸻

you and oscar don't really speak all day friday. you're both too stubborn and way too competitive to break whatever weird cast as been over your shared office since lando's surprise pastry drop off.

yesterday, before you left work for the day, lando caught you in the parking garage, asking if you wanted to grab dinner the following evening.

and maybe because you were tired or maybe because you were picturing oscar's face—jaw all tight and clicking—as you walk into work in the morning wearing something date worthy. whatever it is—you act on it, and agree to meet lando at a local bar about a 5 minute walk down the street from the office.

now, almost 8 hours into your shift, you're definitely regretting walking to work in pretty yet impractical heels. your toes are so smooshed that they've probably morphed into one big toe.

it's also raining now, which is great because not only do you have to walk in death heels, but you'll be soaking yet while doing so.

the office is quiet saved for the coffee machines whirling and your pen hitting the edge of your notebook as you finish up your report. most of the staff clocked out hours ago, leaving behind the low hum of overhead lights and the rain pelting against the windows.

it's only you and oscar left—well, maybe clara from HR is still reading up on reports down the hall. but she's so quiet that you don't even remember she's here half the time.

once you've sent off your work to diane—the head of your department and one of the most fashionable 60 year olds you know—you move. the chair shoots back and almost hits the wall.

obviously it catches oscar's attention. he doesn't lift his head, but his eyes flicker over in your direction.

you don't look. instead, you shrug on your pea coat with an extra sense of pride, brush off a speck of invisible lint from your plaid skirt, and adjust your collar like it matters. you apply a layer of lipgloss in your compact mirror, right by your desk and then smack your lips together like always.

without a glance in oscar's direction, you start to walk out.

you don't get halfway across the floor when you hear his voice behind you. "that look for a client dinner, or are you finally moonlighting as a bond girl?"

his tone is light, sardonic—that trademark mix of charm and irritation he seems to reserve just for you.

you roll your eyes because you can't help it. you haven't spoken all day and he's acting like nothing has changed from your usual banter. he's got to be fucking with you.

"do you rehearse those lines or do they just fall out of your mouth like that?" you spin in your heel and prop a hand on your hip—clearly unimpressed and even more so annoyed.

"It's a gift," he says, pushing off his desk.

you don't respond before turning away again, making your way out of the office—cursing silently when you hear his shoes following close behind. it's doesn’t take long for oscar to fall into step beside you, both of approaching the elevator.

guess he's also done for the night.

"so... where are you going all dressed up?" oscar's question fails at hiding his disgust—and based on that, you're pretty sure he knows the answer already.

"lando," you say simply.

oscar snorts like his suspicions were confirmed. "of course. that guy's got a type, and apparently it's women who are too easily distracted by croissant to understand what he really wants"

you give him an incredulous look. "takes one to know one."

he chuckles a laugh under his breath, but there's something tighter about it this time—like the joke only half-landed. you push the elevator button and cross your arms tightly, trying not to let your expression soften.

he always does this—picks and prods until you give in and snap back. It's a dance, and you're both too stubborn to sit it out.

rain lashes against the windows as crack of thunder booms in the distance. a storm has moved in properly, fast and loud. you glance outside with a gentle gulp.

"fucking rain."

"worried your hair might actually frizz?" he teases, but it's gentler this time. when you look at him, he's already watching you—not with his usual smirk, but with something unreadable.

something quieter.

you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and pray for the elevator to hurry. "no umbrella," you mutter. "guess I'll have to call an uber."

oscar hesitates for a second, some internal battle clearly happening in his mind. and then—"I'll drive you."

you blink. "what?"

"you heard me." he shrugs, like it's not a big deal. "where are you headed? i'm sure it's close enough if you were planning to walk."

you don't answer—still too confused at oscar's sudden shift to properly address him. "since when are you nice to me?"

he smirks again, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. "let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm just not in the mood to watch you melt in the rain like a particularly sarcastic wicked witch."

the elevator dings.

you step in without responding, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with the storm. oscar follows, and the doors slide shut with a soft hiss.

the silence stretches— heavy and humming with something unsaid.

he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing sideways. you watch the floor numbers blink overhead, each one slower than the last. you cross your arms and then immediately uncross them when you start to feel hot.

"just davids bar," you swallow, eyes flickering over to him. "that's where i'm meeting him."

oscar purses his lips and nods. doesn't say anything else.

"you don't actually hate me, do you?" you ask quietly. you're unsure where the question came from—or the vulnerability that laces is. you surprise yourself, quickly averting your eyes.

oscar looks at you then—properly. his eyes scan your face, lingering at your lips for a second longer than they should.

"no," he admits after a beat, so gentle that it almost doesn't seem real. "but it's easier than the alternative."

your throat tightens. "which is?"

he shifts closer, the space between you disappearing inch by inch. oscar's voice drops low, like it's not meant for anyone else—like it's a secret, or a confession.

perhaps is it.

"wanting you."

your breath catches. he's standing so close now you can smell the clean scent of his cologne—something warm, like cedar and citrus, subtle but intoxicating. you stare up at him, pulse thudding in your neck, your chest, and your fingertips.

you try to be flippant, but your voice is softer than you intend. "that's not funny"

"no," he murmurs. "it's not."

you laugh, breathless and laced with hesitance. "you're ridiculous."

oscar doesn't miss a beat. "you're stalling."

you back hits the mirrored wall of the elevator. without noticing, you and oscar have drawn closer. you blink, lips parting in something you can't decipher as you search his expression—searching for any traces of humour.

you find none.

one of his hands braces beside your head, palm flat against the mirror while the other lightly brushes your waist under your coat. you almost jolt at the feeling.

his eyes flick from yours to your mouth and back again.

"I should go," you whisper, though you make no move to leave.

"yeah," he agrees. "you really should."

then, like the elevator has stopped off in some alternate universe, oscar piastri kisses you.

It's not tentative. It's not polite. It's months of tension and banter and unresolved want, crashing into one desperate, breath-stealing moment. his mouth is hot and insistent against yours, and you melt into it, fingers curling in the front of his shirt like you've lost your grip on logic—or never had it to begin with.

you're kissing him. kissing oscar.

and he's kissing you back like he means it—like it's been eating him alive. his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you there like he's afraid you'll vanish.

then—too soon, and somehow not soon enough—the elevator dings.

the sound of the doors whirling open is jarring. It slices through the haze like a knife.

you pull back, dazed and hot and even more confused than before.

oscar's hands linger for a second longer at your waist, then after a beat, fall away.

he’s looking down at you, chest heaving, eyes wide, lips slightly parted—not with heat this time, but something closer to disbelief. the kiss flashes through you, and you can feel your breath catch again, pulse racing in places that have nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with what the hell just happened.

neither of you speak.

the silence stretches, thick and awkward in a way that feels brand new. not sharp, not hostile, just raw.

you glance down, quick and little unsure, smoothing the front of your top even though it doesn't need it. maybe you're tying to erase the feeling of oscar's hands. or maybe you're trying to hold onto the feeling a second longer.

"I..." you start, but the words die before they can form.

oscar swallows hard, backing up a step into the open parking garage. you watch nervously as his jaw clenches and unclenches like he's thinking of something to say but can't land on the right version.

"oscar-" you start again, but this time it's him that cuts you off.

"you said david's bar?"

you nod slowly, hugging your arms across your chest. "yeah."

oscar doesn't look at you as he unlocks his car, the fancy beep echoing through the empty lot and over the hammering rain.

the air between you still buzzes—not with tension now, but with something fragile. like whatever just broke open might shatter completely if one of you breathes too hard.

neither of you say a word as oscar holds the door open for you to climb in. hell, he doesn't even look at you. and now, on top of everything else, you feel embarrassed.

the rain continues to drum steadily against the windshield as oscar pulls out of the parking garage, wipers slicing across the glass in quiet, rhythmic swipes.

the air inside the car is warm, almost stifling.

you stare out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest. you can feel the ghost of his hands still on you—the heat of his mouth still pressed against yours—and it's making your skin burn for all the wrong reasons.

the silence gives you time to properly think—about the kiss and the silence that followed suit. about oscar and you're bickering. it doesn't make sense, and the longer you stew on the pile of endless possibilities about what oscar kissing you could mean you can't help but to think of worse case scenarios.

he shifts in his seat. you catch the way his jaw is locked again, and how his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

"look," he says finally, voice low. "about what happened—"

you cut him off, "don't. seriously. I don't need you pretending it was some accident."

oscar's brows furrow. "I'm not pretending anything.”

you let out a bitter laugh. "right. you just happened to kiss me 10 minutes before I'm supposed to walk into a date with someone else. how convenient."

he glances at you through the glow of street lamps, incredulous. "you think I planned that? you think I kissed you to ruin your night?"

you don't answer. you don't want to say yes, but it would be easier than facing what it might actually mean.

"jesus, y/n," he mutters. "you really think that little of me?"

"I don't know what to think, oscar." your voice shakes, and you clear your throat before continuing. "you argue with me, you roll your eyes every time I speak in a meeting, and then you... kiss me like that? you don't get to act like it didn't mean anything, and expect me to just sit in your car like nothing happened."

he's quiet, and that silence speaks louder than anything.

when oscar pulls up outside the bar, the rain's slowed to a mist, and you're already reaching for the door handle.

"thanks for the ride," you mutter. and then you're out of the car—heels clicking across the wet pavement, heart racing, and chest aching with something you don't understand.

the bar is warm and softly lit, filled with quiet clinks of glassware and murmured conversation. it envelops you like a warm hug as soon as you walk in.

you spot lando almost immediately—tucked into a corner booth, relaxed. he smiles once when he sees you.

"hey," he says, standing to greet you with a friendly hug. "you look... wow."

you smile, but it feels thin. "thanks. sorry I'm late."

"no worries," he gesture towards a glass of white wine on the table. "I ordered you a glass—figured you'd need it after work. hope that's okay?"

you nod, sliding into the seat across from him. lando continues to talk—something about work, some funny thing he saw earlier, but it washes over you like static. you nod, smile when appropriate, but your mind is still trapped in the elevator.

still trying to decode the look on oscar's face after he kissed you. still wondering why it hurt that he let you walk away without saying anything else.

lando tilts his head at you after a pause. "you okay, y/n?" he asks.

"yeah. just... one sec." you rise quickly, forcing a smile. "sorry, I'll be right back."

you make it into the hallway near the restrooms before the weight hits you full-force. you press a hand against your forehead, the other clinging to your purse as your throat tightens.

tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

you don't even know what you're crying for exactly. maybe the confusion. or the frustration. or the fact that you let oscar get to you—again.

a part of you wanted the kiss, and now it feels like you've fallen for something that wasn't even real.

you're wiping your cheek with the back of your hand when you hear footsteps behind you. you spin around, expecting maybe a server—but it's him.

oscar.

he's holding your coat. the coat you'd taken off as soon as you got in the car because you were running so hot you felt like you had no choice—you barley remember taking it off.

but here he is, with it in the hand that 5 minutes ago was sliding over your body like a paintbrush on canvas.

but his expression changes the second he sees your face. "I came to return this," he says quietly—tentatively and assessing you—lifting the coat. "you left it in the car."

you stare at it for a tense beat, and then back at him. "of course you did." your voice cracks despite your best effort.

you hate that he's seeing you like this. falling apart outside a dingy bar bathroom like a mess. crying over him.

despite your clipped and dissolve tone, oscar doesn't move to leave. "are you okay?"

you let out a bitter laugh, wiping at another tear before it drips off your jaw. "do I look okay?"

he swallows hard. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"but you did," you snap. "you kissed me like you meant it, and then looked at me like it was some kind of mistake. like I was."

he opens his mouth, but you don't let him speak.

"I don't know what you were trying to do, oscar. if this was about getting in my head, or screwing with my night just because you hate the idea of me with someone else—"

"It wasn't," he cuts in, voice firm and unwavering. "It wasn't about lando. It wasn't a game."

you don't miss a beat, voice achingly telling. "it's always a game, oscar," shaking your head, you clutch your coat to your chest. "I can't do this with you."

he blinks. "y/n—"

"just leave." the words come out hoarse, but steady. you're not crying anymore, but your cheeks are stained and eyes rimmed with emotion.

oscar's expression falters—like he wasn't expecting that. like maybe he thought the kiss had changed something. that you'd want him to explain, or chase you, or admit something he's not ready to say out loud.

but you don't.

you turn away, pressing your palm against the cool wall, breathing hard through the lump in your throat.

behind you, you hear nothing at first—just the faint music from the bar, the soft click of glasses, the distant hum of life moving on around you.

then, finally, footsteps.

quieter now.

and then the door opens.

and then closes.

you're alone again.

sinking down against the wall, you hug your knees close to your chest and try and breathe through the ache sitting against your ribs.

you don't know what just happened—you only know that for the first time in a long time...you wish he hadn't left.

the days that follow pass quietly, each one folding into the next like pages in a book you're too tired to keep reading.

the dull and unfamiliar ache doesn't vanish—it just finds new places to hide. some mornings it wakes you before the sun. some nights, it drips from your words like venom. and somehow, that's easier. simpler. familiar.

whatever fragile thread had once tied you and oscar together has long since snapped, left to fray in the silence that followed his departure. neither of you mention what happened. or what was almost said. the glances are shorter now—sharper and measured like chess moves, delivered with the kind of cool detachment that used to define the two of you.

the worst part is how easily it comes back—the sarcasm, the side-eyes, the brittle edge in your voice when you say his name. like slipping into an old coat, one that still fits far too well.

oscar walks into the room now and doesn't look at you.

you don't look at him, either.

and somehow, that says more than words ever could.

still—sometimes, in the pause between your shared space, or in the kitchen waiting for the coffee pot to brew, you catch something in his eyes. a flicker. a breath. regret.

but then it's gone, and the game resumes.

like always.

it's monday now. exactly three weeks since the kiss in the elevator that you still dream about and then wake up in tears.

like a usual morning, you read through your overnights emails in silence and pretend that oscar isn't sitting across from you.

you've seen people get fired. promoted. break down over jammed printers. but nothing—and you mean nothing—sends the office into a panic spiral quite like an email with the subject line: "all staff mandatory meeting."

oscar must see it the same time as you, because in a blink he's strolling out of the office. you count to ten before following suit.

the conference room smells like stale coffee and glass cleaner. fluorescent lights hum above, buzzing like insects. you sit at the long oval table, back straight, pen tapping lightly against your notepad—more for focus than notes.

around you, the rest of the team fidgets with their mugs, papers, and phones. you can feel oscar across the table, just out of your line of sight. he's still. too still.

diane, your boss—your sharp, fearless, silk-blouse-wearing boss—stands at the head of the table like she owns the building. honestly, she probably does. emotionally anyways. she clears her throat, and just like that, the room falls into silence.

"effective immediately," diane starts, voice smooth, "we're opening a new role—executive director of brand strategy."

the words hang in the air like smoke, and instinctively your spine straightens.

a few heads turn. someone lets out a soft exhale. your stomach continues to tighten like a vice. you feel the shift in the room—a ripple of quiet buzz, the kind that precedes a storm.

but across from you, oscar doesn't even blink. he's composed. polished. his fingers are steepled under his chin like he's already strategizing how to own the title.

you hate how still he is. you also hate how your own pulse kicks harder in response.

diane continues, voice almost too casual.

"and we've narrowed it down to two final candidates."

then—like some twisted movie—she does it. she looks directly at you, and then directly at oscar.

of course.

"y/n and oscar."

there's no applause. no chorus polite "oh wow" or fake congratulations. just a sharp, invisible oh shit that passes through the room like a draft. the tension turns electric. no one breathes. not really.

oscar turns his head slightly, just enough to catch your eye. and like you've seen many times before, that smug, unreadable look already warms the edges of his expression. his mouth twitches—the ghost of a smirk or maybe a challenge.

you meet his gaze head-on.

you refuse to blink first.

diane, smiling like a lion with a full menu, continues like she didn't just restart world war 3 in the office. "final selection will be made in two weeks. In the meantime, both of you will continue working closely and collaborating on analysis and reports."

oscar speaks first. calm. smooth. predictable.

"looking forward to it." he even smiles when he says it—the kind of smile that says I'm already ahead of you.

you tilt your head, and smile sweetly. "same here. you'll need all the help you can get."

he raises an eyebrow. "that sounded like an insult wrapped in encouragement."

"because it is."

the meeting starts to dissolve around you—people shifting, gathering papers, murmuring things that sound like 'wow', 'good luck', 'yikes'.

you know, real good stuff.

chairs scrape. someone claps a little too enthusiastically, trying to lighten the mood.

you remain seated. so does oscar.

of all the people in this company, it had to be him pitted against you. just like usual, you and oscar will be battling for a top spot in this office. oscar—the man who always has one more slide, one more angle, one more clever comment about budget review.

he leans slightly over the table, voice lower now—just for you. "try not to sabotage me before lunch, alright?"

you lean in just as far. one bump and you're sure your noses could touch. "i'd never sabotage you. that would imply you're a threat."

his smile widens, but there's a flicker of something sharp in his eyes. something he tries to hide, but not fast enough. "you're going to make this fun, sunshine." he says.

you grit your teeth. "haven't you learned by now, oscar? I make everything more fun."

diane walks past, pausing just long enough to give you both a knowing look. "play nice," she says, not unkindly—but pointed.

you both mumble some version of "always" at the same time, with the exact amount of sarcasm that makes her chuckle as she walks off.

the room empties, the door swinging closed behind the last person, and still, you and oscar sit there—facing each other like it's a chessboard instead of a conference table.

"two weeks," he says, his voice is quiet now. measured.

"plenty of time to crush you."

he laughs—a short, amused sound. then he stands, smooth and unhurried. "then may the best liar win."

he walks out and you sit there for a second longer, staring at the empty chair he left behind like a moron.

the next morning, the office feels different.

colder.

sharper maybe?

every time you walk past someone's desk, they glance up like you've grown horns overnight. maybe you have. after all, you're in competition mode now. so is oscar. and everyone in the office seems hyper aware of the fact. hell, they parted like the red sea when you both stepped off the elevator this morning.

when you open your computer, your inbox is full. you slack is worse.but what keeps repeating in your mind—over and over like a curse—is the way diane said it.

"...both of you will continue working closely."

you assume that meant co-leading meetings, sharing slide decks, subtle sabotage over reports. what you absolutely did not assume was a 9:00 am scheduled calendar even for today tilted—"team building: offsite trust & resilience retreat (mandatory)"

"obstacle course challenge?" you read aloud, horrified. "what are we, army recruits?" you're not actually looking for an answer, eyes squinted as you re-read the words like they’re going to change.

across the room, oscar doesn't look up. of course he doesn't. he's probably already building a strategy to crush every single one of you and claim the metaphorical office flag.

"oh great," he mutters, tapping away on his laptop. "more excuses for people to fall and cry."

"It's not crying if you break your ankle, oscar. that's called pain."

finally, he looks up at you, one eyebrow lifted in a completely unamused way. "planning to injure yourself preemptively so I feel guilty and throw the game?"

"I don't need to fake anything. I plan on winning with flair, charm, and sheer chaotic brilliance."

"so... no plan at all, then."

before you can craft a suitably devastating retort, clara from HR starts calling through the office, telling everyone to get their climbing pants on.

you can feel oscar's eyes rolling.

twenty minutes later, you're in the back of a charter bus, surrounded by coworkers in branded hoodies and team spirit that makes your eye twitch. the air smells like overenthusiastic optimism and granola bars.

oscar takes the seat next to you without asking.

of course he does.

"assigned seating?" you mutter.

"just thought you'd appreciate a front-row view of my inevitable victory."

you turn your head, slowly. "oscar, if we end up on opposite sides of a rope bridge, I won't hesitate to 'accidentally' loosen your harness."

he chuckles, then leans back, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched like he owns the bus aisle. "noted. you want to kill me, but only after the promotion's official."

"exactly."

as the bus pulls onto the highway and the skyline disappears behind you, you glance out the window, trying to push away the nerves humming beneath your skin.

promotion. competition. him.

you exhale as a wave of dizziness washes over you.

let the games begin.

by the time you arrive at the offsite location—a wooded "adventure center" that looks like it was designed by someone who hates introverts—you're already regretting everything.

there's mud—real mud—and it's already caked your boots. the instructors are wearing headsets and high five like it's a cult.

you look around with a grimace, already in your harness. you catch lando's eyes across the lot, and he waves, half in his own harness. you smile politely, but then oscar's by your side and you're annoyed with the world again. it doesn't help that he's stretching like he's warming up for the olympics.

"you ready, partner?" he asks, rolling his neck with a smug grin.

"we're not partners," you mutter, tugging on your gloves. "we're rivals with matching shirts."

"team yellow," he says, gesturing to the gaudy branded shirt you both had thrusted into your chest as soon as you stepped off the bus. "It's like fate dressed us the same."

"It's like fate wants me to commit a felony."

the first challenge is a giant cargo net wall. probably about 10 feet high. there's a lot of rope and even more mud. someone blows a whistle and you let someone else go first—some enthusiastic intern who yells, "let's crush this, team!" like he's in a commercial.

oscar glances sideways at you, a knowing look on his face. "don't tell me you're stalling."

you don't look at him. "don't tell me you're still talking."

you step forward and grab the net because you can't let oscar be right—even though you were most definitely stalling.

halfway up, your muscles burn hotter than expected and your head pulses behind your eyes, a subtle throb that started on the bus and hasn't gone away.

you blame the weather. and oscar.

he's right below you, moving quickly, climbing like he's done this before. because he probably is the kind of weirdo who has.

"struggling already?" he calls up, breathless but smug.

"no," you grunt, "i'm just enjoying the view from above you."

he laughs, and the sound somehow shoots directly down your spine.

at the top, you pause for a second too long. the wind hits your face and your balance shifts. the world tilts. and before you can register what's going on, your hand slips off the rope.

"whoa—y/n."

oscar's voice cuts sharp as he reaches up instinctively, grabbing your wrist—grip warm, firm, and grounding.

you freeze, eyes locked on his.

there's a beat where you're both breathing harder than you should be.

"let go," you utter quietly.

"you sure?" he asks, eyes flicking briefly down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "because for a second there, it looked like you were about to fall for me."

you snort. "If I fall, it's because you keep breathing in my space."

still, you let him steady you as you climb down. neither of you mention the way your hand lingers in his half a second too long.

the next challenge ends ups being a low-crawl under ropes, straight through the mud. you drop to your elbows, oscar beside you in that god awful yellow shirt, and the two of you crawl like soldiers in some romantic comedy gone feral.

"you know," he says, "this is the most time we've ever spent face down in the dirt together."

"speak for yourself," you snap. "I work under you every time I have to fix one of your idiotic campaign briefs."

"wow. that's how you're gonna talk to your future executive director?"

you grunt, elbowing him in the ribs as you pass. "not if I get the title first."

oscar groans but lets you pass, mud splattering across both of you. your heads throbbing even harder now, like your skill is shrinking and has become too small for your brain. the pounding makes your stomach churn.

you wipe sweat from your brow and tell yourself it's just the heat.

after chugging water and breathing through nausea, you and your co-workers huddle around the final obstacle. you stare up at the two person rope bridge, suspended over a bit of water, and you're already feeling sick again.

you're paired with oscar, obviously, because apparently your two other yellow team members want you to suffer more than usual.

"this is a trust exercise," the instructor chirps. "you'll have to balance each other."

oscar glances at you. "you sure you can carry the emotional weight of this relationship?"

you step onto the first rope plank without looking at him. "I've been carrying this team since Q1."

halfway across, the bridge starts to sway. your knees buckle slightly—and not just from the height.

instinctively, your grip tightens on the ropes, knuckles turning pale. you breath shakily through your mouth, eyes closing for brief moment as you attempt to not pass out.

"y/n?" oscar's voice softens behind you. "you doing okay?"

"fine," you snap, blinking hard. your vision is swimming now, and the pit below seems farther than it is.

oscar steps closer, one foot at a time, slow and steady. his eyes dart around your sickly pale and dewy complexion, "you don't look fine."

"well then maybe you should stop looking at me."

you glance up at him—sweat dripping down your temple, breath shallow. despite your snippy tone and inability to act weak in front of oscar, your eyes swim with the opposite.

and oscar sees it. he takes another step closer, hand brushing along your lower back as the bridge tilts again. "I've got you," he murmurs.

and for one stupid second—you let him. you let oscar touch you gently and breath over your helmet covered head like it's normal. you bathe in his warmth and presence like it's the same.

his palm stays there, warm through the soaked shirt. he doesn't push. he doesn't guide you. he just keeps you steady.

you don't speak, you just keep breathing in and out in a desperate attempt to not be sick.

and oscar notices. he always notices.

"you're pale," he notes quietly, lips close to your ear. "and you're shivering. this isn't just the mud and nerves, is it?"

you shake your head, too stubborn to fully accept his help. "It's nothing. I just—need to finish this."

"y/n." the way he says your name is different. like it costs him something.

you don't want him to care. you don't want you to care that he does.

but when the bridge sways again, and you stumble like a baby deer, he catches you, arms bracing you against him easily. the ropes creak underfoot but you barley hear it over the throbbing in your head.

"alright," he says. "you're getting off this bridge, and then I'm taking you to get checked out."

"you're not the boss of me," you mumble weakly.

"yet." he smirks teasingly, but it's gentler this time.

you let oscar lead the rest of the way, your hand gripping his wrist with more pressure than necessary. the bridge sways, but you don't fall.

at the end, when you step back onto solid ground, your legs wobble pathetically—but oscar's hand is still at your back, unwilling you to fall.

"you're burning up," he says, voice low. "stop pretending you're not."

you hate how good he is at reading you.

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he says. "but for once, maybe let someone help."

you glare at him.

he stares right back.

neither of you move.

but then—the world tilts.

oh no.

not in the dizzy, dramatic way—no, this is worse. It's subtle. slow. your legs feel like soaked towels, and your stomach churns violently, rebelling against gravity.

you blink, willing the dizziness away, your fingers still twisted in oscar's sleeve.

"y/n?" oscar's voice sharpens. "you're not okay."

"I said I'm—"

your throat clenches before you can finish. the heat rushes up the back of your neck, and then it hits—that awful, final swell in your gut.

you barely make it two steps before you double over and empty the contents of your stomach. throwing up right into the bushes behind the rope bridge. mud splatters. your knees hit the ground.

It's not elegant. It's not dramatic. It's real and miserable and totally humiliating.

"shit."

you hear him more than you see him—his voice, low and urgent. oscar's at your side in a second, crouched beside you in the muck, hand on your back without hesitation. not hovering, but firm. supportive.

you cough weakly, spit, breathe. gag again but nothing comes up this time.

you want to say something. anything—joke it off, snap at him, pretend it didn't happen.

but you can't.

oscar doesn't say anything for a moment. he just stays there like a steady presence. he reaches up, yanks the stupid yellow branded bandana from his neck, and gently presses it to your forehead.

"you're really burning up," he says, voice low and careful now. "you're burning up. jesus. why didn't you say anything?"

"didn't want to—" you start, but your voice cracks before you can finish.

"—what? look weak? screw that."

oscar crouches lower, practically kneeling now, one arm braced around your shoulders as your head tips forward again. you expect him to pull back. to let go. to make a joke about bodily fluids or being stuck babysitting you.

but he doesn't.

he just holds you steady like he's done it before. like he's done it for you before.

"i've got you," he says again, quieter. no trace of sarcasm this time. "just breathe."

you hate this. the closeness. the kindness. the way your body leans into his because you can't stop it. the way he feels solid—maddeningly warm and real.

a small group of coworkers stop nearby, unsure whether to intervene or run in the opposite direction.

oscar throws them a sharp look, "someone get the medic. now."

they scatter.

you cough again, then groan softly, finally lifting your head. "this isn't... how I wanted today to go."

oscar looks at you. he's got mud streaked across his cheek and concern tightening the lines around his eyes. for a second, he says nothing.

but then he snorts—not mean, but soft—and his mouth curves at the edge. "well," he says, "if you were trying to distract me before the promotion, puking on my shoes was a bold strategy."

you glance down. you missed his shoes—barley.

"I could aim better next time," you croak.

his laugh is quiet, but real, "please don't."

there's another pause.

he still hasn't let go of you.

"y/n," he says, "you don't have to power through everything. you don't have to prove something all the time."

your chest tightens. not from sickness. not from fever. something else. "I'm not trying to prove anything."

"yeah," he says gently, "you are."

you don't have the strength to argue. not now. "I just didn't want you to see me like this," you admit. barely a whisper.

his expression shifts at your sickly confession. just slightly. there's a flicker of something behind his eyes—not pity. not amusement. something else. something quieter.

"too late," he says, voice steady. "and I'm still here."

the seatbelt digs into your shoulder as you lean your head against the cool window, allowing the march drizzle outside to cool your otherwise hot skin. you're still a little clammy, and your stomach has settled into something that feels like a truce rather than a victory.

the worst part of the whole getting sick at a mandatory work event, isn't that you threw up in front of everyone. and it's also not the fact that you're still wearing damp socks from the mud crawl, or that your yellow shirt has some puke on it.

it's that oscar offered to drive you home—and you said yes.

honestly, you'd been too dizzy to argue or to understand the repercussions that call come from this journey—and too tired to pretend that you didn't notice how his hand rested lightly on your back while you tried to breathe through the lingering nausea.

how he didn't say a single sarcastic word while you sat slumped on a folding chair in the medical room. your face in your hands, feeling humiliated and weak and seen in the worst way.

the car hums quietly now, filled only with the soft sound of tires on wet pavement and the occasional swipe of the wipers. it's not raining enough to be concerned, but the drizzle persists, leaving the streets shiny and grey.

you risk a glance at him, eyes still heavy and stomach even more so.

oscar's hands are at ten and two on the wheel. obviously. he's not looking at you—another obvious one—but there's something tense in his jaw. like he's deep in thought or trying not to be.

"you didn't have to do this," you murmur, swallowing roughly. your mouth taste like puke. it has you taking a sip of the gatorade oscar grabbed from his back seat before buckling you in.

your voice still sounds off. thinner. fragile in a way you hate.

he glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. "yeah, well. no one else volunteered. and I figured you'd rather throw up in my car than in an uber."

you almost smile. almost. teasing words coming too easily. "you're all heart."

oscar exhales through his nose, and you think he might be fighting a smile too. "I know. it's exhausting."

silence again. it's not brittle like the past few weeks. this feels stretched thin, like an elastic band ready to snap.

you pull your coat tighter around yourself, the damp fabric cool against your arms. he notices—you catch the way his eyes flick over to you again, lingering.

"feeling any better?"

slowly, you nod. "yeah. mostly just embarrassed now."

"you don't have to be."

you look over at him again, flanked by the softness in his voice. oscar's fingers tap the steering wheel once, then still. "everyone gets sick. you pushed yourself too hard," his warm eyes find yours, a half smile tugging at his lips, "course was bullshit."

"you breezed through it."

he shrugs. "still bullshit."

you don't know what to say to that. he's being... kind. not in a loud, obvious way. just in the way he's always been when you weren't looking close enough to notice it.

the tension between you—the heat and confusion and whatever that kiss was—it's still here. barley, but still lingering. although, it feels different now. like you're both aware of it, but neither of you wants to disturb the fragile kind of peace that's settled between you.

oscar pulls up to your apartment building and shifts the car into park. the engine hums over the backstreet song playing through the radio.

you move to unbuckle your seatbelt, but he stops you with a quiet, "hey."

you freeze, eyes meeting his.

"about the other night..." he begins, then trails off. oscar looks down at his hands, then back at you—his voice is careful. "I've been thinking about it. about us."

your heart gives a slow, unsteady thud. "there is no us."

oscar nods, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes. "I know. but it doesn't feel like nothing anymore."

you don't answer because he's right. and because part of you still doesn't trust it—or yourself.

after a pause, he gestures to your building. "come on. i'll walk you up."

"I can manage."

"you're still pale." he counters. he's got a point though, and the chances of your knees buckling when you step out of the car are too high.

still, you send him a look. "you're still annoying."

oscar smiles, and it's real this time. it's not smug, and it's not teasing. just tired and warm and maybe a little relieved.

you don't argue again.

the two of you walk up the stairs side by side, quiet but not distant, letting this newfound peace settle between you. at your door, you fumble with your keys, and oscar stands just behind you, not hovering—just there.

you finally turn to face him, the key still in your hand. "you didn't have to take care of me today."

his gaze meets yours, and holds steady. "I wanted to."

there's a charged pause, and suddenly the space between you feels too close and yet also too far.

you take a tentative step back. "thanks for the ride."

"get some rest, yeah?" oscar nods once, hands tucked into his slacks while his eyes search yours. maybe looking for answers—maybe simply checking your wellness.

you're not sure. you just nod back, meekly. and as oscar walk back down the steps of your building, you feel that same aching confusion settle in your chest again. only now, it's heavier with the knowledge that something has truly changed now.

not in a dramatic, kiss in the elevator kind of way. but in the quiet way that feels harder to undo.

the following morning you end up calling into work. unfortunately for you, it was a stomach bug that you undoubtedly caught when you sister and niece visited your place on the weekend.

you try not to think about oscar, but it's hard when the only things you're doing include laying in bed, scrolling tiktok and dealing with cold sweats.

it doesn't help that around 11 a.m—the time at the office just before you would usually take lunch—you get a text.

drink water. at least one glass before your fourth coffee. don't be stubborn.

— o.

you blink at it.

then roll your eyes.

and then—you smile.

⸻

four days after the team building obstacle course, you're sitting back at your desk. your inbox is overwhelmingly full, the marketing team is two days late delivering added for a campaign that was already behind. your coffee from this morning sits cold and untouched as you attempt to sort everything out, and your stomach still hasn't properly recovered from your sick days.

and for some reason, about six feet and three inches away, oscar is pretending you don't exist. which would be easier if he wasn't doing it so deliberately.

you haven't made eye contact since you walked into the building this morning. not once. he was quiet in the meeting yesterday—unusually so. no snarky comments or passive-aggressive remarks that use to do your head in.

this morning, he even dropped a file on your desk without making a single joke about you throwing up on your shoes in front of everyone. and not even when an hour after that lando stops by and laughs about it.

not. even. then.

you should be grateful, but it feels like silence wrapped in barbed wire.

you're trying to focus on your screen. focusing on the empty document and trying not to glance across the office again.

you don't need this. you're over it. whatever it was.

still.

you keep seeing him in flashes—the way he looked at you that night after the kiss. the way his voice softened in the car. the quiet tension in his shoulders when he watched you walk through your apartment door.

and suddenly everything revolves around oscar. not loudly and not all at once—but just enough to notice. just enough to hurt.

"you good?" a voice says suddenly from the open entryway of your shared office.

you flinch and spin in your chair so quick it almost topples over. It's clara from HR, a coffee cup in hand, brows raised in polite curiosity.

"yeah," you lie. "fine. just... tired."

she nods sympathetically. "still recovering from the obstacle course from hell? because same."

you smile tightly and wave as she walks off. when you glance back at oscar's desk, he's looking right at you.

you freeze.

he doesn't look away. not this time.

he just stands slowly, grabs a folder, and walks toward the copy room. and then waits.

there's no words uttered under his breath. no subtle gesture—just a tentative glance over his shoulder before he disappears inside.

you don't even think before you follow him.

the door clicks shut behind you. the air in here is cooler, quieter—the kind of silence only offices and confessionals seem to master.

oscar's leaning against the counter by the printer, but he's not looking at it. or you, to be honest. his thick arms are crossed, eyebrows furrowed as he trains his gaze in his shoes—like he's figuring out how to start.

before you can stop yourself, you beat him to it.

"why are you avoiding me?"

his head snaps up, eyes sharp. "I'm not."

you laugh and it sounds low and bitter. "bullshit."

oscar exhales slowly. "I didn't know what to say."

"you didn't have to say anything," you pause to swallow through your tightening throat. "but I guess it's easier to pretend nothing happened, right?" you add on. bitter.

your voice is quiet, but it cuts through him like you’re shouting. you weren't planning to say that—or maybe you were. maybe it's been simmering too long to hold in for a second more.

oscar looks at you for a long moment. silent. but then—"it wasn't nothing."

the words settle between you like a drop in water. small, but echoing.

you swallow, suddenly unsure of your own footing. "then what was it?"

oscar steps forward slightly. still cautious. still not close enough. "I don't know," he admits with a breath. "but I'm not pretending it didn't mean something. I just..." he trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I don't want to mess this up. you and me. whatever version of this exists."

"there is no version," you say—too fast. too fake.

he looks at you, eyes narrowing knowingly. "you keep saying that, but you keep showing up."

his words hits harder than you expect. mostly due do the fact that they are unarguable. you fold your arms over your chest, trying to hold...something in. despite your best efforts to stay composed, you can't help the way you voice cracks. "you think I wanted to be driven home by you? or kissed by you? or cry in a hallway while you stood there looking like—"

"like I didn't know how to fix it?" oscar finishes knowingly, his voice is low now and steady.

you meet his eyes, and something about the way your eyes lock has you thinking back to the elevator. minutes before he kissed you—when oscar was simply just...looking. an unspoken gesture passes between you—not heat this time, but gravity.

"you scare the hell out of me," you admit before you can stop yourself, hugging your arms close to your body like you need a shield—not from oscar, but from the weight of change.

at that, his expression shifts— not smug or satisfied. something genuine. oscar steps closer, words coming out no louder than a whisper. "you scare me too."

there it is again. the silence. thick like usual, but with intention. you don't expect oscar to expand any further, but then softly, he does—"can we stop pretending?"

you blink in surprise, and take your bottom lip between your teeth shyly. you look away, "how?"

you question, so vulnerable and you, has oscar's heart clenching. he swallows, "come over to my place tonight. we can talk."

you meet his gaze and nod unsurely—like you're still trying to place the pieces together, "after work?"

"please."

that's how you end up pacing outside oscar piastri's apartment building—a tupperware container full of homemade cookies that you obviously panic baked after work, clutched in your hands.

you've been standing outside the building for seven minutes—to be exact. not knocking. not buzzing up. not leaving. just existing nervously on the sidewalk like a raccoon holding found treats.

you shift your weight to one foot, then the other while your fingers drum against the plastic lid like it might give you answers.

oscar invited you. even said please. you're not sure why you feel so nervous. or uninvited even. maybe because you know this could be it—the calm after the storm. or maybe you're nervous because there's a chance the storm hasn't broken yet.

regardless, you're panicking and psyching yourself out because it's oscar.

your eyes flicker up to the building, painted thumb hovering over the buzzer—then you pull back like it's about to shock you.

"this is stupid," you whisper. "you're being stupid. It's just a conversation. about...the kiss. the obstacle course. you know, the vibes. all of it. totally chill."

the front door swings open before you can hype yourself into pressing the button—or attempt to press, anyways.

and there he is.

oscar, in a dark navy hoodie, gray sweatpants, and that same unreadable expression on his face that makes your stomach do unathletic flips.

"I figured you were down here," he says. "you buzz like a scared raccoon."

you blink. "how do you know how raccoons buzz?"

"you tell me," he says, looking pointedly at the cookies. "you're the one holding snacks like you're about to beg me not to trap you in my backyard."

you roll your eyes, even as heat creeps into your face. "these are peace offerings. or...discussion fuel. I don't know. you invited me. you don't get to mock me for showing up."

he leans against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. "I didn't mock. I described."

you hold out the container instead of nervously rambling further. thankfully, he takes it, barely glancing down before flicking his gaze back to yours. "chocolate chip?"

"Is there any other kind?"

oscar smiles all half lipped and handsome. "you didn't have to bring anything,"

you shrug. "yeah, well... I wasn't sure what kind of conversation this was gonna be. cookies are kind of a neutral third party."

he opens the door wider, stepping aside. "then bring your neutral party upstairs. let's talk."

you hesitate for half a second—eyes darting between the empty hall and his—just long enough for him to notice.

"hey," he starts, voice quieter now. "I meant it. I want to talk. you're not here by accident."

your eyes flick up to meet his. there's no teasing this time. just oscar, honest and a little nervous too.

"okay," you nod after a beat. "let's talk."

oscar's apartment is somehow nothing like you excepted but also so oscar that you should've. his place is tidy—not spotless, but that lived-in kind of clean that makes everything seem warm and domestic. clean lines, warm lighting, shelves lined with books and a few things you had to double take to comprehend; a record player, mismatched mugs, a pair of runners left by couch.

you slip off your coat, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

oscar's in the kitchen now, pouring hot water into two mugs.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," he says over his shoulder. his voice is casual, but there's something careful tucked just under it.

you walk further in, the soft click of your boots echoing against the floor. oscar looks up at the sound, and you send him a closed mouth smile when your eyes meet. "I didn't either," you admit.

a flicker of a smile passes over his face before he looks down again, dropping a teabag into each mug.

he slides one across the counter to you.

"chamomile. best I could do on short notice."

"you're full of surprises, piastri."

"you have no idea."

you take the mug, letting the warmth settle into your palms. the quiet stretches out—not awkward, not exactly. just... full. like there's more neither of you is saying.

he nods toward the couch, "you can sit, you know. I don't bite."

you arch a playful brow. "lies."

that makes him laugh—a quiet, genuine sound that hits low in your chest. you sit anyway, curling one leg beneath you, tea balanced in your hands. still too hot to sip, you let its warmth envelope your hands.

oscar joins you after a moment, leaving just enough space between you to feel intentional.

the tv is off. no music. no noise. just the sound of your breathing, the hum of the radiator, and the rustle of oscar's hoodie as he leans back and glances at you sideways.

"you feeling better?" he questions. you think he's referring to a few days ago and the whole puking incident. you shudder just thinking about it.

you nod with a grimace. "mostly. still avoiding stairs."

"smart. stairs are a trap."

you smile, and oscar watches it happen. another beat of quiet settles between you and you take the opportunity to take a sip. it's still hot, but its comforting.

he taps the lid of the cookie tupperware that he'd previously put on the coffee table with one finger. "so, uh. these smell incredible, by the way. are these the 'please like me' batch or the 'this is fine and we're just coworkers again' batch?"

you blink at his bluntness, a little shocked as you string together a response. "...I didn't label them."

"tragic. would've made things easier."he gives you a quick side glance. you're not sure if he's joking, or nervous, or both. probably both.

"I panicked and baked. don't read too far into it."

he lets out a breathy chuckle, "too late."

you snort, finally relaxing enough to lean back against the cushion. "you said you wanted to talk."

he smiles, but it's brief. controlled. and his fingers stop moving. "okay, so. elevator."

your breathe catches—here we go. "right. the kiss."

oscar's eyes twinkle as if to say—yeah the kiss that was so much more than a kiss but rather months of built up tension coming to the surface against the wall of an elevator kiss. anyways.

"the kiss. which I initiated. while you were... very clearly going on a date. with lando. not me."

you cringe slightly. "yeah. I was definitely wearing date lipstick."

"I noticed. very powerful shade. extremely threatening." a beat passes free his teasing, and you take the time to try and find a way to sit causally while your heat ping pongs in your chest.

your lips part once, nothing coming out. but then, after a small breathe, you manage to speak. "I didn't stay."

oscar looks over, surprised. "you didn't?"

"no," you swallow, a little harsh because your throat feels like sandpaper. "no, I umm. after you left, I told lando I ate something funny at work and wasn't feeling well. which—not that i'm saying it out loud—feels like a bad excuse. especially after he saw you come after me."

his lip quirks up—just enough to let you know that he likes that. "I probably owe him an apology."

you almost snort. "me too."

another beat passes, this one lighter than the last. oscar studies you—not accusing, but rather observing.

and then, because you're kind of tired and a little high on the chocolate chips you'd been munching on while baking, you finally start to crack—"I never know where I stand with you," the words are sudden enough for oscar's spine to straighten.

you don't notice. you shift the mug in your hands, eyes trained on the tea instead of him. "It's like one minute we're arguing, the next you're taking care of me, and then you kiss me and pretend it's nothing."

oscar doesn't respond right away. and when he does, his voice is low and steady. "I never said it was nothing."

finally, you glance back at him—sharply, almost accusing—but he's not looking at you anymore. he's looking at the space between his hands, thumb brushing over the rim of his mug like he's trying to coax answers from it.

"you didn't say anything at all," you remind him, voice shaking in a way that you curse.

"because if I did, I wouldn't have known how to stop...saying."

that silences you.

you stare at him—really stare—and for once, he lets you. no deflecting. no half smirk. just him. quiet and real and so obviously holding something back.

and maybe it's the tea and cookies. or maybe it's the way you can still feel the way oscar's hands squeezed your flesh while his lips traced yours, but suddenly, you don't want space.

you don't want safety.

you want him.

you set your mug down.

he notices.

you move first—just slightly—shifting towards him like it's the only thing you know how to do. like you're testing the air between you.

oscar turns his head slowly, gaze flickering down towards your mouth and then back to your eyes.

"don't," he pleads quietly. but he doesn't move. he can't.

you swallow softly, fingers twitching at your side, "why not?"

"because if I kiss you again, I won't want to stop."

you whisper, "then don't stop."

and that's it. you words so desperate and pleading are the final nail in the coffin before oscar piastri is on you—or maybe you're on him. but either way, it's happens fast and slow all at once. like not molasses in a gingerbread cookie.

his hands finds your waist, sliding beneath your shirt like he's once again familiarizing with your shape. while your fingers bury themelsves in the curls at the nape of his neck.

this kiss is different than the one in the elevator. it's not as urgent or a mess of tongue and teeth. this kiss in controlled and intentional—like oscar's trying to show you what he voiding say before.

and you feel it.

all of it.

the pent up restraint and the undeniable want—the quiet truth hiding in every breath.

somewhere between the kissing and touching, you end up across oscar's lap, straddling him like you've done it before. it feels so good that you wish you had. his large palms slide over every curve and bump of your body, squeezing just often enough to have you gasping.

this is better than the elevator. because this time, you don't doubt that it's real.

when you pull back, your forehead pressed to his and still half grinding on his hard on, oscar's still holding onto your hips like he's not ready to let go.

you're both breathing hard—not from passion, but from everything being too much and not enough at the same time.

you don't say anything.

neither does he.

but he doesn't look away either, not even when he starts mouthing at your neck like a starved vampire.

for several long minutes, and after some more less than PG14 kissing, you don't say anything. you let the cirty glow outside his window and your breathy noises sit between you like a dream.

then—

"this doesn't mean I like you," he murmurs. his warm eyes flicker back to yours, and with the blush on his cheeks and fond grin pulling across his swollen lips, you know he doesn't mean a word.

you smile, soft and just as swollen. "god, I would hate that," you whisper back, as soft as the breaths between you.

oscar laughs against your shoulder lowly, and then presses a lingering kiss to the same spot.

and you realize: you're completely screwed.

⸻

there's a new game now with oscar.

it's subtle and less obvious than the first. it's quiet looks across the conference table, the slight brushing of his hand when no one's watching, and his voice softening when he says your name. you pretend you don't notice. he pretends he doesn't care who does.

but unfortunately for the whole secretive thing you're trying to achieve, everyone's noticing.

clara catches you both coming out of the storage room one morning—your lipgloss slightly smudged and oscar looking far too pleased with himself. she raises a overplucked brow but says nothing, just sips her coffee like she's watching a show she's been invested in since season one.

then there's that meeting on wednesday.

oscar sits across from you, not beside you. the air between you hums with the weight of the night before—his mouth against your throat, his hands gripping your hips, the way he whispered, "you drive me fucking crazy" before pulling you into him again.

now you're trying to focus on the budget presentation and miserably failing because all you can think about is ripping his clothes off.

your pen taps a little too loudly on your notepad. it's gains oscar's attention, because it always has—he looks up—sharp, amused—and you catch his eye before quickly glancing away, heat rising to your cheeks.

afterward, clara leans in while everyone files out.

"you and oscar, huh?”

"what?" you blink and fain innocence which obviously sucks.

she just smiles knowingly. "okay, sure."

you brushed off her tone and the glimmer in her eye easily. but the pit in your belly only intensifies. nothings official with oscar. not really. there's been no definition to your relationship or post-sex 'what are we' talk.

it's just late nights, locked doors and whispers of things that feel too soft to be causal.

there are three new certainties in your life now.

1. you are still very good at your job.

2. you like oscar piastri.

and 3. oscar piastri knows it.

⸻

it's friday, two hours before you can clock out and undoubtedly end up wrapped in oscar's bedsheets.

the copy room smells like warm ink and fresh paper, and for the first time in a long time, you smile when you catch the clashing scents.

you're waiting for your papers to finish printing when your phone buzzes in your pocket. it's oscar.

meet me in ten. conference room c.

you smile before you can stop yourself. willing your reports to finish quicker, you impatiently stack them all in a messy, unorganized pile that future you will curse upon.

just as you begin to leave the room, two voices in the hallway stop you in your tracks. the conversation sounds casual. they're laughing about something.

but your stomach drops.

"dude, I'm telling you, he's got her wrapped around his finger."

"didn't even think he liked her."

"doesn’t have to. It's smart, right? get in her head, get her off her game. that promotion's basically oscar's if he keeps playing her like that."

you've completely stop breathing.

“you think that’s what he’s doing?”

“he didn’t deny it man.”

the words hit too fast to process, each one driving in deeper and deeper into your heart. you don't know who's talking and frankly it doesn't matter.

before you can will yourself to look, they're walking off, the sound of their footsteps and snickering fading into nothing but clicking keyboards and phones ringing.

you just...stand there, kitten heels glued to the worn tiles beneath your feet.

the air feels muggy now—too hot and sticky—clinging to your skin in the worse way. the printer is humming and you're gripping the edge of the counter hard enough for it to hurt.

suddenly, it's all too loud.

the way oscar never talks about what this is—or rather doesn't. the looks and the touches. the kisses that feel like confessions but never are.

you think about his deep voice in the dark, saying "If I kiss you again, I won't want to stop."

now all you can hear is: "It's smart, right? get in her head."

you blink hard to try and dissolve the sting behind your eyes, and swallow the lump in your throat. you can't help but to think that maybe this whole time, you, oscar and everything between you, was just another part of the hating game.

when you've finally calmed down enough to walk without your legs shaking, you find oscar by the elevator, bag hung over his shoulder casually. he's got his phone in hand, brows furrowed while he types away.

your chest tightens as you approach. "oscar."

the sound of your cracking voice has him looking up quickly, eyes a little guarded and wild and surprised. he tucks his phone in his pocket and begins reaching out for you.

you think he's saying something, but you're not listening.

"we need to talk. now." you state.

"what's wrong?"

you take a shaky breath and can already feel tears prick behind your eyes. you curse yourself internally, and place a palm to your chest to try and slow your frantic heart.

"about this." you gesture between you, "about whatever the hell this is. because I just overheard those guys in the copy room."

oscar's face shifts—confusion, frustration, something almost desperate. "what guys? what did they say? are you okay?"

"they said you're using me," you huff, "that this whole thing is just some game to mess with my head so you can get ahead."

oscar's brow furrows, eyes wide like you've just punched him. he whispers your name, "that's not true."

your laugh is hollow, bitter. "then why did they say it? they must've said something to you for them to believe it. why didn't you say anything?"

his jaw clenches. "a couple guys asked me about you, yeah. and I told them it's complicated. because it's non of their business. because I didn't want to make it harder."

"it's complicated? make it harder?" your voice rises, shaky but sharp. "do you think this is easy for me?"

he takes a step closer, voice dropping. "no. I'm just... trying to protect you."

you shake your head, tears slipping free now. you angrily wipe them away, gaze unwavering from his. "protect me? by pretending I'm a pawn in your game?"

his hands clench into fists at his sides, frustration bleeding into his words. "it's not like that, y/n. you don't know how much this—"

"don't." you cut him off sharply, voice trembling with pain and anger. "please don't."

oscar stares at you, like he's trying to read you—trying to find the part of you that'll listen. "I'm not playing you. I've never played you."

but you can't breathe. you can't think. you can't forgive him right now.

you turn away, voice breaking and another tear falling off your jaw. "maybe I was wrong about us."

the elevator dings behind you, the doors sliding open like a trap. you don't look back. instead of stepping onto the elevator with oscar like you've done everyday for the past 7 months, you walk away from him.

the office buzz hums around you, but it feels miles away. you drop down to your desk chair in a heap of weak limbs and tears—replaying the conversation like a broken record. his words. his eyes. the desperation and confusion within them.

maybe he's telling the truth—but the doubt's too loud. the voices from the copy room echoing in your mind like the cruel chorus to your least favourite song.

you close your eyes, fingers tightening on your phone. you want to text him, tell him to come back and explain. but pride stops you.

you let out a deep, shaky breath.

you wait at least 30 minutes until leaving, ensuring that oscar won't still be around.

⸻

the next morning you get to the office extra early and immediately drown yourself in promotion stuff. you're glued to the computer screen, jaw tight and fingers stiff over the keyboard—the sting of last nights confrontation still raw.

footsteps sound in your office. you don't have to look up to know it's oscar—you can smell his favourite coffee.

he freezes when his eyes land on you.

you look up, eyes cold, jaw clenched.

for a long moment, you don't say anything.

he clears his throat, voice tentative. "hi."

you don't reply, turning your attention back to your computer screen and praying for your tears to not fall.

he takes a cautious step forward, "look, I—"

you cut him off, voice sharp. "don't."

oscar's brows knit together, hurt flickering behind his eyes. you don't see it. "y/n, please. I'm sorry. I want to fix this."

you scoff, turning back to your screen, voice icy. "fix it? how? by pretending none of this ever happened? by lying about how you feel?"

he swallows hard, spine straightening. "I never lied about how I feel."

"then why didn't you say it? why let me drown in doubt and whispers?"

oscar's shoulders slump, full of defeat, "because I was scared you wouldn't believe me."

that has you finally glancing up, eyes blazing with a million emotions. "well, you were right."

the silence between you feels like a chasm.

oscar meets your gaze, voice low but steady.

"I'm here when you're ready to talk."

you take your bottom lip between your teeth and say nothing. you didn't mean it. of course you don't. it's just...a lot. and you're scared and hurt and have no idea what any of this means.

you watch oscar nod slowly, before turning and walking away, leaving you alone with the silence—and the storm inside your head.

but as soon as he leaves, you wish he was back.

⸻

the air feels thick—almost suffocating—with anticipation. your fingers clench at your sides, breathing shallow.

oscar stands nearby, but something's different: no spark of competitiveness, no fire in his eyes. just a quiet stillness that unsettles you.

it's the day of the promotion, and suddenly everyone in the office feels like they're at the oscars. kind smiles are sent your way and cautious looks sent to oscar. clara bought you a coffee this morning and lando patted your back and whispered good luck.

it all feels too much, and with the way oscar looks so unfazed by it all has you feeling even more unsettled.

diane clears her throat, holding the sealed envelope like it weighs a ton. "thank you everyone for the past couple weeks of hard work and dedication. i've been so busy with this promotion and putting out smile fires that I needed my staff to step up—and you did. so thank you."

everyone claps. you don't—too frozen.

"after careful consideration and, in all honesty, reading through a few applications from outside the company, i've come to a decision for a new head of the department."

time seems to slow and your heart hammers so loud you're sure it's audible. you can't decide if you're nervous about the promotion or if you're nervous because oscar hasn't looked at you.

diane smiles after what feels like an eternity, bright and genuine. "congratulations, y/n."

the room erupts in polite applause, but you barely hear it. your eyes immediately search for oscar. you're almost surprised to find him looking at you considering the morning, but he is.

he's not clapping. or smiling.

your stomach folds in on itself. but in reality—what could you expect. it all has you thinking back to that conversation you overheard. were you really just a pawn in oscar's game? and now that you've come out on top he's frustrated—too frustrated to send you a polite congratulatory nod?

you stand, mumble something about air and a rushed thank you before stepping out of the room. the weight of the announcement and oscar's reaction still hangs all around. suffocating you. your stride falters, and you press yourself to the wall.

your eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if gathering the courage to go back in there. your heart is pounding, and the last thing you want to do is join your co-workers again after looking like a fool and stumbling out of there.

after what feels like an eternity, you open your eyes again.

and that's when you see him.

it's like all the walls you've built around yourself come crashing down. the faux pride and shark looks that meant nothing—all fade into emptiness.

you should walk away. but you can't. because oscar's here. in front of you with apologetic eyes and flexing hands hanging at his sides.

"y/n," he starts. voice soft. he takes a deep breath a little unsteady but real. "congratulations. you deserve it."

"thanks." you mutter, arms crossed over your chest like an invisible shield.

a beat passes before oscar's swallowing again—running a hand over the back of neck like it might give him answers. "I need to be honest with you y/n."

here it comes, you think. the truth. the lies. the deception. the confirmation that your relationship with oscar—whatever it was—was nothing more than a meaningless game for him.

but then—

"I withdrew my application for this promotion weeks ago."

your breath hitches, disbelief and something tender swirling inside. "what?"

oscar meets your eyes, vulnerability cracking through his usual guarded expression. "yeah, I umm—I realized the promotion wasn't worth it if it meant standing in your way. you deserve this. you deserve everything."

his voice trembles, honest and fierce. your breath catches, new tears threatening to make an appearance. you don't say anything as oscar steps closer, the space between you growing fragile yet charged.

"I'm not perfect," he mumbles, eyes searching yours. "I'm terrible at this. but I can't keep hiding how I feel—I've been trying to find the right words for weeks, but somehow it never felt like the right moment."

he shifts, running a hand through his hair, "I wasn't sure if you'd even want to hear it, or if I'd sound like a fool."

"oscar," you cut him off gently—studying his vulnerability like it's a miracle. the oscar you thought you used to know—sharp and powerful and a little condescending—isn't here. instead you're met with this oscar. the one who kisses you softly, holds your hand back when you're sick and tells you things he had to build up courage to say.

"the truth is...from the moment we met, i’ve been completely captivated by you." he smiles softly, and it's genuine, not the usual smirk. he continues, "not just because you're smart or ambitious—though you're both, endlessly. but it's the little things. like how you bite your lip when you're thinking, or how you always tap your pen against your notebook during meetings. I notice when you get frustrated but don't want to admit it. the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. the stubborn way you defend your ideas, even when you know you're wrong."

oscar laughs quietly, shaking his head. "and god, are you stubborn."

you can't help but smile despite yourself, watery and genuine and oscar's heart thuds at the sight. he takes another step closer, more confident than before, his voice almost dropping to a whispers as he continues.

"I wanted to tell you all this the first day we met, but I was so damn nervous looking at you with your glossy lips and even prettier smile, that I couldn't even get a sentence out. I kept rehearsing what I'd say for weeks after that, but anytime I saw you, all the words just vanished."

he exhales, eyes locked on yours. "I wanted to be honest from the start, but I was terrified of messing everything up."

you feel something raw and real in that moment, something that makes the walls between you tremble.

"so I stayed quiet. and I let you think whatever you wanted. and that was the biggest mistake." oscar swallows hard, then reaches out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. "but I'm done hiding. I love you, sunshine. every part of you—the brilliance, the chaos, the stubbornness. I love it all. and I want you to have everything you deserve, because you deserve the world."

he's looking at you, waiting, hope and fear mingling in his gaze.

and without thinking you wrap your hands around his neck, pull him down and kiss him. and in this moment, that says everything.

⸻

the apartment smells faintly of lukewarm takeout and the lingering ghost of oscar's earlier culinary disaster—something involving burnt garlic, a suspiciously aggressive amount of paprika, and, tragically, shrimp. somewhere under the crusted frying pan in the sink lies the evidence, but neither of you have moved in hours.

you're both splayed across the couch like lazy cats, limbs tangled and half-covered by a blanket that insists on playing favourites—currently favouring oscar's legs and leaving your toes cold and exposed to the injustice of the living room draft. one of his socks is missing. he claims it's not a metaphor, but you're not convinced.

oscar is half-heartedly flipping through tv channels with a remote that's seen better days, landing on nothing long enough to commit. you scroll your phone without reading anything, stealing glances at him like some lovestruck teen in a coming-of-age movie. It would be embarrassing if it weren't so... nice.

he catches you—of course he does—and smirks without looking away from the screen. "stop it. you’re making me nervous," he says, voice lazy and smug.

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin.

"you? nervous?"

"what can I say, you keep me on my toes." he shrugs, his grin widening into something ridiculous—the kind that makes your chest ache in that inconvenient, happy way.

you laugh, soft and real, and nudge him with your elbow just hard enough to make him fake a dramatic wince. he retaliates by inching closer until his arm's around you, pulling you into the awkward warmth of two bodies trying to fit on a couch designed for one and a half.

"is that why you burned the shrimp? because I'm so intimidating?" you tease, setting your phone down on the coffee table.

"that shrimp burned itself. I was merely a spectator to its self-destruction," he says solemnly, which makes you laugh a real laugh, not the polite kind you use at parties or staff meetings.

"right," you say, shifting to rest your head on his shoulder. "just like how the rice 'mysteriously evaporated' from the pot?"

oscar gestures dramatically to the ceiling. "kitchen sabotage. I'm under attack. It's domestic terrorism in there."

"you're a menace to every spice rack you meet," you murmur, eyes half-lidded now, the weight of the day slowly dissolving under the rhythm of his heartbeat.

he turns toward you, lifting his arm to drape it around your shoulders with all the grace of a sleepy sloth. "yet somehow," he mumbles, leaning in conspiratorially, "you still love me."

"I never said that," you reply, but your voice is soft, too fond to sound convincing.

he presses a kiss to your temple. "didn't have to."

you roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. "don't go getting sentimental on me now."

"oh no, god forbid I express feelings." he clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "take it back."

"never. you'll have to live it now."

you're laughing again, and for a moment, it's just the sound of that—your laugh mixing with his—echoing quietly around the room like the softest kind of music.

then, in a quieter moment, he leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers pausing to linger at your cheek.

"deal," he murmurs, almost like a promise. "but only if you promise not to win every argument."

you grin, heart lighter than it's been in weeks.

"no promises."

oscar laughs—this full, unfiltered thing that starts in his chest and spills out into the room. the kind of laugh that makes your chest flutter and your brain short-circuit a little because it feels like home.

nor the neat, polished kind you imagined years ago. not the romantic comedy kind with string lights and perfect playlists. but the messy kind. the kind that smells like old takeout, has mismatched socks, and burns dinner twice in a row.

it's not perfect. but it's easy. real.

and maybe, finally, exactly where you belong.

671 notes · View notes

cannelley · 16 days ago

Text

10/10 so underrated i loved everything abt this, im gonna miss them ❤️😭

my kink is karma | series masterlist

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isn’t gone. It’s just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.

✎ — series word count: +113.8k

✎ — warnings: the slowest of slow burns, angst, mean moments, mentions of alcohol, use of strong language, use of [Y/N], cars crashing, english is not my first language, first fanfiction, multi media, SMAU, (let me know if any warnings are missing)

PT. 1 after the win, before we fall [ 4.2k ]

PT. 2 maybe you should say less [ 3.6k ]

PT. 3 it's always fucking Max [ 4.2k ]

PT. 4 there'll be a fine line [ 4.1k ]

PT. 5 fastest bricks on the grid [ 3.9k ]

PT. 6 from the dining table [ 4.0k ]

PT. 7 pastel-coded purgatory [ 3.9k ]

PT. 8 mistake, remember? [ 3.6k ]

PT. 9 papaya rules [ 5.4k ]

PT. 10 will they kiss or crash [ 3.9k ]

PT. 11 god save the queen [ 6.3k ]

PT. 12 margin for error [ 3.6k ]

PT. 13 second best [ 4.0k ]

PT. 14 hagelslag diplomacy [ 5.2k ]

PT. 15 una problema interna [ 6.4k ]

PT. 16 public enemy number one [ 5.2k ]

PT. 17 everything you ever wanted [ 5.1k ]

PT. 18 ten things i can't say out loud [ 6.3k ]

PT. 19 the distance between us is measured in laps [ 6.5k ]

PT. 20 from p6 with regret [ 5.0k ]

PT. 21 jackpot: heartbreak [ 6.9k ]

PT. 22 you too, race winner [ 5.6k ]

PT. 23 all's fair in love and formula 1 [ 5.9k ]

EPILOGUE [ 1.0k ]

1K notes · View notes

cannelley · 16 days ago

Text

operation drs — OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star make the internet a little crazy during your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all. tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni wc: 13.8k words :D a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas

Oscar could not let go of his phone.

It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you.

Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.

His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other.

And he thought media day was tedious.

He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile.

He thinks it’s jealousy.

The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever.

Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.

This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.

You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it.

They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.

You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation.

He’s proud of you.

No one can discount your credibility. Raised on stagecraft with enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats.

You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor.

But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he dwells on it for too long.

They’re literally in love.

Just date already.

There it was—a flicker of insecurity.

Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world.

He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.

And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.

God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver��s room.

He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his.

Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling!

It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst.

You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.

After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him.

His phone dings.

you you have NO idea what we did today. oscar Nothing dangerous, I hope you we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder. I named him Oscat :) Sent an image

It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.

oscar What an honor Any chance I could meet Oscat? you Tom said we should adopt it

The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.

oscar Do you want to? you even if I did we couldn’t we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.

He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis.

Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?”

“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.

oscar Next time then :) Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world Don't you worry you 💔💔💔💔💔💔 gotta go now love you raceboy good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!

He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.

“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch.

He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”

“Still keeping it under wraps?”

Oscar sighs. “Yep.”

“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.”

“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”

“The problem is you have no rage.”

If only he knew.

“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy.

“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”

Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”

Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.”

“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!”

He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler.

“And you can do something about it, actually.”

His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.

“…What do you mean.”

“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”

“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”

“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.”

And Lando leaves it at that.

It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment.

Until Entertainment Weekly.

It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.

They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.

If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.

There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.

It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.

Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.

The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.

Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.

Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN

Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.

She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her…

He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain.

He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they?

He does a quick Google search.

Hollywood co-stars turned couples.

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.

It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.

Fine. He is jealous.

Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.

The nerve of this man.

Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.

He hates imagining himself in the same frame.

Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit.

He hates imagining himself at all.

Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up.

you hi baby my handsome boy just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁 I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one

Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.

oscar Are you a ghost? you ??? oscar Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in

Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.

“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.

“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.

There’s a pause. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.”

He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs.

“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?”

“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.

“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.”

He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast.

When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing.

“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table.

“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.”

You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end.

“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.”

“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”

“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”

Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.

You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.”

It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see.

You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”

“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“…Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”

“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”

“Wow.”

“You sounded just like me.”

“It’s just��” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh.

Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”

“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”

Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”

“Exactly.”

Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved.

His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.

It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”

He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.

He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.

“I love you, softy. Just you.”

When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.

“I mean it. No acting here.”

All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck.

Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.

Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.

I love you. You were so sure.

He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.

So you say it again. Firmer.

“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”

He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover.

You take home all.

He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”

You scoff. “Sure you did.”

“I swear.”

“Pffft.”

Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”

The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.”

He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes.

And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh.

You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.”

He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”

A message comes through a couple of minutes after.

come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇

This time, he really laughs.

He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace.

By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.

you sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With oscar You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄 you 😛 oscar Oh wow these shots came out well you right!! 🥹

Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.

Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household.

He scrolls daringly.

The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.

His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.

One comment makes his thumb pause

⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me

Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something.

He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.

⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO ⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh ⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on ⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them ⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend

He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.

It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment.

“Ah shit.”

He immediately unlikes.

Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds.

Fuck. Fuck.

Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough.

Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…

Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.

There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁

Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool.

He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.

But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim.

Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.

user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..? ⇢ WHAT do you mean ⇢ this is the comment he liked ⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol ⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?

Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.

He’s surprised it’s gotten this far.

Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team.

Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.

One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!

Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads formatted like crime scene dossiers.

It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.

To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.

You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”

All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.

Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.

“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs.

He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”

He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.

You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side.

“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ”

He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”

“Ish.”

Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”

“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.”

As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”

You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?”

The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”

“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it.

You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?”

Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”

You hum in response. Distant.

“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.”

“Hm?”

“I said get out of your head, baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.”

He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”

The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.

Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in.

“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.

It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR.

They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off.

“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”

On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”

“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown.

He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”

She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.”

It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”

“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”

“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.

Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?”

“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”

“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?”

“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.”

“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”

“Mate.”

“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”

“Pardon?”

“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”

“We don’t really have a name for it.”

“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”

“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”

Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”

“Operation Soft Launch?”

“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”

Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can.

“Osc?”

“No. Can we go home now.”

“Just one bloody name.”

Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”

Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.”

“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”

“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.”

Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”

Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.”

His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.”

“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.”

The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.

OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan

Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP. The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film. I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any. Chrissy sent a file.

Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.

Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.

And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.

Your call is out of the blue.

Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are.

He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”

“Hi. No, I’m okay.”

“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”

“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”

Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”

There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.”

“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”

“When do you leave for Miami?”

“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.”

“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”

He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”

You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.”

He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster).

“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”

“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.

He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”

“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”

Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled.

His heart starts to pick up.

He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver.

He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app.

He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie.

His blood begins to hum.

If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.

“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”

It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”

You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.”

“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”

You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.”

“Love you most.”

When the call ends, he laughs to himself.

He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.

He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.

Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.

He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.

It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.

The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.

His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.

Oscar peers through the peephole.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.

There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air.

“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”

His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.

“Ack! Oscar, the food—”

“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder.

He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth.

Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual.

He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.

Too long. Too goddamn long.

“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie.

Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.

You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.

A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless.

He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter. You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.

“Surprise,” you grin.

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”

Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”

“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling.

You kiss him again.

When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side.

It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.

He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight.

When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem.

And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug.

You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.

God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine.

He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.

If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her.

Alas, he was just Oscar.

“You are not real,” he murmurs.

“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket.

You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.”

Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”

He gently lowers you onto the bed.

This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime.

There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby.

You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks.

Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks.

“Babe—” you gasp.

It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed.

He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name.

Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head.

Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep.

He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.

Training can wait.

Operation DRS is divided into three phases.

“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.”

It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better.

Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it.

Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites.

But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day.

The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave.

He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.

You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”

“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”

“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.”

“This is abandonment.”

“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”

He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected.

You go still in his arms.

“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?”

He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.

You twist around and cup his face in your hands.

His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours.

A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.

“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious.

His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.”

You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.

You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.

It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now.

“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his.

“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.

A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you.

You were everything to him.

Warmth simmers in your bones.

“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”

A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”

You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.

Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.

In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.

He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake.

Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling.

You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.

user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware ⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho ⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars ⇢ SOME DRIVER???????????? user: Tom liked!!!!!

Your phone pings. Several times.

Nellie (PR) PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase.

Oscar Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you

Tom You are honestly so obvious

The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS.

Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami.

It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.

Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass?

Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?

“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.

Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.

There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears.

You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.”

“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!”

You pose with a wink.

Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz.

Fast times with @ mclaren ! Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname

You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷‍♀️

He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.”

You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”

Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.

The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.

You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.

When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.

Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.

You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back.

You’re already opening up your photo gallery.

You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind.

It becomes your new wallpaper.

It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online.

A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl?

You put your phone aside, appeased.

Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either.

Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.

Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.

You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door.

Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.

He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan.

“Longest session of my life.”

You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.

“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.

He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow.

He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.

You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.

“What?”

“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards.

“Stop that.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.

“Stop looking at me funny.”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m not a stress toy.”

“You are to me.”

“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration.

Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips.

The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.

“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”

Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?”

“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.”

His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”

You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow.

Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly.

PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.

You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case.

You wish him luck on the sprint.

Still, no direct interaction is advised.

Soon.

Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.

Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.

The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.”

You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.

When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps.

You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win.

P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns.

You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :)

He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you.

You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week.

“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”

“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.”

On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.

Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.

Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.

user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest… user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest ⇢ Well now that’s pushing it user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage

He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.

In his shorts. Shirtless.

Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink.

He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.”

“Nap first. Talk later.”

He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”

Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say.

It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over.

“And put a shirt on.”

He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway.

When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.

Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.

“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already.

“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”

He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”

And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared.

You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.

You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing.

Ten minutes is up.

“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”

When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.

“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.

“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave.

“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.

“Only during Q3, if you get there.”

Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.”

The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.”

Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.

By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation.

It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole.

When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision.

You try not to pay attention. Try.

He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.

The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.

Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks.

The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence.

He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world.

He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup.

Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it.

P4 feels like a slap in the face.

The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2.

But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place.

No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.

The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.

And yet.

He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now.

It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.

Still, there are eyes everywhere.

Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole.

He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach.

It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away.

It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.

Oscar pulls his gloves off.

He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours.

He doesn’t have to do more.

The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough.

When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him.

Race day. Ground zero.

Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥

It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things.

“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself.

The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle.

Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general.

Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids.

You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all.

The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’

Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable.

You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations.

At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested.

You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin.

You try not to dwell on it.

Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one.

There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.

You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.

But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.

It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.

Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.

He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.

You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.

Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.

It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.

The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast.

Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.

Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough.

A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.

Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.

Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind.

The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance.

The checkered flag zooms by.

He wins.

🔍 Recent Searches oscar yn dating oscar griddy oscar piastri miami oscar tom yn yn tom movie release date yn miami gp yn reaction

user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭 user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life user: this obvious wag treatment user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT ⇢ you’re not alone dw ⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando ⇢ ? ⇢ ? ⇢ ? ur sick user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️

Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands.

“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.

“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”

“Not a bad win, eh?”

“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.”

You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?”

“It was Mark, actually.”

Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards.

George comes out. Then, Lando.

And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar.

The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound.

You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.

Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him.

Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting.

Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter.

“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.

“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”

He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.”

“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”

You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs.

His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.

Something violent overcomes you.

You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.

“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.

The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory.

Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.

Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.

Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly.

You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat.

I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound.

A stilted croak trickles out.

Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”

When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest.

Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”

Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Supersonic.”

He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.”

Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.”

Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life.

“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.

“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”

“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”

“Huh!” You react out loud.

“See you at 8?”

“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.”

Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.

There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace.

“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team.

“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”

Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both.

“This must be what birds feel like.”

What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”

“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.”

There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.

But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.”

You freeze. Glitch.

What in the world—

The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.

“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.”

You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way.

He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”

“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”

Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love.

You are so in love.

‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world.

It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers.

People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.

But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld.

The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.

user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol user: her vibe is weird idk user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks ⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP user: yntom is So over user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold. ⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night user: what do they even have in common /gen ⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple

It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.

Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer

Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports

Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends?

You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast.

The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin.

You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow.

It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense.

He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish.

tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)

He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over.

It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference.

Tom Sent an image You're welcome Have you seen my post? 😝

It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back.

You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.

You weigh the consequences.

You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.

This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.

You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember.

The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep.

Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.

You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.

“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”

You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.”

He makes a rough sound of assent.

You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.

The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium.

The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid.

You type out a caption. Pick out a song.

Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel.

You can’t—you can’t do this.

It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of.

You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial.

Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.

The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.

Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.

Playing safe never hurt anyone.

yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?

You send it for checking and are given a green light.

Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands.

Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.

When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend.

“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot.

You see the notification.

oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

What?

You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?”

oscarpiastri liked your post. oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️ oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.

“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”

You swipe through his post.

oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend

His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé.

The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.

But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.

You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is.

A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you.

It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change.

Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.

You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches.

Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth Kept it quiet long enough :)

It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok.

You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”

He kisses you flat on the lips.

“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.”

“Still a piece of shit-”

“Who you still love?”

“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”

He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”

It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.

“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.”

Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”

“I’m internet savvy enough.”

“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.

He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you.

Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.

“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?”

He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.”

You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”

“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”

You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf.

Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”

“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.

“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges.

“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”

The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”

He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He grins. “Try me.”

Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.

The jealousy never really went away.

Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.

tomblyth replies: 🤨 tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver yourname reposts: skill issue

Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ.

Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now.

Oscar Sent a link. “F1 driver” I have a name you know 🙁

Oscar Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever. How is it your co-star tells me before you do

Oscar Hey so Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :) Sneak. Round 2 this summer break? Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail

Oscar Have you booked flights for Monaco yet? I got Tom a pass if he wants to come Missing you a little extra tonight

Oscar is on his phone.

He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.

But.

It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture.

He finds peace in that.

He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom entering the red carpet.

His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.

The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.

He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.

1 new message. You booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3

Even then.

They didn’t get to have you. No one did.

Though by some miracle, you let him.

They loved you. But he had you.

It’s something.

Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for.

(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.)

It’s commitment, he realizes.

He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too.

Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.

Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.

whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)

2K notes · View notes