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ferraris-gf · 5 days ago

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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.” ⛐

#faves

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ferraris-gf · 11 days ago

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WILL YOU LET ME, BABY, LOSE ON LOSING DOGS? (THE RED BULL KENNEL SECOND SEAT)

i bet on losing dogs, mitski ⋆ i get so jealous of euthanized dogs., june gehringer ⋆ kyoto, phoebe bridgers ⋆ cop car, mitski ⋆ isle of dogs (2018) ⋆ let dead dogs lie, silas denver melvin.

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ferraris-gf · 12 days ago

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isimo ⛐ 𝐋𝐒𝟐 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

look at you, you made it out.

ꔮ starring: logan sargeant x reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 5.1k. ꔮ includes: hurt/comfort, angst, romance. reader previously karted/raced, friends to lovers, slowburns & near-misses, not a love triangle, friendship through the years. title from/heavily inspired by bleachers’ isimo. ꔮ commentary box: wrote this on a two-hour flight where i looped the song an ungodly amount of times. first time writing for logan if only because i have an unbelievable soft spot for him ❄️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

▸ TOUGH AS NAILS AND BUILT FOR BREAKING, BUT YOU WERE JUST A KID WHEN THEY TOLD YOU, ‘YOU’D BEEN BORN TO BLEED, LITTLE SOLDIER.’

“Who do you think it’s going to be?”

The question hangs in the air longer than it should. A lighthearted prompt dressed in casual tones, but heavy enough to draw a glance between the three of you.

You sit wedged between Logan and Oscar on the worn red couch they’ve pulled in for this shoot. The backdrop is plastered with the Prema Racing logo, bright and unyielding. Who’s going to make it to Formula One, the interviewer is asking.

Logan leans forward first, elbows on his knees, grinning at the interviewer like the answer’s obvious. “Easy,” he says breezily. “It’s me.”

Oscar lets out a scoff beside you, the kind that’s more reflex than thought. “That’s cute,” he says, not even looking away from you. “We all know I’ll be there first.”

It’s uncomplicated. This back-and-forth you’ve been doing for years, the teasing that’s stitched into the fabric of your friendship. You shake your head, lips quirking.

“It’s definitely not going to be me,” you say, aiming for a joke. The truth slips in at the edges anyway.

The smile lingers on your face, but the air changes. Logan’s eyes flick to you, just for a second, searching. Oscar’s gaze sharpens the way it does when he’s parsing lap data, careful and calculating. The pause is small, barely a breath.

The interviewer leans forward as if sensing the shift but pretending not to. “Why do you say that?”

You give a small shrug, fingers knotting together in your lap. “Odds, I guess.” Your tone is lighter now, designed to bounce the conversation back to where it’s safe.

Logan picks it up without missing a beat. “She’s just being humble. She’s actually way better than both of us.”

Oscar huffs a laugh, tilting his head toward you. “She’s smarter, too.”

You level them both an exasperated glare, trying not to get caught in the weight of their stares. The cameras keep rolling. Outside, someone revs an engine, and the sound cuts through the stillness like a reminder: this is all temporary.

The interviewer smiles, unaware—or maybe pretending to be—of the undercurrent threading through the room. “Well,” he says benevolently, “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

You already know you’re not waiting. You’re only going to be watching.

Later, you, Logan, and Oscar sneak out to the hotel poolside. Logan had snagged beer from a convenience store that didn’t ask for his ID. Oscar texted you usual?, and you responded with a thumbs up emoji and a red heart.

Out here, the chlorine smell clings to your skin, mingling with the faint sweetness of the beer sweating in your hand. The pool reflects the moon in shifting pieces, breaking and mending itself over and over again. Somewhere behind the hedge, a night insect hums while the faint hiss of traffic drifts in from a road you can’t see.

Logan is perched on the edge of a deck chair, towel slung over his shoulders, hair still dripping in uneven trails down his neck. Oscar sits cross-legged on the concrete, knees damp from the water, his hands resting loosely on his shins.

You’re half-submerged in the shallow end, elbows hooked over the cool tiled ledge, your fingers idly tracing patterns just below the surface. The silence between you feels like a rubber band being pulled taut. You can hear the soft pop of a bottle cap hitting the ground, the fizz that follows.

“Sooo,” Logan says, drawing the word out, “about what you said earlier—how it’s ‘definitely not going to be you.’”

You glance at him, slow. “What about it?”

Oscar doesn’t speak. His gaze is steady, head tilted slightly as if he’s reading more than just your words.

“I meant it,” you say, voice flat but not unkind. “I’m not going to be the next on that grid.”

The words land with a soft splash. Small, undeniable. They linger, tugging the conversation somewhere none of you have dared to tread just yet.

Logan frowns, leaning forward. “Why not? You’re—”

“Good?” You almost smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, I know. But good isn’t enough. Not here.”

Oscar’s gaze sharpens. You can feel it, even without looking directly at him. Logan opens his mouth again, but you lift your beer, the motion deliberate, cutting him off.

“You can win races. I can win races. But that’s not the same as being chosen,” you say, final and resigned.

The sentence hangs between you, heavy with things you’ll never say aloud about sponsorships, about politics, about the way your name gets mentioned more for novelty than for skill. Maybe one day, someday down the line, there’ll be space for drivers like you. But not any time soon, you think. Not in this generation, with drivers like Oscar and Logan.

Oscar, for his part, understands. “It’s because you’re a girl,” he says point blank.

You glance at him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to fill the silence with comfort. He’s not agreeing so much as confirming what he already suspected. It’s different from Logan’s wide-eyed disbelief; Oscar’s stillness feels closer to understanding, like he’s already done the math.

There’s no cruelty in his statement. Just the papercut sting of a sport that plays favorites.

“Exactly,” you breathe.

The water laps gently at your arms, steam curling faintly in the light. Logan shakes his head, as if unwilling to let the conversation settle there. “It’s messed up, man.”

“Never said otherwise,” you say, and this time the smile does come. It’s small and tired, curling at the edges before fading.

Oscar leans back, tilting his face toward the dark sky. Logan still looks like he’s searching for the right thing to say, like if he could just find the perfect argument, he could change the way the sport works.

You take another sip of beer, let the taste linger. The truth settles between the three of you like sediment. Invisible but impossible to ignore.

You sink lower into the pool until your chin touches the surface, listening to the low murmur of the boys’ voices as they shift the topic to something lighter. The weight of what you’ve said lingers. The aftertaste of something you’re not sure you should have swallowed.

Oscar is the one who walks you back to your hotel room.

The hallways are hushed, the muted beige carpet swallowing the sound of your steps. The faint smell of chlorine clings, woven into the damp strands of your hair, while the pool’s low mechanical hum still ghosts through your ears. Oscar walks beside you, hands buried in his pockets, stride loose but steady. You’ve always matched each other’s pace without thinking, a habit worn into muscle memory.

It’s been that way since karting. The easy proximity, the almosts that were never quite spoken. His hand on your shoulder after a brutal qualifying, thumb pressing just enough to anchor you. The wordless way he’d swap your slicks for wets when clouds rolled in, without calling attention to it. The warmth of his jacket in your hands on a night colder than you’d planned for, his eyes flicking away like it was nothing. He never asked for thanks, and you never needed to give it.

You pass beneath a cone of warm light from a ceiling fixture, shadows stretching across the wall before folding back into themselves. At your door, you stop. The keycard is cool and slick against your fingertips. Oscar leans against the opposite wall, one shoulder taking his weight, expression unreadable in the dim light.

“So,” he says, voice low enough to feel more private than it should, “who do you really think it’ll be?”

He’s asking now, here, because he trusts you’ll be honest. Away from the cameras, away from the third piece in your puzzle who was always just a beat or two behind. You don’t take that trust for granted; you don’t even pause.

“Logan,” you say.

Oscar’s brows lift, subtle but there. He doesn’t push. In your head, the reasons spool out anyway. Logan’s passport, his backing, the sponsors who call him by name. The way he seems to drift into the right rooms at the right times, timing always landing in his favor.

Logan Sargeant, the American dream. Bound for Formula One glory in ways neither you nor Oscar will ever be.

To his credit, Oscar takes your opinion without argument, with the sort of sage acceptance that has always set him apart. No incredulity. No pity. Just understanding, or something close to it. A shrug of his shoulders and a mumbled “we’ll see.”

You don’t know why it endears you so. It makes you smile, makes you lean in before your body can catch up with your mind. Your lips press against his cheek. Faint, involuntary tension ripples through him, as if he wasn’t ready for the kiss but had no plans to move away regardless.

When you fall back on the soles of your feet, it’s to the sight of Oscar’s cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of pink. He clears his throat, eyes flicking briefly to yours before shifting aside. “Good night.”

You laugh under your breath, soft enough that it’s almost for yourself. “Night, Oscar.”

The door clicks shut behind you. You stand there for a moment, your back against the wood, feeling the ghost of his skin against your mouth. When you hear a light thump, you nearly giggle again—the mental image of you and Oscar standing back to back, separated only by the door, making you feel unbearably giddy.

It’s a small, perfect moment suspended in time. Another snow globe memory you’re not ready to shake. The season unfolds like that: moments on the track, in hotel rooms. You and Oscar. You and Logan. The three of you, and the gravity of who you are, tangling with who you’ve yet to be.

You enter F1A. Oscar resigns with Prema.

Logan’s name ends up in a headline you thought you’d never see: Sargeant rules out F2 as budgets force career rethink.

You read the article with your breath caught in your throat. Logan Sargeant will not step up to Formula 2 this season and is unlikely to remain on the FIA path to Formula 1 due to the budget required for 2021, the feature opens, and you feel your head spin with it.

There’s no time to wonder why you were never told. No time to question why you had to find out this way, no time to dwell on what you could have done to keep this from happening. There’s only shaky fingers as you pull up your United Airlines app, and unplanned itineraries as you land in Fort Lauderdale with nothing but a backpack and an ache underneath your ribs.

Logan doesn’t even blink when he opens the front door to his house.

“You’re early,” he says, stepping aside to let you walk past him. “Oscar said he’s not flying in until next week.”

You flinch a bit, as if just remembering the texts from Oscar that have gone unanswered in light of your haste. “What can I say,” you huff. “We may have failed to coordinate.”

The ghost of a smile tugs at Logan’s face. “Cool. I don’t mind rolling out the pity party in batches.”

You and Oscar matched each other’s pace, but you and Logan filled in each other’s blanks. If you were too serious, Logan was there to make you laugh. If Logan was getting cocky, you knew how to reel him in. Time and time again, you could be what each other needed when it mattered.

Today, it’s in the form of you dropping your bag to the floor and giving him a long, hard look. Away from the Prema factory, from the flashing cameras, he looks less like an American hero and more like—Logan. Hands in his pockets, eyes shining no matter how dull. Still your Logan beneath it all.

“Wanna go fishing?” you blurt out.

He lets out an honest-to-goodness snort of laughter. “You’ve never fished a day in your life.”

“That’s why you’re going to teach me.”

Logan leans against the entryway wall, his grin widening in the slightest. “You just want to make me feel better,” he accuses.

Your shoulder raises in a half-hearted shrug. “Is it working?”

There’s nothing but tenderness on his face when he responds, fond to a fault, “It is.”

You run through his bait and tangle way too many lines. Logan bitches and moans about it, but he’s laughing the entire way. That’s your only goal of the weekend: to keep him laughing. And so you let him drag you to all his favorite spots, let him feed you the most obscene Floridian snacks, let him fall asleep on you during a movie night that runs well into the early morning.

You wake up on the couch, curled into Logan’s side. You shift, only to realize he’s already awake, absentmindedly watching the sports broadcast on the television. The morning light streaks through the blinds, making the glare of Oscar’s on-screen interview all the more devastating.

The headline scrolls along the ticker like a taunt: Australian racer Piastri to replace Schumacher for F2 campaign.

You don’t ask Logan if he already knew. You don’t lie to him that his time will come, too, someday.

Instead, you reach for his hand. He glances down at you before twining his fingers with yours, grounding the two of you to his couch. You keep your eyes on the television. So does Logan.

One waiting. One watching. Both stuck.

▸ YEAH, YOU’RE JUST LIKE THE RAIN, CARRYING EVERYONE’S SHAME—BUT YOU MOVE JUST LIKE A RIVER, NO, YOU DON’T WEAR AN INCH OF IT, BABE.

In the end, you’re the first real casualty.

Oscar goes on to become an Alpine reserve driver. Logan finds his way to F2.

Your F1A run dies with a whimper. Slowly, then all at once.

You scored points. Stood on the podium once. A few articles call it a waste, a darn shame, but your phone stays silent. No one from the other racing circles makes any offers or drafts any contracts.

And that’s that.

Part of your driver training involved learning how to brace. Minimizing harm when a crash was imminent. Folding into oneself, safekeeping everything vital. When the silence rings loud, when the chances dry up like rain on the tarmac, you find yourself grateful for the knowledge on how to be okay with things that hurt.

Still, Logan and Oscar find a way to poke at the cinches in your armor. It’s Logan who appears on your doorstep this time, Oscar in tow. They have one too many tubs of ice cream. Oscar laughs even when you haven’t said something particularly funny, and Logan takes any excuse that he can to touch you.

“This isn’t necessary,” you say wryly, in between spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s.

“It isn’t,” agrees Oscar from the living room floor.

Logan, at his side, nods solemnly. “That’s why you should be grateful.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. Pride flickers across Logan’s expression. An emotional P1, all because he made you smile.

Logan pushes on. “Look at the bright side. Now you can do something much more fulfilling than driving in circles.”

But I liked driving in circles, you want to scream. I liked the smell of rubber, and the sounds of the paddock, and the thrill of clawing my way to points. I liked it, just as you do, and wouldn’t you be wrecked to have to let it go?

Instead, you smile behind your spoon. “Like fishing,” you say, and both your friends strike up to protest.

That evening, Logan begs off first. When it’s just you and Oscar, washing dishes in the middle of the night, there’s so much that exists in the space of what neither of you want to admit. The years-long slowburn, the push and pull.

You wash. He dries. Neither of you say a word.

When you pass him the last plate, your fingers brush. It’s everything and not enough all at the same time. He drags it out, spending way too much time with nonexistent droplets on the porcelain.

That ends, too, like all things have to, but neither of you call it a night just yet. There, in front of the sink where your fingers are wrinkled from the water and your heart has been wrung dry like a kitchen towel—

Oscar is reaching out before the first of your tears can fall.

You’re crying, crying, crying, muffling the sobs against Oscar’s shoulder because you don’t want Logan to hear.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, “just this once—”

Oscar shushes you, lips pressed to the crown of your hair. He’s got one hand running up and down your back while the other holds the back of your head, gentle in a way you’d never anticipate his calloused hands to be.

“You don’t have to put a timer on your sadness,” he whispers and so you don’t.

It feels like hours before your breathing evens out. “I ruined your team shirt,” you whimper, and his arms tighten around you as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“It’s okay,” he deadpans. “I don’t really give a shit about Alpine.”

A watery laugh escapes you. Oscar squeezes you a second time.

He pulls away, but he doesn’t go too far. His hands find their way to your face, forcing you to keep your eyes on him.

“It sucks,” he says.

“It sucks,” you echo, voice cracking on the confirmation.

“But nothing’s going to change.”

You hesitate for a beat. Not quite sold on that one, on the wistfulness that the friendship would stay intact. That you would still find purpose beyond the tracks. Oscar, sensing you spiral, pats your cheeks a bit.

“Nothing’s going to change,” he repeats, firmer.

The words come out as an acquiescing sigh on your end. “Nothing’s going to change.”

He stares at you. His eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering for a beat too long. Enough for your fingers to twitch at your sides, for you to wish that this might change. This will-they-won’t-they finally finding an answer.

But Oscar is Oscar, and Oscar would never. Not when he thinks you might be anything but a hundred percent sure. And so he settles for kissing your forehead, for a hug that keeps the pieces from falling apart, for letting you choose which side you want to sleep on when the two of you have to choreograph around a snoring Logan.

The slowburn flickers steadily on.

You’re wounded by it, sure. But when you wake up in the morning to Logan’s arm around your waist and Oscar clinging to your short sleeve, you realize you’re more grateful for it.

Things change, but what matters stays the same. This time, when the headline Logan Sargeant to drive for Williams Racing in 2023 hits the Internet, you aren’t surprised.

You’d been one of the first to know. Just after Oscar, you presume.

A party is planned. Family, friends, a girl Logan met on a dating app. There’s booze, and pizza, and somebody’s sister’s Polaroid camera. It captures Logan and Oscar, shoulder to shoulder, lifting you off the ground. You’re lying horizontal in their arms, flushed from alcohol and laughter, while they grin triumphantly.

Prema 4ever, Logan scribbles on to the photo once you’re back on your feet and Oscar is off to grab some crisps.

“We were friends even before Prema,” you point out, chin hooked over Logan’s shoulder.

You’re already more than a little tipsy. If you weren’t, you might have noticed the way the marker nearly slips from Logan’s hands. How his back stiffens ever so slightly, how his expression crumples with affection before he can hide it.

He snakes an arm around your waist, holding the Polaroid up with his free hand. “I know,” he says, tone just the right edge of dreamy. “Still. That was our peak.”

You nearly laugh at the thought. “That was not your peak.”

Logan grins. “Yeah? When was it, then?”

The answer is so simple to you that it’s not even fun.

“It’s just about to come,” you tell him, and Logan looks down at you like you’ve just made a prophecy. Like you hold his future in the palm of your hand.

He doesn’t go home with Tinder Girl that night. Instead, he leaves with you and Oscar. You drive just a little bit above the speed limit. Logan belts from the passenger seat, while Oscar plays a one-man game of I Spy in the back.

There’s a race season ahead, a rivalry to carve out. Points and podiums to fight for. You’ll be there, you’re sure, with credentials from either McLaren or Williams. The two boys are already divvying up the race calendar, squabbling over your garage access like they’re declaring custody.

You call them idiots. Oscar says something sarcastic in return. Logan pretends he hadn’t heard. You roll down the windows, let the wind whip at your hair.

The world within your snow globe stays perfect for one evening more.

▸ I WAS JUST A KID WHEN THEY SHOWED ME THIS GREAT BIG WEIGHT THAT WOULD COME AND PULL ME... YOU’RE THE ONE WAY OUT.

You’re there when it happens.

The car, folding like origami. There’s a collective wince throughout the garage. A mechanic mumbles, “There goes their new aero.”

You’re in the wrong colors for today.

The orange headset suddenly feels tight over your ears. You’ve never once thought the pass that says Guest of Oscar Piastri was a heavy weight to bear, but now, it’s wrong. So very, very wrong.

You mumble some hasty goodbyes before ducking out. You know it’ll take some time—he has post-qualifying interviews, a debrief—but you want to be there. You have to.

It pays off. You’re the first friendly face Logan sees in hospitality, once the dust has settled enough. You stick out like a sore thumb—papaya McLaren windbreaker stark against Williams blue—but he doesn’t joke about it. That’s how you know it’s bad.

The walk to his driver’s room is quiet. Uncomfortably so. When you get there, you try not to dwell on the Polaroid taped up near his mirror. The one from years ago, when Logan’s contract had been new and his hopes had been high.

“It’s over,” he says now.

There’s nothing in his voice to clue you in on what he feels. For the first time in all the years you’ve known him, you’re at a loss of what to give. You don’t know what he needs, what he wants.

“You’ve still got Monza next week,” you try, but Logan shakes his head.

The two of you are just standing in the dark, reckoning with this. The beginning of the end. Somewhere outside, there’s a distant roar of the crowd. Someone has probably qualified pole. Even now, even here, a selfish part of you has room to hope that it’s Oscar.

But then Logan is clearing his throat, tilting his head back, fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

“Monza is not happening. Not for me,” he says. “I’m out.”

You have no intention to be technical, no plans to ask if it’s set in stone. Not when Logan sounds every bit like you had all those years ago, when you three had still shared hotels and you got asked who was bound to make it.

Winning is not the same as being chosen, you’d said then.

Now, you place a hand on his elbow. When he doesn’t budge, you move your touch to his shoulder. Then, your arms around his neck. His own arms go around you, and you cling to him like it might somehow reshape the mold of his sadness.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fierce and frustrated on his behalf. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He responds with a shuddering inhale, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. He still smells of smoke and rubber, remnants of the crash. Underneath it all, though—the cologne you got him for his twentieth birthday. One he’s kept on buying, long after that first bottle ran out. It breaks your heart.

You’ve never asked. You’ve always just known. But you’re not about to make any mistakes today, so you say, “What do you need, Logan?”

You make sure to say need instead of want, because the weight, the difference matters. Logan, of all people, knows you don’t take these things lightly.

We may not always get what we want, but we deserve to have what we need.

So when Logan says, “Kiss me?,” his voice smaller than you’ve ever heard—

You taste salt. You’re not sure if it’s his tears or yours.

Logan kisses you back like he might find answers in the curve of your mouth, his hands desperately clenching your face to keep you in place. A sob rises from the back of his throat, and you swallow the sound as you press closer to him.

You can do this, you think to yourself, as your fingers thread through his hair and you squeeze your eyes shut and you trytrytry not to think of the Australian driver halfway across the paddock.

You love Logan.

You can love Logan.

You can learn. You can hold his hand when Williams swaps him out for Colapinto. You can spend summer with him in the sweltering Florida heat, rebuilding between lakeside days and nights underneath covers.

You can be what Logan needs. You can.

Oscar knows as much.

It’s six months later, during the summer break. He finds time in between Melbourne and Monaco, squeezing in a weekend at Fort. Nobody brings up what happened at Zandvoort. Nobody brings up the news of Oscar’s contract renewal.

Instead, the three of you kill time at the beach. There’s the world’s most pathetic match of volleyball, and copious amounts of lukewarm beer. Oscar turns red after four Bud Lights. Logan tans underneath the sun.

You swim to the deep end, resurfacing only when Logan calls you in.

Logan, whose touch lingers when he applies sunscreen on your back. Logan, who swaddles you in his towel once you’ve emerged from the water. Logan, kissing your temple and laughing into the damp skin there.

“You always go too far,” he complains, but his tone is light and amused.

Your nose scrunches as you respond, “But I always come back.”

Logan looks at you as if you’re a dream he’s waking up from. “You do,” he concedes, squeezing your shoulders in an affectionate, one-armed hug.

Oscar watches.

Eventually, Logan heads to the beach shack to return the empty beer bottles, kicking up sand as he goes. He walks without the unbearable weight of expectations on his shoulders; it makes him lighter, looser.

You know, you know you have something to do with it.

Oscar, at your side, brushes sand off his trunks. He’s red, all the way from the alcohol flush on his collar to the sunburn on the back of his neck. There’s a set to his jaw, an old sort of understanding that dates to when you were all still young and stupid, and all you could do was drive.

Now, you’re halfway through a Master’s. Logan has talked about coaching local karting circles.

Oscar is the only one still behind the wheel.

“So, uh,” he starts, careful as ever, “you two, huh?”

You pick at a loose thread of Logan’s towel. “Yeah. A couple of months now.”

“A couple of months,” Oscar echoes, as if testing the words out. Trying to see how they taste. One of his eyebrows arches upward. “Why haven’t either of you mentioned it?”

“I think he’s going to tell you tonight, over dinner. You know, with the whole—” You drop your voice an octave, feigning a terrible impression of Logan, “‘Piastri, you know you’re my best friend, right?’”

Oscar chuckles. You giggle a bit, too. It’s not laughter at Logan’s expense, as much as it is the amusement of knowing somebody so well.

“I’ll act surprised,” Oscar promises.

“Thanks. It means a lot to him.”

A beat. It presses in between the distant shouts of children, the crash of waves on the shore, the thrum of what-could-have-been snaking between you and Oscar.

Oscar trains his eyes to the horizon, one painted cruelly like the team colors he reps. Hues of orange, blots of black. A reminder that the steady ascent to stardom came with a price.

“Was it—” He stutters. Fucking stutters. Oscar rarely trips, and so you look up at him, surprised.

He goes on, “Was it always going to be him?”

You know he’s asking because it’s the only time he can. Because after tonight’s dinner, Oscar will make the glaringly obvious choice of being happy for you two. He may have to pretend at first, but he’ll ease into it. He’ll convince himself.

The same way you’ve come to love Logan. Not because he needs you, but because you want to. It’s something you’ve figured out in between mourning and mornings, in between conversations about what it means to be the one on the other side of the garage.

Oscar made it. You and Logan made it out.

But, now—at dusk, with the sun setting on something that never had the chance to start—you’ll give Oscar your honesty. He deserves at least that.

Who do you think it’s going to be? turns into Was it always going to be him?

You shake your head.

The smallest, most imperceptible no.

Oscar’s gaze turns skyward. He doesn’t say anything for a while. Neither do you. “Okay,” he says, eventually. His own white flag. “Yeah, okay.”

There’s nothing more to say. You reach out, hand resting on his knee, and you squeeze. Just to remind him you’re still here, he’s still loved, there’s no loss.

Oscar doesn’t rest his hand on yours. His fingers twitch all the same.

The two of you believed in every maybe, but maybe can only get you so far.

Logan returns, bringing the sun with him. Oscar forces on a smile. You wipe away a stray tear when neither of the boys are looking at you.

Logan, your Logan—radiant, resilient Logan—throws his arms over the two of you and begins to steer the two of you back home. Back to solid ground, to where all of you belong.

“Hey, Piastri,” Logan starts, beaming, “you know you’re my best friend, right?” ⛐

#faves

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ferraris-gf · 14 days ago

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this pictures lives in my mind rent free

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ferraris-gf · 16 days ago

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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. ⛐

#faves

3K notes · View notes

ferraris-gf · 21 days ago

Text

girl, so confusing ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

r/aita · anon asked, “aita (m20) for realizing my best friend is attractive and starting to panic over it?”

ꔮ starring: pepe marti isack hadjar x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 10.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. pre-f1 isack (ft. yuki who is still in vcarb), so much jealousy!!!, emotionally constipated isack, i <3 pepe marti, idiots in love. title from charli xcx’s girl, so confusing. ꔮ commentary box: this got way too out of hand for something that was meant to be short 🤕 unfortunately, this has some of my favorite tropes, and getting to use pepe as a plot device was a major bonus! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first thing Isack hears when he lands in Bologna is your voice, muffled through his noise-cancelling headphones and still somehow unmistakably you.

“You packed five hoodies and no toothpaste.”

He blinks at you, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other still clutching his phone like it might protect him from your judgment. You look back at him over your shoulder, expression flat, eyebrows raised, the living embodiment of exasperated affection.

“I brushed my teeth before we left,” he says, which is not a defense so much as a cry for help.

You make a noise—something between a laugh and a groan—and keep walking. He jogs to catch up, the terminal humming around you both as you weave toward baggage claim like a pair of over-caffeinated ducks.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw each other in Paris. Long enough for Isack to feel it. Long enough for him to pretend he didn’t. “You know,” he says, nudging you with his elbow, “it would’ve been nice if you said you missed me.”

“I missed you like I miss stubbing my toe.”

“So passionately. Got it.”

The banter is easy, old, familiar. A thread pulled through years of half-eaten birthday cakes and failed group projects and one disastrous ski trip where Isack sprained his ankle trying to impress you with a backflip. (He still blames you. You still have the video.)

Now you’re here in Faenza, Italy, where the houses are too pastel and the espresso is too strong, and Isack is very suddenly, very alarmingly, a Formula One driver.

The Airbnb is two floors and aggressively rustic. There’s a bowl of artificial lemons on the kitchen table and a wrought-iron bed frame in his room that looks like it belongs in an indie horror film.

“I call the bed that doesn’t squeak when you breathe,” you say, tossing your duffel onto the couch with the confidence of someone who knows how to win.

Isack drops his bags and flops down beside you, limbs long and graceless. The couch groans. “This is surreal,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, which features an oil painting of what might be two angels fist-bumping.

You hum in agreement, already digging into your bag for a charger or snacks or possibly toothpaste to share with your idiot friend.

“You’re about to drive for Racing Bulls,” you say, not looking at him. “Like, real F1. Lights out and away we go. That kind of thing.”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Don’t say it like that. It makes me want to throw up.”

“You’re just scared because now you can’t blame the car.”

He lifts his head to glare at you. You grin. It’s wildly unfair, the way you can disarm him with nothing but a look. “You’re the worst,” he mutters.

“And yet, you invited me here.”

He did. He really, really did.

He invited you before the holidays were even over, texted you in the middle of a New Year’s Eve party he barely remembered attending. Come with me. Pre-season. Italy. Be my emotional support baguette.

You’d replied with a thumbs up and a heart. Then, you showed up at Gare de Lyon with a suitcase and a grin and a croissant. You made him hold while you re-tied your sneakers.

He still thinks about it. The casual ease of your closeness. The way your shoulder presses against his now, warm and solid, grounding. “You excited?” you ask, gentler now.

He doesn’t answer right away. He merely watches the ceiling angels continue their enigmatic bro handshake. “Yeah,” he says after a moment too long. “And nervous. And... I don't know. It feels big. Bigger than I thought.”

You glance over. Your eyes are the same eyes that bore into him in first grade, when he was a curly-haired transfer student who still got his tenses messed up.

“Good,” you say simply. “It should. You’re doing something big.”

He swallows. Looks at you for a second longer than he probably should. Then, he bumps his shoulder against yours again. “So, no toothpaste, huh?”

You shove him off the couch.

Come evening, Isack announces dinner plans with a flourish. “Pepe’s in town. We’re meeting him tonight. Restobar. Casual.”

You look up from your laptop, face pinched in a suspicious squint, like you’re trying to detect the catch buried between the lines. “Pepe Martí?”

“The one and only.”

“Didn’t he spray champagne in your eye at Monza?”

“It was celebratory assault. Ancient history.”

You close your laptop with a soft click, settling back on the couch with the air of someone who’s already decided they’re going, but wants to be convinced anyway. “Weird. I thought he hated you.”

“He doesn’t hate me,” Isack says exasperatedly. “He just has a very aggressive love language.”

You snort. “That explains the champagne.”

In truth, Isack isn’t sure why the idea of you meeting Pepe now makes his stomach feel like it’s full of bees. Not the nice, metaphorical kind either. The buzzing, mildly panicked kind. You’d hovered at the periphery of enough F2 paddocks that your faces had probably passed like ships in the hospitality night.

But for whatever reason—timing, chaos, a tendency for you to disappear right before post-qualifying debriefs—you’d never officially met. It feels strange, almost unnatural, that two of the people who occupy the most space in his life have somehow never shared more than a passing nod.

Tonight, that changes.

The restobar in Faenza is dimly lit and full of old wood and louder locals. It smells like grilled meat, overconfident cologne, and faint desperation from the waiter who’s been dodging a birthday serenade at the next table for fifteen minutes.

Pepe is already there when you arrive, perched at a high table, hair a little too neat to be unintentional, like he tried and wants you to know he did.

“Amore mio!” he shouts when he sees Isack, arms thrown wide like they haven’t spoken in decades. Then, catching sight of you, he shifts gears so fast he might get whiplash. “And you must be the best friend.”

He says the best friend like it should be capitalized and possibly italicized. Probably followed by an exclamation point and a bouquet of flowers.

You smile, warm and polite, slipping easily into the kind of charm that sneaks up on people. Isack can practically hear the cartoon birds chirping around Pepe’s head. It’s ridiculous. And predictable. And he kind of wants to kick a chair.

Dinner is loud. The food comes in mismatched plates, the wine flows faster than it should, and the three of you start stacking shared appetizers in the middle of the table like a Jenga tower made of breadsticks and calamari.

You fall into conversation with Pepe like you’ve known him for years. He pulls out every story from their F2 days with the performative glee of a man auditioning for a biopic. You laugh at his impersonation of their former engineer. You laugh harder when he describes Isack’s sprint race tantrum in Austria, which, for the record, was justified. The gravel trap was a menace.

“I swear, he kicked a trash can so hard it broke the sound barrier,” Pepe says.

“I was emotionally processing,” Isack grumbles into his water.

“He nearly got fined for conduct unbecoming of a teammate.”

“That trash can had it coming.”

It goes like that for most of the night. Pepe playing the charming fool. You, being effortlessly yourself. And Isack, somewhere in the middle, pretending he isn’t watching the way Pepe watches you. Pretending he doesn’t notice the way Pepe leans a little closer every time you speak, or how he suddenly finds reasons to touch your arm, or laugh at even your worst puns like they’re comedic gold.

You excuse yourself after the second round of drinks, disappearing toward the comfort room with a casual squeeze of Isack’s shoulder. It lingers longer than it should. The moment you’re out of sight, Pepe leans in with the subtlety of a man who’s never been subtle a day in his life.

“So,” he says, dropping the grin just enough to seem earnest. “Your best friend.”

Isack sips his drink, slow. “What about her?”

“Is she single?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Why, you wanna ask her to prom?”

Pepe whines in protest. “Come on, man. I’m being serious. She seems chill as hell.”

Isack lets that sink in. It sits weird. Like a pebble in his shoe. Not painful. Just—there. Just annoying enough to notice.

He looks toward the hallway, where you’re still gone, then back at Pepe, who’s watching him with the infuriating patience of someone who knows what he wants and has decided the universe should give it to him.

“Yeah,” Isack says finally. “She’s great.”

“So you’ll help me out?”

Isack drums his fingers against the glass. It clinks like a ticking clock.

The answer should be easy. It is easy. You’re not his. He’s not yours. There’s no unspoken tension except for all the ones he doesn’t want to name. And still, there’s a part of him that wants to lie, to say you’re secretly married or halfway to a vow of celibacy.

Instead, he shrugs. “Sure,” he says with forced casualness. “I’ll help you.”

Pepe beams. “I owe you one.”

Isack smiles back, thin and crooked, and tells himself that the weird twist in his chest is just the lemonade. Just citrus. Just a passing sting.

You return, eyes bright, smile easy, sliding back into the conversation like you never left. Isack watches the way you light up when Pepe tosses out another joke, the way you nudge his knee under the table without thinking.

He tells himself he’s fine, and he really, really tries to believe it.

Isack finds you in the kitchen wearing his hoodie and making your third cup of espresso.

You’re squinting at your phone, barefoot, hair a mess, mumbling something about the Italian grocery app being designed by masochists. You look so at home in his borrowed clothes, in this little sunlit chaos of a kitchen, that for a second Isack forgets what he came in to say.

You glance up, breaking the spell. “You’re staring. Either say good morning or tell me if I bought the wrong kind of oats.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Good morning. Also, those oats are for horses.”

You scowl at the bag. “I knew it.”

He almost lets the moment hang there—warm, ordinary, the kind of domestic that sneaks up on you—but then he clears his throat. “I have to go to the garage today. Pre-season prep, fitting, simulator stuff.”

You nod, but there’s something in the curve of your mouth, the way your fingers still on the mug. Like you’re waiting. “Cool,” you say eventually, too casual. “Should I come?”

He pauses. Feels the answer bump against his teeth before he chooses a different one. “Actually… you’re going on a tour of the city.”

Your eyes widen with a hint of shock. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he says, walking over to grab a banana he has no intention of eating. “Pepe’s taking you.”

There’s a beat. A flicker of surprise. Then something else. “I thought he was flying back to Sabadell this morning.”

Isack shrugs, peels the banana in one aggressive move. “His flight got delayed.”

He doesn’t say he knows it didn’t. Doesn’t say Pepe canceled it after dinner, sent him a text with a fire emoji and hope she likes biscotti. He probably should’ve told Pepe you don’t care too much for biscotti, but that’s his problem.

You watch Isack for a second too long, like you might be doing mental math and realizing none of it quite adds up. Then, you sigh. “Fine. But if I end up on a scooter without a helmet, you’re going to pay for my hospital bills.”

“Deal.”

You disappear to change. Isack eats half the banana before tossing the rest into the trash bin. It tastes like guilt and the aftertaste of something he hasn’t felt in years.

Half an hour later, you’re by the front door, tying your shoes. There’s a knock—sharp, eager. Pepe, standing outside in sunglasses and a jacket he clearly thinks makes him look like a local. He has the energy of a man about to star in a romcom montage.

“Ciao, mi vida,” he greets you.

Two languages in one go. Both you and Isack roll your eyes, but at least you’re smiling. “You ready to show me Faenza, or are we just going to loiter dramatically in piazzas?” you tease Pepe.

“Both,” Pepe grins.

Isack lingers in the doorway, hand on the frame, watching as Pepe offers you his arm. You actually take it, laughing at something he says before you’re even out of earshot.

The door swings shut. The silence that follows is full of espresso steam and a terrible, gnawing question.

Isack wonders when exactly it started feeling like losing something he never had.

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and focuses on what he does have: The Racing Bulls headquarters, which smells like rubber and ambition.

Isack walks in with his hands in his pockets, pretending he isn’t mildly intimidated by how many people already seem to know his name. Someone hands him a clipboard. Someone else gestures him into a fitting. There’s a brief but enthusiastic welcome meeting that involves espresso, four different PowerPoints, and Yuki Tsunoda casually hurling a stress ball at the wall.

“You’re the kid,” Yuki says, grinning.

“You’re not exactly ancient,” Isack shoots back.

“Yeah, but I have trauma. That ages you.”

They shake hands like boxers before a friendly match—no real heat, but both clocking each other’s moves. Yuki seems cool. Equal parts chaotic and competent. The engineers already seem in sync. Isack even gets a laugh out of one of the mechanics during seat fitting, which feels like winning something small but important.

The simulator is less forgiving. By hour three, his neck feels like it wants to secede from the rest of his body.

He gets through it. He takes notes. He lets the weird pressure sink in and settle somewhere behind his ribs. It’s real now, all of it. The team, the season, the expectation.

By the time he makes it back to the Airbnb, the sun is half-asleep and his shoulders are carrying the day like wet concrete. He kicks off his shoes, steps inside, and stops short.

You and Pepe are on the couch.

There’s a movie playing. Something old, black and white, probably subtitled. You’re tucked under a blanket, legs curled, face lit soft by the screen. Pepe’s sprawled beside you with a bowl of popcorn on his lap.

“Welcome back, rookie,” you call out to Isack without looking.

He mumbles something that might be a greeting, still caught off-guard.

“You hungry?” you ask, already standing. “We saved you some of the pasta. It’s in the fridge. I’ll heat it up.”

You disappear into the kitchen before he can answer. Pepe pats the cushion next to him, but Isack ignores it, lowering himself into the armchair instead. He sinks into the upholstery like it might help him process the entire day.

Pepe turns to him with the expression of a man who’s just been handed a glass of very good wine. “We had a good day,” he announces in a stage-whisper.

“Did you.”

“Took her to the clock tower. And the bookshop with the cat that hates men,” Pepe rambles. “Then the two of us split a tiramisu. It was intimate.”

Isack snorts. “Sounds romantic.”

“It was. I could cry about it.”

There’s a beat. Then: “Hey,” Pepe says, shifting slightly. “Can I ask you something kind of weird?”

Isack lifts a brow. “Is it about the man-hating cat?”

“No, it’s about your best friend.”

That lands heavier than it should. “What about her?” Isack asks, even though he already half-knows where this is going.

Pepe eyes him, grin crooked. “How did you never fall for her? I mean, come on. She’s funny, and hot, and she clearly loves you in that ride-or-die, might-bury-a-body-for-you way.”

Isack opens his mouth. Closes it.

Because he has.

Not fallen, exactly. More like slipped, once or twice, when you were laughing too hard at one of his jokes or looking at him like he mattered more than his lap times ever could. It always passed. Or he shoved it down until it did.

Best friends. That’s the thing. That’s what you are. What you’ve always been.

He exhales, forces a laugh. “She’s my best friend,” he doubles down. “That’s it.”

Pepe hums, unconvinced, but he doesn’t press. Maybe because you reappear, holding a plate of reheated pasta, steam curling upward. You hand it to Isack with a smile, then drop onto the couch again—but this time, you sit beside him. Not Pepe.

Your knee brushes his. You don’t move away. Isack twirls the fork through the pasta and pretends it doesn’t mean anything.

Pepe watches the whole thing and doesn’t say a word.

The movie plays on, black and white shadows flickering across the walls like ghosts with good timing.

“Get dressed,” Isack proclaims. “We’re going to the beach.”

Your eyes light up instantly. “Like… for real? Not a metaphor? Not a training exercise disguised as leisure?”

“Sand. Water. Minimal cardio. I promise.”

You scramble to your feet with the glee of someone who’s just been told school’s canceled. “I’m wearing the obnoxious sunglasses.”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he sighs, already reaching for the Gentle Monster knockoff that you purchased in a thrift shop.

Isack manages to rent a car that smells like someone once smoked a cigarette out of spite in the glove compartment. You don’t seem to mind. You fiddle with the aux cord and commandeer the playlist before they hit the autostrada.

The drive to Ravenna is bright and warm, full of sun streaked windows and half-sung lyrics. You both argue over the best road trip snacks (he insists on plain chips, you bring chocolate despite the sun), and by the time you see the sea peeking through the trees, Isack is convinced the day might actually be perfect.

Which is, of course, the first mistake. He pulls into the beach car park and glances at you, ready to soak in your reaction.

“It looks beautiful,” you say, squinting toward the water. “Kind of makes me want to move to Italy.”

“You can crash in my closet,” he offers. “Great rent. Terrible Wi-Fi.”

You laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt. And then your gaze shifts. “Is that—?”

It is.

Pepe, with his shirt open, sandals tragically worn, holding a bouquet of flowers with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted a single choice he’s made. He spots you and waves like this is all very spontaneous.

You blink. “Huh. Small country.”

Isack’s already wincing. “Weird, right?” he fibs, as if he and Pepe hadn’t texted about this the night before. “Total coincidence.”

You glance sideways. “Really.”

“Italy is famously compact.”

You narrow your eyes, but Pepe is already closing the distance, holding out the bouquet like a contestant on a reality show. “For you,” he says, eyes soft. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with roses.”

You take them because you’re gracious, and good at hiding disappointment, and because you probably don’t want to look unkind in front of two men watching your every breath.

Isack watches your smile tighten. Not quite forced. Not quite thrilled.

You think roses are cliché.

You once said it on a rainy walk in Montmartre, called them emotionally lazy flowers. You said peonies were better. Or wildflowers. Or anything that didn’t feel like it came from a Valentine’s Day display rack.

You still thank Pepe. Still hold the bouquet carefully. Isack looks away, throat tight.

The beach stretches out, endless and perfect. Sand like sifted sugar, water clear enough to tempt confession, and sunlight bouncing off the Adriatic with persistence that could qualify as flirtation.

You spread out the towels while Pepe enthusiastically stakes claim to a patch of shade with the same enthusiasm he brings to everything. Isack tosses the beach bag down with a grunt and sits, squinting out at the water like it might solve something.

Then, you start undressing.

It isn’t a performance. You’re only peeling off your cover-up and shaking out your hair with the casual grace of someone who has no idea they’re about to cause an emotional incident.

Isack forgets how to blink.

Pepe chokes slightly on his own tongue. “You look—” He stammers. “Wow. Like, illegal levels of beautiful.”

You laugh, polite and a little embarrassed, and Isack instinctively reaches for the armor he wears best. “Don’t let that bikini fool you,” he tells Pepe wryly. “She still owes me ten euros for losing rock-paper-scissors.”

The joke lands, sort of. Your expression flickers. A crack in the sunshine. You chuckle along with Pepe, but it doesn’t light your face the same way. Isack feels the moment curdle in his mouth.

“Pepe,” you say, turning smoothly. “Would you mind helping me with sunscreen? I can’t reach my back.”

Pepe perks up like a spaniel. “I live for this exact request.”

Isack stands before he can think better of it. “I’m going for a swim.”

You glance up at him, brows raised. “You haven’t put on sunscreen yet.”

“Yeah, well, I’m allergic to public displays of lotion.”

You snort. Pepe laughs louder. Isack walks away.

The water is cold in the best way. A slap that feels like a reset. He dives under, lets the salt sting his eyes. It doesn’t help. All it does is remind him that you’re back on the shore, letting someone else touch the space between your shoulder blades.

He floats, arms out, staring at the sun through lowered lashes, and wonders why he thought today would end any other way.

The rest of the beach day unfolds like a montage directed by someone who hates subtlety.

Pepe is predictably unbearable. Doing handstands in the surf, trying to charm a waiter into giving you free granita, offering you his towel even though you’ve brought your own. You play along. You always play along.

There’s a moment where he convinces you to dance in the shallow tide and Isack watches from under his towel, sunglasses on, stomach doing the kind of slow roll he usually associates with track day nerves.

He joins in when he has to. Laughs when it’s expected. Still, there’s something dislodged in his chest the whole time. Like someone opened a cupboard in his ribcage and everything fell out at once.

The drive home is golden-hour quiet.

You’re in the passenger seat, legs curled under you, hair still a little damp from the sea. You hum occasionally to the radio, but it’s gentler now. Like the day has taken some of your noise with it.

Isack doesn’t mind the silence. He just minds what it might mean.

You’re halfway back to Faenza when you speak. “Any plans tomorrow?”

He shrugs. “Garage in the morning. Maybe grocery shopping. Why?”

You look out the window. Then back at him. “Pepe asked me out.”

There it is. The sentence drops like a wrench.

“Oh,” Isack says. “Cool.”

You nod a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just, like, a coffee. Not a big deal.”

He tightens his grip on the wheel. Loosens it. “Sounds good.”

Silence again. The kind that wants to ask something or be asked something. You lean your head back against the seat and say nothing else. Neither does Isack.

When you pull into the Airbnb’s drive, the sky has gone syrupy with sunset. You reach for the door handle. “Thanks for today,” you say.

He nods. “Go on ahead. I’ll return the car.”

You hesitate. Like you might offer to stay. But then you leave. Isack watches until the door clicks shut behind you.

Then, he drops his forehead to the steering wheel and groans into the plastic. A long, aching sound.

The car beeps in protest.

He stays like that until there’s a rap on the window. He looks up to find a scowling policeman staring back at him.

Isack apologizes in broken Italian, mutters something about returning the car. He straightens, pulls himself together. Drives off without another word.

The sound of the horn still rings in his ears, and so does your voice, soft and hopeful: Pepe asked me out.

Your date looms like a plot twist that everyone else saw coming. Isack is pretending to care about the race on his phone when you emerge from the bedroom holding two outfits in either hand.

“Pick,” you say, extending two hangers.

Isack’s eyes narrow.

On the left: the green sundress. The one you wore to Monaco last year. He remembers how it moved in the breeze, how it made your laugh sound louder, brighter. How he’d gotten annoyed at a passing fan who stared too long, and you’d called him dramatic.

On the right: the rust-red top and denim mom jeans. More casual, more subtle. The outfit you wore to that random film festival in Paris where you both sat through two and a half hours of subtitled existential horror and got crêpe after like nothing had happened. He remembers you licking powdered sugar off your thumb, asking him if yearning looked better in black and white.

He still doesn’t know the answer. He does know what longing looks like in technicolor, though. It feels awfully a lot like this moment.

He points to the red. “That one.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good. I was leaning that way.”

Of course you were. You disappear again. He stares at the spot you left like it owes him closure.

Minutes later, you step out, radiant in a way that feels both cinematic and inevitable. The shirt clings in the right places. The jeans sit perfectly. Your earrings glint. Isack pretends to be engrossed in folding a grocery bag.

He’s always known you were attractive. It was just a fact, like your love of overpriced coffee or your inexplicable ability to quote bad horror movies verbatim. But lately—and he doesn’t know when or how or why—it started feeling like a fact that might ruin his life.

You step up to him, easy and warm. “Wish me luck?”

He tries for nonchalance. “Try not to fall for his shirtless anecdotes.”

You laugh, and then, like it costs you nothing, press a kiss to his cheek. It lingers. Not on his skin, but somewhere behind his eyes.

And then you’re gone, out the door and into the arms of someone who thinks Thai food is a date night flex.

Because of course Pepe would pick the one cuisine you’ve always said tastes like betrayal. Because of course you’d go anyway.

And because, apparently, Isack has officially lost his goddamn mind.

Hours later, Isack hears the door open before he sees you. Keys fumbling, shoes lightly kicking the wall. You step inside with a sigh that belongs in a different movie. Something French and tragic with a cigarette dangling off the edge.

He doesn’t look up from his spot on the couch. “You’re back early.”

You toss your bag down with less grace than usual. “It’s midnight.”

“Early for Italians.”

You plop down beside him, exhaling like the night wrung you out. He doesn’t ask how it went, but you tell him anyway. “It was nice,” you say. “He took me to that place on Via Cavour. The one with the bamboo walls and the overly enthusiastic waiters.”

“You hate eager waiters,” Isack points out.

You ignore him. “We had those noodle wraps that fall apart the second you look at them. And he talked about Barcelona for, like, an hour. Did you know he once almost bought a goat from a street vendor on a dare?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He brought it up in Hungary.”

You pull your knees up, arms wrapped around them, voice too cheerful.

“He was sweet, though. Paid for everything. Even hailed me a cab—after we walked the length of the harbor. God, my heels were not made for cobblestones.”

Isack glances down, frowns. “Your feet are blistered.”

“They’re battle scars.”

“They’re dumb.” Isack pushes the couch pillow off his lap. “Give me your feet.”

Your brows raise. “Kinky.”

“Be normal for once, please. I have healing hands. Or at least Band-Aids.”

You hesitate, then you slowly stretch your legs across his lap. Your ankles are marked red, the pads of your toes faintly swollen. He reaches for the First-Aid kit on the living room coffee table, muttering French obscenities under his breath.

For a while, the room is quiet. Just music playing off his phone and the crinkle of wrappers. Then, you speak. Low. Like you almost didn’t mean to. “I thought this trip would be about us.”

He looks up. Your eyes are on the ceiling.

“I mean,” you continue, “I’ve seen Pepe more than I’ve seen you. And I came here for you. Not the Spanish court jester.”

The guilt is immediate and heavy. Isack presses a bandage onto your heel. Carefully. Like it’s the only thing he can still fix.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow’s yours. Just us. I swear.”

You finally look at him. Smile soft, tired. “Better be.”

He meets your gaze and thinks about how many things he hasn’t said. How many things he shouldn't. How tomorrow might break him anyway.

“I’ll make it perfect,” he promises, and he means it.

Isack wakes up the next day with mission energy. The kind he usually reserves for race day and the rare, sudden impulse to deep-clean his apartment at two in the morning. There’s a certainty in his chest, warm and weighted, like if he doesn’t get this right, something might shift out of place permanently.

Today is yours. No distractions. No Pepe. Just Isack and a plan that comes together like a jigsaw puzzle built from memory—each piece shaped by years of observation, of inside jokes and passing comments and the unspoken reverence of knowing someone better than you know yourself.

First: coffee.

Not just any coffee. The tiny Faenza café you declared life-changing three summers ago, where the barista still calls you campionessa and overfilled your cup with a wink. You light up the second you step inside, greeting the staff like old friends. Isack watches you from behind his espresso, grinning quietly into the rim of his cup as you sip with dramatic flair and announce, “Still the best in Italy.”

Second: the museum.

The one you dragged him to under the guise of ‘cultural enrichment’ but really because you wanted to see the weird medieval instruments that looked like cursed objects from a fantasy novel. You lead him straight to your favorites, offering commentary that is probably inaccurate. When you stop to take a selfie with a 14th-century lute, Isack photobombs. He tries not to preen when it goes live on your Instagram story.

Lunch is picnic-style in a hidden courtyard garden you both stumbled into once when you were hopelessly lost and slightly hangry. He pulls out your favorite pastries from a paper bag like a magician revealing doves. You gasp at each one, acting as if he conjured them from thin air.

“How do you remember all this?” you ask, mouth full of cream cheese and suspicion.

He shrugs, feigning coolness. “I’m secretly sentimental. Don’t let Yuki in on it.”

“I knew it,” you whisper like it’s a state secret. “You’re all mush underneath, Hadjar.”

The afternoon turns into a slow wander. You window-shop. He teases you for nearly buying a ceramic duck. You pause at a street artist sketching tourists and dare him to pose. He declines. You try again. He relents. The result is a caricature with an enormous forehead and dramatic brows that you both agree is a masterpiece.

By the third cobbled street, you’re limping. Maybe faking it, but Isack’s not about to deny you.

“Blisters,” you declare, stopping in your tracks and holding out your hands like you’re ready to pass away on the spot.

Isack knows where this is going. “You want me to carry you?” he sighs.

“Yes,” you say without hesitation, eyes gleaming with mischief.

He groans, but turns around, crouching. “Get on.”

You leap onto his back with a delighted squeal, arms looping around his neck, cheek pressed against his shoulder blades.

“God,” he grunts, “you’re heavier than I remember.”

“You wound me. This is all emotional baggage.”

He snorts, trudging forward. People stare. He doesn’t care. If anything, he’s a little smug about it. You hum a tune near his ear, and he wishes, briefly, that the street would never end.

There’s gelato at sunset. You eat yours too fast and get a brain freeze. He steals a bite anyway. You chase him down the beach path with a sandal raised like a weapon. Somewhere in the chaos, the day becomes yours again—entirely and irrevocably.

The evening winds down in cinematic slow motion.

You’re curled up on the couch, sun-warm and half-wrapped in one of his old hoodies that hangs oversized on your frame. He flips through channels, but you're already half-asleep, eyes fluttering as your head finds his chest like it was always meant to rest there. One of your hands curls loosely near his ribcage. He doesn’t move.

“Best day ever,” you mumble, slurring slightly, barely audible.

Isack exhales. Lets the day settle into his bones like gravity. His heart stumbles in his chest.

He doesn’t answer.

He just closes his eyes and lets you rest against him, hoping, foolishly, that if he stays still enough, time might freeze right here. On the couch, with your hair brushing his collarbone, your breath slow against his shirt, and the knowledge that maybe, for once, he’s done something completely, unmistakably right.

Isack should’ve known the universe wouldn’t let him have one clean, uncomplicated day.

It starts well enough. The air between you is light, still golden from yesterday. You’re wearing the hoodie you stole from him again, and he’s not saying anything about it because he likes the way it looks on you.

You’re unusually chipper about going to Racing Bulls headquarters. You ask things like, “Will they make me wear a fireproof suit?” and “If I get in the simulator, will it unlock my F1 potential?”

“Only if you crash less than Yuki,” Isack says.

You grin like you have something to prove.

He parks and you walk in beside him, credentials already arranged. It feels weirdly normal—bringing you here. Like you belong in his world. Like you already do.

Then Pepe appears. Not just appears. Materializes. A recurring plotline in a show Isack didn’t subscribe to.

“Hey! What are the odds?” Pepe says, smiling too broadly.

“Suspiciously high,” Isack mutters.

“Campos stuff,” Pepe adds. “Quick meeting with the junior team. Thought I’d drop in on my favorite almost-teammate.”

Isack forces a tight smile. You’re smiling, too. “Small world,” you say.

“Tiny,” Isack deadpans.

The three of you trail through the main floor like some weird reality show cast. Isack leading, you flitting between curiosity and commentary, Pepe walking a little too close.

Yuki finds the three of you by the hospitality area, snacking like he owns the place. He greets Isack with a fist bump, eyes flicking toward Pepe, and then you. The older driver does a quick assessment.

“Ah,” Yuki says, nodding sagely. “You must be Isack’s girlfriend.”

Isack freezes for half a second. He looks at you. Your expression is unreadable, but you don’t say anything. Neither does he. Pepe, however, laughs. Too loudly.

“No, no,” he says quickly, on your behalf. “They’re just friends. Best friends. Very platonic.”

The silence that follows is the kind that hums.

“Riiight,” Yuki drawls, eyes narrowing like he’s clocking something he won't bring up.

Before Isack can invent a distraction, one of the staff calls him and Yuki in for a strategy session. Yuki claps him on the back and whispers, just for Isack to hear, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell the team you have feelings.”

“I don’t,” Isack says a little too fast.

Yuki just smirks.

You wave as they head off. Isack glances back once, and you’re already laughing at something Pepe said. His stomach twists.

“Don’t worry, Hadjar,” Pepe calls out to Isack, voice trailing behind as you part. “I’ll keep her entertained.”

Isack doesn’t answer. He only walks into the meeting room and tells himself it’s fine. That he trusts you. That it doesn’t matter. That none of this means anything.

He’s starting to realize how often he lies to himself.

By the time Isack gets out of the strategy meeting, the sky’s shifted colors and so has his mood. He checks his phone the second he’s free. Nothing.

No messages. No missed calls. No chaotic selfies in your text thread. Radio silence.

He frowns. Shoots you a quick text: All good?

Then one to Pepe, which he regrets immediately: Where are you guys?

No response. Not for ten minutes. Then twenty. Then thirty.

By the time your name lights up his screen with a cheery, Hey! Sorry, my phone was on Do Not Disturb. We went downtown! Dinner later?, he’s already halfway to deciding he’s not in the mood.

He types, Nah, I’m heading back. Tired, and doesn’t wait for a reply.

The Airbnb feels too quiet when he returns. Like it knows something he doesn't. Like it wants him to sit in it.

He tosses his keys into the bowl by the door harder than necessary. Pulls a cold bottle of water from the fridge and doesn't drink it. Paces the kitchen once. Twice.

By the time you walk in, soft laughter still clinging to your clothes like perfume, he’s not ready.

“Hey,” you greet, toeing your shoes off. “Dinner was nice. Pepe told the worst joke I've ever heard. You would've hated it.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going.”

You pause.

“Okay. You could’ve said that without the tone.”

“What tone?” he snaps.

You narrow your eyes. “That tone. The one where you act like I’ve done something wrong without saying what it is.”

Isack exhales through his nose, but it sounds more like a sigh sharpened at the edges. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does. You’re acting like I left you stranded in a ditch.”

“You kind of did.”

You glower. “We were at the same building.”

“And then you disappeared.”

You cross your arms. “Isack. I texted you back the second I saw my phone.”

“Whatever,” he huffs.

That does it. You pull back like he slapped you. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” you say, voice low and tight, “but figure it out. I don’t deserve to be your punching bag.”

And just like that, you’re gone. Bedroom door clicking shut behind you with finality.

Isack stands in the living room, alone with his unspoken feelings and half-finished arguments. He sinks onto the couch and lets the silence stretch, taut and ugly. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and wonders how the hell he managed to mess up a day that hadn’t even started badly.

The apology never gets its moment.

Isack wakes up earlier than usual, heart already heavy with the weight of last night. He plays the conversation on loop in his head while brushing his teeth, scrubbing harder than necessary, like he can rinse the bitterness out of his mouth.

But when he steps into the living room, you’re gone.

Your shoes are missing from the doorway. Your favorite mug isn’t on the counter. The blanket you always drag onto the couch is neatly folded. The absence is clinical, as if you were never there to begin with.

He texts you. Hey. Can we talk?

Ten minutes later. I was a dick. I’m sorry.

An hour later, still nothing. Against his better judgement, Isack texts Pepe to ask whether he’s seen you.

Pepe responds in under twenty seconds with a selfie of the two of you. You’re grinning, but it’s the kind of smile Isack recognizes too well—the polite, careful kind. The one you wear when you’re trying too hard not to feel too much. Behind you is a gaudy tourist spot Isack knows you once called ‘aggressively not my vibe.’

Isack doesn’t reply. He just closes the chat and holes up in his room like it’s a bunker. Laptop open, phone on silent. No appetite. No music. He scrolls through old photos with you and hates every one of them for being so easy.

Evening slips in like a whisper.

He hears the front door open, the rustle of your jacket being hung, the soft clink of your keys in the bowl. Pepe’s voice is low, by the door. “You alright?”

You pause for a beat too long. “Yeah.”

You don’t sound alright. Not to Isack. Not to anyone who knows what your voice sounds like when you mean it.

Pepe doesn’t know that, though. Just says, voice light and happy, “Good night, then. Text me if you need anything.”

The door closes with a click.

Isack hears your footsteps pad across the floor, soft and careful, like you’re trying not to wake something sleeping. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s whatever fragile thread is still left between you.

Your door shuts. Just like that, the apartment is divided. One wall. Two rooms. A silence loud enough to drown in.

Isack steps out of his bedroom for the first time that day. In the hallway, he stares at your door like it might blink first. It doesn’t, obviously. It remains closed, unmoving. A slab of wood and tension.

He hesitates for a second—just long enough to think, Maybe this is a bad idea—then knocks.

Once.

Twice.

Silence.

Still, he knows you’re awake. He can feel it. The kind of quiet that only exists when someone is deliberately holding their breath on the other side.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against the door. “I know you’re in there.”

Nothing.

Then, finally, your voice. Muffled but close. “Isack, if you’re here to pick another fight, go away.”

“Not here to fight. Just to sit with you.”

He sinks down, back against the wood, knees drawn up. He imagines you doing the same, mirrored on the other side. Like two halves of the same coin, split down the grain.

“Did you have fun today?” he asks, tentative.

You exhale. The sound is barely audible through the barrier.

“Pepe tried,” you say. “Took me to a place he thought I’d like. I didn’t.” A pause. “I pretended to.”

Isack swallows. “Why?”

“Because he was trying,” you say. “And because I didn’t want to admit the only thing I really wanted to do today was talk to you.”

His chest tightens.

You continue, softer now. “But if you want me to be with him, say it. If there’s something you’re not saying, say that too. Just... don’t lie, Isack. Not to me.”

He closes his eyes. His head thuds gently back against the door. “I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles.

“Start with the truth.”

“The truth is—” He sighs, voice low. “I want you to be happy.”

Another silence. This one is thicker.

“You make me happy,” you say after a moment.

He freezes, fingers curling into his jeans. The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. It’s weighty. Something shared. Something hovering between.

He leans his head back again and stays there. Neither of you moves. Neither of you opens the door.

The next morning, Isack is on a mission. Again. But this one doesn’t involve strategic plans or grand gestures.

He clatters around the Airbnb kitchen like someone who’s watched a cooking video once and promptly blacked out halfway through. The eggs burn before they scramble. The toast is more smoke than bread. The coffee tastes vaguely like dish soap. But he’s trying, just like Pepe has been trying these past few days.

You walk in, hair still sleep-mussed, wearing one of his old jerseys like it belongs to you. Which, at this point, it kind of does. He glances up from the pan, sheepish.

“I made breakfast,” he says.

You stare at the charred offerings, then back at him. “Did you anger a god recently?”

He snorts. “I thought effort counted for something.”

You laugh, stepping in. You hug him from behind, arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his back. “It does,” you say. “You’re still a culinary disaster, but it does.”

He leans into it. Just for a second. Just until his heart starts doing that thing again—skipping like it knows something his brain doesn’t.

You pull back and poke him in the ribs. “Now get out of my kitchen.”

He does as told, retreating to the side while you take over. Watching you move—barefoot, still half-dreaming, humming something under your breath—does something to him.

Not the usual something. Not the friend-something. Not even the maybe-they-look-nice-today something.

It’s a quiet click in his chest. A door swinging open he didn’t know existed.

Oh.

It doesn’t hit like a thunderclap. It settles like a truth that’s always been there.

He loves you. He’s pretty sure he always has.

He just didn’t recognize it under all the noise. There’s no noise here—in this rented apartment, with you in his shirt and his heart at your feet.

You turn and catch him staring.

He panics and ends up flicking you on the forehead.

“Ow,” you whine, offended. “Rude.”

He shrugs, trying for casual. “You were looking smug.”

“I was fixing your eggs.”

“Judgmentally.”

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway. He flees toward his room like the coward he is.

Because if he stays, he might tell you what just occurred to him—and if he says it out loud, nothing will be the same again.

This time, you’re the one who invites Pepe.

That alone should be enough for Isack to play it cool, to shove whatever very-not-best-friend feelings he’s developing back into the emotional locker he never quite learned how to use. But it isn’t.

Because now he’s watching you lean slightly toward Pepe while explaining something about the local architecture, and Pepe’s leaning in too, like a man who’s never heard of personal space, and Isack feels like his blood is simmering just under his skin.

“That’s a Corinthian column,” you say, gesturing upward. “You can tell from the acanthus leaves.”

“That sounds made up,” Pepe teases good-nautredly.

You scoff, delighted. “Argue with my art history minor. Go ahead. I dare you.”

Isack mutters under his breath. “She’s terrifying when she’s right. Which is always.”

You flash him a smile. “Exactly.”

The day unfolds like a postcard. Sunlight, earthware, overpriced gelato. You’re radiant and bright and completely unaware that Isack is hanging on to your every glance like a lifeline.

He stays close. Closer than usual.

At first, it’s subtle. His hand brushing yours when you cross the street. Standing just a beat too close while you admire something in a shop window. But then Pepe tries to buy you a bracelet from a market stall, and Isack somehow ends up between you two before it even gets clasped around your wrist.

“You don’t have to,” Isack says quickly, tone light but body angled in.

Pepe’s eyebrows draw together. “It’s just a gift. Relax.”

“She’s not a claw machine prize, mate,” Isack replies, sharper than he intends.

Your lips quirk into an amused grin. “Okay, weird metaphor. But noted.”

You never pull away from Isack.

You let his arm linger against yours when he steers you toward a quieter street. You don’t say anything when he finishes your gelato after yours melts. You don’t flinch when he gives you his jacket without asking.

“I was fine,” you say, adjusting the sleeves.

“You’re always cold,” he counters.

“Still bossy.”

"Still right."

Pepe, oblivious as ever, chatters on about something F2-related. Isack barely hears him. His focus is entirely on you—how you laugh at the wrong parts of Pepe’s story, how you glance at Isack like you’re checking in, like you’re waiting to see what he thinks of it all.

And maybe that’s what drives him most insane.

Isack knows he’s being possessive. Knows he’s being an awful friend to both you and Pepe.

He just can’t stop.

Not when it feels this easy. This natural. Like maybe the whole world tilted slightly and now the space beside you belongs to him, even if he has no idea what to do with it.

By the time night falls, the town square is glowing with string lights and low chatter, the kind of accidental magic that feels too well-timed to be anything but fate. Somewhere between dinner and dessert, the three of you wander into a festival unfolding in the plaza. Live music, paper lanterns, families milling about with gelato cups and plastic cups of wine. The air smells like fried dough and sea salt.

You gasp, delighted, before Isack can even react. “Oh my God. Look at that.”

And then you’re gone, swept up by a pack of pre-teen girls who descend like fairies on a mission, dragging you toward a booth with wooden chairs and hair-braiding kits.

“She’s not going to make it out alive,” Isack huffs, watching you laugh as tiny hands start weaving through your hair.

Pepe grins beside him. “They’ll probably give her glitter too. You know, war paint.”

The two boys stand there a moment, watching. Isack has his hands shoved in his pockets, body tilted just slightly in your direction like a compass that can’t help itself.

“So,” Pepe says, too casually. “Do you want her?”

Isack jerks like he’s been hit. “What?”

“You heard me.” Pepe doesn't look at him, just eyes you across the plaza. “Because I do. But I also don’t make a habit of stepping on my friends’ toes.”

Isack swallows. “She’s my best friend.”

"That’s not an answer."

Isack hates how quiet the world gets for a moment, even with the music playing. Like something in him is suddenly under review.

Pepe finally turns. His voice is gentler this time. “I like her. A lot,” he doubles down. “But I think you love her, and I think she knows.”

Isack shakes his head. “She—she’s just being nice.”

“She wears your clothes, dude. And she glows around you.”

Isack doesn't say anything. He can’t. He’s not sure what any of it means, only that he’s been dragging his feelings behind him like a broken wing and pretending he can still fly straight.

Pepe claps him on the shoulder. “Look, I’m not trying to start shit. But I figured it was time someone said it out loud.”

Before Isack can reply, you come bounding back across the plaza, hair intricately braided and laced with tiny ribbons, beaming like you’ve just been knighted. “Don’t laugh,” you warn. “They were very committed.”

“You look like a Disney heroine,” Pepe says brightly, already redirecting his shine back to you. “Come on, dance with me.”

“Right now?”

He grabs your hand with a flourish and spins you toward the music before you can say no. As you disappear into the crowd, he throws a wink over his shoulder, aimed squarely at Isack.

Isack exhales, every breath sharp with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.

He stays at the edge of the square, watching you dance under fairy lights with his not-quite-rival of a friend. Trying not to wonder how it would feel to be the one holding your hand. Trying—and failing—not to want more.

Isack watches you and Pepe dance under the fairy lights, arms loose, laughter unforced, your smile all sharp edges softened by the glow.

It doesn’t ache as much as he thought it would. Not now. Not after the conversation. Not knowing that Pepe will step aside if he has to. That this isn’t a contest. That maybe, it never really was.

It’s still there. The sting of want, the slow burn of it. Thankfully, it’s no longer a weight pressing on his chest. More like a steady thrum. A sort of certainty.

You look happy, dancing with your hair braided. And that means something. It means everything.

Eventually, the music winds down into a slower tempo, the kind that makes the crowd melt into scattered couples and soft footsteps on cobblestones. You and Pepe stop spinning, your arms still linked. You’re flushed from the dancing, braid a little frayed now, ribbons slipping loose.

“Okay,” you say, breathless, leaning on Isack for support. “I’m not saying he’s a bad dancer—but I’ve seen storks with more rhythm.”

“Hey,” Pepe protests, mock-affronted. “I was giving old-school charm.”

“You were giving liability,” you quip.

Isack smirks, but he doesn’t jump in yet. Not until the next song starts.

It’s not loud or flashy. It’s not one that fills the whole plaza with noise. It’s a soft, nostalgic tune, almost drowned by conversation and clinking glasses. But he recognizes it. He knows this one. Because it’s one of your favorites, even if it’s instrumental and unrecognizable to half of the festival attendees.

You told him once, ages ago, back in a crappy hotel in Baku or maybe a quiet kitchen in Paris. You said it reminded you of summers and home and moments that felt a little like forever.

He doesn’t say anything. Just offers his hand.

You’re smiling, the corners of your eyes crinkling. Like you’re surprised Isack remembers. You slide your hand into his with a joke of, “Only if you don’t step on my feet.”

“Zero promises.”

He leads you into the plaza, away from Pepe, away from anyone who might have a say in this moment. The music hums around you, low and easy. You slot into place like you were made to fit there, arms winding around his neck, fingers brushing the back of his hair. You smell like lemons and cheap festival sweets.

The world shrinks. The rest of the plaza folds into something irrelevant. Isack just holds you, swaying slightly, like he might have done this before in a dream he barely remembers.

Isack sways with you in the center of the plaza, half-forgetting where they are, half-hoping the music never ends. There’s something impossibly golden about the whole moment—the way the plaza lights glow against the soft dusk, the scent of fried dough and melted sugar hanging in the air, the distant sounds of laughter folding into the slow pulse of the music.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of movement. Pepe, now dancing with someone else. A girl in a red sundress, twirling him around with the kind of giddy recklessness that suggests she might not know who he is, and wouldn’t care even if she did. She’s laughing openly and stepping on his feet, but Pepe is beaming like he just got handed a trophy.

Pepe grins over her shoulder and throws Isack a thumbs-up. It’s a little ridiculous. A little theatrical. Completely sincere. The kind of gesture only a friend with nothing to lose would make.

Isack lets out a soft breath. Something unknots in his chest. The guilt doesn’t disappear, not entirely, but it quiets, settles into something gentler. He presses his hand gently against your back, just above the dip of your waist. You fit too easily against him. Like the world makes more sense this way. Like maybe this is how it always should have been.

The music drapes over you, hushed and familiar. A soft, lilting tune with a melody that could belong to a lullaby or a heartbreak, depending on how you hold it.

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “So,” he breathes, “about Pepe.”

You make a face, subtle but unmistakable. Your brows pinch together. “Isack.”

“What?”

“Not now.”

Your voice is firm. It hums through the fabric of his shirt where your forehead rests against his chest. “This moment is just for us. Don’t bring him into it.”

His heart does something inconvenient and thunderous. A traitor in his ribcage. “Okay,” he says plainly, agreeing because you asked him to. Because you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s enough to level him.

For a beat, neither of you move, suspended in something that doesn’t quite feel like real time. It’s weightless and quiet, like the moment before a race starts. No countdown. Just breath.

And then—

He leans in.

It’s not dramatic. Not practiced. Just the slow tilt of his head, the closing of space, the way his mouth finds yours like he’s been thinking about it longer than he wants to admit. He kisses you like a secret. Like he’s handing over something fragile and true.

You kiss him back.

Soft. Unrushed. Sure. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask a question because it already knows the answer.

Somewhere behind you, the lights blur and the music carries on, but Isack can’t hear a single note over the sound of his own heart breaking open. Not in pain. In relief. In disbelief. In something so sharp and sweet it almost feels like falling.

You stay close when you pull apart. Eyes still shut. Like the world might tilt if you look at it too directly.

Isack doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Not yet.

Your hand lingers in his. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles like a promise you haven’t spoken out loud. His free arm stays curled around your waist, protective and still. He wishes he could stop time. Or at least pause it. Hold it right here, right now, when everything feels terrifyingly possible.

He exhales through his nose and rests his forehead lightly against yours.

The music keeps playing. And for once, Isack doesn’t feel like he’s racing against it.

You ditch the festival not long after.

No real excuse, no polite goodbyes. Just a shared look, your fingers lacing through Isack’s like a decision, and then you’re gone. Ducking through the edge of the crowd and into a side street glowing amber with old lanterns.

The only sound is the echo of your footsteps and the occasional bubble of laughter when you bump into each other, like your bodies are already pulling toward each other on instinct.

You don’t make it to the door before he kisses you.

Back against the wall of the Airbnb, a hand braced near your head. He kisses you like he hasn’t had oxygen all night, like the festival music still hasn’t left his ears, like you’re the only thing that’s ever quieted the noise in his head.

You break away long enough to say, breathless, “We ditched Pepe.”

“He’ll live,” Isack mutters, pressing his mouth to your jaw.

“You know he’s going to sulk.”

“He can file a complaint to Helmut for all I care.”

You laugh against his mouth, then yank him inside by the collar.

It’s all limbs and laughter, hips bumping into furniture, mouths dragging over flushed skin, half-on half-off clothing, until you both land on the couch with the kind of graceless thud that only two idiots in love can make. You’re straddling him, his hair a mess from your fingers, his lips swollen and bitten.

“I always wanted you,” you say, hands on either side of his face. “Even when you were annoying. Especially when you were annoying.”

He huffs. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

You smile. Kiss him again. It slows for a moment. Softens.

His confession comes out in between kisses. “I hated how he didn’t know things,” he says against your mouth. “Like your favorite flowers, or that you hate jazz fusion, or that you get blisters from walking too long in heeled boots and pretend you're fine anyway.”

“Isack,” you groan mid-kiss.

“What?”

“You sound like a possessive freak.”

“I’m not.” Beat. “Okay, maybe a little. But only because I actually know you.”

Your mouth twitches as you pull away briefly, just enough to look down at him. “And you think you know everything?”

“I do,” he exhales.

Your eyes sparkle with something wicked. “Confident.”

And then you bite him.

Just below the jaw, sharp enough to make him gasp, his hands tightening on your hips. You push him down until his back hits the cushions, climb over him like you own him. In a way, you always have.

“There are still things you can learn,” you say into the skin of his collarbone.

And Isack—future Formula One driver, alleged adult, hopeless romantic idiot—is absolutely wrecked by it. By you.

He nods dazedly. “Okay. Lesson one. Let’s go.”

Your laughter is low, warm, the kind of sound he wants to bottle and keep in his back pocket for race days.

For once, nothing else matters.

The bags are packed. The Airbnb is a mess again. Somehow, more of a mess than when you arrived—clothes draped over chairs, an empty wine bottle teetering dangerously on the edge of the table, two mismatched socks living completely separate lives across the floor. It’s chaotic in a strangely comforting way.

Isack doesn’t really care.

You’re fussing over your suitcase. Half-sitting on it, you’re trying to zip it up with a grimace and a very creative string of French-English hybrid curse words that include at least one new invention Isack’s never heard before.

He’s leaned against the kitchen counter, chewing absently on a protein bar and watching you like you’re some kind of performance art installation. One with a questionable soundtrack and even worse spatial awareness.

“You know,” he says dryly, around a bite of chocolate peanut doom, “if you packed like a normal person, this wouldn’t be a three-act tragedy.”

You throw a sock at his head. Miss. By a wide margin. “Sorry I’m not genetically engineered for spatial logic like some people,” you snap. “Besides, half of this is yours.”

“Then why is it in your suitcase?”

“Because your suitcase is full of, and I quote, ‘emergency snacks, three pairs of the same shorts, and my emotional support hoodie.’”

“That hoodie is mine, for emphasis.”

“Not anymore.”

Isack scowls, not for the first time this morning. He’s tired, mildly sore, and still a little emotionally short-circuited from last night. Kissing you, touching you, and waking up with your foot somehow wedged under his thigh like it belonged there did something to his internal wiring.

It made him softer. Braver. Also dumber.

He’s also absolutely not in the mood to fight over hoodie custody. Not when you keep doing shit like brushing your hand over his waist in passing or slipping your fingers through his when you think he won’t notice. He has noticed, and it’s been driving him a little bit mad.

There’s a new rhythm to your bickering now. Same tempo, new instruments. The kind of intimacy that wasn’t there before, or maybe always was but just never labeled.

You steal sips from his coffee without asking. He keeps brushing your hair behind your ear without thinking about it. Now, you kiss his cheek absentmindedly when passing by, like it’s just something that belongs in the air between you

He scratches the side of his neck absently. Winces.

You look up. “Problem?”

“You gave me a hickey. Two, actually,” he grumbles. “On the same side.”

Your grin is unapologetic. “I was proving a point.”

“What point requires me to look like I lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner?”

“The point that you’re mine,” you say, almost flippantly. But there’s something in the way you say it. A softness. A gravity. Like you’re saying it with your whole chest, even if you pretend not to.

His brain does a weird little reboot thing. He glares, which you ignore with all the grace of someone who has known him too long to be fazed.

“You’re cocky,” he accuses.

“I’ve always been cocky. You’re just soft now.”

He opens his mouth to argue but stops when you walk up to him, zip finally conquered, your eyes annoyingly fond. You press a hand flat to his chest and lean in until you’re close enough for your breath to warm his skin. His hands twitch at his sides like they want to touch. Hold. Keep.

“You going to miss me?”

“No,” he lies.

“Coward.”

“Menace.”

You smile. He kisses you. It’s too soft for the amount of fire it lights up in his chest.

Somewhere in the middle of a chaotic Airbnb and looming departures and matching hickeys, Isack thinks: he knows you’re here. You’re his. And whatever comes next, he wants to meet it with your fingers tangled in his.

He doesn’t want it to end. Not even a little bit. ⛐

#faves

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