flawdchaos

[flawdchaos]

[flawdchaos]

hiiii love, absolutely adore all of your fics - but especially your dbook stuff 💗 do you think you could write a little something about the reader having a horrible shift (possibly in healthcare) and dev just being the most supportive, comforting boyfriend ever. coming from an ER nurse, i could definitely use some 🥲 much loveeee xx

i hope you feel better lovey, i hope this fic cheers you up a bit!

The fluorescent lights above you buzz like they’re mocking you, flickering just enough to make your headache worse but not enough to fully cut out. It’s been one of those shifts—long, chaotic, the kind that makes you wonder why you ever thought this job was a good idea. You can still hear the beeping of monitors in your head, still feel the phantom weight of paperwork you didn’t have time to finish, still smell antiseptic clinging to your scrubs like a second skin.

By the time you drag yourself out of the hospital doors, the night air feels almost disrespectful in its crispness, like the world has the audacity to keep moving while you’re unraveling. Your phone vibrates in your pocket before you even make it to your car.

Dev 💛: Outside.

You blink, squinting at the message like exhaustion has made you forget how to read. Then, like muscle memory, your head snaps up, scanning the nearly empty parking lot. And there he is.

Leaning against his car, hood up over his curls, arms crossed like he’s been here long enough to get comfortable but not long enough to get impatient. The sight of him—tall, solid, familiar—pulls something in your chest so tight it almost hurts.

You barely get the chance to process before he spots you, straightens up, and meets you halfway, his pace unhurried but purposeful. Like he already knows. Like he could feel from miles away that you needed him.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, warm hands finding your waist, pulling you in before you can even think about resisting. Not that you would. Not when his hoodie smells like him, not when his lips find the top of your head like it’s instinct, not when his grip is steady enough to hold together all the pieces of you that the night tried to break apart.

And just like that, the tension in your spine starts to dissolve. Just like that, you can breathe again.

As soon as you step through the front door, your body reminds you just how much you’ve been running on fumes. The exhaustion settles deep, making your limbs feel heavy, but the familiar warmth of home starts working on you almost instantly. The lights are dimmed low—just the way you like them after a long shift—and the soft scent of something warm and musky lingers in the air, something Devin must’ve lit before heading out to get you.

“You good to shower?” His voice is gentle, careful, like he already knows you’re teetering on the edge of exhaustion and just needs to guide you the rest of the way.

You nod, but your fingers grip the sleeve of his hoodie for just a second longer before letting go. It’s the silent way of saying thank you, of saying I needed you tonight, and the way his eyes soften tells you he understands completely.

The hot water works its magic, washing away the long night, the stress, the scent of antiseptic and sweat clinging to your skin. You stand there longer than you probably should, letting the steam loosen your tight muscles, your mind finally starting to quiet down. When you step out, wrapping yourself in one of the oversized towels Devin insisted on buying because he “knows you like to be all wrapped up,” you feel almost human again.

When you make your way to the bedroom, you find him already waiting, leaning back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. He looks up the second he hears you, taking you in—your damp skin, the tired way you walk, the way you clutch the towel to your chest like it’s holding you together. And then, with zero hesitation, he tosses his phone to the side and opens his arms.

“C’mere.”

You don’t even think twice before crawling into bed, into him. His arms close around you immediately, the weight of them solid and grounding. He’s warm—always warm—but tonight, it feels like he’s radiating heat just for you. His hoodie is soft against your cheek, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear.

For a while, he just holds you. No rush, no pressure, just quiet comfort. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s unraveling the tension knot by knot. His lips press into your hair, into your temple, murmuring soft little reassurances against your skin.

“Long night, huh?” His voice is low, a gentle rumble in his chest.

You nod, exhaling shakily, and he pulls you even closer, tucking you into him like he could shield you from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re home now,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping under the towel at your shoulders to rub slow circles into your bare skin. “You’re safe. You don’t gotta do anything else, baby.”

You let your eyes close, melting into the way he touches you, the way his hands know exactly where to soothe, where to press. The tension in your neck, the ache in your lower back—it’s like he can feel it all, like he knows exactly how to undo everything your shift put you through.

Then, after a few minutes, he shifts just enough to reach over to the nightstand, grabbing something. You hear the familiar click of a cap before you feel his hands on you again, this time with the smooth glide of lotion warming against your skin.

“I know you like this one,” he says, massaging it into your shoulders first, kneading the muscles there with just the right amount of pressure. It’s the vanilla and sandalwood scent he bought you last month—the one he pretends not to care about but always buries his face in when he hugs you.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cuts you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You do too much, baby. Let me take care of you.”

And God, do you let him.

He works his way down your arms, slow and methodical, pressing kisses to your shoulder between strokes. When he reaches your legs, he tugs the towel away, chuckling under his breath when you instinctively try to protest.

“Nah, I got you,” he reassures, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to keep you close as he kneads at the soreness in your thighs, your calves, your ankles. His hands are firm but gentle, and every press of his fingers into your muscles feels like it’s pulling the exhaustion right out of you.

By the time he’s done, you’re practically boneless, melted into the sheets, into him. And Devin—sweet, thoughtful, perfect Devin—just grins, pulling the blankets over both of you before tucking you into his side again.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep now.

You don’t even have the energy to respond properly. Just a hum, a slow blink, the way your hand curls into his hoodie, fingers fisting into the fabric like you’re anchoring yourself to him.

He chuckles, presses one last kiss to your forehead, and whispers, “Love you, baby. Get some sleep.”

And for the first time all night, you finally feel at peace.

[flawdchaos]

slip of the finger — joe burrow

summary — you and joe are recently married, and he swears he’s never taking off his wedding band. that sentiment stays until he loses it on the field during a game.

warnings — fem!reader, fluff, some suggestive comments, implied smut

requested by — anon <3

BEING NEWLYWEDS WAS EXCITING. the bliss, the laughs, and the memories that were wrapped up in a beautiful bow. beginning a new chapter with the man you loved was such a privilege, and one you couldn’t wait to live to the fullest.

you and joe laid in bed, the soft duvet covering your bodies as your hands were held up in front of you. it was so surreal to you that you married your college sweetheart, that you were married. you watched the diamond sparkled underneath the warm lighting, how joe’s ring perfectly accented yours on his finger.

“i can’t believe we’re married,” you whispered, watching joe grab your hand and press it to his lips.

“i can,” he hummed, shifting onto his side, “i’ve always wanted to marry you,” he added, a lovesick look in his eyes. he admired you, the way your skin glowed in the warm lighting, the way your eyes sparkled with the love you had for him.

his words sent warmth down to your toes, your mouth pulling into a smile. you shifted onto your side, keeping the cover over your naked body. being married had many perks, including enjoying your husband. his hand reached forwards, caressing your cheek. he was so in love with you, with every part of you. his eyes flicked over your face and your exposed collarbone. he could see the marks he made just a few moments ago.

joe leaned over, his hand sliding across your skin to cup the back of your neck. he pressed his lips softly to yours, rolling so he was on top of you. your hands looped around his neck as his lips met yours. you smiled into the kiss, your cheeks rosy and warm. joe pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, his hair tickling your skin.

“i love you,” he hummed, kissing you softly again.

“i love you,” you agreed into the kiss. he hummed, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. he pulled away and sat up, running his hands down his face. while he always enjoyed moments like this and he wished he could stay like that forever, he couldn’t. it was game day.

“what time do you need to leave?” you asked him as he got out of bed. he slipped on his boxers as he disappeared into your walk in closet. it was an away game, so joe needed to be at the airport a whole day before the game. you wished it was different, but you’ve lived and loved this life for several years. you were used to it.

“in like,” there was a pause, “15 minutes,” he finished as he gathered his game day outfit. he tossed a shirt over his head and tugged black cargo pants over his hips.

“we really passed the time, huh?” you laughed, pushing your hair out of your face. you watched joe emerge from his closet, dressed in something comfy yet stylish for his flight.

“we did, didn’t we?” he smirked as he walked over, kissing you sweetly on the lips. you smiled, stretching your taut limbs under the duvet. you saw the wedding band on his finger, snug as could be.

“please don’t wear that on the field,” you begged, watching as he packed a bag.

“i won’t lose it, i’ll keep it safe,” joe assured you, zipping up his bag.

“you better, can’t have someone thinking you’re not married,” you commented, watching him smirk and scoff.

“with those marks i just gave you, i don’t think that’s possible,” he flirted, grabbing his bag and giving you a look. damn you, joe burrow.

“uh huh, ok player,” you joked as he kissed you again. he always hated leaving you; marriage hasn’t made it any easier. in fact, it’s made it ten times harder.

“i love you,” he called as he exited the bedroom.

“i love you! be safe!” you reminded him. you weren’t able to make it to the game, but you’d watch. you always watched.

—

it was finally game day, and you were curled up on your couch. you invited robin and jim over, as well as some of the other WAGs to watch the game. charcuterie boards were on the coffee table, half eaten as the game closed out the third quarter.

the bengals were up, and watching joe’s expression loose and relaxed kept you in good spirits. you hated watching tight games; you could see the stress lines on his face. you stood up, walking into the kitchen with an empty wine glass. you unscrewed the cap of the bottle, pouring out the red liquid into your cup.

“what happened to his finger?” robin asked, diverting your attention from your glass to the screen. you watched as joe showed ja’marr his ring finger, his left ring finger.

without the ring.

“joseph lee burrow,” you tsked, shaking your head and pursing your lips. what did you tell him a couple of days ago? you walked back over, taking a seat back on the couch, careful not to slosh your wine too much. robin looked over at you, a grin blossoming on her face.

“you told him to take it off, didn’t you,” robin stated. she knew you asked him to, but robin also knew another thing: joe hated taking it off. he loved showing people he was married, and that he was married to you. it wasn’t just a ring to him, it was a symbol of commitment and undying love.

“i did,” you confirmed, not being able to hold back a laugh as you sipped your wine. you knew he was stressed, you could see it on his face. everyone could see it. joe was frantically moving his hands, gesturing on the field where he thinks he lost it.

“she told me to take it off,” joe told ja’marr, running his hands through his hair. the two of them were walking the field, trying to see if the sun would reflect just right and reveal joe’s lost ring.

“and this is why we listen to our wives,” ja’marr clapped him on the shoulder, earning a scowl from joe. it didn’t last long though.

“she’s probably watching the game right now, and i’m gonna be in big trouble when i get home,” joe’s eyes scanned the field, flicking up every now and then to check how much time was left on the timeout clock. he didn’t have that much time.

“maybe she got up and got a snack,” andrei stepped beside them, offering his two cents.

“nah, she wouldn’t. she’s got her snacks right there with her. i bet she saw the whole thing,” ja’marr laughed, causing joe’s cheeks to turn pink. they didn’t have much more time before the next and final quarter was to start.

“burrow!” trey hendrickson came running over, holding the illusive gold band that would be joe’s wedding ring.

“oh thank God,” joe exhaled as he grabbed the ring from trey, “she would’ve not been happy,” joe chuckled. he handed it to one of the staffers, not risking it. he couldn’t lose it a second time.

“get a silicone one,” trey suggested, “those suckers don’t ever come off,”

“noted,” joe chuckled.

—

joe walked into the presser, wearing a t-shirt and his seinfeld sweats. he sat down, his wedding ring adorning his finger. he situated himself, preparing for all the questions about the fiasco on the field.

“find your ring?” one of the reporters asked, making joe awkwardly chuckle.

“yeah, yeah i did. thankfully,” he answered.

“did your wife see it?” another reporter asked.

“knowing her, probably. i’m not that lucky,” he joked. he nervously spun the ring around his finger, answering the other questions of the reporters. he couldn’t wait to make it home to you, settling in to your arms and hearing you tease him about losing his ring.

the press conference ended, and joe joined up with the other members of his team. as he did so, his phone vibrated in his pocket. he pulled out his phone, smiling as he answered the call.

“i know i know, i should have listened to you,” he smiled, walking a ways from the boys.

“it was kinda funny,” you admitted on the other end of the phone.

“how so?”

“seeing you scramble for your ring was entertaining,” you added. he could hear the smile on your words. he laughed, shaking his head.

“i bet it was,” he agreed.

“i ordered you a silicone one, so maybe this time you don’t lose it,” you teased.

“you didn’t have to do that,”

“what can i say, it’s a small treat for winning your game today,” you smiled, picking up the remnants of the small gathering you had. the girls and joe’s parents left a few minutes ago, leaving you alone in the house. it was nice, but you also wanted joe to hurry on back.

“you know what would also be a nice little treat?” he asked you, giving a glance around to make sure no one was listening.

“what?”

“that lingerie set you have, and you in it,” he suggested in a low voice, which he did for privacy purposes, but on your end it just turned you on.

“oh really now?”

“i think it’s the perfect little treat,” he smirked.

“i bet you do,” you laughed. you put the final things away before padding upstairs. “you said the black one, right?”

“you have multiple?”

“oh sweet joey,” you mused, opening one of your dresser drawers, “a girl always has multiple sets of lingerie,” it was your turn for your voice to go deep, driving joe wild.

there was a beat of silence on the other end of the phone.

“pick your favorite, but just so you know, i’m seeing you in all of them this week,” he warned you. you were still caught up on the fact he didn’t know about your multiple sets.

“one a night, huh?”

“you said it, not me,”

“whatever, burrow. just get home,” you laughed, pulling out a red lingerie set, “and do not lose your ring between there and home please,”

“i won’t! i promise,” he hummed. you bid your farewells, hanging up the phone. joe stood there for a minute, letting himself calm down. he didn’t know how long it would last; the thought of you surprising him in an unseen lingerie set was not boding well for him. he didn’t want to have a boner the whole flight home.

you, on the other hand, slipped out of your comfy clothes and readied for a shower. the thought of surprising joe in your lingerie set excited you, and you couldn’t wait for joe to get home, to remind him exactly why he’s got that wedding ring on his finger.

eeekk!!! this took me way longer than i liked but it’s cute!! newlywed joey is an absolute cutie. hope you enjoyed anon and so sorry for the delay!

tags: @wickedfun9 @joeyfranchise

[flawdchaos]

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

--

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

--

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

--

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

--

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

--

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

--

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[flawdchaos]

who else decodes you? / who's gonna know you, if not me? / and who's gonna hold you like me? / no-fucking-body / so tell me, who else is gonna know me? | joe burrow⁹ (part one)

part two!!!!!

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had been inseparable since LSU, with him promising you everything—a dream home and a life together. everything felt perfect during your golden days, but as time passed, things shifted, and the cracks began to show in your once-perfect relationship

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst... just straight up angst. asshole-y joe, lots of fighting, reader being a trophy wife, just real sad things im sorry i wrote this yall. NO happy ending in this part, part 2 will have a happy ending dw guys!!!

You met Joe Burrow before the world did.

Before the Heisman, before the draft, before his name carried weight outside of Athens, Ohio. Before the sleek suits, the Cartier glasses, the endless debates about whether he was the next great quarterback of his generation. Before all of that, he was just Joe. Your Joe.

The one who texted you goodnight from his twin bed in his childhood home, the one who took you to McDonald’s after late-night practices because that’s all he could afford. The one who kissed you in the front seat of his beat-up truck, hands a little rough from lifting weights but gentle when they held your face.

You were there for it all.

Through the transfer to LSU, when he was just a backup with something to prove. Through the championship season, where he turned into a legend overnight. Through the draft, when you held his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, waiting for the moment his name would be called. Through the move to Cincinnati, where you learned the ins and outs of being an NFL girlfriend—then an NFL wife in everything but title.

You never needed the ring to prove your place beside him. Not at first.

Because when you love someone for that long, when you’ve been there since day one, you assume you’ll be there forever. You assume that one day, when the time is right, you’ll walk down the aisle and he’ll be standing at the end of it. That the same boy who once promised you the world in a whisper under Louisiana stars would eventually make good on it.

But love isn’t always enough.

And timing? Timing has a cruel way of making a fool out of you.

Before the waiting, before the uncertainty—there was LSU.

The golden days.

The kind of love people wrote songs about, the kind that burned so bright it felt untouchable, invincible. You and Joe had been through the trenches of college life together—cheap dates, sleepless nights, long drives in his old truck where he talked about the future like it was already written in the stars.

Joe had always been a planner. He didn’t just dream—he mapped things out, broke them down into plays, like a game he knew he would win. And in every version of the future he spoke about, you were in it.

“I’m gonna make it,” he told you one night, lying in the back of his truck, staring at the Baton Rouge sky like it held all his answers. The air was thick with humidity, cicadas singing in the distance, but neither of you cared. You were twenty, wildly in love, and the world hadn’t touched you yet. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how many people doubt me—I’m making it to the league.”

You smiled, running a hand through his hair. “I never doubted that.”

Joe turned then, propped himself up on an elbow, his sharp, determined eyes softening as he looked at you. “And when I do, I’m gonna give you everything.”

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration.

Not just any ring—a rock. One that would catch the light from across the room, the kind that would make strangers do a double take. Not just any house—your dream home, the one you’d always wanted but never thought possible.

You had told him, once, in passing, the kind of house you loved. You were scrolling on your phone, lying with your feet in his lap, showing him a picture of a home that looked straight out of a magazine.

“That,” you had said, tapping the screen. “That’s the dream.”

White exterior, big windows—floor-to-ceiling in the living room, so the sunlight would pour in every morning. A wrap-around porch, because you always loved the idea of sitting outside with a glass of wine on summer nights. A kitchen with the biggest island imaginable, because you loved to cook, even if Joe barely trusted himself to make toast. A cozy sunroom, filled with mismatched chairs and overflowing bookshelves. A clawfoot bathtub in the master bath, where you could soak for hours after a long day.

Joe had barely glanced at the picture before he said, “Done.”

You laughed. “Joe, that house is like… five million dollars.”

“So?” He had smirked, cocky and confident in that way only he could pull off. “Give me a couple years.”

You shook your head, amused, but deep down, you believed him. You believed him because when Joe Burrow set his mind to something, it happened.

And when you asked, jokingly, what kind of dog he wanted, he just scoffed.

“Dogs? No. We’re gonna have like, eight cats.”

You snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stretched out, hands behind his head, already painting the picture in his mind. “They’ll have dumb names, too. Like, I don’t know… Fettuccine. Or Tuxedo. Or—oh—Larry.”

“Larry?”

“Yeah. Larry’s gonna be the ringleader.”

You shook your head, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joe just grinned, pulling you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You love me.”

And you did. God, you did.

You loved him through the highs—the Heisman win, the national championship, the night he got drafted when you held his face in your hands and told him this is it, baby. This is everything you worked for.

You loved him through the lows—when he tore his ACL his rookie year and sat in silence for hours, devastated, gripping your hand so tight it went numb. When the pressure of the league weighed heavy on him and he retreated inward, needing space, needing you to be his anchor without him ever having to say it.

You loved him because he was Joe.

Because he was the boy who once whispered about forever under Louisiana stars, who promised you a rock, a dream house, and eight cats named Larry and Fettuccine.

Because you believed, back then, that promises were made to be kept.

--

It started small.

A casual comment, barely even a question, when you were knee-deep in cardboard boxes in your new Cincinnati apartment. You’d been together for years by then, had already lived together in Baton Rouge, but this—this felt different. More permanent. He was the face of a franchise now, the golden boy of an entire city. And you? You were the woman who had been by his side through it all.

So when you held up a framed photo—one of the two of you from his LSU days, his arm wrapped around you, both of you grinning like you had the whole world ahead of you—you said it without thinking.

“Guess we’ll need some wedding pictures to put up soon, huh?”

It was light, teasing, the same way you’d joked about it a hundred times before. But this time, Joe didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

He just exhaled through his nose, set down the box he was carrying, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m still adjusting to all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment, the city, the new life he was stepping into. “Let’s just… settle in first.”

You told yourself it made sense.

Joe had always been slow to process change. He liked routine, predictability. He had just gone from college quarterback to the number-one draft pick, from playing in front of thousands to playing in front of millions. If he needed time, you’d give it to him.

And so you did.

You poured yourself into the role of supportive girlfriend, the unwavering presence behind the scenes. You went to every game, wore his jersey, kept your social media lowkey even when the WAGs of the league started reaching out. You made sure home felt like a safe haven for him—a place where he wasn’t Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, but just Joe.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two.

And still, nothing.

You tried to be patient. You tried not to compare. But it was impossible not to notice when guys who had been in the league half as long as Joe were proposing to their girlfriends. When you went to team events and saw wives flashing diamond rings, their hands resting on their husbands’ arms like they belonged there. When your own friends started getting married, settling down, building the life you always thought you and Joe were working toward.

You weren’t the kind of girl who begged for a ring. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t why you loved him. But you also weren’t stupid.

So, one night, after a Bengals win, when it was just the two of you curled up on the couch—Joe half-asleep, his head resting on your thigh—you ran your fingers through his hair and asked,

“Do you ever think about it?”

His eyes cracked open slightly. “Think about what?”

“Marriage.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Joe didn’t sit up, didn’t tense. But he also didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming lightly against your leg.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think about it.”

That was it. No elaboration. No follow-up.

And maybe it was the years of knowing him, of reading between the lines of what he didn’t say, but something about his tone sent a cold prickle down your spine.

You swallowed. “And?”

Joe sighed, shifting so he was looking up at you fully. His face was tired, drawn, the way it always was after a game.

“I love you,” he said first, because Joe always led with love, even when he was about to disappoint you. “I just don’t know if I’m… ready for all that.”

All that. Like marriage was some heavy, unbearable thing. Like it was a burden, instead of the only thing you’d ever wanted with him.

But you didn’t push. You never pushed.

You just nodded, kissed his forehead, and told yourself that he just needed more time.

You’d already given him years. What was a little longer?

For every golden memory, there was a night that ended with you crying into your pillow, your chest aching from the weight of words left unheard.

And Joe was never the type to yell.

That was the problem.

You could scream, slam cabinets, cry until your eyes were swollen, beg him to just say something—but Joe would sit there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance. Silent. Stone-faced. Like he was waiting for a storm to pass rather than standing in the middle of it with you.

And when he was done listening, when he decided he had nothing to say, he’d just walk away.

No slammed doors. No cruel words. Just an exhale through his nose and the slow, deliberate sound of his footsteps leaving the room.

Then came the silence.

Hours, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge the way you curled up on your side of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself because if he wouldn’t hold you, you had to do it yourself.

It always started the same way.

Joe had never been a selfish person—at least, not intentionally. He loved you, worshipped you in his own quiet way. But he was also a man who had spent his entire life being taken care of.

First by his parents. Then by his coaches. Then by you.

At first, it hadn’t bothered you. You wanted to take care of him, because loving Joe Burrow meant making sure he ate real meals instead of surviving off protein shakes and granola bars. It meant picking up after him when he left his clothes on the floor, washing his jerseys so they always smelled like fresh detergent instead of sweat, keeping your home together while he threw every ounce of himself into football.

But over time, something shifted.

The gestures that had once been acts of love started to feel expected. You would spend hours cooking his favorite meal, only for him to eat in front of the TV without so much as a thank you. You’d clean up after him like clockwork, while he’d scroll through his phone, oblivious to the way you were moving around him like a ghost. You handled the small things—the groceries, the laundry, the appointments—so he never had to think about them. And the worst part? He didn’t think about them.

He didn’t think about how exhausting it was to pour so much of yourself into another person and get nothing in return.

One night, after a long day where you’d cooked, cleaned, and ran errands while Joe came home from practice, showered, and immediately planted himself on the couch, something in you snapped.

You had been standing in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes, while Joe sat in the living room, watching game film, oblivious to the way your hands were trembling from frustration.

“Joe,” you called, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hummed, eyes still on the screen.

You turned off the faucet, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Do you even see me anymore?”

That got his attention. His head lifted slightly, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Do you see me?” you repeated, voice shaking now. “Or am I just here? Like some… unpaid assistant who cooks your meals and cleans your shit and waits around for you to remember I exist?”

Joe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. Frustration. A bubbling anger that had been simmering for months. “I do everything for you. And I never ask for anything in return. But you don’t even appreciate it, Joe. You don’t see it. You don’t see me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, babe. I—look, I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

Your heart sank.

There it was. The knife, twisted so deep you almost doubled over from the pain of it.

You swallowed, eyes stinging. “You shouldn’t have to ask for basic effort.”

Joe exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the couch. “I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

And then, just like always, he walked away.

The silence stretched for days.

No matter how loud you got, how many tears you shed, it never mattered.

Because Joe didn’t scream.

Joe shut down.

--

The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wine was poured before you even asked and the waiters moved so seamlessly you barely noticed them. It was a Bengals event—one of those exclusive, high-end dinners meant to bring players and their partners together, a little PR, a little networking, all wrapped in the illusion of luxury. Normally, you didn’t mind them.

But tonight? Tonight, Joe was off.

He had been for weeks. Ever since the injury, ever since he had to watch his team play without him, it was like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to budge. You had tried, God, you had tried—to comfort him, to give him space, to be exactly what he needed. But no matter what you did, it felt wrong.

He barely talked. Barely looked at you. And when he did, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t place.

Resentment?

Disappointment?

You didn’t know.

So you sat at the table, plastering on a smile, sipping your wine, pretending everything was fine as the conversation buzzed around you. Ja’Marr and his girlfriend, a few of the other guys, their partners. The usual crowd.

The joke started innocent enough.

“You’re literally the dream NFL WAG,” Ja’Marr’s girlfriend said, laughing as she leaned over toward you. “Like, you do everything for him. Cook, clean, go to every game. You’re basically the gold standard.”

The table chuckled.

You laughed, too, but there was something hollow about it. It wasn’t that the statement was wrong. It was just that… for the past few months, being Joe’s girlfriend hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like an uphill battle, like loving him was a test you were always on the verge of failing.

But before you could say anything, Joe scoffed.

Loudly.

The kind of sound that cut through the easy, playful atmosphere and made everyone shift in their seats.

You turned to him, confused, but Joe wasn’t looking at you. His jaw was clenched, his grip tight around the base of his glass.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, sharp, edged with something you couldn’t name.

The table went quiet.

Your stomach sank.

“Joe,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I need air.”

And just like that, he was on his feet, pushing back his chair, striding toward the exit without another word.

You barely hesitated before following.

The moment you stepped outside, the cold air hit you like a slap. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few blacked-out SUVs and a couple of lingering staff members. Joe was already a few steps ahead, his hands on his hips, breathing hard like he was trying to keep himself together.

You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let this go.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, heels clicking against the pavement as you caught up to him.

Joe exhaled sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“No. No.” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t get to humiliate me in front of everyone and then walk away like nothing happened.”

Joe turned then, eyes flashing with something you had never seen before. Rage.

“You think I don’t know?” His voice was louder now, cutting through the night air, his face twisted in frustration. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you take care of everything? How perfect you are? How much you do for me?”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t the first time you’d fought, not even close. But this was different.

This was Joe shouting.

He never shouted.

“You think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed? How much you’ve had to deal with while I sit on the fucking sidelines, watching my team play without me?” His hands were in his hair now, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You think I don’t feel like a goddamn failure every second of every day? That I don’t fucking hate myself for it?”

Your chest tightened. “Joe—”

“I get it, okay?” His voice was hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve any of this.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I never said that.”

Joe looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you saw it.

The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt.

And underneath it all, something else. Something raw and painful and impossible to ignore.

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, shaking his head, stepping back. “Not tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “Joe.”

But he was already turning away.

Already leaving.

And for the first time, you didn’t go after him.

Time, though, has a funny way of making fools out of people.

Because a little longer turned into another year. And another.

And soon, you weren’t just the girlfriend who had been with Joe since before the fame. You were the girlfriend who was still waiting. The one people whispered about at games, in comment sections, in DMs you tried not to read.

Why hasn’t he proposed yet? If he wanted to marry her, he would’ve by now. She’s been with him forever. That’s kinda embarrassing.

You weren’t stupid. You heard the whispers. You ignored them, brushed them off, laughed about them with Joe like they didn’t sting.

But deep down, they did.

And then, one night, you cracked.

It wasn’t planned. You weren’t trying to pick a fight. You were just lying in bed beside Joe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when an engagement post popped up on your feed. Another NFL couple. Another ring. Another reminder.

You set your phone down. Turned toward Joe, who was staring at the ceiling like he always did when he couldn’t sleep.

“Joe,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, eyes still fixed upward.

“Are you ever going to marry me?”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just quiet. Tired.

Joe closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath. And in that moment, you already knew the answer.

Not yet. Not now. I need more time.

The same thing he’d been saying for years.

But this time, you weren’t sure you could keep waiting.

--

It didn’t happen in one moment. It wasn’t a clean break, a single conversation where you both sat down, acknowledged the inevitable, and walked away like two people who had outgrown each other.

No, it was ugly. It was heartbreaking. It was loud.

It started in the living room, the place that had once been your sanctuary. The place where you curled up on the couch together after long days, where you laid your head on his lap while he absentmindedly played with your hair, where he kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But tonight, it was a battleground.

You stood near the coffee table, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to keep from falling apart, while Joe paced in front of the fireplace, his hands tangled in his hair. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his entire body radiating frustration. But under it—under the anger, the exhaustion—was something else.

Defeat.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Joe muttered, voice low but strained, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud.

Your stomach twisted. “Doing what?”

“This!” He gestured between the two of you, his voice louder now, raw with emotion. “The fighting, the tension, the constant feeling that no matter what I do, I’m letting you down.”

You flinched, because that wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t letting you down—he was shutting you out. Pushing you away, piece by piece, until you barely recognized the man standing in front of you.

And yet, despite it all, you still wanted to fight.

You needed to fight.

“Joe, you haven’t even tried—”

His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Tried? Are you kidding me?” He shook his head, running a frustrated hand down his face. “I have been trying for months. Trying to be what you need, trying to hold this shit together while I feel like I’m losing everything.”

Your throat tightened. “I never asked you to hold it together alone.”

He looked at you then, and the pain in his eyes nearly brought you to your knees.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “And that’s the worst fucking part.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, you saw it—the breaking point. The moment where all the fights, all the silences, all the nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart had led to.

This was it.

You swallowed, hard. “Joe… don’t do this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to be what you need anymore.”

“I don’t need you to be anything—I just need you to try,” you choked out, hot tears spilling over your cheeks.

“I am trying!” His voice cracked, his hands gripping his hair like he was barely holding himself together. “But I’m not enough for you! And I don’t think I ever will be!”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, everything blurred—your vision, your thoughts, reality itself. Because how could he say that? How could he look at you, after everything, and think he wasn’t enough?

He had always been enough.

He had been everything.

Your chest heaved, your heart splintering, but you forced yourself to take a step forward, reaching for him like you had so many times before.

But this time, Joe stepped back.

Like touching you would break him completely.

Like it already had.

A sob ripped through your throat. “Joe, please—”

His eyes were glassy now, his own tears threatening to fall. But his face was set, his hands shaking at his sides.

“This isn’t working anymore.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through you like a blade.

And just like that, the world tilted.

You had imagined a lot of worst-case scenarios over the past few months—imagined nights where he would sleep on the couch, imagined him needing time apart, even imagined him telling you he wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

But this?

This was never supposed to happen.

He was supposed to fight.

He was supposed to love you enough to stay.

But instead, Joe exhaled shakily, like this was killing him too, and took another step back.

Like he had already made his decision.

Like he was already gone.

And then, through the unbearable tightness in your throat, through the tears blurring your vision, you said the only thing you could.

“What about everything you promised me?”

His face broke. Just for a second.

And then, softer than you’d ever heard him, he whispered, “I meant every word.”

And still, he turned away. Still, he walked to the door, grabbed his keys, and hesitated for only a second before pulling it open.

And you stood there, frozen in time, watching as the love of your life—the boy who once promised you forever under Louisiana stars—walked out of your life like he had never meant to stay.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your legs gave out before you even realized you were falling. You collapsed onto the couch, hands clutching your chest as if that would somehow stop the pain, as if pressing hard enough could keep your heart from shattering.

But it did.

Piece by piece. And Joe?

Joe was gone.

--

Joe wasn’t sure when it started.

The feeling had been creeping up on him for months—slow at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, something he could ignore if he kept moving, if he kept winning.

But then he got hurt.

And suddenly, there was nowhere to run.

No game to prepare for, no film to study, no Sunday nights under the lights where he could lose himself in the only thing that had ever made him feel like enough.

He had always known you were out of his league. Everyone did.

You were a force—bright and untouchable, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone wrapped around your finger without even trying. You were loved in ways Joe had never been. Not because of what you did, not because of your talent or your career, but just because of who you were.

And Joe?

Joe was… Joe.

He had worked for everything. Clawed his way to the top, gritted his teeth through every setback, played with a chip on his shoulder so sharp it could cut. He had spent his entire life proving people wrong, showing them he was worth it, and still, sometimes it felt like it wasn’t enough.

But not with you. At least, not at first.

At first, you had looked at him like he was someone special—not because of football, not because he was Joe Burrow, but because he was yours. And for a while, that had been enough.

But then the marriage thing came up.

Then the quiet expectation that he was supposed to take the next step, that he was supposed to be ready.

And fuck, he wanted to be.

He wanted to put a ring on your finger, wanted to build a life with you, wanted to buy you the house you dreamed about and fill it with all the stupid cats he promised you back at LSU.

But the more you pushed, the more it felt like he was already failing.

You deserved the world, and he—he wasn’t sure he knew how to give it to you. You had grown up with love. Joe had grown up with pressure.

Your family adored you, your friends would kill for you, strangers on the internet called you an angel, and the worst part? They were right.

You were perfect. You were kind, and patient, and you gave so much of yourself without ever asking for anything in return—until, eventually, you did.

Until you started looking at him like you needed something more.

And maybe that’s when it started.

The resentment. The guilt.

The way he began shutting down because every time he looked at you, he saw someone who had given him everything, and all he could do was hold it in his hands and wonder when he was going to drop it.

So he pulled away.

And then he got injured. And then it got worse.

Because for the first time in his life, Joe had nothing to offer.

Football was gone. He was stuck on the sidelines, watching his teammates play without him, watching the world move forward while he stood still. And every time he came home, there you were—beautiful and untouchable and looking at him with so much love, and God, it made him want to rip his fucking hair out.

Because you weren’t supposed to love him like that.

Not when he was like this. Not when he felt like nothing.

And so, he made himself nothing to you.

He let the silence stretch between you, let the fights spiral into something he couldn’t control, let the guilt eat him alive until the only option left was to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he didn’t love you.

But because he loved you too much to keep being a disappointment.

Because you were everything. And he was just him.

--

Joe barely remembered the drive to Ja’Marr’s house.

The roads were dark and wet from rain, the city quiet in the way it only got after midnight, and yet everything inside him was loud. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts, like his body was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.

He had left.

He had actually left.

The second Ja’Marr opened the door, his easygoing expression dropped. “Shit.”

Joe must have looked as bad as he felt.

Ja’Marr didn’t ask questions, didn’t crack a joke or act like this was nothing. He just stepped aside, letting Joe in without a word.

Joe walked past him, straight to the couch, sinking down like his body couldn’t hold him up anymore. His hands were still shaking. He stared at them, trying to steady his breath, but the more he tried to push it down, the worse it got.

He felt like he was imploding.

Ja’Marr sat across from him, elbows on his knees. “You good?”

Joe huffed out something that was supposed to be a laugh but came out broken.

“No,” he admitted.

And then, just like that, the weight of it all came crashing down.

He broke.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, Joe let himself feel it.

His shoulders caved, his head fell into his hands, and before he could stop himself, a sob tore through his chest. It wasn’t quiet, wasn’t controlled—it was raw, guttural, the kind of grief that sat heavy in his ribcage and made him feel like he was drowning.

Ja’Marr swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damn, man.”

Joe couldn’t respond. He could barely breathe.

Because he had spent so long trying to convince himself this was the right thing—that letting you go was necessary, that it was better for you, that one day you’d understand—but now, sitting on his best friend’s couch, in a house that wasn’t his, without you, it hit him.

You weren’t in the next room.

You weren’t waiting for him to come back.

You weren’t his anymore.

And for the first time since he met you, since you were just a girl in his corner, since he was just a college quarterback with a dream—he was alone.

—

The house was silent.

The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but hollow.

You stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring at the front door as if it would swing open at any second, as if Joe would walk back in, apologize, say he didn’t mean it.

But the house stayed empty.

You should’ve done something—gone to bed, taken a shower, moved—but you couldn’t.

Your body felt detached, like you were floating just outside of yourself, watching as the reality of what had happened settled into your bones.

He was gone.

You sucked in a shaky breath, your eyes darting around the room, landing on all the pieces of him he had left behind. His hoodie draped over the back of the couch. His sneakers kicked off near the door. The blanket you always fought over, still crumpled where he had last used it.

Your throat tightened.

It felt wrong.

How was it possible that someone could just leave, and yet everything still looked the same? How was it possible that the world hadn’t just stopped?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulling it into your chest, clutching it so tightly your fingers ached. It still smelled like him—like his cologne, like home, like everything you were supposed to have forever.

A sharp, broken sob tore through you.

Your legs gave out.

You sank onto the floor, your body curling in on itself, gasping for air between sobs that didn’t seem to end.

You had imagined a million worst-case scenarios for your relationship, but you had never imagined this.

A fight, maybe. A bad one.

A few nights apart, maybe even a week.

But not this.

Not a house that suddenly felt too big, too cold, too wrong without him in it.

Not a silence that felt like it would swallow you whole.

Not an ending that you weren’t ready for.

Not Joe—your Joe—leaving, and not coming back.

Joe didn’t tell his parents right away.

He had gone weeks pretending it wasn’t real, pushing it down, acting like if he ignored it long enough, it wouldn’t hurt. Like the breakup was just another fight, another rough patch, and any second now, you’d come home.

But then spring rolled around, and he found himself back in Athens for a few days, sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, pushing food around his plate while his mom chatted about some wedding she had gone to.

He barely heard her—until she said your name.

“I just know she’ll look so beautiful at her own wedding one day,” Robin said, smiling like the thought made her happy. “Did she ever decide on a dress style? I remember she showed me a few options the last time we talked.”

Joe’s fork clattered against the plate.

His parents looked up.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls too close. The weight in his chest unbearable.

“She’s not picking a dress,” he said flatly.

His mom’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

Joe exhaled sharply, staring at the table. His throat felt tight, his hands fisting in his lap. “We broke up.”

Silence.

Not the kind he was used to. Not the easy kind.

His dad was the first to speak. “When?”

“A while ago.” His voice was hoarse, his jaw tight.

Robin looked like he had just slapped her across the face. “Joe… what?”

She sounded hurt.

Like he had broken her heart, too.

“You didn’t tell us?”

Joe swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

His mom was still frozen in shock. “But—why? What happened?”

Joe should have had an answer. He should have been able to give them some logical, concrete reason why the only real love he had ever known had just… ended.

But there wasn’t one. Not really.

So he just shook his head. “I wasn’t enough for her.”

His dad exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Joe—”

Robin’s eyes filled with tears, and that—that was what finally did it. That was the moment it hit him, the moment the denial shattered and left nothing but cold, brutal truth in its place.

You were gone.

Not just for a few days.

Not just waiting for him to fix it.

You were gone.

Joe scraped his chair back so suddenly it screeched against the floor.

“I gotta go,” he muttered, standing up, hands shaking.

“Joe—”

“I just—I gotta go.”

And then he was out the door, out of the house, into his car, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

His vision blurred. His chest caved in.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hold it together.

It didn’t work.

That was the moment Joe decided he needed a distraction.

A new game plan. A new something—because if he let himself sit in this pain, if he let himself really feel it, it might consume him completely.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He threw himself into excess.

He spent money like it was nothing, like it was oxygen, like keeping the spending going would somehow fill the empty space inside of him. New cars, new watches, expensive nights out where the bill was triple what it needed to be. If someone wanted a round of shots? Joe was covering it. If his guys wanted to go to Miami for the weekend? No problem.

And the women.

That was the easiest distraction of all.

They were everywhere—at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the parties where he never used to go but suddenly needed to be. They touched him like they wanted him, smiled at him like he was the most important man in the room. And for a few hours at a time, he let them.

He let them run their hands over his chest, let them whisper in his ear, let them follow him back to hotel rooms or his new penthouse in the city.

He let them treat him like he was whole.

But then morning would come, and the illusion would shatter.

Every single time, he’d wake up next to someone who wasn’t you.

Someone whose perfume didn’t smell like yours. Someone whose touch didn’t feel like home. Someone who would roll over, press lazy kisses to his skin, and call him baby in a way that made his stomach twist.

Because you used to call him that.

And now you never would again.

It was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to be freeing, making up for lost time, for all the years he had spent as the devoted boyfriend, the one-woman man, the guy who turned down numbers and shut down flirting because he only wanted you.

But none of it worked.

None of it made him feel better.

Because at the end of the day, he was still Joe.

And you were still gone.

It took one of his teammates pulling him aside one night to finally say what he couldn’t.

“Bro,” Sam said, hand on Joe’s shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Joe blinked, pulling his attention away from whatever girl had been whispering in his ear at the bar. “What?”

Sam gave him a look. “You’re not this guy.”

Joe let out a sharp laugh. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Joe didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

But he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

So he just exhaled, forced a smirk, and lifted his drink. “Don’t worry about me, man.”

But Sam was worried.

And deep down, Joe knew why.

Because no matter how many nights he spent surrounded by people, no matter how much money he threw at the problem, no matter how many women climbed into his bed—

The only thing he ever felt anymore was hollow.

--

The day you packed your bags and left Cincinnati, you didn’t cry.

You had done enough of that.

Your best friend had offered—begged, really—for you to come stay with her in Columbus, and after weeks of waking up in a house that no longer felt like a home, you finally said yes.

It wasn’t running away.

It was survival.

Joe had been your world for so long that, without him, you weren’t sure where to stand. Your entire adult life had revolved around him—his schedule, his dreams, his highs, his lows. You had built a life inside of his. And now, that life was gone.

So, for the first time in years, you weren’t trying to be somebody’s something. You weren’t trying to be the perfect girlfriend, the supportive WAG, the woman who held it all together.

You were just trying to be you.

Whoever that was.

—

Columbus was different.

It wasn’t Cincinnati, where every street corner reminded you of Joe. Where the grocery store held memories of early-morning runs before his games. Where your favorite restaurant was the place he took you after he signed his first big contract. Where you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a billboard with his face plastered on it, a cruel reminder that he was still Joe Burrow, still untouchable, still larger than life—just not yours anymore.

Columbus was quiet. A fresh start.

Your best friend had a cozy apartment near downtown, and the first night you arrived, she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just ordered takeout, opened a bottle of wine, and let you sit in silence.

That first week, you didn’t do much.

You slept too much, or not at all. Some nights, you laid awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Joe was doing the same. Other nights, exhaustion won, and you crashed so hard you barely dreamed.

The dreams were the worst.

Because in them, he was still yours.

You still woke up to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, still felt the weight of his arm draped over your waist, still heard his voice murmuring morning, baby in that slow, sleep-rough tone he always had.

But then morning would come, and none of it was real.

So, you started over.

You got a cat.

It wasn’t planned—you had just gone to the shelter one afternoon, thinking you’d look, thinking maybe it would distract you for a few minutes. But then you saw her.

Small. A little scrappy. White with a black spot over her eye, looking at you like she had already decided you belonged to her.

The name came easily.

“Larry,” you told the adoption worker, lips twitching into something like a smile. “Her name is Larry.”

Joe would’ve laughed at that.

Joe would’ve—

No.

This wasn’t about Joe.

Larry was yours.

So you took her home, bought her the stupidest, most ridiculous toys you could find, and let her curl up on your chest at night, purring so loudly it drowned out the silence.

You learned how to French braid.

You had never bothered before—your hair had always been something he liked, something he ran his fingers through when he was half-asleep on the couch. But now? Now, you spent hours watching tutorials, standing in front of the mirror, fingers twisting and looping until, finally, you got it right.

It was small, stupid even. But it was something just for you.

You started reading.

At first, it was just a way to pass the time—something to do instead of scrolling through Instagram, instead of wondering what he was doing. But then you fell into it, deep. You found yourself curled up on the couch for hours, lost in stories, letting yourself escape into other people’s lives.

Romance novels were hard at first. Because love still felt like a wound, like something sharp and raw and too close to home.

But one day, months after the breakup, you found yourself reading a love story and not feeling like your chest was caving in.

That was progress.

You cooked for yourself.

You had always cooked for Joe—his favorites, his comfort foods, the meals he requested after long practices. But now, you cooked what you wanted. You tried new recipes, bought ingredients you had never used before, made dishes with no one else’s preferences in mind.

It was weird, at first.

But then, one night, you sat at the table, eating something just for you, and it didn’t feel lonely.

It felt… peaceful.

You went on long walks, alone, with no one to check in with. You bought flowers for yourself. You started journaling, writing down things you had never let yourself think too hard about.

You let yourself exist.

And one day—on a random, unremarkable afternoon—you realized something. It had been weeks since you last thought of him.

Not that he was gone.

Not that it didn’t still hurt, sometimes, in quiet moments when you weren’t expecting it.

But for the first time, in a long, long time—

You felt like you. Without him.

[flawdchaos]

Not Actually Together

Charles Leclerc X Reader

Genre: fake dating au!

Warnings: swearing, emotionally dramatic

Word Count: 11K+

Author's Note: okay so I tried to do it a little different this time. usually i write like three/four part series, because it's easier for my brain. but i don't think people like that so i just wrote it all, so this is one long part but a somewhat satisfactory conclusion. lmk what you guys thinks.. thank you to anyone who enjoys this. imma be honest it feels a little melodramatic.

---------------

It had been a few weeks since Charles first mentioned Alexandra to you. Since then, you’d pieced together bits of their relationship but he was careful to keep it discreet. You didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer details. It was better that way. Today, though, was different. It was the last race before the summer break, and as usual, Charles was driving you to the track.

The early morning sun filtered through the car windows, casting a golden glow over the roads. The hum of the engine was a familiar backdrop to your thoughts. In the beginning, Charles had been rigid about the drive to the track—no touching the radio, no deviations from his carefully curated playlists. But over time, he’d loosened up. First, he’d let you choose the music on practice days. Then, gradually, he began trusting your taste entirely. Now, it was almost expected of you to play the music for the drive. 

You weren’t always sure if he liked what you chose, though. He never said much about it. But every now and then, after he parked the car, you’d catch him adding one of your songs to his personal playlist. It was a small thing, but it made your chest warm in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Today was no different. As the car rolled to a stop, you saw him pull out his phone and add another song. The corner of your mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Shall we head in?” Charles asked, turning to look at you.  

His eyes—those eyes—always seemed to catch you off guard. People argued over whether they were green or blue, but to you, they were something else entirely. When he looked at you like that, it was impossible not to feel something. Something deep and unspoken. Charles wasn’t yours. He would never be yours. But the way he looked at you—that was yours, and yours alone. 

“After you,” you said, smiling up at him. It was a sweet, genuine smile, the kind that made his heart skip a beat.

Charles wasn’t sure when it had started, but your smile had become his undoing. Every time you flashed it at him—soft, warm, and just a little teasing—he felt his cheeks heat and his stomach flip. It was ridiculous, really. He wasn’t yours, and he never would be. But when you smiled like that, you owned him, if only for a moment.   

He stepped out of the car and came around to your side, opening the door with a quiet grace. He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation. His grip was firm, grounding, as he helped you out of the car. Together, you walked toward the entrance, his hand still in yours.  

To anyone watching, you looked like the picture of a perfect couple—two people completely in love, completely in sync. But you and Charles knew the truth. Or at least, you thought you did.

-

At the race, Charles had crossed the finish line in fourth place. It wasn’t a terrible result, but you knew he wouldn’t be happy—not when he’d started on the front row, not when he’d been aiming for the podium. You waited for him in the garage, watching as he went through the motions of post-race interviews in the media pen. When he finally returned, his expression was unreadable, his usual spark dimmed by disappointment.

He didn’t say a word as he walked past you. You followed him silently, giving him the space he seemed to need. The two of you entered his dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you, and still, he remained quiet. You didn’t push him to talk. You knew better than anyone how Charles processed his emotions—how he needed time to sort through the frustration before he could voice it.  

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You were used to this, to the way he retreated into himself after a race that didn’t go as he planned. But then his phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. Alexandra’s name lit up the screen, her picture flashing brightly.

Charles’s face softened as he answered the call, a smile spreading across his lips—a smile you couldn’t remember ever eliciting from him. It was warm, genuine, and effortless, the kind of smile that made your chest ache. You didn’t stay to listen. Instead, you slipped out of the room, leaving him to talk to her in private. 

As you wandered through the paddock, you felt the weight of your anonymity settle over you. Without Charles by your side, you were just another face in the crowd. No cameras followed you, no fans called out your name, no one demanded your attention. For a moment, you told yourself you liked it this way—the peace, the freedom, the ability to move unnoticed. You repeated it like a mantra, trying to convince yourself that this was what you wanted.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You didn’t mind the chaos that came with being by Charles’s side. You didn’t mind the flashes of cameras, the constant attention, or the noise. Because being with him made it all worth it. He was the reason you endured it, the reason you smiled through it. And now, as you walked alone, the absence of it all felt like a void you couldn’t quite fill.  

You told yourself you liked the solitude, but the ache in your chest told a different story. 

- 

Charles watched you walk out of the room as he answered Alexandra’s call, the door closing softly behind you. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the space where you’d just been. A part of him wanted to hang up the phone, to follow after you, to take you by the hand and  be with you for a quiet stroll. He loved those moments with you. The moments where the world seemed to fade away and it was just the two of you, moving in sync through the chaos of the paddock.

He loved the way you held onto him a little tighter when fans approached, your fingers curling around his arm as if he were your anchor. He loved how you’d gently tug him toward the crowd, your voice soft but insistent as you reminded him to acknowledge the people who adored him. 

And then there were the photos—the endless requests from fans eager to capture a moment with him. You never seemed to mind the interruptions. You’d stand patiently by his side, your hand still in his, as he posed for pictures and signed autographs. 

As he listened to Alexandra’s voice on the other end of the line, his thoughts drifted back to you. He wondered where you were now, if you were wandering the paddock alone or finding a quiet corner to sit and wait. He wondered if you missed him as much as he suddenly missed you. But the call demanded his attention, and so he stayed, his heart being tugged in two different directions.

“Charles,” Alexandra says his name through the phone, “you’re gonna come tonight, right?” 

Charles brings himself back to pay attention to Alexandra, “yeah, yeah.” 

“And you’re gonna bring y/n right?”  Alexandra questions, excitement evident in her voice, “I really do want to meet her.”  

The idea of you and Alexandra meeting sends a ripple of unease through Charles. He doesn’t have a valid reason for the two of you not to meet—after all, you’re his fake girlfriend, and Alex is his real one. But the thought of the two worlds colliding makes him tense. He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know, Alex. I can ask y/n, but she’s not really a clubbing person. And honestly, I’m not in the mood to party tonight.”  

Alexandra’s voice takes on a pleading edge. “Please, Charles. We don’t ever do anything together—not in public, at least.”  

“Alex, that’s just how…” 

“Charles I know that’s how it has to be, and I love hanging out at home with you, I really do. But it would be nice to go out for once, to feel like we’re… normal. And if you bring y/n, it would be the perfect opportunity. No one would suspect anything.” Alex makes her case, and Charles doesn’t want to deny her.  

Her words hang in the air, and Charles can hear the longing in her voice. Alexandra isn’t just asking for a night out; she’s asking for a chance to exist in his world, even if it’s just for a few hours. She wants to feel like she matters, like she’s more than a secret tucked away in the shadows of his life.

“I will ask,” Charles says, his resistance wavering, “but if y/n says no, then i’m not going tonight.  She has made it clear how she feels about this, and I'm not going to make a fool out of her.”  

“I understand,” Alexandra replies, though her sigh betrays her disappointment. She doesn’t like this feeling of being second to you—not when she’s the one in the real relationship with Charles. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that she has to share him with someone who doesn’t even truly have a claim on him.  

As the call ends, Alexandra stares at her phone, a mix of emotions swirling inside her. She loves Charles, but sometimes she wonders if she’s just another piece in the carefully constructed puzzle of his life. She wants to be more than that—more than the girl he hides away, more than the one who has to beg for a night out. But for now, she’ll take what she can get, even if it means sharing him with you.

-

As you and Charles walk back towards the car, after the events of the day, Charles asks, “what are you doing tonight?”  

You sigh, “I’m hoping to pack, my flight home is tomorrow in the late morning.” 

Charles stops in his tracks, his brow furrowing as his thoughts shift. “You’re not coming to Monaco with me?” His voice is tinged with surprise, almost disbelief, as if the idea of you not being there hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

You turn to face him, noticing the way his expression falters. “I’ll be in Monaco before you have to go to the Netherlands,” you reassure him, your tone gentle. “But no, I’m not going straight to Monaco from here.”

Charles stands still, a few paces behind you, his eyes searching yours. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of pain in his gaze—something raw and unspoken. “I just thought…” he begins, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. He looks at you with those eyes—the ones that always seem to see straight through you, the ones that hold a world of emotions you can’t always decipher. “I just thought you were coming home with me.”

You offer him a smile, that sweet, reassuring smile that he loves, and take a step closer to him. “Charles,” you say softly, “I’ll be back in Monaco before you can even miss me.”  But the truth is, he’s already missing you. He hasn’t even let go of you yet, and already he’s dreading the emptiness your absence will leave behind.  

You hold out your hand to him, a silent invitation to close the distance between you. For a moment, he hesitates, his emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes the first step forward, his hand slipping into yours. His grip is firm, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away too soon. 

The two of you walk toward the car, Charles reaches the passenger side first, opening the door for you with a small, almost reflexive gesture. You slide into the seat, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” but you notice the way his movements seem to slow, more deliberate than usual. As he walks around the car to the driver’s side, his mind races. There’s something he needs to ask you, something he doesn’t want to ask of you. He tries to find the right words, weighing each one carefully. This isn’t a conversation he can rush—it requires caution, a gentle touch. 

When he finally settles into the driver’s seat, the car door closing with a soft thud, the silence between you feels heavier than before. You glance at him, noticing the way his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, the way his jaw tenses as he stares straight ahead. It’s clear he has something on his mind, something he’s struggling to put into words. 

“Charles,” you call out softly, looking at him cautiously, “what's on your mind?” 

Charles freezes, looking like a deer caught in headlights, and you smile at him.  Charles sighs, running his hand through his hair.  “Alex wants to meet you,” he admits.   

You physically cannot hide your surprise, “Oh.” You don’t know what to say.  Your mind races, trying to process the idea of meeting Alexandra. She seems nice—kind, beautiful, and clearly someone who makes Charles happy. There’s no logical reason to refuse, but the thought still makes you feel awkward,  “Sure,” you smile, “when is a good time?”  

Charles hesitates, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “Well,” he begins, taking a deep breath, “she was thinking tonight, there’s this party at this club.”  

“Charles,” you start to shake your head, “that’s not really…” 

“I know,” he interrupts, his words tumbling out faster now, as if he’s trying to explain before you can object. “Alex wants to go, and she thinks it would be something we could do in public if you’re there. Since, you know, all we usually do is hang out at home. But if you say no, y/n, I won’t go. I promise.” He takes another breath, ready to say more, but you cut him off this time.  

“Don’t do that,” you say sharply, your voice rising as your face hardens with anger. “Do not make it seem like you can’t do something because of me, Charles.” The way you say his name—cold, clipped—makes him flinch. It’s not the way you usually say it, and the shift in tone stings. “Do not act like I’m the reason we’re in this situation.” 

Charles’s eyes widen, and he quickly shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not what I’m trying to do, y/n,” he says, his voice earnest. He looks at you with those eyes—the ones that always seem to make you weak—and you feel yourself soften, just a little. “Alex wants to meet you because we spend a lot of time together. And that’s not your fault or your doing. She just wants to know who I’m spending my time with, and she thought tonight would be a good chance for that.” He looks down at his lap, his shoulders slumping. “If you don’t want to go, I won’t force you. We can just go back to the hotel, and we’ll figure out another time for you to meet Alex. I just meant… if you say no, then it’s no. I won’t argue with your decision.”  

You sigh, the tension in your chest easing slightly. None of this is ideal—not the fake relationship, not the secrecy, not the way Charles is caught between you and Alex. But you know it’s not his fault. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, your gaze dropping as you take a deep breath. “I know this situation wasn’t your idea. It’s what the team wanted, and I shouldn’t blame you.” You pause, then look up at him, forcing a small smile. “I’ll go tonight. I’ll meet Alex tonight.” 

Charles looks up at you, studying your face.  “Are you sure?”  He asks softly, his expression showing a mix of relief and concern.  

“Yeah it could be fun,” you smile, that sweet smile, that Charles loves so much.  There’s a silence that falls over you both, as Charles looks at you with those eyes, and there’s so many unspoken thoughts behind them.  

“Thank you,” Charles whispers to you.  

-

Much later that evening as you adorned an outfit befitting of a night out. Charles and you made your way to the club.  You and Charles walk hand in hand, into the club, he waves at some of the fans that spot him.  Inside, it’s much more crowded than you expect.  Charles pulls you closer to him, as he weaves his way through the crowd.  You know that there were gonna be several of the drivers and their girlfriends out tonight.  

As you approach the area that the drivers are gathering at you spot Kika.  You and her have formed a simple friendship, just from seeing each other at the races.  You and her aren’t exactly close, but she is definitely someone you find comfort in.  You smile and wave at her, as you find a seat next to her.  

“I thought parties like this weren’t your thing?” she shouts over the music in your ear.  

“They’re not, but Charles asked me to come.” Kika nods, as she hands you a shot.  Without hesitation, you down it—and then two more in quick succession. Kika watches with a mix of amusement and concern, giggling at your boldness. She’s not sure if you’re a regular drinker, but your actions suggest something is on your mind.  

Meanwhile, Charles is a few feet away, mingling with fellow drivers like Pierre and Carlos. They’re deep in conversation, their words drowned out by the music. Charles is in his element, laughing and gesturing animatedly, while you and Kika share a quieter moment amidst the chaos.  

You watch as Charles rises from his seat, his figure cutting through the dim, pulsating lights of the club. He disappears into the crowd, his broad shoulders and confident stride making him easy to track—at first. But as the sea of faces shifts and sways, the crowd swallows him whole, and your eyes lose him in the blur of bodies and flashing lights. You crane your neck, trying to catch another glimpse, but he’s gone. 

Moments later, you spot him again. This time, he’s not alone. Standing beside him is Alexandra, her presence commanding attention even in the chaotic atmosphere. The club’s lighting seems to bend around her, casting a soft, golden glow on her flawless skin. She moves with an effortless grace, her every step exuding confidence and poise. Her beauty is undeniable—radiant, almost otherworldly.

You can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits into this world, how she seems to belong in a way you never could. Her smile is dazzling, her laughter carrying over the music as she leans in to say something to Charles. He laughs too, his expression relaxed and open in a way you can’t bring out of him. 

Your eyes follow them as they draw closer.  “y/n,” Charles calls your name, and he looks at you with those eyes.  Those eyes, with that look, that belong to you and only you.  He gives you that look, and your heart breaks knowing that’s the only thing you have.  “This is Alexandra.”  He steps aside, presenting her to you.  His tone is polite, but there’s a flicker of unease in his expression, as if he’s bracing for impact.

“Hi,” you say with a big smile, as she moves to hug you and you are forced to stand and hug her back.  

“Hi,” Alex says breathlessly, and even her voice is beautiful.  “It’s so nice to meet you, Charles says nothing but praises about you.”  

For a split second, your heart skips a beat. Charles talks about me? The thought sends a rush of warmth through you, but it’s quickly replaced by doubt. You force a blush, playing along. “Charles says nothing but wonderful things about you too,” you lie, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. You realize, with a sinking feeling, that her words are probably just as hollow. Charles doesn’t talk about Alexandra to you, and you doubt he’s ever mentioned you to her.  

“I’m so grateful that you let Charles ask me out,” Alex says with a genuine smile, even her smile is beautiful.  

“Of course,” you say, your smile tightening, “it really isn’t my place to tell him who he can and can’t date.”  

Alex giggles, a sound that’s light and carefree. “And thank god your relationship isn’t real,” she adds, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I mean, I knew Charles was in a relationship when I started hitting on him, so I’m just relieved it wasn’t a real one.”  

Your breath catches, and you’re not sure if you manage to keep your expression neutral. “I mean, thank god,” you echo with an awkward chuckle, your mind racing. Did she really just say that? You glance at Charles, but he’s already looking away, his jaw tight. “You guys should go get a drink or something,” you suggest quickly, desperate to end the conversation.

“Yeah, we’re gonna go check out the bar,” Alex says as she turns back and looks at Charles to point at the bar.  She turns back to look at you, still smiling so radiantly, “it was so nice to meet you, let’s hang out sometime.”  

You nod, “of course we must have lunch or something.”  You watch as they walk away, your smile fading the moment they’re out of sight. You sink back into your seat, reaching for another shot on the table. You down it in one gulp, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb the sting of Alex’s words. You want to believe she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but the doubt lingers.

“Did she say she knew?” Kika’s voice cuts through your thoughts, her tone sharp and accusing.

“I think it sounds worse than-” you shake your head as you talk.  

“No,” Kika interjects, “it sounds like she was willing to be a homewrecker.” 

“Kika, I think you’re exaggerating,” you reply, trying to laugh it off, but the sound falls flat.

“Girl, be so for real right now,” Kika snaps, leaning closer. “She just admitted she knew Charles was in a relationship when she made a move on him. That’s not normal.” 

“But we’re not actually together,” you retort. 

“She didn’t know that,” Kika fires back. “All she knew was that he was in a relationship. That’s messed up, and you know it.”

Kika raises her eyebrows, daring you to disagree. You sigh, your shoulders slumping. There’s no point in arguing. Not that any of it matters now.  

-

The rest of that night is a blur, the edges softened by too many drinks and the weight of unspoken words. You and Charles don’t discuss Alexandra again. The next morning, you leave Belgium before he does, slipping away without fanfare. The summer break stretches before you, a welcome reprieve filled with family and distance. The time away gives you space to breathe, to think, to untangle the mess of emotions tied to Charles.

Two weeks pass, and you convince yourself you’ve figured it all out. The conclusion is clear: you don’t like Charles. Not in that way at least. The hours spent together, the shared smiles, the quiet moments—they were just part of the act.  You tell yourself you’ve mistaken his kindness for something more.  That your feelings are nothing more than a byproduct of the close proximity. You repeat it like a mantra: You don’t like Charles. You don’t like Charles.  

By the time you land at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s true. Charles insisted on picking you up, despite you arguing that a taxi would be fine. You protested, but he wouldn’t budge. And now, as you spot him weaving through the crowd, your resolve wavers.  

He looks… different. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve forgotten the way his presence makes you blush, the way his eyes light up when he sees you. Your chest tightens as he approaches, and you realize just how much you’ve missed him.  

“Hi,” he says, slightly out of breath, as if he’d been running to you. Before you can respond, he’s pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I missed you,” he murmurs into your shoulder, so softly that you wonder if you imagined it.  

“Hi,” you reply, your voice muffled against his chest. You hug him back, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor yourself. When he finally pulls away, he looks at you with those eyes—the ones that belong to you and only you.  

You can’t help but smile, and when you do, Charles’s heart skips a beat. He’s waited two weeks to see that smile, the one that lights up your face and makes his stomach flip. It’s the smile he’s come to love, though he’d never say it out loud.  

“Let’s go home,” he says, holding out his hand to you. The word home lingers in the air, heavy with meaning. You take his hand, your fingers slotting perfectly into his, and something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.  

Charles grabs your suitcase, his free hand still holding yours, and the two of you make your way to the car. The airport buzzes around you, but at this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you, walking toward something you’re both too afraid to name.  

The drive from the airport to Charles’ apartment is quiet.  The hum of the car engine and the soft music you play, filling the space between you. You stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of Monaco blur past. Charles glances at you occasionally, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if he’s searching for an opening to speak. But the words never come, and neither do yours.

When you arrive, you look up at the building before you.  You try to remind yourself that everything from here on out is just an act.  Charles carries your suitcase upstairs, his movements brisk and efficient. You follow him, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and dread. The door to his apartment swings open, and the smell of something delicious wafts out—garlic, herbs, and warmth. 

“Welcome back!” a cheery voice calls out, as Alexandra rounds the corner to greet you.  

You freeze seeing her standing there.  She has an apron tied around her waist, subtle sweat beads drip down the sides of your face.  The smile she wears is genuine and kind.  She looks breathtaking at this moment.  Even the disheveled, homebody, tirelessly working version of her is stunningly beautiful. 

“Y/N! It’s so good to finally meet you properly,” she says, pulling you into a hug before you can react. Her embrace is warm, her perfume soft and floral. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

You stiffen, your arms moving awkwardly up to hug her back.  Over her shoulder, you catch Charles’s gaze. He looks uneasy, his jaw tight as he sets your suitcase down. 

“Alex wanted to make something to welcome you back,” Charles says, his voice carefully measured.  

Alexandra pulls away, her smile still radiant, and glowing.  “I made pasta, I hope you like it,” she says as she plants a soft kiss on Charles' cheek before returning to the kitchen. The act makes you clench your jaw, how you wish that it was you doing that.  

You try to remind yourself that you don’t like Charles.  “That was really kind of you Alex,” you say walking past Charles and towards the kitchen.  

“I know I love a good home cooked meal after a long flight,” Alex says as she plates the food, “I thought you would enjoy the same.”  She brings the plates to the dining table.  

She ushers you toward the dining table, which is set with candles and a bottle of wine. The scene is so domestic, so perfect, that it makes your chest ache. You glance at Charles, but he’s avoiding your eyes, busying himself with pouring glasses of water.

“Please, come sit,” she says.  You take your seat across from Alexandra.  You can tell she’s worked hard on this meal.  

“It smells amazing,” you say, your voice tight as you smile. You pick up your fork, your appetite gone, but you force yourself to take a bite. It’s delicious, of course.

“Tell me all about your summer,” Alexandra says, she looks more beautiful in the candle light, “Charles said you were with family.” 

“It was good,” you say, “quiet.  Different.” 

“That sounds lovely,” she says, her tone warm. “I’ve been here most of the break. Charles has been such a great host.”

You glance at him again, but he’s staring at his plate, his fork pushing food around without eating. The awkwardness in the room is cutting, though Alexandra seems oblivious—or maybe she’s just that good at pretending.

“It’s nice to finally have you here,” she continues, reaching for the wine bottle. “Charles talks about you all the time. It’s like I already know you.”

“Does he?” you ask with a bit of a force chuckle, “I hope it’s nothing but good things.” 

“Oh of course,” Alexandra says as she looks at Charles, nothing but love in her eyes, “I think it would literally kill him to say a negative thing about you.” 

You smile, looking back at your plate.  Charles looks at you, that smile you wear isn’t the same.  It’s not the smile that he loves.  It’s different, it’s a sad smile.  “I’m glad he’s not telling lies,” you finally say looking at Alexandra.  You can feel Charles’ gaze on you, but you don’t meet it.  

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Alexandra fills the silence with stories about her summer, her laughter bright and easy. You nod along, your responses polite but distant. Charles stays quiet, his presence a heavy weight at the table.

When the meal is over, Alexandra insists on cleaning up. “You two must be tired,” she says, shooing you toward the living room. “Go relax. I’ve got this.”

“Thank you again for cooking,” you say.  

“Of course,” Alexandra smiles, “It was so nice having you. Now go unwind.” 

You don’t argue. You follow Charles into the living room, you try to remind yourself once more. You don’t have genuine feelings for Charles.  He sits on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

“Charles,” you call out to him softly.  

He looks up, his eyes tired. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “I didn’t know she was going to do all this.”

You sit beside him, your hands clasped in your lap. “She’s… really kind.”

Charles sighs, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if anchoring himself. “Yeah, she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, maybe, or forgiveness. But the words don’t come, and the silence between you grows heavier.  

You lean further back into the couch, your gaze fixed on the ceiling. “When the season is over, you can be more open about your relationship with her,” you say, your tone carefully neutral. “No more pretending. No more… me.”  

Charles flinches, his jaw tightening as he stares at the floor. His fingers tap restlessly against his knee, a telltale sign of his unease. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice rough, though he doesn’t elaborate.  

You turn to look at him, your heart aching at the conflict etched across his face. “Isn’t it?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer.  

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His eyes drop to his hands, his shoulders slumping under the weight of everything left unsaid. The sound of Alexandra humming in the kitchen fills the silence, a painful reminder of the life Charles has built—and the one you’re no longer sure you belong in.  Neither of you say anything more for the night.  

-

Time doesn’t allow you to wallow. It never does. It throws you into the next event before you can catch your breath, before you can prepare. Time forces you to face the crowd, to put on the mask and play the part. You sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the paddock entrance. The sea of photographers waits, their cameras poised, ready to capture every and all moments.  

Charles comes around to your side, opening the door for you. His hand is steady, but his eyes show his concern.  

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his gaze searching yours.  

“Yeah,” you force a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips. You take his outstretched hand, your fingers slipping into his as you step out of the car. His grip is firm, grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him.  

“I forgot about this,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the hum of the paddock.  

Charles’s jaw tightens, guilt flickering across his face. “We can take the other entrance,” he offers, his tone hesitant. The other entrance is quieter, less crowded, but it feels like running away.  

You shake your head, your resolve hardening. “It’s okay.”  

The moment you take the first step forward, the cameras erupt. Flashes of light burst around you, blinding and relentless. Charles’ smile is bright, effortless, as he waves at the crowd. You mirror him, your own smile plastered on, but your grip on his hand tightens instinctively.  

His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, a small, unconscious gesture that sends a shiver up your spine. You glance at him, but he’s focused on the crowd, his smile never wavering. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.  

“Charles,” you say softly, your voice barely audible over the noise. You’ve just arrived at the Ferrari motorhome, the chaos of the paddock fading behind you.  

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Yeah?”  

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. This isn’t real, you remind yourself. It’s just an act. But the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world—makes it hard to breathe.  

“Nothing,” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper.  

Charles lets go of your hand, and the loss of his touch is immediate. You clench your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms to keep from reaching for him. You watch him disappear into a room, his figure swallowed by the shadows. You know you’ll barely see him for the rest of the day, and the thought leaves you hollow.  

Hours pass in a blur. You make yourself comfortable in the Ferrari motorhome, but your mind is anything but at ease. The weight of your feelings presses down on you, a constant ache in your chest. You don’t notice Charles approaching until he’s standing in front of you, his presence pulling you back to the present.  

“Hey,” he says softly, taking a seat across from you. His fingers move instinctively, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so tender, so intimate, that it steals your breath. “What’s on your mind?”  

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head gently. “Nothing important.”  

Charles’s gaze softens, his hand lingering near your face for a moment before he pulls it back. “Everything about you is important to me,” he says, his tone casual, as if the words don’t carry the weight of the world.  

Your heart flutters, a traitorous warmth spreading through your chest. You want to believe him, to let yourself fall into the comfort of his words, but you can’t. Not when you know this is an act.  

“We’re heading to the track,” he says, standing up. “I’ll see you later.”  

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. As he turns to leave, he pauses, his hand brushing against your shoulder. Then, without warning, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your cheek.  

The act is so unexpected, so intimate, that it leaves you frozen. Your mind races, a million questions swirling in your head. Why? There are no cameras here, no fans watching. No one to perform for. So why?  

Charles pulls away, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, charged moment. Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting there, your hand pressed to your cheek as if to hold onto the warmth of his lips.  

-

The Dutch Grand Prix unfolds like all the others—chaotic, exhilarating, and filled with the same familiar routines. You play your part as Charles’ girlfriend flawlessly, smiling for the cameras, laughing at his jokes, and holding his hand as you navigate the paddock. But every moment together leaves you more confused than the last. 

Time, however, is relentless. As soon as the race ends on Sunday, you’re boarding a plane. The Italian Grand Prix is next, and the entire week is packed with events for Charles. There’s no time to breathe, no time to process. Sponsor appearances, media commitments, team meetings—his schedule is a whirlwind, leaving little room for anything else.

In a strange way, you’re grateful for it. The constant busyness means your time together is limited, and that makes it easier to keep your walls up. If you don’t see him, you can’t fall deeper into the trap of pretending this is real. If you don’t hear his voice, you can’t let yourself believe the way he says your name means something more. Distance, you tell yourself, is your only defense against the ache in your chest.

But even as you cling to that logic, a part of you wishes for just one more moment—one more stolen glance, one more brush of his hand against yours. Just one more chance to pretend, even if only for a moment.

Today is Sunday, race day—the final act of this week-long spectacle in Italy. The air is thick with anticipation, but Charles has been in a slightly sour mood since yesterday’s qualifying, where he secured fourth on the grid. You watch him now in his dressing room, his movements sharp and focused as he goes through his timing drills. The rhythmic sound of his steps fills the room, a steady beat that mirrors the tension in his shoulders.  

“Don’t tire yourself out before the race even starts,” you tease, your voice light and playful, cutting through the silence.  

Charles pauses, glancing over at you. The corners of his mouth twitch, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders seems to lift. He’s grateful you’re here, sitting in the quiet with him, offering a moment of calm before the storm.  

“I’m just psyching myself up,” he says, flashing you a small but genuine smile.  

You smile, your tone softening. “You’re going to do great out there,” you say, your voice steady and sure. “I have nothing but faith in you that you’ll bring home the results you want.”  

Charles stops completely, his drills forgotten as he turns to face you. His eyes—soft, caring, and impossibly kind—meet yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The look he gives you, that look.  Something so raw and intimate just below the surface. 

He might not be yours, he may never be yours, but this look—that look—is yours.  

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are too fragile to speak aloud.  

The room feels warmer somehow, the air between you charged with unspoken emotions. You don’t say anything else; you don’t need to. The quiet understanding between you is enough.  

Charles takes a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he exhales. He gives you one last lingering look before turning back to his preparations, a small but steady smile playing on his lips.  

You stay there, watching him, your presence a silent anchor as he readies himself for the race ahead.  

-

You watch the race from the garage, your eyes glued to the monitors tracking Charles’s car as it weaves through the pack. The tension is palpable, every overtake, every corner, every lap tightening the knot in your chest. When Charles fights his way into first place, you can’t help but jump to your feet, cheering alongside the rest of the crew. You hold your breath as he maintains his lead, the checkered flag feeling like it’s an eternity away.  

The race drags on, each lap stretching time to its limits. You count them down, your heart pounding in sync with the roar of the engines. As Charles approaches the final corner on the final lap, the garage erupts. You’re jumping, screaming, caught up in the electric energy of the moment. There isn’t a garage in the paddock cheering louder than Ferrari.  

The second the checkered flag waves, you’re running. You sprint with the team to parc ferme, your feet barely touching the ground. You arrive before Charles does, your chest heaving as you watch his car pull up in front of the number 1 sign.  

You don’t have to pretend to be happy for him. You don’t think about the cameras or the fans or the performance you’re supposed to put on. All you care about is Charles Leclerc, standing there in his red Ferrari, victorious at the Italian Grand Prix.  At the home grand prix. 

Charles wastes no time. He leaps out of the car, his movements fueled by adrenaline and joy. He crashes into Fred first, hugging his team principal with a force that nearly knocks them both over. The crowd surges forward, hands reaching out to pat him on the back, to share in this moment of triumph. The atmosphere is intoxicating, a heady mix of pride, joy, and sheer exhilaration. You’re overwhelmed by it all—by the love for Formula One, for Ferrari, for the tifosi, and most of all, for Charles.  

When Charles steps back from Fred, he pulls off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed with victory. His eyes scan the crowd, and when they land on you, everything else seems to fade.  

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate.  He acts on his emotions alone. 

Charles strides toward you, his hands cupping your face with surprising gentleness. And then he kisses you.  

The kiss is raw, unfiltered, and filled with emotions you can’t name. It feels real—so real that it steals your breath. The world around you disappears, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum. All you can feel is the warmth of his lips on yours, the way his hands tremble against your skin. His fingers grasping at the ends of your hair.  For a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the world.  

When he pulls away, he doesn’t say a word. His eyes search yours, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you. But before either of you can speak, Lando and Oscar are there, clapping him on the back, pulling him into the chaos of celebration.  

You’re left standing there, your fingers brushing against your lips as if to hold onto the memory of his kiss. The warmth lingers, a bittersweet reminder of a moment that felt too real to be part of the act.  

-

Alexandra watches the scene unfold from her hotel room, the glow of the television casting shadows across her face. She sees Charles leap out of his car, his joy radiating through the screen. She sees him hug Fred, the team, the crew—his smile so wide it could light up the entire paddock. And then she sees you.  

Her breath catches as Charles pulls off his helmet, his eyes scanning the crowd. When they land on you, something shifts. His expression softens, his movements slow, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist.  

She watches, her heart pounding, as he strides toward you. She watches his hands cup your face, so gently, so reverently, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. And then she watches him kiss you.  

It’s not the kind of kiss they share—quick, polite, perfunctory. No, this kiss is raw, unfiltered, and filled with an intensity that makes her chest ache. She sees the way his fingers tremble against your skin, the way his body leans into yours as if he can’t bear to let go. She sees the way he looks at you when he pulls away, his eyes brimming with an overwhelming amount of love.  

Alexandra feels the tears before she even realizes she’s crying. They roll down her cheeks, hot and relentless, as she clutches the edge of the bed. She tries to tell herself it’s an act, a performance, nothing more than a show for the cameras. But deep down, she knows better.  

She’s tried to ignore it—the way Charles’s eyes follow you instinctively, like you’re the only person in the room. She’s tried to ignore the way he speaks about you, his voice softening with a fondness he’s never shown her. She’s tried to ignore how your smile can brighten his mood, even on his darkest days. She’s tried to ignore how gentle he is with you, how careful, as if you’re something fragile and precious.  

But now, watching the two of you from this private hotel room, far from the crowds and cameras, she can’t ignore it anymore. You look like a real couple. You look like his girlfriend.  

Alexandra knows she can’t compete with someone like you. You’re the sunlight breaking through on a rainy day, the sparkle on the ocean under the moonlight. You’re the tinkle of the brightest star, the kind of light that draws people in and holds them captive. You’re a shiny emerald in a sea of diamonds—unique, irreplaceable, unforgettable.  

You are everything.  

And she is nothing.  At the very least she is nothing compared to you for Charles. 

The realization crashes over her like a wave, pulling her under until she can’t breathe. She curls into herself, the tears coming harder now, as the weight of it all settles in her chest. She loves him—she loves him so much—but it doesn’t matter. Because he loves you.  

And there’s nothing she can do to change that.  

-

After the podium celebrations, Charles disappears into a sea of cameras that follow him towards the press conference. You slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the motorhome. The weight of the day presses on your shoulders, but it’s the stares—the lingering gazes of strangers—that make your skin crawl. You can feel their eyes on you, their whispers trailing behind you like shadows.  

You quicken your pace, your heart pounding in your chest, when you hear the rapid click of footsteps behind you. You turn, and there’s Kika, breathless and flushed, her face etched with something you can’t quite place. Pity. Concern. Fear.  

“Y/N,” she says softly, her voice trembling as if she’s afraid to shatter you.  

“What is it?” you ask, though the unease in her expression tells you everything you need to know. Your stomach twists as she hands you her phone, the screen glowing with a headline that stops you cold:  

‘Charles Leclerc Cheating? Two Is Better Than One.’

Your hands tremble as you scroll through the article. It’s filled with photos—Charles and Alexandra, laughing on a sunlit terrace, walking hand in hand through the streets of Monaco in the middle of night, sharing quiet moments that feel too intimate to be real. Some of the pictures date back to the Hungarian Grand Prix, a timeline of a relationship you didn’t know existed.  

And then, at the bottom of the article, there it is: a photo of you and Charles from just hours ago. His hands cupping your face, his lips pressed to yours in a kiss that felt so real, so raw, so yours.  

The caption beneath it reads: ‘Was it just a summer fling, or is it a torrid affair for the Formula One driver?’  

The article is careful to blur Alexandra’s face and omit her name, but the damage is done. The world sees her. The world sees you. And the world sees Charles caught between the two.  

“He said he wouldn’t do this to me,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you hand the phone back to Kika. The words feel hollow, like a promise that was never meant to be kept.  

You turn on your heel, your feet carrying you toward the motorhome before your mind can catch up. Kika follows close behind, her steps hurried and anxious.  

“Y/N, wait—what are you going to do?” she asks, her voice laced with worry.  

“I’m going home,” you say, the words final, absolute. “Tell Charles I had an emergency. Or don’t tell him anything at all. But I’m not staying here for another second.”  

Kika reaches for your arm, her touch gentle but insistent. “Let me come with you. I’ll make sure you get home safely.”  

You shake your head, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Pierre’s going to be looking for you. You don’t have to worry about me.”  

You step into the motorhome, your movements quick and mechanical as you gather your things. Kika watches from the doorway, her expression torn between concern and helplessness.  

“Thank you, Kika,” you say softly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “For everything.”  

Before she can respond, you’re gone, disappearing into the chaos of the paddock. Kika stands there, frozen, as she watches you walk away—your figure growing smaller and smaller until you vanish from sight.  

The noise of the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the hollow echo of your footsteps. You don’t look back.  

-

The press conference with the podium finishers is winding down, the atmosphere in the room relaxed as the moderator announces the final questions. Charles sits between Lando and Oscar, his smile easy but tired, the adrenaline of the race still buzzing faintly under his skin.  

Then, like a crack of thunder, a reporter shoots to his feet, his voice cutting through the calm.  

“Charles!” he shouts, not waiting to be called on. “Care to comment on the article that was just released minutes ago?”  

The room erupts into chaos. Reporters scramble for their phones, fingers flying across screens as they search for the article. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, growing louder with each passing second. Charles glances at Lando and Oscar, their faces mirroring his own confusion.  

“I’m sorry, what article?” Charles asks, forcing a chuckle, though his stomach twists with unease. He can’t imagine what they’re talking about, but the tension in the room is palpable.  

The reporter doesn’t hesitate. “Are you cheating on your girlfriend, Y/N?”  

The silence that follows is deafening. Every eye in the room locks onto Charles, every camera lens zooms in on his face. Even Lando and Oscar turn to him, their expressions a mix of shock and curiosity.  

Charles freezes, his mind going blank. The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His heart pounds in his chest, his thoughts racing in a thousand directions at once.  

Before he can gather himself, a Ferrari representative rushes the stage, their voice sharp and commanding. “We’re going to end right there. Thank you for your time!”  

The room explodes into noise as crew members swarm Charles, pulling him to his feet and ushering him toward the exit. Reporters surge forward, shouting questions, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and demands. Cameras flash, their blinding lights adding to the chaos.  

Charles stumbles as he’s pushed through the crowd, his mind spinning. He fumbles for his phone, desperate to see the article, but the noise around him is overwhelming. The questions keep coming, each one louder and more invasive than the last.  

“Charles, is it true?”  

“Who is the other woman?”  

“How long has this been going on?”  

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, his pulse racing as he’s hurried toward the Ferrari motorhome. The crowd follows, a relentless wave of voices and cameras that he can’t escape.  

When he finally reaches the motorhome, he bursts inside, his eyes scanning the room frantically. “Y/N?” he calls, his voice strained.  

The room is empty. His heart sinks, panic clawing at his chest.  

“She’s not here,” a voice says softly.  

Charles turns to see Kika standing in the doorway, her face pale and her expression grim. “I didn’t know what to do,” she admits, her voice trembling. “So I waited here for you, trying to figure out what to say.”  

“Where is Y/N?” Charles demands, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.  

Kika hesitates, her eyes filled with pity. “She said she was going home.”  

Charles stares at her, his mind reeling. “Home? What do you mean, home?”

Kika shakes her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Charles. I don’t know.  Do you know where home is for Y/N?”  

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He sinks into a chair, his hands trembling as he clutches his phone. The noise outside fades into the background, replaced by the deafening silence of his own thoughts.  

-

After hours of enduring a relentless lecture from Ferrari’s PR team, Charles is finally allowed to leave. The weight of the world feels crushing on his shoulders as he steps out into the cool night air. His mind races, trying to remember where home is for you. He knows you told him—back at the beginning of the season, right after you signed the contract agreeing to pretend to be his girlfriend.  

It was supposed to be a simple arrangement, a business deal. But that first day, after the ink had dried, you and him went on a little date—just to get to know each other. You shared many little details about yourself: where you were from, your favorite foods, the music you loved. He listened, but he didn’t commit it to memory. He didn’t think he needed to.  

Now, standing alone in the dimly lit parking lot, he curses himself for not paying closer attention. He should have remembered. He could have remembered. If he wanted to, he would have.   

When he reaches his car, he opens the passenger-side door, his body moving on autopilot. He stops, his hand frozen on the handle, as the reality hits him: you’re not here. You’re not sitting in the seat beside him, laughing at his terrible jokes or scrolling through your phone to find the perfect playlist.  

His chest aches, a sharp, hollow pain that makes it hard to breathe. He closes the door gently, as if you’re there sitting inside, and walks around to the driver’s side.  

As he slips into the car, he takes a deep breath, his eyes drifting to the empty passenger seat. For a moment, he can almost see you there—your smile, your hand resting on the console, your voice filling the silence with stories and laughter. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it forms, leaving him alone in the quiet.  

He starts the engine, the sound jarring in the stillness. He doesn’t remember to put on any music. You always did that for him. The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of your absence.  The drive to the hotel feels endless. His mind is elsewhere, replaying every moment he took for granted, every detail he failed to hold onto.  

When he finally pulls into the hotel parking lot, he sits there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel. The weight of his loneliness presses down on him, heavier than any race-day pressure.  He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t even know where to start.  

As Charles makes his way to his hotel room, his thoughts are consumed by you. The weight of the day, the accusations, the chaos—it all fades into the background as he imagines what he’ll say when he sees you. When he opens the door, the room is dark, but he can see a figure standing there, silhouetted against the faint light from the window.  

For a moment, his heart leaps. He thinks—no, he hopes—it’s you. That you’ve come back, that you’re standing there waiting for him, and that he can fix this. He hopes that home, for you, is with him.  

But as the figure steps forward, the hope shatters. It’s not you. It’s Alexandra.  

Charles doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. His shoulders slump, his face falls, and the breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes in a quiet, defeated sigh. The reaction is like a knife to Alexandra’s heart. She doesn’t need words to confirm what she already knows: it was never going to be her.  

“Alex,” Charles says softly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “What are you doing here?”  

He moves to walk past her, not sparing her another glance, but she stops him with her voice.  

“Did you ever love me, Charles?” Her words tremble, fragile and raw, as if they might break under the weight of her own fear. She needs to hear the truth from him, even if it destroys her.  

Charles freezes, his back still to her. He does love Alexandra. He loves her in a way that is unique to her, a way that is tender and real. In another lifetime, in another world, he might have been happy with her. But this isn’t that lifetime, and this isn’t that world.  

“I do love you, Alex,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He still doesn’t turn to face her. “Just… not in the way I love Y/N.”  

Alexandra’s breath hitches, a sob catching in her throat. “Why?” she asks, her voice breaking. “Why lead me on like this, Charles? Why let me fall in love with you when you knew you wouldn’t feel the same?”  

Charles finally turns to look at her, his heart aching at the sight of her tear-streaked face. The pain he’s caused her is written plainly in her eyes, and it cuts deeper than he expected.  

“I thought,” he begins, his voice faltering, “I thought you could stop me from falling in love with Y/N.”  

The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Alexandra stares at him, her chest heaving as she tries to process his words.  

Charles steps closer, his hands reaching up to gently cup her face. His thumbs brush away her tears, his touch soft and soothing. She leans into it, just for a moment, savoring the warmth of his hands one last time.  

“I didn’t mean to hurt you like this,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret.  

Alexandra pulls his hands away from her face, her own trembling as she holds them for a moment before letting go. “Goodbye, Charles,” she says, her voice steady despite the tears still streaming down her cheeks.  

She turns to leave, her steps slow and deliberate. But as she reaches the doorway, she pauses, her back to him. “I hope you get her back,” she says softly, her voice carrying a bittersweet finality.  

And then she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her.  

Charles stands there, alone in the silence, his hands still outstretched as if reaching for something—or someone—who’s no longer there.  

-

“Get up!” a voice barks, sharp and impatient, cutting through the fog of Charles’s hangover.  

His head pounds like a drum, each throb synchronized with the blinding sunlight streaming through the window. He groans, squinting against the assault of light, his mouth dry and sticky as he smacks his lips together. The events of last night are a blur—fragmented images and muffled sounds that refuse to connect into a coherent memory.  

“Get up already!” the voice shouts again, louder this time, coming from the foot of the bed.  

Charles rolls over, his body heavy and uncooperative, to see Pierre standing there, arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face. Charles doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he collapses back into the pillows, the plush mattress swallowing him whole.  

He hears Pierre scoff, the sound dripping with exasperation, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not until Pierre grabs him by the ankles and yanks him halfway off the bed.  

“What the fuck?” Charles snaps, his voice hoarse and ragged as he kicks out, trying to free himself. He glares at Pierre, his eyes bloodshot and wild.  

Pierre doesn’t let go. “I found Y/N.”  

The words hit Charles like a bucket of ice water. His exhaustion, his irritation, his pounding headache—it all evaporates in an instant. He sits up abruptly, his heart racing as he scrambles to his feet.  

“Where?” he demands, his voice sharp and urgent.  

“Andrea’s already getting the jet ready,” Pierre says, watching as Charles frantically rummages through the room, shoving clothes and belongings into a bag. “You’ve got an hour to get to the airport.”  

Charles’s hands tremble as he zips up the bag, his mind racing. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to you. He doesn’t know how you’ll react. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty: he needs to see you.  

His heart pounds in his chest, each beat a reminder of what’s at stake. He grabs his phone, his keys, his bag, and heads for the door, Pierre trailing behind him.  

“Charles,” Pierre calls after him, his tone softer now. “Don’t mess this up.”  

Charles doesn’t respond. He’s already out the door, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only: you.  

-

Charles stands in front of your door, his heart pounding in his chest. On the other side is you. You, with your sweet smile that lights up every room. You, with the music he’s come to love because it reminds him of you. You, with all your kindness, your patience, your unwavering love. He hopes that you can forgive him, that you can accept him, that you can love him the way he loves you.  

He knocks on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. He holds his breath, his hand trembling as he waits. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one heavier than the last. When the door finally opens, the sight of you hits him like a wave.  

You’re there, standing in the doorway, and for a moment, the world stops. The sight of you feels like the first light of morning breaking through the darkness. It feels like the first sip of a cold drink on a sweltering summer day. It feels like coming home.  

And then, just as quickly, it’s ripped away.  

You slam the door in his face.  

“Y/N,” Charles calls out, his voice desperate, raw. He presses his forehead against the door, his hand flat against the wood as if he can reach through it to you. “Please,” he begs, his voice cracking. “Please open the door.”  

His pleas make your heart ache, the sound of his voice tugging at something deep inside you. Against your better judgment, your feet carry you back to the door. You open it again, and the sight of him is like a punch to the gut.  

Charles looks like he’s walked through hell to get here. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale and drawn. His hair is disheveled, sticking out in every direction, and his clothes are wrinkled, as if he’s been wearing them for days. He looks broken, lost, and utterly exhausted.  

You don’t say a word as you step back, allowing him to enter your home. He walks in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The look he gives you isn’t the one you’ve come to love—the one filled with warmth and affection. This look is different. It’s sad, heavy with regret and pain and loneliness. It’s a look that makes your chest tighten.  

“Y/N,” he says your name softly, so gently it brings tears to your eyes. “I’m sorry.”  

“No,” you say, shaking your head as you turn away from him. “No, no, no.” Your voice breaks, and you wipe at the tears already spilling down your cheeks. “You don’t get to come here and say you’re sorry and expect everything to be forgiven.”  

You turn back to face him, your anger flaring. “You,” you say, pointing at him, your finger jabbing the air with every word as you step closer. “You told me you wouldn’t do this. You told me you wouldn’t make a fool out of me. You told me you wouldn’t let me look like some stupid little girl. You promised me, Charles.”  

Your voice cracks as you say his name, and the tears come harder. Charles doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it feels like he’s trying to hold you together. His warmth, his embrace—it feels like home.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your neck, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”  

You break down completely in his arms, your legs giving out as the weight of everything crashes over you. The two of you sink to the floor in the middle of your living room, Charles holding you as you cry. From the moment you saw the article, this is where you wanted to be—in his arms, safe and loved.  

But he’s not yours. He never was yours. And he will never be yours.  

The thought makes you push away from him, scrambling to your feet. Charles reaches for you instinctively, trying to pull you back, but you’re faster, putting distance between you.  

“What are you doing here, Charles?” you ask, your voice laced with disdain. “Shouldn’t you be with Alex?”  

“Why would I be with her?” he says, his voice steady but pleading. “I want to be with you.”  

He steps closer, his hands cupping your face. You lean into his touch despite yourself, not wanting to lose the warmth of his hands.  

“She’s your girlfriend, Charles,” you say, your voice hollow as you look at him but don’t really see him.  

“I broke it off with her,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  

“Why would you do that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re still not putting the pieces together, and Charles doesn’t know if it’s because you’re naive to his feelings or if you just need him to say it out loud.  

But he doesn’t mind. He’ll say it today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or ten years from now if he has to.  

“I’m in love with you, Y/N,” he says, his voice firm and unwavering. “I am madly in love with you. I don’t want anyone but you.”  

You shake your head, your eyes searching the room as if looking for a camera, for proof that this is just another act. “No, no,” you say, your voice trembling. “If you were in love with me, why did you go out with Alexandra?”  

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Because I was an idiot,” he admits, his voice heavy with regret. “I was too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”  

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, more tears falling from your eyes, this time for a completely different reason.  

“Because I was a coward,” he says, his voice breaking. “And I was weak. But if you’ll have me, I’m yours. Y/N, I am all yours. All of me belongs to you and only you.”  

This boy—this man—who you’ve fallen so deeply in love with is yours. He’s yours for the taking. He’s yours and yours only. He belongs to you.

-------------------

tags: @charlesgirl16 @janeh22

[flawdchaos]

Hiii! Could u write abt Oscar getting a crush on a girl that works at hospitality and he’s terrible at hiding it ? Thankssss

The Two of Us. ✷ Oscar Piastri

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Employee!reader

Summary: When he has a massive crush and never knows how to act when he’s around you.

Word Count: 2.1k

Disclaimer/s: Fluffff!!! AWKWARD!oscar…. teehee andddd reader works in f1 hospitality and all that jazz :3

Vera’s Voice! LOVEDDD this request thank u for submitting!!!!. personally my fave so far :’) hope u enjoy :3 SMIRK.

Oscar was terrible at hiding things.

He always had been, actually. Whether it was his nerves before a race, his tendency to overthink every decision, or, as it turned out, the fact that he had developed a massive crush on you.

You worked in F1 hospitality, handling the teams needs, making sure everything ran smoothly, always with a smile on your face.

Oscar often saw you rushing around during race weeks, organizing drinks, coordinating with the chefs, and generally keeping things running in perfect order.

He admired your ability to juggle it all while making it look effortless. But over time, his admiration had morphed into something far more complicated — something he couldn’t ignore.

And the worst part?

He was absolutely terrible at hiding it.

Oscar knew he was being obvious. He could feel his heart race every time you passed by. His palms would sweat, his words would get jumbled, and his eyes would follow you across the paddock like he was under some kind of spell.

He had tried to play it cool, to not let his feelings show, but every time you smiled at him or greeted him, it was like everything he had worked so hard for in his career flew out the window.

And today was no different.

It was an unusually quiet morning preparing for the upcoming practice sessions. The hospitality area was quiet, and Oscar, ever the over-thinker, had found his way to the coffee station.

His fingers drummed against the counter, eyes flicking from one side to the other, waiting for the perfect opportunity to speak to you.

He realized you were standing nearby, organizing some supplies, until you spoke up.

“Goodmorning, Oscar! Need a coffee?” You greeted and asked with a friendly smile, making him jump slightly.

He looked up, caught in the act of staring at you. “Uh—hi, Goodmorning.” He cleared his throat and smiled softly. “And y—yes, that’d be great,” His words stammered, trying to hide the fact that he’d been watching you.

You didn’t seem to notice. You were too focused on pulling the right kind of coffee for him, as always, completely unaware of the effect you had on him.

He couldn’t help but watch you work, amazed at how effortlessly you navigated the space, chatting with a few colleagues while still managing to prepare everything just the way everyone liked it.

Oscar, on the other hand, felt like he couldn’t even hold a conversation with you without tripping over his words.

He cleared his throat and smiled awkwardly when you handed him his coffee.

“Thank you,” He smiled, taking it from your hands with a bit too much eagerness. The warmth from the cup didn’t do much to calm the fluttering in his chest.

“No problem,” You said casually, but there was something in the way you glanced at him, as if you were trying to figure him out.

“Mm..” You hummed softly, analyzing him with narrowed eyes and a teasing demeanor but you were still clueless about the way he felt. You were just messing around. “You alright?“

Oscar froze, his heart skipping a beat. Did he really look that obvious? He immediately thought of the worst possible scenario — that everyone could tell how much he was crushing on you.

He forced a smile, trying to brush it off.

“Oh, yeah! Just tired. Got a long day ahead,” He said quickly, hoping to sound nonchalant. “You know how it is.”

You smiled again, that kind smile that made his stomach twist in a good way. “I hear you. Race weekends are always busy. You should take it easy when you can.”

Oscar nodded, but his eyes couldn’t stop flicking back to you. He knew he was being so obvious, but he didn’t know how to stop it. It was like there was some magnetic pull between you, and he was powerless to resist.

“You’re, uh... really good at what you do,” He said, immediately regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. His face heated up in embarrassment, and he fumbled with his coffee cup, trying to look like he wasn’t just blabbering on.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden compliment. “Oh, Thanks!” A soft and flattered giggle escaped your lips, clearly a little surprised. “I’m just doing my job.”

Oscar winced internally.

Why did he always sound so weird when he talked to you?

Before he could say anything else to dig himself into a deeper hole, a couple of other team members walked into the area, greeting you with familiar waves.

Oscar took the opportunity to retreat back to the McLaren garage, hoping he hadn’t completely embarrassed himself.

Later on, going into the early afternoon, the Aussie was casually lounging with his dearest teammate, taking a break from the madness of the day.

Lando, ever the curious one, knew about his Oscar’s little crush and had been sure to watch his reactions every race weekend.

The way he would suddenly stiffen up whenever you walked into the room, the way his eyes would lock onto you from across the paddock — it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

Oscar, as usual, was trying to act casual. He was sipping on his water, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking over to where you were standing, talking with some of the hospitality crew.

You were laughing at something someone had said, completely unaware that Oscar’s heart was about to leap out of his chest.

Lando, noticing this for the hundredth time, raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “So... how long are you gonna keep doing this?”

Oscar’s head snapped to him, his face flushing immediately. “What?”

Lando let out an exaggerated sigh and leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He chuckled. “Mate, you’ve got it bad.”

Oscar groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t have it bad,” He scoffed. “I’m just... I don’t know. It’s not like I can just walk up and ask her out.”

Lando snorted. “Are you twelve? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Oscar shot him a look. “Say no.. And then it’d be... weird?”

“Well, yeah, that’s possible,” Lando admitted. “But, seriously. What’s there to be afraid of? You’re a top performance athlete and you’re afraid of rejection?”

Oscar groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “This is completely different. This is personal.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his grin widening before he snorted, clearly amused. “You’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be. If you ask her out and she says no, it’s not the end of the world. But if you don’t try, you’ll never know. You can’t just keep staring at her from across the room forever.” He paused.

“And that’s just creepy.”

Oscar winced at the thought. “I’m not a stalker.”

“I’m just saying,” Lando shrugged. “You’ve got to at least try.“

Oscar’s face flushed, his nerves getting the best of him as he glanced over at you again, laughing with the hospitality team. He couldn’t help but feel the pull of wanting to ask, but his anxiety still held him back.

“I don’t know...” Oscar muttered, taking a deep breath. “What if she thinks I’m … I don’t know.. weird..”

Lando leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “You’re weird regardless.” He rolled his eyes.

“Ha. Thanks.” The Aussie sarcastically quipped.

“Just go for it, mate. Trust me, it’ll feel a lot better than holding onto it.”

Oscar’s eyes darted back to you again. Lando was right, wasn’t he? His whole body was practically buzzing with anticipation.

Lando was basically daring him to take the plunge. He had to admit, there was a part of him that was tired of waiting.

“Okay,” Oscar said, his voice low but determined.

Lando’s grin widened, satisfied. “That’s what I like to hear. Go and make your move, mate.”

Later, the evening eventually arrived, and the paddock slowly filled up with people winding down after a long day. Oscar found himself aimlessly wandering, still unsure how to make his move.

It was now or never.

He couldn’t just keep pining over you in silence.

As he walked past the team lounge, he saw you again, standing by the refreshments table, chatting with a couple of other crew members.

He stopped in his tracks, his palms suddenly sweating. He had promised himself he’d do it tonight, but the closer he got, the more his courage wavered.

You looked over and saw him standing there, looking like he was about to hyperventilate, so you waved him over after your colleagues parted their ways.

“Evening, Oscar!” You smiled as he approached your beverage cart. “Need anything?”

He blinked, panicking. This was it. He had to do it now.

“Hi,” He stammered, stepping closer. “Um. Can I... can we actually talk for a minute?”

You gave him a puzzled but polite smile. “Uh.. Yeah sure, what’s up?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but for some reason, the words just wouldn’t come. He felt like he was about to melt into a puddle of awkwardness right in front of you.

He cleared his throat.

Just ask her, Oscar. Come on.

“I’ve been thinking,” He began, his voice coming out much higher than he intended. “And I just—well, I thought it’d be nice if you and I went out sometime.” He briefly paused.

“You know, like, for dinner. Just the two of us.”

You blinked at him, tilting your head as you processed his words.

He could tell you were trying to figure out if he was joking.

And honestly?

He wasn’t sure either.

But he had already said it, and now there was no turning back.

Your smile softened, but there was a hint of confusion in your eyes. “You mean, like a date?”

Oscar's heart was pounding in his chest. His throat felt dry, and all he could do was nod awkwardly.

“Yeah, um... yeah. Like a date,” He mumbled, wishing the floor would just swallow him whole.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while now. But, I’m... I’m not great at this stuff.”

There was a long pause.

Oscar's palms were sweating, and he was sure his face was bright red. He was pretty sure he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and he could’ve sworn he was going to faint right then and there.

You blinked a few times, and then your lips curled into a slow, surprised smile.

And then, you giggled.

Oscar’s eyes widened. It wasn’t the teasing laugh he’d feared. No, it was sweet. It was genuine. The kind of laugh that made his heart race even more.

“You’re asking me out?” You asked with a quiet, sweet laugh, clearly taken aback.

“Y-yeah, I... I know this is probably a little awkward,” He admitted, feeling himself sink deeper into the ground. “But, I do like you. A lot.”

You blinked at him, and then your cheeks flushed as you took a step back. “Oh my God, Oscar,” You whispered softly, still giggling. “I had no idea! I thought you were just being... well, you know, your usual kind self.”

Oscar’s heart nearly stopped. “Wait, you... you didn’t realize?”

“No,” You said with a laugh, almost shy now. “I had no clue.”

Oscar let out a nervous laugh of his own, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I’m not as smooth as I thought.”

You smiled warmly. “I am just a bit oblivious…” And there was a soft gleam in your eyes as you met his gaze. “But! This is... really sweet. I didn’t expect this. I think it sounds great.”

Oscar’s heart did a somersault. “So... you’d... go out with me?”

You laughed again, the sound sending a wave of warmth through him. “Of course I would. It sounds like it’ll be fun.”

His grin widened, and before he could even process it, he found himself letting out a small, relieved laugh. “Alright, then. I can text you and we can figure it out.”

You smiled back at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Looking forward to it.”

Oscar stood there for a moment, utterly dazed.

He had done it.

He had actually done it.

And you’d said yes.

It was the best feeling in the world.

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ & please lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list!!!

extra vera’s voice! ALSO A BIG YIPPEEEE for 200 followers :3333 THANKUUUUUU!!

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[flawdchaos]

pairing: oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader, lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: the f1 season is starting and y/n finds herself caught between new hobbies and old feelings

warnings: SMAU (no written parts), swearing, mature themes, suggestive jokes, mild angst, references to food habits, use of y/n

previous part | masterlist | next part

a/n: oh nooo nurse they're talking about their feelings again help me!!! also, I cannot stress this enough: this is purely a fanfic! none of this is real! it’s all made up for fun and storytelling purposes! while these are real people, the story is 100% fictional! this chapter does touch on some sensitive topics, so keep that in mind as you read 💕

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liked by ynfewtrell and 798,868 others

oscarpiastri Break was fun ☀️ Now back to work!

view all comments

user THE LAST PIC????

user yn’s literally living my dream life!!!

user FR like dating oscar and being besties with lando? what in the wattpad fanfic

mclaren Looks like a great break 🧡

user they’re not even trying to be subtle anymore 😭😭

user everybody knows...

user I bet she’ll be in the paddock soon!

user he didn't tag her but we all know who's that 🕵️

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TAGLIST: @harrysdimple05 @milkysoop @charlesgirl16 @wosof1 @illicitverstappen @back-on-my-bullsh @revrse @skepvids @piastrams @a-beaverhausen @l-vroom4 @wildflowerhuggy @meglouise00 @formulaal @smithieandy @sltwins @awritingtree @colmathgames2 @org12 @alice-went-away @grovelingmen @taasgirl @anotherapollokid @d3kstar @gnarlycore @leclercdream @skeleton-elly @verstappensrealwife @seonghwaexile @hellowgoodbye @samantha-chicago @delululeclerc @5sospenguinqueen @riverxsq @s0meth1ngs @silentreader128 @cheer-bear-go-vroom @sarahsobsession @raweceekk @willowsnook @nxlx96 @saythename-sm @lesliiieeeee @landopoet @blushmimi @neferaskingdom @oikarma @mayax2o07 @obxstiles @speeedybaby

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

[flawdchaos]

free fallin’ — lando norris

requests are open! send me anything!! [nav | inbox]

a/n: hope you enjoy my first lando fic!! i’m going to try really hard to not have this be too similar to other fics 🫣 please reblog if you enjoy <3

content: fake dating, famous!reader, cheating scandal, misinformation, reader is implied to have a drinking problem

twitter

the replies

instagram

celebritynewsofficial just posted!

liked by user8, user 9 and 254,853 others

celebritynewsofficial ✓ HERE THEY ARE! Paparazzi photos from last night of Jackson Edwards and Y/n L/n kissing outside of a bar in the streets of London. Neither’s management team have responded to us asking for any comments on the situation. Our thoughts go out to Sophia Roth, Edwards’ fiancée.

tagged: @/yourusername, @/jacksonedwards

53,735 comments…

user10 tagging them both is FOUL

user11 y/n looks so out of it in these

user12 frfr she can barely stand up

user13 do you not remember that article last year where a ‘close source’ revealed that she had a drinking problem??

user14 well at least their film will be getting a lot of publicity 💀

user15 DAMN i forgot about that!!

user16 they haven't even finished their press tour 😭 i’m honestly looking forward to the next set of interviews they do

user17 @/yourusername homewrecker

user18 what a good day not to be on y/n’s pr team

user19 you couldn't pay me enough money to defend her

user20 finally! can we stop pretending she’s perfect now?

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tadaaaaa!!! i hope you enjoyed this <3 she’s my baby!!

if you want to be added to the taglist, just lmk!! (tagging people on my other taglists just bc i don’t have a lando one atm <3)

lando taglist; @llando4norris @mharmie-formula1 @mixedribbons @tallrock35 @mel164 @awritingtree @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @sheslikeacurse @futuref1-wag @tinyhrry @lokideservesahug @ricciardonut @sumlovesjude @emryb @ems-alexandra @pausmoon @dear-fifi @silkenthusiasts @yesmanbabe @hwalllllllelujah @saachiep81 @sunlithearts @spanishcorndogs @gr1mes-cc @yukiotadako @evie-119 @kissesandmartinis @thebookbakery @merchelsea @booksandflowrs @sinfully-yoursss @gigigreens @alilstressyandlotdepressy @itsss4t4n @agmoon03 @poppysrin @pastrymechanic @pastryfication @elizabethenjoys @m3ntally-unstable @papayadays @milkysoop @hadesnumber1daughter @sid-is-gr8 @noeasayys @chris-evanslover @linnygirl09

[flawdchaos]

Thinking about george as a husband now 😭😭

For some reason in my head when it gets to the time where they’re considering having a baby, george is the one who brings it up and wants it first, he’s the one dropping hints and talking about it while his wife is just living her life 😭😭

this turned into some angst... unsure why but enjoy!

"i found a new desk for you."

"i don't need a desk?" george questions, looking over his shoulder to see his wife leaning up against the doorframe to their spare room, his editing for a new youtube channel video going forgotten about on his laptop once her voice broke the silence he was sitting in, "i have one right here."

"i thought we could redecorate in here," she suggests, arms folded over her chest and her eyes wandering from where he was sat in his revolving chair to the empty space around him. the bare walls white and bright once the sunlight filtered through the window, the carpet still looking brand-new and untouched, not a single piece of furniture to give it an office-feel. "it's quite boring for you, no?"

"i figured we could use this room for something else," he admits softly and he pushes his feet into the carpet to push himself out from under his desk, turning in the seat to face her properly, "two bedrooms and all. one for us, one for... i don't know, one for a baby, maybe."

"a baby?"

he nods shyly and she stares at him, eyes wide and her mouth gaped open, her mind going blank for a response to his admission.

they'd only been married for less than six months and they'd only just moved into a brand new building; where they'd lived in her flat for the majority of their engagement, they wanted something completely brand-new. something that had both of their names on the lease and had both of their names on the bills.

"babe, did you-"

"i heard you," she interrupts him and he gulps back the thick lump that was forming in his throat, "george, i-"

"you're not ready, i know. i'm just saying," he stands from his chair and walks over to stand in front of her, "in the future, i mean. when it does happen, and we do end up having a baby, it's a good idea to just be prepared."

"but, i don't know right now," she sighs heavily, "of course, i want to have babies with you. have mini clarke's running around. but we're still young, george. we've got the rest of our twenties to think about having a family."

"i know," he smiles softly, bringing his hands to cup her face in his palms, "i'm just telling you i'm ready. i'm waiting. whenever you want a baby, i'm game."

"okay," she nods, tilting her head into the touch of his left hand, his thumb brushing soft strokes across her cheek, "but we can't leave the room with just a desk and a chair in here, george. we should, at least, add a some new furniture or something. it still feels brand new and we've been here for three months already."

"show me this desk then," he snickers softly.

and that's that for the conversation.

and george didn't want to dwell on the topic anymore knowing what he feelings were towards the next step of their relationship. he was willing to wait until she was ready, willing to talk about their options if she wasn't, willing to stand by her side as she figures her own life out as well as the life they were building together.

but sometimes, all he wants to do is talk about his future.

with the wife of his dreams, someone he loves and someone who can understand him in ways others can't, he was the happiest man in the world. the smile on his face looked like it could split him in two when he realised he got to go home to her at the end of the day. knowing he gets to hold her whenever he wants to give her a hug and to kiss her whenever he wanted a cheeky kiss in passing. making dinner for her when she's had a long day and starting his day with a breakfast made by her. getting to see her walk through the door in the evenings and getting to hear her drop her keys into the bowl on the side table once she arrived back from work. getting to cuddle on the sofa as re-runs of their favourite shows play on the television.

it was the life he had envisioned.

but deep down, of course, he wanted a baby.

-

"so, george," max starts off, watching as his useless hotline co-host took a sip of his drink from the mug in his hand, "we're nearing a year since the wedding. how on earth has it gone that fast?"

"i don't remember you at the end of the altar in the wedding dress," george retorts with a hint of sarcasm dripping from his mouth and he snickers softly at the swift middle finger thrown in his direction from the blonde-haired boy opposite, "but yes. it's been nine months. gone too fast, honestly. i'd do anything to go back to that day."

"it was a gorgeous ceremony," max says, resting his elbows on the desk beneath him and resting his chin on his hands, "i doubt you had anything to do with that."

george snorts and shakes his head in his direction.

"i did, thank you very much," he insists, "i helped choose our venue. i chose the colour scheme and i chose what flowers we had for each person in our wedding parties. with some guided assistance by yn but she let me choose the final part."

and it was true.

yn was impressed at how he had taken an interest in everything they needed to plan for their wedding day; everything except the wedding dress which she refused to let him know anything about. a stickler for the superstitions that came with getting married and he was more than okay with that. she loved how involved he had been, how much he listened and how he had everything planned out in his head... she was, at least, excepting herself to do a lot of the organising but felt a huge weight lifted off her shoulders when he offered his own ideas to help ease her mind.

it was their day and he wanted it to feel like it.

"is there any talk of babies yet? we can only hope that there are mini-yn's running around instead of mini-george's," max cackles and all george can muster is a roll of his eyes, "is that a roll of the eyes at the question or at me?"

"at you," george says with no hesitation, a smirk on his lips, "we've touched on the subject briefly. yn just wants to enjoy being young and free, enjoy us as a married couple, enjoy our twenties before we get tied down with babies and the responsibility of raising someone in this world."

"but what about you?"

"what about me?"

"you said yn wants to enjoy life right now but what about you?" max asks and george feels his cheeks heat up, telling himself to blame it on the lights and the heat of the room if anyone picked up on the matter, "i'm surprised you didn't knock her up on your honeymoon."

"i mean," george shrugs and sits back in his chair, bringing the mic with him as he moved further from the tabletop, "we did a lot of practicing on the honeymoon, anywhere and any chance we had, if you get my drift," he laughs loudly and max pulls a face of disgust, "no, i'd love kids. i'd love a baby, of course i would. a little bit me and a little bit of yn mixed into one human being. it's a dream."

"but?"

"but nothing," george insists, "like i said, we're just finding our feet in the world of marriage, it's only been nine months, so we want to take time in creating a family."

"uh-huh," max nods slowly, dropping the subject there and then to save any awkward conversations later on, "practicing is just as fun as the real thing, anyway. once you have a baby, it all stops."

"like you'd know," george retorts and max covers his heart with his hand, "anyway..."

-

the tension in their flat was thick enough to suffocate them.

when he'd come home from a chrismd video shoot down at the local 3g football pitch, for a football video that would go out on his channel in the near future, he was met with the silent treatment from his wife. confused and unsure of what he'd done, he tried to coax it out of her but to no avail... until she burst on him when she couldn't contain her emotions for much longer.

"you just need to talk about it, don't you?"

"talk about what?"

"you just can't drop the fact that i don't want a baby right now, can you?" her voice is thick with anger, her cheeks bright red and her eyes were dark and he honestly wanted the ground to swallow him whole so he didn't have to look at her. "what don't you understand about my feelings, george?"

"i understand you clearly," he responds only to receive a scoff back in his face and it was evident to him that she'd listened to the newest podcast episode that was scheduled for release that day, "what?"

"i told you how i felt, three months ago, george. i told you i wanted to wait to have kids, i told you we had the rest of our twenties to figure everything out, i told you i wanted to live my life without any heavy responsibilities," and he noticed that when she was angry, she used her hands to accentuate her words, his eyes focusing on the way her fingers scrunched up and how she pointed her pointer finger at him everytime she referred to him, "but you speak about it on the podcast and think i'd be okay with that?"

his gulps are thick as he tries to find the right words to say... although he knew, in that moment, anything he said was going to be ignored.

"i'm not okay with that," she grumbles heavily, shaking her head at him and he felt a pain in his chest like a knife had pierced through his ribs, "it's private information, george. our private life. we spoke about this."

"max asked me-"

"you could have ignored the question, told him you wanted to keep that to yourself," the tea-towel in her hand got thrown on the island in the middle of their kitchen area after she'd finished drying off her wet hands and her feet padded across the floor of their open-plan front room, in the direction of the dining table where she'd laid out plates and cutlery for their dinner, "why are you making me out to be a bad person?"

"i'm not-"

"you are!"

"please don't shout at me when i have no idea what's going on," he tells her and he can see her pause for a moment before continuing to clear up the dinner table, "what are you doing? dinner's done soon."

"i'm eating in the bedroom," she mumbles lowly, "i don't want to sit at the table and look at you right now. i'm angry with you."

"okay," he admits defeat, his words full of remorse and upset, and as toes off the trainers on his feet, he swears he can hear her mutter something beneath her breath but he couldn't bear to bring himself to ask what, "call me when dinners done. i've got some work to do so i'll be in the office most of tonight."

she hums in response and he bends over to pick his trainers up from the floor, walking into the entryway of their home and setting them down on floor beside her work shoes, and it kills him to walk away from her when all he wants is to work things out and argue until both of them are blue in the face. he can hear the gentle intakes of breath as she tries to calm herself down and he takes one last glance at her, as she rounds the island and steps back in front of the oven, and he can feel his stomach aching from the guilt that was building up.

he never meant to upset her.

he didn't think he said anything wrong... but it dawned on him how it may have sounded to her. how his words came out with the intention of answering the question as bluntly as possible without giving away their own private talks and could have been taken the wrong way by yn and how she felt targeted with the topic.

but for now, as much as he wanted to apologise, they needed a bit of time apart for the night

-

he's deep in thought when he hears a knock on the door.

his eyes were stinging from the bright light of the laptop screen that sat open before him and his hand was cramping from the way he was holding his pen tight in his hand, his notebook full of scribbles about upcoming video ideas he could do for his channel and who he wanted as a guest on each one, the silence being so comforting that he was knocked out of his distant look once the sound had disrupted him.

"george?"

he looks over his shoulder and sees yn standing in the doorway. one of his t-shirts hanging down her figure, a pair of tube socks on her feet to keep her toes warm, and a knitted blanket tucked around her shoulders and dragging across the floor behind her. in the bright light of the screen illuminating the room, he can see her wet cheeks and he feels his heart break.

"i'm sorry," he whispers softly and she shakes her head, "no, baby. i am. i should have just dropped the subject when you told me how you felt."

"no, i shouldn't have overreacted earlier."

he turns in his chair and sets his pen down on his notebook, giving his thighs a pat as an invitation for her to come and sit down with him, smiling warmly when she accepted his offer and walked towards him. enveloping her in a tight hug and adjusting himself in his seat as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and curls up on his lap.

"you have feelings, just as much as me," she admits, bringing a hand up to tickle her fingers across his cheeks, "you understood how i felt so i need to understand how you feel."

"but it's a big life decision and i should respect your feelings more," he says and she frowns, "besides, i'm not the one who has to go through all the changes with a pregnancy. i won't be one to develop a bump, i won't go through the emotional changes, i won't have to actually give birth to the baby and deal with the pain. that's all you."

there's a comfortable silence that lingers in the air and she sighs just to break it.

"i know how badly you want a baby," yn admits, "and i do want babies with you, george. not just one but four. there's nothing i want more. but, right now, we have so much of our life to live together. lots we can do before we have a little one running around, so many places to go and see. don't take me not wanting a baby right now as me not wanting babies at all. i want a baby george running around."

"i know," he presses a kiss to her forehead and lets his lips linger on her skin, "i want to enjoy us a little more, too."

"i'm sorry for my outburst," she hides her face in the crook of his neck and he shakes his head softly, "i was just... scared, i guess."

"i'm not going anywhere, little rascal," he murmurs into her hair, "you are stuck with me, i'm afraid."

"there's scarier people in the world to be stuck with," she jokes and looks up at him, his mouth dropping open, "i'm kidding." xx

[flawdchaos]

Hi, could you please write a little something about george looking after his girlfriend while she's ill? Xx

i am such a sucker for soft boyfriend looking after ill girlfriend :')

whatever he had planned, it was dropped.

except he never told her that he cancelled his work schedule or any of his upcoming video shoots that he was due to film because he knows her like the back of his hand. he knew, deep down, how much she was going hate being the reason that he stopped working just to take care of her when, really, she could do it herself.

'i need to cancel our dinner date with max and andrew tonight, not well at all. don't come and see me as i'm just gonna sleep all day and look like a mess. love you. <33'

george cancels on her behalf. informing max that they could move the date to another night and that he wasn't sure what was wrong with her but that it must have been something terribly bad if she was cancelling plans and had added on that she didn't want to see her boyfriend in the state she was in.

except, george doesn't always listen.

and its time like when she was sick where he was thankful he had a key to her flat amongst the keys on his keyring. arriving at her door with an abundance of bags filled with tablets and medicines, dry crackers and packs of biscuits, and whatever trinkets he could grab from the tiny supermarket shop at the entrance of her flat complex so he was prepared for any kind of sickness.

"i know you asked not to see me but i wasn't doing anything today in regards to work and i couldn't leave you here by yourself," his voice fills the quiet space of her home and he waits for her to make herself known before he unpacks the bags for her, "babe?"

when she doesn't appear after a couple of minutes, he feels guilt low in his stomach - he forgot she may have been trying to sleep off whatever had struck her and he was suddenly more aware of how loud he had been upon his entrance. he toes off his trainers and sets them beside her front door, sets the keys down quietly on the side table and leaves the bags in her kitchen before he goes on a look for her around her home.

she wasn't on the sofa; her living room hadn't seemed to be touched and her tv remotes were left where she would normally leave them the previous night, the blanket was still draped over the back of the sofa and there was no dip in the cushions to signify that someone had been sat there recently.

she wasn't in her office; he wasn't expecting her to be working, at all, but it was a much cooler room in her home since it was facing away from the sunshine and she had a fairly comfortable sofa to lounge on.

she wasn't in her bedroom; except he could tell she had taken refuge there for the majority of the day because her sheets were still messy and ruffled and her pillows looked laid upon, a glass of water on her bedside table and a mop bucket down by her side of the bed which she must have kept there in case she couldn't make it from the bed.

his next guess was her en-suite and as he poked his head around the doorframe, he was met with her eyes closed and leaning against the side of the bathtub with a sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. his t-shirt, which he had given to her when she first stayed the night at his place, loose on her figure and it swallowed her up and he just wanted to scoop her up and put her to bed so she was more comfortable.

"i know you're looking at me," she grumbles lowly, cracking an eye open and staring at him through one eye, "i said not to come over. i don't know if this is a contagious thing or not."

"i'll be fine," he waves his hand in her direction as if he was brushing off the comment and he steps into the room, reaching over to flush the toilet from the contents inside, "how long have you been here for?"

she shrugs before taking a deep inhale, exhaling slowly, and she stretches out her legs to rid the pins and needles feeling tingling at her toes. she feels george sit down beside her and she can't help but lean towards the body heat radiating off his body, his arm sneaking around her shoulder and pulling her into his side.

"just feeling sick?"

"just feeling a bit icky. woke up feeling weird, breakfast didn't stay too long in my belly, can't really keep anything down."

"maybe it's a viral thing?" george wonders and he reaches for a wet flannel to dab across her forehead and to clear her face a little, "chris went down with something a couple of weeks ago, seen a lot of stuff saying people are going down with a sickness bug."

"just my luck to get it."

george laughs softly and sets the flannel down on the side of the tub, removing his arm from her shoulder and standing to his feet, holding his hands out for her to take and pulling her slowly to her feet. letting her get some stability before he lead her back to the bedroom so she could get comfortable in bed.

"i brought some crackers and biscuits if you're hungry and want to try and eat something," george suggested and she shook her head, settling herself down in bed and pulling the duvet over her body, "i'll leave them in the kitchen for you, okay? they're there if you want them."

"thank you," she smiles softly and he climbs onto the bed, careful not to jostle her too much, laying down beside her and cosying under the covers, "love you."

"i would kiss you but," he looks her and she rolls her eyes, "i love you too. get some sleep. i'll be here when you wake up." xx

[flawdchaos]

Unwanted Surprises

george clarke x reader blurb

tw - mentions of blood, period, implication of sex

authors note : i haven’t written for the chaos crew before but have been a fan for a while! i fell down a rabbit hole and absolutely adored all of @live-laugh-lenney ‘s work and was inspired to write my own. not my best work and it’s a tad bit self indulgent but i just imagine george being the sweetest partner during the rough moments of the month. enjoy!

the soft pattering of the rain and rumbles of thunder were enough to rouse george from his sleep. 12:43 pm read on the clock beside the bed. the tour had just finished the night prior and waiting for him at his london flat was yn, a homemade candlelit meal and his favorite beer. he had missed her, and her him, and he made sure to show her in every way that he could. her busy schedule with work and uni kept her from attending any shows and he wanted to make up for lost time with dinner dates, pub nights, and more.

but when he rolled over to pull her to his warm body, he spotted the small red patch on the sheets and the pair of his boxers she had stolen from the floor after last nights escapades. he couldn’t help but frown, knowing the next week would be hell for her. creeping from the bed and to the en suite he decided a hot bath, filled with some lavender bath soak would be the best way for her to start her day and quickly busied himself with the task.

the absence of george beside her under the duvet was enough to wake her up, rolling over and arms searching the bed for any hint of him. “george?” she called out, noticing the light filtering in from the bathroom. he quickly poked his head from the door. “yes, love?” he quipped. “what are you doing out of bed?” she pushed herself up to lessen the space between them. “thunder woke me up.” he shrugged. “and what about the bath?” she asked, arms stretching above her head. “it’s for you.”

he sat down in from of her, placing a timid kiss against her forehead. he has scared to embarrass her though she had no reason to be. he knew she had been so caught up in uni and work and helping him with tour that she had just simply forgot. he knew her periods were unforgiving, usually leaving her curled up in bed for days. he’s found her countless times with hot water bottles and pain relievers surrounding her trying her best to find some sort of relief. the final straw for him was taking her to A&E a few months back when she’d stood up from the couch to shower and passed out right in front of him, head barely missing the glass table all because of low iron levels. from then forward, his mission has been to make each month as easy and pain free for her as possible.

by this time, the dull ache settling in her stomach had become noticeable for her and her head fell back in annoyance. “you’ve got to be fuckin’ jokin’ me.” she groaned, glancing down at the bed below her. “not on the brand new white sheets.” “i’ll do the washing, darling. you just worry about getting in the bath.” he said, leaning forward to kiss her lips and tutting her up towards the bathroom. he busied himself quickly, stripping the sheets and duvet from her double bed and throwing them in the wash while readying some pain relievers and a cup of tea, as well, which he promptly delivered to her in the bathroom.

between the weather, his exhaustion from tour and yn’s period a lazy day was more than needed. knowing her appetite would be low, he gathered some crisps and other light snacks, plenty of blankets and her favorite candle and moved to the living room. he lost track of time watching a football match until he heard her quietly padding across the room, an old jumper of his swallowing her frame. she stood in front of the sofa and took a moment to curl herself tightly against his body, quickly switching the heated blanket on and grabbing her book from the coffee table. her face was pressed against his chest as she mumbled, “thank you for this mornin’ hun. i love you dearly.” a soft laugh left his body and he turned to pull her head up to him for a kiss. “anything for you my love.”

[flawdchaos]

i am so seated for pt 2 🤩

wanna be yours 2.0 // ln4 social media au // part one

pairing: lando norris X american!reader / mclaren photographer!reader and slight pato o'ward X reader

warnings: swearing

summary: a remix of my fic wanna be yours in social media au form. or basically lando and the reader both being in love with each other but being too stubborn and scared to say anything so they suffer in silence until one finally crumbles.

contains: best friends to slight strangers to lovers, pining, angst, jealous!lando, asshole!lando, clueless!lando, and perhaps a little lando or pato? situation.

masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

may 5th, 2024

liked by landonorris, y/bsf, oscarpiastri and 100,000 others

y/n.jpg: miami baby! i think the guy in the second pic won some kind of race involving super fast cars but i could be wrong.

landonorris: who is that guy???? he's really good looking...

↳ y/n.jpg: i think his name is lando onewin.

↳ landonorris: bye. that doesn't even work.

user1: you always take such good pics of lando.. thank u queen

user2: lando always being the first to comment. dude's down bad lol

y/bsf: the kids miss you. please come home.

may 6th, 2024

may 8th, 2024

may 9th, 2024

liked by landonorris, mclaren, patricooward and 200,000 others

y/n.jpg: back at the mtc today for a very special reason! everyone was there to celebrate my amazing photography skills and editing on all the pictures from the season so far! lando was even kind enough to show up with a trophy to give to me! i love my job <3

in all seriousness. could not be more proud of you lando!!! it's been a long time coming, but we both know it's only the beginning!

landonorris: that awkward moment when you tried to take the trophy from me....

↳ y/n.jpg: DON'T SAY THAT PEOPLE ARE GONNA THINK IT'S TRUE.

↳ landonorris: i'll make sure they engrave the next one with your name too.

↳ y/n.jpg: ok but as long as my name is listed first.

mclaren: our favorite photographer ❤️ -liked by author

user1: ok but where is y/n's trophy fr??? she's hands down one of the best photographers in the game rn.

user2: y/n and lando you are so dear to me

user3: pato in the likes??

↳ user4: y/n used to work for arrow mclaren before working for mclaren f1. also pato is literally the reserve driver for f1 this season... honestly the web that is y/n, lando, and pato intertwines so much it's kinda crazy...

may 11th, 2024

may 14th, 2024

y/n.jpg added to their story

landonorris replied to your story

↳ WHY WOULD YOU POST THAT??? IT'S MORE THAN A JUMPSCARE!

oscarpiastri replied to your story

↳ why do you always catching me folding in front of lando like that :/

may 15th, 2024

may 19th, 2024

liked by y/bsf, oscarpiastri, patricooward and 100,000 others

y/n.jpg: imola 2024.

y/bsf: best photographer in the world. i love you!!! -liked by author

user1: not even a pic of lando's car.... oh no :/

user2: no funny caption... no lando like or comment... guys we are in the trenches

user3: we love you y/n! -liked by author

may 21st, 2024

y/n.jpg added to their story

landonorris replied to your story

↳ what the hell?

[flawdchaos]

ON AIR; op81 [smau]

nav | inbox (open) | main masterlist

a/n: I 👏 WANT 👏 INTERVIEWER!READER 👏 TO 👏 BE 👏 A 👏 SERIES 👏 (please pretend you want it too)

cw/tw: none!! oscar piastri my favourite baby <3

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

twitter

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

oscar taglist (lmk if you want to be added); @llando4norris @apollosfavkiddo @mharmie-formula1 @mixedribbons @formula1-motogpfan @yesmanbabe @tallrock35 @mel164

[flawdchaos]

the black dog | ln

the one where you watch your ex boyfriend walk into some bar called the black dog.

lando norris x gender-neutral!reader

word count: ~1.9k

warnings: angst!!!!, happy ending so fluff as well, brief discussion of bad mental health, lando is a bit of a prick at some point, exes to lovers, one sexual innuendo (?)

note: based on this request and obviously the black dog by taylor swift. this is one of my favorite taylor songs EVER i got so excited when i got this request. i also love a good angsty, heart-breaking fic so giving this a happy ending was a bit harder than it should’ve but i hope you enjoy it!

“stop that,” you softly cooed, your hands cupping his cheeks to try and make him look at you.

the past few weeks had been harsh on him, and you could feel how every self-deprecating comment just made him drown deeper into his own head. you just wanted the best for him.

he didn’t answer. instead, he looked away again, trying his best to avoid your gaze at all costs.

“it’s just been a bad weekend, baby. next one will be better,” you added.

“stop with the optimistic bullshit,” he rudely said before you could add anything else to try and cheer him up.

you knew he was angry —rightfully so —after missing on a potential win only a few days before, but you couldn’t just sit and watch him bring himself down anymore.

“it just hurts to see you like this,” you mumbled.

“it’s hurting you?” he snapped, his tone accusing. “why do you have to make everything about you, every single time?”

as his words escaped his lips, he gently pushed you off his lap, immediately getting up from the couch.

“i’m just saying…” you tried to explain, although his words hurt more than you would ever admit out loud.

“i don’t care what you’re saying,” he cut you off. “it’s always the same story with you. the world doesn’t fucking revolve around you, you know?”

your lips parted, intending to defend yourself, but no words left your mouth. not like lando would had let you speak, anyway.

“this is the last thing i need right now, i’m done here,” he grumbled.

you froze at the tone of his voice, not having heard him talking to you like that ever before. and you didn’t do anything to stop him when he picked up his jacket and walked to the entrance of your apartment, announcing his departure with a loud slam of the front door.

he just needed time, you told yourself.

but he didn’t call, and you didn’t wake up to a simple apology in your messages and him asking to see you as you were used to.

and it had been forty-two days since he had stormed out of your apartment and, unknowingly to you, vowed to never talk to you again.

and after six weeks of no contact, you still missed him.

lando had been more than just your boyfriend, he had been your best friend for as long as you could remember; he was there, in every little memory you had.

you had always been the first person he ran to whenever the smallest thing happened, and for the past few weeks you had to settle for watching his life go on without you through pictures and media outlets.

and as much as your friends tried to tell you that it would get better, every morning without him just got harder than the previous one; used to having his arms wrapped all around you and his curls tickling your neck, waking up in a cold bed was certainly something you weren’t quite fond of.

however, he seemed to be moving on.

that’s what you thought as you sat in the darkness of your room, the only light illuminating the space being the dim glow of your phone’s screen as you intently watched the small, blue dot moving on your screen.

he had forgotten to turn his location off.

like every weekend since the break up, you watched him walk into some random bar in a different city, piercing a new, deeper hole in your heart every time. and you couldn’t help but hope that they played your song each night, that even the smallest thing reminded him of you.

but instead, every morning you woke up to a new picture of him leaving the place with some girl wrapped around his arm, while you could barely wear your favorite clothes because they took you back to a memory you shared with him.

you didn’t understand how he didn’t miss you, how he could be doing so good without you by his side.

୨୧

it had never been his intention to walk out of your life that afternoon. but when the anger washed away, all he could feel was shame.

guilt, for how he had talked to you when all you wanted was to help. and he wasn’t sure he could ever look at you in the eyes without the feeling overfilling his senses. so, instead, he did what he knew best: he ran away.

and the only thing that could take you off his mind for some time was drowning his own pain in alcohol every weekend, end the night with some girl’s legs wrapped around him.

but that night, he froze as the first notes of your song started playing; the song that had started playing when you got in his car the first time he took you out on a proper date. and the upbeat music took him right back to that day.

he could still picture the sight of your teary eyes as you walked into his apartment after another failed date —the guy hadn’t even showed up; the sound of your sobs as you buried your face on his chest, looking for some comfort, still making his heart clench.

“you deserve better,” he had whispered into your hair, placing a soft kiss on top of your head. “someone who’s willing to give you everything.”

“i’m tired of searching,” you had simply mumbled, feeling hopeless after so many disappointments.

“maybe you don’t have to search for it,” he had said before he could even think about his words. “maybe it’s been right in front of your nose all this time.”

at the underlying confession of his words, you raised your head from his chest to look up at him.

“hm?” you hummed.

lando had always liked you; but he had also been scared of you not reciprocating his feelings, of your friendship being ruined by the love he had for you. however, he had been completely oblivious as to the way you had always looked at him.

but that time, he caught the glint in your eyes as his gaze met yours, and so he confidently asked:

“can i take you out on a date?”

he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he saw you crack a smile, relief washing all over him.

“i would love to,” you mumbled.

he smiled at your reply, his thumbs coming up to wipe the remains of your tears.

“tonight, then?” he softly kissed your cheek before you nodded and wrapped your arms around his frame, unknowing of how the turn your relationship would take after that night.

he looked down at the girl who was grinding herself against him, trying to ignore the memories flooding his mind; but her eyes didn’t sparkle the way yours did as the song played. and he knew she just wouldn’t get the jokes he was so tempted to make, the ones that would send you into a fist of laughter despite of the many times you had heard them before.

in short, she simply wasn’t you. and he knew he wouldn’t ever feel that way with someone else.

“excuse me,” he said, trying to push her away from him.

he made his way out of the bar pushing in between the sea of people, his phone clutched in his hand the second he stepped a foot outside.

he sighed as he looked at his screen, the cool air making him come back to his senses; he couldn’t just text you. not after ghosting you for over a month.

but he missed you, so what else could he do? how else could he apologize for what he did?

୨୧

you turned around in bed as you felt the room being illuminated again by the screen of your phone, a message interrupting your attempt to sleep.

your heart skipped a beat as you saw his contact picture, followed by a simple “are you up?”. you couldn’t believe your eyes, anxiety coursing through your veins as you stared at the message.

“you still have read receipts on”

“say something, please”

fuck, of course. and you had been staring at his text for five minutes straight.

“what?” you simply typed with shaky fingers; it was dry, yes, but you were still hurt about how things ended between the two of you.

his answer came almost immediately: “just wanted to apologize” it read.

but nothing could’ve prepared you for his next message, asking if he could come over instead of doing so over text.

you hesitated for a few minutes; you knew you shouldn’t, but you needed closure as well.

so, naturally, you accepted.

you anxiously padded around your house as you waited for him, biting your nails as you imagined every possible scenario that could happen. five. ten. fifteen minutes, and then you heard a knock on the door.

the door opened slowly, revealing the figure of your ex-boyfriend.

you stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind him and turning around with your gaze fixed on the floor. the silence was deafening,and the situation felt awkward.

“can i have some water?” lando tried to break the ice, his eyes fixed on you as you simply nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

when you came back only a few minutes later with two glasses on your hands, he had made himself comfortable. you walked to the couch and sat next to him, with a considerable distance between the two of you.

“i just…” he broke the silence again, his voice low and slightly nervous. you didn’t dare look at him yet, so you looked down at your lap, where you fidgeted with your fingers.

you heard him sigh as he chose his next words carefully.

“i never meant to hurt you, or ruin what we had,” lando started. “it was a few bad weeks, and i know i shouldn’t have, but i took it all out on you. and then i didn’t think i could even look you in the face after what i said.”

you looked up at him, your eyes starting to water as you took in his words.

“you could’ve just explained yourself, i would’ve understood,” you replied with a thin, vulnerable voice.

“i was ashamed of myself after the fight and i thought running away from all of it would be the best,” he said as his gaze met yours. “truth is i haven’t stopped thinking about you for a single minute all this time. i really miss you,” he almost whispered.

“i…” you stuttered.

“i get it if you can’t forgive me,” his voice broke mid-sentence.

“‘s not that,” you mumbled, a few tears running down your cheeks. “just wish it didn’t take you this long.”

you noticed his pained expression as he noticed the tears on your face, quickly whispering a soft “c’mere” as he opened his arms. you sighed and scooped next to him, letting his arms wrap around your frame in a comforting hug.

“i’m really sorry,” you heard him whisper into your hair before he planted a gentle kiss on top of your head. “i won’t leave again.”

“promise?” you murmured, snuggling closer into his embrace.

“promise, baby,” he answered in the same low voice.

you nodded slightly, your eyes fluttering close as you took in his scent and the way his grip on you tightened, an oath to never let you go again.

[flawdchaos]

MR. PIASTRI?

i had to sit my phone down at work and walk away. genuinely had to take a moment to collect myself. maybe i’m late to this picture but jesus god almighty.

arms. abs. thighs. giggling and kicking my feet.

if a fic writer sees this, you should totally write a piece about oscar taking you out for a boat ride at the monaco pier to take these promo shots but some other activities take place where he wants you on your knees - maybe the helmet stays on

credits to the tiktok creator i swiped this picture from. @/nikka_piastri81 - thank you for blessing me.

[flawdchaos]

david malukas is so fucking adorable. he has me full on kicking and giggling my feet when i see his posts :’) he just exudes the energy of a fantastic cuddler. if anyone has any davey fic recs pls pls pls let me know