hoodpankow

[hoodpankow]

· · · · ♡ THREE BILLION GIRLS (YET I WANT YOU)

… starring carlos sainz x f!reader ... 9.5k words ... in which there are seven billion humans on earth, maybe three billion girls in the universe—but carlos sainz only loves one. ... soundtrack dans l'univers by nekfeu ft. vanessa paradis ... featuring angst, fluff, second chance romance, language, alcohol, lando norris & carlos sr. as supportive characters, suggestive content, one mention of smut, carlos dates other women (Not Cheating), thalassophobia (? there's one scene on a boat at sea), reader is some kind of space scientist (left vague). english is not my first language. ... author notes this fic is full of physics because physics is the secret poetry of the universe. a girl's gotta use her engineering degree somehow! requested by and dedicated to the talented brilliant showstopping @ivyquity ‹𝟹 MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

MERCURY.

SÃO PAULO, 2019.

Carlos wasn’t sure why he was reminded of the planets all of a sudden.

No evening could have been more different from this than the last time he’d seen the planets, though. The treacly heat of the nightclub, funk basslines snarling through the floor and into his ribs, the relentless procession of limbs twisting to the pulse; nothing of that other night remained. The planets had dissolved. And yet—

the tint of the lights, bleeding from mauve into wine into the deepest cosmic blue—

(What had she called them, those shimmering spectres of space? Redshifts? Blueshifts?)

—rays of false stars, tumbling from the ceiling and spinning at the edge of his vision…

Fucking hell. He looked down at the glass in his hand, where the liquor was swaying with him. No planets there. This was intoxication of a lesser kind. Mundane.

It should have been anything but, he thought, lips curled in a half-scorn. It wasn’t every day one partied in Brazil; not every day one earned a first podium in Formula One.

And it wasn’t every day one counted one hundred and eighty days since a breakup.

A face peeled from the blur of the crowd, eyes alight, lips drawn in the pull of laughter, and Carlos swallowed back the bile before it could rise to his throat. On anyone else, a joy so unchecked would’ve felt jarring, but he had learned young Lando’s agitation was to be received whole, not understood.

“Smoooooooth operatorrrrrrr,” the Brit slurred, wrapping a sweaty arm around his teammate’s neck. “How you doing, podium sitter?”

“Landooooo,” Carlos replied in the same sing-songy manner. “You abandoned me. You were out there… DJing.” Carlos wasn’t sure who was drunker now—him,  whose speech was definitely more accented and slurred than he’d imagined, or giggly Lando, for whom every accented and slurred word he spoke was the peak of hilarity. “What’s your problem?”

“That’s not even a word, mate, that’s… it’s mixing. Mixing,” he repeated, self-important.

“How about you mix your racing with some overtakes?”

“Arsehole.” As always, the swat he gave his stomach packed no punch, just affection. As always, Lando evaded Carlos’ chokehold to ruffle his hair, just barely, and the sudden doubling over had the Spaniard’s head spinning dangerously. No play fighting four cocktails deep. Got it.

“No, but for real, how are you doing?” Lando took advantage of the lull between songs—a transition almost less awkward than what he could’ve come up with—to yell the question above the noise.

“Great! How could I be anything else than great?” Carlos laughed, genuine enough, thankfully, to fool Lando.

“No, I mean how are you do-ing,” he pressed, sweeping his gaze over the dance floor below, the tables and bursts of champagne fireworks.

It took one more chin-jab, cartoonish and anything but subtle, at a group of women by the bar for Carlos to finally catch on.

“Come on! There’s got to be someone who caught your eye. This place is literally swarming with hot girls.”

“I…” Again those galactic lights burned into his retinas, blotting out the crowd, the dancers, their gold and emerald jewelry, until only remained the smoldering unease of the void. Like leaning over the edge of the Milky Way. “Yeah. I don’t know. Not sure I’m in the mood tonight.”

“When are you ever gonna be in the mood if not when you get a podium? In Brazil?”

“When I win in Brazil?”

Lando chuckled, but shook his head. “Mate, I get it’s been rough, but that was—when did you guys break up again?”

“May.” The twenty-first.

“Right, May. So that’s like…” One, two, three, four, five fingers and a furrowed brow. “... six months ago, no?”

One hundred and eighty days, on the dot. He’d been counting every last one. “Yeah, more or less, I think.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to get back on the field? Dip your toes a little? I think you’re just, like, out of practice, mate.” Carlos must’ve pulled a face right then, because Lando held up both his hands, almost knocking over some guy’s drink. “I’m not saying she has to be the love of your life or whatever! It’s just about moving on. And not… ruminating like you are.”

“Ruminating? What am I, a cow?”

“No, a bull,” Lando beamed. “What was it again? El Matador?” His gaze trailed off to the side, where two young women, long straight hair and leather miniskirts catching the club lights, had been stealing glances at the drivers since the beginning of the conversation. Carlos followed. The brunette he locked eyes with did not look away first. “So get back to the ring.”

There certainly was some merit to Lando’s reasoning, however unwilling Carlos had been to see it. At least, not right away—not when Lando vanished back into the crowd and he was swept up by his team. Not when they paid him a line of shots and carried him into a euphoric whirlwind of Spanish shouts. Not when they hoisted him onto their shoulders in front of the DJ booth and, from the height of his newfound apex, he locked eyes again with the dark-haired girl. Unyielding. Alluring.

Dip your toes a little, had said Lando five shots ago. Those same feet now tingled with a new kind of electricity as they carried him toward her. She’d seen him coming from afar, was already watching him with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips well before he’d found the nerve to approach. 

He wasn’t thinking of planets anymore, even though the supernova-colored spotlights on her ochre skin shone brighter than ever. Like watching the same scene play out from the far end of the galaxy.

“Hola,” he huffed out. “I’m Carlos.”

She giggled, biting her lip, “Eu sei quem é você.”

She was gorgeous, exposed neck like the bronze he’d just won and dark doe eyes begging to touch him and… and blurry features melting into one another and the darkness of the club, a faceless dream you remember so long as you don’t blink.

She didn’t say anything more, just smiled at him like the sun, and the next second his mouth was on hers, one hand pressing her waist flush against him. She’d opened her lips before they’d even met his, and her warm tongue distilled the aroma of alcohol into his mouth when she moaned into the kiss. Her fingers tugged slightly at his disheveled hair, settling at the nape of his neck; slowly, so slowly, his hand snaked down her back, cradling the curve where her miniskirt ended.

He thought it was the leather, cold and callous under his fingertips, before he realized he really was touching her skin. She was cold. Not even cold, really, but—lukewarm. Tepid. Like her very skin held back, uncommitted; yet her hands caressed his neck, her kiss grew famished. No—she wasn’t cold. She wasn’t hesitant. He was.

He forced his eyes shut, pleading, begging the spiral of thoughts in his head to wane, to relax—enjoy it enjoy it enjoy it you want this; scanning the flow of his own veins, every part of him she grinded against for a flush of heat, for a glimmer of desire—and came up short. Not even the coarse rumble of lust. Nothing.

The smoldering unease of the void.

Jupiter, he thought then like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean. That’s what her big brown eyes reminded him of. Jupiter.

He broke the kiss with a retch. She stared, with her head tilted to the side and blinking fast—to avoid those Jupiter eyes Carlos had no choice but to look at her swollen lips, but this was unbearable too, so he unfocused his vision to an indefinite point over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated louder, not hearing himself over his tinnitus. “I have to go.”

“Está bem? Are you okay?”

“Sí, sí, yeah, I—I have to go. I’m sorry.”

If he stayed one minute in the club—with his mouth dry, his body adrift in a tangle of other bodies, hot then cold and spinning like tops—he was going to throw up. Eyes fixed on the floor, he pushed his way toward the exit, but he hadn’t made it ten steps before stumbling into Caco, thank God. A steadying pat on the shoulder, a look hovering somewhere between scolding and concern, and then they were out on the street, scratched raw by the cold breath of the Brazilian night.

Carlos was still panting when he drew out his phone. 4:59 in São Paulo—and just beneath, though the difference had long since etched itself into habit, Spain’s time. 9:59. She would be awake. She would be at work. She would be lost in her solar kingdom…

He turned his back on his cousin slightly as he scrolled through his contacts, like he knew this was a mistake he was intoxicated enough to make. Letter by swaying letter, each keystroke a lurch through an unstrung chicane, he typed the name until it surfaced.

One hundred and eighty-one days now.

His thumb hovered over there, heavy. Above the name he hadn’t dared to summon aloud in all that time. Like a fault line you don’t name, afraid it might finally split.

Headlights split the night, and a sedan slid into the curve at the end of the elegant marble drive. Someone took him by the arm; he nearly dropped the phone as he stuffed it deep in his pocket. All the planets and their ink-dark sky were swallowed by leather and gasoline.

Like many Madrileños before him, Carlos has never visited his city.

Through no fault of his own, he would retort somewhat defensively when asked. That’s just what happens when you’re the child of a sprawling city; you have no time for her as she has no time for you. How many Parisians have never climbed the Eiffel Tower, or New Yorkers the Empire State? 

So your wide eyes and catastrophized gasp do not come as a surprise when he admits he’s never sat on the velvet cushions of the Lope de Vega theater. Never had his breath stolen out of his chest by the immensity of the Guernica. Never even slumped at a marble-topped table in San Ginés, worn out at dawn, cradling the chocolate con churros of the capital…

“Do you even live here?” you question after he confesses his one and only visit to the Catedral de la Almudena dates back to a decade.

“Of course I live here, that’s why I don’t do all that stuff. It’s for tourists. And I do know Madrid,” his voice perks up. “I’ve been to the Prado and the Royal Palace and the Bernabéu a million times.”

“Because your dad is always getting invited places! You’ve never lazed about the city, seen her just for the sake of seeing her. Twenty-two years on Earth and you’ve spent them all looking for cheap thrills all over the world instead of discovering what’s right in front of you.”

Those kinds of conversations always end with that little pout of his, and the way you look at him: insistently, already dreaming up some wild plan to fill in the gaps of his illustrious little prince education.

He’s walked thousands of streets with you, seen thousands of landscapes in the years he’s known you—beautiful and remote and sometimes crass and adventurous and accidental—but his favorites are always the ones you choose. Gravity in those places feels more supple. Soft enough to make him forget the smell of scorched rubber; botanical gardens full of sickly-sweet flowers that seem to bloom open in your wake, following your laughter; hidden restaurants tucked away between sun-warmed stones in the Mediterranean…

and above all, the planetarium.

It’s your most revolted reaction yet, and it starts with a game of Trivial Pursuit at his parents’. A question about the first manned mission to the Moon—and, frankly, not even that easy of a question, may he be forgiven—has Carlos grimacing and his mother throwing her head back with a hopeless, “Ay, hijo, how do you not know this!” Carlos Sr. interjects with his good-humored tone (Come on, Reyes, I don’t think he was paying too much attention to that in school), his son attempts to defend himself (I don’t even know the order of the planets! How am I supposed to know this?), but the damage is done.

Carlos Sainz will not go one day longer without knowing everything there is to know about the planets.

Lucky thing you are assigned closing hour the following Monday.

The planetarium’s main room is long deserted by the time you shoot Carlos a text message—“you can come out of hiding now, tonti”. All the school excursions and strolling pensioners have kindly been kicked out by your little white lie, something about the projection room closing early for maintenance; and there is no way any other staff would investigate the lack of visitors at 5 p.m. instead of quietly scurrying home. Still, Carlos waits five long minutes before he slips out the side door, his fist tight around… a balaclava?

“What the hell is that?” you giggle as his head swipes the room, cautious. “Do you think we’re robbing a bank?”

“I don’t know, I thought there might be cameras in here,” is all the defense he has, and you snort.

“I can tell you’ve never done anything slightly rebellious,” you roll your eyes, but he wraps his arms around you from behind and you melt like you always do. “No, the nose ring doesn’t count.”

“I could’ve gotten expelled! They were super strict!”

“You, Carlos Sainz Junior, could not have gotten expelled from anywhere.”

He chuckles, an unhurried thing rumbling against your back, and buries a kiss in your hair before freezing up.

“This isn’t, like, illegal, though, right?”

You whip around, stealing the balaclava from his grasp and dangling it in front of his face. Daring him to reach for it. “What if it is?”

“Well I’d probably lose my job.” He can’t stop smiling, despite the seriousness of his words, like your closeness chisels the bronze of his lips into a perpetual grin. “I don’t think McLaren would like that look on one of their drivers.”

“For guys whose job is literally speeding, you lot sure are booooring.”

“Sorry I’m not exciting enough for you, miss astrophysics.”

You click your tongue in mock outrage, and he leans in for a forgiveness peck but you’re quicker to push him away, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around.

“Nuh-uh! Time for the conference now. Hope you brought something to take notes, cause there’s a surprise quiz at the end.”

He mutters something about bringing it on and not being scared when you sit him down in the front row’s deep-blue cushioned seats, palms outstretched in front of you and a half-stern glare like you’re trying to get an unruly puppy to behave. Surprisingly, he shuts up, and you miss the fond gaze he drapes upon you as you type commands away into the computer—until suddenly all the lights in the room flicker to sleep, like inhabited by a more secret kind of life… and slowly at first, then like silent starbursts, planets and constellations and comets emerge from the void, as though beckoning the curious closer. It’s a spectacle you’ve seen hundreds of times, colorful reflections sprawled across thousands of enthralled kids’ faces… but you know no star that shines brighter than Carlos’ eyes as you take the stage just for him.

“Welcome to the Madrid planetarium,” the words come out chipper, though unmistakably rehearsed. “You are about to embark on a voyage across the cosm— Carlos!” your shoulders slump, pouting at his wheezes. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just… I never thought I’d see you like that. At work. It’s a little funny.” His gaze roams over your body, from the pin to your breast pocket and the corded card around your neck, to the tight updo you’ve locked your hair in—you never do them that way at home, nor do you paint your lips so. He’s thought about it before—how you’ve been to a few races, witnessed him don the fireproofs and the helmet and disappear into the car, as though swallowed by the higher existence of the team, the speed; but he never returned the favor. Until now. “You look smart. I mean I know you’re smart, but now I can tell just by looking at you.”

An intense blush creeps over your cheeks, though thankfully the ambient night obscures it.

“Please save all your remarks for the end.” And, very softly: “Thank you.”

You know his smirk is not going anywhere anytime soon, so you carry on, comically louder.

“So! As I was saying…”

The usual lecture is forty-five minutes: enough to cover an introduction to planetology and crack a few jokes with the audience without boring the kids to—literal—tears. With Carlos, though, time dilates. He’s quiet at first, bewitched by your ease as you recount all the things the planets have whispered to you. Slowly, though, his timidity wanes, and he asks more questions, surprisingly pertinent (though he can’t help slipping in a cocky “What planet is the hot guide from?”), until Carlos, the riotous kid who used to race past the world, takes the time to bask in it. You show, you tell, you open the vault for all the little things you know about astronomy; tales and figures spill out of you like a solar flare, and each ray touches Carlos’ heart with an overpowering sense of warmth.

By the time you suggest you move on to a more immersive part of the exhibit, he is a hundred times more in love with you than he was before he met Mercury.

And so it may be an hour, or perhaps two, after Carlos snuck into the planetarium after hours, and you’re both lying on the night-dark carpeted floor—“No way I’m letting my hair touch that, you really don’t wanna know when this was last cleaned.” “Well lay your head on me, then.”—with your eyes fixed on the spherical roof where celestial shapes parade. Lazily, like dust shelling off the sky.

Neither of you have spoken in what feels like centuries, and the rise and fall of Carlos’ chest beneath your neck almost matches Antares’ pulsating glow. Over your heads, numerical meteors ignite and vanish.

“How did they manage to send rocketships and satellites so far away?”

He shimmies a little underneath you, like the sudden question wiggles within.

“All these distances you mentioned, they’re all so huge. How do we send and pilot stuff so far out there? Wouldn’t they run out of fuel?”

You smile like the break of dawn.

“Not everything is about gasoline, racer boy.”

“That’s not what I implied,” he groans with a little shake of the head, the citrus of his shampoo enveloping your nostrils.

“I know. Well, most spatial vehicles don’t run on fuel. Only rockets do, for brief minutes. The rest are solar or nuclear-powered, and besides… engineers know a trick or two.”

“Like?”

He speaks with the rising inflexion of a diligent student, the one you’ve heard him get with Tom Stallard once or twice before, and you laugh to yourself at the idea he might be hoping to draw inspiration from astromechanics for his car’s next breakthrough.

“Like… You ever hear about a gravitational slingshot?”

“Mi vida, one hour ago I had no idea that half the planets don’t actually have solid ground.”

His chuckle sounds exactly how you imagine the Big Dipper does, when she shakes off her morning dew before disappearing into the rosy horizon, so you chuckle back.

“Okay, well, a gravitational slingshot is… a way for probes to travel to the ends of the solar system with minimal energy. You throw your satellite into the path of a bigger body, say, a planet, and use the momentum from its orbit to propel it forward. Somewhat like swinging from vine to vine in the jungle.”

“So is it a bit like using the slipstream from the car ahead of you?”

Of course he’d find a way to tie it back to the cars.

“In a way, yes.” One of his hands nestles in your hair, scratching it softly. Overhead, Saturn preens its rings like a peacock’s feathers. “But think of it more as… galactic hitchhiking. You use it to adjust trajectory more than speed. These planets, they’re on their invariable course through the universe, and you’re meeting them for a fraction of an instant to redirect your path. Get you where you wanna go. The calculations have to be exact… or else you might be too late or too early for the rendezvous. Like Voyager I,” you straighten up slightly, careful not to elbow Carlos, and draw imaginary lines across the ceiling. Too absorbed in your explanation to notice he’s only staring at your fingers and the golden threads they weave. “They launched it precisely at the right moment, on a slightly offset path, so it would meet Jupiter. And it did, and it got caught in its orbit, and that’s when they gave it just a little extra power boost and boom—off it went into the void and on its correct course.” You angle your head up to meet his face. “Isn’t that romantic? How they were interstellar soulmates?”

“It’s just a big box of metal and an even bigger ball of gas,” Carlos chuckles.

“Oh come on, I’m sure you have a lot to say about the poetry of big boxes of metal.”

His smile remains on his face long after Saturn has dipped below the artificial horizon, making way for constellations with names he can barely read. His voice comes out a little subdued, though, when he asks after a while:

“What would’ve happened if Voyager I had missed its shot and never met Jupiter?”

You shrug. Perhaps the tragedy of it all doesn’t weigh on you the way it does Carlos.

“Maybe it would’ve met another planet, and that would’ve sent it in a totally erroneous direction. Or maybe it would’ve just drifted off into the void forever. Who knows? The only important thing is they did find each other, and it did work out.”

Pensive, Carlos plays with your hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger. As always when he’s entirely surrendered to you, he forgets. He forgets about the smell of charred rubber and unimpressive lap times cascading one after the other—forgets the omnipresent roar of the engine and inhumane shriek of the crowd. You alter gravity, make it more bearable; alleviate the g-forces.

In a year or so, he will make the gravest mistake of his life—he will confuse lightness with lack, bliss with distraction. He will panic, for the very first time in his life, and he will cut you off. At once so it hurts less—so he doesn’t get the time to hurt and you to hate him—because when you are standing in Mattia Binotto’s office and he offhandedly mentions Sebastian Vettel doesn’t want his red seat next year, you cannot ever afford to forget about the rubber and the lap times and the engine and the crowd.

For now, though, he lets the beams of your sun bathe him in the tranquil glory he’ll forget later.

“I feel like you’re a bit like my Jupiter at times, aren’t you?” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “Putting me on the right track when I stray too far.”

“Hope that means you’re always staying in my orbit,” you reply, tummy fluttering with love at his words.

But you know it better than anyone, don’t you?—

All it takes is a just a little extra power boost and boom—

off he goes into the void.

VENUS.

MILTON KEYNES, 2022.

It wasn’t raining the very first time Carlos Sainz climbed the top step of a Formula 1 podium, though until the end of time he would remember it that way.

Perhaps the champagne droplets Checo drenched his race suit with left a more striking impression than he thought, colder than he remembered. Perhaps it was his sweat, dripping from his helmet and down his temples. Or perhaps he needed something external to explain the vague gloom he’d felt that day, and he’d decided to blame the sky.

The celebrations themselves had been dizzying: a whirlwind of cheers and congratulations and crimson fists raised in the air; his father hugging him tight, and Lando, excitable, loving Lando running up to congratulate him for his first victory in red. His first victory ever—¡lo conseguiste, cabrón, y con Ferrari! 

Never had he ever heard a sweeter Marcha Real than the one lauding him on English soil. The sound etched itself in his mind, like all the Tifosi’s adoring eyes lifting toward him.

A tiny serpent wrapped around his ear murmured that one pair of eyes was missing. The drums of Fratelli d’Italia drowned it out.

Later, after he’d answered every question and taken every picture, when he reconvened with his father in the quiet of his driver room and unlocked his phone to zero missed calls, the indefinite malaise he’d felt rising all weekend came growling back. He braced himself as he dialed the number and pressed his phone to his ear.

He should’ve been feeling anything but weighed down by those wormy nerves in the pit of his stomach. He should’ve been triumphant and invincible and…

“Hello?”

“Hi, love,” he said, bracing himself for an outcome he already knew would not be different than every other time. “Um, just calling to let you know I won the race.”

“You did? Oh, wow, congrats!” her voice was shiny with enthusiasm, genuine and gentle, just like she always was—charming and polite and chipper—, but there was an edge of confusion to it that Carlos could never miss. “But, um… I thought it was yesterday?”

“I…” he scoffed, bit the inside of his mouth as he wondered if this was worth feeling defeated over. Probably not. Not today, at least. “Yesterday was the qualification round, remember what I explained to you? So I won that too, but that just means I started first for the race today. And that’s what I just won right now. That’s the important part.”

“Oh! Right.” At what point did her flippancy become too frequent, too intentional, to be excused by her sweet and kind disposition? How long until he’d start resenting a partner who did not shoulder anything of the world alongside him? “That’s great! Proud of you.”

“So… I take it you weren’t able to catch the race on TV?” Like she’d said she would. Then again, had he attended any of her fashion shows lately, or had he been furiously cycling down some bumpy slope in the Alps?

“No, sorry, I was out for brunch with the girls and then since I thought it was yesterday and all—” she droned on and on, but Carlos was already out of it, struggling to avoid the knowing, empathetic looks from his father. “But that’s okay, I’ll watch it on YouTube or something. Right after I get my prediction for Cancer season,” a little giggle escaped her. “You know, I might be more emotional than usual this summer, because—”

Astrology was always her favorite cheat sheet to look at the world, its deepest secrets and inner workings unveiled by the fantastical movements of planets and constellations. Carlos didn’t believe much of that—to be fair he didn’t believe much of anything that wasn’t computable, solvable, and repeatable—but for her he had been willing to give it a try. He’d jokingly asked her to intercede for him, pray that the twelve houses trace a clement path for him at Ferrari, but she’d looked terribly offended about the implication you could ask anything of the planets, and he hadn’t uttered another word about the cosmos since.

“I’m a Libra, right, so that means I’m ruled by Venus,” she’d excitedly rambled on one of their first dates. “So that means I’m really lovey-dovey, sensitive to aesthetics, and all that. My modeling career and all; that was all written. Predestined. Because of Venus, cause it’s the planet of love and beauty. You know anything about Venus?”

And to anyone else he would have answered the truth—what Venus had whispered to him years before. I know a day on Venus is longer than a year. I know Venus is so bright it was originally believed to be a star. I know astrophysicists debated the possibility of life in her clouds but she was ultimately ruled out as “too hostile”.

“No, I don’t. I think I’m a Virgo though?”

When he hung up, after a “Bye, love you” he’d hoped was earnest enough, Carlos turned to his father and his shoulders fell. The older man was already looking at him, decades of careful love swimming in his eyes.

“I know what you’re gonna say.”

“What am I going to say?”

Now his son was taller than him, but if he could have, Carlos Sr. would have crouched down to the floor and patted his little head gently. As though he weren’t a two-time world champion, but simply a dad with the answer to every question in the world.

You’re gonna say that she’s not Y/N. You always wished I’d never broken up with Y/N.

“That I’m not right for her and she’s not right for me and you have no idea why we’re even together? It's been months and she can’t even remember how a race weekend works.”

Young Carlos drooped against the wall with a soft thud, muscles still sore from fighting gravity and lifting gold trophies, and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. Unable to look at his father, who replied in the soft, measured tone he’d use when his son would lose hope in karting.

“Well, I never said that, and I think you’re putting words you believe in my mouth to legitimize yourself. And you’re being harsh on her. Do you know what her workday is like?”

The race winner sighed, a long, thick breath escaping through his nose like it had been trapped in there for thousands of years.

“It’s just… I can’t connect with her. I can’t connect with anyone. We’re so… mismatched. But she’s kind, and she’s so patient with me. That’s kind of all I can ask of anyone, with the life I lead.”

“No, Carletes.” Slowly, Carlos Sainz picked up his son’s Silverstone trophy and handed it to him. Just like he would the stuffed animals thrown off the bed by a frantic nightmare. “It’s precisely because you lead this life that you need the best copilot you can find. Someone who’s there for you through thick and thin, and challenges you, but keeps you on track.”

A small beat. Then muscle memory kicked in, and Carlos’ head dipped against his father’s shoulder, like a mighty willow bending to the tempest. The father cradled the son, wrinkled hand caressing the bark of his strong neck.

“Things will make sense, hijo. They always do in the end.”

Like planets locking into place, on the same orbits until the end of time and long after that.

“What’s this one?”

“That’s Vega.”

“That’s Vega,” he mutters in a mocking tone, slightly muffled by your head on his abdomen.

“What?” you chuckle.

“You say that like it’s obvious! Like it’s sooooo easy.”

“It is obvious, it’s my job, Carlos! It’s like if I asked you what the yellow line on the edge of the tire means.”

“Okay, okay, well…” He cranes his neck, scanning the animated ceiling for just the speck of stardust that will end your streak. “Ooh, and this one?”

Squinting your eyes, you try to make out the small dot Carlos is pointing at… before your lips melt into a knowing smile.

“You’re taking the piss, Carlos, there’s nothing there.”

He swears, and the slight contraction of his stomach sends tickles down your spine. How long have you two been floating in that vast expanse of universe, moored to nothing but one another?

“Wow, why is that thing over there so green? Is it like that in real life?”

“That’s the emergency exit sign, amor.”

Carlos groans, trying to cook up a reasonable defense, but he’d ridicule himself a million times over if it meant hearing your wind chime laughter, like fairy dust speeding through outer space.

“And that one over there? The red one? Is it also the emergency exit sign?”

“No, that one’s real. It’s a galaxy.”

“Is it actually red?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because of redshift.”

You stay quiet, and he doesn’t press you further. He knows the explanation is just one carefully collected silence away. Instead, he stares at the star cluster, immobile unlike most of the planets on display, faint crimson clashing with the infinite mauve around. Like a watchful creature lying in wait.

“You know that the universe is expanding, right? It’s growing right now.”

“Yeah.”

“So the light that’s emitted by this galaxy must travel a huge distance to get to us, and in the time it takes to reach Earth, the empty space between us has grown. Stretched out, like someone is pulling at the ends. From our perspective, it looks like the galaxy is moving away. Farther from the observer. So the light’s wavelength increases, because of the Doppler effect, and that’s why the galaxy looks red to us.”

“So when something expands or moves away from you…” he recapitulates slowly.

“It turns red, yeah.”

The words will haunt him far longer than he expects. They have no reason to—out of the thousands of shattered promises and declarations of love and ineffable vulnerability and jokes and harsh truths and supplications—yet they do. They linger like a mist as he sits in his bedroom, two years later, cradling in his lap the very first helmet Carlos Sainz will wear for the Scuderia Ferrari. His belly, swollen with pride earlier from the fifty-five on the side and the red star on the back—all so unbelievably him, side by side with the prancing horse at last—, grumbles with bile. His phone lights up with the notification he’s been avoiding all day.

A year and a half or so—he stopped counting the days. His mom said that meant he was healing?—without a word and on the morning of the announcement, you text him “Congrats on the move”.

Like you couldn’t keep it in, like no rough breakup and unbearable radio silence could prevent you from cheering your champion on. Watching him expand.

He texts back a sober “Thanks. hope you’re doing well”, and deletes your number before he can catch himself dialing it once again.

MARS.

MARANELLO, 2024.

For the first time in his life, the last thing Carlos Sainz longed for was combat.

Little Carletes had been born pugnacious, tiny fists that closed around no claws. Not a troublemaker, per se, but rambunctious, like an inexhaustible volcano. What he lacked in sharpness, he’d made up for in belligerence, for he could never be half the raw talent his father was at everything but he could bleed twice as hard on the jagged rocks of greatness. For every kid that ran him off the track in go-karts he could push two more; for every hour his teammate would stay in the sim, he’d spend one night. As if, far from deplenishing him, the fight gave him energy.

He was always outrunning something, it seemed. The clock, his father’s shadow. At the end of the 2024 season, after months of trying to outrun the end, Carlos was so unfathomably tired.

The end came as a roaring tornado on February first, and all he could do was turn the ignition on and speed away. To no avail, of course. Ferrari never regrets a decision, no matter how fast you are, when the decision comes with seven world titles.

Therefore, when Carlos Sainz heard the loud footsteps stomping down the hallway, he knew with immense lassitude that he would not be combating today.

“Care to explain what the hell this is?”

She was fuming, arm outstretched toward him with an accusatory glare. She stood taller than ever before in their almost-bare bedroom, a giant among piles of moving boxes and polystyrene. They’d barely had the time to touch ground in Maranello before being uprooted again.

“That’s… your phone,” Carlos sighed. Wrong answer, he knew as much, but at least he’d delayed the battle for just a few instants.

“Yeah, right, play dumb all you want,” she scoffed, shoving her phone right under her boyfriend’s nose. “What the fuck were you doing with her? It’s all over Twitter.”

As soon as his eyes had gotten used to the sudden brightness, Carlos recognized the pictures; him, strolling down the streets of Madrid, a lifetime ago. Unmistakable. On his arm, looped around his bicep, was hers. A lifetime ago indeed.

He would’ve frozen even if he hadn’t wanted to. The afternoon came back to him in a kaleidoscope of memories, colors, and smells—the ozone of Madrid’s thousands of exhaust pipes, the faint scent of frying oil from some churrería, and how she’d drop his hand to press her nose against every bakery’s window display. How many years had it been? How many artifacts of that era had he neatly wrapped up and stored away in cardboard boxes, traveling around the world with him because he couldn’t throw them away?

“Love, these pictures are old. See how my hair is totally different? That’s from, like, 2018.”

“Why are they making rounds again then?” she spat, distrustful. “Your fans won’t stop posting them. Tell me the truth.”

She’d always been combative, irascible—she never backed down from what she wanted, even when it simply didn’t exist, and perhaps that was the reason Carlos had been drawn to her when they’d first met. Someone to challenge him, to spar with. Someone who’d stand by his side because they know what it means to fall and rise again.

But for the first time, all Carlos Sainz wanted was peace and familiarity. A soft bed to crawl into, and not one he must cut through thorns for.

“I’m telling you the truth, I have no idea why they’re posting them. They do weird things sometimes.”

That was a lie, but one he could stomach without batting too obvious an eyelid. Carlos knew exactly why fans kept posting old pictures of his very first love to social media, the same reason he had never been able to delete them from his phone, but instead kept them in a passworded folder inside a folder inside a folder. The formidable and harrowing impression of unfinished business. A story you keep adding chapters to, yet stray away from the epilogue of.

She didn’t buy it. She never did anything he said. Was she this wary of him when they’d met, or had fame and scrutiny made her paranoid? He toyed with the inside of his cheek. Was she paranoid? Or could she read him better than he could, and he’d been a horrible person—a horrible boyfriend—to her this whole time?

“And you’re not even fighting for us! Gosh! If you still love her so much, why don’t you just find her?” she cried out, throwing her arms in the air.

She didn’t leave him time to say anything; not that he would have anyway. She turned on her heel and slammed the door, sending flakes of white paint flying into the barren bedroom.

“So what happens when something gets close to you?”

His question cuts through the surreal silence that has curled up between you; in the soft space between your bodies, slouched together on the carpeted steps of the planetarium. Slowly, you lift your head from his belly and look at him, attentive.

“Hm?”

“You said that when an object moves away from the observer, it turns red. That’s redshift. So what happens if it’s coming closer?”

The corner of your lips lifts into one of those half-moon smiles only you know how to wear.

“Blueshift.”

Violet light floods the craters in your eyes, as though an angel had filled them to the brim.

“When an object comes back to the observer, it turns blue.”

JUPITER.

NICE, 2025.

Damn you and your punctuality.

With all the years you’ve been working at the Nice Observatory, you know very well by now the inescapable ballet of convertibles cruising down the coast in the summer months—rich Parisian families on vacation and English retirees enjoying the last days of tolerable Riviera heat—, but you have grown particularly wary of the month of May. When the Cannes festival and Monaco Grand Prix draw closer, the city and its surroundings bubble up with a sort of effervescence that makes everything unbearable. Tourists and kids and journalists swarm about the streets; the sea itself becomes more dazzling, like it’s dressing in its finest garments for the season; and you’re just trying to get to work.

(Of course, that’s the sole reason you hate late May in Nice. Nothing to do with the Monaco Grand Prix itself, nor the faces you see plastered at every damn bus stop and on every damn television every year. Well, face.)

Thus, to avoid traffic, you have taken the habit of leaving home earlier in the morning. An invigorating springtime promenade, with the Mediterranean as your sole neighbor… as far as you can remember, you have always found comfort in the still nooks of early dawn and late dusk, after all.

Had you been just a little less conscientious of your work… held up just a little longer on the beltway… you wouldn’t have made it to your office in time to check your emails before you’re whisked away for day-long observations and meetings. You wouldn’t have opened your inbox, you would’ve only read the message tomorrow, after the fact. Too late. Or late enough to play the Sorry-I-missed-it card.

But you don’t, and you do, and you find the email sitting there. In bold letters, as though mocking you. No subject—of course he wouldn’t know private correspondence in an office is supposed to say, well, PRIVATE—and a sender address that looks too stupidly obvious to be real.

carlo55ainz@gmail.com.

The sun blinks for an instant, and gravity holds its breath, pinning you against your chair. That’s probably the second where you open the email, because you don’t remember moving your fingers.

“Hi. Sorry, I had no idea how to contact you, and no idea where to start either. I might have looked you up on LinkedIn and found your work email. You’ve been doing amazing I see, you have a PhD now! But I never doubted you or how smart and cool you were. I knew you’d get here.

I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and all the things I did wrong. I was young, but that doesn’t cover everything. It doesn’t cover almost anything, actually. If you’re willing to hear me and let me apologize properly, even if I’m really really late (I can’t be the fastest all the time), can we meet up in Monaco tonight? I’d be the most grateful man in the universe.

C”

It’s all in Spanish, and the font isn’t the same size across all the text, and you can tell he doesn’t send emails too often because instead of sending the pictures as an attachment he pasted them directly underneath the paragraph, but they’re of two concert tickets wrinkled with brown stains—your favorite band, and he’d dropped his coffee on them the morning of and you’d sworn to every god that’s ever existed you’d flail him alive if the security guard’s scanner couldn’t read their barcode.

The first thought that comes to your mind, somehow, is “Of course it’s real. What a loser.”

You shouldn’t reply—of course you shouldn’t reply, your boss is calling you over from outside the office to go down the observation room and if your best friend were there she would tell you to delete the message and never speak of it again.

“I don’t go to Monaco anymore. Too much traffic and parking’s a nightmare. Also I feel stupid over there with my Clio IV.”

You only catch his reply late in the evening, when the sun is slowly descending behind the Mercantour and you’ve awkwardly evaded your coworkers’ offers for celebratory drinks downtown. Sure, the tests were a resounding success today, but you just need to run something by your office real quick. Just one thing, and then you’re going straight home, because you’re exhausted, but thank you so much for offering, you’ll join them another time—

If the timestamp is any indication, the reply came two minutes after your first email.

“I’ll come to you then.”

Your heart is pounding like a quasar when you step out the Observatory’s main entrance and into the Southern night, seemingly the only person in the whole world. The only person, except for the silhouette you notice immediately just a few meters ahead, draped in night and leaning against a Vespa. He looks stronger than when you last saw him, a little wider and buffer; a soft breeze ruffles his dark hair, and you spot the faintest hints of white within. Something he probably hasn’t noticed yet, but observing details has always been your life’s work.

Six years after shattering your heart and disappearing into the gaping mouth of a race car, Carlos Sainz stands before you, and he beams the brightest grin this side of the Mediterranean when he spots you. And you, as if no minutes had passed at all, cannot do anything but smile in return.

“Where’s your Ferrari?” you ask, pointing at the little scooter with your chin.

“Didn’t you hear? I had to downsize.”

He sounds more mature, less boyish; maybe all the furious air he ingests has eroded his vocal chords too, or maybe his throat is thick with emotion as he takes you in. Neat shirt, tight bun, ever-so-slightly painted lips. Taking the stage of his life just for him, if only for an evening.

A moment passes where you’re both too dizzy to say anything. The first shooting star of many pierces the sky millions of kilometers over your heads, though neither of you see it. Then, Carlos extends his arm and hands you one of the two helmets he’s carrying.

“Do you still trust me?”

Of course you don’t. He told you a life with you would be incompatible with his other goals—he once dreamed of a life in which you were not, and it matters little whether that thought existed in him for a tenth of a second or a whole year, because he’d said it, burned it into your ears like tinnitus.

But he would make you laugh to tears, and he held you for eight hours straight when you sobbed yourself into exhaustion the day your childhood dog died, and he took pictures of you sleeping in a pile of limbs with Piñón, and your fingers once dug into his ribs as his rental bike drove you down a secret cove, where he made love to you like waves lapping at the shore.

“Yeah.”

You have yet to find a single planet, by some faraway nebula, where you don’t trust him.

The ride down to the harbor is perfectly quiet. Not only do you not exchange words—no use over the small engine’s agonizing screams—but the whole city falls silent, from the groups of twenty-somethings hitting their first bars of the night to the seagulls shrieking and descending upon unsuspecting gelati. Like Nice’s narrow, treacherous streets bow their heads to Carlos and you, shrinking and moving and shifting to open a perfect path. Eventually, he stops the scooter by the docks, in front of a yacht that would probably fall under the small umbrella in his circle; to you, it looks like a mansion.

“That’s new.”

“You’ve been gone a long time,” he shrugs, but you can tell by the glint in his voice that he’s proud of his trick.

He helps you up on the boat, disappears into the cabin—busying himself, as always, only at ease when in control—and the yacht rumbles to life in a harmony of swells, then casts off into the Mediterranean night.

“I’ll admit I didn’t check the weather,” Carlos breaks the silence long minutes later, after you’ve helped him drop the anchor in the middle of nowhere, just a tiny dot kilometers from shore. Your unbreakable bubble, suspended outside of time and reality. As far from any asphalted road as can be. “Sorry. I thought it would be a little nicer.”

“This is very nice,” you reply.

And it is—you don’t need to slip into fake courtesies with Carlos, not even after so many years. In the half-decade since you’d parted ways, you’d imagined this meeting a million times under a million circumstances and a million watchful planets, and every time you feared the awkwardness of silence; the one thing that would betray an irrevocable destruction of what you once had. But there’s nothing close to it here, on the deck of his yacht, each sitting on a banquette and eating olives in the middle of the sea. Only the inexplicable familiarity of those who know every inch of each other’s soul.

You throw your head back and prop your knees underneath you. Sure, the sky is a little cloudy, but every milky spot you expected to find is perfectly visible. You smile at them, like old friends on a school photo.

“This is really beautiful, actually.”

Carlos is only staring at you from the port side.

Yeah, yeah it is.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already, it’s okay,” you chuckle, but he interrupts, voice trembling slightly from the solemnity.

“No, I mean sorry for six years ago.”

You bite your lip. Turn your head to face him, slowly, but his nose is pointed at the sky, his arm lazily grazing the waves from over the gunwale.

“Is that it?”

“Well, I could say sorry for being such an asshole. Sorry for being a coward and not knowing how to deal with your expectations and the expectations of the world, and choosing to cut one off. Sorry for hurting you and not even allowing you the time to grieve. I tried to numb it with the racing, and the parties, and that kind of stuff, but honestly I don’t think there’s been a day where I don’t regret that decision. But I don’t know, I don’t want you to think I’m making up excuses for myself or… or rubbing salt in the wound, so I’ll just leave it at Sorry. It’s not even a tenth of what you deserve, but… I wanted to start there.”

Your next words, after long, languid moments of silence, are carried over to shore by the salty breeze, so soft he barely catches them.

“I forgive you.”

When you look up and your eyes finally meet, they are shiny with tears. Like the diamonds that rain in the heart of Jupiter’s storm.

“I forgave you the second you walked out.”

“Why?”

“Because I loved you.” It’s self-evident, and you almost giggle at the admission, disbelieving of how disbelieving Carlos can be. How does he not get it? The core principle upon which all of the world’s mechanisms were built? The barest, rawest axiom to ever befuddle science? “I think some part of me will love you till the day I die. I know you’re a logical person, Carlos, but surely you can understand that…”

He nods. Mutters to himself more than to you, to the moonbeams that caress the tide. “Yeah, yeah I can understand that.” You stuff your mouth with olives to swallow back a sob.

Your lashes are still wet—from tears or the boat’s lull gently splashing your face, you’re not sure—when you breathe deeply and attempt to defuse:

“How was the race?”

“Awful.”

His response is so instantaneous you can’t help giggling.

“I heard you and Alex both scored points though!”

“Yeah, but it was ugly raci… hold on, have you been keeping up with me?”

“No,” you blurt out hastily. Actually, yes, you have, indirectly; through a colleague of yours, fifty-something and red-faced, who’s been a diehard Williams fan since childhood and excitedly talks your ear off every week about the team’s historic revival. Needless to say, you don’t peg him the type to know much about the drivers’ personal lives from ten years ago, and see no elegant way nor immediate utility in telling him you are Carlos Sainz Jr.’s ex-girlfriend.

“Are you a Williams fan, Y/N? Or maybe more of a Tifosa?”

“Shut up,” you groan, but he wiggles his eyebrows at you, so you throw him your olive pins. One, and two; he jumps to his feet with an indignant “hey!”; the third one hits him square in the forehead, and you burst into incredulous laughter as he jogs up to you.

“Stop it! You’re on my boat, I could—” in just a few steps he’s towering over you, lying on your back on the cushioned seat and spraying him with pins and peanuts between giggles. He grabs your machine-gun wrist, devoid of ammo, and you yelp when his charcoal eyes bore into yours. “—throw you overboard whenever I want.”

“Try it.”

The words come out on their own, taking you both by surprise. Carlos’ breath catches in his throat, and his eyes travel from your parted lips, breathing in ragged little pants, to the lines of neck your crumpled up shirt reveals, then to your whole frame, pinned against the seat, with his knee between your legs—he doesn’t even remember setting it there, the same way he never remembers downshifting six gears at turn 1 in Bahrain. The shadow he casts on your face conceals the acute flush to your cheeks when you notice the proximity of your faces.

“What is this for, Carlos? Why did you invite me here? Just to apologize?” you murmur.

“No,” he breathes out.

He needs no further explaining. You read it all, in the earthly browns of his torrid eyes, consuming you entirely like a hearth. All the desperate wondering if this dull ache ever goes away, or if it is only alleviated when its source is near—if a planet’s core can ever be replaced by another gemstone, of another chemical composition, a placeholder, anything to make the solar system spin again.

Of course it can’t. You get the feeling he’s known this for a while. That he knew this before you even taught him anything about the Moon who answers no prayers, or Jupiter who sets explorers on their right course. 

You could kiss him right now—but you don’t. Neither does he. Instead, he releases your wrists, not without the faintest of caresses to your cheek. If you knew him any less, you’d think it accidental. But the outline of his orbit is no mystery to you. 

Carlos sails the yacht safely back to shore a few hours later. What happens between you on the high seas during those hours will remain a secret that only early-rising constellations know.

Slowly, in deliberate movements, as if to dilate time and space further than physics will allow, he clasps the helmet on your head, and drives you back up to the Observatory, where he picked you up a lifetime ago. His driving is prudent, uncharacteristically so, as if he could fracture reality by hitting the brakes too hard, yet the pang of despair that creeps up your stomach all the way up the hill is so strong you fear you might puke.

Up there on the hill, at the foot of the slumbering dome, another shooting star slices the atmosphere, but Carlos is unclasping your helmet and you are staring into his eyes, so neither of you miss it, per se—you just see it elsewhere. For the first time the silence threatens to suffocate you, so you suffocate it first; you throw yourself in Carlos’ arms, and cradle his furious heart for an eternity. He parts first, but his hands remain on your shoulders. Then, with a reverence you’ve only seen in a scientist when they handle a meteor, he kisses your forehead.

“See you soon?”

“I hope.”

You part ways. The sidewalk is blurry, though it hasn’t rained yet. A Vespa’s engine roars to life, waking up the barking of every dog on the street.

When you reach for your car keys, your fingers graze an unfamiliar piece of paper in your blazer’s pocket.

By holding it against the light, you discern a phone number, an address. And just as you unwrap it, you hear the unmistakable click of the universe falling back into its axis.

“Pick you up same time, same place tomorrow?

Hope I’m not a little too late or a little too early.

- Voyager”

© musicallisto, 2025

[hoodpankow]

Jealousy, Jealousy | Joaquin Torres

A/N: Heyyyy, finally got that freaked out Joaquin smut for yall, but who would I be if I didn't fill it with plot?!?! I present to you, delulu jealous Joaquin Torres, enemies to lovers(ish), with some freaky deaky smut and my amazing comedic timing (pls laugh or ill cry). Also this is hella fanon but does contain a few minor thunderbolts/cabnw spoilers. And I did in fact make it so the world didn't forget my bby Peter Parker BECAUSE HE DESERVED BETTER GOD DAMNIT! Also thx to the super hot and secksi chicken @love-chx for beta-ing half of this, mwah <3

Summary: It was as if every single thing you did irritated Joaquin Torres, you didn't even have to say anything to him, your presence alone was enough to tick him off. Don't get him started on your relationship with Peter Parker either.

Warnings: spelling and grammar errors, cursing, 2nd person POV, Joaquin's a total dick, Joaquin also has a big dick, mentions of Sam and Buckys divorce </3, the reader is a total flirt, mentions of Tony Stark </3, Smut: hair pulling, fish hooking, finger sucking, spitting, spitting in someones mouth, oral (fem receiving), munch!joaquin, minor male masterbation, ass eating if you squint, fingering, kissing, unprotected p in v, creampies, minor breeding kink (joaquin torres YOU ABSOLUTE FREAK!), panty/pussy sniffing, missionary, doggy style, praise, dirty talk, overstimulation, girl i think thats it idk man this was triffling

Word count: 12.7k

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Witch!Reader

Bark bark bark omg ok anyways heres the fic:

Joaquin Torres has always considered himself a pretty good person, his ultimate goal in life has always been to help people and to be a hero. He knows how to use his intelligence and skill set for good, he’s done more than enough to prove himself as the new ‘Falcon’ and from the feedback he’s received, he’d done a damn good job at being a hero, and most importantly, being an Avenger.

Typically, he doesn’t get irritated or angry easily, he’s got a positive mindset and does his best to not let things or people bother him. For a long time he thought it was just genuinely difficult for someone to get under his skin or agitate him, even in the line of combat.

That was until he met you. 

Somehow, every single miniscule thing you did pissed him off. 

It didn’t matter if it was as simple as forgetting to fully shut the office door, he’d get mad over it. If you’d interrupt him in the slightest, even if it wasn’t purposeful, it would tick him off. Anytime you wore heels, the constant clicking of them against the laminated floors had him taking deep breaths, fingers pinching his nose bridge in annoyance.

But nothing compared to the pure irritation that he’d feel whenever he overheard your high-pitched almost wheezy laughter whenever you were with Peter Parker. Now, Joaquin didn’t have anything against Peter per-say, but the fact that you two got along so well was what bothered him the most.

Sure Sam had told him that you’d grown up together, it made sense that you and Peter were close, but that didn’t stop him from being pissed off when he’d see you and Peter sitting close together on a sofa, or you leaning into Peter’s space, or wearing his hoodies, or laughing at his jokes.

It was normal to find your co-workers obnoxious, even if you weren’t exactly in the most normal profession. Being considered a superhero was a dream that most kids had, it was rare that anyone would be able to follow through. 

Maybe that also irritated Joaquin when it came to you, it was as if everything had been handed to you, you hadn’t needed to work hard, you were a witch or a sorcerer or whatever Sam described it as! You’d been born with magical powers straight out of a fantasy novel! You didn’t need to work hard or constantly train or hone in on specific skill sets that would’ve made you better fit to be a hero.

At least that’s what he thought. Then again, Joaquin Torres hardly knew you, all he knew was that every single thing about you bothered him.

Not to mention the grimace that would overtake his features anytime you’d walk past him and the smell of your citrus perfume and shampoo would waft in his direction. You smelled like sweet oranges, sunshine, and the summer.

It made him want to hate the summer.

He didn’t even fully understand what it was about you that he didn’t like. From the outside looking in, you were relatively kind, sure you had a lot of jagged and rough edges but according to Sam you’ve ‘had a hard past few years’. Anytime the both of you had to go on a mission together, you knew exactly what needed to be done and how it needed to be done.

You weren’t exactly a know it all, or a smartass. You were just intelligent, that much was evident, especially after he found out that the entire reason Peter Parker had even had the chance to work with Tony Stark (outside of the whole recruiting two fifteen year olds to fight with the avengers against the avengers thing), was because you were persistent enough to hack into Stark enterprises security system and override parts of the very complex artificial intelligence that Stark had spent years engineering.

At the age of fifteen.

Maybe that also ticked him off, that you were so smart without having to try. 

He was currently seated in his shared office at the Air Force base, one leg rapidly bouncing up and down as he clenched his jaw and stared at the two monitors in front of him. He wasn’t even focused on any of the code, surveillance footage, or data on screen, instead he was busy trying not to glance over his shoulder at you and Peter Parker sitting on the large navy blue sectional.

It wasn’t as if you were all over him, the two of you weren’t even seated directly next to one another, you were on the chase-end of the sofa, feet propped up in front of you as you worked on revisions to a few previous mission reports, adding in newly discovered information pertaining to a few arms deals, extraterrestrial activity, and foreign government involvement.

Meanwhile Peter was focused on repairing his web shooters. He was seated in the middle of the sofa, practically on the edge of one of the cushions while he leaned towards the coffee table where his gadgets sat.

Joaquin didn’t get it, he really truly didn’t get how your presence could bother him so much.

It didn’t help that he could smell you from where he sat. Your perfume had a way of lingering around, the aroma made him light headed and he hated it.

The worst part is that he liked Peter, he found him to be funny and admirable, given everything he’d gone through with losing his Aunt May, and then Stephen Strange nearly ripping a hole into the universe just to prove some point. It was nice to see people that still genuinely cared about the wellbeing of others.

Joaquin just couldn’t stand the sight of you and Peter together. So what if you’d known each other since high school, you were five years older than him now due to the Blip, and somehow, you two were still as close as ever.

He’d been so focused on not looking at you, that he hadn’t heard you say his name, nor had he registered your loud sigh as you got off the couch and approached him. Now you stood right beside him, looking at him while tapping your hand on his desk several times.

“Earth to Torres? I need the satellite scans from three days ago. Sam wants me to finalize the report to send over to the public relations department." You were very clearly annoyed by him, blinking slowly while both of your brows were raised, waiting for his response.

He slowly looked up at you, nodding his head while keeping his jaw clenched.

“Did you check the email I sent?” his condescending tone made you scoff, so instead of arguing with him, you simply shoved him out of the way, now leaning over his desk, his mouse in hand while your eyes trailed along his screens. Opening up the secure records, easily bypassing the password encryption to pull the files you needed.

Then you reached into your back pocket, grabbing a flash drive before connecting it to his computer, downloading each file that you needed while he sat in shock a few feet away.

But the longer you stood there, the more his eyes started to wander. Your back was slightly arched as you focused on the data downloads, your legs were a bit spread, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t immediately notice the way the denim levis hugged your ass perfectly. When his eyes trailed higher he realized your usual braided hair was straightened today, flowing along your back, cascading along your shoulders.

And God did you smell good.

Your shirt was fitted, the cotton of the tanktop hugging all of your soft curves, and maybe that made it worse for him. You weren’t exactly skinny, and he knew for a fact, he didn’t want you to be. 

Sam was right, he needed to get laid.

Then you glanced over at him “what’s your password” he blinked a few times, finally processing what you were talking about, eyes glancing back at the monitors, now seeing his displays completely disorganized as you had several different sized windows up, showing different footage, paused feeds, coded entries, and encryptions. You pointed a singular manicured finger at the smaller black window, waiting on him to provide the necessary password.

“Move outta the way and I’ll type it in princess” you rolled your eyes at the nickname.

“You’re such a child Torres, just tell me the damn password, what you afraid I’m gonna look through your shit? As if we don’t have access to the same things?” he scoffed at that, running a hand along the lower half of his face as he let out a cynical laugh.

“Can’t you just listen and get the hell out of my way?” you shushed him, now typing a random assumption into the password box, waiting on it to load through as the cogwheel showed on screen. Finally after a few tense minutes, it worked and you were into his system fully.

“Seriously? That’s your password? Couldn’t think of anything more creative than Dwayne Wade? I know you’re a Heat fan but damn” 

It took everything in him not to stand up, grab you by the hips, and move you out of his way. His leg was bobbing up and down again and now he was leaning to the right, elbow against the armrest of his chair while his hand covered the top half of his face.

“So uh, is now a bad time to ask if either of you are headed to the gala sponsored by Valentina Allegra De Fontaine this week?” you glanced back at Peter, who looked at both of you with his brows furrowed, eyes wide, and concern evident on his features.

He was sitting up a bit straighter now, as if he was anticipating a larger argument between the two. He wasn’t the best mediator, but he knew when to drag you away, considering you never backed down.

“Yeah, Sam sent us the invite last night. Said it’s mandatory, something about intel and his faux-divorce with Bucky.” you spoke as you glanced back at Joaquin's monitors, now finalizing a few downloads and taking the time to fix two of his encryptions, the codes having very clear errors that you couldn’t resist adjusting.

Then you stood up, taking a second to adjust your jeans, pulling them up slightly, the motion catching Joaquin’s eyes-or rather the sight of your ass slightly jiggling in your jeans caught his attention. Then you were walking away from his desk with the flashdrive in hand.

You initially were going to sit back down and get back to work, it wasn’t exactly easy being an Avenger or whatever the hell Sam called you all, and a lot of it actually required paperwork-something that Tony had never prepared you for. Then your phone started ringing and the sound of Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing started blasting from it.

The ring tone made you burst out in laughter, seeing Sam’s contact name alongside a photo of him giving you the middle finger showing on screen.

“You seriously need to change that Bug!” you scoffed at Peter “No I don’t it’s funny! He’s the one who went on and on about how great Marvin Gaye is. It’s only right that I honor that sentiment”

He shook his head at you, the brunette then glancing towards Joaquin who quickly looked away. Peter could practically feel the laser beams shooting from Joaquin’s glare towards the both of you. 

Then you answered the phone, putting it on speaker.

Another annoying habit of yours that made Joaquin’s jaw clench.

“Hi Father America, how can I help you on this pristine day?” Sam’s sigh was loud over the phone, meanwhile you and Peter looked at each other and shared a muffled laugh.

“Did you finish those reports? Gotta know what we’re fully up against, and the press is on my ass over it. Also have you heard from Kate? She said she’s been trying to reach out to Yelena but y’know they’re always on and off again” you shrugged, then realized he couldn’t actually see you.

The long silence followed by Sam’s “once again, shrugging while we’re on a phone call isn’t helpful for me here kid.” you rolled your eyes at that, elbowing Peter slightly who laughed at you.

“Nope, haven't heard from Kate, she was still wallowing in her relationship sorrow last time we spoke, also did you see that Bob guy? You think Buck will put in a good word for me?”

The comment made Joaquin choke on his coffee, you didn’t register that though as Peter responded “Seriously Bug? Can you not act like yourself for five minutes? Maybe don’t go try jumping someone’s bones who literally turned into like a black mass and overtook Manhattan?” you sighed at that, shaking your head.

“He’s just misunderstood I could fix him, with this pus-” Peter was quick to cut you off, a hand over your mouth as your words were muffled, meanwhile Joaquin scoffed, rolling his eyes again.

“Okay, Sorry about that Sam, Bug’s gonna finish the reports soon, she just got the last few satellite files from Joaquin, we’ll call you back later when she’s in her right mind again!” with that he hung up your phone.

One thing Joaquin clearly didn’t understand was how Peter was alright with you making comments like that. He was under the assumption that the two of you were dating, you spent most of your time together, went out together constantly, it only made sense. Maybe he just wasn’t the jealous type, Joaquin could respect that to a certain extent.

You quickly swatted Peter’s hands away. “You’re really raining on my shine here Parker!” he laughed at that, shaking his head at you.

Sam eventually got back to the office to go over the reports with you, meanwhile Joaquin offered side quips that you easily shut down, rolling your eyes a few times at his antics. Then you were walking everyone through the several different dimensional aspects to the most recent space-level threat and the Avengers response.

Joaquin leaned against his desk with his arms crossed over his chest, when he wasn’t looking you were quick to peek at the way his biceps bulged. He was glaring in your direction the entire time you spoke, pulling up the holographic feeds, zooming in and out of different bits and portions, elaborating on the issue and the scope of it all.

You were too smart and that also pissed him off.

By the time you were finished with the long winded explanation, and answering a few of Sam’s questions on the matter, you were tired and ready to head home. Then Sam cleared his throat as you packed your things. 

You didn’t live far off base, and you’d shared a townhouse with Peter, it was a nice place, nothing compared to New York, but you were settling in just fine.

“Actually, none of you are headed home, remember how I said a go bag is a necessity, yeah, well we’re all headed over to the airport, then we’re headed into New York to the backhanded ‘New Avengers’ tower for that big Gala. There are ground rules here, the biggest one is you and you-” he paused to point at you, then at Joaquin “need to get the hell along. We’re walking into a building full of super soldiers, ex-war criminals, and that guy who turned into a black mass-”

You interrupted Sam “so do you think I have a shot with him, these are the important questions-so what if he’s a little evil, I could fix him!” Sam groaned.

“Peter please control your friend” Peter sighed and nodded his head.

“Okay, now back to what's important, actually as a matter of fact, a new rule just for you Bug, you are not allowed to seduce Bob!” you sighed, shoulders dropping and bottom lip pouting “-okay but can I seduce someone?” he shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly while he stared at you.

“No! You can’t seduce any of them, Jesus Christ do I need to put you on a leash?” you were about to make a joke out of that, until Peter quickly pulled you into his side, a hand over your mouth, earning an irritated groan from you.

“We’re headed to the airport, get your go bags, pack your computers and whatnot because our flight is set to take off in two hours. I’ve already got someone up there getting you all something more gala-like. Kate’s also meeting us up there as well.”

By the time that you’d all arrived in New York, you were exhausted. You knew that everyone would be spending the weekend in the New Avengers tower, and you had no expectations of how it would actually look, not when you knew how it originally looked, and when the place held a few memories that you didn’t want to relive.

It was a shell of what it used to be, that was certain. 

The building had been remodeled, there was a lack of character here, everything felt too new, too modern. It didn’t have the same touches that Tony had left, things were different now. 

You hated it.

But you couldn’t complain, not yet at least. Not when everyone was busy greeting you and your eyes were jumping from person to person, studying each of the New Avengers, you’d read about the ones you didn’t know personally, most of them had serious criminal backgrounds.

Then again, if you weren’t technically an Avenger, you would’ve had a serious criminal background as well. 

“Ah, you must be the Bug we have heard much about!” you blinked a few times, a large russian man looking down at you with a wide smile on his face, then he pulled you into a bone crushing hug, lifting you right off of the ground as your eyes widened. It was kind of nice though, the kind of hug that reminded you of Thor. So you smiled and hugged him back.

That action surprised several people in the room.

Then he put you down.

“I have heard much about your battle stories, you are a strong fighter, yes?” you shrugged “something like that” which earned a scoff from Joaquin, and you were quick to glare at him.

“I’m Alexei Shostakov, the Red Guardian.” you nodded at him, introducing yourself, following it with “but everyone calls me Bug” then you shook his hand. 

Clearly he was the nicest out of everyone.

Well that and, everyone had been conversing with Sam, or rather watching Sam and Bucky argue and awkwardly introducing themselves, even though everyone pretty much knew everyone, and then Kate and Yelena were off in a corner whisper shouting at each other yet again.

“So why do they call you Bug?” you shrugged at him, now sitting at the bar with the older man “Honestly, Mr. Stark-uh Tony-used to call me Bug. Said it was because I was always bugging him, and my best friend was a spider, so of course I’d be some kind of bug too” he nodded as you spoke.

Meanwhile Joaquin tried to act as if he wasn’t eavesdropping. He honestly had never thought to ask you why people called you Bug, he just knew he didn’t have that privilege. That also kind of irritated him too.

What was so irritating about you? He didn’t get it.

The next day rolls around faster than you expected, and after waking up in a guest bedroom, halfway off of the king sized bed, you realize that you were tossing and turning all night. Then you glanced around the room, all of the furniture was dark, but it wasn’t dark wood, it was black with silver hardware, and honestly, it reminded you of an upscale hotel in the worst way.

Peter was across the room, sprawled out across the large sofa after having lost the game of rock paper scissors you’d played over who would sleep in the bed. Typically you would’ve had your own room, however Sam labeled you as a ‘flight risk’, and stated that you needed someone to be with you, so of course you were quick to say Peter.

Joaquin was constantly an asshole to you, it made zero sense for you to want to be around him.

It didn’t matter how attractive he was, or how nice his biceps looked, or how kissable his lips were. Nor did it matter that you liked his hair, or his smile, or really anything about him. He was an absolute dick to you, and he’d been that way since the both of you had started working together.

Initially, when you’d met him through Sam and Bucky, he wasn’t that bad, sure he talked a lot, but you hardly saw him. Then, when Sam had asked if you and Peter wanted to come to D.C. to work with him, that’s when things started changing. Slowly but surely, Joaquin was more hostile towards you.

You thought that maybe you’d done something wrong at first, but then after talking to Peter about it, and venting about how annoying he was, you realized that you hadn’t done anything and Joaquin was just being an asshole.

So you kept your distance, and of course, anytime he was rude, you had to be ruder. He brought out the worst in you at times, you weren’t outwardly a mean person, but spending too much time around him brought out that side of you.

“Peter! Wake up! Before Sam kicks our asses!” he groaned, nodding his head as he slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes a bit.

It’d taken the both of you about twenty minutes to get up and ready for the day, the gala was tonight and Sam had said they’d already gotten you both your outfits. Peter would be in a black suit with a white shirt, meanwhile you were in a red floor length dress. Why was it crimson? You had no idea, maybe to pay homage to your magic, or to your previous mentor that had flown off her rocker and gone into the deep end of insanity? Who knows.

You were currently seated on the bed, legs crossed in front of you as you rapidly typed. Sam had texted you a screenshot of information that he’d gotten from Bucky. Something about Valentina’s assistant giving him information, you weren’t really awake enough to process where it came from, but you were told to work your magic and get past a few firewalls.

Everything was going fine until your hands started to cramp.

Peter also wasn’t in the room anymore, he was out ‘networking’ as he called it. You groaned, putting your laptop on the bed beside you, taking a minute to clench and unclench your fists, doing your best to relax your hands.

Then you spotted Joaquin in the hallway, and god damnit, he would be your saving grace whether he liked it or not.

“Torres! Come here!” you were loud as you shouted his name, he blinked a few times, walking backwards a few steps, now gazing into your room, rolling his eyes at the sight of you in the middle of the large bed like some kind of princess. 

“What?” you rolled your eyes at his evident attitude.

“Listen, I don’t have time for the sassy man apocalypse today, I need help with something Sam asked me about” you motioned for him to come into the room with your hand, brows raised expectantly as you stared at him. He shook his head before walking into the room, then you waved your hand slightly, the door shutting behind him.

“Like come here, not stand by the door.” you aggressively pat the bed beside you, and he let out a frustrated sigh as he made his way over, now sitting beside you, but also practically halfway off the bed. You rolled your eyes at him, grabbing his forearm and dragging him closer, you tried to ignore how firm his arms were-that was a thought for another day.

“Stop acting like a shy virgin about to hookup for the first time. I don’t have time for this, Sam needs this information asap, so here” you handed him the laptop, now pointing at the screen “I need you to finish bypassing this, my fucking hands are killing me and you’re the best hacker I know-don’t let that inflate your ego either” 

He glanced at you, then at the laptop. Then he started typing, eyes scanning your previous work as he found a few quicker work-arounds.

Meanwhile you watched him, your eyes tracing along the veins in his hands, taking in every small detail. His hands were pretty big, you hadn’t really noticed that before, they looked firm and strong. His forearms were nice too, a bit toned, his skin had a golden tan. 

Then your eyes moved along his figure. His hair was still damp, a few loose curls lightly touching his forehead. His jawline was sharp and defined, part of you wanted to reach out and touch it, but you didn’t want to make things weird.

Although, he was always an asshole to you, so what would making things weird really do?.

You reached over slowly, one finger gently tracing the slope of his jawline, the feeling had him freezing up, eyes widening at the feather-light touch against his face.

“You have a nice jawline Torres.” 

He slowly glanced over at you, now finally processing the smell of citrus in the room, the warmth of the sun's rays against your skin as you looked at him. He noticed how soft your lips looked, and how focused you were on him. 

It didn’t help that you were wearing a pair of black shorts that were riding all the way up your thighs, but the grey Midtown sweatshirt you wore ripped him out of his potential fantasy. His jaw clenched at the sight and he leaned away from your touch before shrugging your hand away from him.

“Thanks, now stop being a creep.” 

You scoffed at that. “Seriously? A creep? Why do you always have to be such an asshole to me!” 

He blinked a few times, rolling his eyes as he continued typing.

“Wow, the silent treatment, well aren’t you fucking mature. Damn, learn how to take a compliment you douchebag." Then you were quick to get off the bed, he watched as you moved away-which probably wasn’t the best idea because as you walked off, his eyes were focused solely on the way your ass moved in your shorts.

The sound of the door slamming practically echoed inside of the room.

Then he was looking around, annoyed at the fact that you were probably lying in this bed last night side by side with Peter Parker of all people. It was irrational for him to be annoyed by the thought, but genuinely, what did you even see in Peter?

Okay, so maybe Peter wasn’t ugly, and he was a good kid, plus he was really smart, and he had the whole ‘Spider-man’ thing going for him- okay maybe Joaquin did understand what you saw in Peter. But that didn’t make it any less annoying.

That’s when it hit him.

“Am I jealous of Peter Parker?” he spoke to himself, brows knit together as he looked down at your laptop, now realizing that he’d gotten into the system, then he noticed the notebook you had on the bed with a jumbled mess of scribbles and notes of things Sam wanted you to figure out.

He knew that this job stressed you out, that much had always been obvious because it stressed him out too. So he decided to actually be a nice guy for once, going through your sloppy checklist and pulling the necessary information on the Sentry project, on the Darkholder Cult, and on a few under the table weapons manufacturing deals. 

Once he finished, he was quick to retrace all of his steps, ensuring nothing could be traced back to you, then he exited out of every tab, only to come face to face with your laptop background, a photo of you, Peter, and an older Brunette woman with large glasses on her face. 

You were younger in the photo, and based on the burnt cupcake in your hand with two small candles showcasing ‘15’ on them, he knew it had to have been your birthday.

He wanted to snoop through your things, but then the door opened, and in walked Peter who looked a bit surprised to see Joaquin there.

“Let me guess, you two got into it again?” 

He nodded his head at the question, watching as Peter walked over to the sofa in the room, sitting down and now digging through one of his bags. 

“Between me and you, I think you really need to stop being a dick to her man, it’s only making things worse on your end.”

Joaquin blinked a few times at the advice, sure it was sound advice, but he didn’t need sound advice from your boyfriend. 

“I just don’t get it, you two would make sense, but you guys are just constantly going head to head. Y’know Mr. Stark always used to tell her she needed to find someone that could out-argue her, I guess that actually might be you.” 

Joaquin blinked a few times, now utterly confused, glancing from the laptop to Peter.

He then grabbed a few things and stood up. “But y’know, what would I know right?” He shrugged, leaving the room.

Then Joaquin was alone again.

By the time that he’d actually left your room and managed to find everyone, he spotted you talking to Bob. That made his blood boil. You were smiling while he said something, Joaquin didn’t give a shit what anyone had to say to you, there was no reason that you should’ve been practically beaming at him. 

He couldn’t have been that funny or entertaining.

So he decided he would make his presence known, waltzing right up to you, then throwing an arm around your shoulders. He smirked at your shocked expression, then he glanced at Bob who just looked confused, glancing between you and Joaquin.

“Uh-I guess we can talk later then?” 

You nodded at Bob, mumbling an apology on Joaquin’s behalf as the brunette awkwardly nodded and walked away. Then you let out a deep sigh, shoving Joaquin off of you. Glancing around the room, you realized that while it was a large space, it was clear that this was the last place to yell at him.

So you grabbed his arm and dragged him off, finding a random quiet hall. 

You  shove him, “What the fuck is your problem? You’re constantly such an asshole to me, then you do stupid shit like that!” 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes.“So sorry I stopped you from throwing yourself at Bob” 

You shove him again.“I wasn’t even throwing myself at him! Sam said to talk to everyone, y’know be social?! He’s working his ass off to try to find some fucking solution to this whole his Avengers vs Valentina’s Avengers fiasco and you’re just being a self centered dick!” you were yelling now.

He shook his head “As if you give a shit about any of that!” 

You scoffed, jaw dropping. “Well excuse the fuck out of me, I didn’t know Joaquin Torres knew a single god damn thing that I gave a shit about! You don’t even know me. You know jack shit about me!” 

He was quiet now, trying to come up with something to say, anything to prove that you weren’t right.

But you were too quick.

“Exactly, silence because even you know it’s true. You don’t know the first fucking thing about me, and yet for the past year and a half, you’ve treated me like the bane of your existence. I get that you’re mister hot shot Falcon now, but for fucks sake, you don’t need to be such a douchebag! You couldn’t even tell me my favorite color. That’s how little you know about me.”

He scoffed. “As if you could tell me mine”

You shook your head. “It’s orange, your favorite fucking color is orange, the bright ass orange that matches the University of Miami’s orange. You jackass.” With that you walked off again, shaking your head, while muttering a series of curse words. Whenhe tried to follow you, you waved a hand in the air, a random vase flying towards him.

Part of you wanted to blow something up, the other part of you wanted to kick Joaquin in the chest. 

There was a sliver that was upset though, upset that he genuinely thought so little of you. 

Before you could storm off to your room like a child throwing a temper tantrum, you stormed right into Bucky, practically falling back after walking right into him, but he easily steadied you.

“Seriously Bug? Still angry walking and not paying attention?” 

You sighed, looking at Bucky and shaking your head. It took him half a second to realize who made you angry.

“Let me guess, you and Joaquin still haven’t kissed and made up?” 

You scoffed at him, shaking your head, then you were walking in sync with him. You honestly had no idea where Bucky was headed, but now you were too busy venting to him about your problems. Besides, you always used to vent to him about anything and everything prior to him going off to pursue being a Congressman.

“No, Buck, you don’t understand. I’ve done nothing to him! Nothing at all! And still no matter what, he’s constantly an asshole to me! It’s like if I even breathe the wrong way he’s just mad about it. Now, we have this stupid gala to be at tonight and I have to wear a stupid dress and I’m already irritated, then, then I’m talking to Bob, y’know being nice like Sam said to be! Sure, I think the guy’s hot-he’s got the whole shy introvert thing going on-but I’m not over here throwing myself at him!”

Bucky nodded as you spoke, humming every so often so you knew he was listening. Meanwhile he was trying to figure out the best way to let you know that Joaquin Torres was obviously in love with you.

“Then-then get this Buck! He’s just mean to be mean! Today I complimented him, sure I was a little too touchy feely, but then he like jerks away from me and acts like I have the damn plague or something! Whatever happened to extending an olive branch and not being a dickhead?!”

Bucky laughed at that, it wasn’t a light laugh either, no it was loud and boisterous and it caught you off guard.

“You probably flustered him. He’s just a guy, don’t get too caught up in him being an asshole, alright? There’s plenty of other fish in the sea that won’t make you so mad you’re about to blow a hole in the tower.” 

You nodded at that.

After your conversation with Bucky, you were quick to make it back to your designated room, finding your laptop and finalizing all of your work related documents, then you knew it was about time to start getting ready for the obnoxious Gala, and of course, that also meant having to mix and mingle with everyone.

So you screamed into a pillow six times, then started getting ready. Showering and doing your best not to wet your hair was the longest part, then you’d gone back over your hair, ensuring that your hair and extensions were blended seamlessly as you sat in front of the floor length mirror curling them.

Makeup was easy, mostly because you didn’t have it in you to do an entire glamorous look, instead you’d opted for something soft and simple with a bold red lip to compliment the obnoxious dress they’d chosen for you.

You still didn’t even know who picked the dress out, but your money was on Kate, considering she’d asked you for your exact measurements three days ago over text. Plus she had an eye for dramatics. 

By the time that Peter had showed up to get dressed and ready, you were sorting through your jewelry, with your ‘I hate men’ playlist on full volume. 

He opted to stay quiet, getting dressed as you angrily applied your makeup and fixed your hair. Once it was time for you to put the dress on, you walked into the ensuite, slamming the door behind you in your own silent rage.

How Joaquin had the nerve to treat you the way he did was just baffling to you? It made no sense!

You were jumping up and down trying to get the zipper to work on the back of your dress, huffing and puffing a few times before yelling out “Can you come help me?!”.

When the bathroom door opened, you expected Peter. When your eyes met Joaquin’s in the reflection, you debated on kicking his ass right then and there, but that wouldn’t be possible, considering one of your hands was on the front of your dress, holding it up against your bare chest, while your other hand was leaning against the countertop.

He stared at you with his lips slightly parted, and if you weren’t so irritated, maybe you would’ve blushed.

“Can you zip my fucking dress up instead of staring at me?” 

He rolled his eyes at that, now standing behind you, holding the top of the dress together, then finding the zipper closer to your lower back. His brows knit together at the sight of the tattoo along your spine, and that knowledge made him a little light headed.

“Didn’t know you had tattoos.” 

You scoffed. “Once again, you don’t know shit about me so that’s not very shocking, Torres”. 

He shook his head at that, grasping the zipper and slowly sliding it up until he hit the top. His hands lingered on your skin for a few seconds after, then you were shoving him away, walking right past him, practically shoulder checking him on the way out of the en suite.

You gave Peter a dirty look while he fumbled with his tie.

“Ugh, c’mere let me fix it.” You were adjusting Peter’s tie, all while Joaquin leaned against the doorframe and watched. The sight had his right eye twitching slightly. 

Once the Gala was in full swing you were mingling with everyone, flashing fake smiles, a few winks, and even a few flirty lines to some of the older more influential politicians and socialites there. It was easy to get information out of them, a handful of giggles and a shy smile was everything they needed from you.

It also helped that your tits were practically out, sitting pretty in your crimson dress, as if you were Jessica Rabbit herself.

Joaquin stayed in the back for the most part, ignoring the pent up aggression in his body while his eyes followed you through the room. Each and every person you spoke to, he made a mental note of, part of his job was to do reconn, the other part was to keep you safe. 

At least that’s what Sam had told him prior to the event. Meanwhile, Peter was nowhere to be found, but that was also most likely because he was touring the research facilities with some of the other influential scientists present. Valentina made sure to dot all of her I’s and cross each and every one of her T’s to make tonight successful.

You didn’t even want to be there, you’d even run into Kate and Yelena, both of them doing exactly what you were doing, which earned a few succinct head nods and winks. 

The music was too loud, the champagne was disgusting, your head was hurting, and you were still a ball of pent up rage.  Across the room, Joaquin was feeling the same exact way.

It wasn’t until some politician’s son had pulled you to the dance floor in a different room for a shitty slow dance that Joaquin had finally snapped. Maybe it was the way you smiled at the man, laughing, getting too close for comfort, pressing your ample chest against his own. Or maybe it was the way that you let the man’s hands roam along your waist, down to the curve of your ass that really got to him.

Joaquin didn’t know, nor did he care.

All he knew was within seconds he was behind you, gently pulling you back and away, offering some half-assed excuse about needing to handle Avengers business, then he was dragging you away from everyone. 

You two stood in silence in the elevator, the air was thick with tension and you wanted nothing more than to rip his head off like a female praying mantis.

Then, the doors dinged and he dragged you down the hall, right to his room and as he kicked the door shut, he stared right at you in the dimly lit room.

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

You scoffed at the question, taken aback, laughing at his outburst.“You dragged me away from our job to ask me what my god damn problem is? Meanwhile, you’ve been nothing but an asshole to me for forever at this point, you don’t know anything about me, and still you constantly judge me, and constantly talk down to me like I’m some little fucking kid. Newsflash Torres, I’m twenty five not six.”

He shook his head at that, taking a deep breath.

“Your favorite color is blue. It’s not sky blue, it’s not navy, no it’s the color of a Robin’s egg, it’s not exactly blue and it’s not exactly green.” 

You stood in silence at that, brows knit together as you looked at him.

“You have a playlist for every bad mood you’ve ever been in, and I’ve probably contributed to more than half of them. Your favorite season is Spring and you hate the winter, you smell like fucking sunshine and oranges and lemons and it drives me insane because you drive me insane.” 

He ran a hand through his hair while he spoke, then he loosened his tie, with one hand, pulling at the collar of his shirt as if he was hot.

Joaquin was absolutely burning up.

“Being around you makes me feel like I’m fucking losing my mind, everything about you pisses me off to no extend, I can’t stand it when you’re around but I hate it when you’re gone-” you cut him off, closing the space between the both of you, pressing your lips against his.

When you tried to pull away he placed a hand on the back of your neck, lightly holding you in place, lips moving against yours. The kiss was anything but sweet, it was all teeth and tongue, pent up anger, jealousy, and downright delusion. Every single aspect of his being was on fire, and you were the only thing that could extinguish it.

He backed you up against the door, the thick mahogany cold against your back was the only thing grounding you. His hand stayed behind your neck, the other on your waist, holding you against him firmly. He’d easily won control of the kiss, it was like he was trying to prove himself.

You were intoxicating and maddening. 

It was sending him deeper and deeper into a hole that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get out of. 

His lower half was pressed directly against you, but the second you bit his bottom lip, one of his legs easily slid between yours, practically pinning you against the door. His grip on your waist bruising while he started trailing open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your throat.

He spoke between kisses “do you know-” kiss “-how crazy you make me-” kiss “every single day of my life”. Then as he met your pulse point, you gasped, earning a smirk from him before he started nipping at the skin there, sucking a harsh mark against you, your hands now in his hair, tugging at the curls as your back arched into him.

“Shit-fuck you Torres” he nodded at that, tongue gliding against the freshly bruised skin.

“Trust me, you’re gonna” you blinked a few times, letting out a raspy laugh, shaking your head at him.

“This why you’re always so mean? Cause you wanna fuck me? Could’ve just asked nicely” he groaned at your flirtatious tone, a short giggle leaving your lips as his tongue moved against your neck, tracing your skin, the saltiness made him moan. He wanted to run his tongue along your entire body.

He shook his head, leaving another bruising kiss to your exposed skin as he started moving lower, then you gasped as the hand that was on the back of your neck slid between your body and the door, easily finding the dress’s zipper, slowly tugging it down.

“Gonna make you mine for tonight” his words were muffled against your skin, lips moving along your exposed shoulders down to the swell of your chest. Then he was pulling the dress down, moaning against your skin. 

“These are so nice-you’re so fuckin pretty” he took his time, kissing along each of your tits, leaving a few marks. Each time you pulled his hair, he’d moan then lightly bite against your supple skin. He took his time trailing his tongue along each of your nipples. Rolling the hardened peaks between his teeth before lightly sucking against them.

Your whimpers and gasps were like music to his ears.

You managed to press yourself closer to him, head leaned against the door behind you as he moved lower and lower, pulling your gown down to the ground as he tried to kiss every single inch of your exposed skin.

His lips were searing, he felt like he was on fire. His ears were practically ringing.

Then he was on his knees, pulling his tie off, tossing it to the side as he helped you step out of the dress. Then you were being pushed further against the door, one of your thighs now resting against his shoulder while he kissed along your lower stomach, moving to your upper thighs, then he bit into your inner thigh, a sharp gasp leaving your lips.

When met with your clothed pussy he moaned, leaning into it, nose practically pressed against the wet patch as he took a deep inhale, biting his bottom lip before licking a flat stripe against the thin lace. 

“Smell so good-fuck can I taste you?” your eyes widened at his needy tone, nodding your head as you looked down at him, he looked absolutely wrecked and he’d barely even touched you.

He used one hand to pull your panties to the side, moaning at the sight of your glistening cunt.

The Joaquin Torres you were seeing now was a completely different man than the one that’d been purposefully being an asshole to you for months. 

He looked desperate as he licked his lips, a breathy laugh slipping past his kiss-swollen lips before he leaned in, tongue flat against your cunt, moving from your weeping entrance to your clit.

Your hands were back in his hair in seconds.

That was all it took for him to absolutely lose himself in your cunt. He focused on lapping his tongue against your clit, swirling around the pearl as if it was his last meal, moaning at your taste. Then he brought it into his mouth, sucking on it as if he was dying of thirst, the motion made your thighs shake slightly.

You tried to push him away-it was too much. 

But he’d just begun. He used one of his hands to pin you in place, fingers digging into your thigh, holding you right against him, the other hand was currently focused on undoing his belt, trying to relieve the pressure on his restrained cock.

You were loud, louder than he expected as you ground yourself against his face, moaning a mixture between half-spoken words and whines.

He didn’t let up, keeping his focus on your clit while you felt the coil in your abdomen tightening. Then he moved away from your clit slightly, licking against it a few more times before trailing down, tongue now prodding at your sopping entrance, the slight intrusion made you light headed.

Joaquin was teasing you now, enjoying the sting from you pulling his hair and your low whines and whimpers. Not to mention the way you tasted, he’d stay between your thighs for days if you’d let him.

“Fuck-please I need more” he smirked, now pulling away to look up at you.

“More what?” you let out a low whimper at that, now looking down at him again, your brows knit together, lips swollen and parted, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin. 

You were glowing, he wanted to be a little mean, but he couldn’t, not when you were looking at him so desperately.

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll give you everything you need” then his tongue was back on your clit, and one of his thick fingers was sliding right into your hole, he was met with a little resistance as you immediately clenched around the digit, your walls fluttering, then practically pulling him in as you ground your hips against his hand and face.

Then he slid a second finger in, and you just about lost it, your back arching even harder, a high pitched moan practically echoing in the room as you were creaming around his fingers, rocking your hips, fucking yourself on them to prolong your own orgasm.

He bit his lip at the sight of you, then he started moving his fingers, thrusting them into you, curling them perfectly, finding the spot that made you see stars. 

It was too much, but you couldn’t push him away, not when he had you pinned between himself and the door. 

He continued to suck on your clit, moaning at the taste of you as his fingers sped up, the sloshing sound of your cunt was almost embarrassing. You were positive you’d never been this wet in your life.

He didn’t care anymore, he didn’t have time to be sweet or gentle with you, his pace was brutal, fingers practically pounding into you while his tongue flicked against your swollen bundle of nerves. Except the faster and harder his fingers fucked into you, the slower his tongue moved against your clit.

He looked up at you, hooded eyes moving from your tits, moaning at the sight of them slightly bouncing as you ground yourself against him, to your pretty face. You were biting your bottom lip, one hand still in his hair, the other moving to your thigh that was propped up on his shoulder. 

Joaquin thought you were going to try to push his hand away, instead you grasped it, yours clutching against the top of his. That made him blush-as if he wasn’t already flushed from tongue fucking you.

You were an absolute wreck above him. He knew you were close, your walls constantly clenching around his fingers.

“You’re so fuckin tight-can’t wait to get my cock in you” you nodded at that, biting your bottom lip and whimpering. “Gonna fuck you so good-make you forget all about anyone else” you were moaning above him, getting closer and closer to your orgasm, chasing your high as you practically bounced against his penetrating digits.

“Yeah, you’d want that huh? Want me to fuck you stupid?” you tugged harshly on his hair, pushing him back into your cunt, the motion earned a throaty laugh from him. Then his tongue was back on your clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure as he focused on the rosebud.

Then you were gushing on his fingers and the lower half of his face. It had initially caught him off guard, then he pulled back, watching your cunt squirt for him as he finger fucked you through your orgasm.

He then slowly pulled his fingers out, smirking at you whimpering. Then his fingers were in his mouth as he licked them clean before his tongue was back on you, licking and slurping everything, moaning at the taste of you.

“Fuck Torres-shit stop-” you were now pushing his head away, still out of breath as you looked down at him. He sat back on his haunches, looking right at you, his face still wet, chest rising and falling, and it was then that you noticed his belt was undone, his pants were unzipped, and there was a very large tent emphasizing his hard-on.

Your legs were a bit wobbly as you leaned against the door, then he slowly stood up, tossing his suit jacket to the side. 

Then he stood up, and suddenly you felt too exposed. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes trailed along your nearly-nude figure. Taking in every single detail of your body. 

“You’re beautiful y’know that” you rolled your eyes at him, shoving past him and walking towards the bed, and when he stood in place, just watching you, head tilted to the side as his eyes focused on your ass and thighs you scoffed.

“Are you gonna fuck me or stare me down?” 

He shook his head at your tone. Then he started unbuttoning his shirt as he approached you. “That attitudes gotta go Princessa” you rolled your eyes at the pet name, slowly starting to remember why you didn’t like him in the first place.

Then when you stood at the edge of his bed facing away from him, he smirked, pushing you down, guiding your body onto the mattress. Once you were on it, he was quick to grasp your hips, pulling them up, his strength shocked you. Then again he was an Air Force Captain and the Falcon for a reason. 

His hand was at the small of your back, pushing you down slightly, enjoying the way that you arched for him while your upper body was flat against the bed. He wasn’t going to force you onto your hands and knees-not when he knew you couldn’t take it. 

Then you started moving your hips, swaying them side to side as your legs parted a bit further. But when you were on your forearms, taking a second to look back at him, your hair cascading around your figure while you met his eyes-that was his breaking point.

He didn’t even fully remove his pants, he pulled his cock out as fast as possible, and you moaned at the sight. Joaquin looked directly at you as he slowly stroked his cock, then he was leaning forward, one hand outstretched close to your face.

“Spit” you raised a brow, eyeing his hand, then his dick, then as you made eye contact you moved closer to his hand, slowly spitting into it, letting it glide off of your tongue right into his palm. He bit his lip at the sight, then pulled his hand back, now running it along his cock.

“You gonna let me fuck you just like this? Fuck you raw so you can feel it all?” you nodded at him, ignoring the part of your brain screaming at you that it was a bad idea. This was Joaquin Torres, he was an asshole! But you couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

Then he was closer to you, tapping the head of his cock against your swollen clit a few times, the motion making you whimper. He started running the tip along your cunt, and each time it would catch on your entrance, you’d roll your eyes and whine.

You hadn’t expected him to land a firm slap to your ass-the motion caught you off guard, eyes widening at the feeling. Then he did it again, and on the third time you let out a broken moan.

“I always thought you were wound too tight, guess you just need to be fucked good huh?” his condescending tone made you whimper, your forehead resting against your arms while you clenched around nothing. The sight had him biting his bottom lip, watching as your pussy fluttered over and over again.

He hadn’t stopped jerking himself off as he watched you, then he was lining himself up with your entrance and part of him wanted to go slow, but you were just too fucking agitating. So the second he was able to slide the head of his cock into you, he bottomed out in one harsh thrust, the motion practically knocking the air out of your lungs.

Your back arched even harder-the sight had his brows raised while he took a second to breathe.

“Fuck-you’re so fuckin tight, cunt’s gripping me in a vice” you moaned at his words, taking a few deep breaths as you tried to adjust to him. 

“‘S too big-fuck you’re too deep” your words were slurred together as you tried to move your hips, he was invading each and every one of your senses, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

He shushed you as he slowly pulled out “It’s okay, you can take it-I know you can” you moaned at his words, toes curling slightly, one hand moved back-you tried to push him away, but he grasped it instead, now holding your wrist, pinning your hand in place on your lower back while he started fucking into you.

Joaquin was slow at first, giving you time to adjust to his size, he knew he wasn’t exactly small, but the way you were practically mewling from the stretch was making him feel light headed. 

“Just like that baby, relax into it, taking it so well now-” he spoke as he started building a rhythm, each thrust earning moans and whimpers from you. He bit his lip at the sight of him fucking into you, watching as your pussy swallowed him whole, over and over again. “-just like that baby, fuck, pussy was made f’me”

You were fluttering around him again. He let go of your hand, instead leaning over you more, grasping your hair, pulling you up slightly, your hands catching on the bed, holding yourself in place at the new angle. Then he dropped your hair, one hand on your jaw now, while he leaned into your space.

“Feel that Princessa? Feel how deep I am, fuck, look at you, can’t even talk huh?” you nodded at him, head leaning back now as you tried to look at him, but you couldn’t focus on anything he was saying, not when he started fucking you harder and faster.

Then two of his fingers slid into your mouth, you were quick to start sucking on them, swirling your tongue around them as he muffled your whimpers. 

He bit his bottom lip, now sliding his fingers to the side of your mouth, keeping it open, pulling you back slightly just like that. They were hooked into your cheek and you were leaning into his hand, spit dribbling along his fingers and your jaw while he practically pounded into you.

The mixture of your moans and his were loud, but not as loud as the sound of skin slapping and the wet slosh of your cunt. 

“‘M gonna cum-please-fuck let me cum” you were begging him, words a bit slurred as he was still pulling against the side of your mouth. The sounds of you begging had his hips faltering slightly, but he easily regained his rhythm, now moving his fingers out of your mouth, dragging your spit along your jaw as his hand wrapped around your throat.

Then he was leaning over you, practically caging you in as he kept his relentless pace. You leaned your head back against his shoulder as he lightly tightened his grip on your throat, the added pressure making your head fuzzy.

“You wanna cream all over my cock huh baby?” you nodded, looking to the side slightly, trying your best to look at him. 

You were so fucked out and that only turned him on more. His lips were on yours in an instant. You couldn’t really kiss Joaquin back, you tried, but you were just moaning and whimpering against his lips.

“Fuck-cum for me princessa” you nodded, moaning as you felt yourself tip over the edge into a sea of ecstasy, except it was never ending, he fucked you through your orgasm, moaning against your shoulder as your cunt clenched around him.

He was quick to pull out of you, resting his head on your shoulder for a few seconds before moving back. You were too focused on catching your breath to focus on what he was doing. Then you felt it-his tongue back on your cunt, and you were a mess of whines and whimpers, hands clutching the duvet below at the overstimulation.

“You’re so sensitive, so fuckin reactive all the time-fuck you drive me crazy” he spoke before licking a flat stripe along your used cunt, then his tongue moved further, until it was resting along your other hole, lightly lapping at it, the newfound sensation made your eyes widened. Then he slid two fingers back into you, tongue lapping at your ass while he curled his fingers inside of you.

When he slid in a third finger, you were babbling, begging him for a break. 

He smirked at the sound, pulling his fingers and tongue away from your fucked out pussy.

As he moved back, he watched you practically flop into the bed, biting his lip at the sight of you in his bed. Where you belong. 

Then he was slapping your ass again a few times before helping you roll over.

“We’re not done baby” he stroked his cock as he spoke to you, you nodded your head at him, looking at him, eyes trailing along his bare chest, then down to his big cock, hand curled around it. “Eyes are up here Princess” you blinked a few times, gaze now on his.

You laughed while he kicked off his pants, he rolled his eyes at you for a few seconds, but for the first time in a long time, it was playful.

Then he made his way onto the bed, easily spreading your legs, making room for him between them as he used one arm to hold his weight above you. Now the two of you were face to face again, your eyes trailing his features, while he did the same thing.

“You ready beautiful?” you raised a single brow, wrapping one leg around his waist, pulling him closer to you. The motion made the both of you laugh. 

It was nice to laugh with Joaquin.

He lined himself back up with your entrance, and as he slowly rolled his hips into you, you gasped, back arching slightly while one of your hands gripped against his side, nails digging into his tanned skin. 

“Can you go slow?” your voice was breathy, and the question was almost a whisper. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of him pulling his hips back.

Your question made his heart race, his eyes practically popping out of his head. It wasn’t that Joaquin had anything against slow sex, but he was already on top of you, and he was about to lose his mind and profess his love to you like an idiot.

It didn’t help that even after a few orgasms, your cunt was still squeezing him in a vice grip.

“You feel so fuckin good baby” you nodded at the praise “and you’re so pretty, fuck just look at you” his free hand was now on your jaw, thumb tugging at your bottom lip slightly while he spoke.

“Fuck-need you to be mine” you nodded at his words, too cockdrunk to care about anything that he was saying. The intimacy of it all was sending you to cloud nine. 

Then he started moving a bit faster, fucking into you a bit harder-the new pace had your eyes opening, looking up at him while you rolled your hips into him, meeting his motions.

“Just like that baby-fuck taking it so good-so fuckin tight” you nodded at his words, pulling his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it briefly before he pressed it against your tongue. 

“Open your mouth, fuck-good girl-just like that” then he leaned over and spit directly on your tongue before pulling you into a sloppy heated kiss. Your lips moved in sync as you both swallowed each other’s moans, your hands were scratching along his back as his thrusts got faster and a bit more sporadic.

He pulled back for air just in time to hear you moan his name. 

“Fuck-say it again baby” you nodded, moaning his name while he trailed open mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulders “-fuck I’m close-where do you want it?” his breathy words were strained and raspy while he moaned against your skin.

You moved one hand, now tugging on his hair again as you moaned out “Inside-fuck inside Joaquin” he let out a deep gutteral moan at that.

Then he started talking, and it was a bit incoherent at first, but you fully understood him the longer he spoke “fuck-feels so fuckin good baby-fuck gonna fill you up-fuck a baby into you- make you mine forever” you couldn’t help the whimper that left your lips following his words.

“Just like that, fuckin little cunt’s squeezing me so well-that’s what you want huh? Want me to fill you up? Want me to make you mine?” you nodded, your eyes watering from the overstimulation.

Then your orgasm hit and it was as if your entire body was levitating, a white heat spread throughout you while you gushed around his cock, practically screaming his name while your nails dug into his back and shoulders.

He was quick to follow, a warmth spreading inside of you as his hips jerked a few times, filling you with everything he had while he moaned against your skin.

Then he pulled out of you, laying right beside you while staring up at the ceiling.

You two sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, you shifted awkwardly at the feeling of his cum running down your cunt and inner thigh, meanwhile he was trying to process what just happened.

“Uh…for the record…I don’t want to get you pregnant. It just kinda came out of me” you slowly nodded your head at his statement. 

“What about the other part?” he blinked a few times before his eyes widened and he registered what he said.

“Which part?” you scoffed, now glancing over at him. “So you’re seriously gonna act stupid as if you didn’t just fuck me, then tell me you wanted to get me pregnant so I could be yours forever.” 

He took a sharp inhale, grimacing slightly at your words before he finally turned to look at you.

“Is now a bad time to tell you that I’ve been a dick to you because I’ve been really jealous of Peter this entire time and was completely under the impression that you two were dating?” you stared at him with a dumbfounded expression, then you scoffed and shook your head, getting up-wincing slightly- and making your way to the en suite.

“You’re such an asshole with shit communication skills!” you shouted as you slammed the door behind you. In this moment he was glad you weren’t some kind of super soldier, otherwise the Avengers tower would’ve been down a door. 

He sighed as he sat up, running a hand through his now messy hair. Then he found his clothes and slid on his briefs, pacing around the room, trying to figure out what to say to you, or how to apologize, or what to do next. It wasn’t like he could just waltz up to you and apologize.

You interrupted his pacing when you stormed out of the bathroom wearing one of his Air Force t-shirts and your panties. When did you manage to find either of those items? He had no idea. All he knew was he really liked the look on you.

Then you were grabbing your dress and heels, and for the first time in a long time, he watched you use your magic, disappearing into a cloud of red dust. 

He was so fucked.

Joaquin didn’t sleep well last night, that was for certain. Half of the night was spent with him reliving the night with you. He couldn’t get his mind to focus on anything but the image of you above him and below him, the way that your hair framed your face, the way that you moaned his name-every single bit and piece of it.

Then he was tossing and turning contemplating on how to actually address the situation properly. It also didn’t help that his bed smelled just like you. It was as if he couldn’t get away from you.

Not that he wanted to ever get away from you.

In the past forty-eight hours he’d managed to realize that the entire reason you irritated every single morsel of his being was because he was jealous of your friendship with Peter Parker, he’d then been able to actually have mind blowing sex with you, then embarrass himself by letting his breeding kink slip out, and finally, get you to hate him even more.

You’ve also been avoiding him.

This was the most he’d seen you use your magic in years at this point. Usually you used it when needed on a mission, or for small miniscule tasks. You never did the whole ‘disappearing in thin air’, not until last night and today that is.

You’d done it twice already today.

He couldn’t even track you down to talk to you, and he was overly frustrated. 

Joaquin found himself sitting in one of the high-tech laboratories in the tower, his arms resting against a random desk as he leaned his forehead on them. Giving himself time to wallow in self pity under the guise that he was actually doing work.

Besides, it was clear hardly anyone used these labs. 

He thought he would just be alone all day, that was until the doors opened and the sound of whistling filled the room. Joaquin knew exactly who it was before even looking up.

Then a chair was pulled out near him, not too close, but not too far. It was a fair distance, and Peter was quick to clear his throat.

Joaquin slowly looked up and over at him, meanwhile Peter had his hands in his hoodie’s pocket while he looked directly at Joaquin with an expression that was the perfect mixture between disappointment and shock.

“So, I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I’ve had a girlfriend for a long time now, her names MJ, uh yeah. Bug told me what happened-well she spared me most of the details. Outside of the whole baby thing. I’m not judging though, just thought I’d come with some helpful advice”

Joaquin sighed, running a hand over his face while he looked at Peter.

“I fucked up didn’t I?” the younger man nodded. “Majorly, listen I’m not mad about the whole jealousy thing, I think I see where you’re coming from but she’s like family to me. Uh but the thing is, she thinks you hate her which is kind of the whole issue here”.

“I’ve never hated her, I think I might actually be in love with her” Peter nodded, shrugging a bit.

“Yeah I’ve been saying that for a while, kinda figured between the lovesick staring and the glaring at me anytime she laughs at anything I say. But between me and you, you still have a chance, she wouldn’t be reacting the way she is if she didn’t like you even a little bit.”

Joaquin slowly nodded, looking down at his hands for a few seconds, running his thumb over the few small scratches you left on one of them.

“Don’t try to do a grand gesture either, she hates that kind of stuff. You just gotta talk to her and actually act like a civilized adult. Don’t worry though, I’ll help you actually get her in a room”

Four hours later, you were sitting in a conference room, on top of the table, swinging your legs back and forth as you looked at the few monitors in front of you. You were focused on taking note of the different feeds, and diagnostic issues with the satellite imaging and reports. 

The sound of the door opening didn’t catch your attention, you just assumed it was Peter coming back with either Yelena and Kate. He said he’d be back in fifteen minutes, it’d been around thirty.

Then again, it’s not like he’d left you with some hard task.

However, at the sight of Joaquin Torres you rolled your eyes. This had to be Peter’s idea. You couldn’t exactly up and disappear when monitoring two live feeds while actively running diagnostic scans that required specific time variations. 

“Can we talk? Please?” you clenched your jaw, putting the notebook down.

“What could you possibly have to say to me? Are you here to tell me you regret fucking me too? Or just that you don’t know how to actually talk about your feelings like a grown adult, and instead opt to treat people like shit for funsies because you can’t control your own jealousy?” 

He rolled his lips in, nodding his head at you. He had to admit, you were right, and there wasn’t exactly much he could do or say that would make up for how he treated you.

“I wanted to apologize, not just for the whole acting weird after we had sex, but for being an asshole to you and constantly pushing you away. I know it was stupid for me to be jealous of you and Parker, and he told me about his girlfriend, and I realized that I don’t know everything about you but I want to, everything I know about you is from eavesdropping on your conversations and based on what everyone tells me.”

He paused, running a hand through his hair “-I just want us to be more than what we were. And I’m genuinely sorry for everything, I just, I guess I thought I’d never have a chance so I pushed you away and then you constantly irritated me. Everything about you pissed me off and I think that’s also because I told myself that I would never be able to have you so it was just easier-”

You cut him off “easier to be a dickhead than to be my friend?” he nodded at that.

“But not because it was easy to be an asshole to you, but because I could never just be your friend. I’d never want to just be your friend. I think I’m in love with you, or I’m falling in love with you”

You slowly nodded your head, unsure of what to say to him. It wasn’t like you would forgive him overnight for the way he’d treated you, and having sex with someone wasn’t exactly a decent apology.

But maybe, maybe you could give him a chance.

“So you’re in love with me?” he slowly blinked, hands now on his hips while he looked at you, then around the room before awkwardly laughing.

“Uh-maybe? I don’t actually know.” your brows knit together at that.

“Okay Joaquin. Tell you what, what if we just try being friends first, and then see where that takes us? I’m not just gonna magically forgive you for being a dickhead to me all the time, but I guess Peter was right about you”

He blinked a few times, head tilted to the side slightly “what’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged again “he told me you were like desperately into me which is why you said you’d get me pregnant when we had sex” you said it so casually, and that had him choking on air. He shushed you immediately, looking around the room, making sure no one was outside listening in. After all, the conference room was surrounded by large glass windows.

You looked him up and down.

“Yeah, I could see myself falling for you-the real you. Not the asshole version of you” he smiled at that, biting his bottom lip slightly.

“So friends?” he nodded at you. “Friends”.

[hoodpankow]

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with. 

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password. 

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously. 

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?” 

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into. 

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you. 

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open. 

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless. 

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.” 

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried. 

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights. 

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite. 

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?” 

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.” 

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.” 

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss. 

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely. 

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again. 

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter. 

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest. 

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away. 

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture. 

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated. 

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze. 

Max stares at you, jaw clenched.  “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich. 

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white. 

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.” 

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.” 

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation. 

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out. 

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.” 

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear. 

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?” 

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips. 

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.” 

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter. 

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest. 

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body. 

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it. 

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features. 

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm. 

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?” 

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.” 

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?” 

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup. 

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away. 

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words. 

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you. 

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink. 

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room. 

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away. 

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting. 

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye. 

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.” 

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound. 

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips. 

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people. 

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall. 

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?” 

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.” 

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard. 

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow. 

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house. 

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw. 

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.” 

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm. 

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of. 

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips. 

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. 

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body. 

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks. 

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you. 

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones. 

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin. 

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you. 

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier. 

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing. 

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil. 

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay. 

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders. 

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.” 

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.” 

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?” 

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.” 

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.” 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason. 

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion. 

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.” 

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night. 

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?” 

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway.

 

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be. 

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake. 

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

Max sighs. “What about it?” 

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.” 

“Why is this relevant?” 

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.” 

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry. 

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well. 

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.” 

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again. 

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.” 

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them. 

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party. 

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.” 

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore. 

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it. 

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.” 

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?” 

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.” 

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.” 

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would. 

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you. 

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that. 

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.” 

That’s when it comes. 

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing. 

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier. 

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you. 

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.” 

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants. 

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it. 

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling. 

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead. 

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined. 

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him. 

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room. 

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark. 

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone. 

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills. 

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation. 

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest. 

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?” 

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.” 

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what? 

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air. 

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.  

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever. 

And that scared him. 

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you. 

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing. 

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you. 

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well. 

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while. 

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking. 

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any. 

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep. 

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot. 

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.” 

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl. 

“What are you doing?” 

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?” 

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.” 

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking. 

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands. 

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy. 

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug. 

“He said he’s ending things with you.” 

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.” 

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt. 

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.” 

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“ 

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter. 

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.” 

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.” 

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread. 

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout. 

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door. 

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face. 

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room. 

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in. 

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.” 

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks. 

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely. 

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.” 

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room. 

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.” 

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.” 

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself,  a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face. 

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked. 

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.” 

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.” 

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in. 

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight. 

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.” 

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again. 

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.” 

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.” 

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything  other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.” 

“A break?” 

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” 

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is. 

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn’t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot. 

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute. 

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways. 

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away. 

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word. 

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant. 

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass. 

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max. 

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten. 

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up. 

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble. 

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” 

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?” 

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip. 

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades. 

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises. 

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple. 

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago. 

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight. 

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor. 

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder. 

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again. 

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded. 

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed. 

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.” 

“To you, always.”

[hoodpankow]

✩ babbles and first words 🍼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, early parenthood, small fights, and baby fever warnings

wc: 3.6k words

an: wanted to write a second part to this, :)) ty for the req idea @cabbagescorp

The newborn months came in like a storm. Everyone had told them it would be hard: the books, the classes, the friends who’d already been through it. But no one could quite prepare them for the bleary-eyed, bone-deep kind of exhaustion that settled into their bodies during those first few weeks after Sophie was born.

She was beautiful. Perfect and endlessly fascinating. But she also didn’t sleep longer than ninety minutes at a time. Ever. Not in the middle of the night. Not during the day. Not in the car or the stroller or the bouncer that Y/N had read 1,200 glowing reviews about.

The house took on a strange rhythm. Day and night bled into each other until Y/N couldn’t remember what the sun looked like. Their once-tidy kitchen table was now a battlefield of bottles, burp cloths, and half-drunk mugs of tea. And Lando, usually composed, had dark circles under his eyes and milk stains on every single hoodie he owned.

Sophie cried constantly. And sometimes she screamed. The kind of scream that pierced through walls, through nerves, through reason.

It was one night, maybe around week five, that it happened.

Y/N stood in the nursery, swaying on tired legs, holding Sophie against her shoulder as she sobbed inconsolably into her mum’s collarbone. It was three in the morning. Again. The third night in a row where Sophie hadn’t slept more than forty minutes in one stretch.

Lando came in, moving slowly, eyes half-shut, hair a mess.

“Let me take her,” he said, reaching for the baby.

“No, I’ve got her,” Y/N muttered. “She just needs a few more minutes.”

“She’s been screaming for over an hour,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Maybe she’s hungry again.”

“She’s not. I fed her already.”

“But maybe she’s still hungry.”

Y/N turned sharply. “I said she’s not.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Sorry.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “I just… I’ve been trying. She was calm for a bit. Then she just started again.”

“I know. I’m just saying maybe she needs something else. We could try a bath? Or maybe her reflux is acting up—”

“She’s not broken, Lando.”

“I didn’t say she was!” He snapped.

“You’re acting like everything I do isn’t enough!” Y/N’s voice cracked, and Sophie whimpered louder, reacting to the tension.

Lando stepped back, his jaw tightening. “I’ve been up with her every night too, Y/N. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting tears. “Well, maybe your best isn’t working either.”

The words fell between them like glass shattering.

For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of Sophie’s cries.

Lando looked away first, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to take a walk,” he said quietly, and left the room.

Y/N sat down in the rocking chair, heart pounding, shame and frustration rising in equal parts as Sophie cried against her chest. She rocked slowly and gently, whispering little nothings, but her own tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

She hated fighting with him. She hated feeling helpless. And most of all, she hated that she couldn’t make Sophie feel better, no matter how hard she tried.

It was twenty minutes later when Lando returned, his eyes a little clearer, a warm towel in one hand and a bottle in the other.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Y/N blinked, surprised.

He knelt beside her, gently brushing Sophie’s back with his knuckles. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just tired. We both are.”

She nodded, her throat tight. “Me too.”

He shifted closer, placing the warm towel across Sophie’s back. “I passed the mirror in the hallway,” he said, half-smiling. “I look like I’ve been dragged through four tornadoes.”

Y/N let out a tired laugh. “You do.”

Lando looked up at her then, and his eyes softened. “You don’t. You look like her mum. Which is to say, kind of amazing.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Just sat there, close together, as Sophie slowly began to calm in the warmth of their shared presence.

Eventually, they managed to get her down in the bassinet, asleep at last, her fists curled like she was dreaming of clouds.

They curled into bed together, not even changing out of their worn clothes. Lando wrapped his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head.

“We’re going to figure it out,” he whispered into the dark.

“We’re already doing it,” she whispered back.

In the months that followed, things didn’t get easier overnight, but they got better.

Sophie learnt to smile first. A gummy, glorious smile that came one random afternoon when Y/N was bouncing her on the couch and Lando made a ridiculous noise.

Then, she started crawling, flipping onto her stomach and determinedly moving towards her parents. She was everything but calm, much like her dad.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, folding a small mountain of tiny onesies and baby socks. She was humming under her breath, watching Sophie out of the corner of her eye. Their daughter, now just shy of eleven months, had pulled herself up to stand using the edge of the couch and was gripping the fabric like it was the most important thing in the world.

She’d been doing that a lot lately, pulling herself up, cruising cautiously along the furniture, standing in place and squealing with excitement when she managed to balance for a few seconds .

Y/N had seen the signs. She knew they were close.

Still, she didn’t expect it to happen today.

Sophie let go of the couch for a brief second and clapped her hands together, giggling at her own bravery. Then she plopped back down onto her diaper-padded bum and crawled in that odd, determined way babies have toward their mum.

“Hi, my love,” Y/N murmured, reaching out to brush a curl from Sophie’s forehead. “Tired of standing?”

Sophie replied with a babble that sounded like “mamamamama” and shoved a stuffed elephant in her face.

Y/N smiled and kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Ten minutes later, Lando wandered in from the kitchen, sipping a smoothie and wearing the same hoodie his daughter had coloured up with marker three days ago. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he looked freshly awake, despite the ever-present exhaustion that hung around both of them like fog.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked, setting the cup on the table.

Y/N nodded. “We’re doing laundry and watching a nursery rhymes video compilation.”

“Of course. Essential for child development,” he said seriously, then grinned and flopped down onto the floor beside her, long legs splayed out in front of him.

Sophie perked up immediately, crawling toward her dad like he was made of light. He scooped her up and blew a raspberry on her neck, earning a shriek of laughter.

Then he set her down again, sitting upright just a few feet away from her. She wobbled on her knees, looking at him, then at Y/N, then back at him.

And then, she stood.

No hands. No furniture. Just a baby standing in the middle of the living room like it was nothing.

Y/N gasped, clutching Lando’s arm. “Oh my God.”

“Shhh, shh—don’t move,” he whispered, frozen in place.

Sophie stood there for a moment, uncertain. Her arms flailed for balance. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as she concentrated hard, brows furrowed, curls bouncing ever so slightly with her tiny tremble.

Then she took one step.

A pause. A squeal.

Then another.

And another.

Three whole steps; wobbly, wide-legged, magical, until she lost her balance and fell forward right into Lando’s lap.

The house exploded in joy.

Y/N covered her mouth, eyes wide and wet with sudden tears. Lando scooped Sophie up and twirled her in the air, both of them laughing.

“You did it! You did it, baby girl!” he shouted, grinning like a man who’d just witnessed a miracle.

Sophie giggled and clapped, clearly thrilled with herself, before immediately trying to wriggle free and do it again.

Y/N was already grabbing her phone, fumbling to open the camera. “She just walked. She walked, Lando.”

“I know,” he said, pulling Y/N into his arms with Sophie still wedged between them. “I saw it. I saw all of it.”

They sank back down onto the floor, tangled together in a heap of limbs and joy, with Sophie babbling and bouncing excitedly between them, clearly not understanding why her parents looked like they were about to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

🪻🪻🪻

Sophia, now officially Sophie to just about everyone, was toddling unsteadily across the living room floor in a onesie decorated with tiny orange ducks, her hair sticking up in gravity-defying wisps from the post-nap haze. She had one sock on, one sock off, and a plastic spoon clutched victoriously in one chubby fist. Her steps were wobbly, like a baby deer on a trampoline, but she was determined, charging toward Lando with the serious, dramatic focus only a ten-month-old could muster.

“Dadaaa,” she announced proudly as she stumbled into his legs, clinging to his jeans for dear life.

Lando, who had been kneeling beside the coffee table attempting to fix one of her musical toys, immediately dropped everything. His face lit up like it was Christmas morning. “Yes! That’s me! Dada is me!”

Sophia beamed up at him, cheeks flushed pink, drool glistening on her chin like it was the most fashionable accessory around.

“She said it again,” Lando said over his shoulder, looking toward the kitchen with wide eyes. “Did you hear her?”

Y/N was watching from the doorway, sipping a lukewarm coffee with the softest smile. “She’s said it four times this morning, babe.”

“Yeah, but this one felt really intentional. Like she really knew what she was saying.” He scooped Sophie up and kissed her cheeks noisily, making her giggle. “You said your first word! Again!”

“She also said ‘duck’ yesterday,” Y/N pointed out gently.

“Okay, yeah, but that isn’t as important.”

“You’re such a loser sometimes.”

Lando ignored that, because Sophie was now squishing his cheeks with her little hands and making high-pitched babbling noises that sounded vaguely like a monologue in an alien language.

“Oh my God,” he whispered dramatically. “It’s like she’s giving a TED Talk. It’s so cute.”

“Pretty sure she’s just asking for another biscuit.”

“Then I will give her ten biscuits. She deserves a whole bakery.”

Sophia let out a squeal of joy, flailing in his arms, which made Lando panic and adjust his grip like he thought she might catapult herself into orbit. Y/N walked over and plucked the baby spoon from Sophie’s tiny hand.

“What was she doing with this anyway?”

“No idea. She found it in the toy box and made it her mission,” Lando replied solemnly.

Y/N reached over to push Sophia’s flyaway curls back, then leaned in to kiss Lando’s temple. “You’re kind of the best dad, you know that?”

Lando turned his head to her, eyes softening. “I’m just trying to keep up. You’re the reason she’s this happy and fearless.”

Sophie, clearly sensing a quiet moment, seized the opportunity to dramatically gurgle into the space between them, startling both of them.

Lando grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Later that evening, after dinner (and an incident involving a sippy cup being hurled like a missile), Sophie was freshly bathed and wrapped in her favourite towel, a yellow one with a duck hood. She toddled around the nursery while Y/N tried to wrangle her into pyjamas, and Lando readied the bedtime book.

“Okay, duckling,” Y/N said, finally catching her and landing her on the changing table. “Pyjamas now. Please. For the love of sleep.”

Sophie responded by sticking her tongue out, giggling, and patting her own belly like it was a drum.

Lando peeked in, book in hand. “Did she do the belly thing again?”

“She did.”

He put a hand over his heart. “It kills me every time.”

When Sophie was finally zipped into her sleeper and snuggled in Lando’s lap, he read Goodnight Moon for the sixth time that week, complete with ridiculous voices and dramatic pauses that made her giggle and babble back. Y/N sat beside them on the rug, just watching the two of them. Lando’s hand cradled her little foot absentmindedly as he read, and every once in a while, he’d look at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

After the last page, Sophie blinked slowly and leaned her head against his chest, fighting sleep with all the might of a baby who didn’t want to miss a single thing.

“You can close your eyes,” Lando whispered. “We’re right here.”

And eventually, she did.

🪻🪻🪻

It was just past ten in the morning when Max arrived at the front door, looking only mildly panicked and about five per cent more rumpled than usual. He had his 14-month-old, Lily, in his arms, dressed in a soft lilac onesie and a matching knit hat that was slightly askew from her latest nap.

Y/N opened the door with a warm smile, holding a mug of coffee in one hand. Lando was just behind her, cradling Sophie on his hip.

“Thanks again for this,” Max said, shifting Lily a little higher against his chest. “Just a few hours. I’ve got a team meeting, and no one else could cover.”

“Of course,” Y/N said easily. “We’re happy to have her.”

Sophie perked up at the sight of another baby, eyes wide with curiosity as she leaned forward against Lando’s shoulder.

Lando chuckled. “I think Sophie’s already interested.”

Max handed Lily over with gentle hesitation, his hand lingering an extra beat. “She might cry when she realises I’m not around. Or she might not notice at all and just betray me completely. Either way, I’m preparing emotionally.”

“She’ll be fine,” Y/N reassured him, already bouncing Lily lightly on her hip. “Go. We’ve got this.”

Max looked between the three of them once more, nodded, and left.

The door closed, and the quiet lasted only a second before both babies locked eyes. Sophie, now seated on the living room rug surrounded by soft toys, blinked a few times at Lily as if trying to figure her out. Lily, laid gently next to her, looked just as curious. After a beat of silent baby inspection, Lily made the first move — a slow, uncoordinated reach that resulted in her hand landing directly on Sophie’s foot.

Sophie gasped dramatically, then let out a delighted giggle that sounded more like a hiccup. Lily responded with a squeal, and just like that, the two of them were babbling back and forth in completely incomprehensible but deeply enthusiastic tones.

“They’re talking,” Lando said quietly, crouched beside Y/N as they watched from the couch.

“They’re definitely talking,” Y/N agreed. “About what? I have no idea.”

The babies leaned toward each other, noses almost touching. Sophie gently smacked her palm against Lily’s knee, which made Lily let out a burst of laughter that sent her toppling sideways into a plush elephant. Unbothered, she flailed her limbs in what looked like applause.

Sophie squeaked and followed, rolling closer until they were lying side by side, cheeks squished together, giggling at absolutely nothing.

They spent the next hour like that, with Sophie and Lily crawling around the room like tiny adventurers. Sophie shared her favourite musical lion toy by dropping it gently into Lily’s lap, then immediately snatching it back with a suspicious look before offering it again, a bit more slowly.

Lily babbled in return, cheeks round and dimpled, her feet kicking like she was composing a song with just enthusiasm.

When it was time for their bottles, they sat side by side in their respective baby chairs, both swaddled in tiny blankets, clutching their bottles with both hands and occasionally turning their heads toward each other, eyes wide and sparkling.

Lando fed Sophie while Y/N gently helped Lily, and every so often, Sophie would stop drinking to let out a string of sleepy nonsense that Lily would match with a soft coo or blink.

By the time Max returned, both girls were asleep on the rug, lying opposite each other like a mirrored set. Sophie’s arm was flopped across Lily’s leg, and Lily had one fist curled loosely around the corner of Sophie’s blanket.

“They napped?” Max whispered in disbelief.

“They played. Then they conked out mid-conversation,” Lando replied, just as quietly.

Max crouched beside them, his eyes softening immediately. “Look at them.”

Y/N handed him a photo she had taken on her phone. “Don’t worry; we documented everything.”

He laughed under his breath, staring at the photo like it might be his new lock screen. “First playdate ever?”

“And a very successful one,” she said.

Max looked down at the sleeping babies again, Lily’s tiny nose brushing against Sophie’s knee, and smiled.

“Looks like they’re already ahead of us.”

🪻🪻🪻

The house was still and quiet in the soft blue hour of the morning, the kind of quiet that only existed before a party. Down the hallway, the nursery remained peaceful, Sophie still curled up in her sleep sack with her plush duck tucked under one arm.

Y/N stirred when she felt Lando gently tap her shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered, crouched beside the bed, already dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair unbrushed but eyes bright. “Come with me. Just for a second.”

She blinked, confused, then glanced at the clock. “It’s barely six.”

“I know. Trust me.”

She groaned lightly but sat up, stretching. “Is this about balloons? Did one pop?”

“No. No balloons. Just come on. You need shoes.”

A few minutes later, wrapped in her favourite cardigan and walking down the back steps into the garden with Lando’s hand in hers, she finally noticed the faint glow of candles flickering under the pergola.

There was a tiny round cake on the patio table, frosted in pale yellow with a single candle lit in the centre. Beside it, a wrapped box with a ribbon sat waiting.

She stopped in her tracks. “Lando…”

He gave her hand a little tug, tugging her closer. “I figured everyone’s going to be looking at Sophie all day, as they should. But before that happens, I wanted to say, Happy one year of being a mum.”

Her breath caught.

“You made it through sleepless nights, teething, pureed carrots in your hair, and a thousand loads of laundry,” he continued. “You sang lullabies at 2am and danced in the kitchen with her when she cried. You became her whole world. I know today’s about Sophie. But I wouldn’t have made it through this year without you.”

Y/N blinked rapidly as she looked at him, then down at the little cake.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said, voice catching.

He smiled softly. “I know. But I wanted to. Because it’s your day too.”

She leaned into him, burying her face into his chest for a second before he pulled back and nudged the box toward her.

“Open it.”

Inside was a necklace; gold, delicate, with a tiny charm in the shape of an ‘S’.

She touched it like it might dissolve under her fingertips. “Lando…”

“You can cry,” he said, grinning a little. “I’ll allow it. Just for today.”

She shook her head, laughing through tears. “I don’t deserve this.”

“I know you deserve more,” he said simply.

They sat together on the garden bench, splitting a slice of cake.

“Happy one year of being a dad, Lando,” she smiled as she leaned closer.

“Wouldn’t be one without you.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her impossibly closer.

“Well, if you weren’t so supportive and helpful, I’d be pretty shit at this whole parent thing. So thank you.”

He didn’t respond to her, just smiled and let his gratitude be conveyed through another spoonful of cake he fed her.

Later that morning, the living room slowly filled with the sounds of celebration; balloons tied to every chair, soft toys wrapped in cheerful paper, and family voices echoing through the kitchen.

Sophie, wearing a pale yellow dress with a duck print, sat like a tiny queen in her high chair, clapping her hands as everyone sang. She had cake on her nose and frosting in her curls within ten minutes.

Her grandparents snapped photos from every angle, with Lando and Y/N clapping along with her. Max brought Lily with him, who was equally excited about the cake.

Sophie babbled through it all, saying “Dada” and “Ake” to almost everyone and throwing a burnt-out candle at one point.

And in the middle of it all, Lando and Y/N moved together like they’d been doing this for years, lifting Sophie’s hands to help her clap, swapping bites of cake and little laughs.

At one point, as everyone chatted in the kitchen and Sophie napped upstairs after a long morning of overstimulation, Y/N leaned into Lando where he was sitting on the couch, Lily asleep in his arms now.

“Thank you for this morning,” she said softly. “It meant more than you know.”

He turned his head toward her, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “You’ve given me everything. This was the least I could do.”

And when the day was done, and the balloons had deflated slightly, and the kitchen smelt like leftover sugar and fruit, they stood at the doorway of the nursery, watching Sophie sleep with her hands tucked under her chin.

Lando whispered, “One whole year.”

Y/N reached for his hand. “The best one. And only seventeen more to go.”

“Don’t make me cry again!”

baby sophie has my whole heart! a very rare part 2 was necessary!

[hoodpankow]

NO I’M NOT IN LOVE.

“Every friend of mine, I told them the same, no I’m not in love.” — You and Lando insisted it was just friendship, nothing more. But your friends saw the truth. Then came the vacation, and suddenly, denying it wasn’t so easy anymore. Maybe they had been right all along.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. fluff, teasing, 8k+ words, dual pov (once), friends to lovers, mutual pining, max f. and ria being menaces, idiots in love, partying, drinking, part of 800 event, based on this request, thank you!!

music. No I’m not in love by Tate Mcrae // Better Off (Alone, Pt. lll) by Alan Walker.

800 event. // event masterlist.

BEING PART OF LANDO’S INNER CIRCLE wasn’t something you had planned, wasn’t something you had expected, but somehow, it had become one of the best parts of your life. Ria had dragged you into it, nudging you into their world with effortless ease, like she had always known you would fit. And maybe she had been right.

At first, it felt foreign, intimidating even, like stepping into a world already so tightly woven that you weren’t sure there was space for you. But then, the late-night talks, the inside jokes, the endless teasing—it all became natural. Slowly but surely, you weren’t just with them; you were one of them.

You attended races together, voices blending into the roar of the crowd, your energy infectious, your excitement untamed. Every podium, every heartbreak, every chaotic moment was felt together—as a unit, as a family. You weren’t just cheering for Lando, you were part of his support, a fixture in the world that had built itself around him.

Quadrant became part of it, too—ridiculous challenges, late-night streams, moments that turned into memories before you even had time to realize it. You had found something rare in them, something that made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t before.

And the fans? They loved you.

Your group—Lando’s group—became something bigger, something people admired, something people wanted to be a part of. You were favorites, the kind of people who lit up a space simply by being in it.

At first, you had convinced yourself that you didn’t have a type—that attraction wasn’t something you could define or categorize, that it wasn’t bound by a checklist of qualities or features. You had always believed that connections happened naturally, without logic, without reason, simply falling into place without needing to be explained. But then there was Lando.

Lando, who was rich—twice. It wasn’t just about the money, though people always seemed to mention it, but rather the way he carried himself, the way he navigated life with a confidence that was both effortless and earned. There was something magnetic about the way he stepped into a room, how he spoke, how he laughed, how he had the ability to turn the most mundane moments into something that felt special, memorable.

Lando, who was funny in a way that made people want to be around him. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t rehearsed—it was natural. It came in the teasing comments, the clever remarks, the way he knew exactly how to lift the mood when things felt tense. He knew how to make you laugh when you needed it the most, and somehow, no matter how chaotic he was, you had never grown tired of it.

And Lando, who had always been there. Lingering in the corner of your life, threading himself into moments that should’ve been insignificant but somehow never were. The way his presence was a constant, never overwhelming, never demanding, but always present. You never questioned it, never considered that maybe, just maybe, it meant something more.

There had always been something between you—subtle, undeniable, existing just beneath the surface, refusing to be named outright. Sometimes it was the way his eyes lingered a little too long when he looked at you, or the way his body naturally leaned closer whenever you were talking. Other times, it was in the quiet moments, when neither of you said anything, but the silence held an understanding you couldn’t quite put into words.

And yet, no matter how many moments hinted at something more, no matter how many lingering glances or stolen seconds stretched between you, you had always agreed—always insisted—that you were just friends.

Even if sometimes, it didn’t feel like that at all.

So the invitation came casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was something you were meant to say yes to. Lando had leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that easy, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Ibiza. Summer break. You in?”

And honestly, how could you say no?

The thought of sun-drenched beaches, late-night laughter, music pulsing through warm summer air—it was impossible to resist. But more than that, it was him. It was the group. It was the feeling of belonging, of being part of something bigger than just yourself.

So you didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even try to rationalize it.

You smiled, shaking your head slightly at how effortlessly he made it sound. “Yeah. I’m in.”

Lando grinned, satisfied, because maybe—just maybe—he already knew you’d say yes.

───

The sun was high in the sky, casting golden streaks over the beach, the sound of waves crashing in the distance blending perfectly with the hum of laughter and music. It was the definition of a perfect summer—warm air, cold drinks, good company. You, Ria, Lando, and Max sprawled across the massive deckchair under the shade of the umbrella, bodies relaxed, conversations lazy, time slowing down in the best way.

Lando lay beside you, stretched out, limbs taking up far too much space, his knee brushing against yours every so often—a quiet, unspoken kind of closeness that neither of you seemed to mind.

“This is so boring,” he groaned, turning his head toward you, his eyes squinting slightly against the sunlight.

You rolled your eyes, not even surprised. “I need to tan,” you argued, shifting slightly as if to prove your point. Of course he would complain. He couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes without looking for something to do, something chaotic to jump into.

Lando scoffed, stretching out his legs, letting his head fall back against the cushion. “Do you know you can get cancer from tanning?”

Your eyebrows raised slightly. Wow. He was actually pulling out facts? You weren’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed by his sudden concern.

“Not when you use SPF, idiot,” you laughed, nudging his leg slightly with your own.

Max had been the first to stand, stretching lazily, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was only leaving because he had run out of patience rather than genuine excitement.

“I’m going to the water,” he muttered, shaking off the last remnants of comfort before heading toward the shore.

Ria didn’t hesitate to follow, already tugging her sunglasses off as she moved. And of course, Lando was right behind them. The three of them couldn’t sit still for long, always itching to do something, always needing movement, excitement, a reason to cause trouble.

But you? You were perfectly fine where you were—legs stretched, cold drink beside you, the breeze just strong enough to keep the heat from overwhelming.

“I’ll stay here,” you told them with a soft smile, adjusting your sunglasses, letting yourself settle deeper into the cushion.

Max and Ria barely acknowledged your response, too caught up in the pull of the waves, but Lando hesitated, his shadow stretching over you, blocking the sun like an intentional challenge. He stood there, arms crossed, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips, his presence suddenly too noticeable.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Move, asshole,” you groaned, reaching up to take off your sunglasses so you could properly glare at him.

But the second your eyes met his, your thoughts stalled.

God.

The sunlight caught in his damp curls, highlighting the golden streaks woven naturally into the brown, making them look even messier than usual. His skin was sunkissed, toned, muscles flexing ever so slightly as he shifted his stance. And the way he was looking at you? Like he had already decided something, like you had no real choice in whatever was about to happen next.

“Nuh uh,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing, just a little rough from the heat.

And then, without warning, his arms were around you.

Your breath hitched as you were suddenly off the ground, lifted effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing, like gravity didn’t apply to you in his hands.

Your stomach flipped, pulse hammering against your ribs, as your fingers instinctively gripped at his shoulders, wide-eyed, half-shocked, half-infuriated at the audacity.

Wow. That was attractive.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, though your voice lacked any real bite, because you knew. You already knew.

Lando’s grin widened, smug, his grip firm, steady, strong enough to make your pulse skip yet again.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he teased, taking one slow, deliberate step towards the water.

Lando’s steps grew quicker, his grip firm, his laughter mixing with yours as the inevitability of your fate became very clear. The water loomed closer, waves lapping against the shore, sparkling under the bright summer sun. The scent of salt clung to the air, carried by the gentle breeze, cooling your skin even as your pulse quickened. He was determined—too determined—eyes glinting with mischief, a playful kind of chaos wrapped around his every movement.

“Oh my God, Lando, no—” you shouted, your voice laced with amusement despite the urgency, laughter bubbling past your words as you struggled in his hold. You weren’t really trying to break free—part of you knew it was useless—but the anticipation, the excitement, made every second feel stretched, every heartbeat louder, every breath caught somewhere between thrill and frustration.

“Oh my God, Lando, yes,” he mocked, voice dripping with teasing, his grin wide, triumphant, fully enjoying your impending downfall. His feet met the cool waves, sending small ripples through the water, the sand shifting beneath him as he moved forward. He was completely unaffected, entirely confident, enjoying the moment far too much for your comfort.

“Put me down!” you demanded, the words escaping between breathless laughs, your fingers curling around his shoulders, gripping tighter, as if holding onto him would somehow change the outcome.

But before you could plead further—before you could even brace yourself—he threw you in.

The water consumed you instantly, cold and refreshing, wrapping around you in a shocking contrast to the warmth of the sun. The waves pulled at your limbs, weightless for a second before you resurfaced, gasping, blinking rapidly as droplets clung to your lashes, your hair slicked back, your body drenched from head to toe.

Lando stood just a few feet away, hands on his hips, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“That was unnecessary,” you huffed, pushing wet strands from your face, sending a small splash his way for good measure.

He merely shrugged, green eyes shining, laughter still lingering on his lips. “Nah, that was perfect.”

Ria and Max were laughing behind him, enjoying the spectacle as much as he did, and despite yourself—despite the entire situation—you couldn’t help but laugh, too.

Lando barely flinched at the first splash, his smirk growing as he dodged your attempts to soak him further. But you weren’t done—you wanted revenge, and you weren’t going to let him get away unscathed.

Laughing, you moved closer, water sloshing against your legs as you sent another wave of splashes towards him, determined to push him deeper into the ocean. He yelped slightly when you caught him off guard, wiping droplets from his face, his curls dripping, his grin stretching even wider.

“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it?” he challenged, stepping back as you lunged forwards, pushing at his chest, trying to force him into deeper waters.

“Yes,” you declared, hands pressing against him as you fought the resistance.

But Lando was quick—too quick.

Before you could celebrate your tiny victory, he grabbed your wrists, spinning you effortlessly, switching the advantage so you were the one struggling to stay upright.

“Not so fast,” he teased, pulling you forward, letting the waves crash around you both, his laughter tangled in the salty breeze.

And just like that, the playful battle turned into something else—something softer, something closer.

Lando’s grip on your wrists tightened just enough to steady you, to stop your playful attack before it could escalate further. His green eyes gleamed with amusement, his smile lazy, smug, entirely too satisfied with how easily he had flipped the situation in his favor.

“I swear to God, Lando,” you laughed, trying to twist out of his hold, your feet stumbling against the shifting sand beneath the waves.

He hummed, pretending to think, the water rising higher around both of you now, cool and refreshing, lapping at your waist. “Swearing won’t help you now.”

You narrowed your eyes, determined, using the element of surprise as you shifted your weight, pushing into his chest with a sudden burst of force.

Lando wasn’t expecting it.

His balance tipped backward, his arms loosening just enough for you to break free. And before he could recover, before he could retaliate, you placed both hands flat against his chest and pushed.

The sound of his startled laugh echoed around you as he crashed into the water, disappearing beneath the surface with an exaggerated splash.

Triumph surged through you as you took a step back, grinning, waiting for him to come up for air.

And when he did, when he surfaced, soaked through, blinking against the droplets clinging to his lashes, you knew—you were in trouble.

Lando pushed his wet curls back, blinking rapidly, water dripping down his face as he wiped his eyes. The smug grin remained, but now it carried something else—determination.

“Oh, you think you’ve won?” he asked, voice low, teasing, the kind of challenge that sent a thrill of anticipation through you.

You took a cautious step back, pretending innocence, but your own laughter betrayed you. “I mean, I did push you in, so—”

You didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence.

Lando surged forward without warning, cutting through the water with ridiculous ease, hands reaching for you before you could fully react.

Your breath hitched, laughter turning into a surprised gasp as his fingers wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him just as the waves crashed around you both. His body was warm despite the chilled water, his grip firm yet playful, locking you in place before you could try to escape.

“Payback,” he murmured, voice closer now, breath brushing against your ear as his hold tightened just enough to make you gasp again.

“Oh, no—,”

“Oh, yes,” he grinned, and then—you were falling. Straight into the waves.

The cold swallowed you, a rush of adrenaline sparking through your veins as the water curled around you, pulling you deeper before you fought your way back to the surface. You came up gasping, hair soaked, eyes narrowed as you wiped water from your face.

Lando was already laughing, hands on his hips, victorious.

“Okay, fine,” you huffed, swimming closer, splashing at him without hesitation. “Now we’re even.”

Lando only chuckled, stepping back slightly, the playful gleam in his eyes still dangerously present. “Are we?” he asked, voice dropping slightly, teasing, challenging.

Max shook his head, amusement laced in his expression as he watched the chaos unfold. The water still rippled from where you and Lando had been fighting your playful battle, waves catching the sunlight as they curled gently toward the shore. “You two are like little kids,” he teased, his voice dripping with exasperation, though there was no real annoyance behind his words—just the familiar fondness of someone who had grown entirely used to your antics.

Ria, however, wasn’t focused on Max’s commentary. Her sharp gaze flicked between you and Lando, the playful energy, the laughter, the effortless way you were drawn to each other without even realizing it. And then, when her eyes settled on you, she knew. The way her lips curled slightly, the subtle raise of her eyebrow—it was the universal sign that she had figured something out.

You sighed, already knowing what was coming before she even spoke.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip, not bothering to wait for your agreement before tugging you toward the shore. The water dripped from your skin as you stumbled forward, the warmth of the sand shocking against your damp feet as you stepped out of the waves, leaving Lando and Max behind.

The summer sun kissed your skin, drying you quickly, though the remnants of saltwater clung to you, lingering like a reminder of what had just happened. The breeze swept in gently, carrying the distant laughter of beachgoers, the scent of sunscreen, and the quiet hum of the ocean stretching beyond the horizon. But none of that mattered—not when Ria turned to you fully, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with knowing amusement.

“Tell me you don’t like him,” she challenged, her voice both lighthearted and firm, daring you to deny what she already knew was true. “And I swear if you say it, it’ll be obvious you’re lying.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, fingers twisting into the hem of your soaked shirt as if grounding yourself in the motion would help.

“I don’t,” you insisted, voice steady, too steady, because you were forcing it to be.

But the way Ria’s smirk grew—slow, confident, victorious—told you everything you needed to know.

She didn’t believe you.

Ria didn’t move, didn’t let you avoid the conversation, didn’t let you brush off the weight of the moment. Instead, she just stared, arms crossed, her head tilting slightly as she studied your expression, waiting—knowing.

You huffed, shifting uncomfortably, kicking at the sand beneath your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your heart was beating just a little too fast.

She wasn’t going to let this go.

“You don’t like him?” she repeated, voice thick with skepticism, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I don’t,” you reinforced, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. It wasn’t convincing—not to her, not to yourself.

Ria rolled her eyes, scoffing as she reached for the towel she had tossed onto the chair earlier, shaking out the fabric before tossing it toward you. “Okay, sure. Tell yourself that.”

You caught the towel, gripping it tighter than necessary as you wiped the excess water from your arms. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, avoiding her gaze, keeping your voice neutral, like saying it plainly enough would make it true.

But Ria wasn’t buying it.

She leaned in slightly, her voice lower now, softer, but still teasing, still knowing.

You’re blind if you don’t see the way he looks at you.”

Your throat tightened. “Ria—”

“No, seriously,” she continued, crossing her arms again, watching your reaction carefully. “The way he looks at you? The way you look at him?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were already dating.”

You laughed—actually laughed—because that was ridiculous.

“You’re reading into it way too much,” you said, shaking your head, draping the towel over your shoulders. “Lando’s like that with everyone”

Ria gave you a look, the kind that made your stomach twist.

“Oh, babe,” she murmured, smirking now, too confident, too sure. “He’s not like that with everyone.”

Max let out a laugh, shaking his head as he floated in the water, watching Lando with the kind of knowing amusement that only a best friend could have. The waves rolled gently around them, pulling them in and out with the steady rhythm of the ocean, the sun reflecting brightly against the surface. Lando’s face was mostly unreadable—at least, to someone who didn’t know him well. But Max? Max could see it, clear as day, written in every glance, in every slight hesitation, in the way his gaze always found its way back to you.

“You are making it so obvious, man,” Max muttered, voice carrying just enough teasing to make sure Lando felt it, to make sure he couldn’t brush it off like some fleeting thought.

Lando frowned, his brows furrowing just slightly. “What?” He sounded genuinely confused, but Max knew better—knew he wasn’t oblivious, just in denial.

Max raised an eyebrow, letting the words come easily, stating them like they were the most obvious thing in the world. “That you like her.”

The reaction was instant—too instant. “What?! I mean, I don’t,” Lando blurted, but even as he said it, his head turned slightly, his eyes flickering toward the shore, towards you.

You were laughing, your fingers wringing the water from your hair, the sunlight catching in the damp strands, reflecting golden against your skin. There was something effortless about the way you carried yourself, the way you fit so seamlessly into this moment, into his life. And maybe Lando wasn’t ready to admit it—to say it out loud—but the way his chest tightened at the sight of you, the way his breath caught just slightly, was proof enough that he felt it.

Max watched him carefully, waiting for the inevitable, waiting for him to realize what was so blatantly obvious to everyone else.

And then—Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, dropping the fight just slightly. “Okay, maybe a bit,” he admitted, voice quieter now, not defensive, just hesitant. His fingers fidgeted against the surface of the water, his gaze shifting between you and Max, uncertainty laced into his expression. “But she’s not interested in me.”

Max scoffed, shaking his head, kicking at the water with his foot, sending small splashes toward Lando in frustration. “Bro, are you blind?”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head as if trying to dismiss Max’s words, but the doubt—the possibility—lingered beneath it, stubborn, refusing to leave. His fingers skimmed the surface of the water, fidgeting slightly, his mind turning over the idea even though he wanted to ignore it.

Max sighed, rolling his eyes as he drifted closer, arms lazily cutting through the waves. “Mate, seriously. Do you really think she’d mess around with you like that if she didn’t care?”

Lando huffed, shifting slightly, the hesitation obvious now, even if he was trying to play it cool. “She messes around with all of us.”

Max scoffed again, shaking his head. “Not like that.”

───

It was the perfect time for drinks on the beach, for lazy mornings stretched under the sky, for the simple indulgence of summer.

Max and Ria had sent you and Lando on a mission—drinks for them. And of course, it was just the two of you.

Lando had excused himself to the bathroom as you made your way to the bar alone, the wooden counter smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. The bartender greeted you with a quick glance, his eyes lingering for just a beat too long before his lips stretched into a polite smile.

“Hey,” you greeted, returning the expression, casual, effortless. “Can I get two piña coladas and two mojitos?”

The bartender nodded, grabbing the bottles, beginning the careful process of crafting the drinks, his movements precise, practiced. “Of course,” he said, breaking the quiet pause between you. Then, as he worked, he tilted his head slightly, curiosity lining his words. “How do you enjoy it here?”

You smiled, glancing briefly at the expanse of beach behind you, the waves curling toward the shore, the distant laughter of other vacationers filling the air. “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” you said simply, the sentiment genuine, but not particularly deep.

The bartender’s attention lingered, his fingers tapping against the counter rhythmically, his expression shifting just slightly, leaning into something more… bold. “I work ‘til seven,” he started, the words slow, deliberate. “Maybe, don’t you want—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Before you could react, before you could fully process where this was going, a presence appeared behind you—familiar. The scent—clean, warm, Lando. The voice—smooth, casual, just a little too nonchalant.

“Hey, babe, what’s up?”

His arm slid around your shoulders easily, comfortably, like it had always been there, like it belonged.

The bartender’s expression shifted—hesitated—eyes flickering between you and Lando, the realization settling quickly, the unfinished sentence evaporating before it could ever be spoken.

Lando glanced at the drinks being prepared, acting as if he hadn’t just interrupted something, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “What’s taking so long?” he mused, voice light, casual, but there was something underneath it—something sharp, something intentional.

You blinked, adjusting to the shift in energy, to the way Lando had stepped in so seamlessly, the way his grip on your shoulder didn’t falter, didn’t shift.

“Oh, just waiting,” you murmured, watching as the bartender refocused, speeding up his movements, no longer lingering, no longer making conversation.

Lando hummed, fingers pressing lightly against your skin, his hold easy, effortless, territorial.

The walk back to the others felt different—like the air had shifted somehow, like something had settled between you and Lando in a way neither of you had fully acknowledged yet. The drinks rattled slightly on the tray he carried, the condensation dripping onto his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He carried it effortlessly, like it had always been his job, like you weren’t even allowed the chance to take it from him.

You glanced at him, side-eyeing, testing the waters.

“You really didn’t need to do that,” you pointed out, voice light, teasing.

Lando smirked, adjusting his grip on the tray, his fingers flexing ever so slightly around the edges. “I wanted to,” he said simply, like that was answer enough.

You scoffed, shaking your head, brushing off the teasing, but the way he had stepped in earlier, the way he had slid into that moment at the bar so seamlessly—it was still sitting somewhere deep in your thoughts, lingering.

And then—

“You know he was gonna ask you out, right?”

You faltered slightly in your step, turning toward him, eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

Lando kept walking, kept looking ahead, but there was something too casual about the way he spoke, too measured. “The bartender,” he clarified, tone easy, natural, like this conversation wasn’t something, like it was just another harmless observation. “He was working up to it.”

You frowned, replaying the moment in your head, the way the bartender had leaned in slightly, the slow, deliberate way he had spoken, how the unfinished sentence had died the moment Lando arrived.

And the way Lando had arrived.

“Okay,” you said slowly, watching him now, studying the way his posture remained relaxed, like he wasn’t fully paying attention, like he was trying too hard to seem unaffected. “So?”

Lando shrugged, fingers tapping idly against the side of the tray. “So I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”

Your stomach twisted, heartbeat skipping slightly.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms as you walked. “That’s a bold move, Norris.”

He smirked, but he still didn’t look at you. “Didn’t feel bold. Felt necessary.”

Your pulse stuttered, but you refused to let the weight of his words settle in a way that made them mean something.

You rolled your eyes, pushing forward. “You don’t own me, you know.”

Finally, finally, Lando looked at you. And there was something charged in his gaze, something teasing, something knowing.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips curling slightly. “I know,”

But the way he said it—the way his voice dipped just slightly, the way his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes—made you wonder if maybe, he wanted to.

But yeah, you definitely did not like him. Not at all.

───

The night was alive, stretching out ahead of you like something infinite, something meant to be reckless, unforgettable. It was exactly what young people did on vacation after sunset—drink too much, dance too hard, let loose in a way that would be laughed about in the morning.

The plan was simple: get wasted. Totally. Immorally.

And somehow, that plan had led you here—to a club humming with bass so deep it vibrated through your chest, neon lights flickering in shades of electric blue, ruby red, pulsing violet. The air was thick, heavy with heat, sweat, the scent of alcohol mixing with the excitement of too many people packed together, bodies swinging, moving, losing themselves to the rhythm of the music.

And, once again, it was just you and Lando.

Ria and Max had disappeared, slipping away into the chaos without so much as a word, vanishing into the crowd like ghosts. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this—always conveniently lost, always conveniently absent just when it was only the two of you left behind. Suspicious. Too suspicious.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, scanning the room, half expecting to catch a glimpse of them watching from a shadowed corner, hiding like they planned this, like they wanted this.

Lando leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed against your ear, his voice low but teasing over the music. “They do it on purpose, you know.”

You tilted your head just slightly toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

He grinned, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking, the flashing lights catching in his damp curls, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw. The energy between you shifted—something playful, something charged, something neither of you had acknowledged outright.

“So,” he mused, his tone light but suggestive, “since we’ve lost them… what do we do now?”

Your stomach twisted, pulse picking up speed, matching the pounding beat of the music.

The thought of searching for Ria and Max had been weighing on you—not enough to take action yet, but enough to sit somewhere in the back of your mind, whispering that finding at least one responsible person would be the smart move. Because while getting wasted was absolutely part of the plan, drunk Lando was a different story altogether. He was chaos personified, a walking hazard when he got too far into his drinks, and if past experiences were anything to go by, you knew there was no controlling him once he hit a certain level.

You needed someone to be the voice of reason—the grounding force among the recklessness. And right now? That someone wasn’t you.

But then—the music changed.

The opening chords of Tate’s No, I'm Not in Love pulsed through the speakers, threading through the air, wrapping itself around the flashing neon lights, settling into the atmosphere like it belonged there. You froze, breath catching for just a second, because Jesus Christ, no song could possibly describe your situation better than this one. It was too on point, too fitting, like the universe itself was nudging you towards a realization you weren’t sure you wanted to fully embrace.

You glanced over at Lando, watching as he swayed lightly to the beat, blissfully unaware of the ridiculous irony of the moment. He was too caught up in the rhythm, too lost in the intoxicated haze of the night, but you? You weren’t lost at all. You saw it clearly. And suddenly—the idea of searching for Max and Ria seemed a lot less important.

A slow smirk curled onto your lips, mischief flickering in your eyes. “Maybe we should enjoy it on our own,” you mused, letting go of whatever impulse had been telling you to find the others. Let them watch. Let them plot.

The moment overtook you—the alcohol, the music, the sheer audacity of knowing Ria and Max were watching like hawks from whatever hidden corner they had claimed. So, fine. If they were going to meddle, if they were going to set the stage for whatever game they thought they were playing, you might as well put on a show.

You threw your head back, letting the music pulse through you, and without hesitation, the words left your lips—loud, exaggerated, off-key but undeniably committed.

“Every friend of mine, I told them the same!"

Lando hesitated at first, brows furrowing slightly, the drunken haze clouding his comprehension. But then—then something clicked. Recognition. Understanding. And slowly—dangerously—a smirk crept onto his face, matching the energy you had thrown out so unapologetically.

He laughed, shaking his head, letting the moment settle before joining in, leaning closer, voice rough, teasing.

“No, I'm not in love!"

You threw your arms out dramatically, gesturing like you were making some grand proclamation to the entire club, like this was a performance meant to be witnessed, meant to be talked about.

“I’m not thinking about you,” you sang, voice tangled with laughter, exaggerated and bold, thrown out into the air like they meant nothing, but they did, and it was an obvious lie, one that Lando saw straight through.

Because the way he laughed, the way his fingers curled around your wrist for a fleeting second before letting go told you he knew, he knew you were lying, he knew this wasn’t just a drunken joke anymore, he knew that whatever was happening between you—the teasing, the tension, the game neither of you had fully acknowledged yet—was already spiraling into something dangerous, something inevitable, something neither of you were stopping.

His gaze lingered, sweeping over you with an ease that was too deliberate, too knowing, and he tilted his head slightly, watching the way you swayed, the way the neon lights painted streaks of red against your skin, the way your breath hitched when he stepped just a little closer, and still, the lyrics kept coming, tumbling past your lips effortlessly, sinking into the charged air between you.

“And I don’t hate every girl your eyes go to!”

Lando’s smirk deepened, slow, deliberate, dangerous, and then, just for a moment, for one fleeting second, his eyes dragged over you, measured, intentional, like he was answering a question neither of you had spoken aloud yet, like he was proving something, like he was silently calling your bluff.

“No I’m not in—“

The words barely had time to leave your lips before Lando’s hands were on you, pulling you in, crashing his mouth against yours with the kind of recklessness that came from too many drinks, too much tension, too much waiting. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing hesitant—just a collision of heat and energy, the culmination of a night filled with teasing and unspoken words. The weight of the moment drowned out everything else.

The music thumped in the background, a steady pulse, a heartbeat for the night, but it was distant now, muted beneath the rush of blood in your ears. The flashing neon lights bathed everything in shifting hues, casting streaks of electric blues and reds against his skin, painting the moment in something surreal, something that didn’t feel entirely real but was. The crowd moved around you, bodies swaying, voices blending together in laughter and shouting, but none of it mattered.

All that existed in that breathless, intoxicated second was him.

Lando tasted of tequila and recklessness, of something unspoken, something that had been lingering between you for far too long. His grip was firm, fingers curling against your waist, holding you close, grounding you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a desperation in it—like maybe he’d wanted this longer than either of you would admit, like maybe this wasn’t just about the alcohol or the tension but something deeper, something inevitable.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to see your face, just enough to look at you the way he always did but never quite let on—his smirk was lazy, teasing, dangerous. His thumb brushed against your jaw, gaze flickering over your expression, searching, waiting, as if he expected you to say something, as if he knew there were words stuck in your throat that you weren’t quite ready to speak.

The energy between you was charged thick with the weight of something inevitable, something unspoken, something that had lingered far too long between teasing smiles and fleeting touches. The music swelled, pressing into the moment, drowning out logic, hesitation, reason.

You hadn’t thought—you had just moved hands gripping his shirt, pulling him back into you, kissing him without restraint, without second-guessing, without giving yourself the chance to stop.

This time, Lando wasn’t caught off guard.

This time, he expected it.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, his lips pressing against yours like he wasn’t just matching your recklessness, like he was meeting something that had always been there.

The world blurred, neon colors flashing against his skin, drowning you both in electric hues, but none of it mattered—none of it registered—not when the only thing grounding you was him.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, breathless, gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, searching for something unspoken, something real, something that neither of you had fully admitted yet.

“Still not in love?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something daring, something that asked for more than just a playful answer.

Your chest rose and fell, breath uneven, heartbeat thrumming in rhythm with the bass.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slightly, though it wasn’t convincing, though the smirk playing at the edges of his lips told you he knew the truth.

“I’m very drunk,” you countered, not answering his question, deflecting, but the way your fingers still curled into his shirt, the way you hadn’t let go—it was telling.

Lando hummed, lips twitching at the corners, his thumb tracing absent patterns along your waist. “So am I,” he admitted, voice barely above the music. “But I still meant it.”

Your stomach twisted, breath hitching.

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the pounding bass, louder than the drunken chatter of the club around you. You barely processed the flashing neon lights anymore, barely registered the movement of the crowd—because suddenly, the only thing that mattered was him.

Lando’s grip on your waist hadn’t loosened, his fingers still curled against your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go, like he wasn’t even thinking about letting go. His expression had shifted—something softer beneath the smirk, something hesitant but certain at the same time.

“I like you, Y/n,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, like it wasn’t just another teasing remark, like it actually meant something. “A lot.”

Ria and Max stood near the exit, casually leaning against the wall, watching the scene unfold before them with smirks that said they knew this was coming all along. The neon lights flashed overhead, casting an electric glow across the club, but neither of them were paying attention to anything other than you and Lando, tangled together, oblivious to their spectators.

Ria took a slow sip of her drink, eyes gleaming with amusement as she tilted her head toward Max. “Right, because she’s definitely not in love,” she remarked, voice dripping with sarcasm, barely masking her satisfaction at seeing her prediction come true.

Max chuckled, crossing his arms as he watched Lando pull you closer like he had to, like it was beyond his control now. “Oh yeah, totally platonic,” he mused, amusement flickering in his tone. “You know, just friends, casually making out in the middle of a crowded club.”

Ria scoffed, shaking her head. “Honestly, they should start paying me. I don’t even charge for matchmaking, but I really should.”

Max nudged her lightly, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We didn’t do anything this time. This was inevitable. We just sat back and let it happen.”

───

Nobody talked about that night—not even Ria and Max, which was strange considering how much they loved meddling, loved pushing things just for the sake of watching them unfold. They had bet on it, plotted it, orchestrated it in their own way, but afterward? Nothing. No smirks thrown your way, no sly remarks, no comments about how they knew this would happen, no subtle nudges toward whatever this was supposed to mean.

It was like they had collectively decided to let it sit untouched, unmentioned, as if acknowledging it would make it real.

Maybe that should have made it easier.

Maybe the silence should have let you push it aside, should have allowed it to fade into the same blur of bad decisions and drunken recklessness as the rest of that night.

But then there was Lando.

And Lando? He hadn’t let it go at all.

If anything, his teasing had gotten worse—relentlessly worse—so subtle yet so constant that it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the casual smirks anymore, wasn’t just the playful nudges or the remarks that made you roll your eyes and shove him away. It was everything. The way his eyes lingered just a second longer when you spoke, the way his fingers found yours absently when you walked side by side, the way he leaned in just a little too close whenever he whispered something meant only for you.

And Ria?

She noticed everything.

She never said anything outright, never pushed you into admitting anything, but the way she looked at you sometimes—head tilted, lips curled into an amused smile, eyes flickering with knowing—said she had already figured it out. And every time, every single time, you gave her the same answer.

“I’m not in love," you’d mutter, rolling your eyes, shaking your head, pretending like your pulse didn’t quicken, pretending like you didn’t think about it far too often, pretending like Lando wasn’t making sure you fell for him anyway.

The silence of the room pressed in around you, thick and suffocating. The rhythmic rise and fall of Ria’s breath was steady, unbothered by the weight that kept your own eyelids stubbornly open. It had been two nights since sleep last found you, and tonight was shaping up to be no different.

Then, suddenly—light.

The glow of your phone cut through the darkness, harsh against tired eyes. For a moment, you didn’t move, staring at the screen as if expecting it to vanish. But the light remained, unwavering.

A message.

Your stomach tightened. Not just any message.

Lando.

lando u sleepin? cuz i can’t max’s snoring so damn hard

yn can’t sleep either lol

lando u wanna go for walk on the beach??

The absurdity of it barely even registered. A walk at 2 AM? When the rest of the world was either asleep or tangled in the chaos of the lingering night—but, somehow, it made perfect sense. You were so in.

yn yea let’s go

You barely breathed as you stepped through the doorway, moving with careful precision, as if the slightest misstep might shatter the quiet and wake Ria or Max. The apartment was still, save for the faint hum of the city beyond its walls, the distant murmurs of late-night traffic weaving into the silence. You pressed your fingers against the doorframe, guiding it closed with measured patience, and when the soft click finally sounded, you exhaled in relief.

Lando stood beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his head tilted slightly in amusement as he glanced your way. His smirk—lazy, teasing—played at the edges of his lips, barely visible beneath the dim glow of the hallway light filtering out from inside.

"Think we made it?" he whispered, voice just loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough to keep the stillness intact.

You lifted a hand instinctively, holding it up like you were listening for a signal—some shift, some noise, some indication that you had failed. But everything remained silent, uninterrupted, untouched by your presence. You waited for the inevitable creak of bedsprings, for Max's sleepy complaints, for Ria's sharp curiosity, but nothing came.

Only silence.

Finally, you lowered your hand, a slow grin pulling at the corners of your mouth as you shook your head.

Lando let out a short chuckle, shifting slightly as he rocked on his heels, as if adjusting to the crisp air outside. "We could have just left normally, you know," he mused, tone easy, effortless.

You shot him a flat look, crossing your arms as you stepped further from the door. "Yeah? And risk Ria analyzing our entire existence before we even make it down the street?"

Lando laughed at that, tilting his head in acceptance. "Fair point."

The street stretched ahead of you, quieter now than it had been hours before, when the city had still been alive with movement, with music, with crowds lost in the indulgence of the night. There was something surreal about it—something almost too peaceful, too still—like the world had reset itself while you weren’t looking. The cool breeze brushed against your skin, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the alcohol still settling in your veins.

Lando fell into step beside you, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, his movements relaxed, unconcerned, but the energy between you was different now—charged in a way that made your stomach twist.

"So," Lando mused, kicking a loose pebble across the pavement, watching it skip and tumble down the road. "Are we just walking? Or are we pretending this isn’t weird?"

You scoffed, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets. "It’s not weird. It’s just... spontaneous."

Lando snorted, glancing at you with a raised brow. "Right. ‘Spontaneous.’ That’s what we’re calling it?"

You nudged him with your elbow, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."

The waves rolled in with a quiet rhythm, a soft pulse against the shore, stretching out beneath the moonlight in endless streaks of silver. The night was still, peaceful in a way that felt surreal, as if time had slowed just for the two of you, as if the world had paused long enough for you to finally let yourself feel everything you had been avoiding.

You walked in silence for a while, the cool ocean breeze wrapping around you, carrying the scent of salt and something nostalgic—something that reminded you of summer nights spent chasing moments you never wanted to end. Lando kept pace beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, steps steady and deliberate, like he was waiting for you to speak first, like he knew that this conversation wasn’t one he could force.

But you didn’t say anything. You weren’t ready—not yet.

The sand shifted under your feet, soft and weightless, grounding you in ways you didn’t expect. Lando let out a breath beside you, not impatient, not pushing—just waiting.

And then, finally, he broke the silence.

“Are we gonna talk about it?”

His voice was calm, easy, but something else lay beneath it—something careful, something that wasn’t just teasing, something real.

You inhaled slowly, pretending not to understand, pretending this was just a normal conversation between two friends, the kind that didn’t linger, the kind that didn’t change anything. “About what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, feigning innocence, though you knew he wouldn’t buy it.

Lando scoffed lightly, shaking his head, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the weight of his words. “Stop, you know.”

You were quiet.

Watching the waves pull back, watching them crash forward again—predictable, inevitable, like this.

He sighed, running a hand through his curls, exhaling a short laugh—something small, something he barely let out. “You should admit it.” His tone was lighter now, still teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something steady, something that made your chest tighten.

You frowned slightly, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Admit what?”

His smirk deepened, slow, deliberate, steps measured as if he was guiding you toward an answer you weren’t ready to say out loud.

“That you’re falling for me.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, trying—desperately trying—to keep your pulse steady, to keep your breath even, to keep your face neutral, but none of it worked.

Lando let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he didn’t believe you for a second.“I don’t have to wish, Y/n,” he murmured, voice easy, confident, frustratingly sure of himself. “You’re already there.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and charged, filled with something that had been lingering in the air for far too long. The ocean’s rhythmic pulse filled the quiet, waves rolling in and out with steady precision, as if mimicking the careful balance you had both been maintaining. The moon hung high above the water, casting silver reflections across its surface, making everything feel softer, making everything feel realer.

You shifted on your feet, forcing a casual shrug, though the weight in your chest told you it wasn’t casual at all. “I could say the same,” you murmured, your voice measured, controlled, desperately trying to maintain the effortless front. “That you need to admit it.”

Lando exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head slightly, eyes glinting with something unreadable beneath the dim light. His smirk—lazy, teasing—was still there, but it had softened at the edges, something else slipping through, something honest, something serious.

“I don’t need to admit it,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’ve already fallen for you.”

He had already said it—put it all out there without hesitation, without fear, without holding anything back. Now, it was your turn. You could see it in the way he looked at you, the quiet patience, the soft expectation, the way he was just waiting for you to say it, waiting for you to give in. And the worst part? You wanted to.

You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together, willing your pulse to slow, willing your thoughts to steady, but none of it worked. Because the truth was already clawing its way out of you, raw and unfiltered, slipping past your defenses faster than you could stop it.

“Okay—I like you so much,” you admitted, the words tumbling out, rushed and desperate, thick with the weight of everything you had been holding back. Your breath hitched, your fingers curled at your sides, like your body was still trying to fight something your heart had already accepted. “All those jokes, Lando... God, they weren’t just jokes.”

Lando’s expression shifted the moment the words left your lips. His eyes locked onto yours, the quiet patience still there, but now there was something else—something warmer, something realer, something that felt like relief and victory all at once.

“You finally said it,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shaking your head slightly, frustration and disbelief mixing into something unsteady. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Guess I did.”

Lando chuckled softly, stepping a little closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist before curling lightly around it. “And?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone teasing but careful, like he wasn’t pushing too hard—just enough to hold onto this moment, just enough to make sure you didn’t run from it.

“And…” you exhaled, searching his face, searching the warmth in his gaze, searching for the courage to just say it properly. “And I’m done pretending.”

Lando smiled then—really smiled. The kind that made your chest tighten, the kind that made it impossible to regret admitting any of this, the kind that told you that, whatever this was, it wasn’t going anywhere.

His hand slid fully into yours, fingers intertwining like they’d been waiting to do so for a long time. “Good,” he murmured. “Because neither am I.”

He was still holding your hand, fingers laced with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he had been doing it forever, like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. The waves continued their steady rhythm in the distance, rolling in and pulling away, but right now, the only thing grounding you was him.

“How do we tell Max and Ria?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice as he tilted his head slightly, studying you like he already knew you were dreading the thought of it.

You groaned, rolling your eyes, even as a small laugh escaped. “God, I don’t even want to think about it,” you admitted, shaking your head. The very idea of telling them sent a wave of anticipation—and, honestly, chaos—crashing into your mind. “Ria is going to freak out, I just know it.”

Lando grinned, shaking his head. “Please, she’s known for months.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, lips pressing together as you considered that for a moment. “Max, maybe,” you conceded. “But Ria? If she knew, she would have said something. She would’ve been obnoxious about it.”

Lando’s laugh was louder now, more certain, like he had already imagined Ria’s reaction in full detail. “You don’t give her enough credit. She was waiting for us to get together.”

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head toward the sky like you were searching for divine intervention. “We could just… never tell them,” you suggested. “Keep it a secret forever. Take it to the grave.”

Lando snorted. “Yeah, sure. Because that worked so well for us before.” His voice dripped with amusement, and before you could argue, he tugged on your hand lightly, pulling you just a little closer, shaking his head at you like you were being ridiculous. “You’re scared of telling them more than you were scared of admitting it to me, aren’t you?”

You huffed, but the way he was looking at you—so effortlessly amused, so endlessly fond—made it impossible to argue. “I’m not scared,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “It’s just… Ugh, it’s going to be a thing, you know?”

Lando smirked, squeezing your hand lightly. “Oh, absolutely. Max is going to make fun of us for at least a week.”

“And Ria will be unbearable for a month,” you groaned.

Lando chuckled, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over the back of your hand. “So, are you gonna do the honors, or should I?”

You groaned again, shaking your head. “Absolutely not. You tell them.”

© norristrii 2025

[hoodpankow]

· · · · ♡ THREE BILLION GIRLS (YET I WANT YOU)

… starring carlos sainz x f!reader ... 9.5k words ... in which there are seven billion humans on earth, maybe three billion girls in the universe—but carlos sainz only loves one. ... soundtrack dans l'univers by nekfeu ft. vanessa paradis ... featuring angst, fluff, second chance romance, language, alcohol, lando norris & carlos sr. as supportive characters, suggestive content, one mention of smut, carlos dates other women (Not Cheating), thalassophobia (? there's one scene on a boat at sea), reader is some kind of space scientist (left vague). english is not my first language. ... author notes this fic is full of physics because physics is the secret poetry of the universe. a girl's gotta use her engineering degree somehow! requested by and dedicated to the talented brilliant showstopping @ivyquity ‹𝟹 MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

MERCURY.

SÃO PAULO, 2019.

Carlos wasn’t sure why he was reminded of the planets all of a sudden.

No evening could have been more different from this than the last time he’d seen the planets, though. The treacly heat of the nightclub, funk basslines snarling through the floor and into his ribs, the relentless procession of limbs twisting to the pulse; nothing of that other night remained. The planets had dissolved. And yet—

the tint of the lights, bleeding from mauve into wine into the deepest cosmic blue—

(What had she called them, those shimmering spectres of space? Redshifts? Blueshifts?)

—rays of false stars, tumbling from the ceiling and spinning at the edge of his vision…

Fucking hell. He looked down at the glass in his hand, where the liquor was swaying with him. No planets there. This was intoxication of a lesser kind. Mundane.

It should have been anything but, he thought, lips curled in a half-scorn. It wasn’t every day one partied in Brazil; not every day one earned a first podium in Formula One.

And it wasn’t every day one counted one hundred and eighty days since a breakup.

A face peeled from the blur of the crowd, eyes alight, lips drawn in the pull of laughter, and Carlos swallowed back the bile before it could rise to his throat. On anyone else, a joy so unchecked would’ve felt jarring, but he had learned young Lando’s agitation was to be received whole, not understood.

“Smoooooooth operatorrrrrrr,” the Brit slurred, wrapping a sweaty arm around his teammate’s neck. “How you doing, podium sitter?”

“Landooooo,” Carlos replied in the same sing-songy manner. “You abandoned me. You were out there… DJing.” Carlos wasn’t sure who was drunker now—him,  whose speech was definitely more accented and slurred than he’d imagined, or giggly Lando, for whom every accented and slurred word he spoke was the peak of hilarity. “What’s your problem?”

“That’s not even a word, mate, that’s… it’s mixing. Mixing,” he repeated, self-important.

“How about you mix your racing with some overtakes?”

“Arsehole.” As always, the swat he gave his stomach packed no punch, just affection. As always, Lando evaded Carlos’ chokehold to ruffle his hair, just barely, and the sudden doubling over had the Spaniard’s head spinning dangerously. No play fighting four cocktails deep. Got it.

“No, but for real, how are you doing?” Lando took advantage of the lull between songs—a transition almost less awkward than what he could’ve come up with—to yell the question above the noise.

“Great! How could I be anything else than great?” Carlos laughed, genuine enough, thankfully, to fool Lando.

“No, I mean how are you do-ing,” he pressed, sweeping his gaze over the dance floor below, the tables and bursts of champagne fireworks.

It took one more chin-jab, cartoonish and anything but subtle, at a group of women by the bar for Carlos to finally catch on.

“Come on! There’s got to be someone who caught your eye. This place is literally swarming with hot girls.”

“I…” Again those galactic lights burned into his retinas, blotting out the crowd, the dancers, their gold and emerald jewelry, until only remained the smoldering unease of the void. Like leaning over the edge of the Milky Way. “Yeah. I don’t know. Not sure I’m in the mood tonight.”

“When are you ever gonna be in the mood if not when you get a podium? In Brazil?”

“When I win in Brazil?”

Lando chuckled, but shook his head. “Mate, I get it’s been rough, but that was—when did you guys break up again?”

“May.” The twenty-first.

“Right, May. So that’s like…” One, two, three, four, five fingers and a furrowed brow. “... six months ago, no?”

One hundred and eighty days, on the dot. He’d been counting every last one. “Yeah, more or less, I think.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to get back on the field? Dip your toes a little? I think you’re just, like, out of practice, mate.” Carlos must’ve pulled a face right then, because Lando held up both his hands, almost knocking over some guy’s drink. “I’m not saying she has to be the love of your life or whatever! It’s just about moving on. And not… ruminating like you are.”

“Ruminating? What am I, a cow?”

“No, a bull,” Lando beamed. “What was it again? El Matador?” His gaze trailed off to the side, where two young women, long straight hair and leather miniskirts catching the club lights, had been stealing glances at the drivers since the beginning of the conversation. Carlos followed. The brunette he locked eyes with did not look away first. “So get back to the ring.”

There certainly was some merit to Lando’s reasoning, however unwilling Carlos had been to see it. At least, not right away—not when Lando vanished back into the crowd and he was swept up by his team. Not when they paid him a line of shots and carried him into a euphoric whirlwind of Spanish shouts. Not when they hoisted him onto their shoulders in front of the DJ booth and, from the height of his newfound apex, he locked eyes again with the dark-haired girl. Unyielding. Alluring.

Dip your toes a little, had said Lando five shots ago. Those same feet now tingled with a new kind of electricity as they carried him toward her. She’d seen him coming from afar, was already watching him with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips well before he’d found the nerve to approach. 

He wasn’t thinking of planets anymore, even though the supernova-colored spotlights on her ochre skin shone brighter than ever. Like watching the same scene play out from the far end of the galaxy.

“Hola,” he huffed out. “I’m Carlos.”

She giggled, biting her lip, “Eu sei quem é você.”

She was gorgeous, exposed neck like the bronze he’d just won and dark doe eyes begging to touch him and… and blurry features melting into one another and the darkness of the club, a faceless dream you remember so long as you don’t blink.

She didn’t say anything more, just smiled at him like the sun, and the next second his mouth was on hers, one hand pressing her waist flush against him. She’d opened her lips before they’d even met his, and her warm tongue distilled the aroma of alcohol into his mouth when she moaned into the kiss. Her fingers tugged slightly at his disheveled hair, settling at the nape of his neck; slowly, so slowly, his hand snaked down her back, cradling the curve where her miniskirt ended.

He thought it was the leather, cold and callous under his fingertips, before he realized he really was touching her skin. She was cold. Not even cold, really, but—lukewarm. Tepid. Like her very skin held back, uncommitted; yet her hands caressed his neck, her kiss grew famished. No—she wasn’t cold. She wasn’t hesitant. He was.

He forced his eyes shut, pleading, begging the spiral of thoughts in his head to wane, to relax—enjoy it enjoy it enjoy it you want this; scanning the flow of his own veins, every part of him she grinded against for a flush of heat, for a glimmer of desire—and came up short. Not even the coarse rumble of lust. Nothing.

The smoldering unease of the void.

Jupiter, he thought then like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean. That’s what her big brown eyes reminded him of. Jupiter.

He broke the kiss with a retch. She stared, with her head tilted to the side and blinking fast—to avoid those Jupiter eyes Carlos had no choice but to look at her swollen lips, but this was unbearable too, so he unfocused his vision to an indefinite point over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated louder, not hearing himself over his tinnitus. “I have to go.”

“Está bem? Are you okay?”

“Sí, sí, yeah, I—I have to go. I’m sorry.”

If he stayed one minute in the club—with his mouth dry, his body adrift in a tangle of other bodies, hot then cold and spinning like tops—he was going to throw up. Eyes fixed on the floor, he pushed his way toward the exit, but he hadn’t made it ten steps before stumbling into Caco, thank God. A steadying pat on the shoulder, a look hovering somewhere between scolding and concern, and then they were out on the street, scratched raw by the cold breath of the Brazilian night.

Carlos was still panting when he drew out his phone. 4:59 in São Paulo—and just beneath, though the difference had long since etched itself into habit, Spain’s time. 9:59. She would be awake. She would be at work. She would be lost in her solar kingdom…

He turned his back on his cousin slightly as he scrolled through his contacts, like he knew this was a mistake he was intoxicated enough to make. Letter by swaying letter, each keystroke a lurch through an unstrung chicane, he typed the name until it surfaced.

One hundred and eighty-one days now.

His thumb hovered over there, heavy. Above the name he hadn’t dared to summon aloud in all that time. Like a fault line you don’t name, afraid it might finally split.

Headlights split the night, and a sedan slid into the curve at the end of the elegant marble drive. Someone took him by the arm; he nearly dropped the phone as he stuffed it deep in his pocket. All the planets and their ink-dark sky were swallowed by leather and gasoline.

Like many Madrileños before him, Carlos has never visited his city.

Through no fault of his own, he would retort somewhat defensively when asked. That’s just what happens when you’re the child of a sprawling city; you have no time for her as she has no time for you. How many Parisians have never climbed the Eiffel Tower, or New Yorkers the Empire State? 

So your wide eyes and catastrophized gasp do not come as a surprise when he admits he’s never sat on the velvet cushions of the Lope de Vega theater. Never had his breath stolen out of his chest by the immensity of the Guernica. Never even slumped at a marble-topped table in San Ginés, worn out at dawn, cradling the chocolate con churros of the capital…

“Do you even live here?” you question after he confesses his one and only visit to the Catedral de la Almudena dates back to a decade.

“Of course I live here, that’s why I don’t do all that stuff. It’s for tourists. And I do know Madrid,” his voice perks up. “I’ve been to the Prado and the Royal Palace and the Bernabéu a million times.”

“Because your dad is always getting invited places! You’ve never lazed about the city, seen her just for the sake of seeing her. Twenty-two years on Earth and you’ve spent them all looking for cheap thrills all over the world instead of discovering what’s right in front of you.”

Those kinds of conversations always end with that little pout of his, and the way you look at him: insistently, already dreaming up some wild plan to fill in the gaps of his illustrious little prince education.

He’s walked thousands of streets with you, seen thousands of landscapes in the years he’s known you—beautiful and remote and sometimes crass and adventurous and accidental—but his favorites are always the ones you choose. Gravity in those places feels more supple. Soft enough to make him forget the smell of scorched rubber; botanical gardens full of sickly-sweet flowers that seem to bloom open in your wake, following your laughter; hidden restaurants tucked away between sun-warmed stones in the Mediterranean…

and above all, the planetarium.

It’s your most revolted reaction yet, and it starts with a game of Trivial Pursuit at his parents’. A question about the first manned mission to the Moon—and, frankly, not even that easy of a question, may he be forgiven—has Carlos grimacing and his mother throwing her head back with a hopeless, “Ay, hijo, how do you not know this!” Carlos Sr. interjects with his good-humored tone (Come on, Reyes, I don’t think he was paying too much attention to that in school), his son attempts to defend himself (I don’t even know the order of the planets! How am I supposed to know this?), but the damage is done.

Carlos Sainz will not go one day longer without knowing everything there is to know about the planets.

Lucky thing you are assigned closing hour the following Monday.

The planetarium’s main room is long deserted by the time you shoot Carlos a text message—“you can come out of hiding now, tonti”. All the school excursions and strolling pensioners have kindly been kicked out by your little white lie, something about the projection room closing early for maintenance; and there is no way any other staff would investigate the lack of visitors at 5 p.m. instead of quietly scurrying home. Still, Carlos waits five long minutes before he slips out the side door, his fist tight around… a balaclava?

“What the hell is that?” you giggle as his head swipes the room, cautious. “Do you think we’re robbing a bank?”

“I don’t know, I thought there might be cameras in here,” is all the defense he has, and you snort.

“I can tell you’ve never done anything slightly rebellious,” you roll your eyes, but he wraps his arms around you from behind and you melt like you always do. “No, the nose ring doesn’t count.”

“I could’ve gotten expelled! They were super strict!”

“You, Carlos Sainz Junior, could not have gotten expelled from anywhere.”

He chuckles, an unhurried thing rumbling against your back, and buries a kiss in your hair before freezing up.

“This isn’t, like, illegal, though, right?”

You whip around, stealing the balaclava from his grasp and dangling it in front of his face. Daring him to reach for it. “What if it is?”

“Well I’d probably lose my job.” He can’t stop smiling, despite the seriousness of his words, like your closeness chisels the bronze of his lips into a perpetual grin. “I don’t think McLaren would like that look on one of their drivers.”

“For guys whose job is literally speeding, you lot sure are booooring.”

“Sorry I’m not exciting enough for you, miss astrophysics.”

You click your tongue in mock outrage, and he leans in for a forgiveness peck but you’re quicker to push him away, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around.

“Nuh-uh! Time for the conference now. Hope you brought something to take notes, cause there’s a surprise quiz at the end.”

He mutters something about bringing it on and not being scared when you sit him down in the front row’s deep-blue cushioned seats, palms outstretched in front of you and a half-stern glare like you’re trying to get an unruly puppy to behave. Surprisingly, he shuts up, and you miss the fond gaze he drapes upon you as you type commands away into the computer—until suddenly all the lights in the room flicker to sleep, like inhabited by a more secret kind of life… and slowly at first, then like silent starbursts, planets and constellations and comets emerge from the void, as though beckoning the curious closer. It’s a spectacle you’ve seen hundreds of times, colorful reflections sprawled across thousands of enthralled kids’ faces… but you know no star that shines brighter than Carlos’ eyes as you take the stage just for him.

“Welcome to the Madrid planetarium,” the words come out chipper, though unmistakably rehearsed. “You are about to embark on a voyage across the cosm— Carlos!” your shoulders slump, pouting at his wheezes. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just… I never thought I’d see you like that. At work. It’s a little funny.” His gaze roams over your body, from the pin to your breast pocket and the corded card around your neck, to the tight updo you’ve locked your hair in—you never do them that way at home, nor do you paint your lips so. He’s thought about it before—how you’ve been to a few races, witnessed him don the fireproofs and the helmet and disappear into the car, as though swallowed by the higher existence of the team, the speed; but he never returned the favor. Until now. “You look smart. I mean I know you’re smart, but now I can tell just by looking at you.”

An intense blush creeps over your cheeks, though thankfully the ambient night obscures it.

“Please save all your remarks for the end.” And, very softly: “Thank you.”

You know his smirk is not going anywhere anytime soon, so you carry on, comically louder.

“So! As I was saying…”

The usual lecture is forty-five minutes: enough to cover an introduction to planetology and crack a few jokes with the audience without boring the kids to—literal—tears. With Carlos, though, time dilates. He’s quiet at first, bewitched by your ease as you recount all the things the planets have whispered to you. Slowly, though, his timidity wanes, and he asks more questions, surprisingly pertinent (though he can’t help slipping in a cocky “What planet is the hot guide from?”), until Carlos, the riotous kid who used to race past the world, takes the time to bask in it. You show, you tell, you open the vault for all the little things you know about astronomy; tales and figures spill out of you like a solar flare, and each ray touches Carlos’ heart with an overpowering sense of warmth.

By the time you suggest you move on to a more immersive part of the exhibit, he is a hundred times more in love with you than he was before he met Mercury.

And so it may be an hour, or perhaps two, after Carlos snuck into the planetarium after hours, and you’re both lying on the night-dark carpeted floor—“No way I’m letting my hair touch that, you really don’t wanna know when this was last cleaned.” “Well lay your head on me, then.”—with your eyes fixed on the spherical roof where celestial shapes parade. Lazily, like dust shelling off the sky.

Neither of you have spoken in what feels like centuries, and the rise and fall of Carlos’ chest beneath your neck almost matches Antares’ pulsating glow. Over your heads, numerical meteors ignite and vanish.

“How did they manage to send rocketships and satellites so far away?”

He shimmies a little underneath you, like the sudden question wiggles within.

“All these distances you mentioned, they’re all so huge. How do we send and pilot stuff so far out there? Wouldn’t they run out of fuel?”

You smile like the break of dawn.

“Not everything is about gasoline, racer boy.”

“That’s not what I implied,” he groans with a little shake of the head, the citrus of his shampoo enveloping your nostrils.

“I know. Well, most spatial vehicles don’t run on fuel. Only rockets do, for brief minutes. The rest are solar or nuclear-powered, and besides… engineers know a trick or two.”

“Like?”

He speaks with the rising inflexion of a diligent student, the one you’ve heard him get with Tom Stallard once or twice before, and you laugh to yourself at the idea he might be hoping to draw inspiration from astromechanics for his car’s next breakthrough.

“Like… You ever hear about a gravitational slingshot?”

“Mi vida, one hour ago I had no idea that half the planets don’t actually have solid ground.”

His chuckle sounds exactly how you imagine the Big Dipper does, when she shakes off her morning dew before disappearing into the rosy horizon, so you chuckle back.

“Okay, well, a gravitational slingshot is… a way for probes to travel to the ends of the solar system with minimal energy. You throw your satellite into the path of a bigger body, say, a planet, and use the momentum from its orbit to propel it forward. Somewhat like swinging from vine to vine in the jungle.”

“So is it a bit like using the slipstream from the car ahead of you?”

Of course he’d find a way to tie it back to the cars.

“In a way, yes.” One of his hands nestles in your hair, scratching it softly. Overhead, Saturn preens its rings like a peacock’s feathers. “But think of it more as… galactic hitchhiking. You use it to adjust trajectory more than speed. These planets, they’re on their invariable course through the universe, and you’re meeting them for a fraction of an instant to redirect your path. Get you where you wanna go. The calculations have to be exact… or else you might be too late or too early for the rendezvous. Like Voyager I,” you straighten up slightly, careful not to elbow Carlos, and draw imaginary lines across the ceiling. Too absorbed in your explanation to notice he’s only staring at your fingers and the golden threads they weave. “They launched it precisely at the right moment, on a slightly offset path, so it would meet Jupiter. And it did, and it got caught in its orbit, and that’s when they gave it just a little extra power boost and boom—off it went into the void and on its correct course.” You angle your head up to meet his face. “Isn’t that romantic? How they were interstellar soulmates?”

“It’s just a big box of metal and an even bigger ball of gas,” Carlos chuckles.

“Oh come on, I’m sure you have a lot to say about the poetry of big boxes of metal.”

His smile remains on his face long after Saturn has dipped below the artificial horizon, making way for constellations with names he can barely read. His voice comes out a little subdued, though, when he asks after a while:

“What would’ve happened if Voyager I had missed its shot and never met Jupiter?”

You shrug. Perhaps the tragedy of it all doesn’t weigh on you the way it does Carlos.

“Maybe it would’ve met another planet, and that would’ve sent it in a totally erroneous direction. Or maybe it would’ve just drifted off into the void forever. Who knows? The only important thing is they did find each other, and it did work out.”

Pensive, Carlos plays with your hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger. As always when he’s entirely surrendered to you, he forgets. He forgets about the smell of charred rubber and unimpressive lap times cascading one after the other—forgets the omnipresent roar of the engine and inhumane shriek of the crowd. You alter gravity, make it more bearable; alleviate the g-forces.

In a year or so, he will make the gravest mistake of his life—he will confuse lightness with lack, bliss with distraction. He will panic, for the very first time in his life, and he will cut you off. At once so it hurts less—so he doesn’t get the time to hurt and you to hate him—because when you are standing in Mattia Binotto’s office and he offhandedly mentions Sebastian Vettel doesn’t want his red seat next year, you cannot ever afford to forget about the rubber and the lap times and the engine and the crowd.

For now, though, he lets the beams of your sun bathe him in the tranquil glory he’ll forget later.

“I feel like you’re a bit like my Jupiter at times, aren’t you?” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “Putting me on the right track when I stray too far.”

“Hope that means you’re always staying in my orbit,” you reply, tummy fluttering with love at his words.

But you know it better than anyone, don’t you?—

All it takes is a just a little extra power boost and boom—

off he goes into the void.

VENUS.

MILTON KEYNES, 2022.

It wasn’t raining the very first time Carlos Sainz climbed the top step of a Formula 1 podium, though until the end of time he would remember it that way.

Perhaps the champagne droplets Checo drenched his race suit with left a more striking impression than he thought, colder than he remembered. Perhaps it was his sweat, dripping from his helmet and down his temples. Or perhaps he needed something external to explain the vague gloom he’d felt that day, and he’d decided to blame the sky.

The celebrations themselves had been dizzying: a whirlwind of cheers and congratulations and crimson fists raised in the air; his father hugging him tight, and Lando, excitable, loving Lando running up to congratulate him for his first victory in red. His first victory ever—¡lo conseguiste, cabrón, y con Ferrari! 

Never had he ever heard a sweeter Marcha Real than the one lauding him on English soil. The sound etched itself in his mind, like all the Tifosi’s adoring eyes lifting toward him.

A tiny serpent wrapped around his ear murmured that one pair of eyes was missing. The drums of Fratelli d’Italia drowned it out.

Later, after he’d answered every question and taken every picture, when he reconvened with his father in the quiet of his driver room and unlocked his phone to zero missed calls, the indefinite malaise he’d felt rising all weekend came growling back. He braced himself as he dialed the number and pressed his phone to his ear.

He should’ve been feeling anything but weighed down by those wormy nerves in the pit of his stomach. He should’ve been triumphant and invincible and…

“Hello?”

“Hi, love,” he said, bracing himself for an outcome he already knew would not be different than every other time. “Um, just calling to let you know I won the race.”

“You did? Oh, wow, congrats!” her voice was shiny with enthusiasm, genuine and gentle, just like she always was—charming and polite and chipper—, but there was an edge of confusion to it that Carlos could never miss. “But, um… I thought it was yesterday?”

“I…” he scoffed, bit the inside of his mouth as he wondered if this was worth feeling defeated over. Probably not. Not today, at least. “Yesterday was the qualification round, remember what I explained to you? So I won that too, but that just means I started first for the race today. And that’s what I just won right now. That’s the important part.”

“Oh! Right.” At what point did her flippancy become too frequent, too intentional, to be excused by her sweet and kind disposition? How long until he’d start resenting a partner who did not shoulder anything of the world alongside him? “That’s great! Proud of you.”

“So… I take it you weren’t able to catch the race on TV?” Like she’d said she would. Then again, had he attended any of her fashion shows lately, or had he been furiously cycling down some bumpy slope in the Alps?

“No, sorry, I was out for brunch with the girls and then since I thought it was yesterday and all—” she droned on and on, but Carlos was already out of it, struggling to avoid the knowing, empathetic looks from his father. “But that’s okay, I’ll watch it on YouTube or something. Right after I get my prediction for Cancer season,” a little giggle escaped her. “You know, I might be more emotional than usual this summer, because—”

Astrology was always her favorite cheat sheet to look at the world, its deepest secrets and inner workings unveiled by the fantastical movements of planets and constellations. Carlos didn’t believe much of that—to be fair he didn’t believe much of anything that wasn’t computable, solvable, and repeatable—but for her he had been willing to give it a try. He’d jokingly asked her to intercede for him, pray that the twelve houses trace a clement path for him at Ferrari, but she’d looked terribly offended about the implication you could ask anything of the planets, and he hadn’t uttered another word about the cosmos since.

“I’m a Libra, right, so that means I’m ruled by Venus,” she’d excitedly rambled on one of their first dates. “So that means I’m really lovey-dovey, sensitive to aesthetics, and all that. My modeling career and all; that was all written. Predestined. Because of Venus, cause it’s the planet of love and beauty. You know anything about Venus?”

And to anyone else he would have answered the truth—what Venus had whispered to him years before. I know a day on Venus is longer than a year. I know Venus is so bright it was originally believed to be a star. I know astrophysicists debated the possibility of life in her clouds but she was ultimately ruled out as “too hostile”.

“No, I don’t. I think I’m a Virgo though?”

When he hung up, after a “Bye, love you” he’d hoped was earnest enough, Carlos turned to his father and his shoulders fell. The older man was already looking at him, decades of careful love swimming in his eyes.

“I know what you’re gonna say.”

“What am I going to say?”

Now his son was taller than him, but if he could have, Carlos Sr. would have crouched down to the floor and patted his little head gently. As though he weren’t a two-time world champion, but simply a dad with the answer to every question in the world.

You’re gonna say that she’s not Y/N. You always wished I’d never broken up with Y/N.

“That I’m not right for her and she’s not right for me and you have no idea why we’re even together? It's been months and she can’t even remember how a race weekend works.”

Young Carlos drooped against the wall with a soft thud, muscles still sore from fighting gravity and lifting gold trophies, and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. Unable to look at his father, who replied in the soft, measured tone he’d use when his son would lose hope in karting.

“Well, I never said that, and I think you’re putting words you believe in my mouth to legitimize yourself. And you’re being harsh on her. Do you know what her workday is like?”

The race winner sighed, a long, thick breath escaping through his nose like it had been trapped in there for thousands of years.

“It’s just… I can’t connect with her. I can’t connect with anyone. We’re so… mismatched. But she’s kind, and she’s so patient with me. That’s kind of all I can ask of anyone, with the life I lead.”

“No, Carletes.” Slowly, Carlos Sainz picked up his son’s Silverstone trophy and handed it to him. Just like he would the stuffed animals thrown off the bed by a frantic nightmare. “It’s precisely because you lead this life that you need the best copilot you can find. Someone who’s there for you through thick and thin, and challenges you, but keeps you on track.”

A small beat. Then muscle memory kicked in, and Carlos’ head dipped against his father’s shoulder, like a mighty willow bending to the tempest. The father cradled the son, wrinkled hand caressing the bark of his strong neck.

“Things will make sense, hijo. They always do in the end.”

Like planets locking into place, on the same orbits until the end of time and long after that.

“What’s this one?”

“That’s Vega.”

“That’s Vega,” he mutters in a mocking tone, slightly muffled by your head on his abdomen.

“What?” you chuckle.

“You say that like it’s obvious! Like it’s sooooo easy.”

“It is obvious, it’s my job, Carlos! It’s like if I asked you what the yellow line on the edge of the tire means.”

“Okay, okay, well…” He cranes his neck, scanning the animated ceiling for just the speck of stardust that will end your streak. “Ooh, and this one?”

Squinting your eyes, you try to make out the small dot Carlos is pointing at… before your lips melt into a knowing smile.

“You’re taking the piss, Carlos, there’s nothing there.”

He swears, and the slight contraction of his stomach sends tickles down your spine. How long have you two been floating in that vast expanse of universe, moored to nothing but one another?

“Wow, why is that thing over there so green? Is it like that in real life?”

“That’s the emergency exit sign, amor.”

Carlos groans, trying to cook up a reasonable defense, but he’d ridicule himself a million times over if it meant hearing your wind chime laughter, like fairy dust speeding through outer space.

“And that one over there? The red one? Is it also the emergency exit sign?”

“No, that one’s real. It’s a galaxy.”

“Is it actually red?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because of redshift.”

You stay quiet, and he doesn’t press you further. He knows the explanation is just one carefully collected silence away. Instead, he stares at the star cluster, immobile unlike most of the planets on display, faint crimson clashing with the infinite mauve around. Like a watchful creature lying in wait.

“You know that the universe is expanding, right? It’s growing right now.”

“Yeah.”

“So the light that’s emitted by this galaxy must travel a huge distance to get to us, and in the time it takes to reach Earth, the empty space between us has grown. Stretched out, like someone is pulling at the ends. From our perspective, it looks like the galaxy is moving away. Farther from the observer. So the light’s wavelength increases, because of the Doppler effect, and that’s why the galaxy looks red to us.”

“So when something expands or moves away from you…” he recapitulates slowly.

“It turns red, yeah.”

The words will haunt him far longer than he expects. They have no reason to—out of the thousands of shattered promises and declarations of love and ineffable vulnerability and jokes and harsh truths and supplications—yet they do. They linger like a mist as he sits in his bedroom, two years later, cradling in his lap the very first helmet Carlos Sainz will wear for the Scuderia Ferrari. His belly, swollen with pride earlier from the fifty-five on the side and the red star on the back—all so unbelievably him, side by side with the prancing horse at last—, grumbles with bile. His phone lights up with the notification he’s been avoiding all day.

A year and a half or so—he stopped counting the days. His mom said that meant he was healing?—without a word and on the morning of the announcement, you text him “Congrats on the move”.

Like you couldn’t keep it in, like no rough breakup and unbearable radio silence could prevent you from cheering your champion on. Watching him expand.

He texts back a sober “Thanks. hope you’re doing well”, and deletes your number before he can catch himself dialing it once again.

MARS.

MARANELLO, 2024.

For the first time in his life, the last thing Carlos Sainz longed for was combat.

Little Carletes had been born pugnacious, tiny fists that closed around no claws. Not a troublemaker, per se, but rambunctious, like an inexhaustible volcano. What he lacked in sharpness, he’d made up for in belligerence, for he could never be half the raw talent his father was at everything but he could bleed twice as hard on the jagged rocks of greatness. For every kid that ran him off the track in go-karts he could push two more; for every hour his teammate would stay in the sim, he’d spend one night. As if, far from deplenishing him, the fight gave him energy.

He was always outrunning something, it seemed. The clock, his father’s shadow. At the end of the 2024 season, after months of trying to outrun the end, Carlos was so unfathomably tired.

The end came as a roaring tornado on February first, and all he could do was turn the ignition on and speed away. To no avail, of course. Ferrari never regrets a decision, no matter how fast you are, when the decision comes with seven world titles.

Therefore, when Carlos Sainz heard the loud footsteps stomping down the hallway, he knew with immense lassitude that he would not be combating today.

“Care to explain what the hell this is?”

She was fuming, arm outstretched toward him with an accusatory glare. She stood taller than ever before in their almost-bare bedroom, a giant among piles of moving boxes and polystyrene. They’d barely had the time to touch ground in Maranello before being uprooted again.

“That’s… your phone,” Carlos sighed. Wrong answer, he knew as much, but at least he’d delayed the battle for just a few instants.

“Yeah, right, play dumb all you want,” she scoffed, shoving her phone right under her boyfriend’s nose. “What the fuck were you doing with her? It’s all over Twitter.”

As soon as his eyes had gotten used to the sudden brightness, Carlos recognized the pictures; him, strolling down the streets of Madrid, a lifetime ago. Unmistakable. On his arm, looped around his bicep, was hers. A lifetime ago indeed.

He would’ve frozen even if he hadn’t wanted to. The afternoon came back to him in a kaleidoscope of memories, colors, and smells—the ozone of Madrid’s thousands of exhaust pipes, the faint scent of frying oil from some churrería, and how she’d drop his hand to press her nose against every bakery’s window display. How many years had it been? How many artifacts of that era had he neatly wrapped up and stored away in cardboard boxes, traveling around the world with him because he couldn’t throw them away?

“Love, these pictures are old. See how my hair is totally different? That’s from, like, 2018.”

“Why are they making rounds again then?” she spat, distrustful. “Your fans won’t stop posting them. Tell me the truth.”

She’d always been combative, irascible—she never backed down from what she wanted, even when it simply didn’t exist, and perhaps that was the reason Carlos had been drawn to her when they’d first met. Someone to challenge him, to spar with. Someone who’d stand by his side because they know what it means to fall and rise again.

But for the first time, all Carlos Sainz wanted was peace and familiarity. A soft bed to crawl into, and not one he must cut through thorns for.

“I’m telling you the truth, I have no idea why they’re posting them. They do weird things sometimes.”

That was a lie, but one he could stomach without batting too obvious an eyelid. Carlos knew exactly why fans kept posting old pictures of his very first love to social media, the same reason he had never been able to delete them from his phone, but instead kept them in a passworded folder inside a folder inside a folder. The formidable and harrowing impression of unfinished business. A story you keep adding chapters to, yet stray away from the epilogue of.

She didn’t buy it. She never did anything he said. Was she this wary of him when they’d met, or had fame and scrutiny made her paranoid? He toyed with the inside of his cheek. Was she paranoid? Or could she read him better than he could, and he’d been a horrible person—a horrible boyfriend—to her this whole time?

“And you’re not even fighting for us! Gosh! If you still love her so much, why don’t you just find her?” she cried out, throwing her arms in the air.

She didn’t leave him time to say anything; not that he would have anyway. She turned on her heel and slammed the door, sending flakes of white paint flying into the barren bedroom.

“So what happens when something gets close to you?”

His question cuts through the surreal silence that has curled up between you; in the soft space between your bodies, slouched together on the carpeted steps of the planetarium. Slowly, you lift your head from his belly and look at him, attentive.

“Hm?”

“You said that when an object moves away from the observer, it turns red. That’s redshift. So what happens if it’s coming closer?”

The corner of your lips lifts into one of those half-moon smiles only you know how to wear.

“Blueshift.”

Violet light floods the craters in your eyes, as though an angel had filled them to the brim.

“When an object comes back to the observer, it turns blue.”

JUPITER.

NICE, 2025.

Damn you and your punctuality.

With all the years you’ve been working at the Nice Observatory, you know very well by now the inescapable ballet of convertibles cruising down the coast in the summer months—rich Parisian families on vacation and English retirees enjoying the last days of tolerable Riviera heat—, but you have grown particularly wary of the month of May. When the Cannes festival and Monaco Grand Prix draw closer, the city and its surroundings bubble up with a sort of effervescence that makes everything unbearable. Tourists and kids and journalists swarm about the streets; the sea itself becomes more dazzling, like it’s dressing in its finest garments for the season; and you’re just trying to get to work.

(Of course, that’s the sole reason you hate late May in Nice. Nothing to do with the Monaco Grand Prix itself, nor the faces you see plastered at every damn bus stop and on every damn television every year. Well, face.)

Thus, to avoid traffic, you have taken the habit of leaving home earlier in the morning. An invigorating springtime promenade, with the Mediterranean as your sole neighbor… as far as you can remember, you have always found comfort in the still nooks of early dawn and late dusk, after all.

Had you been just a little less conscientious of your work… held up just a little longer on the beltway… you wouldn’t have made it to your office in time to check your emails before you’re whisked away for day-long observations and meetings. You wouldn’t have opened your inbox, you would’ve only read the message tomorrow, after the fact. Too late. Or late enough to play the Sorry-I-missed-it card.

But you don’t, and you do, and you find the email sitting there. In bold letters, as though mocking you. No subject—of course he wouldn’t know private correspondence in an office is supposed to say, well, PRIVATE—and a sender address that looks too stupidly obvious to be real.

carlo55ainz@gmail.com.

The sun blinks for an instant, and gravity holds its breath, pinning you against your chair. That’s probably the second where you open the email, because you don’t remember moving your fingers.

“Hi. Sorry, I had no idea how to contact you, and no idea where to start either. I might have looked you up on LinkedIn and found your work email. You’ve been doing amazing I see, you have a PhD now! But I never doubted you or how smart and cool you were. I knew you’d get here.

I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and all the things I did wrong. I was young, but that doesn’t cover everything. It doesn’t cover almost anything, actually. If you’re willing to hear me and let me apologize properly, even if I’m really really late (I can’t be the fastest all the time), can we meet up in Monaco tonight? I’d be the most grateful man in the universe.

C”

It’s all in Spanish, and the font isn’t the same size across all the text, and you can tell he doesn’t send emails too often because instead of sending the pictures as an attachment he pasted them directly underneath the paragraph, but they’re of two concert tickets wrinkled with brown stains—your favorite band, and he’d dropped his coffee on them the morning of and you’d sworn to every god that’s ever existed you’d flail him alive if the security guard’s scanner couldn’t read their barcode.

The first thought that comes to your mind, somehow, is “Of course it’s real. What a loser.”

You shouldn’t reply—of course you shouldn’t reply, your boss is calling you over from outside the office to go down the observation room and if your best friend were there she would tell you to delete the message and never speak of it again.

“I don’t go to Monaco anymore. Too much traffic and parking’s a nightmare. Also I feel stupid over there with my Clio IV.”

You only catch his reply late in the evening, when the sun is slowly descending behind the Mercantour and you’ve awkwardly evaded your coworkers’ offers for celebratory drinks downtown. Sure, the tests were a resounding success today, but you just need to run something by your office real quick. Just one thing, and then you’re going straight home, because you’re exhausted, but thank you so much for offering, you’ll join them another time—

If the timestamp is any indication, the reply came two minutes after your first email.

“I’ll come to you then.”

Your heart is pounding like a quasar when you step out the Observatory’s main entrance and into the Southern night, seemingly the only person in the whole world. The only person, except for the silhouette you notice immediately just a few meters ahead, draped in night and leaning against a Vespa. He looks stronger than when you last saw him, a little wider and buffer; a soft breeze ruffles his dark hair, and you spot the faintest hints of white within. Something he probably hasn’t noticed yet, but observing details has always been your life’s work.

Six years after shattering your heart and disappearing into the gaping mouth of a race car, Carlos Sainz stands before you, and he beams the brightest grin this side of the Mediterranean when he spots you. And you, as if no minutes had passed at all, cannot do anything but smile in return.

“Where’s your Ferrari?” you ask, pointing at the little scooter with your chin.

“Didn’t you hear? I had to downsize.”

He sounds more mature, less boyish; maybe all the furious air he ingests has eroded his vocal chords too, or maybe his throat is thick with emotion as he takes you in. Neat shirt, tight bun, ever-so-slightly painted lips. Taking the stage of his life just for him, if only for an evening.

A moment passes where you’re both too dizzy to say anything. The first shooting star of many pierces the sky millions of kilometers over your heads, though neither of you see it. Then, Carlos extends his arm and hands you one of the two helmets he’s carrying.

“Do you still trust me?”

Of course you don’t. He told you a life with you would be incompatible with his other goals—he once dreamed of a life in which you were not, and it matters little whether that thought existed in him for a tenth of a second or a whole year, because he’d said it, burned it into your ears like tinnitus.

But he would make you laugh to tears, and he held you for eight hours straight when you sobbed yourself into exhaustion the day your childhood dog died, and he took pictures of you sleeping in a pile of limbs with Piñón, and your fingers once dug into his ribs as his rental bike drove you down a secret cove, where he made love to you like waves lapping at the shore.

“Yeah.”

You have yet to find a single planet, by some faraway nebula, where you don’t trust him.

The ride down to the harbor is perfectly quiet. Not only do you not exchange words—no use over the small engine’s agonizing screams—but the whole city falls silent, from the groups of twenty-somethings hitting their first bars of the night to the seagulls shrieking and descending upon unsuspecting gelati. Like Nice’s narrow, treacherous streets bow their heads to Carlos and you, shrinking and moving and shifting to open a perfect path. Eventually, he stops the scooter by the docks, in front of a yacht that would probably fall under the small umbrella in his circle; to you, it looks like a mansion.

“That’s new.”

“You’ve been gone a long time,” he shrugs, but you can tell by the glint in his voice that he’s proud of his trick.

He helps you up on the boat, disappears into the cabin—busying himself, as always, only at ease when in control—and the yacht rumbles to life in a harmony of swells, then casts off into the Mediterranean night.

“I’ll admit I didn’t check the weather,” Carlos breaks the silence long minutes later, after you’ve helped him drop the anchor in the middle of nowhere, just a tiny dot kilometers from shore. Your unbreakable bubble, suspended outside of time and reality. As far from any asphalted road as can be. “Sorry. I thought it would be a little nicer.”

“This is very nice,” you reply.

And it is—you don’t need to slip into fake courtesies with Carlos, not even after so many years. In the half-decade since you’d parted ways, you’d imagined this meeting a million times under a million circumstances and a million watchful planets, and every time you feared the awkwardness of silence; the one thing that would betray an irrevocable destruction of what you once had. But there’s nothing close to it here, on the deck of his yacht, each sitting on a banquette and eating olives in the middle of the sea. Only the inexplicable familiarity of those who know every inch of each other’s soul.

You throw your head back and prop your knees underneath you. Sure, the sky is a little cloudy, but every milky spot you expected to find is perfectly visible. You smile at them, like old friends on a school photo.

“This is really beautiful, actually.”

Carlos is only staring at you from the port side.

Yeah, yeah it is.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already, it’s okay,” you chuckle, but he interrupts, voice trembling slightly from the solemnity.

“No, I mean sorry for six years ago.”

You bite your lip. Turn your head to face him, slowly, but his nose is pointed at the sky, his arm lazily grazing the waves from over the gunwale.

“Is that it?”

“Well, I could say sorry for being such an asshole. Sorry for being a coward and not knowing how to deal with your expectations and the expectations of the world, and choosing to cut one off. Sorry for hurting you and not even allowing you the time to grieve. I tried to numb it with the racing, and the parties, and that kind of stuff, but honestly I don’t think there’s been a day where I don’t regret that decision. But I don’t know, I don’t want you to think I’m making up excuses for myself or… or rubbing salt in the wound, so I’ll just leave it at Sorry. It’s not even a tenth of what you deserve, but… I wanted to start there.”

Your next words, after long, languid moments of silence, are carried over to shore by the salty breeze, so soft he barely catches them.

“I forgive you.”

When you look up and your eyes finally meet, they are shiny with tears. Like the diamonds that rain in the heart of Jupiter’s storm.

“I forgave you the second you walked out.”

“Why?”

“Because I loved you.” It’s self-evident, and you almost giggle at the admission, disbelieving of how disbelieving Carlos can be. How does he not get it? The core principle upon which all of the world’s mechanisms were built? The barest, rawest axiom to ever befuddle science? “I think some part of me will love you till the day I die. I know you’re a logical person, Carlos, but surely you can understand that…”

He nods. Mutters to himself more than to you, to the moonbeams that caress the tide. “Yeah, yeah I can understand that.” You stuff your mouth with olives to swallow back a sob.

Your lashes are still wet—from tears or the boat’s lull gently splashing your face, you’re not sure—when you breathe deeply and attempt to defuse:

“How was the race?”

“Awful.”

His response is so instantaneous you can’t help giggling.

“I heard you and Alex both scored points though!”

“Yeah, but it was ugly raci… hold on, have you been keeping up with me?”

“No,” you blurt out hastily. Actually, yes, you have, indirectly; through a colleague of yours, fifty-something and red-faced, who’s been a diehard Williams fan since childhood and excitedly talks your ear off every week about the team’s historic revival. Needless to say, you don’t peg him the type to know much about the drivers’ personal lives from ten years ago, and see no elegant way nor immediate utility in telling him you are Carlos Sainz Jr.’s ex-girlfriend.

“Are you a Williams fan, Y/N? Or maybe more of a Tifosa?”

“Shut up,” you groan, but he wiggles his eyebrows at you, so you throw him your olive pins. One, and two; he jumps to his feet with an indignant “hey!”; the third one hits him square in the forehead, and you burst into incredulous laughter as he jogs up to you.

“Stop it! You’re on my boat, I could—” in just a few steps he’s towering over you, lying on your back on the cushioned seat and spraying him with pins and peanuts between giggles. He grabs your machine-gun wrist, devoid of ammo, and you yelp when his charcoal eyes bore into yours. “—throw you overboard whenever I want.”

“Try it.”

The words come out on their own, taking you both by surprise. Carlos’ breath catches in his throat, and his eyes travel from your parted lips, breathing in ragged little pants, to the lines of neck your crumpled up shirt reveals, then to your whole frame, pinned against the seat, with his knee between your legs—he doesn’t even remember setting it there, the same way he never remembers downshifting six gears at turn 1 in Bahrain. The shadow he casts on your face conceals the acute flush to your cheeks when you notice the proximity of your faces.

“What is this for, Carlos? Why did you invite me here? Just to apologize?” you murmur.

“No,” he breathes out.

He needs no further explaining. You read it all, in the earthly browns of his torrid eyes, consuming you entirely like a hearth. All the desperate wondering if this dull ache ever goes away, or if it is only alleviated when its source is near—if a planet’s core can ever be replaced by another gemstone, of another chemical composition, a placeholder, anything to make the solar system spin again.

Of course it can’t. You get the feeling he’s known this for a while. That he knew this before you even taught him anything about the Moon who answers no prayers, or Jupiter who sets explorers on their right course. 

You could kiss him right now—but you don’t. Neither does he. Instead, he releases your wrists, not without the faintest of caresses to your cheek. If you knew him any less, you’d think it accidental. But the outline of his orbit is no mystery to you. 

Carlos sails the yacht safely back to shore a few hours later. What happens between you on the high seas during those hours will remain a secret that only early-rising constellations know.

Slowly, in deliberate movements, as if to dilate time and space further than physics will allow, he clasps the helmet on your head, and drives you back up to the Observatory, where he picked you up a lifetime ago. His driving is prudent, uncharacteristically so, as if he could fracture reality by hitting the brakes too hard, yet the pang of despair that creeps up your stomach all the way up the hill is so strong you fear you might puke.

Up there on the hill, at the foot of the slumbering dome, another shooting star slices the atmosphere, but Carlos is unclasping your helmet and you are staring into his eyes, so neither of you miss it, per se—you just see it elsewhere. For the first time the silence threatens to suffocate you, so you suffocate it first; you throw yourself in Carlos’ arms, and cradle his furious heart for an eternity. He parts first, but his hands remain on your shoulders. Then, with a reverence you’ve only seen in a scientist when they handle a meteor, he kisses your forehead.

“See you soon?”

“I hope.”

You part ways. The sidewalk is blurry, though it hasn’t rained yet. A Vespa’s engine roars to life, waking up the barking of every dog on the street.

When you reach for your car keys, your fingers graze an unfamiliar piece of paper in your blazer’s pocket.

By holding it against the light, you discern a phone number, an address. And just as you unwrap it, you hear the unmistakable click of the universe falling back into its axis.

“Pick you up same time, same place tomorrow?

Hope I’m not a little too late or a little too early.

- Voyager”

© musicallisto, 2025

[hoodpankow]

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with. 

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password. 

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously. 

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?” 

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into. 

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you. 

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open. 

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless. 

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.” 

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried. 

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights. 

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite. 

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?” 

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.” 

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.” 

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss. 

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely. 

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again. 

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter. 

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest. 

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away. 

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture. 

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated. 

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze. 

Max stares at you, jaw clenched.  “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich. 

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white. 

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.” 

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.” 

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation. 

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out. 

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.” 

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear. 

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?” 

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips. 

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.” 

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter. 

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest. 

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body. 

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it. 

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features. 

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm. 

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?” 

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.” 

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?” 

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup. 

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away. 

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words. 

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you. 

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink. 

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room. 

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away. 

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting. 

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye. 

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.” 

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound. 

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips. 

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people. 

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall. 

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?” 

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.” 

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard. 

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow. 

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house. 

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw. 

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.” 

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm. 

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of. 

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips. 

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. 

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body. 

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks. 

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you. 

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones. 

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin. 

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you. 

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier. 

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing. 

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil. 

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay. 

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders. 

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.” 

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.” 

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?” 

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.” 

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.” 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason. 

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion. 

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.” 

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night. 

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?” 

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway.

 

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be. 

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake. 

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

Max sighs. “What about it?” 

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.” 

“Why is this relevant?” 

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.” 

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry. 

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well. 

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.” 

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again. 

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.” 

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them. 

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party. 

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.” 

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore. 

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it. 

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.” 

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?” 

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.” 

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.” 

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would. 

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you. 

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that. 

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.” 

That’s when it comes. 

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing. 

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier. 

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you. 

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.” 

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants. 

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it. 

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling. 

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead. 

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined. 

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him. 

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room. 

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark. 

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone. 

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills. 

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation. 

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest. 

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?” 

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.” 

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what? 

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air. 

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.  

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever. 

And that scared him. 

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you. 

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing. 

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you. 

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well. 

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while. 

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking. 

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any. 

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep. 

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot. 

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.” 

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl. 

“What are you doing?” 

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?” 

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.” 

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking. 

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands. 

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy. 

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug. 

“He said he’s ending things with you.” 

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.” 

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt. 

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.” 

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“ 

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter. 

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.” 

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.” 

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread. 

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout. 

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door. 

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face. 

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room. 

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in. 

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.” 

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks. 

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely. 

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.” 

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room. 

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.” 

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.” 

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself,  a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face. 

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked. 

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.” 

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.” 

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in. 

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight. 

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.” 

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again. 

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.” 

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.” 

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything  other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.” 

“A break?” 

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” 

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is. 

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn’t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot. 

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute. 

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways. 

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away. 

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word. 

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant. 

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass. 

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max. 

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten. 

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up. 

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble. 

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” 

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?” 

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip. 

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades. 

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises. 

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple. 

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago. 

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight. 

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor. 

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder. 

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again. 

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded. 

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed. 

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.” 

“To you, always.”

[hoodpankow]

NOSTALGIA.

“Funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up 'til I lost ya.” — You and Lando were childhood best friends until fate tore you apart in the most painful way. From that moment, you thought you’d never see him again—until you did. And suddenly, the past wasn’t forgotten, and the hurt still lingered.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. angst, 12,8k words, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to ??, huge timeskips, young asshole! lando, bitter reader (valid), drinking alcohol, I think that’s it ? PART TWO — I KNOW LOVE.

music. Nostalgia by Tate Mcrae.

IT STARTED AS SOMETHING INEVITABLE. You were always around each other, thrown into the same spaces, the same gatherings, the same long afternoons where the adults talked endlessly, leaving you both to entertain yourselves. At first, you hated it—hated the forced proximity, hated that your parents assumed you would automatically get along just because you were close in age. But there was no escaping him, no avoiding the way he always had something to say, always had some ridiculous idea brewing, always found a way to pull you into whatever chaos he was creating.

Lando Norris was too much—too reckless, too restless, too eager to push boundaries just for the thrill of it. He climbed trees that were too tall, ran faster than he could control, and seemed to have an unwavering confidence that made it impossible for him to ever admit when something was a bad idea.

And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way you told yourself over and over that he was annoying, that he was frustrating, that he was the kind of kid who made parents nervous—you started to follow him anyway.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that, even when he was pushing limits and doing things that should have gotten both of you in trouble, it was fun.

And before you even realized it, he had worked his way in.

You started hanging out even without your parents forcing you together, finding yourselves in each other’s orbit even when it wasn’t required. It was effortless, natural—the kind of friendship that just happened, without needing an explanation. You went to the same school, shared the same classes, sat together at lunch like it was expected, and walked home side by side, barely even questioning how normal it felt. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was just the way things were.

Before long, there was no separating the two of you. He had become your constant, the person who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else, the one who could read you without you saying a word. He could make you laugh with a single look, could drag you into some wild idea just by saying trust me, could fill the silence with whatever nonsense was swirling in his mind that day.

You never really decided to let him in. But somehow, he became the biggest part of your life anyway.

Life had been effortless for so long—filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you always had each other. Every childhood sleepover, every ridiculous inside joke, every moment spent side by side had only strengthened the bond that had always felt unbreakable.

But then, racing became real.

Lando had always loved it—always talked about it, always dreamed about it—but when he got to F4, it wasn’t just something he loved anymore. It was something he had to commit to, something that took him away more often than not, something that started shifting the rhythm of your friendship into something unfamiliar.

At first, it was subtle—the missed hangouts, the postponed plans, the texts that came hours later than they used to. You understood, of course. This was his dream, and there was no way you’d ever resent him for chasing it. But then, the distance grew—not just physically, but in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was always traveling, always at a racetrack, always so caught up in training, in competition, in the next step that sometimes it felt like you were watching him from the outside, trying to reach through a window that kept getting harder to open.

And maybe that would have been fine—maybe the changes wouldn’t have felt so sharp—if it hadn’t started hurting.

If he hadn’t forgotten things he never used to forget.

─── October 2015

The anticipation had been building all week. A sleepover with Lando—something you hadn’t done in ages, something that felt like returning to the simplicity of childhood, to the nights spent laughing until your stomach hurt, to the effortless comfort of being around someone who had always been there. You had packed light, just the essentials, knowing you wouldn’t need much—just time, just space to breathe, just the familiarity of him.

When you reached his house, the front door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cisca’s familiar, warm presence. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, her voice carrying the ease of years spent knowing you, spent welcoming you into their home like you were just another extension of the family.

You smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Hey, Cisca,” you said, tone easy, comfortable, because it had always been like this—casual, effortless, familiar. “Is Lando home?”

And that’s when you saw it—the shift.

The way her smile faltered just slightly, the hesitation in the way she tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure how to say it without letting you down.

“No, he’s at training,” she said gently, shaking her head like she wished the answer had been different. “Had you something planned?”

Your stomach dipped, something heavy settling inside you before you even had the chance to process it fully. Wow. You hadn’t expected that. Or had you? Maybe part of you had known—had prepared for the possibility that things weren’t as simple as they used to be. Maybe you had just hoped this time would be different.

“Oh.” You exhaled, the weight of disappointment creeping into your voice, despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “We planned a sleepover.”

Cisca’s expression didn’t change—still warm, still understanding—but there was something in the way she sighed, in the way she noticed your disappointment, that made it clear she wished she had a better answer for you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice gentle, the kind that made it clear she knew. She knew how much you had been looking forward to this, how much it had meant to finally have time with Lando like before. “I thought he had told you.”

You swallowed, forcing a small smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly feeling silly. Of course, he hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t care, but because racing had consumed everything now, because his days revolved around training and competition and an entirely new world that didn’t leave much space for things like sleepovers, for things like you.

“No,” you admitted, the weight of reality settling in deeper than you wanted to acknowledge. “He didn’t.”

Cisca sighed, shaking her head like she wished she could fix this, like she could see exactly what you were thinking. “He’s been caught up in everything lately,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not personal.”

You nodded, even though it felt personal.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t the first missed plan, the first forgotten promise, the first moment where you realized that your place in his life wasn’t the same anymore.

Still—you weren’t mad. You weren’t even surprised. Just tired.

Cisca hesitated, watching you carefully. “Want to wait for him?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that waiting would change something, that staying would make this sting any less, that he would walk through that door, grin at you like nothing had happened, and make everything feel normal again. But realistically? You weren’t sure how late training would go. And honestly—you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep waiting.

So instead, you forced a smile, shaking your head. “No,” you said, pushing the glass she had offered away gently. “Just tell him I stopped by.”

The world felt different that evening—heavier, quieter, like the weight of everything had finally settled in your chest, making it impossible to ignore. You walked home with your bag slung over your shoulder, footsteps slow, aimless, as if dragging out the journey would somehow soften the disappointment curling deep inside you.

But it didn’t.

Your throat burned, your chest ached, and despite every effort to swallow it down, the tears still came. Silent, unbidden, slipping down your cheeks in a way that felt frustratingly inevitable.

You weren’t angry—not really.

Just hurt. A lot.

─── February 2016

The classroom buzzed faintly with background conversations—the low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the occasional shuffle of chairs, murmured exchanges between classmates—but none of it really registered. It all blurred together, distant and unimportant, as if the world had dimmed along with the gray sky outside. The day felt cold, the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that seeped into your bones, that made everything feel slower, heavier, emptier.

You lay on your desk, arms folded, cheek resting against the cool surface, phone loosely gripped in your fingers. There was no real purpose to your scrolling—just mindless motion, just a way to fill the silence, just something to look at to keep your thoughts from wandering. And yet, they wandered anyway, slipping into the past, into the memories frozen on your screen.

A collection of photos—moments that felt so effortless once, so simple. Lando grinning at the camera, mid-laugh, hair a mess from whatever ridiculous stunt he had just pulled. A blurry photo of the two of you, both smiling wide, caught mid-motion as if time itself had been too slow to capture you properly. A screenshot of a stupid conversation, filled with inside jokes that nobody else would understand.

He was supposed to be sitting next to you right now.

That thought clung to you, dug deep, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight you couldn't shake off. He should be here—nudging your arm, making some dumb joke just to get you to crack a smile, distracting you from the mind-numbing monotony of the lesson in front of you.

But instead, the seat beside you was empty.

You stared at it—switched your gaze between the photos and the space where he should have been.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitation pressing heavy against your chest. You knew you shouldn’t—knew that part of you expected silence, knew that this wasn’t the first time you were reaching out to him when it felt like things had already changed.

But still, you couldn’t help yourself.

The weight of the empty seat beside you, the ache of old photos, the way this felt different—it all pushed you forward.

So you typed.

yn sittin in mrs. evans class rn still sooo boring wish you were here i miss u

You regretted it the second you hit send.

The message felt desperate, like grasping at something that had already slipped too far away, like searching for reassurance where you knew there wasn’t any. And yet—you had sent it anyway, had let that flicker of hope push you forward, had let yourself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time would be different.

But the response came too fast—too short, too simple, too distant.

lando yeah sorry

Silence would’ve been better, wouldn’t it? A clean break, a moment where you knew—without doubt—that things had ended, that you weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t lingering in the space between what you had and what you were slowly losing.

But this? This wasn’t closure.

This was uncertainty— not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, stuck somewhere in between where his absence loomed just enough to hurt, but never enough to make the pain feel worth confronting.

Because this wasn’t him saying goodbye.

This was him drifting, slipping further out of reach, making you question whether you should keep holding on or finally let go.

─── May 2017

The moment should have been perfect.

You had waited for this day for so long— had imagined it over and over, had pictured the ceremony, the walk across the stage, the applause that followed. You should have been smiling, should have been focused on the achievement, should have felt nothing but pride. But despite the celebration surrounding you, despite the cheers and the flashing cameras, your mind couldn’t quite settle, couldn’t quite accept the joy without feeling the emptiness lurking beneath it.

Because your eyes kept drifting—kept searching the crowd, scanning through the rows of chairs, looking for him.

And there it was.

The empty seat.

The one that should have held him, the one that was supposed to be yours together, the space where he had promised he’d be. It stood out among the rows of occupied chairs, a glaring absence in a sea of support, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to ignore it, this day wasn’t the same without him.

But he wasn’t there.

Because school had ended for him long before this day. Because racing had taken priority. Because everything had changed in ways that were impossible to ignore. You had known it, had felt it creeping in for years, had understood why things shifted. But today? Today, more than ever, it was undeniable.

You had asked him if he was coming, had heard the easy promise in his voice, the certainty in the way he had said it—like there was no question, no hesitation, no possibility of him letting you down. And for a fleeting moment, you had believed him. Had let yourself picture the way it was supposed to be—the two of you side by side, laughing at something stupid in the middle of the ceremony, making memories the way you always had.

But still—he didn’t come.

The diploma was clutched tightly in your hands, its edges slightly crumpled from how firmly you had been gripping it. The moment was supposed to be celebratory—loud cheers, flashing cameras, the rush of accomplishment filling your chest. But none of it felt right. None of it matched the image you had held in your mind for years—the picture of this day being yours and his, the two of you together laughing at something dumb during the ceremony, teasing each other over your gowns, making this milestone something shared.

But instead, an empty seat had stared back at you.

So you moved quickly, weaving through the crowds, heart hammering, breath uneven with frustration that had nowhere to go. You weren’t even thinking about where you were headed—you just wanted out, away from the suffocating weight of what should have been. Away from the reality of yet another promise broken. Away from the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Until—you crashed into someone.

The force of it made you stumble, steps faltering as you sucked in a sharp breath, ready to mutter an apology and keep moving. But then, your gaze snapped up—

And you froze.

Lando.

Lando?

Standing right in front of you.

Like he was supposed to. Like he should have been.

But it was too late.

Your anger surged before you could stop it, bubbling up, hot and unforgiving, spilling out before you had a chance to think.

“You’re late,” you said, the words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably under your glare. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, sincerity laced in his voice. “There was traffic.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, gripping the diploma even tighter, frustration burning through you with a sharp, undeniable sting. That was his excuse? Out of everything, that’s what he went with?

“Gosh, stop making these stupid excuses!” you snapped, the words coming faster than you could stop them, sharper than you meant them to be—except, no. You did mean them. You meant every syllable.

“You don’t understand, Y/n!” Lando’s voice came sharp, slicing through the air between you. His frustration crackled like static, his jaw tightening, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to make you see the chaos he carried. “I have so much going on! I’m busy—constantly! It’s not just racing, it’s training, it’s meetings, it’s travel—it’s everything! If you haven’t figured that out by now, then I don’t know what else to say!”

His words crashed into you, each syllable pushing against the weight already pressing on your chest.

You blinked, your breath uneven, anger curling inside you like a flame that had been waiting too long to ignite. Waiting. That’s all you ever did with him, wasn’t it? Waiting for a moment, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to show up like he said he would. Waiting for him to put you first.

“Yeah?” you shot back, voice loud, unrelenting, carrying months—years—of frustration. “Always racing, racing, racing! That’s your whole damn life, isn’t it? Nothing else matters—no one else matters! Not me, not this, not today!”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe where this conversation had gone, like you were the one making this difficult. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy curls, gaze flickering with something unreadable—frustration, guilt, exhaustion—all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to decipher.

Then, his next words shattered everything.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice lower, tighter, more bitter. “That’s why maybe your graduation wasn’t really that important to me.”

The breath slammed out of your lungs.

Like he had taken all the air, all the warmth, all the pieces of hope you had left and crushed them in the palm of his hand.

You stared at him—at this version of him, at the boy who once made promises he kept, at the person who had once made you feel like a priority. But suddenly, he didn’t look like that boy anymore. He looked distant. Unrecognizable. Like someone you had spent years loving and now couldn’t even reach.

Your grip on the diploma tightened, knuckles turning white, heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out the distant sounds of celebration around you.

God. He had really said it.

You swallowed hard, throat burning, refusing to let the weight of everything sink you down into the ache curling in your chest. But your voice still wavered when you finally spoke, softer, lower, but sharp.

“You know what?” you murmured, the words slipping through your lips like the last breath of something you hadn’t realized was dying. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”

Lando inhaled sharply—so small, so brief, but you saw it. You felt it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Maybe, for a split second, he realized exactly what he had done.

He had said your graduation wasn’t important—that the moment you had been waiting years for, the milestone that was supposed to be yours, wasn’t worth his time. And the second those words left his mouth, something inside you broke—not suddenly, not all at once, but slowly, like a fracture that had been forming for months, maybe even years.

So neither were his races to you, right? It wasn’t like you ever missed a single one. Every podium, every interview, every late-night live timing session, every pulse-pounding moment when he fought for position—you had been there for it. You had cared. You had celebrated his highs and sympathized with his lows because he mattered to you. You had tracked every result, known every stat, memorized the patterns of his driving like they were second nature to you. And maybe, foolishly, you had assumed that meant something. That even in the chaos of his world, even when the schedules got tighter and the obligations got heavier, you still mattered.

And yet, here he was, saying the worst thing he could have said. The worst part wasn’t just the words themselves. The worst part was that you didn’t even know if he actually cared. You waited—just long enough to see if there would be hesitation, regret, anything that hinted that he wanted to take it back. But there was nothing.

“Look, Y/n,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, shaking his head like you were the one making this difficult. “We’re not fourteen anymore.” Like that was supposed to excuse everything. Like growing up meant growing apart had to be inevitable.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down, refusing to let the frustration and heartbreak choke you. You thought of the years you had spent together—of the stupid inside jokes, the late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise, the times when you truly believed that no matter what, the two of you would always be there for each other. That time and distance wouldn’t change that. That his world of racing and your world of growing up side by side could exist together. But maybe you had been wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice lower, rougher, edged with something final. “Maybe not.” Your gaze flickered over him, this version of him, the boy you used to know so well but now felt like a stranger. He looked the same—same messy curls, same sharp, quick movements, same intensity burning behind his eyes. But something fundamental had shifted, something irreversible, something you couldn’t unsee now.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry—not here, not in front of him, not when he had already taken too much from you. But the tears burned anyway, hot against your skin, slipping past the walls you had tried so desperately to keep up.

“Fuck you, Lando!” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t matter—you meant every word. Every syllable was weighted with months of frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. “I don’t wanna ever see you again!”

───

You never saw him again after that day. The moment graduation ended, you packed your things, left the town you had spent years growing up in, and disappeared without a trace—no messages, no explanations, no attempts to soften the goodbye that had already been said. Because why would you? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to know where you were or how you felt or whether you ever thought of him again.

The only ones who did were Adam and Cisca—the two people who had been there, who had sat in the crowd, who had cheered you on when their son hadn’t. They were the only ones who deserved a proper goodbye, the only ones who had earned a place in whatever future you were heading toward.

And so, you left. The world beyond that town opened itself up to you, unfamiliar yet freeing, a fresh start wrapped in the quiet promise of never looking back. You settled into new routines, built a life that didn’t have his shadow lingering in it.

Some days, it was easy to forget—days when the weight of the past didn’t press quite so heavily on your chest, when laughter didn’t carry the bitter taste of memories, when moving forward actually felt like moving forward. And then, there were days when the past curled around you like a ghost, whispering its presence into quiet moments, slipping into your thoughts when you least expected it.

And then—two years later—you heard it. His name flashing across a news headline, appearing in an interview clip, mentioned briefly in a conversation you weren’t even part of. He had made it. Formula One. The dream he had been chasing since the moment he decided racing was the only thing that mattered.

For a split second—just one—you let yourself wonder what he was doing, where he was, how he felt now that he had everything he ever wanted. You wondered if, in the quiet moments between races, between podium celebrations and press conferences, he ever thought about you. If he ever regretted how things had ended. If he ever wished he had said something different, done something more, shown up when it mattered.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how many times nostalgia grabbed hold of you, no matter how many times you found yourself wondering, the reality remained the same—you didn’t care.

You never checked his results. Never searched his name. Never let yourself linger in the world he now belonged to. Because that wasn’t your world. Not anymore.

Every time his face appeared on TV, every time his name was spoken like it was something larger than life, you switched the channel without hesitation. It was second nature now—like shutting a door you had long since walked through.

─── EIGHT YEARS LATER , march 2025

Monaco had been everything you had imagined—the yachts lining the marina like shimmering jewels, the streets humming with the sounds of expensive cars weaving through the winding roads, the very air thick with a sense of wealth and exclusivity. Fashion was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life, stitched into the essence of the people who walked past in designer coats and tailored suits. It felt like stepping into another world, one built from dreams and ambition, one you had spent years chasing, and now, finally, it was yours.

The apartment was still a mess. Boxes stacked on top of each other, half-unpacked belongings scattered across the floor, clothes draped over furniture in a way that made it clear you were still in the middle of making this space a home. You and your friend sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unpacked memories, flipping through items that held pieces of your past. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the lingering scent of cardboard, and the distant hum of city life buzzed from beyond the windows. This was the start of something new—something separate from everything before. And yet, in the middle of the chaos, the past still found a way to crawl back in.

Your friend reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a framed photo. She studied it for a second, curiosity flickering in her expression before she turned it towards you. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it up for you to see.

The moment your eyes landed on the photo, you felt it—nostalgia slamming into you like a wave, pulling you under so suddenly that you almost forgot how to breathe.

There he was.

Lando, grinning by the sea, sunlight catching in his messy curls, his arm slung around you like it belonged there, like it always had. You were laughing, caught in a moment of ease, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue behind you. The photo was from that family vacation—the trip the Norris’ had taken you on, the one where the days stretched lazily along the coast, filled with late-night talks, stupid jokes, and a kind of simplicity you hadn’t realized you would one day lose.

You blinked, forcing the lump in your throat down. You could tell her everything—about the friendship that had once felt unbreakable, the way he had always been there, the way you had been there for him, the way time had twisted everything into something that no longer resembled what you once knew. You could tell her about the laughter, the inside jokes, the trust that had felt like it could withstand anything. You could tell her about how it ended, about the fights, the disappointment, the realization that sometimes growing up meant growing apart in ways you could never prepare for.

But instead, the words stuck.

Your fingers hovered over the frame for just a second longer before you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, swallowing back everything you wanted to say.

“It’s just,” you started, voice quieter, the weight of the past pressing heavily against your ribs. Then, after a beat, you exhaled again, steadier this time, forcing yourself to move on. “Someone I used to know.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing that your answer wasn’t the full truth, that there was more beneath the surface. “Really?” she said, flipping the frame in her hands, studying it closer. “You look so happy.”

Why did she keep asking?

You exhaled sharply, shrugging your shoulders in a way that you hoped looked effortless, casual, unaffected. “Really,” you said, forcing out the words, ignoring the way your chest ached. “Just an old friend.”

You knew it was anything but casual. You knew this wasn’t just some old friend. But that didn’t matter anymore.

Without another word, you reached forward, took the frame from her hands, and set it aside, facedown. You didn’t need to look at it. You didn’t need to remember.

And just like that—you moved on.

Or at least, you pretended to.

That night, boredom settled into your chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind that made your thoughts wander places they shouldn’t. There was nothing to distract yourself with—no texts lighting up your phone, no unread messages waiting for a response, no new shows to binge, nothing that could pull you out of the restless grip of your own mind. You paced for a bit, moving from the kitchen to the living room, opening and closing cabinets with no real purpose, sipping on a drink you barely tasted, mind still circling the same thoughts. And then, before you even realized it, your steps carried you toward the box.

It was still sitting there, untouched, exactly where your friend had left it—the lid slightly askew, revealing just a glimpse of its contents, like it was waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to finally sift through the pieces you hadn’t had the courage to throw away. You sank down onto the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of memories in front of you. Damn. You had a whole box dedicated to him.

Photos—some bent at the corners, some still pristine, all holding pieces of a past you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You pulled one out, fingertips tracing the familiar image. You had been laughing, caught mid-motion, a blur of sun and saltwater, with Lando standing beside you, his own laughter bright, effortless, easy. It was so easy back then, before everything had changed, before life had twisted in ways that pulled you apart instead of holding you together.

The plushie he had given you sat at the bottom of the box, the soft fabric still familiar beneath your touch. You remembered the night he had handed it to you—some inside joke about always having something to hold onto, something that wouldn’t leave, even when everything else did. The memory made you scoff now. Ironic. But still, you hadn’t left it behind. Hadn’t left any of this behind.

His racing cap, worn and creased from years of use, was tucked neatly beneath the rest, the sight of it forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. There had been a time when you had worn it all the time—flipping it backward, teasing him about his obsession with racing, pretending you belonged in the world he had immersed himself in. Back when you had cared about every race, every result, back when you had celebrated his wins like they were your own.

And the worst part?

You had taken them all with you.

Why?

If you hated him so much for what he did, if you had truly moved on, why had you packed these things alongside the rest of your life? Why had you carried them with you all the way here?

You sighed, shaking your head, bitterness curling in your chest as you flipped through the photos, fingers ghosting over smiles that didn’t belong to the person you knew anymore.

But shit—you used to be so close.

You pulled out another framed photo. The frame felt heavier in your hands than it should have, like the weight of the memories pressed into the glass, refusing to let go. You traced the edges absentmindedly, fingers skimming over the smooth surface as your mind drifted backward, pulled into a past that still sat quietly in the depths of your chest.

Karting. Your birthday. His laughter ringing out across the track, bright, effortless, teasing. You could still hear it if you closed your eyes, could still picture the way he had grinned at you from his kart, shaking his head as you struggled to control yours, the tires skidding slightly as you oversteered. You had been so bad at it— horrible, actually. But he had made it fun. He had made it feel like it didn’t matter, like failing wasn’t embarrassing, like it was just another thing to laugh about. The way he had looked at you that day—full of amusement, full of something warm—had made you believe it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about being there, about sharing something that was his, about letting him pull you into his world for a little while.

You exhaled slowly, the memory twisting something deep in your chest, something tangled between nostalgia and regret. It had felt so easy back then, so simple, so natural to believe that forever meant forever, that nothing would change, that no amount of time or distance could erase what you had.

But time had proved you wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the frame, the edges pressing sharply into your skin as you flipped it over, eyes scanning the back without thinking, without expecting anything more than a blank surface.

But there it was.

"Love you 4ever. Lando."

The words slammed into you harder than they should have.

Your breath hitched, a sharp inhale getting caught in your throat, emotions rushing up too fast for you to control, too fast for you to push away. Salty, bittersweet tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill, threatening to break past the walls you had spent years reinforcing.

Because back then, you had believed it.

Back then, you had thought forever meant forever, not just until life got too busy, not just until priorities shifted, not just until everything crumbled beneath the weight of not caring enough.

─── march 2025

The remote sat loosely in your grip, your movements slow and idle as you flipped through channels, letting the dull hum of background noise fill the space around you. The apartment finally felt like yours—no more boxes cluttering the corners, no more unpacking to distract you, no more mess making it feel like just another transition instead of a permanent home. Everything had its place now.

The couch was soft beneath you, the room dimly lit, the quiet settling in comfortably around you. For the first time since moving, you let yourself relax. You skipped through channels mindlessly, barely paying attention to the flickering images, letting them blur together without much thought. Nothing caught your interest—nothing held your focus—until something familiar slipped onto the screen.

The Australian Grand Prix. It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to land on it. But before you could even think about switching away, your gaze lingered. The podium ceremony was already underway, the celebration unfolding in bright lights and flashing cameras, the winner standing tall at the top, drenched in champagne, soaking in the moment of victory. You weren’t really paying attention at first. Not to the commentary, not to the energy radiating from the crowd, not to the excitement buzzing through the broadcast. Until you saw the name.

Lando Norris.

Your breath stilled. And then, slowly, your gaze sharpened, your focus narrowing in on the figure standing at the top of the podium.

It was him. But not the version of him you had last seen. Not the boy you had walked away from, not the friend you had left behind. No—this was someone else entirely. He had grown so much. His features were sharper, more defined, the youthful softness replaced by something stronger, more grown, more changed.

The messy curls had stretched longer, spilling into a mullet that framed his face differently, giving him an edge that hadn’t existed back then. His shoulders had squared, his stance more solid, more certain, the weight of experience shaping the way he held himself. He looked different—older, more weathered by time, by racing, by life itself. But his eyes. The green hadn’t changed. It was the only familiar thing left.

No matter how much you wanted to turn it off, to look away, to pretend like it didn’t matter, you couldn’t. You sat there, frozen, the remote resting in your hand, thumb hovering over the button, the familiar instinct urging you to switch the channel like you always had before. But something stopped you. Something kept your eyes locked on the screen, on the figure standing tall at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, grinning like he had just conquered the world.

The cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the energy of the moment rippled through every pixel on the screen, making it impossible to ignore. This was his moment—his victory, the thing he had fought for, worked for, sacrificed your friendship for. And now, after years of avoiding everything that had to do with him, years of refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond old memories, you were watching.

─── april 2025

Monaco was made for nights like this—bright lights reflecting off the glistening streets, the hum of expensive cars weaving through the roads, the buzz of laughter spilling out from exclusive lounges. It was the kind of city that begged you to live in the moment, to let the night swallow you whole, to forget about anything that existed beyond the golden glow of luxury. And that was exactly what you and your friend had decided to do. Like any young woman in Monaco, dressing up and heading to the most electrifying party in town felt like the only reasonable choice. Who wouldn’t want that?

The club pulsed with energy, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat, music loud enough to drown out every thought, every worry, every lingering ghost of the past. You were lost in it, fully surrendering yourself to the moment, swinging your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly between sips of your drink. Drunk, carefree, weightless—that was what tonight was supposed to be. Nothing but excitement, nothing but escape. Until your friend tapped your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in closer, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Isn’t this that guy from the photos?”

The words barely registered at first, your mind too fogged by alcohol and the blur of flashing lights to process what she was saying. Confused, you furrowed your brows, turning slightly to follow her gaze, not expecting anything, not preparing for what came next. And then your eyes landed on the DJ stage.

You almost fainted.

Everything around you seemed to slow, the world tilting slightly under the weight of your shock. For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you, that the alcohol had distorted reality, that there was no way—absolutely no way—this was happening. But as you stared, as you focused, as you took in every detail, you knew. You knew exactly who it was.

Lando?

Lando.

You knew him very well, all too well.

The realization hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs, sending a wave of emotions crashing into you too fast to control. He looked different—sharper, older, changed—but there was no mistaking him. The same green eyes, the same familiar presence, standing right there when he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding loudly in your ears, shaking your head quickly in an attempt to shove the moment away, to deny the reality of it.

“Definitely not,” you said, dismissing the thought, waving her off as if the words would make it true.

But God, it was him.

And no matter how badly you wanted to convince her otherwise, the person you really needed to convince was yourself.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, her hand outstretched expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already regretting handing over your phone. Your friend was relentless—too relentless.

She wasn’t about to let this go, not when she knew damn well that the truth sat right there, in your gallery, in your past. You should have known better. Should have made up a more convincing lie. Should have walked away, pretended like you hadn’t heard her, redirected her focus to something else, anything else. But instead, you hesitated just for a second. And that was enough for her to pounce.

You sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. Begrudgingly, you handed it over, bracing yourself for the inevitable. She wasted no time—her fingers flew across the screen, tapping, scrolling, searching. And then, just as you had dreaded, she found it. The photo. The one you should have deleted years ago but hadn’t. The one that still sat there, preserved in pixels, a reminder of something you had tried so hard to forget.

Your breath hitched as she held it up, comparing the image on the screen to the man on stage, flicking her gaze back and forth between them like she was studying two versions of the same reality, like she was dissecting proof of something that had long been undeniable. Like it wasn’t just some stupid coincidence. Like it meant something. Like it mattered.

“That’s definitely him,” she said, voice firm, confident, staring at you with an expression that made it clear there was no point in arguing.

And you just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to deny it, unable to pretend like seeing him—like knowing he was here, so close, so real—hadn’t completely thrown you off. Because it had. And no matter how much you wanted to push it away, to pretend it didn’t affect you, the truth sat heavy in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

“Let’s go say hi,” she offered, her voice bubbling with excitement, like this was some ordinary encounter, like it wasn’t the exact moment you had spent years avoiding. Absolutely not. The second the words left her mouth, you shook your head, firm and unwavering. No way. No chance. You were not doing that. “Old friends reunion,” she added, grinning, nudging you like this was just some fun little moment that needed to happen. But you weren’t falling for it. Not even a little. Blah blah blah—whatever she wanted to call it. You were not going up there, not seeing him, not acknowledging whatever twisted fate had thrown him into the same room as you after all these years.

She sighed dramatically, clearly exasperated with your refusal, the kind of sigh that told you she wasn’t going to drop this easily. “C’mon, Y/n,” she whined, her fingers tightening around your wrist, tugging on you like she could physically drag you towards him. “He’s hot, at least.”

Yeah. He was. So annoyingly hot.

But also an absolute asshole. At least, that was what he had been when he was eighteen. That was the version of him you knew—the version that had made you walk away, that had made you promise yourself that you would never deal with his bullshit again. And sure, maybe time had passed, maybe things had changed, maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. But you weren’t someone who judged purely on appearances—except, God, look at him.

White button-up, half undone like he was starring in some careless, effortless, look-at-me-I’m-perfect movie. Backwards cap, messy curls sticking out just enough to add to the whole I don’t care but I look good anyway vibe. Confident stance, lazy smirk, body language screaming that nothing in the world could touch him. Every bit of him exuded the same energy he had back then—like the years hadn’t done much more than make him hotter, like he was still the guy who thought life would always bend in his favor, like he had never needed to grow up at all.

Fuckboy.

Through and through.

And you had zero intention of dealing with that again.

“Y/n, seriously, you have a chance to shoot your shot.” Her voice was teasing, playful, as if she didn’t understand the storm brewing inside you, as if this was just some harmless fun. But shoot your shot? With him? With the boy who had forgotten your graduation, who had ghosted you when you needed him most, who had taken you for granted like you’d always just be there, waiting, unshaken?

Maybe you should tell her the whole story. Maybe you should make her understand that this wasn’t some game, that he didn’t deserve this moment. But before you could even blink, before you could form the words to stop her, you were standing under the stage.

The music pulsed through your chest, the energy of the club drowning out every rational thought, every bit of logic telling you to run. Lando leaned forward slightly, his stance easy, his presence effortless, bending down just enough to hear your friend, completely unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, completely unaware of the way your mind was screaming for an escape. “Hey, can you play this song?” she asked, sweet, casual, unbothered by the fact that she had just dragged you straight into hell.

You hardly listened, your ears ringing with everything except the conversation in front of you, your gaze flickering toward the exit, toward anything that wasn’t him. You tried to act like you didn’t know them. Tried to pretend you were just another person lost in the crowd, just another passerby in a place you didn’t belong. But she was smart. Too smart. And too cruel.

“For Y/n.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse stopped.

His reaction was instant. The way his body stiffened, the way his head snapped toward you, the way his mouth parted just slightly in disbelief. His eyes widened, searching, recognizing. “Y/n?” The way he said your name—like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, like you weren’t supposed to be standing there, like this wasn’t supposed to be real. Everything came back.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife deeper, as if your friend wanted to ruin your life entirely, “yea, Y/n L/n,” she confirmed it. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Your whole name. Given to him so easily, so casually, like she hadn’t just shattered the fragile distance you had spent years crafting between you and him. Omg. Why did you friend an idiot like that?

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face even as his eyes locked onto you—wide, searching, unbelieving, like he couldn’t quite piece together how you were standing in front of him. “Y/n? She’s here?” he asked, the words sounding almost stupid the second they left his mouth, carrying just enough disbelief to make it nearly funny. If you weren’t too busy fighting off the urge to scream, maybe you would have laughed.

Because yes, you are here.

And maybe if his eyes weren’t staring right at you, he could have asked that question to someone who wasn’t standing right in front of him. But no—he was looking straight at you, drinking in the sight of you, the reality of you, like his brain just couldn’t quite accept that this was happening.

You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle, letting the air between you grow heavier with something unspeakable. Everything felt slower, stretched out, too thick with unspoken words, with the unbearable past forcing its way into the present.

And honestly? He looked so stupid for asking.

“Y/n, don’t act like you don’t know him,” she said, tugging you forward with way too much force, her grip firm, unrelenting, dragging you closer to the one person you wished you never had to see again. You barely had time to process, barely had time to resist, barely had time to breathe before you were suddenly there— closer than you wanted to be, closer than was safe.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already mocking you enough, Lando spoke.

“What about you guys going up here?” he asked, referring to the stage, his voice casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal, earth-shattering moment imaginable.

Your stomach twisted. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your friend lit up beside you, clearly entertained, clearly loving every single second of this disaster.

But all you could do was wish you didn’t know him at all.

You barely had the chance to protest before she cut you off entirely, jumping in with way too much enthusiasm, her grip tightening around your wrist as if she had just won some personal victory.

“Sorry, we need to—” you started, voice tight, desperate for an escape, desperate to pull yourself out of the disaster unfolding in front of you, desperate to disappear entirely before anything got worse.

But she didn’t let you finish.

“That’s a good idea,” she answered instead, flashing a grin, fully committing to the mess she had just created, fully ignoring every ounce of panic rushing through you, fully pushing you into a moment you never signed up for.

You stepped onto the stage, the energy of the club pressing into you from all directions, the flashing lights making everything feel just a little too surreal, like you had just walked into some alternate reality that wasn’t supposed to exist. Your friend wasted no time, seamlessly folding into conversation with Lando’s friend, her body language open, animated, comfortable—like she had belonged here all along, like this was exactly what she had been planning from the second she dragged you into this mess. She was talking, laughing, exchanging words that you barely registered, already adapting to the situation in a way that only she could. It was effortless. It was unfair. It was everything you couldn’t do.

And you, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, caught between the suffocating heat of the room and the overwhelming weight of him, standing way too close, way too present, way too real. The music thumped beneath your feet, the beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes, pulsing through your chest, drowning out everything except the thoughts racing through your mind at a pace you couldn’t control. You could feel the tension settling thick in the air, could feel the invisible force pulling your attention toward him, toward the quiet way his presence still managed to fill every inch of space around you. It was unbearable. It was unavoidable.

And you did what anyone would do in this situation—nothing.

Just stood there, frozen in place, staring down at nothing in particular, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to entertain the idea that this was happening, that you were here, that he was here, that time had twisted itself cruelly enough to bring you back to this moment, back to this person, back to whatever mess had been left unresolved all those years ago. You could feel him there—watching, waiting, probably trying to figure out the words to say, probably wondering if he should say anything at all.

And you?

You were just waiting.

For someone, for something, for anything to save you.

Your chest tightened, pulse hammering beneath your skin as the space between you disappeared far too quickly, dissolving into something suffocating, something unavoidable, something you had spent years ensuring would never happen again.

Oh hell no.

“Y/n?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, dripping with something unspoken, something fragile, something that made your stomach twist violently. He rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one you hadn’t seen in years, one that somehow still belonged to him, one that made the moment too real. No way. No way was this happening. No way was he standing here, looking at you like that, speaking to you like nothing had happened, like time hadn’t stretched between you like an unfixable wound, like he hadn’t made the choice to let you slip away.

And then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, as if the universe truly had no mercy, he added another layer to the disaster unfolding before you.

“You changed since we last saw each other.”

The words hung in the air, soft, hesitant, laced with something just shy of regret—or maybe curiosity. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe something else entirely.

Your stomach twisted again, the weight of it pressing deep into your bones.

Had you? Had you changed? Or had you simply become the version of yourself that no longer had space for him? That no longer had room for the kind of heartbreak he had carelessly handed you all those years ago? That no longer needed the version of him standing in front of you, pretending like this conversation wasn’t drenched in every painful, unresolved moment he had left behind?

And why the hell did he care?

What exactly was he hoping for?

You narrowed your eyes, skepticism laced in your stare, your tone still tangled with the bittersweet remnants of everything that had come before. The years had stretched long, had pulled at the edges of old memories, had tried to reshape the hurt into something manageable, something distant—but it was still there. Lingering. Settled deep beneath the surface. It had never truly disappeared, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much effort you had put into convincing yourself that it didn’t matter anymore.

“And did you?” you asked, voice steady, yet laced with something just shy of accusation, something that made it impossible to pretend like this was just casual conversation, like it was just two old friends catching up, like it didn’t hold the weight of every unanswered question you had let rest for years. The words slipped past your lips too easily, too naturally, as if they had been waiting for their moment to finally be spoken.

Lando hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing into him, making him pause just slightly before he finally answered. The seconds stretched thin between you, the silence pressing against your ribs, forcing your pulse to quicken. You watched him, studied the way his expression flickered between uncertainty and something else—something unreadable, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to name.

“Pretty much, yes,” he shrugged, his words careless, simple, like they didn’t hold the gravity they should have. Like they didn’t mean as much as they should have. It was an answer, sure, but it wasn’t a real answer. Not the one you wanted. Not the one you needed. It felt hollow, like he had tossed it out into the air just to have something to say, just to fill the space between you before it became too unbearable.

And then—he added it.

“I think.”

Two small words, dangling at the end of his sentence, uncertain, hesitant, a mistake.

Because if he wasn’t sure—then what was the point of saying it at all? What was the point of answering if he didn’t know what he was even saying?

Your pulse spiked.

Had he changed? Had he grown? Had he actually become a different person, or was this just some empty attempt at convincing you that things weren’t as bad as they had seemed? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t justified in holding onto the bitterness that still lingered in your voice?

─── one hour later

It had taken about an hour—just enough time for the alcohol to settle into your system, just enough for the world to feel a little softer around the edges, just enough for decision-making to become questionable at best.

You weren’t drunk enough to forget things, not enough to completely erase history or drown out the quiet truths that still lurked in the back of your mind. But you were definitely drunk enough to agree to stupid decisions. The kind of choices you wouldn’t have considered under the harsh light of sobriety. The kind of choices that felt too easy when the world was buzzing and blurred, when the weight of the past didn’t seem quite so suffocating.

And that stupid decision?

A late-night walk with Lando. Drunk. Alone.

Something absolutely absurd. Something that didn’t quite fit with the carefully crafted distance you had spent years maintaining between you. But you hadn’t argued. You hadn’t fought against it. And now, somehow, you had ended up here—sitting cross-legged on the ledge of a stone wall, overlooking the vast stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, the moonlight reflecting against the gentle waves below like some impossibly perfect painting. The air was warm, the city behind you humming softly in the distance, the quiet of the night settling against your skin like an old, familiar embrace.

And despite everything—despite the mess of unresolved history, despite the tension still lingering between the moments of silence, despite the sheer ridiculousness of finding yourself in this exact situation—you were sitting there, eating McDonald’s with Lando Norris.

Your childhood best friend.

Lando glanced over at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knew exactly what he was about to unleash. “Do you remember how I took you karting?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement, clearly ready to relive your humiliation.

You barely had time to process his words before laughter burst out of you—loud, uncontrollable, instant, like the memory had slammed into you at full speed, just as violently as you had crashed that day.

“Don’t even start,” you gasped between fits of laughter, shaking your head, barely holding yourself together as you tried to take another bite of your hamburger. The second the ridiculousness of it all fully hit, you had to physically fight to avoid spitting it all over yourself.

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he watched you dissolve into laughter, the memory hitting you full force, crashing back into your mind with all its chaotic, humiliating glory.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own burger, smirking like he had been waiting years to bring this up again. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You barely managed to swallow before shooting him a sharp look, still breathless from laughter. “Not that bad?” you scoffed, eyebrows raised, voice coated in disbelief. “I crashed so hard that the guy running the place had to come check if I was still alive, Lando.”

He snickered, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Okay, fine,” he admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe it was a little bad.”

“A little?” You nearly choked on your food, shaking your head as you wiped at your mouth, still struggling to contain the laughter bubbling inside you. “I’m scarred, Norris. Scarred.”

He laughed loudly, the sound unfiltered, genuine, slipping through the easy rhythm of the night like it belonged there—like it had never left.

Lando shook his head, laughter still lingering in his voice as he watched you struggle to compose yourself. The memory was too good, too vivid, too perfectly disastrous for him to let go.

“You were so bad,” he teased, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he wasn’t about to single-handedly ruin your night with humiliation.

You groaned dramatically, wiping at your mouth, still trying to stop yourself from choking on your own laughter. “Yeah, well, excuse me for not being a child prodigy in motorsport.” You shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but the smirk he threw back was unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, though his grin didn’t falter for a second. “You just had, like, zero concept of turning. It was literally a straight line, and you still managed to crash.”

You gasped, slapping his arm in mock outrage, though the memory did technically support his argument. “It was a complicated turn!” you defended, though the absurdity of the statement was immediate.

“A complicated turn?” He nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Y/n, it wasn’t even a turn. You drove straight into the barriers like the track just disappeared in front of you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, shaking your head, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was uncontainable. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to give everyone a good show.”

Lando snickered, throwing a fry at you. “Mission accomplished.”

And somehow, in the warmth of the Mediterranean night, with laughter spilling between shared bites of fast food, it felt almost like nothing had changed at all.

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that night, and something inside you shifted.

His smile—so easy, so natural, so completely him—pulled at something buried deep in your chest, something you hadn’t let yourself think about in years. It was familiar, painfully so, a reminder of everything that had once made this friendship effortless, everything that had once made him yours.

His humor hadn’t changed—still sharp, still quick, still laced with that dry British edge that made everything just a little bit funnier, a little more ridiculous. And in that moment, between the laughter, the shared food, the warmth of the night curling around you, you remembered.

You remembered why you were friends.

You remembered why you had loved him.

You turned to Lando, the memory slipping through the cracks of the night, resurfacing with all its chaotic, hilarious glory. A smirk tugged at your lips as you nudged him lightly, already knowing he’d try to defend himself. “Do you remember how we got kicked out of Mrs. Evans’ class?” you asked, voice laced with nostalgia, with amusement, with just the slightest hint of accusation. “Because you couldn’t stop making me laugh.”

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when mischief was involved, when trouble was just a little too tempting to resist. He shrugged, casual, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for one of the most chaotic moments of your academic history. “And what should I have done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence with absolutely no sincerity. “It was so boring!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the laughter bubbling under your breath gave away the fact that you weren’t actually mad—just exasperated. “Boring enough that we almost got detention,” you reminded him, leveling him with a pointed stare, though the ridiculousness of it all made it impossible to sound truly scolding.

Lando only laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him, like he had no regrets. “Key word—almost,” he teased, throwing a playful wink your way, fully basking in the chaos like it was some kind of badge of honor.

The words hung between you, soft yet unavoidable, stretching across the quiet, sinking into the space where the past had been tucked away for too long.

“I’m glad I had you by my side growing up.”

So simple. So soft. So undeniably true.

And yet, something inside you twisted at the sound of it, at the weight of it, at the way it should have felt warm but instead carried a sharp edge—an unspoken ache buried beneath nostalgia. It was honest, sure, but honesty didn’t erase the years, didn’t undo the mistakes, didn’t rewrite the nights you had spent wondering where things had gone wrong. Because he could have had you by his side for more than just childhood. He could have had you always—if he hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let things fall apart, if he hadn’t made the choices that had cracked the foundation between you until it was barely holding together. If he hadn’t been such an idiot.’

Your jaw clenched, bitterness surfacing before you could push it back down.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about growing up together. It wasn’t just about the laughter, the memories, the late-night conversations that once felt like they’d stretch on forever. It was about everything after—the parts where he wasn’t there, the parts where silence replaced friendship, the parts where the absence was louder than anything he had ever said before.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the anger that still lingered beneath the surface—you couldn’t bring yourself to say what was truly pressing against your ribs, couldn’t let the words spill out, couldn’t tell him that he could’ve had you forever if he had just chosen to keep you.

The words slipped out of his mouth softly, like he had been holding onto them for far too long, like they had been sitting heavy on his chest for years without escape. “I’m sorry for the graduation.”

Simple. Direct. Honest. And yet, the weight of them hit harder than you expected, settling deep into your ribs, pressing into the space where that memory—where that absence—still lingered.

Graduation. The day that should have been filled with celebration, with excitement, with closure that never really arrived. It had been a day of transition, of stepping into something new, of leaving behind childhood and stepping forward into a future that had felt both thrilling and terrifying. And yet, despite all of that, despite the bittersweet nature of endings and new beginnings, he wasn’t there.

You had told yourself it didn’t matter. You had convinced yourself it didn’t change anything. And yet, standing there, waiting for that familiar face to show up, for him to be there—he never came. And suddenly, it had mattered a lot.

Now, years later, with the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, with the night settling warmly around you, with the past creeping in between bites of fast food and nostalgia, he was apologizing. Your chest tightened, something complicated twisting inside you, something bitter yet soft, something that wanted to hold onto resentment but wasn’t sure if it could anymore.

“You should be,” you murmured, voice steady, not cruel, not sharp—just honest. And Lando just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t try to talk his way out of it like he had done in the past, like he had done with so many other things, so many other moments.

Lando exhaled slowly, shifting slightly, gaze fixed on the waves, the silence stretching between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but was definitely heavy. He had never been the type to sit with things like this, never been the type to let the weight of past mistakes settle into his chest without some quick distraction, some clever deflection. But this time, he didn’t try.

“I should’ve been there,” he said finally, voice lower now, less casual, less teasing. Just honest. “I should’ve shown up.”

You stared at him for a moment, studying the way his fingers drummed lightly against the stone ledge, the way his posture wasn’t as relaxed as it had been earlier, the way his words carried something real—something that felt less like an empty apology and more like remorse.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steady, simple. “You should’ve.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that just existed.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head lightly. “I was a bit of an ass, wasn’t I?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “A bit?”

He shot you a look, but his grin—small, hesitant, almost self-deprecating—surfaced anyway. “Alright, fine. A lot.”

You smirked, though there wasn’t malice in your expression—just nostalgia, just something soft wrapped in the edges of lingering hurt. It wasn’t like everything could be fixed with a single apology.

It wasn’t like words could erase the years apart, the way things had splintered without resolution, the way wounds had settled so deep you had forgotten what it was like to exist without them. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

Something better.

The conversation had shifted—still warm, still easy in some ways, but laced with something deeper now. Something that wasn’t just nostalgia, wasn’t just laughter over childhood chaos, wasn’t just revisiting memories like old photographs tucked away in forgotten drawers. This was different. This was real in a way that it hadn’t been for a long time.

“I wanted to reach out,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter, more careful. Like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them at all. “After graduation. After—everything. But I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, the way he actually seemed hesitant—like he had spent years thinking about this exact moment, about how he would say these exact words if he ever got the chance.

And part of you knew that if he had tried back then, if he had sent that text, made that call, said something when it mattered—you wouldn’t have ignored it.

You wouldn’t have been able to.

But he hadn’t. And time had stretched between you, pulling everything apart until you weren’t sure if there was anything left to hold onto at all.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, and it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t sharp—it was just curious. Because after all this time, after all the years spent wondering, you deserved an answer.

Lando’s lips pressed together for a brief second before he exhaled again, shaking his head. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me,” he admitted, voice raw, honest. “And maybe... I thought I deserved that.”

And for the first time, since the distance had formed, since the resentment had settled, since the laughter had faded—his regret felt real.

Lando’s voice was steady, careful, carrying something unspoken beneath it—something raw, something real, something fragile enough that it almost felt like it didn’t belong in the easy rhythm of the night. “I really want to be your friend again, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, since nostalgia had crept in and laughter had softened the edges of old wounds, you felt the weight of every single moment that had led up to this one.

It wasn’t a lighthearted remark. It wasn’t just words tossed into the sea breeze without meaning. It was something deeper, something intentional. And then, like he realized that saying it once wasn’t enough, like he needed to make sure it landed the way he intended, he added—“and I want you to be my friend again.”

Not just that he wanted to be yours.

But that he wanted you to want it, too. That he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness, wasn’t just trying to smooth over years of absence and missteps and hurt—he was asking for something real, something that required more than just words.

He was asking for a chance. For the possibility that this wasn’t just reminiscing, wasn’t just two people revisiting a past they had lost, but maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something new. And suddenly, after all this time, after all the years apart, you held all the power.

The tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cool night air, but you didn’t wipe it away. You let it fall, let the weight of emotion settle deep into your chest, let the moment exist without hesitation, without restraint. “I miss you, Lan,” you said, voice raw, uneven, laced with something fragile—something true. “I missed you over the years. Nonstop.”

Lando inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the breath out of him, like hearing them out loud made them real in a way that thoughts alone never could. His fingers curled slightly against the stone ledge, his posture tense for just a second before he exhaled, slow, measured. When he spoke, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just honesty, just everything he had been holding back.

“I miss you too,” he admitted, and it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a response for the sake of filling silence. It was real. It was heavy. “I always thought about you. In the car, before sleep.” His voice dipped slightly at the end, quiet but steady, carrying the weight of years, of regret, of something so much bigger than just missing someone. He glanced at you then, expression softer, more exposed than you had seen it in a long time. “And I also thought about how much I fucked up.”

"I can't hate you, Lando," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them, before you could think too hard about what they meant.

Because it was true.

Even after everything.

Even after the hurt, the silence, the years of unspoken apologies—you never could.

Lando’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His fingers curled against the stone ledge, his posture rigid for a moment before he exhaled, letting the weight of your words sink into his chest. He nodded once, barely, his gaze flickering toward the waves as if searching for something—some kind of grounding, some kind of steadiness in the moment that was suddenly too real.

“I thought you did,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less controlled, less confident. “For a long time, I thought you hated me.”

You swallowed, lips pressing together, letting the truth sit between you, because maybe—back then—you had tried to. Maybe you had wanted to. Maybe it would’ve been easier if you had.

But you never did.

“I was angry,” you said finally, voice steady but soft. “I was hurt. But I never hated you, Lan.”

He turned toward you then, fully, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate—not in a selfish way, not in a way that begged for more than you could give, but in a way that told you this moment meant everything to him.

Your voice was steady, but there was something fragile underneath it—something you hadn’t meant to admit out loud, something that had been sitting in your chest for years, tangled up in old resentment and unspoken frustration.

Lando’s expression flickered, something shifting in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding, or both. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t do anything except wait, letting you say the thing you had never really let yourself process before.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” you continued, inhaling slowly, like the words were harder to say now that they were actually being said. “But every time I saw you winning, every time I saw you smiling on that podium, every time I saw you getting everything you wanted, I just… I was bitter, Lando.”

He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “Because I wasn’t there?” he asked, voice careful, like he didn’t want to assume—but like he already knew.

You nodded, lips pressing together, letting the truth settle between you. “Because you weren’t there,” you echoed. “Because I wanted to be part of it. Because I wanted to be your friend, but instead, I was just—just some person watching it all happen from a distance.”

Lando exhaled, slow, measured, like he was absorbing all of it—like he wasn’t just hearing your words, but feeling them, carrying them in the space between past and present. He shook his head lightly, eyes dipping downward before meeting yours again. “I should’ve reached out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less certain, more vulnerable. “I should’ve had you with me. Should’ve made sure you never felt like that.”

And for the first time, since this conversation had started, since the past had resurfaced, since the years of distance had finally been acknowledged—you felt like he understood.

“I didn’t want to feel that way,” you admitted, voice quieter now, more careful. “I wanted to be proud of you, wanted to celebrate with you. But instead, it just felt like proof that—" You inhaled, pressing your lips together for a brief second, steadying yourself before letting the words slip out. "Proof that you didn’t need me anymore.”

Lando’s expression flickered, something deeper shifting behind his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to pain.

“No,” he murmured immediately, shaking his head, his fingers curling into a fist for a brief second before he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “It was never that. It was never because I didn’t need you, Y/n.” He looked at you now, really looked at you, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to make sure there was no space for doubt, no space for misinterpretation.

“I was an idiot. A selfish idiot who didn’t know how to deal with everything changing, so I—” He sighed, running a hand through his curls, his voice dipping lower, carrying something raw, something heavy. “I handled it badly. And I let everything slip away, because I was scared to—scared to admit that I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

Lando was quiet, until he broke the silence with one, short question.

“Do you think I deserve a chance?” he asked, voice softer this time, like he was bracing for whatever came next. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, his posture just a little too rigid, his expression just a little too careful. He wasn’t asking lightly. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer. He was giving you the space to decide.

You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, letting yourself really think about them. It wasn’t just about whether he deserved it. It was about whether you wanted to give it. About whether you were ready to step into something new, to let go of the bitterness that had clung to the edges of the memories you had tried to hold onto for so long. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

“Yeah, you do.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! For my dearest @haniette and for all the lovely people reading this !! This is my longest and favorite fic I have ever written. This is literally asking for part 2!! Let me know if u are interested !<3

[hoodpankow]

if i loved you less ⸻ 𐙚 ⸻  charles leclerc x reader

or,  the  emma  -  slash  -  clueless  au.

word  count.   10k. feat.   socialite  matchmaker!reader,  set  in  the  2024  season  (summer  break,  to  be  precise),  charles  has  been  a  lovesick  puppy  for  forever,  reader  Cannot  drive  (she's  so  me),  reader  is  also  kind  of  a  bitch  sometimes  i'm  sorry  it's  my  favorite  trope  now  it  seems,  charles  and  reader  were  high  school  classmates,  sporadic  use  of  the  nickname  charlu  (one  of  the  only  gifts  fred  vasseur  has  given  to  me),  google  translate  french author's  note.   don't  ask  me  about  that  word  count.  i  genuinely  didn't  realize  how  much  i've  written  (because  this  has  slowly  been  happening  for  the  past  three-ish  weeks  or  so)  until  i  opened  up  word  count  and  google  doc  and  went  …  woah  !!  this  is  genuinely  more  clueless  -  inspired  than  emma,  but  i  obviously  had  to  include  the  quote.  unbeta'd  to  hell  and  back,  i'm  just  so  glad  i  finally  got  one  from  my  series  out  !!  carlos  one  next  …  teehee  !! a  part  of  my  austenland  collection  series.

handsome, clever, and rich, with a taste for the finer things and a calendar full of garden parties, gallery openings, and glass-walled luncheons, you’ve lived twenty-seven years in the world with very little to truly distress or vex you— except, perhaps, lukewarm champagne and a chronic inability to find someone good enough for anyone but yourself.

tonight’s rooftop party, held in honor of something neither you nor anyone else here can quite remember, is not dull. or, well, it was dull, during the speeches and the ribbon-cutting and whatever other ceremonial fluff they threw in for tax write-offs, but now that the formalities are out of the way and the music is pulsing low and smooth over monaco’s glittering skyline, it’s your time to shine.

you’ve already introduced two people to each other with suspiciously compatible net worths and made at least three people laugh so hard they nearly choked on foie gras— by all accounts, a successful evening.

and then he arrives.

you spot him before he spots you, because of course you do. you’re observant like that. and besides, he walks like someone who doesn’t want to be noticed but knows he always will be— shoulders tense under a linen shirt, hand half-raising in greeting to someone he vaguely knows before quickly pocketing it.

he’s scanning the place like he isn’t sure why he’s here, like he’s looking for an exit. or someone to anchor to.

so, naturally, you make yourself the anchor.

“charlu!” you call, loud enough to cut through the music. it’s instinct, from your lycée days, back when everyone had a nickname and his was the only one you liked saying out loud. it makes him wince, just slightly, and you laugh.

“tu es la seule personne encore vivante qui m’appelle ça.” he says when he reaches you, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “i should’ve banned it after lycée.”

“but then who would i even be?” you flutter your lashes and link your arm through his without asking.  “you missed all the speeches,” you scold him cheerfully. “someone very important thanked someone else very important for donating something expensive. you’ll be devastated to know you weren’t there for it.”

“merde. truly heartbreaking,” he says, dryly. “you look very... you.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment!” you wink, and then, “congratulations on monaco, by the way,” you’re beaming now, because you mean it. “i was at the afterparty. you probably didn’t see me— crowded, obviously— but i was there. hiding behind a fern.”

he huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and you know he doesn’t quite know what to do with your brand of honesty, which is exactly why you do it. “you should’ve said hi.”

“i did! to the fern.”

he runs a hand through his hair, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “it was a bit of a blur.”

“well, you deserved it. bien joué.” you tap him lightly on the chest, where the ferrari logo would usually be stitched. “you made everyone cry. even my mother. and she barely cries at funerals.”

soon enough you’ve dragged him— okay, maybe not dragged, maybe coaxed— over to the side with the couches: low, plush things overlooking the glittering coastline. the breeze is warm, sticky with the ghost of sea salt, and your heels sink slightly into the deck but you’re used to it. charles settles beside you, easy and relaxed, shoulders less tense, eyes softer.

you fill the silence, as always. telling him about the vague cause the party is attached to— something about art therapy and yachts (you think) which doesn’t make any sense but sounded noble enough. you tell him to try the hors d’oeuvres before the good ones run out and shove a glass of champagne into his hand and ask him how the season is, if he’s exhausted yet, if he’s tired of podiums yet. you’re buzzing from the night, from the air, from the champagne, and it’s easy to talk to him. always has been.

he listens, leaning back a little, that lazy half-smile playing on his lips like he’s amused by your very existence. which— to be extremely fair— you are very amusing.

“so,” he says eventually, eyes glinting, “are you here for the art... yachts... thing? or something else?”

you blink at him, caught. “what, can’t i just support a good cause?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“okay, fine,” you admit, mock-scandalized. “i’m matchmaking. there’s this heiress from antibes and a hotelier from seoul who would be so perfect for each other, and they’re both here tonight. i’m just trying to give fate a little push.”

he laughs. genuinely. “you’re still doing that?”

you tilt your head, grinning. “you remember?”

“of course. you matched madame corbet with monsieur delano. they started dating and stopped assigning us joint essays every week.”

“hmm,” you say, coy. “must’ve been fate.”

he gives you a look. “that was you.”

you smirk into your champagne, don’t confirm or deny. you don’t have to. he knows. of course he knows.

you lose track of time— like, really lose track of it. one moment you’re laughing about someone’s disastrous attempt at dating an heiress, and the next you’re glancing at your phone and realizing it’s been nearly three hours and the rooftop’s mostly emptied out. the couple you paired off earlier have disappeared— successfully, if you’re any judge of chemistry, and you are— and the air is cooler now, sea breeze curling around your ankles.

“it’s late,” charles says, rising to his feet. “fancy a ride home?”

you blink up at him, then smirk. “what, looking for a scandal, leclerc?” he goes visibly pink, which is delightful, and you reach for your clutch. “kidding. what’s a ride home between old friends?”

you don’t notice the way his expression tightens when you say that— friends— because someone walks past and presses a kiss to your cheek, murmurs something about brunch next week, and by the time you look back at him, the frown’s already gone. or at least, hidden well enough.

the ride home is quiet in that comfortable, late-night way, the usually crowded streets of monte carlo empty. the city blurs past in golds and silvers, and when he pulls up outside your building, you lean over and kiss him on the cheek, lipstick just barely grazing his skin, though enough to leave a bit of a mark. you like annoying him in that way.

“merci, charlu,” you whisper, already halfway out the door. “à bientôt?”

and then you’re gone, breezing through the lobby, heels clicking against marble, leaving him in the car, still watching the door long after it closes behind you.

the thing about garden dinners in monaco is that they always look prettier than they actually are— string lights twisted around tree branches like they were grown that way, champagne coupes catching the light just so, the scent of jasmine and something faintly overpriced wafting from the catered centerpieces. and you don’t even want to be here, really, but lucie asked, and she’s sweet, and matchmaking is your god-given talent (your words, not god’s), and besides, you haven’t had foie gras in like three days, so you said yes.

what you didn’t expect, though, was charles.

“we’re not doing this again,” you say as he approaches. “are you following me?”

“i could ask you the same thing,” he says, grinning. “you’re everywhere.”

“because i’m popular. and very pretty.”

“and humble.”

you roll your eyes, fondly. “we’re sitting together.” you declare, like a pact, like he isn’t allowed to say no— because he isn’t, by the way. allowed to say no to you. you’ve decided. “i don’t know most of these people.”

he gives you a look. “but you just said you’re popular.”

“popular doesn’t mean omniscient, charlu.” you say sweetly. he cringes again at the nickname.

the thing is, neither of you really know why you’re here. it’s one of those dinners organized by someone’s friend’s cousin who married into wealth and whatever. aside from lucie you recognize eight people— maybe nine— and charles recognizes even fewer, so when you both happen to arrive at the same time, something unspoken settles between you.

“truce?” you murmur as you step inside the garden, low lighting casting everything in soft golden shadows.

“sit next to me and i won’t abandon you.” he says, extending his arm in mock-chivalry.

“how romantic,” you deadpan, looping your arm through his.

the table is long and sprawling, and thankfully you and charles find seats in the middle of it all. perfect. your favorite arrangement, you think. there's a guy a year ahead of you from lycée— adrien something, still has that smug look like he thinks you’ll remember his last name— and lucie, who was a few years below you, sweet, nervous, always had braids and a pen clipped to her uniform.

you’re in your element, as usual. the dinner starts and so does your running commentary— leaning in every few minutes to tell charles who’s who. the couple at the end of the table is newly engaged but already cheating on each other. the woman to your right’s had three husbands, all wealthier than the last. the man making the toast used to be a minor celebrity in the early 2000s and has recently reinvented himself as a tech investor.

someone at the head of the table— adrien, of course— stands up to give a speech, something about community and heritage and the importance of connection. you’d already warned charles that adrien loves hearing himself talk. he, thankfully, doesn’t comment that you’re probably the same.

“this is so moving,” he whispers, deadpan. “i might cry.”

you choke on your wine, giggling into your napkin, and someone shushes you from further down the table but you don’t care. you’ve got a good seat, good food, and good company. let them glare. they’re not sitting next to the charles leclerc.

by the time dessert arrives— little plates of tarte tropézienne and candied orange peels— you’re flushed with wine and delight and maybe a little too proud of yourself, which is when you decide it’s time to share your master plan.

“so,” you say, licking sugar from your thumb, “you wanna know why i’m really here?”

charles raises an eyebrow, and you miss the way his eyes flutter down just so, following the movement of your tongue on the pad of your thumb. he looks up, finishes his champagne. “not just for the sugar coma?”

“i’m here for lucie,” you say, motioning toward the girl across the table, currently locked in a shy conversation with adrien. “i’ve been trying to set them up for months. they’re perfect for each other, they just don’t know it yet.”

he blinks. “you’re matchmaking them?”

“mmhmm,” you hum, proud. “she’s sweet and smart and needs someone grounded. he’s— well— annoying, but he’s oddly sincere, i suppose. or at least that’s what she tells me.”

he laughs, low and amused. “and people pay you for this?”

“oh, charles,” you say, mock-offended. “they pay so much. but, well, lucie’s an old friend— we were neighbors, once upon a time— so this is more of me just… helping.”

you excuse yourself after that, slipping into social butterfly mode as soon as the plates are cleared. you glide through the garden like you belong to it, make your way to lucie with a soft hand on her back and a whispered compliment about her earrings before nudging her into a conversation with adrien. it takes less than five minutes. you’re good at this. you always have been.

when you make it back to charles, he’s half-lounging on a couch, half-listening to someone explain cryptocurrency. he looks relieved when you interrupt, holding a second flute of champagne you assume is for you.

“i’m back!” you sing-song, grabbing your flute just as the other person leaves. “tell me you missed me—”

he arches a brow. “how’d it go with your experiment?”

“i think i have some progress. i give them until september.”

you slide back into the seat beside him, smoothing your dress under your thighs. he doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you in that maddeningly unreadable way he does sometimes— like you’ve said something profound even when you haven’t spoken at all.

he drapes his arm over the back of your chair, casual but not casual at all. it’s warm behind you, not quite touching but almost, like a breath you’re only half aware of. you lean back slightly, thinking nothing of it, too caught up in how arnaud looked at camille when she laughed to notice the way charles shifts just the slightest bit closer. almost imperceptibly. like gravity, not intent.

you’re mid-sentence, explaining your strategy— how lucie just needs affirmation, confidence and adrien just needs to get over himself— when you notice him nodding, not really at what you’re saying, but just… at you.

he says your name, once, quietly, just to get your attention, and it startles you a little, the way it sits in the air between you. he tilts his head. “you talk about love like it’s for other people.”

you blink. the breeze picks up, ruffles the hem of your dress, and for a moment, you can’t find something flippant to say. that’s rare. it makes you uncomfortable.

“not everyone gets the happy ending,” you say finally, shrugging. “some of us just get to help make them happen.”

he doesn’t say anything, and for once, you don’t fill the silence.

and maybe you do what you always do— you smooth the discomfort over with charm, say something vaguely philosophical and deflective, let it pass like the summer breeze through your hair. he doesn’t press, and you’re grateful, even if you don’t know why.

but after that, he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

you’re speaking again, you think. saying something about the next event, about the way people keep mistaking you for some american tiktok influencer, of all people! you’re gesturing, grinning, tapping the couch as you talk, and he’s still looking at you like you’ve carved out some kind of private orbit just for the two of you to exist in.

the night ends ends. someone claps. people begin to shift, stand, stretch, hug. the spell breaks.

“i can give you a ride,” he offers, too quickly.

you smile. press a hand to his cheek, affectionate but breezy. “that’s sweet, but i’m going home with lucie. debrief, you know. girl stuff.”

you lean in and kiss him on the cheek, the same way you always do, the same exact spot. “we’ll probably stumble into each other again at some other function. monaco’s good like that.”

he nods, but says nothing. just watches you go.

you don’t look back. not really. but you feel his eyes on you the whole way.

the thing about monaco is that it’s always something— someone’s birthday, someone else’s anniversary, a vague charity for the conservation of something endangered and luxurious, a yacht party for a friend of a friend of a friend where you aren’t exactly sure what you’re celebrating, but there’s champagne and a dress code and that’s usually enough. you don’t question it. this is just your life. a calendar of curated events and invitations, garden dinners followed by terrace cocktails followed by midnight boat rides. it’s exhausting if you think too hard about it, so you don’t. you like it more than you don’t, anyway.

this one’s a yacht party—anniversary, maybe. you’re not quite sure. it’s for a friend of a friend of someone who once tried to date you, which basically means: standard. you arrive just as the sky starts to bleed into twilight, hair curled to casual perfection, dress cinched in just the right places, already smiling because you know half the crowd and they know you. someone hands you a glass of prosecco. someone else kisses both your cheeks. you glide.

you’re halfway through scanning the guest list— internally, of course, not literally— when you spot him. charles, leaning against the railing like he’s thinking about something far away, or maybe pretending to. it’s unfair, you think, how good he looks like that, like he belongs on yachts and in soft golden lighting and nowhere else.

he turns just as you approach, eyes crinkling. again, you think, so, so unfairly handsome.

“charlu,” you greet, already smiling, “monaco really is trying to tell us something, don’t you think? third time in what— two weeks?”

he hums, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, the slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers curl around his wine glass like he’s holding back words.

“fate,” you say brightly, before he can answer. “it’s obviously fate.”

“peut-être que oui,” he says softly, but you’re already sliding into place beside him, back pressed to the railing, eyes on the crowd.

“you know what this means,” you continue, already mapping the party in your mind. “i’m supposed to set you up. that’s what fate wants.”

he lets out a small laugh, barely audible over the water lapping against the side of the boat. “i don’t think fate wants that.”

“what’s your type, again?” you ask, like he’s a client, like he’s filled out your intake form. “blondes? redheads? or more like quiet girls who read on the beach and don’t care about racing? oh! maybe dancers. no— wait, models. definitely models.”

he looks at you like he wants to say something, anything to derail the train of thought barreling down the tracks, but he doesn’t. just watches. just lets you talk like he always does.

“i thiiiiiiink—” you drawl out the words, putting your hands on his shoulders to maneuvre him around, pointing discreetly, “—yooooooou might like her. that’s nicoletta. she models for some italian label i always forget the name of. she’s sooo sweet. i talked to her once at a dinner and she said something about growing up in a vineyard, which, you know, very chic.”

charles follows your gaze, slow. patient. “you think i’d like her?”

you shrug. “she’s beautiful. you’re beautiful. i think the symmetry works.”

he doesn’t say anything. just sips his drink and looks at you.

“imagine the life!” you tease. “coordinating outfits, vacations in sardinia, interviews where you say things like he’s just a normal guy to me.”

he looks at you. really looks at you. eyes shining a little too much in the party lights. “would you want that?” he asks.

you blink. “what?”

“that kind of life,” he says, tone quiet all of a sudden, almost testing the weight of the words in his mouth. “would you want it?”

you laugh, waving a hand at him— it’s not dismissive, you think. “unless you have anyone in that— ah, how do you say it again? grid? grid.” a scrunch of your nose, finally finding the right word. “unless if you’re dying to introduce me to someone, i don’t think i’m there yet.”

he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

you wave a hand and gesture toward nicoletta. “go! talk to her. please, just for me, charlu? she’s lovely, i swear.”

he hesitates, and it’s almost funny, how reluctant he looks to leave your side like a little puppy, but you push him gently, hands on his shoulders, toward nicoletta.

and he goes, sort of. you watch him walk over. watch her smile. watch them talk. and then you keep watching.

you tell yourself it’s because you want to see how your setup goes. it’s part of your process. analysis. data collection. notes for your post-match debrief, nothing more.

but you’re frowning. and you don’t know why.

or, no— you do know why, but you’re not going to say it. because jealousy is an ugly feeling and you only ever feel beautiful, always. you decide it’s not that. it can’t be that. you’re not the kind of girl who gets jealous over a setup she orchestrated. you’re the one who puts people together, not the one who falls apart watching them click.

you turn away before you can think too much about it.

you’re still watching when adrien finds you.

“there you are,” he says, smiling, wine glass tilted. “trying to disappear?”

ugh, he is the last person you want to talk to right now. but whatever, it keeps your mind off of charles— which, again, is weird, you’re always fairly confident in your matches. “no, just where i always need to be, it seems.” you say, mustering up a polite smile, not really putting that much effort in, because knowing adrien, he probably doesn’t even notice. “are you here with lucie today?”

“oh, god, no. why would i be?” he chuckles, too smug. “she’s a bit dull, isn’t she?”

you blink. once. twice. “what?”

“you know,” he continues, swirling his wine like he’s holding court, “all she talks about is art and her dog. bit simple, no?”

your hand twitches. you take his wine, smile a little too sharply, and throw it in his face. he gasps, sputtering, wiping sauvignon blanc from his forehead.

“ugh, you are a snob and a half!”  you step closer, furious. “lucie is intelligent, kind, and has more soul in one freckle than you do in your entire overpriced, underwhelming personality. if you can’t appreciate her, the least you could do is not insult her when she’s not here to defend herself.”

you don’t wait for a comeback. you turn on your heel, intending to disappear into the yacht and evaporate entirely. the only problem is— you’re on a yacht. and you barely make it two steps before you crash directly into someone’s chest.

and of course it’s charles.

your glass, somehow still in your hand, tips slightly. red splashes onto your dress. his shirt too. you stare down at the stain for a beat. then up at him. then back down again.

“oh,” you say, loudly, almost mournfully. “this was loro piana!”

the wine has soaked through both of your clothes and into your pride. it’s fine. everything’s fine. you’ve survived worse— like that time your heel snapped at the monte-carlo opera gala and you had to limp across the marble floor while everyone watched. at least here, no one saw the wine explosion except adrien, who deserved it, and charles, who… is charles.

“there’s probably guest room below deck,” he says, already steering you down the sleek, too-white hallway like he’s been on a thousand yachts before this one, which, let’s be honest, he probably has. he knocks once on a random door, doesn’t wait for a response, then opens it to reveal the kind of ensuite situation that looks like it was designed by a bored interior architect with a vendetta against beige. marble counters. minimalist furniture. a towel folded into the shape of a swan.

anyway, you’ve seen worse things in your life than a wine stain across the chest of a two-thousand-euro dress, but in the moment, it feels catastrophic. mostly because it’s this dress. and also because he is here. watching you try to claw red wine out of cream cashmere.

“at least i can say it’s the new trend,” you mutter, dabbing aggressively at your sternum in the yacht’s ensuite bathroom, shoulders hunched, hair pinned back with a clip you found by the sink (thank god for women— girls supporting girls and whatnot). “ very spring/summer 2025.”

you don’t look up at first when you leave the bathroom. you’re too busy pulling at the damp fabric to see how bad the damage is, already composing the ‘it’s just fashion’ excuse in your head. but when you do look up—

you short circuit.

because there he is. charles leclerc. shirtless. just. standing in the middle of a stranger’s yacht’s guest bedroom.

you knew he was attractive. objectively. you’ve been saying it for years. it’s one of your fun party tricks, how easily you can say, “oh, charles? yeah, we were in lycée together. very handsome face. better hair now.” — like it’s not that serious!

except now you’re staring at his very handsome everything. chest. arms. abs. shoulders. the whole absurd deal.

“you’re staring,” he says, and you immediately tear your gaze away, focusing very intently on a spot on the wall that might be a light switch or might be a shadow. you’re not sure. you’re actually not sure of anything anymore.

“i wasn’t,” you lie. it’s a bad lie. you’re usually better than this. you’re usually great at this. “i was just… observing. objectively.”

“mm.” he doesn’t argue, just gives you that soft, smug, totally irritating look that says he knows exactly what effect he has and enjoys making you squirm with it.

you sit down on the edge of the bed like it’s a punishment and fold your hands in your lap, like you’ve suddenly been transported to finishing school.

he disappears into the bathroom. you stare straight ahead. do not think about his back. or his arms. or his face when he—

the door opens again.

he’s put the shirt back on. but it’s unbuttoned. of course it’s unbuttoned. god hates you.

he drops next to you on the mattress, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin and the faint scent of something citrusy— probably whatever soap this yacht is stocked with— but you do not comment. you are strong. you are composed. you are not about to be undone by his chest, of all things.

“so,” you say, attempting normalcy. “how was your conversation with manon?”

he looks over, amused. “short.”

“good short or tragic short?”

he shrugs. “she’s no you.”

which— is unfair, really. totally, utterly unfair that he’s being like this when he’s practically half-dressed and god, you’re even in a bedroom like some totally cliché, b-list-starring rom-com. and the thing about you is that you are anything but a cliché.

so instead you laugh, forced and casual. “well, no one is.”

“i know.”

the silence is a little too heavy after that. you pivot. god bless your ability to pivot.

“oh.” you glance at him. “well, she’s lovely. i really think she’d be good for you. if you let me play with your profile a bit, we could have something solid by autumn. maybe even a november vacation soft-launch.”

he laughs, soft. “and what about you?”

you blink. “what about me?”

“no matchmaking? no november soft-launch for you?”

you roll your eyes. “we’ve had this conversation.”

“humor me.”

you cross your legs, fingers tightening around the edge of the bed. “i don’t need the launch. i’m the one who builds the rocket.”

he turns toward you, just slightly. “you said something like that in school once.”

you glance at him. “i did?”

“mhm. you tried to set up chloe with rené, remember? during finals week. you made her give him her notes.”

you blink at him, surprised. “you remember that?”

“yeah.” he says it like it’s obvious. like of course he remembers everything you’ve ever said.

you laugh, a little too loud. deflect. “don’t worry about me, leclerc. i’m the love architect. everyone else gets the penthouse. i’m happy in the planning office.”

he doesn’t laugh. just looks at you.

you look away.

the stain on your dress is still wet. the air in the room is quiet. you can hear the party music upstairs like a muffled heartbeat. and beside you, charles exhales, long and slow, and you feel it more than you hear it.

neither of you says anything for a beat too long.

you shift, pretending to fix your hem, and say brightly, “well. i suppose we’ll have to go back upstairs at some point, unless you’re hoping for your own soft-launch rumor.”

you don’t see the way he looks at you then. or maybe you do. but you don’t let it in.

the date is awful.

not even a funny-awful or a well-at-least-he-was-hot awful. no. it is tech bro new money awful. the kind of awful that orders for you at dinner because “women always love seafood,” then proceeds to explain blockchain to you even after you say, twice, that you actually majored in economics that one time you decided on doing a university stint— at cambridge, no less. he has the audacity to own a lambo, but not a tailor. the watch is too shiny. the opinions are too loud. the energy screams i made my first million by accident and have been insufferable ever since. oh, and i’ll probably lose all of it in an NFT scam anyway.

you ignore all the warning signs because you’ve been trying to prove a point. to the universe, to yourself, to— ugh— charles, who— just for the record— should know that you do. you go on dates. regularly. often, even. because contrary to what charles leclerc’s stupid, all-knowing, softly-curled hair, annoyingly-handsome face might suggest, you are not a lonely cat lady in training, nor a self-immolating romantic martyr, nor someone who cries at night to sappy romcoms while swiping left on anyone with a fish photo. you are a functioning, beautiful, incredibly well-dressed person who gets asked out a lot. and sometimes, when the mood strikes, you say yes.

and now here you are. on the side of a road, at the edge of monaco, because tech boy got pissy after you suggested maybe, possibly, shutting up for five minutes.  he dropped you off mid-sentence. well— he kind of dropped you off while you were telling him off, but that’s semantics.

the real issue is that now you have to figure out how to get home. except— you don’t drive. never needed to. you once took a driver’s ed seminar at lycée and promptly forgot everything because your best friend elodie’s chauffeur was always around and anyway, and someone almost always offers to drive you home, and monaco is the size of a postage stamp. it’s never been a problem.

calling a friend would be— embarrassing. like admitting defeat. and the bus? the bus? what are you, fourteen and late for math class again?

you tell yourself it’s intentional. you’re taking the scenic route. monaco is beautiful at night. safe. charming, even. you’re a local. you know the hills like the back of your hand. except not really, because your calves are screaming and your tabi pumps are maison margiela and the cobblestone is out for blood. no amount of posture lessons or balance drills from childhood ballet is preparing you for this incline.

which is, of course, when fate decides to interrupt. again.

a car slows to a crawl beside you. sleek. dark. obnoxiously familiar. you already know it’s him before he rolls the window down.

“tu te promènes seule maintenant?” charles says, voice all silk and amusement, leaning across the console with that face. you hate his face. his face is mean.

you straighten your posture. “i’m taking the scenic route.”

he lifts a brow. “in tabis?”

you hesitate. just long enough for the betrayal in your arches to pulse again.

“they’re versatile,” you say, which is a lie, and you know it, and he knows it.

he glances toward the incline you’ve just barely conquered. “get in.”

you roll your eyes. world-famous driver or no, he’s not bossing you around that easily.  “you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

there’s a laugh, so charming and melodic and so, so annoyingly undoing, “your mother would tell you to call a chauffeur.”

well. that gets you; can’t really argue there. so you sigh. dramatically. then open the door and slide in like the saint you are, like it’s a blessing to him that you’ve decided to grace his car with your presence. which it is.

he pulls back into the road smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually on the gearshift, and you hate that he always looks like he belongs behind the wheel of something expensive.

“so,” he says after a moment, “are we pretending this wasn’t a date gone wrong or—”

you groan. “don’t.”

“just curious.”

you shoot him a look. “he got pissy after i corrected his french, twice.”

he winces. “et tu as duré combien de temps avec lui?”

you pause, then shrug. “longer than i care to admit. i didn’t want to waste the reservation.”

“obviously.”

“you’re very smug right now.”

“i’m never smug,” he says, in the most smug voice you’ve ever heard.

you roll your eyes and lean back against the seat, the city lights casting lines across your legs. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. for a moment, it’s just the sound of the road beneath you and the unspoken weight of something neither of you have named.

“you know,” you say, clearing your throat, “you could have had your own dinner date tonight. if you let me work my magic.”

he glances at you, smile just there at the corner of his mouth. “mm. still determined to set me up?”

“obviously. it’s my brand. i’ll find you someone stunning.”

“and what about someone who already knows me?” he says, eyes still on the road, voice deceptively light.

you blink. “like who?”

he shrugs. “someone from school. someone you’ve already vetted.”

you raise an eyebrow. “charlu.”

he glances at you, not even wincing at the nickname. his expression is unreadable. “just a thought.”

you don’t answer. you don’t want to. because that ugly, sour thing is back in your chest, and you don’t like it. you’ve spent your whole life designing happy endings for other people. you’re not entirely sure you believe in one for yourself.

he pulls up in front of your building.

you unbuckle, pause, and lean over to kiss him on the cheek, as always. except— except you linger. just a second longer. and so does he.

and then, a horn honks behind you. sharp. loud. rude.

you pull away quickly, blink, heart hammering way too much for someone who does not care. you climb out of the car. the air feels warmer than it did before. “i’ll text you,” you say, because you’re nothing if not composed. “i have someone in mind.”

he gives you a look you can’t quite read.

you smile too brightly. “to set you up with, obviously.”

then you turn on your heel and walk into your building, telling yourself that the tightness in your chest is just from the walk and totally not from him.

the thing is— and this is something you are only just beginning to admit to yourself, quietly, privately, in the part of your brain where you file away tax receipts and your one irrational fear of escalators— you can’t really find anyone for charles.

your record is impeccable, which is why the fact that you have not— cannot, apparently— find a single eligible human being for charles freaking leclerc is starting to feel like an administrative failure.

not that it means anything. it’s not weird. it’s just that your brain is being uncooperative, throwing out red flags at people who are, frankly, green-light certified. you see someone who might work and then five minutes later your brain’s like hmm, she blinked weird, and that gave me the ick, and you’re like okay! cool! loving this neutrality!

you’re trying not to think about it. you’re trying so hard, in fact, that you’ve forced yourself into full-service friend mode, dragging lucie out of bed and into the sun for brunch because fresh air cures all and she’s been mourning her situationship with adrien like it was an oscar-worthy romance and not, as you have repeatedly pointed out, a terrible idea from day one.

“he’s a sleaze,” you say, definitively.

lucie stirs her coffee. “you suggested him.”

“yes, well,” you wave a hand, “at the time i thought he was one of the good ones. which, in hindsight, was incredibly generous of me.”

lucie smiles, but it’s a little tired, and she shifts the conversation back to the guy she was talking to before adrien— theo something, tall, clean-cut, wore ankle socks with loafers in an unironic way. a banker. or maybe in stock market trading. you weren’t listening too closely at the time because he had a very boring watch and referred to himself as “a doggo dad” unprompted.

you wrinkle your nose. “theo didn’t even know what an amaretto sour was.”

“he was sweet,” lucie says, “and smart.”

“he wore shirts from zara.”

“so do most people.”

“not in my life,” you say, horrified.

lucie laughs into her croissant and you’re about to make a joke about sartorial red flags when a familiar voice cuts in.

“brunch without me?”

you look up and there he is, of course— charles, in a pale button-down and sunglasses, and he’s slightly flushed from the sun and you hate that you notice that, hate that your first thought isn’t what is he doing here but why does he look so good like this.

“don’t you remember lucie from lycée?” you say, because you’re nothing if not a gracious hostess, gesturing to the empty seat on your right. “we saw her at the dinner party. i told you.”

charles looks at lucie, takes off his sunglasses, and smiles. “i remember.”

lucie smiles back, a little surprised. “you have a good memory.”

he sits down. just like that. and the thing is, you don’t even mind, except that he’s being so... charming. to lucie. and lucie, who snorts when she laughs and flushes all too quickly, is suddenly being charming back. and suddenly you’re sitting at a table where the conversation is happening entirely without you.

you try to jump in twice, maybe three times. first to make a comment about the juice selection (ignored), then to reference a yacht party that neither of them had been at but you’d assumed lucie had at least seen on instagram (derailed), and then to make a joke about how monaco brunch menus all look the same anyway, which, again, no one hears. or maybe they do and just don’t respond. you can’t decide which is worse.

and then, as if things couldn’t get more annoying, charles and lucie realize they’re both attending the same charity gala next weekend. the one you and lucie had discussed not going to because the hosts are terribly disorganized and the champagne last year was warm.

“oh, it’s a shame you can’t go with us,” lucie says, genuinely sweet, turning to you.

you smile, thin. thin. “actually,” you say, too quickly, “i think my schedule just opened up.”

charles raises an eyebrow. “really?”

“mmhmm,” you say, sipping your mimosa like it hasn’t turned acidic. “wouldn’t miss it.”

you don’t look at either of them for the next full minute.

your mimosa is almost gone. the sun is suddenly too hot. and you are starting to think— very seriously, in the same breathless, breathy part of your brain that usually only activates during designer sample sales— that maybe your problem isn’t that you can’t find someone for charles.

maybe the problem is that you don’t want to.

the charity gala is exactly the kind of event you normally live for.  held in a centuries-old villa somewhere just uphill from the port— gilded mirrors, candlelight flickering off antique chandeliers, and full of the same ten people you see at every other event in monaco, rotating outfits and partners like a very expensive game of musical chairs. there are at least four different media personalities in attendance whom you've previously set up with heirs, at the very least.

you wear something dramatic and silky and backless, the color of antique gold, and you tell yourself you’re only here for lucie. for lucie and charity and the off-chance they actually serve chilled champagne this year. not because you found out charles was attending with lucie. which, technically, he isn’t—he’s not attending with her, he’s just... arriving at the same time. walking up to her when you both walk in. talking to her. lingering at her side.

which would be fine, obviously. it’s not like you have a stake in it. it’s not like you’re bothered. except maybe you are. just a little. in the way you’re also a little bothered by people who clap when planes land.

it starts when charles and lucie are laughing at something— something that is objectively not that funny, like, if someone were grading jokes on a scale, it would land somewhere between mildly funny and ha-ha, okay?— and your brain, which has been doing a very good job pretending to be very normal tonight, suddenly decides to betray you.

it ends with what you think is a harmless comment. something flippant. you’re not even sure what exactly you said— something about how lucie used to date men who were walking red flags, and now she’s charmed by charles, which is a definite upgrade but also a little predictable, maybe. but the tone’s off; too sharp, too cutting. and suddenly he’s looking at you, not like he’s amused, but like he’s confused, and you hate that more.

you excuse yourself before you can do more damage, but the universe is cruel and doesn’t let you escape unscathed because not twenty minutes later, charles finds you again, pulls you aside into the hallway by the villa’s library, where the lighting is warm and the rug is absurdly expensive and you’re standing too close to be anything but honest.

“what was that?” he asks, low and sharp, the way he only ever gets when he’s serious when he’s with you. which is rare. and unnerving.

you cross your arms. “what was what?”

“you basically insulted lucie to her face.”

“i didn’t,” you say, automatically, because you’ve had years of practice denying things.

“you said she had bad taste in men.”

“i mean... she did date adrien.”

he shakes his head, exasperated. “you’re the one who wanted to set me up. you’ve been insisting on finding someone, and now— what, now you’re sabotaging it?”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. like a fish. a very beautiful, expensively dressed fish.

“i wasn’t sabotaging anything,” you say, except it comes out too fast, too sharp.

“are you jealous?”

you laugh, because that is insane. you are not jealous. you are many things— witty, fabulous, emotionally evasive— but not jealous. right? — right?  “oh my god,” you say, “you wish.”

he doesn’t back down. just stares at you like he’s trying to see the thing you won’t say out loud.

you hate him a little for that.

you storm off before you can say more things you’ll regret, or worse, something that would make you feel exposed.

but the night isn’t done ruining you yet, because lucie finds you by the outdoor bar, where you’re stabbing a lemon slice with a cocktail straw and pretending to look fascinated by a conversation about luxury yacht taxation.

“can we talk?” she asks.

you sigh. “about how charles is clearly in love with you?”

lucie blinks. “what?”

“nothing.”

she frowns. “why are you being like this?”

you hate that you don’t have an answer. not a real one.

she stares at you, and then— quietly, carefully— says, “you know, for someone who matches people for a living, you’re not very good at relationships.”

you blink. stunned. like she just slapped you. “excuse me?”

“you spend so much time designing other people’s lives that you forget to live your own.”

“wow,” you say, eyes widening. you could almost laugh. “lucie. that was... poetic.”

she sighs. “you’re lonely, and you hide it behind all your plans. i don’t think you even know what you want.”

you’re silent. and then you go for the jugular. “well,” you snap, “at least i don’t have crush on the only guy who’s ever given her attention.”

lucie’s face hardens. you feel sick the second it leaves your mouth.

“you know what?” she says, stepping back. “you can’t even drive.”

“what?”

“you can’t drive. metaphorically, literally— take your pick. or better yet, find your own ride home.”

“lucie—”

“let’s just talk when we’ve mellowed, yeah?” she says, already walking away, already done. “you clearly need it more than i do.”

and then she’s gone. just like that.

the room sways a little. you place your flute of champagne on the nearest tray and press your fingers to your temples like that will do anything, as if you’re in a skincare commercial where everything gets better with a dewy filter on.

but there’s no filter here. just you, alone in the corner of a party you didn’t even want to come to, wearing chanel and a very fake smile, and feeling—

 god—

 so thoroughly not. okay.

walking home in heels is not for the faint of heart, the emotionally unstable, or the severely misaligned. and you, unfortunately, are at least two out of three right now.

you don’t storm out of the villa because you are not a stormer, thank you very much. storming is for people with dramatic capes and tragic backstories. you are elegant. composed. you walk out. briskly. gracefully. with purpose.

it just so happens that your heels click a little too aggressively on the marble.

and the thing is— you could call a car. you should call a car. you know this. you know at least seven people at that gala who would give you a ride home just for the chance to say they did. your phone is right there, glowing softly in your clutch. but your brain is already tangled in ribbon curls of anxiety and embarrassment and something heavier that you refuse to name. so it makes the genius decision that you’re going to walk.

because walking, in theory, is cinematic. it’s reflective. it’s the kind of thing you imagine doing to clear your head, even though in monaco it mostly just means going in tiny circles around a city that’s roughly the size of your cousin juliane’s vineyard in provence.

still, you keep walking. past the expensive hotel that always manages to overbook itself during formula one season. past the boutique you returned a pair of shoes to once, only to buy them again a week later. past the gelato place— your gelato place, the one that always tastes better at night— where you pause, sigh dramatically, and order a cone because if your heart’s going to be in shambles, you might as well be holding pistachio.

and then you’re back to walking. cone in one hand, heels clacking rhythmically against the pavement, tears not in your eyes because you are not crying, actually, you are just very overwhelmed and a little dehydrated.

you think of charles— charles and lucie, more accurately— laughing together, leaning close, his hand brushing her arm in that stupid soft way he always does when he’s trying to listen harder. and something in you curdles. not in an i want him for myself kind of way, because that would be crazy, right? right?

and you know you’re being irrational. dramatic, even. which are words you’d never call yourself, but perhaps it’s time to concede.

but you also know— deep, deep, deep down, in that place just under your ribs where you keep your best-kept secrets and also your favorite purse-sized perfume— you’ve never felt like this before. not for any of the men you’ve dated. no— no one has ever made you feel… unsteady.

you walk faster.

you try to make excuses. you tell yourself it’s because you’re a matchmaker. this is your thing. this is what you do. you find people the best match. you curate. and maybe you just don’t like being wrong. maybe it’s not about charles. maybe it’s about control.

but then your brain, cruel and unfiltered, offers up memories from lycée— charles, slipping you the last madeleine at study hall even though you already had three. and then it’s charles, covering for you when madame robineau found your unauthorized magazine under the desk. charles, standing next to you at every school event, and you don’t even realize until you do, until you look back at what blurry memories your high school years offer you and you see him there, in your periphery.

charles, who was the only boy in class who attended your thirteenth birthday party, even after every other boy was too scared of cooties, even when he had a karting event the next day. he had shown up in a too-big blazer and a gift bag, which you don’t even remember until now.

charles, remembering your dumb, offhand comment about not needing love because you’d rather build it for other people. charles, offering to drive you home. every time.

you keep walking. faster, now. you lick the gelato. the streets are quieter now, lamps casting gold shadows along the sidewalk. your shoes are ruined. your dress is wrinkled. you have melted pistachio ice s on your thumb. you are falling apart in a way that is very cinematic, except there’s no one filming it. and that’s when it hits you.

like, actually hits you.

right as you reach your apartment and the very dramatic fountain in the courtyard goes off— because of course it does, this is monaco, even water has flair— you stop mid-step and gasp.

like, full gasp.

you’re in love with charles.

you are.

you are in love with charles leclerc and it’s been there the whole time, tucked between old yearbook memories and every time you teased him for being too nice to you, too patient, too him. and it’s not just a crush. it’s not a passing thing. it’s the real kind, the serious kind, the i think he’s been in love with me this entire time and i didn’t even notice because i was too busy setting him up with models and calling it fate kind.

you stand there, stunned, dripping gelato onto the cobblestones.

“everything alright, mademoiselle?” your doorman calls from his stool, raising an eyebrow.

you blink at him. “i’m realizing things!” you shout. he blinks back, then returns to playing games on his phone.

you don’t care. you really, actually don’t. because this whole time, this entire time, you’ve been setting people up and drawing little imaginary maps and playing matchmaker like it was a game, like it didn’t have anything to do with you. and all along, charles has been— what? waiting? watching? loving you?

and maybe you’ve been loving him back. every party. every side conversation. every almost-moment that you laughed off because you were too scared to name it.

you technically don’t go to the product launch to apologize.

you go because you like face serums well enough, and mostly because pretending everything is fine in a crowd full of influencers and mid-tier royals is easier than sitting at home alone wondering if you’ve officially ruined your 100% matchmaking success rate and also your entire emotional compass in one spectacular week.

you’re by the iced rosé table, very committed to pretending you’re texting someone important, when you spot lucie. she’s across the room, glowing in that very annoying, very sincere way that only people who are actually happy do. and beside her is a man— tall, vaguely art school handsome, and you know, immediately, that it’s theo.

you make your way over because you’re not a coward, not anymore, and because your therapist says avoidance is not a sustainable coping mechanism. you wait until she’s alone, momentarily, before slipping into her periphery.

“hi,” you say, and it sounds smaller than you expect. not frivolous. not polished. just... you.

lucie blinks. her face stays neutral. “hi.”

you swallow. smile like it might save you. “i was a bitch.”

she raises one brow. “not news.”

“a massive, glowing, unrelenting bitch.”

she doesn’t let you off the hook— not immediately. just looks at you, brows lifted, like she’s deciding whether or not you’re being real. like she’s weighing everything you’ve ever said to her—every time you dismissed her dates, her taste, her feelings— and calculating whether this apology is finally about her, and not about you. “closer.” 

“i’m sorry about the gala. and i'm sorry i said no,” you continue, breath catching a little. “about theo. i was wrong. i didn’t see it.”

“no,” she says gently, “you didn’t want to see it.”

and that’s the worst part. because it’s true.

you’ve spent years shaping other people’s love stories like puzzles, assuming you always knew what was best. and now here you are, watching lucie glow— truly, effortlessly glow— with the man you told her wasn’t worth her time, simply because he didn’t fit into your narrative. didn’t wear the right shoes. didn’t match the hypothetical vision you’d envisioned for her.

“maybe i’m not such a great matchmaker after all,” you say with a weak smile. “maybe ninety-nine percent success rate. tops.”

lucie softens. not fully, but enough. “ninety-nine’s still pretty good.”

you glance toward theo, who’s speaking to a brand rep across the room, and say, a little dryly, “i suppose he is quite handsome. and it doesn’t look like he’s wearing zara.”

lucie grins. “and he’s kind.”

and it doesn’t feel like a dig. doesn’t feel like a pointed correction. it feels true, and warm, and something about the simplicity of it— that word, kind— makes your chest ache in a very inconvenient way.

because kind is what you’ve been running from. kind is what you thought you could orchestrate around. and kind is exactly what’s been quietly waiting for you in the form of one very patient, very persistent boy who’s seen through your everything for years.

that’s when you feel it. that tug. like gravity, like timing. like the universe tapping you on the shoulder and whispering: this is one of those moments, pay attention.

and when you turn, like you’re being drawn by it— because maybe you are— charles is there.

he must’ve walked in during the tail end of your emotional crash-and-burn because he’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets. you don’t hesitate this time.

you walk over, meet his eyes, and exhale like your lungs have been tight for months. “you heard?”

he nods once.

“i’m sorry,” you apologize for the second time that day. “about everything. the weirdness. the matchmaking. the fact that i pretended like none of it mattered when it mattered more than anything.”

he doesn’t make it harder. doesn’t rub it in. just looks at you like he always does—like he sees everything and doesn’t flinch.

“do you want a ride home?” he asks.

you nod, the softest of smiles on your face. “okay.”

the thing is, the drive back is short.

you could’ve walked, honestly— probably should have, in the spirit of character development and personal reckoning and all that— but then again, you did walk to the product launch, which in itself feels like growth. and you’re wearing heels, and anyway, charles offered. and saying no to him in that moment would have felt like a cosmic error.

you don’t talk on the way.

not because there’s nothing to say, but because too much has already been said— or worse, felt. and now it’s this soft, humming silence that sits between you, not uncomfortable exactly, just… thick. electric. the kind of silence that says something’s about to happen, you just haven’t caught up to it yet.

when he parks, he doesn’t say goodbye or goodnight or any of the easy, polite things. he just glances over and says, “can i walk you up?” and you nod, because there’s never been a version of you that could say no to him. not in lycée, not at the gala, not now.

your apartment building is older than most of the condos lining the port—grander, quieter, the kind of place that smells faintly of stone and lavender and whatever wealth used to mean before everyone started dealing in make-believe money.

you walk past the doorman who gives you a pointed look, and you give him one back, and then you’re inside. marble floors, high ceilings, and the staircase that spirals up, large and grand, worn down in the middle from decades of beautiful people coming home late.

you sit there. on the middle landing. the place where you used to take phone calls you didn’t want your mother overhearing. the place where, once, you cried after your first rejection letter from a uni you didn’t even want to go to but still took personally. and now here you are again, a little older, a little wiser, maybe, and a lot more cracked open than you meant to be.

charles sits beside you.

not too close. just enough that you can feel the shape of him in the air between you.

“i’m sorry,” you say, finally. “again. i know i’ve said it already, but i think i need to say it here. just once more. properly.”

he doesn’t interrupt, which is what he always does when you talk like this. never cuts in, never tries to finish your sentences. he just waits.

“i think for a long time, i liked the idea of controlling things,” you admit, twisting your fingers in the hem of your dress. “matchmaking. crafting stories for other people. if i kept everyone else in motion, i didn’t have to figure out what i wanted. or what i was afraid of wanting.”

charles is quiet for a second. then: “and now?”

you laugh, soft. a little embarrassed. “now i’m terrified because i think i’ve always known. and i spent years pretending i didn’t.”

he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “in school… you were always so loud. not in a bad way. just… there. everywhere. talking, laughing, knowing everything about everyone. and i thought, god, she’s a force. and i admired that.”

you stare at him.

“you remember when you made our teachers date?” he grins, suddenly, small and crooked. “you took it like it was a full-time job. like matchmaking was this divine calling. and the whole time, you never noticed that i’d been trying to talk to you for weeks.”

you look at him, and the weight of it hits you all over again. how many times has he seen you like this? how many moments from lycée are only just now coming into focus— the time he saved you a seat in class when you came in late and flustered, the way he remembered every detail you ever mentioned without making a big deal of it, the way he always just... showed up. without ever making you ask.

you say, quieter this time, “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

charles looks at you, really looks at you, and shrugs like he doesn’t trust his voice. “because if i didn’t feel the way i do, it would’ve been easier to say something.”

you tilt your head, heart thudding in that stupid, reckless way that makes you want to throw something. preferably your pride.

his mouth twitches. “if i loved you less,” he says, voice lower now, “i might be able to talk about it more.”

you look at him then, really look, and it’s like seeing someone you’ve known your entire life for the first time. how stupid, you think. how obvious. how simple.

and before you can overthink it— before your brain starts to tell you it’s a bad idea or too fast or too anything— you lean in.

charles meets you halfway.

his mouth is soft and certain and familiar in a way that makes no sense and also makes all the sense. it doesn’t feel like something new. it feels like something that was always there. like kissing him is something you were meant to do at fifteen and twenty and now.

he pulls back for half a second like he’s checking if this is okay, and you answer by kissing him again, fingers slipping up to curl at the back of his neck, because you’re done pretending. done orchestrating other people’s endings while ignoring your own.

and in between kissing him— between the half-laughs and quiet exhales and that little pause where your forehead rests against his— you think about fate. how it never really announces itself. how it’s not always fireworks or grand gestures or perfect timing. sometimes it’s just a boy you’ve known for forever sitting beside you on a staircase that’s seen too much of your life, offering you his silence and his car keys and his heart without asking for anything in return. sometimes it’s a walk to the car that feels like coming home.

[hoodpankow]

electric touch (part 2)

Pairing: Bucky x medical team! reader

Summary: Getting a spot on the field medical team was your dream. And your closest work friend Bucky Barnes finally asking you out? That was the cherry on top of your good news. Now all you had to do was pass your training week. Seems easy enough until you’re faced with someone who doesn’t want to see you win.

Warnings: abuse of power, verbal abuse, physical assault, some PTSD (but none of these are because of Bucky!!!!)

Wordcount: 8.5k

Part 1

Notes: WELP, sorry for the delay on this one. I've never rewritten so many scenes before (I have about 2k worth of trash from this part). thank you so much for your patience and for reading and reblogging part 1. hope you enjoy!!! <3

--

You didn’t anticipate the first-time seeing Bucky’s apartment would be like this: after two hours spent at a private clinic in Midtown, getting an x-ray then a consultation with a Dr. Alvarez, followed by the application of a cast. Then there was a visit from Tony Stark himself, alongside Pepper Potts, who carried a great amount of apologies and offered support for whatever the next steps ended up being.

Not once did you think you would be sneaking into the Tower through a back elevator, arm resting in a sling, shuffling your feet quietly beside Bucky as you ventured to his apartment, and feeling somehow both on edge and utterly exhausted throughout the whole process. And Bucky checked in with you every step of the way – sometimes with just a cursory glance. He managed to say so much without saying anything at all, and you really appreciated that.

God, he was so careful with you. Gentle, even. Gentle wasn’t the first word you would use to describe Bucky. Not that he was rough or reckless or brutish or whatever the opposite of gentle was. When it came to you, he was always kind and quiet and attentive.

But the way he spoke to you, how he had apologized after every bump and pothole as the ground shook his car, how he held his hand at your back as he guided you to his door - it was unexpected and gentle and exactly what kept you from spiraling. 

Despite all that, you wanted to visit his apartment for the first time excited, with butterflies in your stomach. Why did it have to be like this?

When you got to his door, there was a Stark Industries bag hanging off the handle. Bucky paused, then nodded with a hum before scanning his access card to open the door. 

The living spaces at the Tower were pretty basic, and you knew Bucky wasn’t intending on staying there forever, but he somehow managed to make it feel like his home nonetheless. 

A basic kitchen was immediately on your left as you walked in, open directly into the living room - which had a big, comfortable couch covered in a few pillows and blankets. You carefully fell into it, eyes closed. The impact made you wince but you decided it was worth it, given how you sank into the cushions.

“So, what do you want to eat?” Bucky had stopped in the kitchen area, grabbing what looked like a stack of menus from the top of the fridge.

You just shrugged, glancing over at him briefly before closing your eyes. “I’m not really hungry.”

Even though you weren’t looking at him, you could sense the frown on his face.

He sighed out your name. “Didn’t we just learn a lesson about taking those intense pain meds on an empty stomach?” He paused. “Actually, you think about it, I’m going to change...”

You squeezed your eyes even harder, trying to scrub away that recent memory. 

The doctor had been fitting the temporary cast on your hand and wrist just as whatever remaining particles of pain medication seemed to disappear from your bloodstream. That had been enough to make you feel nauseated but then when a nurse came to share some stronger meds with you, Bucky was quick to grab the nearest trash can when they immediately made you throw up. 

Most of it made it into the can, at least.

Now he was probably going to change out of his shirt that had been hit with the rest.

In the few moments of quiet while Bucky was in his bedroom, everything about the last few days hit you all at once. 

Boone. The gym. Your face on the mat. The way he yelled, screamed. Why hadn’t you left? 

Your couch. The growing pain. The purple and yellow and blue bruises. Why didn’t you just walk away?

Bucky.

Bucky at your door, with soup. Bucky with his tender touch. Your hand.

Pepper Potts, her kindness. 

The doctor.

The doctor said something about surgery after seeing your x-ray. Metacarpal break in your hand, down from the ring finger, and a hairline fracture down your wrist.

Pepper had been so kind but what was it she said about a police report? About filing a report with HR? What had she said about taking a break from work?

Bucky, Bucky had been so patient. He hadn’t left your side. But–

How would you ever write again? Could you hold a pen? Would you be able to do your job? Now you wouldn’t have your new role and you’d be shit at your current job, too. How could a nurse function without typing notes or holding a stethoscope or –

Boone. The gym. Your face on the mat. Bucky. Boone. Bucky. Your hand and this cast and this goddamn sling.

In your slurry of thoughts, you hadn’t even realized the tight feeling growing in your chest. Instinctually, you tried to place a hand over your heart and – pain, your wrist. Heaving in deep breaths, it felt as if your lungs couldn’t handle functioning properly.

And your skin - everything felt too hot. You shuffled forward on the couch until you were closer to the floor, dropping to your knees as you tore at your sweatshirt with one hand. It was only halfway zipped up, barely draped over your shoulders, and just so so so hot - were you dripping with sweat?

Could Bucky hear as you called out for him? God, what if he just changed his mind - you were a mess, this wasn’t the person he knew and definitely wasn’t the person he asked out.

How could he be proud of you now?

You tore off your glasses as tears started to fall.

Your name, someone was saying your name. 

Were you under water? It felt like you were under water. Your skin - hot. Your hand, your wrist – pain. 

Boone. 

You collapsed further, bracing yourself on the rug with your free hand. It was strangely soft under your palm. Bucky’s apartment had a soft rug.

Bucky. Bucky was saying your name. 

“Hey, hey. You’re okay.” 

He sounded close, so close. You blinked through your tears and saw he had dropped down beside you on the floor. 

“Sweetheart, can I - can I touch you? Is that okay?”

You nodded, peeking your head up to look at him. Everything was blurry. 

Slowly, he reached out and pressed one hand against your chest, firm. The other was running up and down your back. You listened to him carefully as he talked you through whatever this episode was, breathing in tandem as he applied just enough pressure to your chest and shoulders to really ground you beside him. 

He spoke your name, trying to keep your attention. “Talk to me, please.”

“Bucky - I..” You closed your eyes, sparing a moment to breathe at his pace. His hand pressed against your chest didn’t let up but he helped you lean back against the couch. “I’m scared.. Boone, he.. What if.. My hand..”

“I promise you’re never going to see him again.”

“No, no. I’m not..” Another deep breath. Your heart rate seemed to steady. “I’m not scared of seeing him. I want to.. I want to break his jaw or.. I wasn’t strong enough to even try..” You lifted your arm, tight in the cast and sling. “I won’t even be able to do that. He – I fucked up my hand and I - how can I even do my job or write anything or hold anything or even text? And I - I’ve never had surgery before and I’m - I’m scared something will go wrong and I won’t get to join the med team and I - How can I..” You could feel yourself starting to hyperventilate. “He kept yelling at me to fight back.. Fight back and-and prove myself! I should have – I should have just walked away, I should have–”

You couldn’t quite remember how the shift happened - but you were soon back on the couch, gently turned towards Bucky as he wrapped his arm around you. Time seemed to disappear as you cried into the crook of his shoulder. 

Maybe it wasn’t the most comfortable position as your hand pulsed in pain, but the close feeling, the touch of Bucky, the heat radiating from him - the combination soothed you. 

Bucky seemed to sense the exact moment your heart rate returned back to normal, as he very gently nudged you away just enough to peer down at you. He reached for your glasses and secured them back to where they belonged then offered you a soft smile.

“I don’t want to, uh, invalidate your feelings,” Bucky started then quickly paused. “Christ, I sound like Steve.”

That made you laugh.

“But you’ve gotta know that the doctor who's going to fix your hand will do a damn good job and while maybe you’ll have to take some time off work, you’ll be able to adapt until you fully heal. I promise.” He shifted and grabbed your available hand. “And surgery can be scary but I’ll be there the whole time and wait for you after, okay?”

“You’ll do that?”

Bucky seemed to falter after another moment. “Only if you want me, I don’t want to assume–”

“No, no. I do. I just..” You let out a slow breath. “I.. I’m really grateful to be right here, with you. I’m glad you didn’t leave my apartment earlier, even when I was pushing you out.”

Now he had a chance to laugh. “Yeah, I think we both know I wasn’t going anywhere, sweetheart. Now, you need to eat something. Any requests?”

Half an hour later Bucky was unpacking a delivery bag and handing you a meal and a dose of medication that you had brought home from the clinic. Admittedly, the warm food helped settle you even more and you had a feeling that you’d fall asleep quickly.

The bag hanging from Bucky’s door was full of overnight essentials, including a Stark Industries branded t-shirt and matching sweatpants. You managed to change and brush your teeth with only one hand, then found Bucky waiting for you in the hallway.

“I got my bed set up with extra pillows for you.”

You glanced into his room, then craned your neck to look back towards the living room. A lone pillow and blanket created a makeshift bed on the couch cushions.

Bucky answered the question on your mind: “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

You scrunched your face up. “No.”

“No?” Bucky repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Even with extra pillows, I think there is definitely room for us both.” You stepped into his room and surveyed the space. Again, although a bit basic and free from any excess, it felt like Bucky lived there. A framed picture of him and Steve lived on his dresser. A basket of unfolded laundry sat outside his closet door. An extra pair of boots leaned up against his bedside table. 

Bucky let out a long breath, saying your name quietly. He shook his head then motioned towards the bed. “Okay.”

It took a few moments to adjust into a position that felt comfortable enough for you. Bucky helped you rearrange some of the pillows before he very cautiously joined you in the bed, doing his best to not create any extra movement to jostle you. 

Silence took over a few moments later, when he reached down and grabbed your left hand. 

You squeezed his palm, speaking through a yawn. “This isn’t how I pictured us sharing a bed for the first time.”

He laughed in return, shifting against his pillow. “Me neither, doll.” 

Then, you heard Bucky move again. And after a sweet mumbling of goodnight, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

--

To say Bucky was reluctant to leave you alone was an understatement. But once you settled into his bed, the pain medication seemed to finally kick in and you were out like a light. He left a small note on the bedside table, near your phone, to let you know he’d be back quickly and to call for FRIDAY if you needed anything. As he slipped into the hallway, secured in a black hoodie, he glanced towards his phone.

Tony’s message had been nondescript, but Bucky understood enough he had information about Boone. Tony insinuated earlier he was already digging into the video footage and how to proceed, but knew Bucky would want to be informed every step of the way.

Not that it mattered - Bucky already had a plan: find Boone then kill him.

Okay, no, no. Bucky couldn’t kill him. He’d never take a life like that again but… well, he had already considered a thousand different scenarios that left Boone to deal with the consequences of his actions. 

Bucky cracked his neck as he got into the elevator, shooting up to Tony’s lab. He stepped out directly into the space, following the echo of Tony’s voice somewhere inside. Bucky found him standing behind one of his workstations, hands flying around as he swiped at the screens illuminated ahead.

Tony paused, pivoting slightly as he shuffled a few things around on his desk. He leaned towards the end of his workspace, hooked his foot on the bottom of a wheeled chair and slid it in Bucky’s direction.

“How is she?” Tony asked, perching on the side of his workstation as Bucky sat.

Bucky shook his head. How could he even answer that? “Finally sleeping.”

“I hope they gave her the good stuff.” Tony’s fingers tapped against the side of the desk. “You know, Dr. Alvarez told me your girl must have a high pain tolerance given the severity of that break.” Before Bucky even had a chance to defend your non-relationship status, Tony carried on. “But Barnes - she’s tough, really tough. Look.”

Bucky turned his head to the screens, as a series of video captures started playing on the screen. It was footage of you - from the training gym, during all your sessions the week prior. 

Tough didn’t seem like enough. You were strategic and resilient and smart. Sure, maybe you needed to work on your pace and Bucky could certainly give you some pointers when it came to aim, he was still impressed.

“Here’s the thing.” Tony paused the footage. “When this incident happened– listen, I know incident isn’t the right word here. But when it happened, someone retroactively cut out some security footage.” He shifted his hand and tapped the screen again. “I just recovered it. And I am looking into how that imbecile managed to bypass the admin code for the security logs.”

“Did you watch it?” Bucky held his breath, tearing his eyes from the screen back towards Tony who shook his head. 

“Not yet.”

Bucky flicked his hand to the screen, to signal for Tony to show him. Bucky stood from his chair and crossed his arms once the video started.

As he watched, the anger flared up in Bucky almost instantly. Just seeing you alone with Boone in the gym made his stomach drop but when Boone shoved you down, Bucky growled.

The footage didn’t have any audio, though Bucky had a feeling that if he could also hear whatever Boone had been shouting at you, he’d be trashing Tony’s lab just to deal with his frustration. 

At first, everything seemed normal enough. Bucky sucked in a breath when Boone pulled off your glasses. His fist clenched tightly when Boone pushed you down to your knees. When Boone’s hand touched your head…

“Good for her,” Tony muttered out when you quickly started to fight back. 

When Boone escalated things though - as your face dragged against the mat, as he pulled at your arms, how he followed up as you tried to crawl away, as he clearly shouted and stomped his feet down on your hand, Bucky couldn’t help but boil over. He let out another growl and grabbed a nearby stool, snapping it over his knee.

He dropped the wooden shards to the ground, apologizing to Tony before requesting he turn off the video.

“Listen,” Tony raised his hands, as if to forgive Bucky for the outburst. “I can’t put Pepper through the PR nightmare if you kill this guy.”

“I’m not going to..” Bucky sucked in a breath. Well, he wasn’t going to speak in absolutes or promises. He could barely see past the red in his eyes, there was no point in lying.

Tony let out a small yelp. “Oh, hold on. Let’s..” He dropped back down onto a rolling chair and moved towards one of his computer screens. “FRIDAY, let’s pull up the last 6th months of data for Agent Nathan Boone. Every swipe in, hour worked, blah blah blah. You know the drill.”

Bucky tried to follow Tony’s thought process, crossing his arms as he watched the screens compile different information.

“When does he usually go to the gym?” Tony asked, swiping ahead of him as he scanned over the data.

FRIDAY’s lilt echoed above them. “Agent Boone, on average, visits the gym every day he is on schedule. He first enters usually between 6 and 6:07AM.”

Tony nodded. “Okay, and when was the last time we did diagnostics on the gym security system?”

“Well, boss, this system doesn’t require regular diagnostics due to the software protection.”

“Right. Then it sounds like we’re due.” Tony shot a glance over his shoulder to meet Bucky’s gaze. “Let’s run it in the morning, around 6AM. Full system shut down - including cameras - for half an hour?”

Bucky grunted. “Make it an hour.”

--

 Following his visit to Tony’s lab, which actually concluded with sharing a glass of whiskey, Bucky made a plan. 

He returned to his apartment and bed, where he luckily found you still sleeping soundly. When you both stirred awake a few hours later, just shy of sunrise, Bucky encouraged you to stay in bed while he hit the gym.

You barely argued as your eyes fluttered shut again, wincing only slightly as you adjusted on the bed. Bucky promised to return with breakfast when he was done.

Then, he headed to the gym. He discovered easily how effective a piece of paper could be at deterring people from entering. One well placed ‘Closed for cleaning’ sign and a locked door kept anyone else from accessing the space after Bucky watched Boone enter.

A thousand scenarios flashed through Bucky’s mind when he saw Boone. On top of the flood of thoughts he wrestled with all night long, Bucky was simply itching to rearrange Boone’s entire dumb fucking face.

But, no. No. He had a plan.

Bucky rolled his head slightly, cracked his knuckles, then headed towards the weight area. It wasn’t hard to find Boone, given he was the only other person in the space. That and he was already proving himself obnoxious - blasting music from his phone instead of using headphones.

“Boone.” Bucky approached slowly. Boone looked up as he did, shifting slightly as he sat on the bench and giving Bucky a small nod.

“What’s up, Sarge?” Boone replied. “I guess you and I are the only early birds today. Usually a few more in here. Though with some of these new recruits, I guess I’m not surprised they don’t give a shit about training.

Bucky sucked in a breath before motioning to the weight rack behind Boone as he set up a bench press. “You need a spot?”

Boone shrugged. “Sure.”

“This your warm up?” Bucky smirked, tapping against the plates resting on the bar. “You’ve gotta be doing more than that these days. Cap told me he’s been impressed by your bulking.”

Boone let out a stiff laugh. “I hit a new max rep last week, actually. I realize that’s nothing compared to you and Cap .”

“C’mon then.” Bucky leaned forward and slapped Boone’s shoulder. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Boone stood up on impact, skepticism evident on his face before he sat again. But, he didn’t falter. “Sure.”

Bucky walked over to the weight rack and grabbed two additional heavy plates, sliding them on as Boone laid down and got into position. 

“Speaking of new recruits.” Bucky bristled as he tried to make convincing small talk with Boone and his dumb fucking face. If Boone thought it was out of character, he didn’t mention it. “How’d training go last week?”

Boone laughed, stretching his arms up to brace the bar. “Yeah, it went fine. Most of them passed. That’s on par with the recent cohorts. Usually one or two bail out.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky crossed his arms, doing everything in his power to reign himself in. 

“Makes sense. Most people aren’t ready - some will never be–” Boone pressed upwards, inhaling a sharp breath as he lifted the bar.

“Too much?” Bucky took half a step backwards.

“No, no.” Boone carried on, barely moving the bar up off the rack. “I’ve got it.” His arms fully extended, as the weight bar swayed slightly between his arms before he positioned it back in place.

Bucky returned to the weight rack and grabbed two more plates. “Nice. You got more in you?”

Boone hesitated, looking backwards to meet Bucky’s gaze. He nodded. “Absolutely.”

Once the new weights were settled, Bucky stood above him again. 

“Hey.” Bucky closed his eyes, moving to the side of the bench to peer down at Boone. Bucky said your name. “She was training with you last week, right?”

Boone froze momentarily then blinked. “Uh, yeah. I remember her.”

“Between you and me - how’d she do?” Bucky rested his hands underneath the bar, temporarily alleviating some of the weight as Boone pressed upwards again. “Do you think she was ready?”

Boone closed his eyes to focus on his lift. “Between you and me,” he echoed to Bucky. “That dumb broad will never be ready.”

A searing heat coursed through Bucky as he released his hands, stepping back as the overweight bar slammed down on Boone’s chest. Boone roared out in pain, whimpering as the entire barbell rolled down onto his throat. As his arms flailed at his side, trying and failing to push it away, Boone tried to call out for Bucky’s help.

Though his anger remained, watching Boone struggle was still enjoyable. And although Bucky would have been happy to see the barbell crush Boone’s windpipe, he eventually did step forward and reach for the weights.

With his left arm, Bucky removed the bar and threw the entire thing to the side. With his right hand, he yanked Boone up off the bench onto his feet.

“Did you forget how to spot me? The fuck?” Boone shouted, eyes widening as he rubbed at his throat. He swung his arm forward and pushed against Bucky’s chest.  “I could have fucking–”

Bucky snarled, shoving Boone back the same way - sending him into the rack holding the weights. Boone bounced off the structure and tumbled to the side, wincing in pain as Bucky stalked after him. “Why don’t you fight back?”

“Barnes, you’re out of your mind. What the fuck–”

“Fight back.” Bucky advanced closer, looming over Boone as he scuttled backwards on the floor.  “Prove yourself.” It was clear to Bucky that reference hit Boone directly. Although he couldn’t bring himself to snap back, Boone’s face grew red. An extra bead of sweat dripped down from his forehead, as he pressed against the wall.

Bucky crouched down, grabbing Boone’s jaw between his metal fingers. “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky said your name slowly. Boone’s eyes briefly widened. “What do you get out of beating up an agent?” 

“I didn’t–” Boone tried to shake his head. “Is she your little girlfriend or something? Listen, I wouldn’t have – I didn’t know she – What did she say–”

“It doesn’t fucking matter if she’s anyone girlfriend, you piece of shit.” Bucky grabbed him by the throat and pulled him back up to his feet, sparing a moment to spit in Boone’s face before he made his next move. Bucky dropped his hand and took one step back, stretching his arms ahead of himself before letting out a growl. “Fight back, Agent Boone. Prove. Yourself.”

--

Despite your nicely medicated sleep in Bucky’s bed, you were tired. And talking to a lawyer and Pepper and HR and a member of the NYPD police, Officer Reyes, about the entire situation again definitely contributed to your exhaustion. 

You were even on your second coffee but it didn’t seem to be helping. Bucky was practically holding you up as he sat at your side. You were in the medical wing at the tower, going through everything you needed before surgery. It had been scheduled quickly - probably at Tony’s request, given his relationship with Dr. Alvarez. And although you didn’t really want to think about the gravity of having surgery, you couldn’t help but look forward to the healing process. You wanted this all to be over already.

“That’s everything we need. You’re prepared for tomorrow. Start fasting at midnight!” 

You thanked your coworker, Jillian, for being a wonderful nurse and securing you back into your sling. Bucky helped you to stand, giving you a once over to make sure you were okay. 

Bucky had been quiet all morning. That wasn’t particularly out of character, but he seemed tense. You didn’t always see every side of him as friends and now with all this - things were shifting. You didn’t mind it, though. You welcomed it, especially after waking up in his bed and relishing in the sense of security that he was at your side.

“Hey Bucky?” You stopped him once you were outside the doors, heading in the direction of the elevators. 

He immediately frowned, searching your face as he turned to face you. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” You offered him a reassuring smile. “But are you?”

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, extending your good hand to grab his. “If you can worry about me, you must know I worry about you too. Can’t help it.”

Bucky cracked a reluctant smile. “Okay. Well, try not to worry about me right now then, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Before you could hit him back with another defensive rebuttal, you were interrupted by your name being called down the hallway. It was Pepper and Officer Reyes, again.

You drew in a hard breath, relaxing a tiny bit when you felt Bucky squeeze your hand. He hadn’t let go, and it seemed he didn’t plan to. When the officer asked to speak with you, Bucky took the lead and guided you into the nearest consultation room to have the conversation privately.

Pepper opted to wait outside but Bucky joined you, arms crossed in front of the door while you sat opposite the officer.

You really liked Officer Reyes. She was patient, direct, and took her job very seriously. And right now, that meant dealing with Boone.

“Just to give you a fair update,” she started, folding her hands together on top of the table. “We had the arrest warrant prepared and although he swiped in for work and into the gym this morning, we actually found Nathan Boone at his apartment downtown. He came willingly. In fact, it seemed he was waiting for us. He’s been charged with assault in the third degree and you’ll be happy to know he pled guilty.” 

You sat back in your chair, a sense of relief flooding through you. Although you knew there was video footage and physical proof of Boone’s attack, you still had doubts the judicial system would work in your favour. 

“So, is that it?” You asked cautiously. 

Reyes nodded. “From you? Pretty much.” She tipped her head sideways briefly, considering. “I shouldn’t mention this, but given the circumstances, it must be some sort of karmic payback. Nathan Boone was in bad shape when we found him - the guy will probably need some medical attention himself. We asked him about his injuries but he had nothing to say. Fell down the stairs, so he says.”

“Bad shape?” You couldn’t help but ask. You didn’t have any sympathy for Boone but the curiosity surfaced. 

“I have a feeling he’ll have to squeeze in some x-rays and a visit to a dental surgeon in between his court dates.” Reyes stood and offered her hand, giving you a small smile. “I’ll be in touch if we have any loose ends.”

After she left, you remained in your chair, quiet for a moment before you motioned for Bucky to sit. He was sitting after one swift stride, locking eyes with you.

You started slowly. “I meant to ask. How was your workout this morning?”

Bucky was straight faced, matching your pose across the table. “Good.” 

“Nothing else to share?” You pressed, raising an eyebrow. 

“I always like to have a plan when I go to the gym and this morning, I did exactly what I planned on doing.”

You nodded then leaned back in your chair. You knew you could ask exactly what you wanted and he'd tell you the truth. But maybe it was better left unsaid. If you didn’t ask, he didn’t have to explain himself either. But, that didn’t make the entire thing any less of an internal debate.

Why did you care even a little tiny bit about Boone being injured? 

It wasn’t even about Boone. 

It was about someone inflicting pain on your behalf. But, wait. Then again – was there any chance Boone was feeling guilty for his actions? Fueled by his fucked up testosterone levels and short fuse? Why did you have to wrestle with your conscience when he didn’t show even an ounce of remorse for what he did? 

If Bucky had chosen to defend you, to wrestle with Boone instead… Well, maybe that was what needed to happen. 

You remained in a staring contest with Bucky, searching his face for anything. You could see something just behind his lips, a desire to say something else. Maybe he was worried he would upset you with the whole truth about what happened at the gym. If that was the case, you also knew Bucky wouldn’t apologize for what he might have done to Boone.

Bucky was strong willed. He stood up for what he believed in. He’d never want to see injustice or unfair behaviour being excused. 

You sighed then nodded again. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky repeated slowly, tilting his head. “Sweetheart, I—”

“No. It’s okay.” You cracked a small smile. “Bucky, I—thank you. For last night and for not leaving my side and taking care of me, protecting me.. for everything.”

He said your name quietly, reaching across the table for your free hand. “It’s an honour.”

You sucked in a breath, blinking away the feeling of crying again.  “Don’t do that – don’t be cheesy. I won’t survive.”

Bucky just smiled.

--

Somehow an hour long surgery seemed like a lifetime to Bucky. He glanced at his phone to check the time again and let out a long breath, slumping down just a bit further in his chair. Despite your exhaustion, you had barely slept the night before and Bucky felt helpless, even with all his efforts to calm your nerves.

“I’m a nurse, Bucky. I’ve helped so many patients before and after surgeries and I’m still just – I want this to be over.”

Bucky knew you were okay, in the best hands Tony could pay for, but he was still desperate to see you roll back down the hallway, safe and sound.

After another chance to take some breaths and repeat a few of his safe mantras, Bucky looked at his phone. Instead of seeing the time, he saw ‘Sam Wilson’ popping up on his phone.

It had been a very easy task for Bucky - ignoring Sam for the past 48 hours. It was petty, childish even, but he still didn’t want to talk to Sam. Bucky was still sitting in an uncomfortable swell of anger over the whole situation. A situation that could be traced right back to Sam, in a way.

Bucky closed his eyes and finally brought the phone up to his ear when Sam called back again. He stood from his chair and started down the empty hallway.

“This is Sergeant Barnes.”

Sam immediately scoffed on the other end of the line. “Thanks for finally picking up.”

Bucky just grunted. “What do you want?”

“I want you to say out loud what’s bothering you so we can move past this.” 

Silence fell between them before Bucky finally replied again. “You put him in charge, Sam.”

“I have a lot of fucking regrets about that, Bucky.”

Bucky couldn’t help but wince when he heard Sam swear. In the field, Sam certainly had a mouth at times. But during the day to day operations of the job, back in the office, he was usually well restrained. Clearly, he was out of sorts, too.

“And I heard someone already went and put Boone in his place. There is only so much I can apologize for when that jackass cheated the system and misled me. Boone broke my trust and I can get over that. But I am fucking gutted I broke her trust. This never should have happened. I know that.”

“I know you know. I..” Bucky closed his eyes, pausing to rest against the nearest wall. Eventually, he left out a quiet laugh. “I don’t know what to do with my leftover anger, Sam.”

“You and me both, man. At least you got to crack him in the jaw a few times. Wish I could have been there.”

Bucky sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it in great detail. I owe you a beer, alright?”

“Whenever you’re ready to leave your girl's side, pencil me in.”

After he hung up with Sam, then exchanged a few messages with Steve, Bucky resumed his position of waiting for you outside the entrance to the surgical suites. He tried distracting himself with a few reports he had to go over and listened to a few tracks on a new playlist from Natasha. Eventually though, all he could do was stare at the door and be patient.

Soon enough, a nurse appeared at the door and signaled to Bucky he could come through. He was directed to a recovery area and finally, he could feel his shoulders relax. There you were - safe and sound. 

Bucky pulled up a chair beside your hospital bed, greeting you with a smile as you looked towards him. 

“Bucky!”

“Hey doll.” 

“She’s still coming back from the general anesthesia. She might be a bit out of sorts still,” the nurse confirmed, giving you another once over. “The doctor said everything went well and the office will be in touch about follow up appointments.” The nurse paused, giving Bucky a coy smile as she walked away. “She immediately asked for you when she started coming to - Sergeant Handsome.”

“I said that was a private nickname,” you whined, closing your eyes tightly. You tried to push yourself up slightly to sit, but were quickly stopped by your immobilized arm. “Ow.”

“Let me help,” Bucky stood up and adjusted the bed so you could sit up more. 

You turned to look towards him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Bucky scooted his chair closer and sat again. “You feelin’ okay?”

You nodded. “Just a lil’froggy.. Foggy..”

“So, Sergeant Handsome? Were you talkin’ about me?” Bucky couldn’t help the smile on his face as you closed your eyes. Though it fell just as quickly when you frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Can I - can I tell you a secret?” You kept your eyes closed, letting out a slow exhale as you settled against the pillows propping you up. 

“Sure, doll.”

“Actually, no, no.” Your eyes shot open, narrowing again as you locked eyes with Bucky. “This hasta be a secret exchange.”

“A secret exchange?”

You licked your lips then used your good hand to point at him. “You tell me one first, then I tell you one. It’s fair.”

“I mean, you started this whole thing,” he laughed, then decided it was probably best to play along. The medication was clearly still making you a bit loopy and the last thing Bucky wanted to do was upset you any further in this state. “Okay. Let’s see.” He paused again then shrugged. “I met my nephew a few weeks ago.”

“Bucky! Oh, oh wow. That’s..” You reached for his closest hand and he met you in the middle. You squeezed his fingers but didn’t let go after. “I’m gonna cry - I’m so happy for you. When I.. I’m back to normal, I wanna hear all about it. Okay?”

“I can’t wait to tell you, sweetheart.” Bucky cradled your hand in his, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “Now, it’s your turn.”

You sucked in a breath and closed your eyes once more. “I’m.. I’m really sad we aren’t gonna have our date.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Who said we aren’t having our date?”

“We’re suppos’ta celebrate my new position and..” You shook your head. “Look’at me now.. No new job and-and a broken whatever–” You tried to move your casted arm and just winced, which quickly transformed into a yawn. “Who wants to date this..”

Bucky released your hand from his and leaned forward, bringing his palm up to cup your cheek. Exhaustion seemed to catch up with you as you fell back asleep.  “I promise we’re going on that date.” 

--

The first few days following your surgery were painful, as you probably should have anticipated. You insisted Bucky didn’t need to stay at your side the whole time - in fact, you knew he had work to do and an upcoming mission to plan for. Thankfully you had a few close friends in rotation who kept you company throughout your days and somehow an endless supply of credit with your favourite food delivery app, making your life a lot easier. (You assumed you had Tony to thank for that.)

You and Bucky still talked all day long. That made dealing with the pain a lot easier, too.

You: are you doing anything after work? You: if you’re free You: you could come over? Bucky: be there by 7 :)

“It’s going to leave quite the scar, unfortunately.” Your check up with Dr. Alvarez had downgraded you to a removable splint, which you were really relieved about. You were perfectly capable of handling the care yourself and it was nice to release the pressure on your hand.

You had taken the splint off to show Bucky when he showed up. You were sitting beside him on your small loveseat, catching up about your last few days. He was holding your hand gently in his own, tracing his finger lightly over your skin. 

Somehow, by some weird trick of your mind, it seemed like the pain had already become easier to tolerate. Like Bucky’s touch was helping settle your nerves and discomfort.

“Tony has this thing… it could help with that,” Bucky finally responded, his voice barely audible. “The scarring. I don’t know how it works but it can build synthetic tissue and..”

You smiled when Bucky looked back up at you. “Yeah, maybe.” It was clear Bucky was holding something back but you didn’t want to press. “Okay, I have a confession. I invited you here because I need help with something.”

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you need. What is it?”

It was another unconventional first for you and Bucky and your new whatever relationship status. You had visions of a sexy steamed bathroom, shared laughter and maybe slippery hands and low moans and… This wasn’t how your first shower together was supposed to go.

You chewed on your lip as you tried to figure out the logistics. You had a semi-normal shower the other day, but it had been incredibly difficult if not impossible to get any soap or shampoo where it needed to go with an immobilized arm. Even now, without the splint, you barely had any range of motion in your hand. Plus you were supposed to be taking it easy.

“Okay, so. Let’s…” You turned towards the shower then back towards Bucky, who was standing only a few inches from you - thanks to your tiny New York City apartment bathroom. “I’ll be in the shower. Uhm, naked. Then when I need soap or shampoo or… whatever, I’ll stick my good hand out and you can give it to me.”

Bucky stifled his laughter. “Sure. I can… give you whatever you need, doll.”

“Bucky,” you whined, doing your best not to laugh along with him. “Don’t, please. I know this is weird.”

“I’m sorry,” he immediately sobered up. “I’ll, just..” He turned to face the door, away from you, as you stripped down and got into the shower. “Tell me when I should turn around?”

It wasn’t a very graceful process but it worked. Bucky was very polite and helpful with everything you needed. Truthfully, it would have been better to have him in the shower with you but you just weren’t there yet. Beyond sleeping side by side and cuddling on the couch, nothing further had happened between you. And well, that was expected - given everything. But your stupid injury really was getting in the way.

“Okay, just, uhm - my towel?” You turned off the water and reached out, feeling the fluffy fabric right away. You did your best to wrap it around your body then drew the curtain open again. Bucky was waiting for you, eyes closed tightly but with an extended hand to help you step carefully over the tub. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “You can open your eyes - I’m covered.”

“Feel better?” He asked as he opened his eyes, offering you one of those soft, sweet Bucky looks you were coming to really appreciate and love. 

God, you didn’t want to fuck this up. 

“Here, let me..” Bucky took your injured hand and carefully fixed your splint back into place. Then, well, he filled in the small space between you both. 

You sucked in a breath as he positioned his forehead against yours, beads of water and condensation sticking to his skin. “Thank you,” you repeated, though you wondered if it was even audible.

He kept one hand safely holding your injured wrist while his other found a spot on your hip. He whispered your name with just enough inflexion for you to understand his unspoken question. As soon as you tipped your head into a nod, his hand left your hip and was encompassing the side of your neck, thumb running against your jawline.

Your tongue swept across your lips. “ Yes.”

Bucky’s lips met yours, gentle and rough and exactly what you imagined kissing Bucky might be like. A bolt of electricity surged through you, across every nerve. It was the perfect balm to forget about your wrist, about uncertainty, about anything but Bucky.

--

Although you knew you were returning to work on a modified schedule and task list, you had still been nervous about it. Especially because you didn’t know what everyone else knew about Boone and you and what had happened. But luckily you were welcomed back to cheerful coworkers and a very light workload.

And no one mentioned Boone or your injury. You did have to catch on newly updated mandatory company wide training though, directly related to substance abuse and security protocols. 

You got used to working with only one hand, which would still be the case for a few more weeks. But otherwise, things felt okay. And by the time your meal break rolled around, you couldn’t help but feel giddy about being back at the tower. Because you had a lunch date with your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend Bucky Barnes. 

Not that having lunch with Bucky was new, but now it felt like so much more. Every single milestone in your relationship so far had been abnormal but this - this was perfectly ordinary. Although calling him your boyfriend still felt a little foreign on your tongue, you didn’t mind that change. 

When you spotted Bucky in the cafeteria, your knees nearly gave out altogether. You couldn’t help but grin when he stood to greet you, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand. With the other he pulled you in for a hug, followed by a kiss on the forehead.

“Hi,” you said, using your freehand to brush against some of the petals. “This is unexpected.”

Bucky smiled, taking the seat across from you. “I was going to hand deliver them down to the med floor but I figured you might be a bit overwhelmed this morning. And maybe Sergeant Handsome would distract you from important work.”

You rolled your eyes, though it was impossible to hide your giddiness and fight off your warm cheeks. “You’ve gotta let that one go, please.”

“Absolutely not.” Bucky shook his head, still smiling. God, would you two ever stop smiling? There was something incredibly comforting about knowing Bucky was feeling just as wild as you were when it came to all these kinds of feelings.

Ever since he kissed you - when you were sopping wet and injured and a mess, all wrapped up into a towel - things had just been heightened. Not that everything had been smooth sailing, especially when it came to your pain and this recovery process, but going through all of it with Bucky was exactly what you needed.

Every time you struggled or hit a new roadblock, he let you have a moment to react then he simply cheered you through it. “You can do hard things,” he would echo back to you time and time again. (Which was particularly annoying sometimes, like when you were on your first official date and couldn’t twirl your pasta very well.)

As you were approaching the end of your lunch break, sharing a dessert with Bucky, you sighed. “Can I just say something out loud?” 

Bucky nodded. “Of course.”

“I just…” You reached to adjust your glasses as you found your words. “..can’t help but think about how right now I should be preparing to be on the field team and maybe even going out on missions to help and.. I’m just disappointed.” 

Bucky put down his fork, churning through his own thoughts before he replied.

You continued. “I mean, I guess there’s no way of knowing if I would have even passed the evaluation though. Seeing as I never even… it’s likely I might not have been ready. Maybe I’ll never be ready for it now. I have to start from scratch with this—” You held up your wrist. “I can’t even do the boring parts of my regular job with one hand. I have to do the extra boring stuff instead. I.. I’m just whining. I’m sorry.”

“Do you have to get back right away?” Bucky asked, grabbing his phone. He sent a quick message then stood, extending his hand out for you to grab. “Let me show you something.”

Your manager had told you to ‘take it easy’ your first week back, so running late from lunch probably wouldn’t be a problem. So, you grabbed Bucky’s hand and followed. 

The upper floors of the tower weren’t somewhere you had ever visited before. You shot up the elevator and nearly let out a gasp when you and Bucky arrived in Tony’s lab. It was huge - with bright lights, big windows and plenty of flashing screens. 

“Stark?” Bucky called out, keeping his hand tethered to yours as he guided you through the space. 

“Over here,” Tony called back, popping out from behind a screen. “It’s all loaded up. I’ve gotta run to meet Pepper and some very irritated investors but I’ve granted you full access to the video footage.” He turned towards you. “How’s the hand?”

You tried to give him a thumbs up. You winced. “Getting there.”

“I’ve got a good therapist - physical therapist, that is. No one can help this brain.” Tony tapped his temple. “I’ll send you his details.” 

Just as quickly as you arrived, Tony departed, giving one last pointed look at Bucky before he disappeared into the elevator muttering into his wrist. 

“Sit,” Bucky instructed, pulling a chair and positioning it in front of the screen. “Please.”

You let out a dramatic sigh before complying. 

Bucky sat in another chair at your side, picking up a nearby tablet. With a swipe of his hand, video footage appeared on the screen ahead. It started to play. 

It was footage of you - giving your all during your training sessions. From the sparring drills to physical challenges, you kept up and even performed better than some of the others. 

You snuck a glance towards Bucky, who was watching the footage with what could only be described as a proud smile. 

“You’re resilient, sweetheart,” Bucky said quietly, turning his head. “Although I could offer you some tips, you woulda past Sam’s eval - there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Tips? Like what?” You couldn’t help yourself from smirking. “You wanna throw down on a gym mat?”

“Preferably a mattress, actually,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow as he paused the video. “Well, right there - you could have—” 

“Okay, I don’t need a play by play.” You nodded and let out a slow exhale. “I get it. I’m capable. I just have to.. get back to that.”

Bucky turned back to you again. “You’ll get there. I’ll help. I can be your personal trainer.”

“Okay.” You leaned over and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Now, about that mattress.”

--

 ONE YEAR LATER

Three months. It had been three months since you were officially on the field medical team. The job hadn’t been easy or soft - especially the first time you were dealing with bullet wounds in the middle of nowhere. 

The med team was a tight knit group though - you had joined a new training group following many months of recovery and training and luckily found a wonderful team of colleagues. Not only that, your time supporting major Avengers missions had been an incredible, and daunting, experience.

But today, three months in, you were finally on a mission with your boyfriend. Bucky’s speciality was covert ops and most of his missions were small-scale and secretive, with only a select team of Avengers involved. But this particular mission was a bit different - with the medical team joining later as things had escalated.

After everything had settled, including a few injured civilians who were assisted and transported for further care, everyone had returned to the jets with a long flight home ahead. You found a spot on the jet with Bucky, Sam, Steve and a few others. 

“Agent! Medical attention is needed over here.” 

You whipped your head around, searching for Steve and where his voice was coming from. You took a few strides forward, pausing as the jet started to take off. You found Steve sitting near the back with Bucky.

“This man is dying of a broken heart, apparently,” Steve rolled his eyes, pushing off from his leaning position and patting Bucky on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

You just sighed but couldn’t help smiling. You grabbed Steve’s arm before he got too far away. “Want me to clean that up?” You pointed to a small cut near his hairline.

Steve waved his hand. “Thank you but it’ll be fine by morning.” He gave you another smirk before heading to sit with Sam in the cockpit.

“What’s wrong with you, Sergeant Handsome?” You smiled at Bucky as you stood in front of him.

He reached out to place his hands on your hips, slotting you just between his legs as he sat. “Two hours with you and not even a kiss yet.”

“Oh my god,” you swatted his shoulder. “I was helping people. Your knives were flying all over the place. When was the optimal time for that?”

He replied with an exaggerated eye roll. “Alright, fine.” He extended his hand up to cradle your jaw, pulling you down to meet his lips. 

“Better?” You asked, shifting to take the seat beside him. 

“Much.” He nodded, turning enough to get a better look at you. “How are you doing though? I know today is–”

“I meant what I said the other night,” you cut him off. “Seriously.”

You knew Boone was getting out of jail after serving a year, which admittedly was the best sentencing you could have hoped for. Not that it really made up for his indiscretions but you knew you’d never see him again anyway. You didn’t want to waste anymore of your energy or time on him ever again.

“Forgetting he exists is only one thing. You know I can make sure he actually ceases existing and–”

“Bucky,” you laughed, shaking your head. “I’m good. Truly.”

You lifted your right hand to stretch your fingers, taking a moment to admire the fancy glove Tony had designed for you. It was reinforced with something that gave you even more support when out in the field. You were grateful for it, though your rehabilitation had been successful. Slowly you pulled it off your hand, pausing to stare at the lines on your skin. All that remained was an occasional ache and some fading scars.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Bucky raising his right hand and you grinned. You knocked your knuckles into his twice then wiggled your fingers at one another. Before you could pull back, Bucky gently grabbed your hand and moved it closer, pressing a soft kiss against your scarred knuckles.

Maybe you were left with a few fading scars. And maybe every single step along the way hadn’t been easy. 

But you had Bucky by your side. Bucky, who you found unintentionally, whose touch filled you with life. 

And maybe that was all you needed.

[hoodpankow]

Garden | Joaquin Torres

A/N: Heyyyy yall guess who's finally back because a hispanic man had me barking at my TV again?! That's right, oh so secksi big lexi is here with a novel of a fic. Also big shoutout and thank you to my lover @love-chx for beta-ing this and just being a thirsty freak with me over this man. I wouldn't have finished this fic without u bb <3 Anyways if yall wanna thirst ab this man with me my inbox is always open to fellow whores like myself. Also CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO ENEMIES TO LOVERS BOOM SHAKA LAKA YES GOD!!! This is also canon-divergent with a few small CABNW references, also this is named after Garden by SZA tee hee

Summary: Y/n Y/l/n and Joaquin Torres had spent their entire childhood together, but growing up meant growing apart, and when travesty after travesty struck the world, their paths couldn't have been more polarized. But sometimes paths are meant to be crossed again, and there's always a chance for change

Warnings: angst, THIRD PERSON POV, use of Y/N, forced super soldier serum injections (scene not depicted), mentions of murder, mentions of war crimes (not explicitly stated), readers kind of a bitch ngl, cursing, mentions of violence, mentions of burns/Joaquin literally being shot out of the sky, SMUT: hair pulling, minor neck grabbing/choking, spitting, hickies, bruises, kissing (with tongue omg), oral (m receiving + a lil ball worship if you squint), handjobs, unprotected P in V, creampie, swallowing, handj*bs, dirty talk, lowkey sub!joaquin dom!reader vibes

Word Count: 20.8k

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader (reader has vague descriptions regarding having long-ish hair, but it's typically described to be braided/blown out/wavy post-braids, Joaquin does in fact stare at the reader's ass, but all booties matter purr, reader's great grandparents are also immigrants, non specified)

(Given the opportunity I'd kiss him on the mouth) AS ALWAYS MINORS DNI!!!

Miami, circa 2005-2006

Summers in Miami were anything but forgiving, filled with the kind of heat that made people question their own sanity, in combination with high levels of humidity that left an almost sticky film on one’s skin. It was like hell sometimes.

Hurricane season was always rough too, storms that would rock through cities and towns along the coast.

The nicer neighborhoods always seemed better off after the Hurricanes, meanwhile smaller, poverty stricken areas were always left in the dust to fend for themselves. Sure the city and counties had done their best, but power outages lasted days, sometimes weeks, and entire businesses would be destroyed, and communities were left to rebuild things together.

That same sense of community is what had brought Y/n Y/l/n and Joaquin Torres together. He moved to Miami from Mexico a little over a year ago, coming to the United States in May of 2005 with his grandmother and mother. They’d left in hopes of finding something better for him, chasing the American Dream like many migrants south of the border often did.

It wasn’t an easy process, but with family and an established sense of structure in Miami, it made the process a bit smoother for the family.

The y/l/n family had been living in Miami for decades, having genuine roots and history in the neighborhood, they had always been strong community leaders. Constantly volunteering to help at the schools, preparing meals for their neighbors, hosting several block parties and barbecues throughout the summers, and most notably, always lending a helping hand when it came to anyone’s children.

They embodied the saying ‘it takes a village’. 

When the Torres family moved to the neighborhood, y/n’s mother was the first to introduce herself to them, offering to send her eldest sons over to help them move in, and even inviting them over for dinner ten minutes into meeting them.

That single action led Joaquin Torres to Y/n Y/l/n two days following his move, and it led to the both of them being inseparable for years, a friendship that started with her shoving him into the asphalt when he’d clearly cheated at street hockey then proceeded to lie about it.

She was the one to knock him down, and she was also the one to help him up and drag him up the street to her house, mumbling about how she was sorry for shoving him, and muttering to herself about him being a ‘wimp’ for ending up with bloody scrapes along his legs.

He also had watched her mother lecture her about how it was wrong of her to push him, and the moment he’d laughed, her mother started lecturing him. The concern laced harsh words easily flowing from the older woman’s mouth had his eyes wide, she’d even managed to throw a few Spanish words in the mix.

Sure he knew that she spoke Spanish, but he didn’t quite understand where her family was from. That was also another conversation her mother had with him a few months later when he’d pestered Y/n about why her family spoke Spanish if they didn’t exactly look hispanic. 

They’d been in Miami for generations, it made perfect sense that they’d known Spanish. 

She had also yelled at him, but to be completely honest, she wasn’t exactly the sweetest girl on the planet.

As a six year old, she was mean. Meaner than most, yet somehow she possessed her mother’s caring spirit, which led to her showing anyone she cared for the epitome of tough love.

The summer of 2006, the both of them had spent most of their time outside together, walking through the neighborhood, talking about anything and everything that would interest two seven year olds. She’d pestered him about his hair, stating that he needed a haircut because he looked like her Tia’s new puppy (the woman had been gifted a white fluffy terrier by her most recent boyfriend), and he’d responded by saying she looked like a tree from ‘Horton Hears a Who’ due to her large frizzy hair. 

Humidity was not a friend to either of them.

They’d also made a friendship pact that summer, they’d seen it in some random movie that his Abuela had rented from the local Blockbuster, and had decided that since they were already good friends, they’d both slice their palms with one of her dad’s razors, then shake.

Except they both ended up with deep cuts and had to be taken to the emergency room, where they had to foolishly explain that they’d not only schemed to steal her father’s razor, but had also gone through the process of cleaning it with a random bottle of isopropyl alcohol before slicing their palms to imitate a blood pact from a movie that they were probably too young to be watching.

Both of their mother’s yelled at them that night, at the same time. Then her father yelled at them both.

When they thought they were done being lectured, his Abuela yelled at them in Spanish.

That Summer they’d also gone to the beach with their families together, and her father had buried them both in the sand, leading to a photo of their heads and portions of their upper bodies sticking out while they both glared at the camera. 

When school had started back up, they were in the same class, which meant they’d caused quite the ruckus together, either laughing too loudly, talking way too much, or throwing things at one another. It was worse when their teacher tried to separate them, leading them to throw crumpled up paper balls at one another followed by miniature paper airplanes.

He’d also gotten into his first real fight with another boy two months into the school year, he’d called her names, pulled on one of her braids, and usually she would’ve responded, but her mother had recently told her that she needed to stop acting out in school.

So, like the good best friend he was, Joaquin didn’t hesitate to punch the other boy in the face at recess when he’d caught the kid pestering her. That decision also led to her high fiving him, and the both of them getting sent home and placed on a two day suspension.

Summer of 2017

The end of high school is a major milestone for many. Getting the opportunity to not only graduate, but graduate with honors was something that Y/n and Joaquin had worked incredibly hard to achieve, sure the both of them did run into several hiccups along the way, mainly surrounding Y/n’s need to get into fights and Joaquin’s need to constantly and consistently defend her. WAIT DONT FOCUS ON THAT HAHA I WASNT SURE IF THE COMMA WENT THERE

Most thought the two would’ve been together by now, having been friends for nearly ten years, not only friends, but the best of friends and practically inseparable, and yet they’d never crossed the line between friendship and something more. It wasn’t something that they’d planned on doing either.

Anytime their parents would talk about it, the both of them would swiftly deny the suggestion, looks of disgust on their faces as they looked at one another, then back at their families. It wasn’t until prom night that they’d both even considered seeing one another romantically.

They hadn’t acted on it, nor had they ever shared the thought with each other.

They’d gone together, mostly because his girlfriend had broken up with him at the last minute, or rather, y/n had forced her to break up with him after finding out that Julia had been cheating on him for a few weeks. She’d also threatened to ‘knock her front teeth in’ if she refused to do so. She’d also made sure that Joaquin knew that his now ex-girlfriend had been cheating on him, showing him a series of screenshots that a mutual friend had sent her.

When he showed up at her house in an all black tux, she’d been caught off guard. It was rare that Joaquin was dressed up, so rare that she almost didn’t recognize him, brows knit together as she stared at him from the front porch of her family’s home. 

She thought that he actually looked handsome. Sure, she’d always known that Joaquin wasn’t ugly, that much was obvious, but she’d never really given it a second thought. Not even when all of her friends would rant and rave about how ‘hot’ he was, or how he was super attractive and she was an idiot for not ‘jumping his bones’. 

He’d been growing his hair out a bit. It was slightly slicked back, but the curls along the back of his head were still defined. He held a corsage in his hand, the vibrant red roses sat in a sealed clear plastic box, and it matched the rose pin to his suit. Srry im changing some of the sentences so they dont run on </3 but tbh i also love run on sentences so if u dont wanna change thats 100% valid 

He’d been staring at her, his lips slightly parted, brows raised. At that exact moment he finally understood what all of his friends had said about her. The guys had always given him shit, saying that he was an absolute idiot for ignoring what was right in front of him. Some guys on the team had even asked him for his approval to ask her out; he’d always shrugged them off and said something along  the lines of ‘go for it, but good luck’.

She’d never really given anyone a chance, sure there were a few guys here and there, and that douchebag lifeguard last summer, but outside of that, Y/n rejected pretty much everyone.

It got to the point where their mothers had asked if she was gay, which was an incredibly uncomfortable conversation, to say the least.

He was still staring, he knew she’d be wearing black, which had made coordinating with her at the last minute a lot easier since he already had a black suit. But he didn’t know that she’d be wearing a satin black dress with a neckline that plunged enough to make him blush, the fabric itself hugging all of her curves, and her hair that was typically braided, was now blown out and framing her face perfectly.

He dropped the corsage, then scrambled to pick it back up.

Things had gone back to normal the second she’d mocked him for dropping it; they’d both snapped out of their own trances, and had taken a myriad of photos. Then they’d been off.

The dance was fine, it wasn’t spectacular, but it was fun enough. They’d jumped up and down and screamed random party songs together, laughing with one another and their shared friends.

Then the slow songs started, and at first she’d decided to sit things out while he spoke with one of his friends, but after a few minutes, he had asked her to dance.

The moment their eyes met during the slow dance was the moment they’d both been dreading their entire lives. They’d realized that maybe everyone else was right about them, and maybe they’d just been too stupid to notice.

But they’d brushed it off when the song changed, awkwardly laughing together while nodding their heads, ignoring the fact that a few seconds ago they were a little too close with his forehead resting against hers and their lips millimeters apart.

Both of them had internally vowed to never speak of that night again.

Then graduation happened. After getting their diplomas, they’d posed for more photos, laughed with one another, and ended up taking one of their favorite pictures together. Joaquin’s hand was around her waist as they both held up a singular middle finger while making a similar face—one eye shut with their tongue out. 

She’d gotten into Florida State University, and Joaquin decided to go to the Air Force. Of course Joaquin applied to college, but he wasn’t like Y/n, he hadn’t received a multitude of scholarships with different choices and the last thing he wanted to do was take out a series of loans that would leave him in thousands in debt, especially considering he’d wanted to do his best to avoid putting any other financial pressure on his family.

They’d spent most of that summer together, both with the knowledge that it’d truly be their last real summer together, at home, with one another.

He was set to go to basic training the same day that she’d be moving into her dorm.

So the night before they’d gone to the beach together, both sitting side by side on the sand, watching the sunset.

“Quino, things are gonna be different now, aren’t they?” she leaned into him, her head against his shoulder while she gazed forward. Meanwhile he’d gone from looking at the skyline, to looking down at her as he nodded his head.

“We can’t exactly be kids forever, Sunshine.”

he scoffed, lifting her head to look at him, eyes trailing along his features as if she was trying to commit this moment to memory, taking in every single detail as if she’d be able to remember this in fifteen years.

“We’re eighteen, it’s not like we have to have it all figured out y’know. We could pack everything up and run away.” 

He smiled, laughing at her while rolling his eyes slightly.

“Yeah, but we’d have to flee the country. I signed a contract with the Air Force. Maybe we run off to somewhere small, off grid.” 

She nodded along, elbowing him slightly, while holding back her smile. 

They both knew that wasn’t possible. It really was time to grow up, time to part ways, at least temporarily.

“You still gonna write to me?” 

He nodded his head at that. “Why wouldn’t I? Who’s gonna laugh at me suffering through basic training? Besides, y’know I write killer letters.” 

She shook her head at that, shoving some sand in his direction.“You have shit grammar, Quino.” 

He smiled at her, shrugging. “So? You still know what I mean!” 

She laughed again, now standing up and brushing her thighs off before giving him an expectant look. Joaquin nodded along as he got up off the sand, then she kicked off her shoes, and grabbed his hand, already running towards the water.

“Hell no! That water’s freezing!” 

She glanced over her shoulder at him. In that moment, at the sight of the golden hue reflecting against her skin, and the outline of the orange, purple, and pink skyline surrounding her figure like an aura from the heavens, he realized that he might’ve been in love with her. 

It was truly a terrible moment to realize that.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby. C’mon, it’s our last real night as teenagers. Embrace it you doofus!”

Then she was pulling him along again, and somewhere along the way, he’d managed to kick his shoes off and toss his phone in a pile with their shared belongings before getting pulled into the water. 

They’d stayed out until two in the morning that night, and on their walk back through the neighborhood together, she wrapped her pinky around his as they moved in sync, trudging through the long sidewalks in their damp clothes together, knowing that in a few hours he’d be setting course to the airport then he’d be en route to San Antonio.

Meanwhile, she’d be starting the seven hour road trip to Florida State University with her parents while her dad towed a mini U-haul trailer on the back of his truck.

He always walked her to her door, even though they only lived a few houses apart and his house was the first they’d passed. She stood on the small front porch, key in the door as she faced away from him. A singular sniffle was what made him realize she’d been crying. 

“Hey, hey, Sunshine look at me.” 

She shook her head, looking down at the dimly lit door knob illuminated by the old porch light. The bulb nearly dead at this rate. Her father always said he’d get around to changing it, but it had been sitting the same way for the entire summer.

He was quick to move behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist as he slowly turned her to face him. She tried to shove him off, but his grip was firm, and he’d managed to spin her toward him despite her resistance

“Things are gonna be fine. I’ll write to you, you’ll write to me. We’ll still be friends, still get to come home to the same neighborhood with our families, alright? Still gonna be best friends—” He raised his palm, showing the near identical scar that they’d both shared “—see? Friends for life, made a shitty blood pact and everything.”

She nodded at him, sniffling before pulling him into a hug.

“I’m gonna miss you, you idiot.” he laughed at her, easily hugging her back, slightly squeezing as he nodded. 

“I’ll miss you too, Sunshine. Don’t forget about me when you’re over there in enemy territory, got it?” 

She laughed, shoving him away, shaking her head as she rolled her eyes.“I would’ve picked Miami if they’d given me more money. I guess the Seminoles just got better funding, huh?” she teased him, sniffling again as she smiled, the both of them still holding onto each other, as they held eye contact.

Then, they were both leaning in, and slowly but surely, their lips were millimeters apart again—just like prom night.

The door opening had them pulling apart harshly, practically tripping over one another as her father stared at them through the screen door, blinking several times, brows knit together as he unlocked the door.

“I don’t know what the hell you two are doing out here, but finish your goodbyes, and Joaquin, go the hell home. I’ll miss you kid.” 

He nodded at her father, laughing at his somewhat stern tone before facing her again. Then Joaquin raised both brows, tilting his head before lifting up a singular pinky.“Promise me you’ll write?” 

She smiled, nodding at that before locking her pinky with his. “Promise me you’ll respond when you’re not busy getting your ass kicked?” 

He nodded.

Then Joaquin said goodbye to her father and made his way down the porch steps, walking along the sidewalk.Glancing back, he to offer another wave before making his way back to his house.

The next morning, they’d both gone their separate ways, one to college, the other to the Air Force.

Washington D.C. 2027, Six Weeks Prior

The interrogation room was cold, colder than it should’ve been for the middle of the summer in Washington D.C. of all places. Hell, half of the city didn’t have working air conditioners, but it made sense that a police precinct less than twenty minutes from the Capitol building would have an air conditioning system that actually worked.

That’s how it was now;where there was money, there were luxuries.

Y/n sat in the uncomfortable metal chair situated in the middle of the room, hands cuffed to the  large metallic table in front of her with her ankles stuck to the legs of the chair. They’d known she would be able to break free at any second, but she wasn’t an animal, or some monster, and she wouldn’t be portrayed as such.

A criminal? Yes. But a monster? Never.

She was wearing a black leather jacket, and clearly it wasn’t warm enough, because she’d had goosebumps along her skin, and her nose burned at the feeling of the cold air. Then again, anything cold had a tendency to bother her, side effects of the bootleg black market serum that’d been forcefully injected into her somewhere between Europe and Madripoor.

Everything from that period was a bit fuzzy.

They’d had her in this room for nearly two hours. For the first twenty minutes, they’d tried to question her, and she simply ignored them or answered them solely in Spanish. When they’d found someone who did speak Spanish fluently, she started speaking French.

Then everyone had left, leaving her like an animal in a zoo exhibit, the bright fluorescent lights shining down on her while they watched from behind the one-way mirror. Three cameras in the room, all with a flashing red light, letting her know that they’d been recording the entire time. 

She was a few minutes away from breaking out of the cuffs and throwing them at one of the cameras, but then the door opened. She scoffed at the sight of Sam Wilson: the new Captain America.f she was honest, she liked the guy and she hadn’t heard anything negative about him���well,  from anyone who actually had any sense.

The negatives were usually from racist morons, but Sam Wilson was a great Captain America.. He fit the morals and values, and from what she’d heard, he was genuinely a good person, and those were very rare these days.

She would’ve been perfectly fine if it was just Sam, but when his new protege walked in behind him, she couldn’t hold back the scoff of annoyance.

It’d been years since she’d actually seen him in person.

She’d unconsciously squeezed her right hand, the same hand that a thin horizontal scar sat on— the same scar that he had on his right hand.

Sam’s gaze was focused on the file in hand so he’d missed the glare that she was shooting at Joaquin, and his sudden stiff demeanor. They’d both sat across from her, and the sounds of metal scraping against the tiled floors made her cringe. Then, Sam tossed the file on the table, the papers sliding out of the manilla folder and towards her.

Different criminal charges, alleged photographs of her at global crime scenes, a series of witness descriptions—anything and everything that could possibly incriminate her, outside of genuine substantial evidence.

“Didn’t know Captain America did jail calls, thought that was reserved for the Raft.” 

Sam shook his head at that, raising a single brow as he looked at her.

He knew she hadn’t even hit thirty yet. The girl was still young, and from her records, she’d had so much potential, potential to do good. Yet here she was. Not only did she graduate with honors from Florida State University, she was a Stark scholar her freshman year, having interned directly for Tony at one point, president of several campus organizations, had not only a full ride to the university, but was also given several merit based scholarships during her time there, had significant research that was involved in several scientific journal publications, and she had even been an intern for the department of defense.

He also knew that the world wasn’t the best place following the Snap in 2018; it impacted everyone drastically. Some vouched that it was a great time, but a lot of people had suffered, and the world was left to grieve and mourn for five years.

“Well, now you do know that. Care to share how you’re involved with Serpent?” 

She rolled her eyes at that, shaking her head and letting out a sigh. “I’m not.” 

Sam raised a brow, opening the file and pointing at not one, but two images of Y/N very clearly speaking with one of Serpent’s main shot callers, Sidewinder himself. “Then explain your relation to Sidewinder”

“That’s not me in the photo.” She blinked several times, clearly bored of the conversation.

Joaquin just stared in silence, it was probably the most quiet he’d been in years, staring at his childhood best friend turned wanted criminal. He never understood what happened to her. They’d kept in touch when he’d gone to boot camp, and even after that, when she was in college and he was getting his deployment orders, she always wrote to him.

They’d written to one another, even after the Blip.

He knew her family had been blipped away, and he also knew that was a major turning point for her. She’d spent most of her time on her studies, overworking herself to the point of exhaustion, distracting herself from the truth.

Two years into the Blip they lost contact. He knew she was still in school, but he was stationed overseas, and the time zones, plus the stress of life had gotten to them both.

He tried to find her again when he was stateside, tried to got to the neighborhood, only to find new families living in the house that had been in her family for decades. He’d also found out that the county government had forcefully repossessed the house. They’d gone to court over it and she’d lost.

All he’d known was that she did end up graduating, and as a last ditch effort, she invited him to her graduation. She’d written to him a lot, but turns out most of those letters had gotten lost along the way. The Blip had left several economic issues, and had impacted a multitude of different industries, which accounted for the loss of most of her letters. The ones he’d finally gotten from her were all stacked up, scattered thoughts throughout three years—references to things he didn’t really get, random bits and pieces from stories he’d assumed he would never get to read, and most importantly, the invitation to her graduation.

Typically he would’ve been able to request time for that andhe wished he got the letter on time, wished that he would’ve been able to go to Florida State (although begrudgingly) and watch his best friend cross the stage and get her degree, especially considering he’d be one of the few people there for her after what happened to her family.

Seeing her was like seeing a ghost, except now he was seeing the ghost of who she was, of who she could’ve been. The woman across from him wasn’t the same girl that he’d seen all those years ago.

It’d been almost nine years. Nine years since he’d properly gotten to see her. He still remembers the way her voice sounded that night, the last night they were genuinely together. 

“Stop staring, Torres” 

His eyes widened at the sound of her voice, or rather, the sound of his name leaving her lips, because it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t his first name, or one of the several different nicknames she’d granted him over the years; there was no friendly tone, just venom.

He blinked a few times, brows knit together as he glanced at Sam, who was already looking at him with a curious expression.Sam looked between the both of them, glancing between the woman across from them, then back to Joaquin.

“Wait a goddamn minute, you two know each other?!” 

She scoffed at that, shaking her head. 

“Not anymore.” 

It was cold. Deep down, she knew that the response hurt Joaquin, but when she needed him, he wasn’t there. She hadn’t heard back from him in years. All she could do was sit and bury herself into her academics, striving to be the best of the best in hopes of becoming something or make her family proud.

She remembered the heartbreak she’d felt each time she hadn’t gotten a letter back. Then she sent him her graduation date, an invitation, and had even included a ticket.

He didn’t show up. 

She was alone in the world, left with no family, and she was hurt. Her home was gone, her family was missing, disappearing for what could’ve been forever, and she had nothing but a college degree and the few bins of stuff she’d had left.

The Blip had led to several criminal organizations skyrocketing, and it just so happened that Florida was home to a few of them, organizations that were using illegal alien technology to create weapons of destruction, organizations that had focuses in overthrowing minor governments, organizations that went hand in hand with any and all underground and black market affairs. 

So she’d taken advantage of that, used her brains to actually prove herself, and once they’d found a good use for her, she was helping engineer weapons. Thenshe was helping with mass production on a global front and she’d spent time traveling, doing illegal arms deals, and even wooing other crime bosses. 

That’s how she ended up tied in with Serpent, it wasn’t exactly difficult to hack into their secure systems, nor was it hard to convince them that they needed her, villains without real weapons couldn’t actually do much. Things had gone pretty smoothly until she’d been practically kidnapped, taken to a remote space, and used as a test subject for a new brand of super soldier serum following the arrest of the Flag Smashers.

She wasn’t proud of her actions following the injection, she knew she had blood on her hands, but it wasn’t her fault, not when they’d treated her like a lab rat.

“Okay, we’ll talk about whatever history you two have later. Right now, you need to come clean about your involvement with Serpent, or you’re looking at thirty years in the Raft.” 

She simply shrugged again, raising a brow before glancing down at the photos again. It was very apparent that it was her, and she had been mid argument with Sidewinder, who she should’ve just killed—another regret truly.

Then she lifted her wrists, and the cuffs snapped as if they’d been made of paper.

“That answer your question, Cap?” 

His eyes widened t, glancing from her wrists to the broken steel on the table. Sam watched as she pulled the documents closer, raising a single brow at the different photos and angles from the conversation.

“So it’s true then, they’re still experimenting on people?” 

Sshe laughed at that, nodding her head.

“Sure are, now can we get to the Raft already?, Pretty sure I can break out.-Ddefinitely not as secure as some would believe. I’ll take that sentence now.” She looked at the one way mirror, snapping her fingers a few times, as if she was summoning the cops to arrest her yet again.

“You’re not going to the Raft Sun- Uh- Y/l/n.” 

Sshe glanced back at Joaquin now, shaking her head at him. Any semblance of a smirk had left her face, now it was as if she’d been devoid of any emotion.

“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.” She clenched her jaw, looking away from him and towards Sam. 

“I can help you. I know you’ve got a plethora of connections in the realm of illegal arms dealing, not to mention you’ve also been the brains behind a lot of the weapons that we’ve found, confiscated, and examined. I like your signature that you leave on them, too.” 

She smirked at that, nodding her head, then sifted through the photos, finding the close up of one of the larger automatic rifles she’d built, except this one relied solely on Chitauri energy-based ammunition. It didn’t need bullets, and she’d engraved the outline of a small bird onto the handle. 

“What can I say? It’s part of the brand. Now, I don’t need help Cap, what I need is to get the hell out of the U.S.” 

He nodded his head at that, pulling some folder papers out of his jacket pocket. Unfolding them, he slid the documents across the table.

“Here are my terms. I can get you a presidential pardon for your crimes, a pardon that would allow you to be back in the states without hiding out. A pardon that would get you a fresh start. But you’re gonna need to start being honest here.” 

Her brows were knit together as she slowly grasped the papers, eyes scanning along the different legal terms as she flipped through the pages.

It was clear that she had to cooperate with Sam if she wanted the pardon. It guaranteed that she’d no longer be deemed as a war criminal ora domestic terrorist. That would also ensure that she’d be able to go back home, to see her family, to be someone else, to be anyone but the person she’d become. 

“If I agree to this, you promise my family’s gonna be alright?” She looked up at Sam. 

 In that moment, he could see through her walls. He could see a scared girl that had lost everyone to the Blip, a girl that had fallen into this lifestyle because it was her only real choice. 

Sam nodded at her, handing her a pen. “If you sign them now, you have my word.” 

She took the pen slowly, jaw clenched as she stared at the pages. It was almost too good to be true. However, a clause that stated any divergence from the very clearly outlined plan, which included court mandated therapy sessions, would result in her imprisonment, bringing her back to reality.

“What the hell do you need from me anyways? I’m not some hero, I don’t even think I count as a good person anymore. Don’t you have more happy and hopeful people like him to recruit?” She motioned towards Joaquin without even looking at him.

Joaquin was dealing with his own inner turmoil, there were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many things that he hadn’t gotten the chance to express. He’d waited years to see her again, and now, even if she was a bit rough around the edges, he felt almost happy to see her and know that she was alright—even if she was a wanted criminal.

But he was disappointed that she’d managed to become what she was now.

“Well, truthfully, you’re smart. Smarter than most. And with your network, we could do a lot of good, starting stateside, and moving from there. Besides, not everyone that does good has to be a hero. Just like not everyone who’s done bad shit, is a bad person.” 

She nodded slowly, then glanced back at the files.

“Sidewinder has a bounty on his head.Some big crime boss in Madripoor is pissed that Serpent didn’t deliver on their end of a large weapons deal a few months back. It was supposed to be some covert scam. They’d get the wired funds, stay stateside, or really anywhere other than Madripoor—y’know places that have real laws, and they’d be able to avoid the consequences.”

She sighed, glancing at the photo. “Tried to get me to speed a few manufacturing processes up.ell, no first he practically threatened me. but y'know the whole serum thing kinda reduces any real threat at this rate. Told me that if I helped him out, I’d get seven million.”

Sam nodded at the information. “Did you take the deal?” 

She simply shrugged then shook her head.“And have a ten million dollar bounty on my head? Hell no. I told him I was out of the business.Besides, can’t really have any high paying deals with shady government officials if I’m legally not supposed to be seen within the United States, or any U.S. territories.” 

Then she signed the contract, putting the pen on top of the indented papers and slide them back to Sam. She still avoided Joaquin’s stare, she had nothing positive to say to him, and the last thing she wanted to hear was a lecture about the person she’d become from the one person that had abandoned her.

Maybe if she wasn’t aware that he didn’t blip, then maybe she wouldn’t have held the grudge. But one of the last letters she’d gotten from him was after the Blip, so she knew he was okay, she knew he was alive.

“Welcome to the team, kid.” Sam placed his right hand out, and she easily grasped it, shaking on the deal.

Baltimore MD, 2027 Five Weeks Prior

If there was a word that could fully describe the relationship between the two former best friends, it would be strained, but that was a severe understatement. Over the past week they’d been staying in the same house in the suburbs of Baltimore county. Sam had stated that Y/n needed to be under constant supervision, mainly because part of him was still a bit weary with her.

He hadn’t given her a reason not to trust her, not yet at least. But with a criminal record as substantial as hers, within the short time span of about four years, she was definitely someone to keep an eye on. 

It wasn’t the first time Sam had opted to help in the rehabilitation of a criminal. To be fair, he’d placed a lot of hope in several different people, and most of the time, they truly did change. There were people like Karli Morgenthau, the former leader of the Flag Smashers that had been victim to the circumstance of the Blip, followed by the reversal of it all.She was willing to do better, willing to change, but it was too late for her.

Sam wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he held a lot of regret whenever he thought of the girl, even if it was several years ago. Some deaths weren’t easily let go of, especially those that could’ve been prevented. 

Maybe that was why he’d had so much faith in Y/n, he knew she wasn’t always the way she is now, that much was confirmed by the long winded rant that Joaquin had gone on the second they were out of the precinct.He’d spoken for what felt like hours about his former childhood best friend, and at some point, Sam had started tuning him out.

Of course Sam was going to be there to support Joaquin, who was clearly in love with his former friend, but at some point in time, he naturally tuned out the constant chatter. 

Things hadn’t gone smoothly whatsoever at the house, mainly because when Joaquin had tried to speak with her, she’d quite literally thrown a pan at him, slammed several doors in his face, sprayed him with a water hose, and had even opted to fully abandon her meals just to get away from him. She did eventually come back and clean up after herself, but at the moment, she wanted nothing to do with him.

When he tried to sit with her in silence, she’d roll her eyes and storm off. 

She hadn’t said a single word to him, and he was still doing his best to make amends with her, even though he really didn’t know what he had to make up for.

Today was no different, she’d ignored him and acted as if he didn’t exist, any time he’d enter a shared common space, she’d leave. It didn’t matter if she was in the middle of doing something, she’d find a way to leave as swiftly as possible.

Joaquin was over it, completely and utterly over it.

But before he could attempt to be confrontational and most likely get his ass kicked, there were several knocks at the front door, and of course, he was the one to open it.

In the doorway stood Dr. Christina Raynor, the same therapist that had worked with Bucky Barnes following his presidential pardon journey. It had taken several phone calls, and a lot of flaunting the title of Captain America for Sam to actually get her to do house calls for Y/n. It wasn’t exactly easy, and he didn’t trust that she’d be able to go to her appointments on a consistent basis. 

So he brought the appointments to her.

“Ah, Captain Torres. You’re not the person I’m here for, but a lovely surprise nonetheless.” She motioned for him to step aside, and when he did, she entered the home.

She’d taken a few minutes to look around. It wasn’t the fanciest of homes, but it was a nice house to live in, with three bedrooms total, a few bathrooms, and two floors, not including the basement. The place was small, but it didn’t feel small, it was nice, cozy even. 

It made sense why Sam chose a place like this for her. 

“So where is she? I’m sure she’s well aware of our appointment today.” Joaquin’s brows knit together. Truthfully, he wasn’t even aware of the appointment. Then again, it’s not like Y/n had said a single word to him over the past seven days. If her nonverbal communication said anything, it was that she didn’t want a single thing to do with him.

“Uh, upstairs, probably. We don’t really talk much.” 

She slowly nodded her head at him.“And why is that? Sam said the two of you knew each other well.” 

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing towards the staircase, then back at Dr. Raynor.

“Well, we did.We grew up together in Miami, but then she went to college and I enlisted, and then the Blip happened, and it’s been a while. So, we know each other, but I don’t think well would be the right way to describe it.”

She observed him as if she was taking note of everything he’d been saying. It gave Joaquin a minor spark of anxiety, but he chose to ignore it, closing the front door, then proceeding to guide her in the direction of the room that Y/n had occupied.

He knocked on the door several times, and the silence that followed was mildly concerning.

“Hello, it’s Dr. Raynor, here for our three o’ clock appointment.” 

The door opened, and at the sight of Joaquin, she rolled her eyes, but then she glanced at Dr. Raynor.  The older woman stared directly at her, so Y/n stepped to the side, motioning for her to come in before slamming the door in Joaquin’s face. 

“So, Joaquin tells me that you two grew up together. I think for today’s sessions, we should start there.” Y/n blinked a few times, watching as Dr. Raynor moved towards the windows, pulling one of the few chairs in the room with her, leaving it closest to the window, then took another and left it across the room.She took a seat at the one furthest from the window, opting to cross one leg over the other. 

Y/n was hesitant as she sat down, arms crossed in front of her chest, a look of irritation on her features.“We grew up together. A lot of people grow up together, what's the big deal?” The negativity in her tone was unmistakable, that in combination with her clenched jaw, stiff posture, and now shaking leg, emphasized not only the anger in her words, but the stress in her body.

“Well, Sam tells me that you’ve pretty recently started going downhill, sorry, not really a better way to say that. Don’t worry I won’t make you make amends with the people you’ve wronged and go through some long winded process to make things better. Truthfully, most of the time, you can’t make things from the past better, but you can work on the future. But, that does rely on looking back a bit, pinpointing the start of all of this.”

She groaned, shaking her head.“I know how it all started, I don’t need a shrink to psychoanalyze me and tell me when I turned into a shitty person.” 

Dr. Raynor nodded, watching as Y/n glanced outside, her gaze focused on the neighborhood around them.“Okay, so tell me about that then.” 

She thought the girl would fight, but she didn't; she just took a deep breath and nodded her head.

Joaquin stood outside of the room, hesitating as he debated leaving or eavesdropping, he knew it was wrong of him to stay, but he also wanted to know what went wrong, what caused all of this. More importantly, he wanted to know how to fix it. 

But he knew this wasn’t the right way to fix things, so he headed down the hall, opting to go back downstairs and get back to work. He had a few systems that needed some adjustments, so he’d occupy himself with that for now.

Her eyes traced the skyline, taking in the angular tilts of every rooftop against the soft blue hues of the sky. She hated talking about the Blip, she hated even thinking about it. There wasn’t a time that she’d ever felt so lost and so alone.

“After the Blip, I mean, to be fair I was okayish the first year, but my family was blipped away, and with my shit luck, all of my friends were also blipped away. Well, except for Torres, but at that point he’d already been deployed. We still talked for a while at least, he wrote me and I wrote him, then maybe two years in, he uh, he stopped writing Or maybe he didn’t, but I stopped getting them.” 

She blinked a few times, trying to ignore the burn of tears welling in her eyes as she avoided Dr. Raynor’s gaze.

“I dunno, I was just alone. I did keep writing though, and I drowned myself in my academics. I interned for all of the big major hard hitters, I had merit scholarships that I was positive I didn’t really deserve because someone more capable was most likely blipped away. But y’know, it was a good distraction.”

She paused again, this time wiping a few tears away, Dr. Raynor took minimal notes, mostly on her mannerisms rather than her history.

“Then I graduated, and no one was there, and I went back home, and no one was there either, then the county took my family’s house. I went to court, but I was poor and I couldn’t afford a good lawyer, so they won. They won and they took my family’s house.” 

Raynor nodded her head, raising a single brow at the very clear emotion. Prior to this, based on her file, the few interrogation tapes she’d viewed, and what she’d gathered from Sam, the girl in front of her wasn’t very emotional. She was meticulous, logical, and a complete smart ass.

This was a good sign.

“Tell me about the house.” 

She nodded, eyes still focused outside.“My great grandfather had purchased the land when they migrated over, it took him decades to buy it. He’d worked for twenty years before he was able to afford it. Even back then, when inflation wasn’t kicking everyone’s ass, it was still hard for an immigrant to get something as solid as land. Over the years my family has always lived in that house. It’s been passed down through the generations. Or at least, it was until they took it from us.”

She let out a deep breath, wiping away a few more tears.

“I grew up there y’know, my brothers are all older than me by at least eight years, then I met Quino, and we spent years causing a ruckus there. I don’t think I really have a singular bad memory being there, from being home.”

She sighed, running a hand along her face for a moment before turning to face Dr. Raynor.

“My parents got the house back, and this time I had the money, sure it was dirty money, but I got them the lawyer after the blip, I couldn’t even go see them physically, I’d already had too many warrants in the U.S., but I made sure we had what was ours again.”

Dr. Raynor nodded her head, glancing down at her watch for a moment.

“I want you to tell me about your family.” 

The two spent the next thirty minutes speaking about Y/n’s family, starting from her grandparents who were both deceased, to her parents, to her siblings that she hadn’t spoken to in years. She’d even mentioned Joaquin’s family, stating that they weren’t blood relatives, but they were still family nonetheless.

That’s also how Dr. Raynor found out that Joaquin’s mother had been Blipped away.

By the time that the session was over, Y/n had cried more than she’d cried in the past three years, and she actually felt a little better about the world, maybe therapy wasn’t just some ‘mumbo jumbo’ that they tried to force onto people. Then again, it could’ve also been the simple act of having the opportunity to actually speak with someone about her issues that had made her feel better.

She was quick to walk Dr. Raynor out, but when heading downstairs, she realized that Joaquin was no longer alone.Based on the loud voices and laughter, Sam was also present, along with someone else.

Sam rounded the corner, a wide smile on his face as he said his hellos to Dr. Raynor, shaking her hand for a moment before glancing at Y/n, taking in her bloodshot eyes

“Session go well then?”

“As well as pouring my heart and soul out to a complete stranger can go.”

Washington D.C., 2027, Four Weeks Prior

“Sam this is stupid, I’m not gonna waltz into the White House and ask for a damn expedite on a pardon from the Hulk Hunter of all people!” 

He shushed her, making eye contact through the rear view mirror as he drove. She sighed, brows knit together, frustration evident in her features.

It was bad enough he had her wearing business professional attire. There was nothing that she hated more than dressing up, especially in blazers and button ups, not to mention the obnoxious pencil skirt that he insisted she wear. This had to have been her own personal hell.

Maybe that was it, she’d died and was forced to live in this lifetime as a karmic cycle.

Then, to make matters worse, Joaquin was currently sitting in the front seat of the SUV, doing his best not to look back at her, knowing she’d probably find something to throw at him, or worse, she’d curse at him again.

Over the past few days she’d moved on from giving him the complete silent treatment, which might’ve been nice if she wasn’t verbally assaulting him any chance she’d get. It made sense that she would want to push him away, but being cursed out constantly was the last thing he needed.

Joaquin was getting tired of it. 

He was beyond frustrated with her, especially given the fact that Sam had practically dropped him off with her and stated that he was the best bet for ‘fixing her’ as if she needed to be fixed. What she needed was a hug, or maybe a xanax, he had no idea, but Joaquin knew the last thing she needed was him.

Sure they’d grown up together, but they were drastically different at this point.

“Well, you can’t start on a new foot if you’re dragging a ball and chain the size of Australia with you everywhere you go.” 

Y/n knew that Sam had a point, but she didn’t want to accept that.She was looking down at her hands, her left thumb nervously running along the thin scar decorating her right palm.“I didn’t even do anything that bad.” 

Sam laughed at that, shaking his head.“Yes, because contributing to several global wars by distributing biomechanical alien tech based weapons isn’t anything bad. Not to mention working with several major underground crime families.” 

She shushed him, kneeing his chair like an angry little kid on a long car ride.

“To be fair, at least you didn’t really kill anyone.” 

She rolled her eyes at Joaquin’s input, glaring at him from her seat.

“Also, not technically true, Joaquin.” Sam nodded as he spoke, finally making it through the plethora of security gates and guards, being able to actually park the car in the underground garage that was typically utilized for staff-only vehicles. 

Y/n was relatively silent as she got out of the car, adjusting her skirt uncomfortably before following Sam’s lead, rolling her eyes at Joaquin when he walked beside her.

When they were younger, they always walked together, and she remembered the way that she’d gravitate towards Joaquin, linking her pinky with his, especially when she was nervous about something. She felt as if she was fighting that part of herself, doing her best to ignore what was probably her inner child—or at least that’s what Dr. Raynor described it as.

He chose the worst time to extend an olive branch, she flinched the second his hand brushed against hers. At first she assumed it was an accident, but the second time she took a few steps away from him, putting some distance between them both.

She hated being patted down, but , it was part of the process, and as the security did so all she could do was roll her eyes and hold her arms up. 

Sam gave her a pointed look when they stood in front of the oval office doors.

“It’s now or never kid, time to right your wrongs.ell, at least start righting your wrongs.”

She nodded slowly, running her thumb along the scar on her palm again as she followed Sam and Joaquin inside.

Truthfully, the entire time that President Ross spoke, she simply nodded her head, offering faint and forced smiles, doing her best not to have a fully fledged panic attack. She could practically feel the anxiety thrumming through her heart, and it was getting harder to breathe, she needed to relax, needed to calm down.

Then the President shook her hand and she had no idea what he was saying, she just nodded her head at him, eyes a bit glossy as she fought the nervous tears.

Joaquin noticed it first, he could see how stiff she was. It wasn’t normal, or at least, it wasn’t what he was now used to. She looked almost afraid, or maybe it was panic. Then he noticed her rubbing her palm, and he knew it was panic, she’d always done that, it started when they were kids, and now it was resurfacing.

He excused himself, and in the process, also excused her, a single hand on her lower back, guiding her with him as they stepped out of the office, leaving Sam and President Ross to speak with one another. 

She didn’t have the energy to curse at him, she needed some air.

Joaquin guided her movements, taking her to one of the smaller more secluded gardens outside, a place that most of the public wasn’t allowed.

“Sunshine, you need to breathe.” 

She nodded her head at him, vision a bit hazy as she tried to focus on breathing. She hadn’t realized that her panicking had gotten this bad, the anxiety practically surging through her, she was too busy overthinking about everything she’d done over the past four years, trying to piece together the fuzzy pieces, trying to remember who she really was.

It was clear that just talking to her wasn’t helping, so he stepped forward, gently placing one hand on the side of her face, practically caressing her warm skin as he held eye contact with her.

“I need you to breathe. You’re okay, everythings okay. Ross approved the pardon, you just need to follow through with Dr. Raynor. You’ll be alright, Sunshine”. He spoke slowly and quietly, and for the first time in a long time, he felt as if he was really seeing her.“Take a deep breath. Exactly, in and out—just like that.” 

She nodded along, following his lead until she finally felt like her heart wasn’t going to beat out of her own chest. 

There was something calming about Joaquin, and maybe if she’d genuinely let him in again, she would know that it was just his presence overall that calmed her down. 

But it was never that easy.

Then she was shoving him away from her, blinking a few times when she finally realized how close they were.

She let out a cynical laugh, shaking her head at him. “Can’t you just leave me the hell alone?!” He stared for a moment, face void of any emotion for a few seconds.

“What the hell is your problem, Sunshine! I mean come on, I’ve been trying to talk to you for two weeks.I haven’t seen you in almost ten years at this point, and God, I’m so tired of this weird silent treatment, oh lets be mean as hell to Joaquin fiasco. I just want to be there for you!” his voice was getting louder as he ranted to her. 

“Seriously?!” she raised both brows at his outburst, rolling her eyes.

When she tried to walk away, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way, knowing she couldn’t exactly shove him. They were at the White House for her presidential pardon, any and everything that she did could easily get it ripped away from her.

“Stop calling me that! It’s not my freaking name!” Her voice was loud as she yelled at him, swatting his extended arm away from her, he rolled his eyes, letting out a deep sigh, shaking his head.

“I don’t give a shit if it’s your name, I’ve always called you Sunshine! What the hell is so different now?!” 

She let out another cynical laugh at that, fighting the urge to shove him away from her.

“Everything is different Torres! Every single fucking thing is different! You’re arguing with me in a garden outside of the damn White House where I have to get a fucking presidential pardon because I’m a god damn criminal. But you…Torres, you’re a freakin Avenger! We’ve never been more different!” Her voice cracked as she yelled back at him, her eyes burned as she felt them start to water, and she did her best to make sure she wouldn’t shed a single tear around him.

“It doesn’t have to be! You don’t have to be like that anymore! It’s a fresh start for a reason! You’re so god damn stubborn that you refuse to see yourself as anything but what you’ve been over the past few years. Newsflash,Sunshine, the Blip wasn’t good to all of us.It brought out the worst in a lot of people! You don’t have to be that same person anymore!” 

She shook her head at that.“What the hell would you know about what happened to me? You weren’t even there. Do you know how many times I wrote to you?! How many days I stayed up hoping that maybe I’d hear back from the one person I knew was still around?” Her voice cracked again as she spoke, her bottom lip quivering by the time she’d finished shouting at him. Her heart was practically pounding and her ears were ringing, her skin was flushed and all she could focus on was trying not to cry, trying to hold it all in.

She hated crying.

Once the first tear fell, it was as if the floodgates had been unleashed. She couldn’t hold it in, but she wouldn’t allow herself to break down, not like this. So she turned on her heel, hands clenched in fists as she started walking down the stone path, steadying her breath as she shook her head.

But his voice had her stopping in her tracks, still turned away from him. 

“You think I didn’t write you? Do you know the kind of shit I had to see when I was overseas, the shit I wished I had someone to talk to about?! I never stopped writing to you! Then I waited and waited for your letters! They were the only thing that got me through in the beginning, you were the only one.” 

He was exhausted, he’d been exhausted for years. Sure he’d found productive distractions, he’d even found parts of himself he’d thought he lost after the Blip. But there was always something missing, and that something had been her. She’d always been there, she was one of the largest constants in his life, then suddenly, things got hard, and she’d been gone.

She wasn’t the only one who had felt loss, that had felt that sense of loneliness.

But he didn’t know how to say that, he didn’t know how to let her know that he’d been hurting too, that the hurt hadn’t just gone away. But it wasn’t numbing, not like it had been that first year they’d lost contact. He’d managed to stay busy, working his ass off in the Air Force, using his own skill set, and expanding on it. 

He’d spent years drowning himself in work, sure he still had family back home, but it wasn’t easy going home, it wasn’t feasible for the most part. He’d been overseas for years, and in all of that time, he’d hardly gotten to speak to any of his family or friends. But he did his best to not let that loneliness overcome him.

So he’d done his best to show his superiors that he wasn’t just intelligent and athletic, but also diligent, committed, and useful.

That’s how he’d ended up meeting Sam that day in Tunisia, after years of climbing the ranks. There was so much he wanted to tell her, so much that she wouldn’t hear.

His voice cracked as he spoke “You act like I forgot you, I’ve never forgotten you, Sunshine.” 

She shook her head at that. Looking down at the ground, feeling the tears falling faster.“I don’t wanna hear that from you. Now leave me the hell alone Torres”

Then she walked away, heels clicking against the pavement as she walked through the lush space, shaking her head while wiping away her tears.

Baltimore M.D., Three Weeks Prior

“I’m not avoiding the question!” Y/n shook her head, jaw clenched as she stared at Dr. Raynor. They were currently sitting in the living room of the house that Sam had called her ‘new temporary home’. 

She was seated on the large burnt orange sofa in the middle of the room, one leg crossed on the oversized cushion she sat on, the other extended in front of her, foot resting on the edge of the small glass coffee table in the room. She held a throw pillow in her lap, glaring at Dr. Raynor who sat across from her, except in the room itself, she was technically diagonal as the recliner she sat in was angled away.

Of course the small brown leather bound notebook was still in her hand alongside a black ink pen that she jotted down notes with.

The woman sighed, adjusting her glasses as she glanced back down at the notebook, clearly making a note of Y/n’s defensive behavior.

“Yes, yes you are avoiding the question, It was a simple ask, what do you think your genuine purpose is? I’m not asking for an essay, most people have some kind of answer, some would say to work, others would say to help, I’ve even had clients say their last purpose is to make amends. If you don’t have an answer—then that itself is an answer as well. But you? You’ve completely disregarded the question”.

Y/n sighed, shaking her head again as she glanced down at her hands, the skin around her cuticles were peeling, some of it red, some of it scabbed, from her constant need to pick or fidget. 

The question was simple in thought. Dr. Raynor had asked the question ten minutes ago, and for the past ten minutes, Y/n had done her best to avoid it, opting to bring up random thoughts, extend on previous things, and ask her therapist questions instead. 

She knew for a fact she’d been avoiding the doctor’s question. 

Mainly because she’d always thought her purpose would be to do something good, something great even. To find the next biggest scientific discovery, to use her smarts for the benefit of helpful research, to engineer something substantial, to expand upon biomedical sciences and studies. 

Instead she was technically an ex-arms dealer, the engineer behind a series of potentially country-ending-weapons and machinery, a contributor to several global wars, and a literal felon with a criminal record. Not to mention the fact that she couldn’t leave the jurisdiction of the State of Maryland or Washington D.C. without pre-approved supervision.

She used to believe that maybe, on the simplest level, her purpose was to help those in need. To help those who were sick, those who were wounded, those injured in wars, but instead, she was part of the reason for those injuries in wars.

“Okay, so I don’t have an answer then.” 

Dr. Raynor shook her head “now you’re just lying to me, y’know for a global criminal considered a national threat, you’re a horrible liar” she took a note of that as well.

Y/n sighed, looking up at Dr. Raynor then back down at her hands, specifically at her right palm, running her left thumb over it again. Tracing the scar, back and forth, several times over. 

The only reason they’d had today’s therapy session in the living room was because Joaquin had been called into work late last night, some local mission that Sam needed intelligence backup on. It worked out perfectly, she’d finally gotten a day of peace and quiet.

That and her usual therapy session didn’t need to be in the mess that was her room, and Dr. Raynor wouldn’t be able to jot down any notes about the disastrous state that the bedroom was in.

“Fine. When I was a kid, I wanted to help people. Do something good y’know, my mom always said with as smart as I was, I’d be able to find the cure to the most untreatable diseases. I uh, I remember when Quin—Torres, uh yeah, Torres, would tell me that I’d be able to make a real difference for people like us y’know, people who grew up in poor areas with shit access to things like health care and real genuine medical treatments. But it all seems so far-fetched now.”

She took a deep breath after that, finally looking over at Dr. Raynor, who’s brows were knit together as she listened, then she took another note, it was short, and quick.

“You do know that you still have time to do that, right? In a world like this, where aliens, gods, and superheros are all real, there’s really no such thing as an aspiration that’s far-fetched,”

“That’s what Quino used to say to me, said we could be anything since aliens were real,” she smiled, shaking her head while looking down at her palms again.

“Tell me about your friendship with Joaquin.” 

She coughed at first, slightly taken aback before shaking her head at Dr. Raynor. 

“I’m being serious, I’d like to know more about your past, and he seems to be a consistent figure” 

She sighed, nodding her head “I dunno, like I said before, we grew up together, we were best friends for years, our families are friends, they always told us we’d get married someday, that way our families could just be one big family y’know. We were close for a long time, he was my closest confidant.”

The session ended shortly after that, mainly because time had run out, and Y/n had nothing to really respond with, sure the words of encouragement were nice, and even if they made complete sense from a logical perspective, morally, Y/n didn’t think she really deserved a second chance.

Maybe that was why this entire predicament was so difficult. It was hard to adjust, hard to accept that Sam Wilson had really given her a second chance, that maybe she’d actually be able to do some good and be able to actually help people instead of hurt them.

She’d sat in the living room once Dr. Raynor had left, opting to use one of the large throw blankets on the couch, covering herself to get comfortable, eventually opting to lay down, TV now on as she mindlessly scrolled through the channels, well at least, things were mindless until Y/n caught the local News.

Then her eyes widened as she sat up swiftly, a recorded footage feed showing Captain America and the Falcon mid air, both fighting what looked to be missiles over the Indian Ocean. She wasn’t even sure if they were actually fighting, it looked more like they were trying to lure them away, and at first they’d been doing a great job.

Then Joaquin had been hit, and not only had he been hit, he’d crash landed into the Indian Ocean. Based on the timestamps on the footage, that had happened almost four hours ago.

It was like she was on autopilot, immediately standing up, eyes wide as she rushed to gather her things and put on whatever clothes she could quickly find. Sam had mentioned that if anything ever happened, they’d be rushed to the hospital at the air force base twenty minutes outside of Washington D.C., so what did Y/n decide to do? 

Steal Joaquin’s keys and drive herself to that hospital.

It didn’t help that she’d been questioned at the security gate, and then they’d also tried arresting her, which did lead to a very unnecessary fight, but she defended herself by stating they’d triggered her fight or flight response by putting their hands on her first and practically ripping her out of the car that was registered in Joaquin’s name.

To be fair, she’d even told them that they’d been living together, and that he should’ve been flown in by then, or at the very least, he’d be arriving shortly. She had also tried showing them the paperwork that Sam had provided to her, all of it had been filed electronically, notarized, and in the legal sense, it was concrete proof that she was no longer a wanted criminal.

Technically, she wasn’t exactly a regular civilian either. There was some subclass that she’d fallen under after being experimented on, and then, of course, being a former enemy of the state wasn’t the best title for someone actively trying to get onto a military base, especially when they had zero military clearance or involvement.

It had taken two additional hours for her to actually get to the hospital on base, and the only reason they hadn’t fully arrested her was because Sam had managed to find her. 

The walk to the hospital, and through the halls was quiet. Sure there was the general noise and ambiance of a hospital, plus the stench of alcohol and antiseptics, and the ongoing background chatter between staff and patients, plus the beeping of different machines, but between Y/n and Sam, they were silent.

Sam felt guilty, guilty for it all, as if it was his fault that this had happened.The past twenty four hours had been miserable, everything that could’ve gone wrong, had gone wrong. He’d even gotten guidance from Bucky Barnes of all people, sure he loved Buck, but at the same time, getting guidance from one of the least level-headed people he knew was tragic.

Now he had to deal with Y/n, who he practically ripped away from several military police after she’d taken down two of their guards after claiming that they’d hit her first. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be shocked if they had acted with aggression towards the girl, her record was beyond worrisome and she did have several red flags that equated to violent tendencies.

But he also knew that she was worried, the concern was practically oozing off of her. 

She acted as if she hated Joaquin, but Sam knew that she was just hurt, and it was the kind of hurt that would take time to heal. It wasn’t exactly easy for her to go back to normal, especially when the past five years have been anything but normal.

They walked side by side, neither wanting to be the first to speak, at least until they’d reached the door to the room he was currently admitted into. It was a recovery room, he’d just gotten out of surgery about half an hour ago, his entire right shoulder had been burned and partially broken, not to mention the bits and pieces of metal that had pierced through his skin from his suit, wings, and the shrapnel from the missile. 

With the blinds to Joaquin’s room being open, Y/n could see him lying in the hospital bed, elevated, from where she stood.  His upper body had been bandaged, but she could see bits and pieces of his burnt skin along his jawline and his neck. 

He even had a few cuts and scrapes on his face, but they weren’t major, not like the burns, breaks, and fractures. 

It broke her heart to see him like that.

“Y’know, he really needs you right now. He’s probably needed you for a long time. Same way you’ve needed him.” 

She nodded her head at Sam, jaw clenched and brows knit together, as she blinked rapidly, trying to force the tears away at the sight of Joaquin unconscious in the hospital bed.

“I can’t do this Sam.” With that she’d walked off in the opposite direction, wiping her tears away as fast as possible, but it was no use, they’d kept falling.

Washington D.C. Air Force Base, Two Weeks Prior

To say that it was easy getting Y/n on and off base over the time span of a week would’ve been a bold faced lie, Sam had to pull several strings for it to happen, especially considering her not so subtle fight with several members of their military police unit. It would’ve been easier if she hadn't won the fight by a landslide. He had to pull the Captain America card several times, and even stated that he was taking her under his wing.

Once she was officially allowed on base, and considering that’s also where his main headquarters was based out of, it was much easier for her to have somewhere to be while Joaquin was in the hospital on the opposite end of the Air Force campus. She hadn’t gone to see him again, instead she’d spent her time bothering Sam, hacking into random systems, and going through their records.

She’d even managed to pull the records on the super soldier serum that she’d been injected with, she found out its origins, even found records of illegal tests, experiments, and medical data from overseas that had been discovered through a series of raids and top secret missions.

Every single day Sam would ask if she wanted to go see him, he’d try to convince her, and she’d always decline. He’d even mentioned that Joaquin had asked for her a few times. 

Although he wasn’t fully conscious. 

So she’d decided that maybe it was time to go see him, she couldn’t hide from seeing him forever.Sure she was mean to him, and she did push him away, but she’d never ever wished harm onto him, and she never would. At one point in time he’d meant the world to her, and if Dr. Raynor was right about anything, she was right about the fact that Y/n needed to work on opening up to people again, and letting them in.

So she left Sam’s office space and made her way to the hospital, glaring at a few officers that had given her questioning looks. By the time she’d made it to the hospital she was nervous, so nervous that she couldn’t bring herself to go into his room, she’d managed to get directions to his floor and now she was standing outside of the door, arms crossed as she tried to give herself a mental pep talk.

Then her soul had practically left her body the second an older woman spoke to her.

“Going inside sweetheart? You’ve been out here for about twenty two minutes now.” 

Y/n slowly shook her head at the older nurse, taking note of her badge that read ‘Shirley ICU RN’. Her hair was fully grey and pulled up into a ponytail, she couldn’t have been taller than Joaquin’s abuela—the woman standing at a whopping 5’1—and she was full of life.

“Uh no, I don’t think he’d want me in there with him, not the person I am today at least.” 

She shook her head at that, raising a single brow.“I think it sounds like you don’t want to be in there because of the person you are today, y’know, I saw the way you looked at him when you’d first came last week. I don’t know your history with Captain Torres, but I know he means a lot to you. Remember sweetheart, holding grudges only does harm in the end, it’s easier to forgive and keep moving forward.”

With that she reassuringly patted Y/n’s forearm, offered another smile, then made her way down the hall towards another room.

When Sam had gone looking for Y/n to ask if she was going to come see Joaquin today, she wasn’t there, and naturally he , but after about fifteen minutes he’d found the note that she left on his desk that read ‘Going to go see him’.

That’s how he found her sitting in the uncomfortably stiff cushioned chair beside his hospital bed, tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, looking right at Joaquin as she held his right hand with her own, or rather she held onto his right hand even though his stayed open.

She hadn’t noticed Sam at first, too busy sniffling as her eyes kept retracing the burns along his shoulder and neck, the previous dressing had been removed, the nurses stating that it would be good for the burn to ‘breathe’—whatever the hell that meant. Sam had also watched as she reached over with her left hand, slightly brushing the loose curls along his hairline back.

He was typically very put together, his hair never really fell out of place, and Y/n knew that, he’d always been particular about how he liked his hair.

She shook her head at him, eyes tracing each and every ridge, line, and curve of his face. 

“You’re such an asshole,” she’d mumbled, looking at him.

“Glad you finally gave him a visit.” 

Her eyes widened as she sat up, left hand instantly moving away from Joaquin, but she’d instinctively squeezed his right/ The moment she was about to respond to Sam with a witty remark, Joaquin had squeezed her hand.

Sam caught the movement too, his eyes widening as he approached the bed, now standing at the foot of it as he glanced at Joaquin, who’s features were slowly but surely moving, brows knit together, his eyes squeezed shut even harder, then he slowly opened them, blinking a few times, struggling to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights in combination with the sun shining in from outside.

“S-sunshine?” his voice was hoarse, throat dry, and he was confused as he started to process everything around him.

“Glad to see you’re finally waking up, kid” 

He slowly nodded his head, easily seeing Sam in front of him, however he didn’t register Y/n next to him, not until he went to move his hand and realized someone was holding it, then he shifted his head a bit, rolling it to the side, a little groggy still as his vision focused on the woman beside him.

He could feel her squeezing his hand, and he let out a slight laugh. Although it didn’t really sound like a laugh, more like a dry breathy cough.

Then one of the nurses walked into the room, she was an older woman who had taken the time to speak with Y/n before she’d gone into the hospital room, giving her a few pieces of helpful advice about actually being there for someone. 

The nurse smiled at the sight of Joaquin waking up, and she approached the bed with a small cup of water, taking the time to raise his bed, letting him sit up a bit more before helping him with the water.

The entire time Y/n didn’t let go of his hand, and he’d made the effort to hold onto hers as well.

“It’s good you’re awake Captain Torres, we were getting a bit worried about our resident hero.” 

He nodded his head groggily, smiling slightly.

Her assessment took about ten minutes, she’d asked him several questions to see what he remembered to judge his cognitive function, and she’d also asked him to move certain body parts of his, which he could mostly do. It was a bit uncomfortable, but it showed that while he was injured, it wasn’t anything debilitating.

Everyone was quiet as she took his vitals, making several notes before letting them know that she’d let his care team know that he was awake.

He finally looked over at Y/n again, a small smile on his face “Sunshine, how long was I out?” His voice was still hoarse, but it sounded a bit better, as if he was getting used to talking again.

“Consistently? A week, but they said you were in and out for the first week.” 

He nodded his head at that before looking over at Sam. “Did I at least look cool in the air?” 

She lightly slapped him on his side, meanwhile Sam shook his head, hands in his pockets with a small smile on his face.

“Yes, you looked cool in the air. Now I’m gonna give you two some time.I’ll be back in a bit, I’m sure you have a lot to talk about." With that, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Joaquin took a deep breath, now looking over at her again, meanwhile she did her best to avoid his stare, gaze moving around the room, taking in the small details that she truly didn’t care for such as the small crack in the drywall above the door, the several wires behind the bed, all tangled as they connected the medical machinery to the bed, a power source, and most importantly Joaquin.

She’d even realized that the table on the opposite side of him didn’t match the table closest to her, it was clearly the older version of the side table.

“Have you been crying?” 

She rolled her eyes at him, silently nodding her head 

“Why?” 

That had her looking at him as if he had three heads, eyes squinted as she craned her neck back a bit.“Why have I been crying? I dunno because I had to watch you get shot out of the air by a goddamn missile then crash land into the ocean? Plus you’ve been hospitalized for two weeks, one of which involved a medically induced coma?!” 

He slowly nodded his head, squeezing her hand again.

“I thought you hated me.” 

She took a deep breath at that, jaw clenched as she shook her head.“No you moron, I don’t hate you, I just—I dunno okay Dr. Raynor has had me thinking and I guess talking to Nurse Shirley and just—just-fuck shut up!” 

He nodded his head slowly at her frustration, he was still a little groggy, and it was clear that whatever pain medications they had him on were strong.

He looked down at himself, doing his best to see his lower chest and lower body, noticing the few wires and patches under his hospital gown, and he’d even been able to see the burn along his chest, it was clear he’d screwed up going after that missile, he just wanted to impress Sam. Hell, he wanted to impress the entire world.

“I missed you, y’know.”

She shook her head at his words, bottom lip quivering.“Of course you did” 

He nodded at that, now looking at her again, and this time, she couldn’t help but get closer, leaning into his space as she brushed his curls away from his face, doing her best to fix his hair. He smiled at her look of focus, the same concentrated look that she’d had since they were kids.

Her brows were furrowed and it was clear that she’d been biting her tongue slightly with her teeth, lips barely spread as she focused on what she was doing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to your graduation, I didn’t get the letter on time.”

His voice was quiet, and that was what finally broke her, the tears were flowing along her cheeks while she looked at him, shaking her head as she nodded.

“I’m sorry I held it against you, but Jesus, I’ve never felt more alone, I didn’t have anyone. Then I needed you and you just, you weren’t there—and it hurt so fucking bad.” 

He nodded at that, a singular tear of his own sliding down his face. “It was hard, wasn’t it?” 

She nodded at his question, sniffling, squeezing his hand a little tighter.Harder than anything I’ve ever experienced. I guess that's why it was so easy to fall into shitty habits and routines.” 

He nodded at that, eyes trailing along her figure, taking in her disheveled state. She’d been stressed, that much was obvious.“Yeah, you’ve got quite the rap sheet now.” He was teasing her, and for a second, things felt normal, it felt like they were seventeen in Miami again, going back and forth with each other while sitting outside on the hood of her dad’s truck. 

“What can I say, being a criminal mastermind was quite the regrettable career choice out of college.” 

He raises both brows.“I’d say so, too.” 

And in that moment, they’d both realized that she was still close to him, she could’ve moved at any point in time, but she didn’t. His eyes took in the details of her face, slowly but surely taking note of everything that had changed about her over the years, there wasn’t much, truthfully she looked almost the same, just a little older now.

The same way that he’d grown up, so had she.

Then he was leaning forward, ignoring the radiating pain from his shoulder and his ribcage, slowly lifting his left hand until it was resting against her face.

Neither of them had moved away.

Her gaze had shifted from his eyes to his lips, back and forth, and she wasn’t sure if it was the overwhelming emotions rushing through her, or the close proximity of Joaquin, or maybe even a mixture of both, but she’d been the one to lean closer, connecting their lips.

The kiss was soft and careful, just as it was sweet and gentle. 

He smiled against her lips, they moved slowly in sync with one another, and she squeezed his right hand again, her left hand now finding its way to his jaw as she kissed him.

Once they’d finally pulled apart she rested her forehead against his.“Promise me you won’t get shot out of the fucking sky again” 

He laughed. “Only if you promise me you won’t go back to being a war criminal.” 

She rolled her eyes, giving him one last quick peck before standing up fully. “I mean, I guess I could give Sam’s plan a shot.”

Washington D.C. Air Force Base, Present Day

Joaquin’s major rehabilitation plan involved a multitude of physical therapy, specialist visits, and most importantly, he had to stay on base. Meaning, he couldn’t leave the Air Force base unless it was on a work related trip that didn’t involve being the Falcon.

Even after sustaining his injuries the doctors were a bit shocked that he was up and moving around so quickly, it’d been about two weeks since his accident, and one week since he’d been fully awake and functional. They tried to get him to stay in the hospital, stating that they would be able to move him to a more comfortable room, but he swiftly declined, stating that if he had to be on base, he’d prefer to be in his office space, considering it also had a somewhat private attached living quarters.

It wasn’t the biggest living area, it was practically the size of a studio apartment, but it was enough for him to actually have his own space. Well, almost his own space.

Instead of him being Y/n’s babysitter, she was his. 

Sam had advised her that he trusted her enough at this point to make sure Joaquin was alright, it also helped that the two of them were on a genuine speaking basis again, and following their kiss two weeks ago, they’d been friends again.

They truly were the epitome of old friends that could catch up in the time span of an hour, it was as if nothing had changed, as if they hadn’t gone nine years without seeing one another. 

The day that he’d woken up, following their kiss, they’d talked for hours about anything and everything. She’d told him about the less than legal activities that she’d been involved in, even did her best to describe her stint in Madripoor before and after being injected with the serum. That was something that did worry Joaquin, especially considering she couldn’t really piece those memories all the way together.

But she’d reassured him that there were no lasting harmful side effects of the serum, her body had adjusted to it, and now it was just a part of her whether she liked it or not.

He’d told her about his different missions, even let her know about the day that he’d met Sam, which she did tease him about, knowing that the Falcon was his childhood hero. 

Then he was moved into the lackluster studio space attached to his shared office with Sam, and Y/n had spent two days cleaning and organizing it, the first day was about cleaning, the second she’d been driving to Baltimore to get their things, then she’d practically bullied some of the men that typically worked under Joaquin into helping her move things.

Sure she could’ve done it on her own, but everything was bulky all together and it would’ve taken more than one trip.

Joaquin still hadn’t fully processed that Y/n was fully back in his life again, she’d apologized profusely for the way she’d been treating him, he knew that she was hurting, he also knew that she wasn’t the best when it came to coping with her emotions. 

He’d forgiven her a week into having her back in his life.

But she didn’t need to know that, nor did she need to know that she had him wrapped around her finger. He’d do anything and everything for her. 

He’d always been that way when it came to her.

What he hadn’t expected was the immediate resurgence of the feelings that he’d harbored for her when they were younger, the same feelings that he’d tried to rationalize the day he’d left for bootcamp. He was never able to truly define them, he couldn’t exactly let himself fully accept and acknowledge that he’d been in love with his childhood best friend.

Not now and not then, well maybe now. Things were different, they were adults now, adults who would most likely be spending a lot more time together for a while, plus she wasn’t on the run and he wasn’t somewhere overseas.

They were currently in the main office, Y/n was busy researching super soldier serum, she’d found herself heavily invested in this over the past few weeks, and in her downtime she’d take advantage of the various softwares and technologies they had. 

It was a good distraction.

She was currently reviewing the various interrogation tapes and video diaries from one of the last few hydra bases that had managed to survive well into the blip. It was remote, somewhere in the middle of Russia’s countryside, and the diaries documented failed experiments, potential recreations of the Red Skull, and even notes on how to adjust and ‘train’ soldiers like The Winter Soldier himself.

She stood in front of one of the large table-top touch screen monitors, gaze focused on different feeds, manuscripts, and translations.

Meanwhile Joaquin was seated on the large sectional, his feet propped up on the small coffee table in front of him while his laptop was in his lap where he was supposed to be doing some work and reviewing some encrypted data that Sam had sent over.

However, his gaze was held on Y/n, more specifically, on her lower half. It was hot outside, so she’d been wearing shorts a lot more often, however these shorts-if one could even call them that, were so short that anytime she bent forward he could see the bottom of her ass, and it had him biting his bottom lip while blushing. 

Not to mention they weren’t exactly fitted shorts, but they weren’t overly loose, and he was positive they were made of something soft like cotton based on the way the fabric sat. Then she’d shift and he’d see the way her thighs and ass would slightly jiggle, and at this rate, he was losing his internal battle.

They hadn’t even spoken about the kiss, maybe it was a one time thing, or maybe it was a pity kiss on her behalf. He tried to blame it on the emotions of the moment, but truly, he’d wanted to kiss her for a long time. 

Then she dropped her notebook, mumbling a quick ‘shit’ before stepping to the side, now fully bending over, back arched while she reached to grab the notebook that had slid between the desk itself and one of Sam’s large filing cabinets. 

The entire time she was mumbling curse words and his jaw was practically on the floor. The way he was looking at her was down right perverted, his entire face was on fire at this rate and he was positive he was sweating.

But he couldn’t tear his gaze away as he traced his eyes over the span of her legs, then towards her ass, and now her legs were somewhat spread and the thin little shorts she had on were riding up, meanwhile the more she moved, the more the fat of her ass moved, and the more she spread her legs, the more prevalent the outline of her cunt between her thighs became.

The fact that she had on thin little red panties wasn’t helping either, his brain was short circuiting.

Then she’d grabbed the notebook, standing back up and doing a small victory cheer, except when she turned around to check on Joaquin, his gaze was on the laptop screen in front of him and he would’ve looked normal if he hadn’t been so red and flushed.

It was somewhat concerning, especially because she’d been so involved in her own research and task at hand, that she hadn’t realized he’d been staring at her. So, she placed her notebook on the table in front of her then waltzed right towards him.

He was praying she didn’t catch him staring, and he was also angling his laptop to hide his very evident ‘issue’ that had occurred because of his staring.

“Torres, are you okay?” she blinked a few times, now looking down at him, moving while very clearly examining him. 

He nodded his head and did his best to act nonchalant, pretending to type something, meanwhile he had a small sticky note open on his laptop and was typing random letters into it. 

But then she got closer, shutting his laptop to gather his full attention, her brows were knit together, her eyes quickly scanning his figure over and over again, double checking that she hadn’t missed anything or that something wasn’t wrong. 

Then to make matters worse, she was even closer now, one of her legs brushing against his while she propped herself up with her other knee on the sofa cushion beside him, now leaning into his space, before placing the back of her hand on his forehead, then his cheek.

“Why the hell are you burning up?! Do I need to call one of the nurses?!” 

He shook his head, gently swatting her hands away while avoiding her gaze“I-I’m uh fine. Trust me I’m just a little hot—it’s fine” she squinted her eyes at him, not buying his horrible lie.

“Tell me the truth, are you feeling okay?” Then she grabbed his chin, slowly tilting his head towards her, both of her brows now raised as she looked at him with an expectant look on her face.

The motion shouldn’t have turned him on as much as it did. It also didn’t help that he was already turned on.

“I’m fine, I promise, just hot ‘s all” 

She nodded.“Okay, you want me to turn the air on?” 

He shook his head at her.

“But you said you’re hot Torres” 

He groaned, nodding his head while grasping her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face slowly and carefully.“I’m fine, it’s probably a side effect from the pain meds or something.” 

She raised a single brow at that, now finally catching him in his lies. “You’re not taking any pain meds, you literally argued with me about it yesterday because you said you’re not gonna risk getting reliant on narcotics, and heat flashes sure as hell are not a side effect of ibuprofen.”

The way that she was concerned about him was also turning him on, it was so nurturing and sweet, but also a little mean, and honestly, this was the worst time for him to be acting like some kind of horny teenager. He’d always known Y/n was attractive, but this was absolutely insane to him.

It could’ve also been the fact that she was so comfortable around him too, prior to this current living arrangement, she’d never worn anything like that in the other house, not for the almost month that they’d lived together. Now she was walking around in little shorts, and he couldn’t even think about the top that she’d worn last night.

She’d been sleeping on the sectional, stating that she wasn’t going to just start sharing a bed with him, and then she’d told him that she’d slept in way worse places than their expensive ‘cloud of a sofa’ when he tried to protest.

But it made sense to go to sleep comfortably, however, he hadn’t expected for her to walk into the room and give him his antibiotics for the shrapnel wounds wearing a little pair of shorts and a fitted, cropped tank top with nothing under. He’d very clearly seen the outline of her breasts, alongside her nipples poking through the thin fabric, and he did his best not to watch the way her chest bounced as she walked. 

Maybe he was acting like this because he hadn’t had sex in a while, but sex wasn’t ever a huge priority for him, sure he slept with people from time to time, but he didn’t go out of his way to seek out people to sleep with.

The last time he’d thought about Y/n like this was when they were nineteen and he’d actually managed to come home to visit for the winter holidays. She’d shown up to his family’s annual christmas party in a fitted off the shoulder red dress with a white faux fur neckline and a similar trim at the bottom of the dress.

Everyone from the neighborhood had been invited, plus his extended family, and their friends. It was always a huge deal for everyone to come together around the holidays, but what he hadn’t expected was for her to show up like a Christmas vixen.

What had gotten to him though, was when she’d bent over to grab something from the oven for his abuela, and he’d been flashed her barely-covered ass, only adorned in what he assumed was a thin black thong.

He’d also made a scene out of it, rushing behind her to pull her dress down some before harshly whispering to her that she needed to ‘put her ass away’, which led to her shooting up, nearly dropping the hot pan in her hands while she whispered that she’d forgotten to put on her shorts because she was rushing out of the house.

After that, he made sure to walk her back to her house so she could change, then they walked back together. But that night, all he could think about was how she looked bent over in her skimpy panties and her little dress, and it was sending his mind into overdrive.

“Hello, earth to Joaquin?!” She snapped her fingers a few times in front of his face, and he’d blinked and finally realized that she’d been talking to him the entire time. But now he was stuck on the sound of his name from her lips.

“What’d you say?” 

She rolled her eyes, arms crossed in front of her chest.“I said earth to Torres, I’ve been talking to you for like five minutes and you’ve been zoned out thinking about whatever the fuck.” 

He slowly nodded, brows now knit together as he stared at her before shaking his head.“No, you didn’t call me Torres.” 

She sighed, hands now on her hips, irritation evident on her features.“Okay, big deal, I called you your name, I’m trying to make sure you’re okay and you’re over here in la la land! I should kick your ass!” 

He shook his head at that, now leaning back into the couch, except usually when he’d relax, he’d move his laptop, but he made no effort to do so, so mindlessly Y/n reached forward to grab it, then he surged forward too, grasping it and holding it in place with a panicked expression.

He’d also lightly shoved her back, making her laugh as she tried to regain her footing, however she hadn’t processed that she’d still been leaning into the sofa, so when he’d pushed her, she’d started falling backwards in a fit of giggles—but instead of catching herself, she simply grasped his left arm and had managed to pull him down with her.

Both of them were now lying on the ground or rather, she was on the ground while he was above her. They were laughing at one another, except Joaquin had barely managed to balance himself on his left arm, and it was a bit wobbly, which had them even closer than before. 

Then they both suddenly got quiet, now realizing how close they’d actually been.

His gaze was glued to her lips, meanwhile her eyes were trailing his features again, then she paused on his lips, and truthfully, neither of them were sure who’d made the first move, but their lips were connected again, except this kiss wasn’t slow, soft, or sweet.

It wasn’t anything like the kiss they’d shared a few days ago.

This kiss was fueled by frustration from both ends, as if they’d been pouring years of emotion back into one another. One of her hands was now in his hair, lightly tugging at the strands while her other hand slowly slid beneath his shirt, fingers gently running along the warm ridges of skin.

They were both fighting for control, it was clear that Joaquin wanted to win, however, the second she pulled his hair with a bit more force, he groaned against her lips, and his arm wobbled.

That had her pulling back, brows knit together as she caught her breath, looking from his kiss swollen lips to his eyes, then towards his left arm. She’d then realized that his right hand had been lightly caressing her jaw, however the position looked uncomfortable for him, and she knew he was straining too hard.

“Get up.” 

He blinked a few times, caught off guard by the sudden demand, then she was shoving him, making sure it wasn’t too hard. He could feel her hesitating when her hand was closer to his right shoulder.

He slowly nodded, listening to her.

“Did I do something wrong?” 

She shook her head, now standing up before giving him an expectant look, so he slowly got off of the ground, and he also made sure to check that his laptop that had hit the floor was alright—it was okay enough.

Then she pushed him back onto the couch.

“Y’know you really shouldn’t be over extending yourself, Torres.” 

He nodded his head, watching as she easily straddled his lap—then both of their eyes widened the second she was properly situated against him. There were a few moments of silence before Y/n started laughing again.

“You’re seriously hard right now? Wait,is that why you were being so weird?!”

He groaned again, this time covering his face with his hands feeling overly embarrassed as if she wasn’t the one on his lap right now. It also didn’t help that with each movement, it was as if she was slowly grinding against him and he wanted nothing more than to moan.

She was still giggling, shaking her head while she gently pried his hands from his face.

“Oh c’mon Torres, it’s only natural, don’t be shy about it,” she smirked, her teasing tone had him nodding his head, then she leaned closer to him, trailing a few open mouthed kisses along his jaw, then moving towards the left side of his neck, lightly nipping at his skin, tongue trailing over the marks she’d left behind.

Meanwhile she slowly moved her hips against him, letting out a few gasps, enjoying the friction against her core. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into the soft skin while he leaned his head back and a bit to the side, giving her more room. 

Her hands were shifting his shirt up, nails lightly tracing along his abdomen, the feeling making his mind fuzzy.

“Take it off, Torres.” 

He blinked a few times, nodding his head at her words as he scrambled to pull his shirt off, tossing it to the side somewhere, then her lips were back on him, but each time he tried to lean forward-she’d push him back against the cushions. 

Then her lips were back on him, except now she was slowly moving lower and lower, leaving a trail of minor bite marks and bruises along his skin before she was situated between his legs, now on her knees looking up at him. He hadn’t even realized that she’d been on the ground, his eyes had been shut while he leaned back, enjoying the feeling of her lips and teeth against his skin.

He’d been dreaming about this moment for years.

Seeing her looking up at him from between his legs had his mind short circuiting, then she started undoing his belt while still holding eye contact with him.

Truthfully, it was a feat in and of itself, she’d been nervous, but she was doing her best to play it off. Once she managed to undo his belt, she raised a single brow at him, as if asking for his permission, which had him practically whimpering as he nodded his head.

His eyes were slightly hooded, lips parted while he tried to steady his breathing, and he’d kept running his left hand through his hair. 

By the time that she’d undid his jeans and slid her hand into his pants, he was already biting down on his lip, chest rapidly rising and falling at the feeling of her hand against him, the only thing stopping her from actually touching him had been the thin layer of fabric separating the both of them.

She’d been palming him over his briefs, a smirk on her face at his quiet moans.

Then she tugged on his jeans a bit more and pulled his cock out, her eyes widening at the size of it, he was bigger than she’d expected, and he was certainly thicker than she’d thought. But it almost made sense, Joaquin had never really been scrawny, he’d always been broad, but now he’d filled out a lot more, the years in the Air Force had been good to his physique.

“Shit you don’t have to—” 

She cut him off, shushing him as she scooted a bit closer, now leaning over him as she slowly spit onto the tip of his cock before spreading it around with her thumb. “Let me take care of you Joaquin.” 

He nodded his head, her voice so soft and sweet, his heart was practically hammering out of his chest. 

“O-okay—” then he moaned, it wasn’t a quiet moan either, it was loud and throaty. She’d wrapped her lips around the tip of his cock, tongue swirling around the thick mushroom tip, then she pulled back, tracing her tongue along the weeping slit, the pleasure made him shudder.

She wrapped her right hand around his thick shaft, slowly raising it up and down, spitting on his cock again, using it as a lubricant to keep her motions fluid. 

“You’re always saving everyone, always being the hero, taking care of everything else. Can I take care of you this time?” 

He nodded his head, his entire body was on fire, it was as if he’d been possessed, maybe she was possessing him, maybe she was actually a witch and this is how’d she’d kill him.

Or maybe, just maybe, the love that he’d thought he’d been over, the love that he’d felt for her was making things one hundred times more intense.

“I wanna hear you say it, baby.” 

He whimpered, brows knit together as he looked down at her.“Yes-please-do it-do anything you want to me-fuck ‘m all yours, promise” 

That made her heart flutter.

Then she was taking him into her mouth again, inch by inch, and when she’d finally gagged on him, he let out another guttural moan, struggling to keep his hands still, then she’d looked back up at him and he felt like he was about to pass out.

She took her time with him, slowly bobbing her head along his cock, letting her spit trail along his thick shaft, some of it even dribbling down her chin while she used her right hand on what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. 

He finally placed his hand in her hair, it was a bit frizzy and wavy from being in braids and he’d gathered what he could, holding it in a ponytail, keeping it out of her face while she focused on sucking his cock. She’d even hollowed her cheeks, moving herself a bit faster, taking a little more of him down her throat.

This was downright sinful.

His ears were practically ringing as he fought the urge to buck his hips into her mouth, but the faster she moved her head, the closer he was to cumming.

Then she pulled back, a string of spit connecting her lips to the tip of his cock, he blinked a few times, heavy breaths leaving his lips when he watched her smirk, then she was leaning down, her tongue tracing the veins on the underside of his cock for a few seconds before she’d moved lower-that has his eyes widening.

She didn’t hesitate to trail her tongue along his balls, then she’d taken them in her mouth and he’d pulled her hair so hard it stung, but she’d just moaned, moving back up to his dick again, tongue back along the shaft before she wrapped her lips around the tip, tongue swirling around it again.

Meanwhile both of her hands were pumping and slightly twisting along his shaft, he’d bucked his hips a few times but she’d ignored it, watching as he writhed above her.

“Fuck-baby I’m gonna cum-fuck-you gotta stop before I cum-” he was borderline whining, voice a bit higher as he tried to catch his breath and tried to hold back, then she moved again.

“I want you to cum, so cum Joaquin” she’d practically demanded it, and that sent him over the edge, as her hands moved, he was cumming, thick spurts of cum shooting from his cock, trailing along her fingers, then she’d pulled the head back into her mouth, swallowing the rest of it before moving back, licking along her fingers before using her thumb to slowly drag the mixture of spit and cum along her chin into her mouth, dragging it against her bottom lip.

He thought she was done, he was already getting soft, but clearly she was a fan of torturing him.

She’d brought the sensitive tip of his cock back into her mouth, sucking on it as she stared at him, moaning around it for a few seconds, as if she was milking him dry.

The overstimulation made his eyes water as he shook his head at her.

“Baby, fuck-give me a minute-please-oh-” he whimpered when she took more of him into her mouth, lightly running her teeth along the sides of his cock before pulling away, letting him go with a ‘pop’. Then she kissed his tip, and out of everything she’d just done to him, that was downright filthy.

“You gonna let me keep goin’ Quino?” his jaw dropped at the nickname, watching as she stood up, easily slipping her shorts off, then straddled his lap again, leaving just enough room between them for her to spit on his cock and go back to fisting it. 

To say he was overly sensitive was an understatement, however that hadn’t stopped him from getting hard, not when she was on his lap making him pant like a dog. 

“Don’t call me that right now.” 

She laughed at his strained voice, leaning a little closer to him, resting her forehead against his as she kept her motions up.“Why not, Quino?” 

He moaned, shaking his head.“F-fuck, you know why.” 

She shrugged at that, moving back a little bit, she looked at him as if she was on death row and he was her last meal. “No I don’t Quino, you gonna tell me why I can’t call you that?, I’ve always called you that.” Her tone was mocking and degrading, he shook his head again, now bucking his hips into her hand, watching her bite her bottom lip, he was hard again, his head was spinning, his heart was racing, and he was five second away from telling her he’d been in love with her his entire life.

He moaned, using his left hand to grab her neck, pulling her into a kiss, practically slamming his lips into hers. 

She was surprised by the motion, especially considering she could still taste him on her tongue. 

Joaquin didn’t care about that, he was practically drowning in her. The kiss was rough, it was all teeth and tongue, the both of them swallowing one another’s moans as she ground herself against one of his thighs while slowly and lazily playing with his cock.

He pulled away first “I need to be inside of you-” and as he tried to push her off, attempting to switch positions, she used her enhanced strength to push him back into his spot while shaking her head.

“You're still hurt, or did cumming make you forget that?” 

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head.“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Sunshine” 

She shushed him again, giving him a pointed look.“No, your shoulders still hurt, you have a long recovery, no way in hell you’re about to make things worse because you want to have sex.” 

He groaned, nose scrunched with his eyebrows furrowed.“So we’re not having sex anymore?” he sounded unsure of himself, and that made her laugh again, shaking her head, their previously heated exchange now filled with a combination of their laughter. She smiled at him, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Do you trust me, Quino?” 

He groaned at the nickname, nodding his head, trying to ignore the butterflies he was feeling in his abdomen. He felt like he did the last night they’d spent together after high school, he was undoubtedly in love with her, and that love was all consuming. 

“That’s not my name.” 

She shushed him, moving her body forward now, easily sliding her panties to the side before slowly gliding his cock against her sopping cunt, practically coating him in her essence, teasing him.

“Yes it is, or would you prefer Joaquin?” She leaned closer to him, lips brushing against the shell of his ear “You want me to call you Joaquin when you’re inside of me? Tell you how good you feel against my tight little cunt, huh Joaquin?” 

He moaned again, eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of her lining his tip up with her entrance, then she was sliding down,taking all of him.

She moaned at the stretch, resting her head against his shoulder as she took him inch by inch until she was stuffed to the hilt, clenching around his thick cock,whimpering at the burning stretch.

“‘S so fuckin big-feels so fuckin good” 

He nodded at that, his hands now holding onto her waist, fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise trying to keep his composure. Then she’d fluttered around him over and over again while slowly grinding herself against him-enjoying the feeling of being so full.

“Should’ve done this a long time ago-shouldn’t have let you go so easy.” Her words were quiet as she finally started moving, bringing her body upwards, then slowly back down, setting a slow pace-rambling against the crook of his neck. 

“Missed you so much, Quino” 

He moaned, nodding his head as she moved against him, hands now moving, pulling her even closer to him.“I-oh shit-missed you too-S-sunshine.” He was stuttering at this point, head thrown back as she bounced on his cock, she was gradually building her pace, doing her best to keep things gentle, to make sure he’d be okay.

She kissed along his throat again, except this time, she moved, shifting towards his right side, peppering soft open mouthed kisses along his scarred skin, the doctors had said the burns were pretty superficial around his neck and shoulders, he’d scar, but it wasn’t as major as his other injuries.

If this wasn’t genuine love, he had no idea what love was supposed to feel like.

She was moving faster now, her moans a little louder against his skin, it was as if the only sounds in the room were their shared breathy moans, the sloshing sound of her cunt, and the sound of their skin. 

Then she reached between her thighs, fingers easily finding her clit as she kissed him again, it was difficult to focus on kissing him, their lips were moving, but it was sloppy, they’d been moaning against one another while she bounced a bit faster.

He used his left hand to move hers out of the way, two fingers now focused on rubbing fast half-circles against her swollen bud-earning several high pitched whimpers as she kept her movements up, cunt clenching around his cock as she lost her rhythm.

“I’m gonna cum-fuck Quino I’m gonna cum.” She was whimpering, her forehead resting against one of his shoulders again as she grasped onto his forearms.

“Just like that, you’re doing so good-so good for me baby.”

She nodded her head, feeling herself getting closer and closer to the edge.

Meanwhile he was doing everything in his power not to cum again, his mind was hazy and his only real goal was to make her cum first, he knew she was close, so he started bucking his hips up into her-knowing she wouldn’t argue with him right now-not when she was like this.

That sent her over the edge, moaning out a string of expletives and his name, alongside a few jumbled words, begging him to cum again.

“W-where?” 

She whimpered again, hips still moving slowly, “Inside-fuck need it inside, Quino.”

That pushed him over, and in his own orgasmic haze he hadn’t realized what he’d been moaning.

“Fuck-fuck-so perfect-shit I love you-oh god love you so much” 

The both of them sat in a comfortable silence as they came down from their highs, then she slowly started sliding off of him, wincing at the soreness of her cunt, followed by the feeling of his cum leaking out of her.

She slowly stood up, and instead of saying anything, she simply gave him an expectant look, that look resulted in the both of them being in the shower together, she was washing his hair for him, the intimacy of it all made her heart flutter even if he was complaining that she was doing it wrong.

“How the hell do you wash hair wrong, Quino? I have more hair than you, I think I know what I’m doing” her response was a bit snappy, however the few giggles that left her lips after reassured him that she wasn’t mad at him, besides he wasn’t even supposed to be lifting his shoulders too much, she was doing him a favor.

“Okay, there, now rinse it pretty boy.”He nodded at that, looking back over his shoulder, smiling at her.

When he was done rinsing his hair, he’d volunteered to wash her back, it made both of them laugh, however as she stood in front of him, he took the time to glide his fingers along the deep indented scars in her skin, brows furrowed as he realized this was what she had left to show fro everything she’d been put through for years.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.” 

She shook her head at that. “Don’t be, you should see the other guys,” she laughed softly, rolling her shoulders back when his touch tickled her, a smile on her face.

She turned to face him now, and they held eye contact for a few moments, as if they’d been taking one another in for the first time in a long time.“Is what you said true?” 

He blinked a few times, caught off guard by the question—trying to rack his brain to figure out what she was referring to. 

Then she raised a single brow “You don’t remember do you? Y’know it’s very in character for you to confess your love to me while literally cumming inside of me, then forgetting that you said something so major.”

His eyes widened, practically popping out of his skull.“Well- I uh, y’know we’ve known each other for a long time, and uh-well I guess old feelings uh y’know resurfaced when we were, well doing that-” 

She cut him off with a smile “Doing that huh? We’re literally butt ass naked in a shower together and you can’t say having sex? Really Quino?” 

He scoffed.“Stop making fun of me when I’m trying to explain myself to you!” 

She laughed at him, a little louder than she meant to, then she tried to hold it in, biting her bottom lip, the same way she always had when they were younger.“Okay-sheesh-sorry lover boy-go on and tell me how much you love me.” She was teasing him now, and he couldn’t help but shake his head at that, droplets of water splashing her from the motion.

Then he got closer, wrapping his arms around her waist as he looked at her, their faces only a few inches apart at this rate, the water bouncing against their skin as he pulled them closer to the shower head.“You got me okay, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, you totally broke my heart when you were all cold to me for a month even if we hadn’t seen each other in years, you’ve always been the one for me, Sunshine, even if you are a reformed war criminal.” 

Her jaw dropped at his jokes, shoving him.“You asshole!” she couldn’t hold in her fit of giggles. “Is now a bad time to say that I wanted to kiss you on prom night?” he shook his head.

“No, because I wanted to kiss you too—but we can make up for lost time. Besides Sam said I need a long term babysitter. Okay, now it’s your turn to say you love me, too.” 

She laughed again, smiling at him as she held eye contact, then she kissed him, it was practically a peck.“I guess I love you too, you loser. Although it did take you crash landing into the ocean for me to realize that. Now can we please get out of the shower before I prune up like a raisin?” 

He raised a brow before reaching back to turn off the showerhead. “You do know that prunes and raisins are two different dried fruits right?”

-

Thanks for reading secksies <3

[hoodpankow]

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

[hoodpankow]

grasping your love. // ln4

part one. || part two.

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, fluff, friends to lovers, childhood best friends au, hurt-comfort

word count | 11.7k

warnings | no use of y/n, heartbreak, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, abandonment themes, low-key manipulation themes??, use of alcohol, cursing, crying.

inspired by: sydney rose - we hug now, conan gray - memories, the kid laroi - bleed

summary: you told yourself you’d moved on. that you didn't care, and your heart had mended. but when he came back, all ruined and raw, you realized some hearts don’t forget who they were meant to beat for.

a/n: PART TWOOOOO!!!! as soon as i saw the requests for part two i started working on this, and actually, it turned out to be longer than i expected- OOPSIE but y'all.. writing this kinda broke me :,) i'm so happy that at least they got their happy ending </3 hope you'll enjoy !!

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that wraps itself around you, like the silence after a storm—where everything feels too calm, too heavy with unspoken words. You could hear the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway, the distant hum of the fridge, the muffled sound of your parents’ breathing in their room down the hall.

You padded across the hallway in thick socks, dressed in your oversized sleep shirt with sleeves tugged down over your fingers. The exhaustion from the day had settled into your bones, dull and familiar. You’d brushed your teeth, put your hair up, wiped the smeared mascara from under your eyes—and still, somehow, you felt heavy.

Not even tired. Just… drained. Hollow in a quiet way. The kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep, but with the ache in your chest that had been there since that night.

The night when you sat under the stars, knees drawn to your chest. When he was crouching in front of you with that lopsided smile, and made you feel like you could hope again. 

The night you almost said it. The night he almost knew.

But after that night, there came the distance. Not cruel, not sharp, just drifting. Like smoke through fingers, like something slipping underwater.

And you were trying. Trying so hard to be okay with it. But god—you were exhausted. 

However, it wasn’t the physical kind of exhaustion. It was something deeper, a kind of tiredness that came from the emotional weight of trying to convince yourself that everything was fine, that things were normal. But every time you opened social media and saw Lando’s name, or caught a glimpse of him in the halls at school laughing with Olivia, leaning in close, his hand in hers, her lips on his cheek—it all felt like a cruel reminder that the world had moved on, and you hadn’t been included in it. You were stuck in a loop of saddness and regret.

When you reached your bedroom door, hand resting on the knob, a strange noise came from downstairs, making you stop mid-step.

Clink. 

You wanted to brush it off, taking for granted that it was just the wind, or the house creaking. But then it came again—the scrape of a drawer, the distinct sound of a cup hitting the counter, the slight clink of something being set down. 

You sucked in a breath, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Your first thought? Someone broke in.

You tiptoed out of your room, pulse quickening, each creak of the floorboards beneath you feeling like an alarm bell. The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight near the stairs. You could hear the rustling louder now, the sound of something being knocked over, maybe.

A breathless moment of hesitation, then you flicked the light on, your hand trembling slightly. The glow of the kitchen illuminated the open doorway.

And there, leaning against the sink, was no one other than Lando himself. A glass of water in his hand, his back hunched slightly like he’d been holding up too much weight for too long.

When his eyes set on you, he blinked a few times like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if he was dreaming you up.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Lando… what the hell are you doing here?” You blurted out, your voice far sharper than you intended. “It’s fucking one in the morning! You scared the shit out of me.”

He observed you, eyes bleary, and half-lidded. He didn’t seem surprised—just tired. His lips curled up slightly, almost forming a smile, but also an apology. 

Your chest tightened at that sight. “You broke into my house?” You said with your voice trembling, not from fear anymore, but from confusion. Anger. Sadness. Everything at once.

He didn’t seem bothered by your accusation. Instead, he just shrugged, “The key,” Lando muttered. “Was still under the orange flower pot.”

That flower pot. The one your mom had left by the doors years ago. The one he used to hide candy under for you in middle school. The one that had, unknowingly, never switched places.

You stepped closer, the light casting his figure in sharper detail. His hair was a mess—curls flattened on one side, wild on the other, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked, stained slightly with something you didn’t care to identify. And his eyes—god, his eyes. Always so bright and beautiful, in that aquamarine color, but now bloodshot, tired and wrecked.

You blinked, still trying to process what was happening, what had led him to your kitchen at this hour. “Lando, what happened?” You took a step closer. 

Your anger melted into something else—worry, and concern. You had never seen him like this. Drunk, disoriented. Not even the usual playful charm he wore like armor.

Your heart clenched at the sight. What happened to him?

“Lando… what’s going on? Why aren’t you with Olivia?” Saying her name left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, like his knees had given out. Slowly, he slid down the cabinets until he hit the floor, back against the drawers, legs stretched out carelessly. 

You panicked for a second as he looked pale, dizzy, and lost. “Lan— hey.. are you okay?” You crouched beside him instinctively, heart pounding. 

Then he slumped into you without warning. His head fell to your shoulder, the warmth of his skin pressing into yours. And for a long, drawn-out moment, you just let him rest there. His breath was slow, ragged, like he had been running a marathon, like he had been fighting something for a long time. 

But all of it—the tension, the pain, the confusion—had finally spilled over in this one vulnerable moment. 

Lando sighed against your collarbone. “M’tired.” His hot breath tickled your skin, making you shiver at the sound of his voice.

And you stayed like that. There, on the kitchen floor. Tiles cold beneath your legs, your body stiff beside his slumped frame while letting the boy rest on your shoulder. The silence settled again, but heavier now, thick with questions you didn’t know how to ask.

His breath was slow and warm where it met your neck. You stared ahead at the fridge, heart unraveling in your chest.

This was still Lando. Your Lando.

The boy who used to throw pebbles at your window at 2 a.m. just to see if you wanted to go stargazing. The boy who once tried to braid your hair in sixth grade and ended up tying it in a knot. The boy who almost said he loved you once—and you didn’t hear it in time.

And now he was here, on your kitchen floor. 

“I don’t wanna leave you.” Lando mumbled, his words barely audible, his voice thick and muffled against the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”

But he didn’t repeat it. He just exhaled like he’d been holding that in for years. Like that sentence had broken out of him by accident, cracked through whatever wall he’d built around himself.

You held him there, on the cold kitchen floor, unsure of what to do with his confession. Your heart pulsed violently in your chest, because what did he mean? Did he mean tonight? Or forever?

Why wasn’t he with Olivia? Why wasn’t she the one holding him now? Why did he come here like you were still his safe place?

But you didn’t ask, not knowing how. You just sat there with him—shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, memories thick in the space between you.

But the weight of his presence, of him leaning into you, of him saying those words that you didn’t know what to do with, was unbearable. And it broke something inside you. Something that you hadn’t realized was still holding on.

You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill again. You didn’t know what you wanted from him—or from yourself. You just held him. You held him because you couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not when he was still here.

And you didn’t know it yet, but that moment would stay burned into you—into your soul. 

Days after the kitchen night, the silence between you and Lando grew so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin. You thought maybe he’d text. Apologize. Mention what he said. Explain this whole situation. 

But he didn’t.

And so, you convinced yourself that it was a mistake—drunken words said in a foggy haze. Words meant for the moment, and not especially for you.

Still, you couldn’t forget the way his head had rested on your shoulder, like he belonged there. You couldn’t unhear the slurred, soft-spoken “I don’t want to leave you.” Those six words looped in your head like a broken record. 

Were they meant to be comforting? A warning? A confession?

But even worse than that was how everything returned to normal or, at least, seemed to.

You stopped bumping into him at school. He stopped showing up in the group chat. 

Olivia posted more often now—the two of them posing in bookstores, going to brunch, prepping for their “future.” She seemed so perfect on his arm, so carefully curated. Their relationship was like a photo in a museum: admired by everyone, but no one really understood it.

And you—you felt like a visitor. A stranger peering into a life you used to be a part of. You didn’t go to the group hangout in the woods. You skipped the movie night that once used to be your thing. Your friends texted, called, asked where you were. But you always had an excuse: studying, babysitting your cousin, or just being tired. 

Anything but the truth.

The truth was that it hurt to exist in a space where Lando no longer looked for you. Even when you did see him, it was… different. He was quieter, more distracted by being new version of him. He even laughed less than he usually would when he was around you. He didn’t hold eye contact like he used to—not the way he did when it was just you two in the corner of a room, stealing glances across dinner tables or hiding giggles behind shared inside jokes.

It was like watching a star dim slowly, day by day, losing its uniqueness.

You’d pass each other in the halls sometimes. There was a flicker in his eyes—like maybe he wanted to say something, even the smallest thing. But the moment always passed and you’d look away first, because it felt safer that way.

One afternoon, you found yourself sitting by the window, the same one you both used to lean against when you studied together. The sky outside was soft and grey, and the silence in the room felt like it was screaming at you.

You clutched your phone in your hand, screen still open on the last video you ever took together—blurry, spontaneous, just you two laughing over some dumb joke, your laughs loud and vibrant. You looked at your smile in it, and how easy it had been to smile with him. How full you had felt back then.

But then came a new notification. A tagged photo on Olivia’s Instagram.

“Couldn’t be happier to start this chapter with you. Amsterdam, here we come <3”

The picture was beautiful, in that staged kind of way. Lando kissing her cheek, his arm around her waist as she held her passport and their tickets. The luggage was behind them, and departure gate in the background.

You blinked once. Twice. Then your chest caved in.

He hadn’t told you. Again. But this time he hadn’t even said goodbye.

There had been no message, no last knock on the door, no final look.

The disbelief washed over you in waves. First it was confusion, then came the bitterness. And then that slow, aching pain—like someone had reached inside and quietly rewired your heart. And it would knock the breath out of you, because suddenly it would make sense.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

But he did. And he was already gone, taking his future with Olivia, leaving you with nothing but the words he’d whispered to you on that kitchen floor. Words you still didn’t understand, but somehow knew were real.

────୨ৎ────

The airport was too bright.

Everything felt like it was glowing under harsh, white light—the floors, the departure signs, the rows of metal benches where people sat with neck pillows, their luggage beside them, and some even taking a nap. 

Lando could hear Olivia's voice next to him, cheerful and animated, chatting with her mum as they went over last-minute plans. He smiled, or at least tried to, but it didn’t feel right on his face. It didn’t stick.

He stood a little outside of it all—just off to the side of the check-in area, surrounded by people but entirely elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting toward the entrance doors. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked there—searching.

It had been weeks since that night. The kitchen. The water. Your shoulder. The words he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. 

You hadn’t texted him since. Not even once. He had tried writing a couple of short, awkward messages but he always changed his mind, immediately deleting them. 

And yet, some stupid, desperate part of him believed you’d still come.

Maybe you’d rush in, sleeves of your favourite hoodie pulled up your arms, out of breath, pretending you just happened to be nearby. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like “figured you’d want a dramatic send-off, loser.”

He would’ve smiled, laughed even. He would’ve known what you meant. So he kept looking. Every flash of the color which your favourite hoodie had. Every girl which walked a little too fast through the crowd. His stomach turned every time he thought—that might be you.

But it never was.

“Boarding group A, you’re now welcome at gate 27.”

The announcement echoed through the terminal. Olivia squeezed his hand, excited, practically buzzing with it. “Ready?” She asked, sending him a warm smile. Lando nodded, but his eyes were still locked on the doors. Still waiting, hoping, hurting.

Olivia tugged his hand gently, and he looked one last time, but you weren’t there. It felt like something inside his chest folded in on itself.

────୨ৎ────

The house was quiet. Your parents were already gone for the day, hanging out with their friends which came to your city. The sun was filtering in through the curtains, soft and golden.

You were still in bed. Blankets pulled up to your chin, phone in your hand, screen dark. You hadn’t looked at his Instagram story. Not yet. Seeing Olivia’s post was enough for you.

You didn’t want to see the gate, again. The luggage. Olivia’s arm looped through his. You didn’t want confirmation that this was real. That he was really leaving. That he was no longer just not here, but truly, physically and emotionally gone.

Your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid. And now you laid in your bed, curled under your blanket, breathing through the quiet kind of grief that doesn’t come with sobs or screams—just this low, constant ache in your chest. Like your ribs were too tight. Like your heart was trying to remember how to exist without him.

You stared at the ceiling—eyes wide, dry. You weren’t crying, you just felt… hollow.

Somewhere in a crowded airport, Lando was still looking for you in a sea of people. But now it was too late. 

He had left. And you had let him.

────୨ৎ────

a few months later

The sky hadn’t been blue in weeks. Months.

Every day carried a quiet grayness, like the world had slipped into a version of itself that was somehow dimmer—dull and breathless. The leaves had started to curl at the edges, the sun set earlier now, and everything seemed to echo more, especially the silence in your chest.

You didn’t realize how much you had gotten used to him being part of your days until the days went on without him. Not suddenly—not like a door slammed shut, but like a faucet that dripped until the sink overflowed. Now, the drip was gone, the tap turned off. But you were still soaked in the memories.

He was gone. And you hated how easily everyone had accepted it.

It was late afternoon, the kind of cloudy-gray sky that made everything look softer, like the world had been rubbed with a layer of dust. You sat outside the library, on that same bench tucked beneath the skeletal arms of a tree that had long since shed its leaves. The wind moved gently through the branches, dry and cool, like fingers brushing against your skin, but you barely even felt it.

Your textbook lay open in your lap, untouched. You weren’t reading—you hadn’t been reading for a while. You were just… sitting. Existing. Or something like it.

Students moved past in waves—laughing, talking, balancing coffees in one hand and phones in the other. Their lives felt fast, full, like they were already becoming something. Moving forward, getting somewhere. But you? You felt stuck in the same still frame, like time had stretched out for you but kept moving for everyone else.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t reach for it. You already knew it wouldn’t be him.

It hadn’t been him in months.

Lando was gone. Not just in the physical way—though yes, he was hundreds of miles away in Amsterdam, probably stretched out in a dorm bed beside someone who wasn’t you. But he was also gone in the invisible, intimate, excruciating way. In the way someone disappears from your days, not all at once, but in pieces. One text not sent, one weekend not spent together, one secret not shared until all that’s left is pure silence.

You saw all the stories, posts, sunlit selfies. Blurry party photos, Olivia’s cherry gloss smudged on his cheek, and his hand around her waist like it belonged there. His smile—it looked so familiar, yet no longer yours.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

A new city. A new life. A new girl.

And you were still here, feeling as if you’re basically wasting your time. Staring at the same sidewalk cracks, listening to the same sad songs and playing the same night in your head—the one where you almost told him everything. The one where he looked at you like you were the only person in the universe, only to walk away and give his world to someone else.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, you thought back to that night in your kitchen. When he showed up drunk, lost, whispering he didn’t want to leave you. You hadn’t understood what he meant back then. Not fully. Maybe you didn’t want to, but now, in the echo of his absence, it haunted you.

It wasn’t even the relationship that hurt the most. It was the way it all disappeared—like you had never mattered, never been chosen, never been even considered.

You remembered finding out about him and Olivia. You didn’t sleep that night. You just lay there, eyes burning, heart breaking in this small, quiet, invisible way—where you weren’t allowed to scream or sob or say this isn’t fair because technically, nothing had been promised. 

But it had felt like a promise. Hadn’t it?

In the shared glances, in the laughter, in the way he used to text you when something dumb happened and say you were the first person he thought of. In the memory of him crouching in front of you at the party, brushing a tear from your cheek and saying he missed you.

Damn. Had you been that easy to forget?

Now, months later, you still carried that grief, that quiet ache but one else really noticed it. You’d gotten good at pretending—at laughing when you were supposed to, convincing that everything was great when people asked about school, often responding “yeah, I’m okay” with just the right smile to convince them.

But deep down, you were stuck, you couldn’t move on, and that’s what scared you the most. Because he had already moved on. 

His heart had mended so quickly, while yours was still bleeding. 

You saw it every time you opened Instagram. The way he glowed in those photos, new hair suiting him so goddamn good, looking like nothing ever haunted him. Like you had never haunted him. Like the version of himself that only existed when he was with you had vanished—as if it never mattered in the first place.

And yet you still remembered.

You remembered the time he fell asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling half-dreamed thoughts about how safe he felt with you. The time you screamed the lyrics of your favourite songs in your room, both of you out of breath from laughing too hard. The moment, months ago, when he almost confessed—voice low, eyes soft, something hidden in the way he touched your hand. But you had brushed it off. Laughed, and teased him about it, not taking him seriously because back then you hadn’t known. 

You hadn’t realized, and now it was too late.

It wasn’t fair, how one person could move on and build a life, while the other lived with an ending that never truly ended.

You looked up from your textbook and blinked into the gray sky. Your chest ached—dull and constant. It had become part of you now, the same way a scar settles into skin.

Sometimes, you wondered if he ever missed you. If he ever thought back to the version of his life that included you. But you knew the truth. For him, it was just something that happened. Something small. But for you? It was everything. And it felt like the world ended when it did.

Some mornings, you stared at your phone for too long. You’d open your messages and scroll to his name, only to lock your screen again. His contact was still saved—still with the dumb nickname he’d given himself when you finally saved his number. Still with the photo of him pulling a face, mid-laugh, cheeks pink from the cold. You couldn’t bring yourself to change or delete it because deleting it would make it all real, and you weren’t ready for that.

You still carried all of the conversations in your head. Those little ones, and stupid ones. Like what he would say if he saw you after going to the hairstylist, how he’d tease you for the playlist you’d made for studying or how he’d groan dramatically about missing your mom’s cooking if he walked through your front door again.

You still remembered the way it all slipped. The last few months of high school had felt like they were lined with fog—slow, delicate, full of things unsaid. You had started keeping your emotions in a box, tucking them beneath small smiles and empty reassurances. You didn’t want to be a weight on his shoulders, didn’t want to make things harder. And most importantly, you didn’t want to lose him by telling him how much you needed him to stay. But you lost him anyway.

When you got to know that he was going to university with Olivia, it felt like your heart had been held above a flame. Slowly, gently burning. 

He had made his choice, and it hadn’t been you.

You never told anyone how much that night broke you. How you cried in the shower with your hand pressed over your mouth, not to muffle the sobs, but to hold yourself together. You didn’t want anyone to know that you’d fallen apart over someone who, to the outside world, had never been yours to begin with. 

But he had been yours. In the stolen glances, in the late-night conversations, in the inside jokes that no one else understood. He had been yours in every way that mattered—until he wasn’t.

Now, time was moving without him. He was off in a new city—Amsterdam, with new friends, new routines and new loves. And you? You were left behind with the echoes. 

You never told him how often you still wore the hoodie he left at your place after one of many movie nights. Or how your chest still clenched every time you passed his old house, how sometimes you swore you could hear his laugh in the crowd, only to remember he wasn’t here anymore. The worst part? No one knew you were still grieving. Because you decided to just smile through it as it had never been said what you two were. 

Some days, the sadness came in small waves—manageable, dull, like a bruise. Other days, however, it felt catastrophic, like you were drowning in everything unsaid. Everything he’d taken with him, everything he’d left behind.

You wondered—deeply, painfully—if he thought of you at all. If there were nights when he missed your voice, if he ever wished, even just for a second, that he’d done it all differently.

But you didn’t ask, you didn’t reach out because if he had wanted to stay he would’ve.

Right?

And yet, even now, all this time later, with the silence between you stretching wider and wider from one day to another, you still dreamed of him sometimes. Still woke up with tears on your pillow and his name lodged somewhere in your throat. Still felt like he was right at your fingertips. 

Close enough to remember, but too far to touch.

────୨ৎ────

Amsterdam had been covered with heavy, dark rain clouds for a week now. Thin, cold rain that didn’t fall in sheets, but misted the air like grief that never stopped clinging. The kind that soaked into the seams of your hoodie and stuck to your eyelashes. 

He’d been in this city for eight months now. Everything should’ve felt like a new chapter. Everything should’ve felt like the freedom he once craved — the escape he told himself he needed. Instead, he felt… off. Out of place in his own life. Like he had walked onto someone else’s path and didn’t know how to find his way back. 

He had new friends here, a schedule, a routine, a girlfriend. He even made sure to decorate his room with little posters, like you once told him to. But even then—even with those pieces of color and personality—it felt hollow. He felt hollow. Olivia filled the space beside him, but not within him. That space had been carved out slowly, over the last year. And it hadn’t been carved for her. It had been carved for you.

Lando hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks. His room was too clean, too beige. He missed the cute mugs you used for drinking tea with him and the way your socks never matched. He even missed the ridiculous alarm tone you used—that one song you claimed was the only thing aggressive enough to get you out of bed. Now his alarm was Olivia. Waking him up with a practiced kiss to the cheek and a to-do list for the day already in her hand. Organized and efficient, but distant.

She always smelled expensive and her hair was always perfect. Her perfume clung to his hoodies now, replacing the faint vanilla and lavender scent that used to make his chest clench unexpectedly. She fit the picture—but not the frame.

He didn’t notice how much he was unraveling until he stopped recognizing himself. Everything he said felt like a script, everything he did felt like it was on autopilot. He went to class., he sat through lectures, then he answered Olivia’s questions, and he smiled when he was supposed to smile.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the Lando he had been all his life, this was a new, artificial version of him. He’d laugh at something someone said at a party, and the sound would feel different. He’d catch himself zoning out at lunch, his eyes drawn to things that reminded him of home—a chipped tile, a girl wearing her hair like you used to, the specific color of a hoodie like the one you always borrowed from him. It has never stopped.

You were a ghost that followed him everywhere, not haunting him maliciously—but softly, and quietly. Just present enough to hurt.

And every time Olivia asked him what was wrong, he’d lie.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just adjusting to a new place, that’s all.”

Sometimes, when Olivia was out late with her friends, he’d sit on the cold tile floor of the kitchen—like he had that night in your kitchen, and he’d let the silence settle.

He remembered what he said to you, slumped against the cabinets, head spinning, your shoulder warm beneath him. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what that meant. But now? Now he did because he had left, and it had ruined him.

He checked his phone before the flight, over and over. Desperately hoping for a message. One of your typical, low-effort, high-meaning texts:

“Don’t forget your passport, idiot.” or “You’re gonna do great, Lan.”

But it never came.

He’d hoped—selfishly—that you’d come say goodbye. That you’d be there at the airport, even if just standing in the back. That maybe, just maybe, you’d catch his hand, say something like “Stay.” But you didn’t.

He’d looked for you anyway. Chest tight, heart racing, his eyes scanning the faces of every person who showed up to send him off. Laughing, hugging, cheering. But not you. And in that moment, he felt something twist deep in his chest—a mix of guilt and disbelief. Because even after everything… some part of him truly believed you’d be there. You always were, until now.

And something inside him snapped quietly in that moment. Like a string too tight for too long finally giving way.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t—

Lando never deleted your messages. He couldn’t. They were still there, buried deep in the chat log. All those late-night voice notes, the blurry selfies, the playlists you made, the “tell me you got home safe, idiot” texts. Now they sat untouched, blue and gray bubbles frozen in time.

One night, he tapped on one of your voice notes and hit play, and your voice filled the room. It broke him. He sank to the floor—knees pulled to his chest, face in his hands—and cried. Really cried. Not the frustrated kind, or the angry kind, but the kind that came from loss. From deep, heavy regret because now, with the noise of this new life screaming around him, he realized how quiet you had been when you left.

You didn’t beg, you didn’t argue. You didn’t even try to convince him to stay. You simply stepped back, and he let you.

Everything with Olivia started to rot after that. Not all at once—but slowly. He stopped laughing at her jokes, she started noticing how distant he’d become, they argued more. She asked why he wouldn’t touch her like he used to, why he stayed up late when she went to bed. Why didn't he try. He didn’t have an answer she wanted to hear. Because the truth was that he was still in love with someone else. And he’d left her behind.

He tried. God, he tried. Olivia was everything on paper—beautiful, perfect body, intelligent, well-spoken. She had a plan for her future, a five-year vision board, a curated Spotify playlist for every mood. But she didn’t know how to read his silences like you did.

She didn’t call him out when he was spiraling in his thoughts, having anxiety attacks. She didn’t remember how he hated fish or how he picked at the skin on his thumb when he was overthinking. She didn’t feel like home, and over time, he stopped trying to force it. He stopped texting her when he stayed on campus later than planned, he started noticing how tight her grip was on his arm, how her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when he mentioned your name—which he always did by accident.

You had a way of slipping into his sentences, even when he wasn’t trying.

“Oh yeah, she always said that movie was mint!”

“We used to listen to this song in the summer.”

Each time, Olivia would go quiet, and Lando would pretend he didn’t notice—but he did.

He just didn’t know how to stop it.

The nights were the worst. When the city noise finally died, and all that was left was the glow of streetlights bleeding through the blinds. He’d lie awake, the bed too big, the air too thin, your voice still echoing faintly in the back of his mind. 

It wasn’t even the last time he saw you that haunted him—not really. It was everything before that. The look in your eyes when you told him you were fine, the way you nodded, even though your voice cracked. The way you smiled for him even while your heart broke quietly behind your ribs.

He’d never forget the weight of your head on his shoulder in that quiet kitchen. The warmth of your presence, the familiar rhythm of your breathing, the silence between you that somehow said everything he wasn’t brave enough to. You just let him rest there, drowning in the alcohol, the ache, and the guilt.

Lando has thought about messaging you so many times. Late at night, early in the morning, after a fight with Olivia, after a dream that felt too real. He even typed out a few drafts, but he always deleted them because it felt too selfish. Because what right did he have to pull you back when he was the one who walked away?

So instead, he stayed silent—and hoped you’d reach out first. Yet days passed, and you didn’t.

He scrolled through your Instagram more often than he wanted to admit. You’d changed your profile picture, and even cut your hair shorter. You posted photos with friends, laughing in golden sunlight, and yet your eyes still carried something heavy, something distant. He zoomed in on one photo once, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it—that slight sadness you always tried to hide behind your smile.

You looked okay. But not happy. And it wrecked him to know that he was probably the reason why.

At the four-month mark, he started skipping more classes, stayed in bed longer and let his favorite lego sets collect dust. Olivia noticed, of course, but she didn’t ask the right questions—and even if she had, he wouldn’t have told the truth. Because the truth was simple and devastating: he missed you more than he ever thought possible. Not just in the romantic sense—but existentially. Like something about his very being had gone numb without you there to ground him, like he couldn’t find the version of himself he liked anymore. The version who laughed too loudly, who stayed up late talking about nothing, who said stupid things just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

He felt like a stranger to himself, and the more he tried to fit into this new life, the more he realized he didn’t belong here.

He hadn’t told Olivia yet about the truth of what he was feeling. About the growing distance in his chest every time she kissed him. About how every time he said “I love you,” it felt like a lie wrapped in an apology. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about how he got here. And how he should’ve never left you behind.

────୨ৎ────

The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of a paused movie screen and the glow of Olivia’s phone. Outside, the city murmured its usual midnight song—distant traffic, wind brushing windows, occasional laughter from people who still had somewhere to be.

However, inside, it was dead quiet.

Lando sat slouched on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, thumb pressed hard into the side of his temple. His jaw ached from clenching. He’d been this way for the past hour—motionless, burning silently. 

Olivia didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but chose not to care. Her legs were tucked beneath her, wrapped in that gray blanket she bought when they were picking things for the apartment. She scrolled on her phone, her thumb moving in slow flicks, laughter bubbling from her lips every now and then at something on her screen. 

It didn’t even feel like they were in the same room. 

“You’re really not gonna talk again tonight?” She finally said, not even looking at him, too busy replying to someone on Instagram.

He blinked slowly, taking a deep breath. “There’s nothing to say.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “That’s bullshit, Lan. You’ve been weird for weeks.” She tilted her head, getting a better look at him. Lando opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling through his nose.

“Is this about college?” She asked, more pointed now. “Or is this about her?” He stiffened at her last words. 

There it was—the unspoken name, hanging in the air like a match above gasoline.

“Of course it is,” She scoffed, throwing her phone down. “You’ve been floating since we got here. You barely try anymore. Like your body’s here, but your head’s somewhere else—always looking back to Bristol. You need to understand that this city and every memory that is connected with it is already long gone.”

He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, really looked—and didn’t recognize the person staring back. She wasn’t the Olivia he had first met, full of ambition and spontaneous affection. She was different now. Controlled, and expectant. Like she wanted to mold him into someone else. 

How could he forget about Bristol, about you?

“Because I don’t feel like myself anymore, Liv!” Lando finally snapped, voice sharp, loud and desperate. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am when I’m with you.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed, “Wow,” She snickered, voice trembling with disbelief. “That’s a shitty thing to say to the person who moved hundreds of kilometers to a foreign country with you.”

“No. You moved here,” He snapped, his voice finally rising. “And I just followed. I followed after you here because I thought that maybe it would fix whatever I was feeling. But it didn’t. It just made it worse.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked a few times before finally letting out a scoff and replying, “Okay, so this is my fault, huh?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Bullshit!” She stood now, the blanket falling off her lap. “You’ve been checked out for months. Is this really about her, Lando? Just say it. Have balls and say it, straight to my face, that this is true.”

Lando’s chest tightened. He ran a hand through his curls, pacing in quick, tight circles. He could feel the frustration building in his throat, like it was choking him. 

“I haven’t spoken to her in months, Olivia.”

“But you still think about her. I see it on your face every time we walk past something that reminds you of home. Every time someone says her name. You go quiet, and get lost in your little, stupid head again, overthinking everything.”

Her words landed like a punch in the stomach. He stopped pacing, his back was turned to her. Softly, he answered, “Maybe I am.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Her breath hitched, hands trembling, knotted into fists.

“You’re such a coward, Lando,” She whispered in disbelief. “You couldn’t even admit you loved her. You just kept pretending, and now that this life isn’t perfect, you want to run back like a scared little boy.”

He turned around, eyes shining now, but not from tears. From fury. “I never wanted this life, can’t you understand it?!” He shouted, gripping his fists tightly, his nails digging deeply into the skin of his hand. “You planned it all out and I just… I went along. I left my family, my best friend, my home. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I don’t even know who I am anymore, Olivia.”

“So what now?” She spat, a non-chalant grimace visible on her face. “You’re gonna crawl back and expect her to just be waiting for you with open arms? Like none of this happened? Pretend like you didn’t break her heart too?”

That brought him to a halt. He hadn’t let himself think of it that way—how much damage he might’ve caused. How you had stayed quiet while he disappeared into someone else’s world. 

Lando felt sick.

“I don’t know what she’ll say,” He admitted, softer now. “But I can’t keep doing this. Not when I feel like I’ve lost everything that made me who I was.”

Olivia stared at him for a long time. Then, her expression hardened. “Then go. And don’t bother coming back.” She added coldly.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Go ahead. Pack all of your shit, dickhead. Go chase your fucking dream girl. Just don’t expect me to wait around while you figure out who you are.”

He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes stinging. “I wouldn’t even ask you to.”

And just like that, he turned around and walked into their shared bedroom. He pulled out the old bag from under the bed—the one with his initials stitched into the side from when he was sixteen. It hadn’t been touched in months.

He threw in clothes without thinking. Chargers. Toothbrush. Photo strip he’d once tucked into a side pocket—the one with the two of you, silly grins and bright eyes, back when life had been simple. With all the necessary things, he zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped back into the living room.

When he came back out, Olivia stood there, arms crossed over her chest, tears in her angry eyes. She was bitter, not even trying to stop him. 

“Lando.” She called him one last time, and he turned to look at her for the last time. “You’ll regret this,” She continued, voice low and furious. “She won’t take you back, and you’ll be left with nothing.”

But Lando didn’t say a word, he just walked out, slamming the door behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, he felt it—like breathing after holding it too long. Like grief and relief tangled into one.

For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like something new beginning.

────୨ৎ────

You weren’t expecting anything—just the usual hum of silence broken only by the rain pounding on the windows. It had been a quiet evening. Too quiet, actually. 

You’d brushed your teeth, turned the lights low, your skin still warm from a shower, wrapped in a worn hoodie far too big for you. A movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really watching. You never did anymore. Everything had dulled around the edges. You went through motions now. You existed in between hours, in between memories of what used to be and the aching of what could’ve been.

It was close to 1:00 AM. You hadn’t planned on staying up this late, but sleep never came easy these days. Not since he left. So when the knock came—three distinct raps followed by a silence so heavy it filled the room—your stomach dropped. 

You froze mid-step, heart punching your ribs, unsure whether it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then it came again—three more knocks, slower this time. Heavier. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right to be there.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Soft, tentative steps across the hardwood. The kind you take when your heart is at your throat. When everything in you says, “Don’t hope. Don’t you dare hope.”

You reached the door and slowly peeked through the peephole. And in that moment, everything inside you fell apart.

It was him. Lando.

Soaked from head to toe, rain dripping from his curls, hoodie clinging to him like the weight of every decision he’d made. His face was pale, exhausted. His eyes locked on the doormat like he couldn’t bear to look up. He looked like regret had come to life.

You stared, frozen in place. Every nerve in your body screamed. Every instinct said this isn’t real, that it was just a trick of your mind conjured out of all the times you’d cried yourself to sleep.

You didn’t even think twice as your fingers already fumbled at the lock, breath shallow, pulse racing. When the door finally creaked open, the rain surged in, bringing cold and memories with it. 

Lando slowly lifted his head, making your eyes meet, and in that moment it felt as if everything around stopped. The storm behind him blurred into white noise, and the air between you buzzed with everything unspoken. 

Your throat tightened, and you felt as if your knees threatened to give out any second. You hadn’t seen him in eight months. Just glimpses, pictures with Olivia that felt like salt in a wound you never asked for. But now here he was, Lando in the flesh, standing right in front of you. And you couldn’t breathe.

Lando didn’t speak. He just stood there, rain running down his face, mixing with something that might’ve been tears—but you couldn’t tell. He looked older somehow. More tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, maybe weeks. Like life had eaten him alive.

You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to scream, and cry. To ask him why—why he left, why he never looked back, why he let you shatter without a single word. 

The pain hit you all at once—heavy, violent, and consuming—making you break apart. Your throat burned as you moved towards him. You shoved him back once, then again. Your fists thudded against his chest, angry, raw, messy and real. 

“You bastard—” Your voice broke into a sob as you hit him again. “You goddamn— selfish coward—” Lando flinched at your words, but still didn’t move away.

You shoved him harder. “You— you left me! You said nothing, not even a single word! You just disappeared! You think you can show up here after months and what? What?!”

Your fists pounded his chest as anger boiled over into pure heartbreak. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much it hurt?” Still, he took it. He didn’t raise a hand. He let you hit him. “You just left! Like I was nothing to you. Like I wasn’t even— God, I hate you!” 

Each word broke more of you apart. Hot tears blurred your vision as your fists pounded against him with every ache you’d buried for months. You were crying now, properly crying. Ugly, broken sobs tearing through your chest. The kind of crying that made your knees weak, that shook your whole body.

“You fucking asshole! You didn’t even say goodbye—” Your voice cracked. “I waited, Lando. I waited for you to say something. To make it make sense. And you just— you were gone.”

Still, he said nothing. His breath was shaking, lips parted, eyes wet from more than just the rain. And then finally—finally—he moved. Slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, he wrapped his arms around you in a strong embrace. You struggled at first—your fists still weakly hitting at his chest, but his arms only tightened more. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, grounding you.

“Shhh… I know. I know.” He whispered, his throat tightening, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the last word, and that’s what finally shattered you.

You stopped fighting.

His arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. Tight and desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing you against him like he was terrified you’d disappear. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest—fast and scared. He was shaking, and so were you.

You sobbed into his hoodie, the fabric soaking up your tears and rain and months of silence. He didn’t say a word. His chin dropped to rest on the top of your head as he held you there, like if he let go, the world would fall apart again. You gripped at him like a lifeline, hands fisting into his hoodie, face pressed into the warmth of his chest as your body trembled. You missed him so much.

No words were needed. Not yet. Just the rain and the sound of your heartbeat against his. The thud of two souls colliding after too long apart.

You cried into his chest while he stood in your doorway, dripping rainwater and regret, your name probably sitting at the edge of his tongue.

And still, nothing. Nothing except the unshakable feeling that even now, even after everything—this was still home.

────୨ৎ────

Some time had passed before you finally led him inside.

The house was still quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hummed peacefully—but the breathless kind. The kind where the walls still echoed with everything left unsaid. 

Rain had soaked into the hallway carpet beneath your feet, his clothes leaving wet spots behind him that you didn’t have the heart to care about. Your hand trembled slightly as it held onto the railing while you climbed the stairs. Behind you, Lando followed wordlessly, his movements hesitant—like he wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore.

Your room hadn’t changed much. Same soft light from the lamp on the bedside table, same books piled up on your desk, same blanket folded at the end of the bed. And yet, when he stepped in behind you, something shifted. The air tightened.

Lando stood in the doorway, dripping, still breathing like he hadn’t figured out how to do it properly since he saw your face again. And you didn’t say anything. Not yet. You just turned around to face him, heart pounding in your ears like a warning, and the second your eyes met again in that dim golden light, something collapsed inside you. Not with noise, but with a softness that hurt.

You crossed the room slowly. No rush, no desperation, just the ache of every second that had passed since he had left. Every second you’d spent trying not to miss him, trying not to hate him, trying not to wish for this exact moment.

He looked down at you when you stopped in front of him. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His shirt clung to his skin, knuckles were scraped, and his eyes held centuries of regret. And you reached for him—not with certainty, but with instinct.

Fingers brushed his sleeve, then his hand, and finally, without a word, he let out the quietest exhale and stepped closer to you, forehead pressing to yours like he’d finally made it home.

You stood like that for a while, eyes closed, neither of you moving. The sound of the rain bleeding through the walls.

“I…” He started to whisper, voice cracking—but you shook your head against him.

“Don’t,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “Not yet, Lan.” The nickname made his heart squeeze painfully, remembering all the happiest times when you called him that.

Lando nodded as he understood what you meant. This wasn’t the time for words, for answers—not tonight.

You took his hand and pulled him gently toward the bed. It wasn’t romantic nor filled with lust. It was the comfort and longing that made you do that.

You handed him a towel from the dresser, watched as he clumsily dried his hair, and peeled off the hoodie that stuck to him like a second skin. Then you passed him one of your old sweatshirts—the navy one he used to steal during movie nights, and the one you could never bring yourself to throw away. He hesitated, but eventually he took it, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled it over his head.

You turned away to give him space. But when you sat down on the bed, you felt the weight shift beside you. He was close, but not touching. Like he was scared to ruin the fragile thing you’d just begun stitching back together. 

Not knowing what to say, you lay down, and he followed your steps. It was awkward at first, like learning again a language you used to speak fluently. His arm grazed yours and you shifted slightly, making him mirror your moves. The duvet settled over you both like a secret, warm and heavy and sacred.

It took time—slow, aching minutes—for your body to relax. But it happened, eventually. Your head found its way to his chest, just above his heart, and his arm found your waist. Your legs tangled together under the covers like they’d never forgotten how to fit. And still… you said nothing. 

You listened his breathing—to the gradually slowing thump of his heart. To the rain whispering against your windows. You felt the warmth of his skin through the borrowed fabric. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

He held you like you were made of glass. Carefully, and reverently. Your fingers curled in the hem of his sleeve and didn’t let go. And finally—finally—you allowed yourself to breathe.

You didn’t want to sleep. You were afraid all of this would vanish if you closed your eyes. That if you let go, he’d disappear again. That the morning would come and this would all be just another cruel dream. But your body betrayed you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of someone who knew you. Who had broken you, and had come back. 

You didn’t dream You just slept—heart pressed to heart, hands entwined in quiet forgiveness.

And Lando? He stayed awake, watching the way your face softened in sleep. The faint frown that still lingered, even now. He studied every inch of your skin like he was afraid he’d forget it again. His thumb brushed your back, up and down, slow and reverent. 

He couldn’t believe that he’d left this, that he’d chosen to leave you.

You stirred slightly, breathing shifting against his chest, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so gently it almost broke him. 

And that was when he knew.

No matter what it took—no matter how long it would be—he wasn’t leaving again. He couldn’t. You were his home. And this? This was just the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning the rain hadn’t stopped. It painted the windows in soft streams, whispering against the glass like an old lullaby, a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Slow, gentle and unrelenting. The world outside was hushed, dulled beneath a curtain of gray skies and water-soaked streets, but in the stillness of the apartment, it felt safe. Wrapped in that soft kind of silence that only rain brings—where time slows, and nothing demands to be done except existing.

The bedroom was still dim, bathed in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp that was left on throughout the night. Its golden light caught on the edges of things—the half-empty glass of water on the dresser, the corner of a blanket trailing off the bed, the framed photo next to the books which depicted you and Lando, laughing at something neither of you remembered now. Younger, lighter, unaware of the ache the years would bring.

But now, your older selves lay beneath the covers, wrapped up in warmth and each other. Skin against skin, his arm draped around your waist, your legs tangled naturally beneath the duvet. As if you’d always belonged in this shape. Like the spaces you left in each other had only ever been waiting to be filled.

His thumb moved slowly against your side—back and forth, back and forth. A silent check-in. A promise, a reminder that he was there.

When you woke up, you didn’t move at first. Just let your eyes follow the soft pattern of shadows across the ceiling, let the sound of the rain blur into the quiet thudding of your heart.

Lando shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His curls were messy, and his eyes—blue and familiar—were half-lidded but awake. “Are you okay?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and something deeper.

You hesitated, then shrugged, your voice soft. “Just thinking.”

“About?” He questioned, his tone careful. Like he already knew the answer might sting.

You blinked slowly, and swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “You know… I don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet,” You whispered. “Not fully.” The words cracked slightly on their way out, and you hated how vulnerable they sounded. How fragile they made you feel.

Lando didn’t flinch, nor pulled away. He just held your gaze. “I know.” He said quietly. 

You turned onto your side to face him fully, his hand now resting on the curve of your hip. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement, the duvet sliding down your shoulder. Your skin cooled instantly in the air, but it wasn’t why you shivered.

“I told myself I had,” You continued, a little more steadily now. “I wanted to. But I still remember the silence. The way it felt when you left, Lan. Like— like I’d been erased from your life overnight. Like I didn’t matter.”

Lando’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at your words. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, as if trying to memorize you all over again, his eyes full of regret.

“I think about that too,” He murmured. “Every single day.” There was no defense in his voice. No excuses. Just the truth, bare and broken. 

“I was a coward. I was scared, and I let that fear decide everything. I left you without a word and convinced myself it was the right thing. That you’d be fine, and that you didn’t need me. But it wasn’t about you. It was about me—and I hurt you because I didn’t know how to stay.” He shook his head, like the memory made him sick. “I was selfish. I chose a version of myself that made me feel safe, even if it meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize. Even if it meant walking away from the one person who ever really saw me.”

His eyes searched yours, shimmering. “And I’m sorry.”

The words hung between you, bare and trembling.

“I’m sorry for the silence. I’m sorry for every night you waited, every time you wondered what you did wrong, every piece of yourself you had to stitch back together without me. I should’ve been there. I should’ve fought for you.”

You felt your throat tighten. Your chest ached with the force of how badly you’d needed to hear those words.

“I think I didn’t deserve your love,” He continued, “but I had it. And I broke it. And that’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. But if there’s a chance—any chance—that I can still be the person you trust again… I’ll spend every day trying.” His voice cracked. “I just want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You blinked, and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks again—warm, unstoppable.

You sat up slowly, mirroring him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. And for a moment, you just looked at him. Looked at the boy who had left, and the man who had come back.

You whispered, “Thank you.” as a wave of relief ran down you. 

You never knew how much you needed to hear that apology. And though forgiveness wasn’t something that could be wrapped in a single moment, it lived in that breath. In the way your body leaned into his without fear. In the way he exhaled like he’d been holding that apology in his lungs for a year.

You didn’t need a grand gesture. You needed this. The truth, laid bare. Between two people who had shattered each other once—and were now choosing, quietly, to try again.Together.

Your eyes met his. “Do you regret it? All of it?”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the weight of the question. “Not everything,” He said finally, “But most of all, the time I wasted pretending I didn’t love you.” That cracked something wide open inside you.

“I thought if I stayed gone,” He continued, voice shaking now, “if I became who Olivia wanted me to be, then maybe I’d forget how much I needed you. But I didn’t. I never did. And one morning, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.” He paused for a second, his throat tightening at the recall of all the memories, “I missed you so much it made me sick.”

Your breath caught. That was the moment you let the tears fall once again—not loud or gasping, just silent, and honest. They slipped down your cheeks like the rain on the window, blurring everything.

“I missed you too,” You whispered, your hand finding his beneath the blanket, your fingers curling around his like a lifeline. “Even when I told myself I didn’t.”

When you said that, Lando smiled. It was small, soft—nothing like the wide grins he used to wear when the world was still simple—but it was real. Tired and tender and entirely yours.

He leaned forward until your foreheads touched, his breath warm against your skin. Neither of you spoke for a while, there was no need to. Just that quiet, precious stillness—the kind that only came after the storm, after the wreckage, when you realized you were both still here. Still breathing. Still reaching for each other.

When he finally whispered, “Can I stay?” it wasn’t a question about just staying at your place. It was about everything that came after—your future.

You nodded, voice barely audible. “You never have to leave again, Lan.” And you meant it wholeheartedly.

His hand curled around your side again, anchoring you close, and your body folded into his like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had. But never like this. Never with the knowledge that tomorrow wouldn’t take him away again.

The rain outside kept falling, steady and quiet, but the storm between you had broken. And in that little apartment, tucked beneath layers of blankets and bruised apologies, two people who had once been torn apart by time and distance had finally found each other again.

Not in grand confessions. Not in desperate pleas. But in the way his thumb still moved against your hip. In the way your fingers clutched his like they couldn’t bear to let go.

This wasn’t about going back to the beginning, rather about starting from here. Where the pain had already been named. Where the truths had already been spoken. Where love, battered but burning, had quietly survived.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow could wait because right now, in the amber light and the hush of falling rain, you were home.

────୨ৎ────

3 years later

Your shared apartment smelled like warm vanilla and the candle you lit hours ago—something earthy, sandalwood maybe, that had slowly wrapped itself around the quiet of the afternoon. 

Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into early evening—dusted pinks and soft oranges stretching across the skyline like a watercolor bleeding into paper. A soft breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony door, swaying the white curtains like waves.

You were nestled into the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket tossed haphazardly over both your bodies. Your head rested on Lando’s chest, his hoodie swallowing you up, the fabric worn-in and smelling like him—clean cotton and a scent you could never name but always recognized. He was absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, slowly, over and over again, untangling the strands with gentle care like it was the most important task in the world. And in that moment, maybe it was.

A record played low in the background, some old song he loved that you’d grown to love too. Lando had his arm wrapped around you, his hand trailing slowly through your hair. Over and over. Fingertips catching in soft strands before sliding free again, curling around them like he never wanted to stop touching you. 

You were laying there, head on his torso, the quiet rise and fall beneath your cheek like a lullaby. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. It was one of those moments where everything was said in the silence—in the closeness, the steady breathing, the way your fingers rested against the inside of his wrist, your thumb brushing the faint line of a scar you both knew the story of.

Lando shifted a little, just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. No words, just that.

You smiled into the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers tracing slow circles over the inside of his wrist. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep, Lan.” You mumbled, your words softened by the weight of comfort, eyelids heavy.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hairline. “Then fall asleep,” He whispered, voice laced with that familiar warmth that always made your chest flutter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled into his shirt, your heart swelling, a quiet little ache blooming behind your ribs. “You always say that.”

He smiled, too. “Because I mean it. And would it be so bad?” He said softly, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile. “I like having you like this, pretty girl.”

You tilted your head to look at him, chin resting against his chest. “Like what?”

He met your eyes, all warm honey and quiet adoration. “Close.” 

And then he leaned down, connecting your lips in a kiss. Not in that rushed, desperate way he used to when everything was still uncertain—when love felt fragile and maybe temporary. No, this kiss was slow. Anchored. Like he was still choosing you, over and over again, even now.

You kissed him back, one hand curling into the collar of his shirt, the other still resting against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat under your palm. He pulled back just enough to brush your nose with his, grinning against your mouth. Lando looked at you like you were something precious—like he still couldn’t believe you were real, like even in all the time that had passed, he hadn’t gotten used to having you close again.

Your fingers slid up to his jaw, thumb brushing along the line of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. “You know, sometimes I still feel like I’m dreaming,” You said softly. “Like I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone.”

His brows knit together, and his free hand came up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey,” He said, voice suddenly serious, “you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”

You nodded, but your throat felt thick, full of memories you hadn’t spoken aloud in months. The silence between you shifted—still soft, but a little heavier now. 

“You know I love you, right?” He asked, quiet and sure.

You nodded again, slower this time, your eyes starting to sting. “I know.” His eyes searched yours, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he couldn’t bear to lose contact.

His hand slipped back into your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear. “I don’t think I knew how much until I almost lost you.”

You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Instead, you just laid your head back against his chest, curling in tighter, wrapping your arm around his waist. You didn’t need to say it—he could feel it in the way you held him like he was home.

“You know,” He murmured after a while, “I could do this forever.”

You pretended to think about it. “Do what?”

“This,” He whispered. “Be with you. Like this. Wake up next to you. Watch you fall asleep on me before we finish a movie. Let you steal all the covers.”

“That sounds a lot like a lifetime commitment.” You smirked, making the man beside you grin at your words.

“That’s kind of the point, love.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and it hit you again, how much love had filled the quiet spaces in your life since that night he came back. Since the rain, the doorstep, the apology. Since everything shifted.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You know,” You said softly, “I never thought we’d make it here.”

He leaned into your touch, gaze steady. “Well, I did.” And with that, the silence wrapped around you both again—no pressure, no need to rush. Just comfort, and peace. The quiet knowledge that love didn’t need to be loud to be real. 

It was here. In the way your body curved into his, perfectly fitted. In the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you. It was here. Always.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you melted further into him, burying your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. You stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing. Loving.

The light outside faded into dusky blues. The candle flickered, the music looped. And still, you stayed like that—wrapped in each other. Lando’s fingers never stopped moving through your hair, slow and thoughtful, like he was memorizing the feel of you. And when the night time finally came, when the only light was the glow of the kitchen lamp left on across the room, Lando gently scooped you up—blanket and all—and carried you to bed.

Because this wasn’t the beginning of something new. This was the finally. Finally together, finally home. Finally, always. 

Everything that had once been right at the fingertips, was now fully grasped.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

taglist: @xoxomansee @htpssgavi @toriiez @neo-teenkidz

[hoodpankow]

anytime, anywhere - lando norris x childhood sweetheart!reader

summary - lando fell in love when he was ten years old, heres small moments of that love over the years.

warnings - kisses, panic attacks, small amount of violence & lando being a SAP

wc : 8k

some music - work song, hozier | my love mine all mine, mitski | love of my life, harry styles | pov, ariana grande | super rich kids, frank ocean.

authors note - hi! as always, enjoy! reblogs & likes are always hugely appreciated!! lots of love, clove!

ten - the meeting

The fluorescent lights of the afterschool program shined bright as you were sitting at the snack table, quietly picking away at the food your mom packed for you this morning. It was 5:30, most kids had been picked up by their parents or siblings. Leaving you and four other kids left, one was a curly haired boy who was sitting not far across from you. Working away at his homework. 

You remembered he was in your class. Lando, you remember, was his name. He was quiet, and he sat far across the room from you, so you haven't spoken to him much since meeting him in september. 

One of the coordinators for the program, Allie walks into the room, having left minutes prior to take a phone call, she looks at you with a sympathetic look on her face before sitting down next to you carefully.

You already know what she's going to say 

“Hi sweetie, that was your mum” she began, taking a deep breath trying to keep her voice low. “Your parents are going to be a bit late today, your mum said dad will get here as quick as possible” she continued. 

This wasn't the first time your parents have called, they were late most days, you tried to understand that they have unpredictable jobs, with both your mum and dad being doctors at one of the top hospitals in the country. 

You huffed, nodding before pulling out a colouring book that was given to you by your teacher as homework, the same homework the brunette across the room was doing. 

Down the table, the other three boys seemed to have heard your conversation with allie. 

“Ooooohhh y/n’s parents abandoned her!” one of them taunts, the boys burst into giggles before Allie sends them a stern face. they don't let up. 

“Isn't this like the third time this week? They must forget about you alot” they poke while their laughter grows louder 

You see out of the corner of your eye, Lando looks up from his book, his eyes looking to you while your head stays down, trying to focus on your coloring.  

Tears prick your eyes as Allie sends them to the hallway, probably to tell them off, some more. The sound of your sniffles fill the room and Lando watches you wipe your tears with your sleeve before he stands up and makes his way across the room and places himself right next to you. 

“I like your colouring” he says shyly, like he isn't sure what to say. You turn to him, his green eyes looking into yours as he offers you a warm, genuine smile. You find yourself smiling softly back at him, like it was contagious. 

“Thanks, yours is okay” you giggle mischievously, looking down to see his work. His colours were slightly different than yours, but you both had the same idea with shades and detail, his jaw dropped in faux offense. 

“Hey! They look the same!” he says, you both break out into a fit of giggles, playfully chatting while you continue with your artwork. 

When Allie returns, she finds you two in a very in depth conversation about the movie you watched in class today. Crayons scattered around the abandoned colouring books, she smiled softly at the two ten year olds as she watched a special bond form between them. 

You chatted about everything, Lando told you about his newly found hobby in karting. How he wanted to try competing and was mostly excited to miss school for races. You told him small details about you, his attention never wavering as you spoke. 

You both chatted until the rest of the kids had left, leaving just you two and Allie, who was sitting quietly in the corner playing some game on her phone. 

“You should come to one of my races” he declares, “i'll let you drive my kart” you cringe slightly, frowning at the boy. the thought of operating the machinery scares you slightly. “When you win a race I'll go karting with you.” You say shaking your head at him, 

The door opened and in walked a lady whose eyes found lando almost instantly, lando had his back to the door since he was fully immersed in his conversation with you. 

“I think your mums here” you say as Lando whips his head around to see his mum. He smiled, getting up from his seat and hugging her tight. You felt your shoulders drop as you realized lando would now go home, leaving you alone. 

“Hi sweetheart, ready to go home?” she asks her son, who hesitates before he answers. Lando made eye contact with you, the girl he’d found a new friend in and felt quite sad to leave her here, when he got to go home. 

Looking at his mum, he shakes his head “no i wanna stay with y/n until her dad comes.” 

His mum looked at you, shrinking into your chair with all eyes on you. She had a sparkle in her eye as she watched him make his way back to you. She could tell her son had grown fond of you by seeing how he continued your conversation as if his mum wasn't there.

“so, if I win a race, you will come karting with me. deal?” he holds his small hand out, you smile, showing him a toothy smile that made his ten eight year old brain stop in time. Wanting to freeze frame it and paste it onto his eyelids. 

You shake his hand 

“deal.” 

Fifteen  - the unofficial first date

You were anxiously scuffing your feet into the asphalt of your local karting track. Lando had won his first karting race long ago, he was actually set to win his first series this year. But you two had never gotten around to getting you into a kart and on track with him. 

Since that day five years ago, you two had been inseparable. He took you to races on the weekend, and you had helped him catch up in school when he needed help. 

You even started going home with him after school and your parents began to just pick you up at Landos. 

Lando knew he liked you, he had known since he met you. Since your hand brushed against his when you both reached for the same crayon. Your smile was contagious and he swore you grew flowers wherever you walked. 

What started as a small elementary crush– over the years had bloomed into something bigger, something Lando couldn't explain just yet. 

Lando was so excited to show you karting, you could see it on his face. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet while he pulled you through the garage with his hand held in yours. You tried to ignore the butterflies that have made home in your stomach years ago when Lando started getting touchy like this with you. It started with his hand lightly brushing your shoulder in conversations, hugs that lasted longer than they should’ve while his head was tucked snugly in the crook of your neck. 

he leads you to a small single seater that you assumed was yours for the afternoon, “this is what you’ll be driving, i'll be in my kart with you the whole time” he explains, showing you how to control it and the proper steering technique, while throwing in a couple tips. His hand is still laced with yours as he tells you about his own kart. 

You loved seeing him in his element. Watching him race was your favourite thing. You admired his face as he spoke, the freckles you've grown to love topped with his curls that he was still learning to care for properly (after you had begged him too). 

“You with me?” he nudges your arm, shaking you out of your daydream. You nod 

“yeah, just zoned out a bit.” you reply, 

When you walked out in fireproofs and a karting suit, Lando felt like time froze, the world around him spinning to a halt as his gaze found you. He thought you looked beautiful everyday, but seeing you in a race uniform made his mind go fuzzy. 

His breath caught in his throat as he watched you walk over to him, holding a helmet and gloves. His green eyes sparkling at you, like you were the only girl in the world.  

He helped you with your helmet, his fingers brushing under your chin as he clipped the chinstrap, sending shockwaves down your spine. When you were secured he gave you a light tap on the side of your head before you both got in your karts, starting your engines. 

-

You were slowly getting the hang of the machinery, the kart vibrating underneath you as you took each corner with more confidence as you went, Lando staying steadily out in front of you. Turning his neck around to check in on you when you two would rush down the straights. You understood why he enjoyed this so much, the thrill of taking a corner slightly too fast, pushing the kart to its limit. 

You almost enjoyed it too much. 

The barrier came quickly, you hit a dead spot on the track, your kart skidding straight into the make-shift padded wall. When Lando watched the yellow flag fly out, he immediately felt his stomach drop, turning around to see you wobbling slightly in your kart. 

Stopping his kart safely off the track, his feet hit the ground as he sprinted to you, dropping in front of you, flicking his and your visor up, his eyes scanning yours frantically as he watched tears brim your eyes. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his voice as he checks you over. “Where does it hurt?” you groan as he moves your arm slightly, cringing as your muscles contract from the sudden shock. 

“Im okay, just annoyed, im sorry” you huff, tears threatening to fall from your eyes, you knew how much lando wanted to take you karting and show you his world. And now you've ruined it by crashing. 

“No, no none of that.” he soothes, helping you out of the kart and back to the garage. Sitting you down and helping you take your helmet off. You looked adorable when he saw your messy hair from the balaclava. Lando had never wanted to kiss anyone yet, but at this moment he was coming very close to kissing you. 

It was like an itch that surged his whole body, the desire he felt to do all the things a couple does. He wanted to try them, with you. The hand holding while walking to classes, the nights spent wrapping in eachothers arms, he wanted all of you. 

 he wanted to learn what being in love was like, and he only saw himself learning with you. 

“Are you sure you're okay?” he asks cautiously, concerned that your adrenaline hasn't allowed you to fully feel any pain you might be in. 

“Yeah, i think i'll just be sore” you sigh, taking a sip from the water bottle he retrieved from the cooler for you, sitting himself on the floor in front of you. He's looking up to you like he's mesmerizing every inch of your face, studying every mole and freckle. 

Lando chuckles, “oh yea, you're gonna hurt like hell tomorrow” he jokes, you kick him lightly as you break into a fit of giggles, your laughs filling the garage with a sense of joy. 

The mechanics nearby smile at the two of you, infatuated with the way Lando acted in your presence. On a normal race weekend, he was focused, almost unable to see past the task at hand. With you, he was light, laughing, almost as if you showed him what happiness was. 

Your laughs die down and you catch yourself staring at the way his nose crinkled as he smiled. How his curls sit perfectly even after being smushed in his helmet. Your cheeks go flush while you fidget with the hem of your fireproof. 

Lando gaze locked onto you, he watches as your face focuses on your fingers, smiling softly before he stands up, offering his hand out to you. 

“c’mon, lets make my dad get us ice cream” 

You break out into a smile, linking your fingers with his before standing up, you two making your way to find Landos dad. 

Even though karting didn't go how he had planned, Lando felt today was a successful day nonetheless. Because he got to spend his day with you, showing you his other world he loved, the world he was building and working towards, imagining what the future would be when he climbs his way to the top, and he knew he wanted you to be right there with him when he did.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue” you say playfully as you walk with him towards the car, he just smiles, his curls bouncing as he strolls beside you.

“Anytime, anywhere.” 

Seventeen - bruise knuckles with a side of love  

The lights were dimmed as you walked into the house of your friend's house, music was pumping through the speakers providing background noise to the conversations you could hear flowing throughout the room. 

Your eyes scanned the room, looking for the familiar head of chocolate curls who you refused to admit was the whole reason you had come. Lando had been away karting for the past week and you haven't seen him, when you spot him, he has his back turned to you fully engrossed in a conversation with Max Fewtrell. 

Max's eyes catch your from over landos shoulder, a small smirk creeping into his face as he announces your entrance.

“ayeee!! There she is!” he shouts, landos head whips around, slightly confused to who Max is referring to, when he spots you, his eyes light up. You two lock eyes and it's like the world falls away for a moment as you take each other in. He noticed you had straightened your hair differently, training a soft curl at the end of your hair, framing your face perfectly. 

He's on his feet in seconds, making his way across the room to close what felt like a ravine between you. Mumbling a soft hey while engulfing you in a hug, it felt like coming home after a horrible day. His arms squeezing you softly as he tucks his head into your shoulder. You hug him back, closing your eyes as you both linger in the hug for a moment. 

You don't realize that it's been long until Max is next to you, he clears his throat loudly, startling you guys apart. He smiles, greeting you with a brief hug that has Lando sending him a slight glare. You failed to notice the brunette pinching his friend's side afterwards, max letting out a small whine. 

You told Lando how much he missed school, he shrugged it off with a laugh, you both knew he had given up on completing school. Joking that you were getting the degree for both of them. The three of you had always been close, going through schooling together since you were young. Though Max knew there was a bond between you and Lando that he would never be able to fully understand. 

You two understood each other without even having to speak, if Lando was upset with a race, Max often would text you as they drove home, you’d be waiting for them on the porch with snacks and a movie. Lando falling into your embrace before you settled on your own end of the couch, one of his favorite films playing on the tv. 

If Max looked over to you two, he’d see Lando absentmindedly playing with your fingers, he’d see you slowly running your hand through his curls, something you knew would calm him down 

You always knew lando needed comfort after a bad result, but you failed to understand that all he ever really needed was you. 

 “I'm gonna go grab a drink, do you want anything?” you ask softly, pointing to the small mini bar that was set up in the corner, one of the guests dramatically pouring non-alcoholic drinks as if you were in a club. 

“Monster pleasee” he drawls, smiling widely as if mimicking a little kid asking for candy. You roll your eyes with a smile before turning to Max, who shows you his already half drunk redbull. 

You turn away, sauntering your way to grab the beverages, lando and max watch you as you make your way. Once you're out of earshot, Max drops his smile before turning to smack lando in the arm. The boy yelps in pain, grabbing his arm with an unamused look on his face

“Oww!” Lando groans as Maxs face stays serious. 

“Why haven't you told her” he asked, leaving no room for bullshit. Lando and you had been dancing around the idea of a relationship for years, and he was tired of it. He was tired of seeing his two best friends hopelessly in love with each other and choosing to ignore it. 

“It's just not the right time,” Lando argues, his voice small. He tried so many times to tell you, to blurt his feelings out like a case of word vomit, to just scream i love you in your face. But every time, the words died in his throat at the possibility of you not returning his feelings. 

“Bullshit.” max counters “you two have been all heart eyes since we were what? twelve? I don't care whatever story you’ve run in your head, she loves you Lando and you both need to open your eyes and see it” he commands, sending a blow straight to Landos heart as he exhales with a sigh, his gaze fixed on you chatting with the boy handing out drinks. 

“What if it doesn't work out? I'm never here anymore max, how is that fair to her?” Lando says, a sense of longing evident in his eyes while he looks at you.

 Max’s offense crumbles slightly, but he didn't let up “she loves you enough to fight for it. She just needs to know you're willing to fight for it too.” he offers, you make your return, holding two cans of monster, the two boys staring slightly.  Like they had just been caught doing something they shouldn't. You frown slightly, your hand rising to cover your face.

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask worried, your hand rubbing along your features as you search frantically. Lando chuckles, lightly grabbing your wrists to halt your movements 

“No no,-” he breathes through a laugh, his touch sending sparks up your forearms  “you look beautiful” he said lowly, like it was only for you to hear. 

 You exhale deeply with a small laugh, sending him a soft, genuine smile that had Lando seeing double. 

This boy was done for. 

– 

The atmosphere had shifted since you arrived, the party was now in full swing as bodies filled the house, the base of the song vibrating underneath the floor. You and Lando were standing in a corner, your conversation light as you both nursed your drinks. 

Lando was explaining the new video game he and max had started playing when he was– quite rudely– interrupted by a boy approaching you, it was the same boy from the drink bar, whose name you learned was james 

“hi y/n, i just wanted to say that i enjoyed our conversation earlier. It's always a pleasure chatting with you” he smiles, one of those smiles that has a cheshire cat behind it, one that makes you slightly stiff next to lando. James didn't acknowledge landos presence, acting as if you were standing next to a plant pot. 

“Oh, thank you james.” you say, noticing lando’s eyes have turned to the black and neon can in his hand, fiddling with the pull tab. He's trying not to listen, but the way you shifted towards him slightly as James kept talking to you made him wary. 

“–hey you wanna get outta here?” James offers. 

Something in lando snaps when he sees the cocky smirk on his face.

“Woah,woah,woah, let's slow your roll here, mate.” he steps slightly in front of you, puffing his chest. 

“Last time I checked I wasn't talking to you” James barks back. his voice became louder as you hid behind lando. 

 “she clearly doesn’t want to be talking with you” he argues, you could see Landos fists balling at his sides. the monster abandoned on the windowsill behind you. Landos neck grows red as the anger bubbles underneath his skin. 

“Yk’what, why don't you let me and the lady have a conversation, yeah?” he says trying to push past Lando, his tone dripping with smugness. 

Oh that had Lando seeing red.

His fist connects with James' jaw, then his nose. Sending him to the floor, you gasp as James groans, before getting up and raising his fist. He doesn't have the time to think before Lando sends another blow to his chest, knocking him down for good. 

Two guests go to James, picking him up to place him on the couch as Max rushes over to you and Lando, his eyes falling to Landos hand.

“Shit mate–” he exhales, scanning the room for a way out “–c’mon let's go get some ice and fix that, you have to drive this weekend.” 

He leads you upstairs to a somewhat secluded bathroom, shutting the door as Lando sits on the sink, the pain from his hand evident in his movements. 

You haven't spoken since the fight, slightly shaken up from watching your best friend almost did beat the living daylights out of someone. You didn't want to think about what could've happened if James was able to land his own punches. 

You press toilet paper to his bleeding knuckles, and Lando hisses from the pain of you pressing on the inflamed flesh. Dropping his head onto your shoulder as max ruffles through the cabinet.

“score!” he exclaims, holding up a bright red first aid kit. He pulls out the alcohol wipes and hands them off to you. 

“m’sorry, this is gonna hurt” you say quietly before you clean the wounds, lando squeezes his eyes shut at the sting, his uninjured hand finds your waist, using it as a lifeline. 

Once the wounds are clean you begin to wrap his hand, your touch light as max hands you gauze, but nothing to secure it with. 

“Max, I need tape or something–” you mumble, focused on the task at hand. Lando watches as your tongue pokes out of your mouth while your eyes –which he's just noticing are slightly glossed over– are focused on carefully covering the wounds. 

Once Max makes his way to find you tape, you and Lando are left in silence, spare from the muffled sound of music still coming from downstairs. You were mumbling soft swears as the gauze would slip in your hold. 

“um- i'm really sorry–” lando breaks the silence, you look to him but he won't meet your eyes, “–i didn't like where he was going with that, but if you–uh..wanted him though, i understand” he says low, his eyes fixed on his lap while you look at him slightly shell shocked.

You scoff, almost like a laugh “you’re an idiot” he looks up, green eyes pouring into yours, hyper aware of the hold you had on his hand and his on your hip.

“Wh-what?” he breathes, confused. You send him a small are you stupid? look before saying what you’ve been trying to build the courage to say for years.

“I don't want him, god did you see his greasy hair?-” you roll your eyes, lando chuckles softly before you continue “i want you, you muppet”

Lando froze, he stared at you with nothing but admiration, you stood in front of him with a smile on your face, he swore he could’ve died right there. He exhaled deeply as a smile grew wide on his face, reaching both ears as he pulled you closer.  

“Thank god because i'm not sure what i would've done if you didn't” he whispers, his eyes flicking to your lips, tilting his head down slightly. You leaned in slightly, his breath fanning across your face before he locked his lips onto yours. 

The kiss was slow, but hard, like the crescendo of a musical piece. Years of longing being poured into it, your lips slotting together perfectly. Moving in sync as your free hand cups his jaw. He pulls you closer by his hold on your waist, humming slightly when you bite his bottom lip.

 The world seemed to have faded away as he deepened the kiss. His tongue swiping across your bottom lip, asking for access you happily granted. You kissed him until you were breathless, smiling against each other's lips, you swore you could see sparkles in landos eyes.

“ten year old me is so happy right now” he mumbled against your lips, smiling so wide as you giggled. You kissed him again, softer this time, drinking in the kiss that you had dreamt about for years.

You kissed him multiple times in that bathroom, the pain in his hand forgotten as his focus was solely on you. 

That was, until the doorknob jingled before Max opened the door, holding tape and a bag of ice. You step back quickly as Max halts his movement, it didn't take an idiot to put two and two together. Your puffy lips, landos slightly messy hair, and his poorly wrapped hand that had been perfectly wrapped when he left moments ago.  

All he did was smile, before handing lando the ice to hold to his hand. He hands you the tape before moving back to the door, lingering in it before he leaves.

“I am so, so, fucking happy for you both.” is all he says before shutting the door, leaving you alone once again. 

You turned to each other slowly, staring for a moment before you broke out into giggles. Once you both quiet down, you rewrap his hand, maybe stealing a kiss or two (or three) while you work, making up for all the time you could’ve been kissing him over the years. 

Lando watched you lovingly, thinking to the future. Yes he was scared, he was scared of what this meant with you in school and him racing. But he could see that you wanted this, you wanted him. if he had to die fighting to make you two work, he was gonna sure as hell try. 

Nineteen - through the storm

The crisp autumn air turned your nose red as you walked through the streets of London towards Max and his girlfriend, Pietras’ flat. It was Saturday afternoon and Lando was in Italy, it was Lando’s first year in F1, you two had been dating for two years now, and had your own flat in London you called home. 

Every race weekend, it became a tradition for you to watch qualifying and the race with Max and Pietra. Ordering pizza while you shout at the tv against anyone who dares to overtake your boyfriend. 

Opening the door you waltz in, announcing your arrival before shrugging your shoes off, placing your coat and bag in the mudroom. Your sock clad feet pad across the floor into the living room where Max had set up the broadcast. 

“How's he doing?” you ask, grabbing a blanket and snuggling into the couch. “He's doin’ fine but I'm not sure we're getting out of Q2” he answers, a sigh escaping his lips as you frown. Lando had told you the struggles he's been having recently with the car, not being able to find that balance he needs. 

The media knew it too, it felt like every time you checked your phone, someone had something horrible to say about the man you loved. You knew it was getting to him despite the brave face he put on. 

Your boyfriend was the type of person who wanted everyone to love him, the amount of scrutiny was eating at him while all he did was try his best in the car he was given.

 It wasn't his fault the car he was given was a tractor.

You watched anxiously as the timer ticked down, a minute left in Q2. Lando was setting his final lap, nibbling on your fingernails as he rounded the final sector, crossing the line to land in P14. his teammate Carlos sainz, landing in P7. 

You deflate, knowing lando wouldn’t be happy with himself, you knew him too well. After years of watching him in F3 and F2, you know what was running through his head and it killed you that you couldn’t be there with him. 

When he was home earlier in the month he told you one night how the one thing that scared him was people thinking he didn’t deserve his seat, this result certainly didn't help him with his self doubt. 

“He's going to be so upset” you mumble, turning your ringer on while you wait for his call. Another small tradition you had was if you weren't in attendance, the minute he had a moment alone, he was on the phone with you.

Max nods silently, Pietra sighing as she makes her way to the kitchen to order pizza for you all, silence stretching throughout the apartment as you watch the final moments of qualifying. 

As the commentators congratulated the pole sitter, raving on about the final laps that had been revolutionary all you could think about was Lando and how he was beating himself up over this. 

You could see the tweets now, the hate, the scrutiny that was going to flood your socials the second you looked, just as you went to pick up your phone, it vibrated from lando calling you, the goofy smile of his contact photo smiling back at you as you answered the call.

“heyy baby!” you say, walking into the guest room for some privacy, sitting down on the foot of the bed. The line was quiet for a moment before Lando responded with a soft “hey” his voice wobbled as he spoke.

“You drove really well lando.. don't beat yourself up over one bad quali” you say softly, keeping your tone light. Soft sniffles came from Landos end of the line, your heart squeezes as you hear him cry softly. Lando wasn’t a crier, so when he did, you knew he was close to his breaking point.

“I can't do this anymore,” he sniffles. “I don't even want to know what they're saying right now.” he cries. You listen to his broken sobs as tears escape your own eyes. You hated being so far away from him while he was hurting like this, he was alone and vulnerable and that made you want to scream. Wishing you could crawl through the phone and get to him. 

You debated telling his trainer, getting someone else in the room with him to make sure he was safe, but you knew he needed to let it out first. You’d tell Jon later, right now you needed to be there for lando. 

Landos breathing starts to become ragged as his sentences come out in short breaths, you hear the panic attack coming before it fully hits him, his voice was shaky as it grew quieter. His words dying in his throat before he could say them, you could hear his breathing becoming more frantic. 

“Lan, baby i need you to breathe for me” He was sending himself deeper into a panic and it only worried you more. You felt useless just listening while he struggled to find a breath.

“I ca- i cant” he chokes out, his sobs echoing through the phone as you begin to frantically text Jon. Your fingers shaking as you message the man, tears flowing down your face.

You: 911!

You: get to landdo now he's habvin a panic attack on the phone wit me 

You: please jon im panicjking myself listning to him

Jon: On it.

You keep assuring him through the phone, trying to say something– anything that will calm him down. Telling him to unzip his race suit, asking him what he can smell, see, hear, or taste. None of it worked, the boy was breaking down in your ears and you felt helpless while waiting for Jon to find him. 

You hear the door open on the other end, the phone falls to the floor as the murmurs of Jons voice filter down the phone. You don't hear much for a few moments, taking the time to compose yourself, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your landos hoodie. 

“hey y/n, he's all good now, i'll have you call him back in a bit. Are you okay?” Jons voice crackles through the phone after a while, you exhale a sigh of relief, clutching a hand to your chest. 

“Yeah… sounds good, thank you jon.” you say softly, hanging up the call.

You splash some water on your face before returning to max and pietra. The two noticed something was off with you immediately. 

“You okay? How is he?” Max asks slowly, you didn't say anything. He could tell something was wrong when tears flooded your eyes. Closing the distance, he pulls you into a hug as a sob escapes your lips, you clutch onto him while you cry. Tears pour down your face as you explain what just happened, Max listens with sympathy written all over his face. 

 Hes silent for a moment, before an idea pops into his head “Let's get you to italy.” he says, determination in his voice as he grabs his phone, immediately googling flights. 

“what- but i don't have anything packed- what if there's no flights” you ramble, slightly shocked he was so set on this idea, he shakes his head, finalized in his decision that you needed to get on a flight as soon as possible and he didn't care how.

“Go home and pack, you don't need much it's only a night- SCORE” he turns the phone around, showing you a flight to Italy “leaves in four hours, if we hurry.. we can get you there” he says. You two lock eyes, a new sense of determination blooming inside you. You needed to be there for Lando, and you were going to get there.

It all happened so fast, one minute you were packing clothes into a duffle bag, and now you had landed in Italy, the flight was quick, two hours from London to Milan. You sat in the cab, the streetlights fading by as you made your way to landos hotel. 

The hotel was beautiful, wishing you could've come on better circumstances, thinking back to all the times you and Lando would be talking late at night, hushed whispers about what it was going to be like once he reached F1, all the places you’d go together. 

You never expected what reality would end up being. 

You stood in front of landos hotel room, Jon was standing next to you. Since the phone call, you had asked Jon to stay with lando. Explaining to him why incase of an emergency, you wouldn't be available for lando. He immediately agreed and also offered to walk you up to the room upon your arrival. 

Once the door opened, and you saw him. His eyes looked drained, his hair was messy from him running his hands through it. When he locked eyes with you, they widened so big they could’ve popped out of their sockets. 

He stared at you for a moment, trying to decipher whether or not you were really here, actually in front of him at his hotel in Monza. Once he felt you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace, it hit him. 

It hit him hard.

“Oh my god” he breathed as he melted into your arms, his emotions bubbling over again as tears escaped his eyes. He had never felt so relieved to be in your arms, not since that moment in a bathroom years ago, it was like you were an angel sent straight for him. 

He pulled away to get a good look at you, you were wiping his cheeks softly. He still couldn't believe you flew to him. 

“Are you actually here, or am I dreaming?” he asks, a wet chuckle escapes you both as you realize you're also crying. 

“Im here, i'm real” you smile, pulling him back into a hug as you smooth the hair on the back of his neck. “I couldn’t stay in London when you were here in this state. It would’ve killed me.” you sniffled. His hands wrap around you, holding on like if he’d let go, you'd disappear, and he'd wake up from this nightmare with you still in london. 

He pulled back, placing a soft kiss to your lips before mumbling many “i love yous” into your mouth as you kissed him back, soft and slow. Forgetting about Jon standing a few feet away from you two. He turns away slightly, letting you have your moment. 

You pull away echoing a soft “sorry” to Jon who just smiles softly, shaking his head in dismissal as Lando wraps his arms around your waist, activating his clingy-ness. 

You say goodnight to Jon as you and Lando head into bed, the events of the day taking their effect. Lando immediately wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your shoulder, placing soft kisses on the exposed skin before resting his head on your chest. 

“Thank you, for understanding me more than I do myself” he mumbles sleepily, his breaths even out as he finally looks at peace with his mind. Your smile is warm as you place a light kiss to his forehead before finally resting your eyes, having your boy in your arms. 

And when you wake up to a text message from Jon, attached is a video of you and landos reunion he recorded secretly, you smile, cropping the video properly to post on your instagram story.

Posted is a small 10 second clip of Lando realizing you were standing in front of him, then showing the hug you two shared. Rocking back and forth as intelligible murmurs are exchanged between you two. 

captioned for you, anywhere, anytime. 

Twenty two - a handprint on her heart

The sun was shining down on your face as you perched yourself on a lounge chair on the exquisite yacht you get to call home for the summer break. You sported a bright orange bikini as you read your book while you listened to the waves below you.

It was peaceful, until you heard the stomps of two smaller people, followed by the stomps of a bigger person. You looked to the door to see Mila and Athena squealing as they ran around the deck, followed by none other than your boyfriend, who was chasing them, pretending he was a sea monster. 

“Look! There's auntie, she’ll save us," Mila shouts as the two girls make a beeline for you. You quickly place your book down so the girls can climb on top of you, hiding from their overly enthusiastic uncle. 

“Ohh auntie can't save you now! She's on my side” he says playfully while you begin to tighten your grip around the girls, not strong enough to hurt them, but tight enough to where they would struggle to break free. 

The girls giggle as Lando ‘rounds the couch, the girls wiggling in your arms, sounding cries of betrayal while you laugh at the trio's antics. He makes it to your pile of laughter and starts tickling the two girls until they are breathless.

Once he ceases the tickles attack, you let the girls free. They hop to the ground, their baby feet bouncing off the deck as they make their escape from the tickle monster, but to you he's just lando. 

Lando lets out a sigh as he sets himself down on the couch next to you, placing his arms around your shoulder. You had been on this yacht for a week and he had already worked up a tan, he looked divine, the sun hitting his face perfectly as he turned to look at you before placing a kiss on your temple. 

“y’know, it’ll be nice when we have our own munchkins running around a yacht one day” he says, far too casually, as his hand traces your shoulder. You both knew you wanted kids, but also knew being twenty two, in the height of landos career was not the right time for either of you to even think about creating your own bundle of love. 

Before you could respond to him, Max waltz’s his way onto the deck, sunglasses propped on his face as he spots you two. “Don't you two look cozy” he jokes, acting like you two haven't been head over heels for each other since you were small. It was a running joke for years, Max loves to tease you two about anything and everything.

Today was no different 

“oi! LN,” he says, lightly smacking landos sunburnt shoulder, causing the brunette to wince. “When are you proposing, I've got bets placed man!” he says with a faux serious tone. 

You giggle at him, you had discussed this before, you had an list of milestones that you and lando wanted to complete in a specific order

Championship

Marriage

Kids 

“You act like we haven’t basically been married for years max” you say, playfulness evident in your tone as Lando pulls you closer by the shoulder. Lando knew Max was just joking, but deep down part of him did want to forgo the list years ago and just make you his wife.

He's known since before you were officially dating that he’d marry you, it was obvious to him, you were the only option. The only person he saw his future with, the woman he goes home to, the mother of his children, you checked all the boxes of perfection and he was anxious to put a rock on your finger to solidify it for eternity. Devoting himself to you completely. 

Lando observes as you and Max move onto a different topic, he observes every detail about you, the way your nose crinkles when you smile, how your freckles pop when you spend more time in the sun, the way you always manage to speak with a heartwarming smile etched onto your face. It made him dizzy the way he knew you better than he knew himself. You were his everything, there is no lando without you. 

“Lan baby, you with us?” you ask, noticing he spaced out slightly. Nodding he smiles, placing a kiss on your hand, interlaced with his.

“Yeah, just thinkin’” he says simply, thinking for a moment before he taps your shoulder, 

“Wanna go for a walk?”

– 

You walked down the side of the boat, your fingers interlocked as the sun casted a golden light on your skin. Lando rubbed his thumb over your knuckles as you walked to the edge of the boat, overseeing the mediterranean behind you. 

Lando is quiet for a moment, his eyes following the horizon while he thinks. You can see in his eyes he's piecing his sentencing together but struggling– after a while, he speaks up. 

“Max got me thinking,” he pauses, taking a deep breath “I wanna change the list.” 

Your heart stops, looking up at him to find anything on his face that says he's joking, you meet his eyes already looking at you, 

“Are you serious?”

He chuckles, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I've never been more serious about anything in my life baby,” you feel tears welling up in your waterline. “I've known my whole life that I wanted to marry you, I don't want to let a championship decide when.” 

He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, your bottom lip trembling while he continues. 

“You're it for me baby, I can’t remember what my life was like without you in it and I don't want to have to learn. You know me better than I know myself, I am hopelessly in love with you and there's nothing that will ever change that,” you were full on crying now, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts, 

“–loving you is my greatest achievement, no championship could ever come close to how i feel about you,” Lando feels a lump form in his throat as he tries to finish his mini speech before he becomes emotional. 

“Let's get married” 

You cry softly before you cry out a yes and Lando feels a surge of love flow through him. 

“Yeah?” he smiles so wide as you nod, tears freely flowing down both your faces as he pulls you into an earth shattering kiss.

He kisses you like you’re his last breath of fresh air— soft and sensual, holding your face with such gentle care like you’d break if he let go. 

You pull away for air, giggling into each other's lips, stealing more kisses as the sun begins to set over the sea. The air felt warmer as you kissed your fiancè, you kissed him again, and again, you kissed him so many times you forgot where you were. 

That was until Lando pulled away sharply with a gasp. “Wait here” he mumbles before he takes off running back into the yacht, you take a seat while you wait for him to return, slightly confused to where he ran off to. 

Moments later he comes back, hands held behind his back as he makes his way over to you, a cheeky smile spread across his tanned face. 

“I'm sorry, your actual ring is at home.” you choose to ignore that fact for the time being. “But I do have this,” he chuckles as he pulls a small ring pop from behind his back. 

You laugh at the small candy as he opens it, placing it on your left ring finger, placing another kiss to your lips, you throw yourself into his arms, returning the kiss in full force. 

“It's perfect, thank you.” you mumble into his mouth. 

He rests his forehead against yours, his green eyes pouring into yours— a window to his soul showing nothing but love for you as he pulls you closer, his smile giddy. “We're getting married!!” he exclaims, you both giggle as you revel in being newly engaged. 

You think back to when you were kids, before the fancy cars and extravagant races, you loved him before he made a name for himself, before the outside voices. When it was just you two on a karting track, nobody watching to see where he goes next. 

you will continue to love him in the highs and lows of his career, as he shows the world what he's truly made of. You will forever be there, holding his hand, being his first phone call. Continuing to support him throughout it all, believing in his dreams as they’ve now become yours. 

You will love him when it's over, when it's just you two in the quiet mornings, for when you have nowhere to be. When you're old and grey living in the countryside in London, hand in hand on the porch side of your family home, grandkids running around in the yard. 

Like a handprint over your heart, Lando had plastered himself over every inch of your existence. His love hidden in plain sight of places you’ve yet to even realize. you loved this boy with every fiber of your being, and you would love him in every universe, in every past life and through the next. 

You will love him anywhere, anytime. 

~~

i hope u enjoyed, thank u so much for reading <3

[hoodpankow]

The One He Couldn’t Let Go | LN4

💋 summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N never meant to fall for Lando Norris—the F1 driver with a reputation for flings and flirtations. For nine long months, she kept him at arm’s length, refusing his gifts, dodging his calls, and shielding herself behind sarcasm and silence. But his persistence never wavered. Caught between desire and fear, she struggles to believe a man like him could ever want a woman like her—normal, guarded, imperfect. When jealousy explodes into confrontation and passion gives way to vulnerability, their complicated history threatens to burn everything down… unless she’s brave enough to let herself be loved.

💋 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

💋 word count ━━━━━━━ 13.5k

💋 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, cum on tits

Based on this request.

At an intimidating height, near the top floors, a single unit’s lights glowed brightly against the dark evening. From the outside, one could only imagine the warmth within. Inside that apartment, Y/N stood in her living room, peering down at the cityscape far below.

She could see the flickering reflections of the streetlights dancing on the surface of the river. Her viewpoint was dizzying—a perk of her two-bedroom high-rise apartment. The interior was spacious, the open-plan living room flowing seamlessly into a modern kitchen with sleek countertops and minimalist furniture. The day’s accumulation of tasks was scattered across the dining table: her laptop, paperwork, and a half-finished mug of tea gone cold. An ornate, ribbon-tied bouquet of roses lay beside them.

“Ugh, more flowers,” she whispered under her breath, exhaling sharply. Her gaze traveled over the bouquet’s petals—deep red roses, crisp white lilies, and interspersed baby’s breath that made the arrangement especially lush. A small note card, signed in neat black ink: “Thinking of you. – Lando.”

She bristled. The feeling she experienced in that moment was a heady mix of exasperation, longing, and a strange sense of fear. Nine months of this. Nine months of politely trying to push him away while her heart hammered at every mention of his name. Nine months of hearing that cheerful British accent teasing her, flirting with her, and sending her extravagant gifts without any sign of slowing down. She absently traced the note with her fingertips, fighting the ridiculous urge to crush it in her hand. She couldn’t deny that she adored the gestures. There was no point lying to herself: she loved feeling special. She loved that he singled her out in a world where, by all rights, he should have been so unattainable. And yet…

She let the note slip from her fingers. It fluttered onto the dining table, half-crumpled but still readable. She stared at it, teeth sinking into her lower lip as a swirl of anger and inexplicable yearning circled her mind. She had been fighting this conflict from the moment they met. He was everything she’d sworn to avoid—playboy, stereotypical heartbreaker, and a well-known athlete. The mix of what if and impossible tormented her. She hated how she found him compelling. She hated how his presence filled her with light, yet she simultaneously feared the darkness in his history.

She turned, her hair swishing across her shoulders, and walked into the open-concept kitchen. Flicking on the kettle for fresh tea, she tried to focus on the mundane hum. She pressed a palm against the marbled counter, her mind drifting back, inevitably, to the time they first met.

—

Nine Months Ago

Y/N had just finished her 9-to-5 shift at her first “big girl” job—a role she was both good at and, admittedly, a little bored with. But that day, her friend Pietra had managed to coax her into joining a small get-together in Soho.

“Come on,” Pietra had insisted. “You need to meet my friends; they’re loads of fun. You need a break from that strict schedule of yours.”

“What do you mean by ‘my schedule’? It’s a normal job, Pietra,” Y/N had grumbled, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. She was shy and often fiercely protective of her boundaries, but she still went where her close friends urged her to go. After all, she didn’t have that many friends —just a small circle. Reluctantly, she tagged along.

The venue was a warm, tucked-away lounge bar. Fairy lights dangled from the ceiling, music bumped softly, and the chatter of patrons created a pleasant hum. That was when she first saw him—Lando Norris—glancing her way from a group of people near the back. She recognized him instantly: the messy curls of his hair, the bright, mischievous eyes, that athletic build dressed in a stylish black jacket. She was aware of his presence in the sense that one is aware of a flame in a darkened room; he seemed to radiate an effortless energy.

She remembered the moment heat bloomed in her cheeks. She’d heard of Lando Norris—the famed McLaren driver, the rumored playboy. He wasn’t just attractive; he was enthralling, like a magnet pulling the air from her lungs.

When Pietra introduced them, he was polite but also alarmingly direct. He locked eyes with Y/N, grin spreading on his face as though he’d discovered some precious secret that nobody else had.

“So you’re Y/N,” he had said, leaning in close enough that his breath was warm against her cheek. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She tried to laugh it off, stammering that she was pretty boring—just a regular girl working a 9-5. He didn’t buy that for a second. He teased her. For the entire evening, he barely left her side. His hand lingered at her lower back each time he guided her to the bar to get drinks. Their conversation was laced with playful banter, her attempts to protect herself with sarcasm, and his unwavering interest, as though enthralled by every small detail of her life. He asked about her hobbies, her taste in music. She, in return, found it difficult to breathe under that intense stare. When the evening ended, Y/N left with a phone number in her contacts that she didn’t entirely know what to do with.

That was how it began.

—

Present Day

The kettle beeped, snapping Y/N out of her trance. She hastily poured water into a fresh mug, wincing slightly when a bit of boiling water splashed and burned her skin. She muttered a quick curse under her breath. The small pain was a reminder that she was here, grounded, in her apartment, in her life. Not in that memory of meeting Lando.

He was still the same. From that first moment, he made it exceptionally clear—painfully clear—that he wanted her. She’d tried ignoring him, tried politely brushing off his invites to fancy dinners or events, tried refusing his extravagant gifts of designer shoes and dresses. It only fueled him. She never quite told him no in harsh terms; she wanted to, but she could never muster it. A part of her liked that attention. Another part was terrified.

Leaving her mug on the counter, she wandered back into the living area. She paused at the floor-to-ceiling windows again, half expecting to see some reflection that would reveal the tumult swirling in her mind. Instead, she watched the gleaming lights of the city. She pulled her plush cardigan tighter around herself. Her body was warm but her insides felt cold with confusion, with a nagging, pulsing ache for something she didn’t think she could ever have or deserve.

Even though she was young, she sometimes felt older than her years. She had standards for the kind of man she could actually see herself with—someone who shared her goals. Stability. Honesty. In her mind, Lando was the polar opposite. He was glamorous, chaotic. He was rumored to have slept with countless women. And if even half those rumors were true, that was more than enough for her to keep him at arm’s length. She wasn’t a prude, but she saw that kind of behavior as a lack of self-control. She hated the thought of being just another notch on his bedpost—another fleeting woman he’d meet in a club and forget by morning.

Her phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a text. She recognized the name, and her pulse pounded.

Lando: “Did you get my flowers?”

She stared at the screen, sipping her tea. Her immediate reaction was to ignore him. But, ignoring him never worked. Not fully.

She typed, paused, deleted. Eventually, she settled on: “Yes, you didn’t have to.”

A bubble popped up almost immediately, showing he was typing.

Lando: “But I wanted to.”

She clenched her jaw. If only desire were enough for her to trust him—to let herself want him the way she truly did. Glancing at her reflection in the window, she tried to see the woman Lando claimed to adore. She wanted to be confident, but she rarely was—at least not around him. The idea of him comparing her to the typical bikini-clad models on his Instagram feed made her break out in anxiety. And yet, he was so persistent. Why couldn’t he be the typical player who moved on easily?

Shaking her head, she texted: “I appreciate them, but I don’t want you wasting your money.”

Lando: “I’ll always do it if it makes you smile. Are you free tomorrow night? I’m in London again.”

Her heart stuttered. It always did. That unwavering determination in him. He came to London so often for business, for sponsor commitments, for friends, for his family. He always tried to see her. She wanted to see him, but fear overshadowed her longing.

She typed back a response she’d practiced often: “I’m not sure. I might be busy.”

Another immediate reply. “You’re always busy. Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be waiting.”

His words were simple, but they carried weight. “I’ll be waiting.” She couldn’t help but replay that phrase in her head, as though he were whispering it against her ear.

—

The Next Day

Y/N was perched on her living room couch, phone in hand, finishing up a Zoom call for work. Her legs were curled beneath her, and a loose T-shirt paired with leggings—her usual weekend attire—clung lightly to her form. She was comfortable, or at least she should have been, but she felt on edge.

Once she clicked off the call, she exhaled a sigh of relief. It was a Saturday, and though she was often used to the standard “9 to 5, Monday to Friday,” there were occasional weekend tasks that cropped up. She scrolled absentmindedly through her phone, ignoring the swirl of posts about Lando on social media. His fans loved him, especially the female fans. Photos of him with random women at clubs made their rounds more times than she could count. Even though it was rumored that he’d calmed down in recent years, the scars of rumor still trailed him. She’d read the gossip about how he used to message unknown girls, strangers, looking for a quick fling whenever he was traveling for races. The idea of it made her stomach twist with disgust and jealousy.

A ping from her group chat with Pietra and a few other friends lit the screen.

Pietra: “We’re meeting for coffee near Tower Bridge. Lando’s coming too. Wanna join?”

The moment she saw Lando’s name, a spike of adrenaline made her drop her phone. It tumbled to the carpet. She picked it up swiftly, chewing her lip. Her heart hammered. She had two choices: go and endure the swirl of tension, or avoid him again. She typed, paused, frowned, then typed again.

Y/N: “Sure, I could use some air. I’ll be there.”

She braced herself. No matter how much she denied it, she craved his presence like a moth to a flame.

–

It was late morning, and the area around Tower Bridge buzzed with tourists. Y/N arrived at the spot Pietra had texted her earlier.

She spotted Pietra first, already waving in her direction. Y/N forced a small smile and walked over to the group, her stomach tightening with nerves and anticipation. Off to the side, hands tucked into his pockets, stood Lando. He wore a casual black hoodie and jeans, his curls slightly messy, the corners of his mouth lifting the moment his eyes landed on her.

“You came,” he said softly, stepping forward. His voice carried that blend of relief and excitement that sent her heart into overdrive.

“Yeah. I was free,” she answered, trying to keep her tone neutral. She sensed his gaze trailing over her, as if he were filing away the details of her attire, her mood, the subtle flush in her cheeks. An invisible current of tension seemed to crackle between them.

Pietra cleared her throat. “Should we order?”

Lando tore his gaze away from Y/N and nodded, “Sure.” But she felt the way his eyes flicked back to her, how he lingered near her side when they moved to the counter. Despite her best efforts not to, her awareness of him was total.

They settled at a table outdoors, bright umbrellas casting soft shade over the group. The friend group chatted easily, laughter flowing between sips of coffee and bites of pastry. Y/N remained a little tense, contributing here and there, sipping her latte slowly as she listened.

Yet…he seemed utterly entranced. He spoke to everyone, but his attention always gravitated back to her. Whenever he cracked a joke, his eyes sought her reaction first. Whenever he shifted in his seat, his leg brushed against hers. Her pulse jumped each time. She tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to keep any sign of giddiness off her face.

Eventually, Pietra, Max, and the others peeled off to stroll down the riverwalk. Y/N was left sipping the last of her latte beside Lando, who silently took the seat across from her. The noise of the surrounding tourists faded into the background as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the small table.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls again,” he said, not accusing but definitely not thrilled.

She stiffened. “I’ve been busy.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “Too busy to text back?”

“Sometimes,” she replied coldly. Her tone was sharper than she’d intended. A flicker of hurt skimmed across his face, quickly replaced by a careful mask of neutrality.

“I—” he began, then paused, searching for words. “I just… I still want to see you. I was thinking maybe dinner tonight, or we could do something else if you don’t like fancy dinners—”

She cut him off, voice low and tight with barely contained frustration. “Why don’t you give up?”

The faintest flicker of anger ignited in his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” she hissed, suddenly aware of her own rising irritation, “it’s pointless. All these months, me pushing you away—none of it has made you stop. And I—God, Lando, I don’t do…casual flings. So if that’s what you’re after, just quit.”

He stared at her as though she’d slapped him. He blinked, expression twisting in something halfway between confusion and raw frustration. “You think that’s all I want?”

She set her cup down with more force than necessary. “That’s all you ever had with all those other girls, wasn’t it?” She intended the words as a challenge, but they came out drenched in resentment and, worse, hurt. It was her deepest fear, the one that tormented her in quiet hours: that he would treat her the same as everyone else.

His jaw clenched. “Stop believing everything you read. I know I’ve… I’ve not been a saint in the past. But I never cheated on anyone. And as for random flings—fine, that was years ago, when I was still trying to figure myself out. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not that person anymore.”

She folded her arms, refusing to meet his eyes. “People don’t just change overnight, Lando.”

He exhaled sharply. “I’m not asking you to trust me blindly. I’m just… I’m just trying to show you that I want you. God, you make me want things I’ve never wanted with anyone else. Does that really mean nothing to you?”

It felt like a lightning bolt of adrenaline speared through her. Her mind screamed that he was telling the truth, that there was sincerity in his voice that melted her guard. But the other half of her mind whirled with all the old rumors, all her insecurities, all the nights she’d lain in bed, scrolling through social media, seeing him partying in clubs with women who pressed themselves against him. Cheating rumors. Her chest constricted.

She stood abruptly, trying to keep her tone cold. “I told you. I don’t do casual. And I don’t think you’d give me anything else.”

His anger flared. He shot to his feet, almost toppling the chair behind him. A few people glanced their way. Leaning in close, he said, voice pitched low, “Stop deciding who I am before you even give me a chance.”

The rawness in his voice nearly undid her. Pain laced through her chest. She wanted to just fold into him, bury her face in his shoulder, pretend those years of rumors didn’t exist. But she couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” she managed, stepping back. “I can’t.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the half-full cup and his stony gaze behind. Her pulse thundered the entire time she headed home, the world blurring around the edges, tears prickling her eyes in a dizzying swirl of guilt and fear.

–

That evening, Y/N was sprawled on her couch, aimlessly flipping channels on the TV while her thoughts spiraled. She replayed that confrontation with Lando by the café at least a dozen times, dissecting every line, every half-hidden tremor of emotion in his voice. The regret was strong. She truly liked him—liked him to a painful degree. She yearned for him so badly she almost found it difficult to breathe. And yet, she was terrified. The idea of trusting him, and having it all fall apart, shook her to her core.

Her phone pinged once more.

Unknown Number: “Hey, it’s Damien. Pietra gave me your number. She mentioned you might be up for a date sometime?”

Y/N jolted upright, reading the text with surprise. She vaguely recalled Pietra mentioning a coworker’s friend who was single and looking to meet new people. She’d brushed it off at the time. But now, the idea of distracting herself from Lando’s incessant presence held a strong appeal. Maybe this was the way to break the cycle of longing.

Y/N: “Hi Damien, yes, Pietra told me about you. I’m free tomorrow if you want to meet?”

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. Letting out a breath, she pulled a blanket around her. This was what she needed, right? A normal guy, with no baggage, no string of humiliating rumors trailing him. She forced herself to ignore the pang of guilt in her stomach, that unshakable sense of betrayal for wanting to see someone else even though she was in no official relationship with Lando. She tried to rationalize it: Lando was the one who was truly unattainable, not her. The heart has to protect itself somehow.

It was the next day—a Sunday, bleak clouds gathering overhead. The wind rattled the windows of her high-rise. Y/N was in the middle of a laundry marathon, folding clothes in her living room, the TV chattering about random gossip in the background. A ring from the door buzzer startled her. She peeked at the digital display to see who it was. Her breath caught when she recognized the curly-haired figure looking resolutely into the camera. Lando.

Her first thought was to ignore him. But a burst of adrenaline had her pressing the intercom. “What do you want?” she asked, voice muffled by the speaker.

He looked up at the camera. She saw from the slight droop in his shoulders that he was determined but…vulnerable. His voice came through, a bit crackly. “I need to see you. Please.”

Her heart hammered. With a heavy exhale, she pressed the button to unlock the main door. She might regret it. But she needed closure, or something. She left the front door of her apartment ajar. Moments later, he stepped in, carrying a bouquet of pink peonies this time—her actual favorite. She’d offhandedly mentioned her love of peonies weeks ago. She swallowed the knot forming in her throat.

“You have to stop with the flowers,” she said by way of greeting.

He set them on a nearby shelf, ignoring her complaint. “I’m not apologizing for sending you flowers. It’s the least I can do for you.”

She stood there, arms crossing over her chest, vaguely aware of how her T-shirt and leggings did nothing to hide the shape of her hips and legs. She felt vulnerable letting him see her like this, so casual and undone. But he didn’t seem to notice anything but her eyes. Stepping closer, he spoke in a quiet, tense voice.

“Look,” he began, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to snap. I just—seeing how you look at me, like I’m the worst person in the world, it kills me. You never give me the benefit of the doubt.”

Her throat tightened. Anger, guilt, and longing all warred within her. “You haven’t exactly proven me wrong. Every time I check social media, there’s a rumor, or a photo—”

His eyes blazed. “That’s not me anymore. Do you know how old some of those photos are? You think I’m hooking up with random girls at clubs while trying to chase you for nine months? I have no idea how to prove I’m not lying except to say it outright: I’m not sleeping around. I’m not cheating. I don’t want to be with them, I want to be with you.”

The sincerity in his voice was so intense it shook her defenses. “But I can’t just…unhear the rumors. You had that reputation for so long, Lando.”

He drew in a breath, his frustration palpable. “I know. But people change. I’m not going to apologize forever for my past mistakes. I’ll own them. And you can ask me anything. Let me show you who I am now.”

Her eyes darted to the side. She felt the press of her own heartbeat rattling through her ears. When she didn’t answer, he took a bold step forward, bridging the small distance between them. His gaze flicked down, glimpsing the way her full hips curved into her waist. She saw that flicker of admiration in his eyes. She braced herself, expecting a sexual comment, but it never came. Instead, he reached out carefully, like he was half afraid she would flinch.

He gently touched the side of her face, fingertips grazing her cheek. The warmth of his touch sent a sizzling jolt through her. She swallowed, her throat dry, every nerve in her body going taut.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’ve got to give me a chance.”

Her walls trembled. She wanted to push him away, but the swirl of desire in her belly was strong, overwhelming. She found herself leaning in slightly, like a magnet.

“God, you’re such a jerk sometimes,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, though it lacked conviction. Anger and longing clashed in her tone.

His lips quirked into a small, bittersweet smile. “But you still like me,” he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

A heartbeat passed—then another. Before she knew it, his mouth was on hers, the kiss hard and urgent. She gasped, her body stiffening in shock before melting into him. The laundry in her arms tumbled to the floor. His hand cupped her cheek, drawing her closer, and she tilted her head, letting him deepen the kiss. The taste of his mouth—coffee and mint—erased every rational thought in her head for a thrilling, reckless moment.

Her arms found their way around his shoulders. His hand slipped from her cheek down to the small of her back, pressing her into him. She felt the warmth of his body, the electric tension that had brewed for months now set free. His chest rose and fell rapidly against hers.

But then, like a jolt of lightning, the fear snapped back into her. She broke the kiss, pushing him away with trembling hands. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and he stood there, panting.

“Shit,” she mumbled, stumbling a step back. “I can’t do this.”

“Y/N,” he said, voice husky. “Don’t—”

She shook her head. She couldn’t even form words. She just fled to the door and swung it open, voice trembling, “You should leave.”

He hesitated, heartbreak flickering in his eyes, but he eventually stepped out. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, she felt tears welling, unstoppable. She sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

–

In the days that followed, Y/N avoided every text and call from Lando. She even avoided Pietra’s invites, terrified he might show up. She drowned herself in work, volunteering for extra tasks at the office. She took long shifts, poured over spreadsheets, answered emails into the late hours of the night. She hammered her free time with exercise. She tried everything to chase the memory of his kiss away. She was furious at herself for letting it happen, furious at the swirl of contradictory emotions she couldn’t control.

She told herself that was it. She couldn’t let it happen again.

But deep down, she knew she was lying. The way his lips felt on hers haunted her. She replayed the second their mouths connected, how her heart soared with a new kind of adrenaline. The crash afterward was brutal, leaving her feeling hollow.

–

One week later, Y/N found herself in a quiet, upscale restaurant near Covent Garden, fidgeting with her napkin. Damien sat across from her, a kind smile on his face, conversation polite and gentle. He was the epitome of normal—a stable job in finance, an easy sense of humor, no swirling rumors or paparazzi following him. She forced herself to pay attention to him and not think about Lando.

But every time she noticed Damien’s neat, short hair and pressed collared shirt, she missed Lando’s messy curls and casual hoodies. Every time Damien asked a sweet, thoughtful question, she imagined Lando’s witty, borderline-arrogant grin. This was torture in a different sense. She forced herself to laugh at Damien’s jokes, but the laughter sounded hollow to her own ears.

“So,” Damien said, leaning forward. “Tell me more about your job, about you. Pietra said you moved here?”

She nodded. “Yes, over 5 years ago. I, well, my life is pretty routine. Wake up, commute, work, come home. Maybe watch Netflix or read. Nothing exciting.” She tried to laugh it off.

Damien smiled. “Routine isn’t bad. I like reliable people.”

She forced a polite smile back. She was about to respond when she felt a distinct presence behind her. That comforting sense of tension that always accompanied… him. Slowly, she turned her head. Her heart lurched in her chest. Standing near the entrance to the restaurant, accompanied by two of his mates, was Lando. The world seemed to stutter for a second. He was scanning the room—probably looking for a table or maybe meeting someone. And then he saw her. 

His entire posture stiffened. Their eyes locked, the swirl of unspoken emotion instantly thickening the air. She felt a spike of panic. She prayed he wouldn’t come over, wouldn’t make a scene. Yet part of her wanted him to. Maybe because she longed to see him again.

He shot her a look that asked a thousand questions. She could almost read the accusation in his gaze. She averted her eyes, turning back to Damien, whose brow furrowed with confusion as he followed the direction of her gaze to see Lando.

“Oh,” Damien said, not quite sure what was happening. “Is that a friend of yours?”

She cleared her throat. “Sort of. We… we move in the same circle,” she lied, or half-lied. “Let’s just ignore him.” She forced a laugh.

But ignoring Lando Norris was impossible. Out of the corner of her vision, she watched him murmur something to his friends and stride purposefully toward her table. Her stomach dropped. Damien noticed her sudden tension.

“Y/N? You okay?”

She tried to smile, but the attempt was pitiful. Before she could speak, Lando stood at the edge of their table, hands in his pockets, face set in a carefully neutral mask. She heard the quickness of his breath, saw the faint flush in his cheeks that told her he was not calm at all.

“Hey,” he said, voice clipped. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Damien, noticing the tension, stood from his seat politely and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Damien. I’m Y/N’s—”

“Friend,” she interjected too quickly, her cheeks blazing. She avoided Lando’s gaze, focusing on her water glass.

Damien hesitated, confusion scrawled on his features. “Yes, well, friend for now.”

Lando’s jaw ticked, and he slid his eyes to Y/N. She could feel the wave of anger rolling off him. A tight, forced smile appeared on his face as he took Damien’s hand, giving it a quick shake. “Lando. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Damien replied, though he seemed unsure about the whole situation.

Her heart hammered so loud she was surprised they couldn’t hear it. Lando parted his lips, hesitated, then said in a low voice, “Hope you both enjoy your meal.” He turned to her, eyes burning with unspoken frustration. “We’ll catch up another time, yeah?”

She nodded stiffly, feeling her throat constrict. “Sure,” she managed. Then he was gone, joining his friends at a table across the restaurant. The man was too well-known to cause a scene in a public place with prying eyes, but the tension was thick enough to slice through with a knife.

Damien slowly sank back into his seat, giving her a concerned glance. “Is everything okay? You two seemed…tense.”

She forced another laugh that sounded high-pitched and desperate to her own ears. “We have a bit of a… complicated history.” She tried to wave it off, picking up the menu. But her eyes couldn’t seem to stop flicking to the side, drawn to the figure of Lando, who was now sitting with his friends at a table partially in view. She felt him glancing at her. The weight of that gaze pinned her down. Her appetite vanished.

Over the course of dinner, she tried to maintain a steady conversation with Damien. She forced herself to nod politely at whatever he was saying, some anecdote about a recent trip to Ireland. She tried to laugh when appropriate. But her mind was wholly consumed by Lando. The tightness of her chest only worsened each time she felt his eyes on her.

Finally, Damien noticed her distraction. He followed her gaze, turning to see Lando, who was tapping his foot impatiently beneath his table, occasionally whispering to his two friends. One friend seemed to be trying to calm him down. Y/N swallowed, bracing herself as she realized that every fiber of her being was screaming at her. This was too intense, too complicated, too painful. She was trying so hard to maintain composure.

Damien, clearing his throat, leaned forward, voice gentle. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and…that guy, but if you need to talk about it, I’m here to listen. I like you. I’d like to keep seeing you. But if your heart’s somewhere else—”

She flinched. “It’s not. I… Lando and I aren’t dating. It’s complicated. But I’m here on this date with you,” she said, trying to cling to normalcy.

Damien offered a sad smile. “Yeah. But I’m not blind to the tension.” He gestured softly toward Lando. “If you have unresolved feelings with him, you need to figure that out, Y/N. It’s not fair to either of us otherwise.”

She nodded, feeling tears prickling. She didn’t want to break down in front of a near stranger. “You’re right,” she said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

Damien’s gaze was kind. “No worries. Let’s just finish dinner. We can talk afterwards.”

She offered him a grateful half-smile. As she forced down a few bites of her meal, she avoided looking at Lando. But near the end, she heard a scraping of chairs. He and his friends were leaving. Unable to control herself, she glanced up to catch him staring at her with an expression of stony, confused anger. It shot a pang of guilt straight through her. Then, without a word, he walked out. The door swung behind him, leaving her with an ache deep in her gut.

–

It was later that night, and Y/N was beyond exhausted—physically from the clack of her heels on concrete all evening, and emotionally from the drain of a lukewarm date. She’d said goodbye to Damien just outside her building, gently declining his request for a second date. Although she’d been polite, her thoughts had circled only one person the entire evening. Her heart grew heavier with every step she took toward the large glass doors of her high-rise. The cold night air bit at her cheeks, and she wanted nothing more than to escape into the warmth of her living room.

As she neared the entrance, punching in the code to unlock the main doors, a figure shifted in the shadows beside one of the pillars. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she nearly dropped her keys. She drew in a sharp breath.

From the darkness, Lando stepped out, leaning heavily against the glass. There was a ferocity in his gaze she’d never quite seen before. His arms were folded over his chest, but the tension rippling through his shoulders was almost visible. He looked like he was fighting a battle just to keep himself from exploding.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” she blurted, voice shaky with a mix of adrenaline and nerves. A dozen alarm bells rang in her head—she’d never seen him look this furious, this…possessive.

He didn’t move from his spot. “Sorry,” he muttered, but there was nothing apologetic in his tone. “I knew you’d be home eventually.”

She tried to brush past him into the lobby, pressing the key fob firmly against the reader. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, forcing as much calm as she could muster. The glass doors slid open with a hiss, revealing the polished marble of the foyer.

He followed her inside, shoulders practically quivering with restrained anger. “We need to talk.”

The intensity in his eyes made her throat tighten. She hugged her arms around herself. “About what?” she spat, stepping toward the elevator. She was angry—angry with him for continuing to show up unannounced, angry with herself for the guilt she carried. She jabbed the elevator button, watching the numbers tick down from the top floor. “I have nothing to say to you.”

He slid into the elevator with her right as the doors closed, leaving them trapped in that small space. She felt his presence like static electricity, filling the air. If jealousy were a fire, he’d be an inferno right now—scorching everything in reach.

He turned, chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. “About you going on a date with some other guy, when you damn well know there’s something between us.”

His voice was low, dangerous. She’d never heard such palpable fury from him. It made her heart pound wildly. She scoffed, fixing her gaze on the metallic elevator doors. “You and I have nothing,” she said icily, though her voice quivered at the end. “I’ve told you a thousand times: it wouldn’t work. But you refuse to back off. So yes, Lando, I went on a date.”

His eyes blazed as though her words poured fuel on his rage. His hand twitched at his side—she half-expected him to slam his fist against the elevator wall. “Why?” he growled, struggling to keep his volume low. “Because you think he’ll be more stable? Because you think I can’t be serious about you? That I can’t commit? Or because you wanted to hurt me, rub it in my face that you can walk away any time you want?”

She whipped her head around, eyes blazing with her own anger. “Don’t twist my intentions,” she snapped. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just—I don’t think you can give me what I need. You’re Lando Norris, the guy plastered all over social media with a harem of women. Even if half of it isn’t true, how am I supposed to know which half?”

The elevator dinged, but it felt more like a bomb dropping. When the doors slid open to her floor, she stormed out into the hallway, rummaging through her purse for her keys. He followed closely on her heels, the anger rolling off him like crashing waves.

She finally snagged the key, her entire body trembling with the aftershocks of their argument. “Just go home, Lando,” she muttered, not daring to look at him. She was terrified of what she might see there—hurt, or worse, a brokenness that mirrored her own.

“Not until we settle this,” he hissed. Before she could argue, he stepped in front of her door, effectively blocking it. She stared at his chest for a second, realizing she had to physically push him aside if she wanted to run. The tension in the air was suffocating.

With a furious huff, she shoved the key into the lock and shouldered past him. He slipped inside right behind her. The door slammed shut, and an uneasy silence filled the dimly lit entryway of her apartment. The glow of the city outside cast faint patterns on the wall, but the atmosphere felt like a tinderbox seconds from erupting.

“Fine,” she bit out, tossing her bag onto the kitchen counter with a little too much force. “Talk.”

He ran both hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, that wild, jealous energy crackling around him. “You keep spitting out all these reasons you can’t be with me,” he began, voice trembling with a mixture of rage and desperation. “All these rumors—you act like I’m the same reckless kid I was years ago. But I’m not.”

She pressed her arms tighter around herself, trying to combat the swirl of adrenaline. “How am I supposed to believe that?” she demanded, voice cracking. “The cheating rumors. The flings. The endless girls in your DMs. You want to stand there and tell me it’s all lies?”

He let out a harsh bark of laughter, frustration strangling the sound. “Not all lies. But the cheating—yes, those were lies. The hooking up—fine, it happened, but not when I had a girlfriend. I was lonely and stupid, and yeah, I messed around. But not anymore.” His fists clenched at his sides, as though the words themselves hurt coming out. “Ever since you walked into my life, I’ve done nothing but try to show you that I’ve changed. I’ve never cheated on you, never even let myself think of anyone else. But you don’t see that, do you? Because you’d rather believe I’m—”

She cut him off with a bitter laugh, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Don’t turn this on me. I’ve watched pictures of you partying with girls, read about all the nights you went clubbing while your ex was nowhere to be found. How do I know you won’t do that to me, too?”

His eyes flared with hurt. He drew in a ragged breath, then pounded his fist once, softly yet furiously, against the side of her sofa. “Stop. Stop punishing me for something I didn’t do. You want to know the truth? I hated those rumors. I hated that I didn’t do enough to shut them down. But I was too caught up in my life—racing, traveling, trying to please everyone. I can’t change that now. But I would never treat you like that.”

She sniffed, tears brimming, voice wavering. “Then how do I know—”

“You don’t,” he interrupted, voice cracking on the edges. “You either trust me or you don’t.”

For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Her tears clung to her lashes, and the anguish in his expression was brutal. The space between them thrummed with pent-up longing and towering anger, their conflicting emotions practically vibrating in the dimly lit living room.

“That’s the problem,” she whispered finally, wiping at her eyes. “I’m scared. You’re Lando Norris. You could have anyone, and—God, look at me. I’m never going to be those girls. Never. I can’t compete with them.”

He laughed again, but it was devoid of humor, laced with sarcasm and heartbreak. “Compete with them? Compete for what? They mean nothing to me, Y/N. Nothing. Half the pictures you see are just me stuck in a club for a sponsor event or forced to smile next to models at a photoshoot. Do you think I’m sending them designer shoes or spending every spare moment trying to figure out how to get them to give me a chance?”

She closed her eyes, tears leaking down her cheeks. She hated feeling weak in front of him, but the swirl of rage and longing was too strong to contain. “You could just be infatuated. Maybe I’m the new chase, that’s all.”

Something inside him snapped at those words. He let out a sharp expletive, stepping forward, crowding her against the back of the couch. His eyes burned, voice trembling with an anger that threatened to boil over. “You really think so little of me? You think I’d be standing here like a bloody idiot, night after night, sending you flowers and calling you, chasing you across the city—just because I’m bored? How can you not see how furious it makes me, seeing you with someone else, even the idea of someone else, when I’ve done nothing but try to show you that you’re the only one I want?”

She flinched at the raw intensity in his voice. Her heart thundered, torn between fear and a twisted sense of relief that at least he cared this much. “I just—” she started, but her words failed her.

He grabbed her wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough that she couldn’t ignore him. “Do you have any idea how jealous I was tonight?” he practically snarled. “I’ve been pacing around your building, counting the hours, imagining you laughing with him, letting him touch you the way I want to—” His voice broke off, a tremor running through his shoulders. “It drove me insane.”

She swallowed hard, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Why?” she rasped. “Why do you even care?”

“Why?” he echoed. He let out a ragged breath, finally loosening his hold on her. His gaze flicked over her face, taking in every tear, every shaky breath. “Because I—” He closed his eyes, trembling. “Because I’m falling in love with you, Y/N. And it’s driving me out of my mind that you can’t see that.”

It was more of a confession than she’d ever expected, especially with so much anger behind it. She felt her whole world tilt. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heart hammered an erratic beat.

He stared at her, eyes a storm of rage and vulnerability. “So go ahead,” he said, voice cracking. “Yell at me. Tell me you don’t believe me. Tell me all the reasons we won’t work. But don’t you dare say I don’t care. Because I do. Too damn much.”

She choked back a sob, clinging to the edge of the couch for support. “Lando—”

He moved closer, so close she felt the heat radiating from him, the raw tension. In the hush of the apartment, their frantic breaths seemed deafening. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. She didn’t know if it was the weight of his words or the sheer presence of him that shattered her defenses, but something inside her cracked wide open.

He brought a hand up, shaking slightly, and brushed the tears from her cheek. His touch was unexpectedly gentle given the fury in his eyes. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, voice tight, “just let me in. Let me show you.”

Her tears flowed freely now, a twisted mix of heartbreak and an ache for him she could no longer deny. Her lips trembled, trying to form a response, but all that came was a shaky sob. His breath hitched as if her pain sliced right through him. Suddenly, he couldn’t hold back; he looped an arm around her waist and yanked her against his chest, cradling her as if she might shatter. She stiffened at first, the shock of his physical closeness overwhelming. But then her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and she buried her face there, letting the dam break.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely into her hair. His voice still vibrated with anger, but it was undercut by raw desperation. “I’m so fucking jealous I can’t think straight, but I— I don’t want to lose you.”

She cried against him, letting the emotions flood her. Her tears soaked into his clothes. Her body shook as she let out all the doubts, the insecurities, the fear of being betrayed or left behind. He just held her, pressing rough kisses into her hair, letting his own ragged breaths warm the top of her head.

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled back enough to look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot with pent-up emotion. She could still sense the roiling jealousy and frustration coursing through him like a living thing.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’m sorry for always pushing you away. I’m sorry for—”

He silenced her with a searing kiss, lips crashing onto hers in a fierce, desperate claim. She gasped, momentarily stunned by the sheer force of it. Then a molten wave of longing shot through her, and she melted into him. Her arms came up around his neck, tangling in his messy curls. She sensed all that anger still there, fueling each press of his mouth, each frantic swipe of his tongue. But underneath it was something deeper—love, need, a yearning she recognized in herself.

He broke away only to rasp, “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Just—don’t run. Not anymore.”

She answered by pulling him back in, their kiss turning hot and frantic. Her tears mixed with the taste of his mouth, and she felt his hands roam over her waist, her hips, dragging her impossibly close. She moaned against his lips, the press of their bodies kindling an urgency that had been building for months.

Their breaths grew ragged as he maneuvered her backward until her knees hit the couch. She sank onto it, drawing him with her. He stared down at her, chest heaving, eyes heavy-lidded with desire—and still, that anger flickered at the edges. But now, his fury morphed into a desperate need to claim her, to prove himself in a way words never could.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, voice throaty and laced with jealousy so thick it almost hurt. “Tell me you want me, not him, not anyone else. Me.”

She cupped his face between her trembling hands. “God, Lando…I do,” she whispered, tears still wet on her cheeks. “It’s always been you.”

That was all he needed. His mouth crashed onto hers once more, their kisses feverish and unrestrained. She tugged at his hoodie, pulling it up until he helped yank it over his head. Her fingers immediately splayed across the warm skin of his back, feeling the tense muscles there. He groaned at her touch, sliding a hand under her blouse to stroke the small of her back, his calloused fingertips igniting every nerve ending.

Their kiss turned hungrier, the taste of him filling her senses. She arched against him, pressing her hips up into his. His lips trailed fiery kisses along her jaw, dipping to her neck, where he bit down softly, making her gasp. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

His voice shook against her skin. “I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else,” he confessed, jealousy clinging to every syllable. “It drives me mad.”

Her breath hitched. Somehow, hearing how worked up he was, how all-consuming his feelings were, stoked her own desire. “I’m sorry,” she managed again, though it came out in a ragged whisper. “I’m— God, I’m sorry.”

He answered with another bruising kiss, leaving no space for apologies. His hand slid higher under her blouse, caressing the curve of her waist, tracing the outline of her ribcage. Her body quivered, half from the adrenaline spike, half from the sudden waves of pleasure.

Time blurred as they gave in to months of tension. She’d dreamed of this, yearned for it. But never had she imagined the raw intensity—especially not with him practically shaking from jealousy and fear of losing her. Every whispered plea, every frantic movement, carried that undercurrent of anger and heartbreak that now fed straight into a spiraling passion.

Lando’s lips claimed hers with a ferocity that left her breathless, his hands gripping her hips as if she might vanish if he loosened his hold. The taste of him was intoxicating—spiced with desperation, laced with a jealousy she could feel vibrating through every inch of his body. He pulled back only to trail kisses across her face—her cheeks, her jawline, her neck—each one a searing mark of his obsession. His mouth was everywhere, and she could barely think, let alone resist.

“Lando,” she gasped, her voice trembling as his lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath her ear. His breath hitched, and she felt the tension in his shoulders, the restrained fury and longing that had been building for months.

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he growled against her skin, his hands sliding up her sides to grip the hem of her blouse. With a sharp tug, he pulled it over her head, leaving her in nothing but her bra. The cool air hit her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he took her in.

His hands slid over her shoulders, down her arms, then back up to cup her face. He kissed her again, softer this time, but no less urgent. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, wiping away the remnants of her tears. “You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

Her breath caught as he moved lower, his lips brushing her collarbone, her shoulders, every inch of her exposed skin. His hands fumbled with the clasp of her bra, and she arched into him, her heart pounding as the fabric fell away. The moment her breasts were bare, his eyes darkened with hunger.

“God, I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. His hands cupped her, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped her lips. He smiled—a wicked, possessive thing—before lowering his head to take one into his mouth.

The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. His tongue swirled around her nipple, teasing and sucking, and she tangled her fingers in his curls, pulling him closer. He groaned against her skin, the sound vibrating through her chest, and she felt her hips arch involuntarily.

“Lando,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

He pulled back just enough to look up at her, his lips swollen, his eyes blazing. “Tell me you’re mine,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me no one else gets to touch you like this.”

She could barely think, let alone form words, but she managed to nod, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’m yours,” she whispered. “Only yours.”

That was all he needed. He dove back in, his mouth claiming her other breast with the same intensity. His hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve, every inch of skin as if he were memorizing her. She writhed beneath him, her moans filling the room, her hands clutching at his back as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded.

He shifted, his lips trailing down her sternum, over her ribs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands squeezed her hips, fingers digging into her skin, and she whimpered, the sound desperate and needy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. He kissed her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel, and she gasped, her back arching off the couch. His hands slid up her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, before finally cupping her breasts again.

He leaned up, his lips claiming hers in a searing kiss, and she could taste herself on his tongue—sweet, addictive. His hands kneaded her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips grinding against his.

“I’ve been imagining this for so long,” he confessed, pulling back just enough to speak. His breath was warm against her skin, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “Every night, I’ve dreamed about touching you like this. About feeling you beneath me. About making you moan my name.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she tugged him closer, her lips capturing his in a desperate kiss. He groaned, his hands sliding down her body to grip her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hardness of him through his jeans, and she whimpered, the sound muffled against his lips.

“Lando,” she gasped, breaking the kiss. Her hands slid down his chest, fumbling with the button of his jeans. He watched her, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes filled with need.

“Wait,” he growled, catching her hands in his. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before she could protest, he pushed her back against the couch, his lips trailing down her body once more. He kissed her breasts, her stomach, her hips, and she squirmed beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair as he reached for the waistband of her jeans. His hands were impatient, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper, and she let out a shaky laugh, half from nerves, half from the sheer intensity of his focus.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice trembling as he tugged the denim down her hips. He kissed her exposed skin, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just above the edge of her panties, and she gasped, her back arching off the couch. Her jeans pooled at her ankles, and he pulled them off in one swift motion, tossing them aside without a second thought.

Her legs were bare now, her body trembling beneath his gaze. He looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered, his eyes filled with a hunger that made her heart race. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “Every inch of you.”

Her hands clenched in his hair, tugging him closer as he kissed his way back up her body. His lips found hers again, the kiss bruising, desperate, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips lifting off the couch in search of friction. He groaned, his fingers digging into her hips as he held her still, his lips moving to her neck, her collarbone, her breasts.

“Lando,” she gasped, her voice breaking as his teeth grazed her nipple. He chuckled, the sound low and satisfied, before pulling back to look at her.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he promised, his eyes blazing with intent. She shivered, her body already a trembling mess beneath him, and he smirked, his hands sliding down to grip her thighs. “Not even close.”

“Lando,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “Please.”

He looked up at her, his eyes blazing, and he didn’t say a word. Instead, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, leaving her completely bare. Her breath hitched as he stared at her, his gaze raking over her body with a hunger that made her heart race.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice low and reverent. “Every inch of you.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing the inside of her thigh, and she tensed, her hands clutching the couch cushions. His breath was warm against her skin, and she whimpered, her hips lifting off the couch in a silent plea.

“Lando,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “Please.”

He didn’t make her wait. His mouth claimed her in one swift movement, and she cried out, her back arching off the couch. His tongue swirled around her, teasing and tasting, and she tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, her hips grinding against his face. “Lando, please.”

Lando’s mouth was relentless, his tongue tracing every inch of her with a hunger that left her trembling. She could feel the slick heat of him working her, his tongue lapping at her entrance, teasing her with slow, deliberate strokes that made her toes curl. “Oh, God, Lando,” she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer as if she could fuse him to her. His lips wrapped around her clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, and she let out a strangled cry, her hips lifting off the couch. The sensation was electric, like a current running straight to her core, and she could feel herself getting wetter, her body responding to every flick of his tongue.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled against her skin, his voice rough and raw. “I’ve been dreaming about this—about how sweet you’d feel, how tight you’d be.” His tongue swirled around her clit, teasing her mercilessly, and she moaned, the sound ragged and desperate. He pulled back just enough to look up at her, his eyes blazing with a mix of lust and something deeper, something possessive. “I could spend hours here,” he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. “Just tasting you, learning every inch of you. You’re fucking addictive.”

She whimpered, her body quivering as he dove back in, his tongue working her with a skill that left her mind blank. He added two fingers, sliding them inside her with a groan, and she cried out, her pussy clenching around him. “Jesus, you’re so tight,” he murmured, his fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot that made her see stars. “And so fucking wet—God, you’re perfect.” He pumped his fingers slowly, drawing out every gasp, every moan, and she could feel herself spiraling toward the edge. “That’s it, baby,” he encouraged, his voice low and husky. “Let me hear you. Let me know how good I’m making you feel.”

She couldn’t hold back the sounds escaping her lips—moans, whimpers, his name repeated like a prayer. His tongue flicked over her clit, alternating between gentle licks and firm pressure, and she felt her legs quake, her body tightening like a coiled spring. “Lando, I—” she choked out, her voice breaking as the pleasure built to unbearable levels. “I’m so close—please.”

He didn’t let up, his mouth and fingers working in perfect harmony, driving her higher and higher until she shattered. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing over her with a force that left her gasping for air, her pussy clenching around his fingers as she rode out the intensity. He didn’t stop, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from her body, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to her inner thighs as she came down from the high.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, his voice thick with admiration. He leaned up, kissing her stomach, her chest, her lips, and she could taste herself on his tongue—sweet, intoxicating. “I’m never going to get enough of you,” he confessed, his hands roaming her body, memorizing her curves. “Your pussy, your taste, the way you moan my name—it’s all fucking perfect. You’re mine, Y/N. All mine.”

She nodded, too dazed to speak, her body still humming with pleasure. He kissed her again, slow and deep, and she melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair. He pulled back just enough to smirk at her, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “And I’m just getting started.”

Lando’s hands slid under her back, his strong arms lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, her arms instinctively looping around his neck as he stood, cradling her against his chest. Her body felt weightless, her mind still hazy from the intensity of what he’d just done to her. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, his steps purposeful and steady, never once breaking his gaze from hers. There was something possessive in his expression, something that made her heart race even faster.

When they reached her bedroom, he gently lowered her onto the bed, her body sinking into the softness of the mattress. She was completely bare now, her skin glowing faintly in the moonlight streaming through the windows. Her pussy was still sensitive, still throbbing from the way he’d made her come, and she could feel the slickness between her thighs as she lay there, her legs slightly parted—an unspoken invitation.

Lando stood at the edge of the bed, his eyes raking over her with a hunger that made her shiver. His fingers gripped the hem of his hoodie, and he yanked it over his head in one swift motion, revealing his toned chest and the faint trail of hair that led down to the waistband of his jeans. She bit her lip, her gaze tracing the lines of his body, the way his muscles flexed as he moved.

He wasted no time, his hands quickly undoing the button of his jeans, the zipper sliding down with a soft hiss. He kicked them off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, the fabric barely containing the hardness straining against it. Her breath hitched as she took him in, the reality of what was about to happen finally sinking in.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and rough as he stepped closer to the bed. His hands slid up her thighs, his touch sending shivers through her. “I’ve been imagining this for so long—having you like this, seeing you laid out for me, completely mine.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her inner thigh, and she whimpered, her body arching toward him.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please…”

He smirked, that wicked, possessive smile she was starting to love—and fear—as he straightened. “Patience, love,” he said, his voice teasing. “I’m not done with you yet.” His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed, and she felt the warmth of his body as he leaned over her, his breath hot against her skin. “You’re mine now, Y/N. All mine.”

Lando’s fingers traced the curve of her hip, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger that made her shiver. His breath was hot against her skin as he leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “Tell me how you want me, Y/N,” he growled, his voice low and rough with desire. “Tell me what you need from me.”

Her breath hitched, her body trembling beneath his touch. She could feel the slick heat between her thighs, the ache for him almost unbearable. “You can do whatever you want with me, Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “Just—please. Fuck me. However you want. I just need you inside me.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. “Desperate for me, huh?” he teased, his fingers sliding up her thigh, tracing the sensitive skin there. “You’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you? About me fucking you, making you mine.”

She whimpered, her hips lifting off the bed in a silent plea. “Yes,” she gasped, her hands clutching the sheets. “I need you, Lando. Please.”

He smirked, that wicked, possessive smile she was starting to love—and fear—as he straightened. Slowly, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, his eyes never leaving hers. The fabric slid down his hips, and her breath caught in her throat. He was bigger than she expected, his cock thick and hard, straining toward her. Her mouth watered at the sight, her body growing even wetter as she imagined how he would feel inside her.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I want to suck you. Let me—”

He cut her off with a firm shake of his head, his hand catching her chin and tilting her face up to his. “Not tonight, love,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Tonight’s about you. About worshiping you. About finally having you in the way I’ve been dreaming of for so long.” He leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a searing kiss. “You can suck me off another time. Right now, I need to be inside you. Right now, I need to see my dick sliding in and out of that pretty pussy of yours.”

Her breath hitched, her body trembling with anticipation. His words alone were enough to make her throb, but the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing that mattered—made her heart race even faster. She nodded, her legs falling open wider in an unspoken invitation.

Lando groaned, his hand sliding down to grip his cock, stroking himself once as he positioned himself between her thighs. “You’re mine now, Y/N,” he growled, his voice thick with possession. “All mine.”

Lando’s grip on her hips tightened as he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock brushing against her slick entrance. She gasped, her body instinctively arching toward his, desperate for more. Her pussy felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending alive and screaming for him. The way he stretched her was exquisite—a perfect mix of pleasure and a hint of pain that made her grind her hips against his, silently begging him to go deeper. She could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as he pushed inside her, inch by torturously slow inch, filling her in a way that made her head spin. Her pussy clenched around him, as if it didn’t want to let him go, and she let out a whimper that was half pleasure, half desperation.

For Lando, it was like sliding into heaven. Her pussy was so fucking tight, gripping him like a velvet glove, and the heat of her was enough to make him see stars. He groaned, low and guttural, as he felt her walls flutter around him, her body adjusting to his size. “Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “You’re so goddamn perfect. Your pussy feels like it was made for me.” He leaned down, capturing her lips in a fierce kiss, swallowing her moans as he pushed deeper. He could feel her nails digging into his back, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, and he knew she was just as desperate as he was.

He started to move, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in hard but slow, dragging the movement to prolong the unbearable pleasure. Her moans filled the room, a symphony of bliss that drove him wild. One of his hands held her hip, keeping her steady, while the other rested on the bed, his elbow bent to hold his weight above her. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her fingers tangling in his curls as she clung to him, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Lando couldn’t get enough of her. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone—every inch of skin he could reach. His lips traced a fiery path across her body, leaving marks that claimed her as his. “You’re mine,” he whispered against her skin, his voice thick with possession. “Every part of you. Your pussy, your moans, these fucking perfect tits—all fucking mine.” He pulled back just enough to look down at where their bodies were joined, his cock glistening with her arousal as he slid in and out of her. The sight was obscene, and it made his groin tighten with need. “Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Look how fucking wet you are for me. Your pussy’s sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”

She cried out as he thrust deeper, her hips lifting to meet his, eager for more. The friction was almost too much, every drag of his cock inside her sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. She could feel him in places she’d never felt anyone before, his length filling her completely, and the thought alone made her pussy clench around him. “Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “You feel so good. So fucking good. Don’t stop—please, don’t stop.”

He growled, his thrusts becoming harder, more deliberate, as if he was trying to imprint himself on her very soul. “I’m not stopping,” he promised, his voice rough with lust. “Not until you’re screaming my name, until you’re so fucking full of me you can’t think of anyone else.” His hand slid up from her hip to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple, and she moaned, her back arching off the bed.

Her hips pressed against his, her eagerness driving him wild. He couldn’t believe how responsive she was, how perfectly she matched his rhythm, as if their bodies were made for each other. “You’re so fucking eager for me,” he muttered, his eyes blazing with need. “I love it. I love how much you fucking want me.” His lips crashed onto hers, their breaths mingling, and she could taste herself on his tongue, sweet and addictive.

Their movements grew frantic, desperate—a symphony of skin against skin, breathless moans, and the wet sound of their bodies colliding. She could feel it building, the tight coil in her core winding tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap. Her pussy clenched around him, the sensations overwhelming—every inch of him filling her, stretching her, making her feel impossibly full. The friction was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body, and she could tell from the erratic rhythm of his thrusts that he was close too.

“Please, Lando,” she begged, her voice trembling with desperation. “Come with me. Let me feel you.”

He groaned, his forehead resting against hers as his hips stuttered. “Fuck, baby, come on my cock,” he panted, his voice rough with need. “I want to feel you clench around me. Let go for me.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, her pussy contracting around him in waves of pure ecstasy. It felt like fire and ice all at once—her body trembling, her vision blurring as she cried out his name. Her pussy pulsed around his cock, milking him, and the sensation was so intense she could barely breathe.

For Lando, it was heaven. Her tight, wet walls clenched around him in the most perfect rhythm, fluttering and gripping him like she never wanted to let go. He groaned, low and guttural, as he felt her orgasm ripple through her body, each contraction pulling him closer to the edge. “Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “Your pussy feels too fucking good. I can’t hold back much longer.”

“Where do you want it, baby?” he panted, his thrusts slowing but still deep, still deliberate. “Tell me where you want me to cum.”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with desire, and licked her lips. “On my tits,” she whispered, her voice sultry and low. “Cover them. Make a mess of me.”

His eyes widened, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold back. Her tits—god, her perfect tits—had been his obsession for so long, and the thought of covering them with his cum nearly made him lose it. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna make me lose it,” he panted, staring down at her chest like it was sacred.

She smirked, her confidence growing as she saw the way he looked at her. “You love my tits that much?” she teased, pushing them together with her hands. Her fingers kneaded the soft flesh, her nipples hard and begging for attention. “Come on, then—mark them. Make them yours.”

Lando groaned, his cock twitching inside her at the sight. Her tits were perfection—full, soft, and begging for his cum. He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled out of her slowly, his cock slick with her arousal, and she whimpered at the loss of him. Her pussy felt empty, aching, but the sight of him stroking himself above her made her throb all over again.

She watched, mesmerized, as he gripped his cock, his hand moving up and down in long, deliberate strokes. Her tits were pushed together now, her hands cupping them, her fingers teasing her nipples. She loved the sight of him—his face flushed, his jaw tight as he fought for control. “Look at me, Lando,” she urged, her voice low and sultry. “You love these tits so much? Then come on them.”

He groaned, his hand moving faster, his eyes locked on her chest. “You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he said through gritted teeth. “Tits pushed up for me… fuck.”

She licked her lips, her eyes full of desire. “I want it all, Lando,” she urged, her voice trembling with need. “Cover me with it—don’t hold back.”

He groaned, his hand moving urgently over his cock as he felt his orgasm building. “You’re all mine,” he growled, his voice thick with possession. “These tits are mine. I’m gonna mark them, Y/N. I’m gonna make sure everyone knows they belong to me.”

She licked her lips, her fingers teasing her nipples as she watched him. “Stroke it for me… faster. Let go. I want every drop. Cover me, Lando. Make me yours.”

Her words were the final push he needed. With a strangled moan, he came, thick ropes of cum spurting onto her tits, coating them in his release. His hand moved furiously over his cock, milking every last drop as he stared down at her, his chest heaving.

For Y/N, the sight was intoxicating. Watching him cum on her tits, seeing the way his face twisted in pleasure, the way his body trembled as he let go—it was almost as good as the orgasm he’d just given her. She felt his cum splattering against her skin, warm and sticky, and she couldn’t help but moan at the sensation. “God, Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

For Lando, the moment was unreal. The sight of his cum streaked across her tits, the way she looked up at him with those hungry eyes—it was enough to make his knees weak. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed, his voice rough with awe. “I could watch this all day.”

She smirked, her fingers trailing through the sticky warmth of his cum on her chest. With deliberate slowness, she dipped a single finger into the mess, coating it in his release. Her eyes never left his as she brought her finger to her lips, her tongue darting out to taste him. The salty tang of his cum hit her senses, and she moaned softly, her lips curling into a wicked smile as she sucked the finger clean. His cock still rested in his hand, twitching at the sight of her, and she could see the hunger in his eyes—raw, untamed, and absolutely desperate for her.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, her voice low and dripping with desire.

His breath hitched, his body already responding to her command. He leaned down without hesitation, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. Their mouths collided with a hunger that left her dizzy, and she could feel the sticky remnants of his release still on her fingers as she tangled her hand in his hair, pulling him closer. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she moaned, the taste of herself mixed with him—salty, intoxicating—sending a shiver down her spine.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled against her lips, his voice rough with need. His hands slid up her sides, fingers digging into her skin as if he couldn’t get enough of her. “You’re mine, Y/N. All mine.”

She whimpered into his mouth, her body still trembling from the intensity of their connection. Her hips shifted slightly beneath him, and she could feel the heat of his arousal radiating off him, igniting her own desire all over again.

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless, their foreheads pressed together as they tried to steady themselves. “Stay here,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with something that made her heart race. He kissed her once more, quick and possessive, before pulling away.

She watched him as he disappeared into the bathroom, her chest still glistening with his release. The sight of his cum streaked across her tits made her cheeks flush, but the warmth in her chest outweighed any lingering embarrassment. He returned moments later with a warm, damp towel in hand, his eyes softening as he knelt beside the bed.

“Let me clean you up,” he said, his voice gentle but no less possessive. She nodded, her breath catching as he pressed the towel to her skin, the warmth soothing the sticky mess he’d left behind. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment of this intimacy. His eyes never left her face, and she felt her heart swell at the tenderness in his gaze.

When he was done, he tossed the towel aside and crawled back into bed, pulling her into his arms. Her body melted against his, the warmth of his skin a comforting contrast to the cool air of the room. She rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin as their breathing slowly synced.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, and she felt a wave of contentment wash over her. “Mine,” he added, his tone possessive but soft, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Yours,” she whispered back, her voice barely audible. She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat lull her into a sense of peace. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt safe, cherished, and utterly claimed.

They lay there, tangled together, the hum of the city outside a distant reminder of the world beyond their little bubble. For now, it was just the two of them, and she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Neither spoke for a while, the room thick with the mingled scents of sweat and relief. The adrenaline that had fueled their passion was giving way to a wave of emotions—vulnerability, uncertainty, a fragile sense of hope. Finally, Lando spoke, voice hoarse.

“Y/N?”

She peeked up at him, flushed. She wasn’t used to such intense intimacy, but she nestled against his warmth. “Yeah?”

He swallowed. “I… I don’t regret this. But I need you to know: I’m not just here for one night. I want you in every sense of the word. I’m serious.”

Her chest clenched with emotion. She ran a hand along his jawline, stubble prickling her fingers. “I’m scared,” she confessed quietly. “But… I want you, too. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

His gaze softened. “Then let’s try. Let me show you I can be the man you need. I’ll prove it however long it takes.”

She closed her eyes, soaking in the moment, in the warmth of his embrace. The city lights shimmered outside, as if reflecting her tumultuous inner world. In that moment, though, she let herself believe in the possibility, let the anger and hurt recede in the face of the closeness they’d found.

The hours after their passionate collision were a storm of emotions. She felt a ripple of self-consciousness, but he only looked at her with the same unguarded admiration as before, as though he couldn’t believe she was real.

In the faint glow of the bedside lamp, she saw him glancing around her bedroom—how neatly organized it was, how it contrasted with the chaos they’d just unleashed in the living room. He let out a soft chuckle, leaning back against the pillows.

“You have no idea how many nights I’ve dreamed about just being near you,” he said quietly.

She swallowed a lump of emotion, sinking onto the mattress beside him. “Why me?” she whispered, the familiar insecurity creeping back. “You could have anyone.”

He caught her chin gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You keep saying that, but the truth is, not everyone is you. I’ve met countless people. You’re different. It’s in the way you carry yourself, the way you see the world, the way you call me out on my bullshit. And… I can’t even describe it. I just know I want no one else.”

She felt tears threaten again, but they were tears of a tender ache this time, not the angry sting of earlier. “I guess… I need to learn how to trust that.”

He nodded, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Let me earn that trust.”

She scooted closer, letting her head rest on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of him lull her into a sense of security she’d never quite felt before. Deep down, she knew they had miles to go—her fears about his reputation, her wariness about the future, and the question of whether he would eventually tire of her or not. But for now, she let herself savor this fleeting peace, the sense of belonging in his arms.

Because after nine months of running, she was finally letting herself be caught.

[hoodpankow]

Of Heroes and Heartstrings Masterlist

Summary : Bucky Barnes develops a crush on the researcher who interviewed him and asks out.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) (The reader works in academia and is writing about superheroes and how they perceive themselves in the 21st century)

Warnings/tags : Meet cute!!! Bucky crushing hard on you. Bucky's past. Sam being a little annoying. Sexual references. Mentions of food

Note : During my post-graduate studies, I’ve met some amazing people I never thought I could ever be in the same room with! And that is how this mini-series came along. Enjoy!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

This series is completed.

[hoodpankow]

Waste a Moment Masterlist (Completed)

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/reader)

Most recent update : 30/11/2024

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum. Angst.

The title was taken from a Kings of Leon song of the same name, and the chapter titles are taken from bits of lyrics from Waste a Moment, Find Me, and Reverend.

A new chapter will be posted every two days.

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Part 1 — “Static on Her Brain”

Part 2 — “No Kin”

Part 3 — “The Wandering Man”

Part 4 — “Porcelain Smile”

Part 5 — “From Behind Your Eyes”

Part 6 — “Live Wire”

Part 7 — “How did You Find Me?”

Part 8 — “Cursed by the Crown”

Part 9 — “Ticking Time Bomb”

Part 10 — “Give me Something I Want”

Part 11 — “Give me Something I Need”

Part 12 — “Out in the Dark”

Part 13 — “Beast to the Wild”

Part 14 — “Never Ask to be Forgiven”

Part 15 — “Name a Price”

Part 16 — “Take Your Shape”

Part 17 — “All This Living”

Part 18 — “My Heart Will Never Let You Go”