sadsierra2

[sadsierra2]

hi i really love all ur works, ur so talented🩷 i have a request for a driver that has like a secret family with a wife and kids and one day it leaks and the grid didnt know and reacts:) could be any driver you choose🩷

leaked — aa23

slight smau/blurbs

alex albon x !wife reader

alex and yn have been married for four years and have been together for over 10. they have managed to keep their relationship almost invisible from the public — the fact that they were married and had one kid and another on the way was known to no one. except close family. until one day, everyone suddenly knew.

fc : no official face claim — tumblr ladies and lily:)

(a/n) : love love love you 💕 thank you for all the kind words.

—

yn.private

liked by alexalbon, yourbff, yoursister & 25 others.

yn.private : i like this little life ☀️💐

—

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alexalbon : oh my beautiful beautiful wife— how I love you 🤍

liked by yn.private

↳ yn.private : my adorable loving husband. i love you moreeeee

liked by alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : on my way home with your favorite pastry’s!

liked by yn.private

↳ yn.private : get me pregnant again.

liked by alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : I can’t get you pregnant while you already are, my love.

↳ yn.private : I will have a whole army of albon babies if you continue to treat me this well

liked by alexalbon

yourbff : can’t wait for baby albon #2 !! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

liked by yn.private and alexalbon

↳ yn.private : ready to be an auntie from the beginning again??

↳ yourbff : fully prepared to take night shift when alex is away🫡

liked by yn.private and alexalbon

↳ yn.private : love youuuuuu! you da bestttt

yoursister : something about you this pregnancy…you are just so shiny and pretty. I never looked like that pregnant. I was swollen and ugly.

liked by yn.private and alexalbon

↳ yn.private : nooooo you looked gorg but thank u lovie

—

The house is quiet. Miraculously quiet.

Which, as any parent of a three-year-old knows, means one of two things—either a disaster is brewing… or the toddler is asleep. Thankfully, today it’s the latter. Our little hurricane wore herself out playing race cars with her dad in the living room and is now starfished across her bed, one hand still clinging to her favorite stuffed tiger. I sink back against the pillows, hand resting gently over my small bump, which isn’t huge but definitely feels like it should be—especially with how demanding this baby has been when it comes to cravings.

“Banoffee croissants,” I mutter to myself, the words like a whispered prayer to no one. “God, I’d sell my soul for one. Or three.”

I hadn’t mentioned it out loud to Alex. I didn’t need to. After nearly ten years together, he’s attuned to my moods and cravings like some kind of pastry-whisperer. That man could probably sense a food mood swing from a continent away. As if summoned, the bedroom door creaks open and Alex appears, balancing a bakery box in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. He’s barefoot, hair still damp from his shower, wearing a hoodie I’m ninety percent sure I stole from him at one point. His smile is the first thing I see.

“I knew it,” I grin, sitting up straighter. “You read my mind again, didn’t you?”

He crosses the room and leans down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “I heard you muttering about croissants in your sleep this morning. Banoffee, specifically. You know I can’t ignore a prophetic food dream.”

“You’re a hero,” I tell him seriously.

“A hero who drove twenty minutes to that little bakery that you like,” he says, settling onto the bed beside me and opening the box with a flourish. “And begged the lady behind the counter for the last three.”

My eyes widen. “You got the last three?!”

“I showed her a picture of you and that precious bump,” he says proudly, nodding at my stomach. “Didn’t even charge me for the third one. Said you deserved it.”

“You do realize I love you more every day, right?”

He smirks. “Because of the croissants or in general?”

I lean over, resting my head against his chest as I reach into the box. “Both. But mostly the croissants.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, pressing his lips to the top of my head while I take my first bite. It’s perfect. Warm, flaky, banana-y with just the right amount of toffee. A stupid little tear pricks at the corner of my eye because… hormones, probably. And love. Definitely love.

“This is nice,” I whisper after a few minutes of quiet chewing and cuddling.

“Mhm.”

“The baby’s happy.”

“I can tell,” he laughs softly. “Kicking already?”

“Not yet. Just… smug. Like, very pleased with our croissant situation.”

Alex turns slightly so he can rest his hand over my stomach. “Well, little one, just wait until I get my hands on those lemon raspberry tarts next week. You’ll think you were born into royalty.”

I sigh, the kind of full body, heavy limbed sigh that only comes when you’re well fed, loved, and cradled in your favorite person’s arms. The kind of moment you wish you could bottle up and keep forever.

Alex brushes a crumb off my chin and shifts so he can lie down beside me properly, still keeping one hand on my stomach like it grounds him. His thumb strokes back and forth absently, almost like he’s trying to communicate through touch.

“You’ve been so calm with this one,” he murmurs. “Last time you were googling every strange feeling and crying over that one Pampers ad with the twin babies in slow motion.”

I groan. “Don’t remind me. I still can’t hear that music without tearing up. But yeah… it’s different this time. I know what’s coming. The good, the hard, the sleep deprivation…”

He laughs under his breath. “The explosive diaper at 3 a.m.?”

“Exactly. And yet…” I look down at his hand, resting over where our baby is quietly growing. “I’m not scared this time. I just feel… lucky.”

He kisses the side of my head, lingering there. “We are lucky.”

“We’re also outnumbered now,” I tease. “Two kids to two of us. If we go for a third, we’ll officially be out of our depth.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “You say that like I’m not already out of my depth. I still triple-check the car seat buckles and google toddler coughs at midnight.”

I snort. “And I love that about you.”

He grins, but then his face softens. There’s a flicker of something tender behind his eyes, the kind of emotion that doesn’t always need words, but he gives me some anyway.

“I keep thinking about when I met you,” he says quietly. “How I never imagined we’d have this. A house with tiny shoes by the front door. Crumbs in our bed. Little voice yelling at me when I walk through the door. And now… another one.”

There’s a lump in my throat now. Hormones again. Or maybe just Alex being his gentle, golden-hearted self.

“I still can’t believe we’ve kept it a secret,” I whisper. “Not even the grid knows.”

He chuckles. “That’s the real miracle. We told your mum and somehow it didn’t make it to Twitter.”

“Will we ever tell them?” I ask, smiling softly.

“We’ll tell them soon,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “But I like this. Just us. Our little secret.”

I nod and nestle closer, both of us wrapped in quiet joy. My fingers drift to the edge of his hoodie sleeve, tracing the seam absently.

“Have you thought of names yet?” I ask after a long pause.

He hums. “One or two.”

“Anything outrageous?”

“Nothing that would embarrass them on the first day of school, I promise.”

“You always say that, and then suggest things like ‘Sebastian’ because of Vettel.”

“Okay, Sebastian is a strong name.”

I roll my eyes affectionately, then close mine, resting fully against his chest.

“Let’s just keep this a little longer,” I whisper. “Before the world knows. Before the noise.”

He squeezes me just a little tighter.

“Always,” he says.

—

It starts with a text.

I’m stealing your child tomorrow. You two are going on a date. No excuses.

At first, I laugh. Out loud, full-bellied, startled laughter that makes Alex peek into the kitchen with a raised brow and a half-peeled orange in his hand.

“My sister,” I say, waving my phone in the air. “She’s planning a kidnapping.”

Alex grins and tosses a segment of orange into his mouth. “Tell her to wear black and bring snacks. Little one only accepts bribery in the form of animal crackers now.”

But then I read it again—You two are going on a date. No excuses.

And something quiet settles in me. Something that sounds like we could use this. Because it’s been a while.

Life with a toddler is love and chaos. It’s syrup-sticky fingers, and toy cars in the laundry, and late-night cuddles with a warm, sleepy body wedged between us. It’s beautiful, messy, loud. But it’s also… full. Full in a way that leaves very little room for us. So I text back—

Deal. But don’t let him convince you to stay up past bedtime again. You’re still recovering from the last sleepover.

I am a stronger woman now. He will not break me.

—

The next evening, after our daughter has been dramatically whisked away with promises of pancakes and cartoons, the house is still. The air feels different. Lighter. Quiet in the way we forgot we used to know.

I step out of the bedroom, smoothing my dress—a soft, silky navy one I haven’t worn in years, paired with a necklace Alex gave me on our first anniversary.

He’s in the living room waiting for me, buttoning the cuffs of his white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to make my stomach flutter. He looks up—and then he stops.

“Wow,” he breathes. “You… wow.”

I laugh, but it’s a soft one. “I was going for ‘my husband falls hopelessly in love with me all over again.’”

He crosses the room in two strides and pulls me close, fingers grazing my jaw as he smiles that smile—the one that still makes my heart flip, ten years later.

“Mission accomplished,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine.

We don’t go anywhere fancy. Just a cozy little Italian restaurant we used to love before the world got busy. We sit in the corner, hands tangled across the table, laughing about things we forgot we missed. We order pasta we can’t pronounce and drink sparkling water because neither of us wants to drink wine if the other can’t.

At one point, someone passes with a baby in a carrier strapped to his chest, and I see Alex glance at it with a quiet little smile.

“You miss her already, don’t you?” I ask, grinning.

“I do,” he admits. “But I also really missed this.”

He reaches for my hand and rubs small circles into my palm.

“You and me. Talking without background noise. You looking like this,” he nods to my dress. “You glowing.”

“I think that’s the pregnancy hormones.”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s love. It’s us.”

—

The door closes behind us with a soft click, the echo of the outside world fading away as we step into the familiar stillness of our home. Alex doesn’t speak right away. He shrugs off his coat, eyes on me the whole time, like he’s not quite ready to let the night end. Neither am I.

“You want tea?” he asks quietly, his voice low and warm.

I shake my head, slipping my hand into his. “No. Just you.”

His smile is small but deep, the kind that crinkles at the corners and makes something inside me melt. We don’t even bother turning on the main lights—just the little lamp by the stairs, the one that glows golden and soft, like the house knows it’s supposed to feel sacred tonight.

We move together upstairs, slow and easy, like muscle memory. My heels are long abandoned, his hand steady on the small of my back as we climb. Our bedroom is just as we left it this morning: cozy, a little messy, with one of our daughter’s tiny stuffed bunnies curled into the corner of our bed, its ear half hanging off the side.

Alex picks it up and grins. “She really snuck this in here again.”

“She said BunBun gets lonely without us,” I murmur, pulling my dress over my head and swapping it for one of his worn t-shirts. “Apparently, he likes to sleep in our bed on Fridays.”

“She’s a menace,” he chuckles, tugging on his own t-shirt and sweatpants before joining me on the bed. “A tiny, brilliant menace.”

I crawl into bed beside him and immediately find my place—curled into his side, head on his chest, his arm draped around me. His hand slips under the hem of my shirt and rests gently on the slight swell of my belly. It’s not much yet, but enough that he always finds it. Like it’s a lighthouse.

“She’s going to be a good big sister,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb in slow circles. “I can already picture it.”

“She’s going to want to hold the baby every second of the day,” I murmur sleepily. “And throw a tea party five minutes after we get home from the hospital.”

“She’s going to try to feed the baby imaginary cake,” he says with a grin. “And name it after a Disney princess.”

“We could do worse than a Princess Albon.”

He snorts, kisses the top of my head, and whispers, “She’s going to love this baby so much.”

“So are we.”

There’s a long, quiet pause—his heart steady under my cheek, our breathing slow and synced. The kind of stillness that only comes after years of chaos and noise and unconditional love.

He presses a kiss into my hair. “I still fall in love with you every day.”

I lift my head just enough to look at him. “Even when I cry over pasta commercials and ask you to drive across the city for strawberry shortcake?”

“Especially then.”

—

It’s barely 8 a.m. when I hear the car pull into the driveway. A second later, the front door bangs open and a familiar voice shrieks with glee—

“Mummy! Daddy! I’m hoooome!”

Alex groans beside me, half-asleep, face mashed into the pillow. “Did she say that like she just returned from war?”

I’m already sitting up, heart full and wide awake. “Apparently the sleepover at my sister’s was a battlefield.”

We barely make it to the hallway before a blur of pink pajamas and tangled curls comes flying toward us. I squat down just in time to catch her as she hurls herself into my arms, her little hands clutching at my neck like she hadn’t seen me in months instead of just one night.

“I missed you soooooo much,” she breathes, dramatic as ever.

Alex crouches down beside us, gently brushing her curls back. “What about me? You didn’t miss Daddy?”

She turns to him with an incredulous expression. “Daddy. I cried for you when I brushed my teeth. Auntie said I was overreacting.”

Alex pretends to wipe a tear. “My brave little soldier.”

She shifts between us, arms flung around both our necks like she never wants to let go. “I brought you something,” she whispers suddenly, pulling away and digging into her backpack.

She proudly presents us with a slightly soggy drawing, made with markers and questionable glitter glue. “It’s you, and me, and the baby.”

She continues cheerfully, “I told BunBun about the baby but no one else, because you said it’s a secret secret.”

I feel my heart swell and laugh at the same time. “That’s right, baby. You’re a very good secret keeper.”

“But can I tell George? He’s so nice. He gave me a biscuit that one time.”

Alex lifts her into his arms with a grin. “Maybe not just yet. Not even for biscuits.”

We head into the kitchen—Alex with her balanced on one hip, me trailing behind as she chatters away about pancakes, her dream last night, and how she definitely wants the baby to be a girl “because I already have a brother and it’s BunBun.”

I’m pouring juice when she wraps her arms around my waist and nuzzles into my bump like she does when she’s feeling cuddly.

“Hi baby,” she whispers. “I’m back. Don’t grow up without me, okay?”

I glance over at Alex, who’s watching with a look on his face I’ll never get tired of—the kind of love that makes your knees go weak, even after ten years. He catches my eye and mouths, “We really made her.”

I mouth back, “We really did.”

And in that tiny kitchen, with glitter glue drying on the table and a bunny plush dropped by the fridge, our daughter launches into a song she’s half-making up about “mummy and the belly and pancakes for all,” and Alex starts flipping chocolate chip pancakes like it’s the most normal morning in the world. And honestly? It kind of is.

—

f1gossipgirls

5,007,231 likes.

f1gossipgirls : F1’S BEST-KEPT SECRET: ALEX ALBON IS MARRIED… WITH A CHILD AND ANOTHER ON THE WAY?! In a shocking twist no one saw coming, it looks like one of Formula 1’s most beloved drivers, Alex Albon, has been living a very private double life—and doing a stellar job keeping it hidden. Sources close to the paddock have confirmed that Albon has been secretly married for four years to longtime partner YN, and the couple share a three-year-old daughter. Oh—and she’s currently pregnant with their second child.

—

view 977,051 other comments.

username00 : WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT. MARRIED??? WITH A WHOLE TODDLER??? AND ANOTHER BABY ON THE WAY??? I NEED TO LAY DOWN.

username0 : someone said he had “girl dad energy” and I GUESS THEY WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG

username1 : so you’re telling me… the entire grid has been hanging out with alex like “haha you single bro?” while he’s got a toddler asking for fruit snacks at home???

username5 : I want the drive to survive footage of the moment lando finds out pls i am BEGGING

username7 : me rereading the article for the 6th time like it’ll suddenly make sense 😭

username10 : wait so you are telling me that GEORGE didn't even know????? wild.

username11 : im in tears. they are so cute. im so happy for him.

—

I find him in the kitchen. Not like making breakfast or getting coffee in the kitchen. I mean pacing. Wildly. Shirtless, in yesterday’s sweatpants, hair sticking up like he fought a wind tunnel, phone in hand, and muttering a very intense monologue that includes the words “breach of privacy,” “defamation,” and “I’ll sue them into the earth.”

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my bump, and raise an eyebrow.

“Good morning to you too.”

Alex whirls around like I’ve just caught him committing treason. “They know. YN—they know. Someone leaked it. Everything. The marriage. Our daughter. You being pregnant. It’s all online.”

“I saw,” I say casually, walking past him to the sink and pouring a glass of water.

He stares at me, dumbfounded. “You’re calm?”

I take a sip of water and nod. “Yeah.”

He looks like I just told him I joined a cult. “How are you calm? Our entire life just got blasted across the internet! People are reposting pictures of our daughter. Someone screenshotted her drawing of the baby, YN. They found my Spotify family plan name. They’re making fan edits of our wedding and we didn’t even post about our wedding!”

I walk over, place my hands on his chest, and push gently until he finally sits down at the kitchen table. “Breathe.”

He exhales shakily, bracing his elbows on his knees, running both hands through his hair like he’s trying to scrub the stress away.

“I wanted to protect you,” he says quietly. “You and her. Both of them. I liked that no one could touch this… this little world we built. I liked that it was just ours.”

I kneel beside his chair, resting my chin on his thigh, looking up at him. “You did protect us, Alex. For ten years, you kept all of this sacred. You gave us the kind of peace most people in your position would kill for.”

He looks down at me, eyes glassy now. “But it’s not sacred anymore.”

I reach up, placing his hand on my bump, right where the baby always kicks around this time of morning.

“Maybe not in the same way,” I say. “But it’s still ours. They might know about us now, but they’ll never have us. Not the way we do. Not the way she does.”

His hand spreads over my stomach, thumb moving absently. “She’s gonna see stuff. People are already making assumptions. About you. About us.”

“I know.” I nod. “And we’ll explain it to her when she’s older. We’ll remind her that love isn’t something you owe the public. That just because the world thinks it has a right to your life, doesn’t mean it gets to take it.”

Alex closes his eyes. “I should’ve done more. Locked it down tighter. I should’ve seen this coming.”

I stand slowly, cupping his face between my palms. “Alex, listen to me. You’ve done everything right. You’re the most devoted dad. The kindest husband. You’ve protected us so well, sometimes too well.”

He gives a weak laugh at that. “Guilty.”

I press my forehead to his. “You didn’t fail us. You love us. That’s never been a secret—not really. Anyone who’s ever seen you hold her hand or kiss my head when you think no one’s looking could’ve figured it out. We were just waiting for the world to catch up.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Then, a small voice echoes from the hallway.

“Daddy?” she calls sleepily. “Why are you yelling about the earth?”

Alex laughs then. Really laughs. Pulls me into his arms and hides his face in my shoulder, like I’m the only steady thing in the universe.

“I’m okay now,” he whispers. “You’re right. You always are.”

I smile and kiss his temple. “That’s on being married for four years.”

We walk down the hall together to scoop her up, her curls tangled and her stuffed bunny dragging behind her like a sleepy soldier. She’s still half-asleep when she cuddles into Alex’s chest, eyes blinking slowly.

“Did the internet find out about the baby?” she mumbles.

Alex and I look at each other over her head and burst into quiet, stunned laughter.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, baby. They did.”

She sighs dramatically. “Ugh. I told BunBun to be discreet.”

And with that, our little family shuffles back into the kitchen. Chaos looming outside our doors, sure. But inside? Still sacred. Still ours.

—

The paddock is buzzing. Phones are out. Eyes are glued to screens and then not-so-subtly glued to us. Someone definitely elbowed their friend and mouthed “that’s her.” I think one engineer actually dropped a coffee.

Alex squeezes my hand, the only sign that he’s mildly freaking out. Otherwise, we’re strolling through the paddock like we didn’t just break the internet 36 hours ago. We are the eye of the storm. Or, at least we were—until George Russell appears out of nowhere like a man possessed.

“Are you—” he starts, gesturing wildly. “Did you—? That’s you?!”

Alex tries. He really tries. “Good morning, George.”

But George is on a different wavelength entirely. “Good morning?!” he hisses, grabbing Alex’s arm and yanking him and, by extension, me off to the side behind a hospitality truck. “You’ve had a wife for four years? A child? A whole damn family tree and didn’t tell us?!”

I blink. “Hi, George. Nice to see you too.”

He just looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You were pregnant when we went karting two months ago?!”

I shrug. “Just a little.”

“You didn’t even flinch when I offered you a beer!”

“I lied and said I was detoxing from kombucha. You nodded like you understood.”

George looks like he might pass out.

“You were at my housewarming, Alex!” he says, jabbing a finger toward my husband like it’s a crime. “And you brought a bottle of wine and a plant and not once mentioned the whole toddler waiting at home situation?! You left early and said it was because you were ‘tired’!”

Alex winces. “Well. I was. She had croup that week. I hadn’t slept in four days.”

George throws his hands in the air. “Unbelievable. And the pregnancy?! Again?! You just—snuck in another child while the rest of us were arguing over dumb shit?!”

He turns to me. “And you! You're the internet’s favorite mystery woman now, you know that? I saw a TikTok this morning with compilation footage of you in the background of races like it was some kind of conspiracy theory."

I snort. “Honestly, that’s flattering.”

Alex leans against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “George. I didn’t mean to lie. We just… wanted something that was only ours for a while. And then it turned into years, and then we had her, and we just… never found the right time.”

George goes quiet. Finally, he says, “You didn’t even tell me. I’m your friend, Alex.”

I put a hand on George’s arm. “You are. And it was never about not trusting anyone. It was about keeping something sacred, just for us.”

His mouth twists. “So that’s why you disappeared after qualifying in Hungary last year.”

Alex nods. “Yeah. I was rushing to FaceTime her before bedtime.”

George’s expression softens like he didn’t want it to. “That’s… okay, that’s actually kind of cute.”

“It was her birthday,” Alex adds. “She turned three and made a crown out of toilet paper. Demanded I wear one too.”

“I’m gonna cry,” George mutters. “I’m so mad at you, but also that’s adorable.”

Then, with a deep breath, he throws his arms out. “Bring it in. Both of you. I need a hug from this secret little Hallmark movie marriage of yours.”

Alex and I laugh, stepping into the very dramatic, very George Russell group hug. It’s tight and awkward and somehow perfect.

“I’m still mad, by the way,” George says into Alex’s shoulder. “But also… I can’t wait to meet her.”

“You will,” I promise.

“And the baby?” he asks, eyes wide.

Alex sighs. “Eventually.”

George blinks. “Do I get to be an uncle?”

Alex smirks. “You just might.”

And for the first time all weekend, it feels okay. It feels like the beginning of something new—still ours, but shared now, with the people who matter. And as George walks away mumbling about “plot twists” and “how he’s never trusting anyone quiet ever again,” I thread my fingers through Alex’s and smile.

“Not bad for our first day as the grid’s new power couple.”

He groans. “Don’t say that.”

I just grin. “Too late. You married a woman of chaos.”

—

third person pov

“Okay,” Lando says, dropping into the seat next to Alex with the force of someone who’s about to cause problems on purpose. “You know what? No. No. What the actual—”

Alex sighs. “Hi, Lando.”

“Don’t ‘hi, Lando’ me like I didn’t just find out through a fan cam that you are MARRIED,” Lando exclaims, voice already way too loud for the small briefing room. “MARRIED, Alexander! To YN. A whole wife. For FOUR YEARS.”

Alex looks straight ahead like maybe if he ignores it, it’ll stop. It does not.

“And then,” Lando continues, now counting off on his fingers, “you’ve got a toddler? A human child? A three-year-old who, by the way, has your ears, I saw the picture, don’t deny it—AND! You’re about to have another?! YOU HAVE A WHOLE NEW BABY ON THE WAY?!”

George leans forward, clearly enjoying this too much. “You should’ve seen him when he found the Reddit thread. Looked like he got hit by a truck.”

“I thought we were friends!” Lando yells. “You’ve heard me cry over situationships and you were out here picking names for your second baby?!”

Alex finally turns to him. “It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like, huh?” Lando cuts in, pointing a dramatic finger at him. “Because to me, it feels like betrayal."

George snorts into his water bottle.

Alex lets out a long sigh and rubs his temples. “We just… kept it private. It was never about lying. It was about having something just ours.”

Lando opens his mouth, probably to yell some more — but then stops. Tilts his head. And suddenly gets very quiet.

“I get it,” he says softly.

Alex blinks. “You do?”

Lando nods, voice less chaotic now. “Yeah. I mean, if I had what you two have? I wouldn’t want to share it either.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“…Still mad though,” Lando adds, crossing his arms. “Because now I have so many questions and no one will tell me anything.”

Alex looks over warily. “Like what?”

Lando leans forward immediately, like a kid at story time. “What’s her name? What does she call you? How did you propose? Does she have your laugh? Do you do the voice when you read bedtime stories? Did you cry when she was born? What does YN crave when she’s pregnant? Do you own a minivan?!”

Alex just stares at him.

“Tell me,” Lando whispers urgently. “Tell me everything.”

And that’s how Alex ends up sitting in the corner of the briefing room, surrounded by the other drivers, answering rapid-fire questions while Lando wipes his eyes every ten minutes and mutters “I’m not crying, I’m just emotionally invested.”

Eventually, Lando stands, looks Alex dead in the eye, and says-

“If you don’t let me meet your daughter before the next race, I will stage a coup.”

—

Carlos corners Alex at the coffee machine like a man on a mission.

“Hermano,” he says, low and intense. “I need you to look me in the eye and tell me there is not a literal baby registry under your government name.”

Alex, holding his coffee cup like a shield, sighs. “Hi, Carlos.”

“No. No ‘hi.’ You have a child. A daughter. A small human who has your eyes and your smile and a Williams onesie, and you said nothing to me. Your teammate.”

“It wasn’t personal—”

Carlos raises a hand. “You were on FaceTime with your wife during our debrief in Canada and told me it was your cousin’s cat’s birthday.”

“…I panicked.”

“AND THE SECOND BABY?”

“I panicked again!”

Before Alex can defend himself further, Charles appears at his side, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “I thought we were brothers.”

Alex groans. “Oh no.”

Charles shakes his head. “We shared a massage room in Monaco. You let me cry about my breakup. You handed me tissues. You patted my hair. And you said nothing about having a wife and child at home?!”

Carlos leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “I checked his hand this morning. No tan line. The man took off his ring during race weekends.”

Alex throws up his hands. “It’s silicone! I take it off for comfort!”

At that moment, Oscar slides in like a silent assassin. “So, when you left early in Abu Dhabi last year… that was for swimming lessons?”

“Yes.”

“And in Miami, when you skipped dinner?”

“Parent-teacher conference.”

Oscar blinks. “You’re terrifying.”

Then comes Lewis, smooth and quiet but with a knowing grin, already holding his second coffee of the morning.

“I’m honestly impressed,” he says, smiling as Alex looks like he’s about to combust. “A decade together, a whole daughter, and not even a whisper got out? That’s commitment. I respect it.”

Alex exhales in relief. “Thank you.”

“But also,” Lewis continues, sipping his drink, “I’m offended. Because you knew I’d be the best godfather option and you robbed me of my chance.”

Alex almost chokes. “We haven’t picked—”

“I’m already ordering custom baby Nikes. This isn’t a conversation.”

The rest of the drivers nod like this is fair and legally binding. Then Charles suddenly pauses and squints. “Wait. That one time at the track—YN was wearing a Williams cap. Was that your daughter she was holding?”

Alex winces. “Yes.”

Carlos gasps. “I said she looked like you and you said, and I quote, ‘we all look the same in hats.’”

Alex rubs his face. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Lando yells from across the room, “I TOLD YOU ALL. I KNEW.”

Everyone turns toward him.

“No you didn’t,” Oscar says.

“I DID. I FELT THE VIBES.”

George walks in holding his iPad like he’s delivering breaking news. “Group chat name has officially been changed to Albon’s Secret Family Club. I’m also starting a spreadsheet of baby shower gift ideas. She’s three, but I have so much to make up for.”

Alex puts his head down on the table. Charles pats him on the back. “You did this to yourself.”

Carlos grins. “But I forgive you. Because now I get to meet your daughter.”

Oscar nods. “Same. And the next time you disappear after quali, I expect a full report on how bedtime went.”

Lewis smiles. “And tell YN we said congratulations.”

Alex looks around, red-faced and overwhelmed… but smiling now too.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. You can all meet her.”

Cheers erupt. And just like that, the secret’s out. But somehow, it feels less like a loss of privacy… and more like an expansion of family.

—

your pov

The second we step out of the car and into the paddock, our daughter tight in my arms and clinging to her stuffed bunny, I feel it. Not the stares — those are expected. Not the whispers or the way every camera in the vicinity subtly pans our way. But the warmth. Like the whole place exhaled one giant breath and made space for us. For her.

Alex is walking beside me, one hand steady on my back, his other adjusting the oversized paddock pass around our daughter’s neck. It practically reaches her knees.

She tugs her headphones down for a second and whispers, “Is Uncle Lando really gonna give me stickers?”

I laugh softly. “I think he bought a book of them, sweet pea.”

“Oh,” she says thoughtfully, “then I’m ready.”

We round the corner near the garage just as the drivers begin filtering in from media. The second Lando sees us, he lets out a loud, “OH MY GOD, IT’S HER!” and bolts across the concrete.

She ducks shyly into my shoulder, giggling, and Alex just smiles like he’s never loved anything more in his life.

Lando drops to his knees in front of her like he’s proposing. “Hi. Hello. I’m your uncle. I have stickers, a juice box, and very mixed feelings about your father’s deception.”

She blinks. “What’s ‘deception’?”

Alex chimes in dryly. “It’s when Uncle Lando doesn’t let Daddy win at video games.”

“Ohhh,” she says, nodding solemnly, as if she understands the betrayal.

Lando beams, already peeling sparkly stickers off a roll. “You’re my favorite person.”

Just behind him, Carlos, Charles, and George appear, all equally stunned and quietly emotional.

Carlos puts a hand over his heart. “She’s real.”

“She’s so small,” George whispers, tearing up immediately. “I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this much cuteness in one unit.”

Charles crouches down gently, holding out a hand. “Bonjour, petite princesse. Je suis Charles.”

Our daughter glances at me and I nod, so she reaches out and high-fives him — very serious, very precise.

Charles makes the most dramatic gasp. “Elle m’aime. I’m done. I’m finished. She can have my car. Take it. It’s hers.”

“She can’t drive,” Alex points out, laughing.

“She can learn,” Charles says, wiping fake tears.

Carlos leans in closer. “Does she like fruit snacks?”

“She likes grape fruit snacks,” I say.

He pulls a pack from his jacket like he’s been preparing for this day his entire life. “I’m your favorite now, sí?”

She takes the snack and gives him a small, approving nod. “Sí.”

Carlos clutches his chest.

By the time Oscar and Lewis arrive, she’s sitting on a stack of spare tires, swinging her legs and sharing stickers with George, who is lying on the ground letting her decorate his face.

Oscar’s jaw drops. “She’s already more popular than me.”

Lewis just smiles warmly. “It’s because she has her mother’s presence.”

Alex glances at me, hand sliding into mine. “She has your everything.”

Lewis kneels in front of her. “You must be very brave coming into the paddock. Would you like to see the garage?”

Her eyes widen, then she looks up at me for confirmation.

I nod. “Go with Daddy and Uncle Lewis, baby. I’ll be right here.”

She clutches her bunny and hops off the tire stack, sliding her hand into Alex’s. “Can Bunny wear the headphones too?”

“We’ll get him his own pair,” Alex promises.

As they walk off, the little pack of drivers falling into step around them like a security detail, I feel something soft settle in my chest. She’s not a secret anymore. She’s here. Loved. Seen. Safe. And as Lewis leans down to adjust her little headphones, and George keeps proudly wearing a glitter sticker heart on his forehead, and Charles dramatically fans her with his Ferrari cap, I realize— She doesn’t just have this world now. She owns it. And we do, too.

—

I never thought I’d be here. Not just here in the paddock, not just here with Alex — but here, in an open-top classic car, crawling down the track in front of thousands of fans… with our three-year-old daughter sitting between us, waving like she’s the president of the FIA. She’s in a tiny Williams race suit they gifted her this morning — complete with her name stitched in pink thread over the heart. Her headphones are practically swallowing her whole head, and her bunny, as usual, is in her lap. She has no idea she’s the reason the internet is losing its collective mind. She’s just thrilled to have a flag to wave.

“She’s loving this,” I say quietly to Alex, watching her wave with both arms like she’s done this a thousand times before.

Alex chuckles under his breath, eyes on her like he still can’t believe she’s real. “She’s a natural. She belongs here.”

“You mean with you?” I tease.

“I mean with us,” he says simply. “You belong here too.”

I lean into him just a little, letting myself enjoy it. The sun’s warm. The crowd’s louder than usual — but I know now that a lot of that noise is for her. For us. And for once, it doesn’t scare me.

Alex reaches across her to squeeze my hand. “You okay?”

I nod. “More than okay.”

Behind us, I hear someone yell.

“LOOK AT HER!” George is standing in the next car over, clutching his chest like he’s having a religious experience. “She’s waving like she’s running for office. I’d vote for her.”

“She’s got my vote,” Lando shouts.

“She can have my car,” Charles adds, jogging up beside us, offering her a fresh can of juice like it's tribute to a princess. “Tell your papa to retire. We’ve got this handled.”

“She can’t reach the pedals,” I laugh.

“She’ll grow,” Charles insists. “I’ll wait.”

Carlos pulls up in his own car just ahead, twisting around so he’s facing us backwards. “Does she want another flag? I’ve got three.”

Our daughter gasps and takes it immediately. “Thank you, Mr. Carlos!”

“Mr. Carlos.” he clutches his chest dramatically, like he’s been knighted.

“Do I even exist anymore?” Alex jokes.

I just laugh and shake my head. “You had your moment. She’s the main character now.”

She leans her cheek against Alex’s shoulder, smiling up at both of us like this is all perfectly normal — like she’s meant to be on a Formula 1 parade route with twenty world-class drivers treating her like royalty.

“Wave one more time, baby,” I say gently.

She pops up to her knees between us, raises her flag in one hand and her bunny in the other, and gives the biggest wave yet. The crowd erupts.

“Someone threw glitter,” Alex murmurs, completely stunned.

“I think she’s bigger than you now,” I say.

He glances at me. “She always was.”

And maybe she’ll never understand this moment — the cameras, the noise, the drivers who love her like their own — but I will. We will. Because this isn’t just her first driver parade. It’s the first time we stopped hiding and started living. Together. Out loud. As a family.

—

alexalbon

liked by yn_albon, lando, georgerussell63 & 14,090,002 others.

alexalbon : well...secret is out. i have the most gorgeous wife in the world and the sweetest little girl who is about to have a baby sister:)

—

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[sadsierra2]

hey sorry not to be an asshole but I saw someone say that a sports team posting about pride month was "pandering" and I need you to log off and touch grass because now more than EVER it's important that large institutions (and especially those that could easily be right wing like sports teams) show the fuck up for queer and trans people. especially trans people. so no it is not "pandering" to take a stand for a marginalized group of people that are currently under attack for trying to play sports. be so fucking for real

[sadsierra2]

f1 grid (1/2) | oops wrong name

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : accidentally calling them the wrong name for shits and giggles - tiktok trend

୨ৎ : genre : comedy / pranks ୨ৎ : tws : playful banter ୨ৎ : word count : 2305

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i was ctfu while writing this LMFAOO i think my bf would KILL ME if i called him the wrong name 😭 the charles gif makes me wanna 😩

ʚ・max verstappen

you were lounging on the hotel bed while max sat at the little desk beside it, tapping something into his phone. his hair was still damp from the post-qualifying shower, messy and sticking up in tufts. the tv was on, but you weren’t watching. not really. you were focused on your plan.

“tom,” you said casually, stretching out across the mattress. “can you pass me my water bottle?”

max didn’t respond at first, too focused on his phone. but then he froze.

his head tilted slowly, like a machine turning to scan a threat.

“sorry, what?”

you glanced at him, innocent. “water, please?”

now he was fully facing you. his eyebrows raised, that signature are you serious look all over his face. “who the fuck is tom?”

you shrugged. “just asked for water.”

“yeah, but you didn’t ask me.” he leaned back in the chair, arms folding. “you asked tom.”

you bit back a laugh. “you’re overreacting.”

“i’m overreacting?” he repeated, tone flat. “you’re lying on our bed calling for 'tom' and i’m overreacting.”

you picked up your phone like you were checking something. “maybe i got the names mixed up. tom, max. could happen to anyone.”

“not unless tom’s been around enough to replace me in your muscle memory.” you glanced at him and saw he was trying really hard to keep his expression unreadable, but his brow was twitching. “seriously...tom?”

“it’s a joke,” you finally said, unable to hold the straight face any longer. “you’ve been pranked.”

max didn’t speak for a moment. then he shook his head, muttering in dutch under his breath.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he said finally, getting up to hand you the water you never really wanted in the first place. “but if i hear that name again, i’m revoking cuddling privileges.”

you grinned. “noted.”

but later that night, just as you drifted off, you whispered, “thanks, tom.”

max shoved a pillow in your face.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you were in the middle of organizing lewis’ growing sunglasses collection in the closet when he walked in, shirtless and relaxed, holding two smoothie bottles. one was your favorite.

“thanks, marcus,” you said sweetly, taking it from his hand.

he stopped mid-step.

“…come again?” he asked, lips parting just slightly.

you didn’t look up. “hmm?”

he blinked. “what did you just call me?”

you sipped your smoothie. “i said thanks. for the smoothie, babe.”

there was a pause. then—

“marcus?” his voice pitched up at the end like he was genuinely trying to figure out whether he heard wrong… or whether he was being cheated on in real time.

you blinked innocently. “huh?”

he slowly put his bottle down. “babe, i don’t want to jump to conclusions, but...who the hell is marcus? is that some guy from soulcycle or something?”

you stifled a laugh and shrugged. “that name jogs my memory...i thin he just brought me a smoothie once at work? very thoughtful.”

lewis crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, eyebrows up. “wow. okay. and what does marcus do? race? rap? make smoothies for girls who forget their boyfriend’s name?”

you bit your lip, holding the laugh deep in your chest.

he looked away, shaking his head, grinning despite himself. “unbelievable. seven world championships and i’m getting marcus’d in my own house.”

you walked over to him slowly, trying to look apologetic. “lewis—”

“no, no. marcus is probably better at opening jars too,” he said, deadpan.

you finally broke, laughing as you wrapped your arms around him. “it’s a prank, babe. from that old trend. there is no marcus.”

he let out a long sigh, dramatically resting his forehead against yours. “you play too much.”

“but you looked so betrayed. it was kind of cute.”

lewis kissed your cheek, then whispered, “you’re lucky you’re adorable.”

as you turned to leave, he added, “but i’m calling you katie all day tomorrow. just for balance.”

ʚ・george russell

it started over breakfast. you were seated at the little table in george’s apartment, scrolling through your phone while he made tea. he was shirtless, hair still a little messy, humming some fleetwood mac song to himself, completely unaware he was about to be mentally ruined before 9 a.m.

“jake, can you pass the oat milk?”

george froze.

you didn’t look up. you scrolled a little more. very nonchalant.

he didn’t say anything at first. he just slowly reached for the oat milk and set it down in front of you — quietly, methodically — then walked around the table and sat across from you with that look.

“who’s jake?” he asked, voice light but suspicious.

you took a sip of your tea. “what?”

“you called me jake.”

“no i didn’t.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you absolutely did.”

you shrugged. “maybe you misheard.”

“i don’t think i did.” he leaned forward, elbows on the table now. “do i know this jake?”

you bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “i don't know, probably? that's what you heard right.”

george blinked once, then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was preparing to take you to court. “does jake have better hair than me?”

you snorted.

“is he taller?” he asked, a little more seriously now.

“george.”

“no, because if jake is over six feet and makes a good cup of tea, i’m leaving.”

that did it — you burst out laughing, nearly spilling your drink.

george tilted his head. “wait—oh my god. you’re doing that bloody trend, aren’t you?”

you nodded, face buried in your sleeve as you kept laughing.

he exhaled, rolling his eyes as he picked up his mug. “you’re awful. i nearly had a personal crisis.”

“i noticed,” you said between giggles.

“swear to god, if i ever call you ‘sophie’ and you cry, i’m just gonna say it was balance.”

“who’s sophie?” you blinked.

he gave you a look. “exactly.”

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was sprawled on the couch, flipping through the channels with one hand and lazily draping the other across your thighs, completely unbothered. it was one of those rare, quiet evenings where neither of you had to be anywhere, the kind that made you feel domestic and soft.

you were curled up at the end of the sofa, scrolling through your phone, when you looked over at him and said, casually, “matteo, can you turn the volume up?”

carlos froze.

the remote paused mid-click. he turned his head, eyes narrowing with laser focus. “what did you say?”

you blinked at him sweetly. “volume, carlos. i can’t hear.”

silence.

then, he sat up slowly — dramatically, even — his hand still hovering in the air like he was physically trying to process what just happened. “who,” he began, “is matteo?”

you shrugged. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” he said, placing the remote down like it offended him, “you just called me matteo. that’s not my name, cariño.”

you bit your lip to hold back the smile. “oh, i must’ve been thinking of someone else.”

carlos leaned forward, one eyebrow raised in complete disbelief. “someone else? so now i am… easily confused with other men?”

you snorted.

“no, no, it’s fine. maybe matteo has better hair than me. maybe matteo owns a vineyard and serenades you with a guitar.”

you lost it at that. but he wasn’t done.

“does matteo also say ‘smooth operator’? or is he a rough operator?” he added, now fully invested in this imaginary rival.

you leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder, voice soft. “carlos, i was kidding. it’s a trend. i called you the wrong name on purpose.”

he stared at you for a beat, lips pursed. “you’re playing with fire, mi amor.”

“i know,” you grinned. “but matteo would’ve let it slide.”

carlos lunged at you with a laugh, wrestling you into his chest. “then go be with matteo! but first, tell him i’m coming for him.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

you were doing your makeup at the vanity in your shared monaco apartment when charles wandered in, fresh from his shower, towel around his waist, hair a fluffy disaster. he looked at you through the mirror, all sleepy eyes and boyish charm.

“lucas, can you hand me my lip liner?” you asked offhandedly, still focused on your face.

you heard the towel drop.

not in the hot, sexy way.

in the he's shocked and spiraling way.

“lucas?” he echoed, voice higher than you’ve ever heard it. “who the hell is lucas?!”

you turned slowly, biting your lip to hide the smile. “what?”

he stared at you like you’d just run him over with a ferrari. “you just called me lucas.”

you shrugged. “did i?”

“YES,” he said, wildly gesturing. “you didn’t even hesitate. you were so confident—like it was natural! like you say it all the time!”

you turned back to the mirror, calmly applying mascara. “you’re overreacting.”

charles dropped onto the bed like he’d been mortally wounded. “lucas. mon dieu. that sounds like someone who wears boat shoes with no socks.”

you bit your lip harder.

“is he french?” charles asked, sitting up. “or worse… italian?”

“it was just a mistake, love.” you said airily, brushing your cheeks.

charles stood, eyes wide. “mistake?! i literally brought you pain au chocolat this morning and kissed your forehead like some guy in a rom-com!”

you finally broke, letting out a full laugh. “charles—”

“no, no, no. this is worse than the monaco curse. lucas. i can’t believe i lost you to someone named lucas!”

you got up and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his dramatically tense shoulders. “babe. it’s a tiktok prank. i made it up.”

he blinked. “so… there is no lucas?”

you grinned. “no lucas.”

he exhaled. “good. because if there was, i’d have to challenge him to a karting race. or maybe just cry.”

you kissed his cheek. “you’re so dramatic.”

he whispered, offended. “it’s my birthright.”

ʚ・lando norris

you and lando were chilling on the couch, deep into a gaming session. or, more accurately, lando was gaming and you were curled up next to him, offering the occasional sarcastic comment and stealing his snacks.

he was laser-focused, headset on, tongue poking out a little as he tried to win some online match.

you waited for the perfect moment, just as he landed a kill and started celebrating.

“nice job, ethan,” you said sweetly, clapping once.

lando froze.

like… absolutely no movement. not in his hands, not in his mouth, not even a breath.

then, very slowly, he turned to look at you. headset slightly askew. brow furrowed.

“did you just call me ethan?”

you blinked. “hmm?”

“hmm?” he repeated, his voice cracking halfway through. “who the fuck is ethan?!”

you shrugged. “just… ethan.”

lando set the controller down like it was made of glass. “is he one of your gym guys? does he have better curls than me? wait, is ethan taller than me?!”

you laughed under your breath. “does it matter?”

“of course it matters!” he cried, fully spinning to face you now, hands on his hips. “you can’t just ethan me and then expect me to cope. i’m not built for this emotionally.”

you fought so hard not to crack. “just someone i know very lightly at the gym, he's a big motivator.”

“oh my god,” lando said, flopping backwards like he’d been shot. “i’m being replaced by a walking affirmation board.”

you finally broke, snorting as you leaned over him. “lando. baby. it’s a prank.”

he peeked up at you. “no ethan?”

“well..." you pause, "just kidding, of course there's no ethan."

he exhaled dramatically. “okay. good. because i was two seconds away from dming every ethan on your follower list and challenging them to a race.”

“you can’t race them all.”

he grinned, eyes gleaming. “watch me.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

it was a quiet sunday morning, the kind that begged for soft sheets, slow cuddles, and no alarm clocks. you were both curled up in bed, tangled under the duvet, with the curtains barely cracked to let the light in.

oscar was scrolling through something on his phone, his head resting against your shoulder, calm and cozy.

you stretched lazily, then nudged his thigh. “asher, can you hand me my water?”

he blinked.

paused.

then, with terrifying composure: “sorry, who?”

you yawned. “water, please. it’s by your side, osc.”

he slowly turned to look at you, expression blank, voice deadly even. “you just called me asher.”

“did i?”

“you definitely did.”

you shrugged, pretending not to notice the sharp turn in atmosphere. “just slipped out.”

oscar sat up a little straighter. “do we know an asher? is there an asher in the paddock? because i swear i don’t know an asher.”

you casually rolled over to the other side of the bed. “he’s someone from uni... no one special just someone i talk to during class for a little laugh.”

oscar scoffed, tone still flat but deeply offended. “he sounds like a real crowd favorite. must be hard, competing with asher and his sunshine energy.”

you were fighting so hard not to laugh, clutching the duvet to your face.

he wasn’t done. “tell me—does asher also give you the inside line into turn 3 at silverstone? does he organize your sock drawer? does he know your coffee order by heart?!”

you burst out laughing.

oscar narrowed his eyes. “you’re pranking me.”

you wheezed, nodding. “i couldn’t keep it going, you looked like you were going to call asher’s imaginary mother and file a complaint.”

oscar leaned back, smug smile on his face. “good. because i was five seconds away from changing your contact name to ashtray and never explaining why.”

you grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist. “no asher. just you.”

he kissed your forehead, muttering, “i don’t trust pranks. but i trust revenge.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[sadsierra2]

[sadsierra2]

they call each other LH and CL 💅

[sadsierra2]

unfortunately i do need the leafs to defeat the panthers and the reason is twofold: 1. i hate the panthers 2. joseph woll looks so mountain man right now and i need to see his beard get SCRAGGLY just to double check something in my own mind (if i find it attractive or not)

[sadsierra2]

sorry for the smut i also want to adopt a large fluffy dog with brock faber and walk in on it laying fully on top of him while they’re lounging around on the couch together during an off day. brock’s own fluffy-haired head pokes out from under his weighted fur blanket just to beg you to come join in on their weird little tangle of hair and limbs (you definitely all fall asleep there together and you both absolutely have dog hair all over you when you wake up)

you find the dog first.

not on purpose, either. you’re at the shelter because you told yourself you were just looking, that you’d just meet a few, because sure, you and brock had been talking about it for months, but he’s a thinker, slow to decide, likes to hem and haw and research five different dog food brands before committing to even a hypothetical puppy.

but then you see him.

a bear of a thing—great hairy beast, some half-forgotten cross between a newfoundland and maybe a woolly mammoth, drooping pink tongue, chocolate brown eyes, matted tufts stuck up around his ears. a giant walking dust bunny of a creature who lumbers over and plants one solemn paw against the gate like he’s swearing a blood oath to you.

you text brock a picture and, because god is real and laughing, he replies immediately: him. get him. i'm serious.

by the time brock shows up, dog hair is already coating your jeans and the shelter volunteer has scribbled adoption in process on the dog's card.

brock pushes his glasses up his nose and squats down to eye-level with the creature, studying him like he’s making a first-round draft pick. the dog, true to form, immediately flops onto brock’s foot, sending a small, guttural oof out of your boyfriend like he'd been tackled by a boulder.

“he’s kinda perfect,” brock says, voice all scratchy soft, like the words weren’t supposed to get out.

he is. and somehow, you leave with a giant leash, a bigger bag of donated kibble, and a shaggy new roommate you name bear.

off days at home are rare enough. off days at home with bear are chaos wrapped in a blanket of fuzz.

you hear the two of them before you see them—shuffling sounds, a deep grumbling that could either be the dog snoring or brock complaining, you're not sure. when you round the corner from the kitchen, balancing two mugs of coffee, the sight almost makes you drop both right there onto the carpet.

brock is gone.

well, mostly.

there's just this massive, fluffy mound collapsed across the couch, limbs poking out at weird angles, one big furry foot dangling off the edge. and somewhere, squashed in the middle, brock’s unruly brown hair sticks out like a lone survivor peeking out of an avalanche. his glasses are skewed down his nose, his green eyes barely open, blinking up at you like a man trapped and resigned to his fate.

"help," he croaks, voice muffled under what is at least a hundred pounds of pure dog.

you’re already laughing, setting the coffee down with a clink before grabbing your phone to snap a picture. brock flails a hand weakly, blindly trying to cover his face. bear lets out a long, contented sigh, his giant body expanding and deflating on top of brock like he’s a goddamn living weighted blanket.

“baby,” brock groans. “stop laughing. come save me.”

“you look comfy.”

“dying comfy,” he corrects. “get over here. join the suffering.”

he shifts just enough to make a tiny, pathetic space next to him on the couch—barely enough for you to wedge yourself in without knocking bear off completely. you hesitate for a second, eyeing the sea of fur, but brock reaches out a hand, palm open, so soft and stupidly sweet you can’t say no.

you slide onto the couch, into the warm hollow he made for you, and instantly get pinned by a rogue dog paw thumping against your leg. bear doesn’t even lift his head, just lets out another grumble and shifts closer, sandwiching you and brock together in a cocoon of tangled limbs and hair and heat.

brock’s hand finds your hip under the mess, squeezing once.

"see," he mumbles, forehead pressing into your temple, "this is better. now we die together."

you bury your face in the side of his neck, breathing him in—soft soap and fabric softener and the lingering smell of rain from your morning walk. the dog lets out a deep, rattling snore right into brock’s ribs. brock chuckles, low and lazy in his chest, the vibration rumbling into you.

“this was your idea, remember?” you say.

“no regrets.”

you stay there, the three of you smashed together like some absurd art installation. somewhere along the way, your legs tangle with brock’s under the throw blanket, your arm sneaks across his stomach, and his hand is sliding up and down your back, slower, slower, until you both drift into that fuzzy, half-warm sleep that only ever happens when you're wrapped around someone you love.

you wake up hours later to brock sneezing himself awake, a puff of dog hair floating in the air between you.

you sit up groggily, laughing as you pat at your clothes—completely fur-coated, your sweatshirt now more hair than fabric. brock’s glasses are askew again, his own head of curls practically blending in with bear’s fur.

“worth it,” he says hoarsely, rubbing his eyes and dragging you back down for another round of tangled napping.

worth it a thousand times over.

[sadsierra2]

😁✌️🍊✨️

[sadsierra2]

woke up and I saw the news that alpine replaced jack w franco. don't get me wrong I love my argentina baddie BUT THAT IS SO CRUEL WHAT ABOUT MY AUSTRALIAN VAMPIRE??? ARE ROOKIES NOT A THING ANYMORE???? CAN WE GIVE THEM TIME TO GROW LIKE WHAT??? AND DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ABOUT THE FACT THAT FLAVIO IS BACK IN THIS FUCKING SPORT

[sadsierra2]

When you're reading a fanfic and suddenly the reader has a name

[sadsierra2]

OKOK i have a couple ideas for requests like we talked about but theyre all very different so im going to send them separately. this first one im sending, i dont know if your smut requests are open, or if i shouldve sent them to your other acc, but here it is anyway.

im a SUCKER for sex pollen and those types of things so, hear me out, established relationship, peter comes back from a mission and basically just NEEDS reader, blah blah blah, smut ensues. if this is a miss feel free to ignore i have two others im sending your way 😘

hahahaha ok I don't think this ended up being as smutty as you were hoping, but I had so much fun writing it so thank you for indulging my current hyper fixation!

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader after he's infected with sex pollen [1.2k words]

CW: my thought is when oscorp was breeding their mutant bugs and stuff they had a powder/aerosol to encourage breeding?? anyways, no actual smut but it's discussed through out and then gets pretty explicit at the end, potential 18+ content, NSFW

You’re saved from having to pretend to be asleep at the sound of your bedroom window creaking open as Peter slips in, wasting no time to pull the mask off of his head. You find it hard to fall asleep without him anyways, let alone on nights that he’s on patrol, so his presence is a welcome sight. 

“Peter?”

“Hey,” he lets out quickly, his tone taking on a quality you can’t quite place, “hey, hi, holy shit you’re awake, hey.”

“Hey.” You return, propping yourself up and reaching over to turn on the lamp at the same moment Peter trips over a pile of books by the end of the bed. “Did you get to Oscorp in time?”

“Yup, yeah. Yes, I did.” He responds breathlessly. “Hey, lovely. Hi baby,” he greets again, nearly tripping over himself a second time as he comes to kneel by the edge of the bed, biting the fingers of one of his gloves in order to pull it off. 

“Good, I- whoa.” 

You’re startled by the intensity in Peter’s brown eyes; pupils nearly fully eclipsing his irises as he stares at you desperately, his mouth pinched in discomfort. 

“What happened?” 

A nearly hysterical laugh leaves his lips, seemingly frustrated at the question though not at your asking it. The hand he has on your elbow remains gentle but you hear the wood of your bed frame splinter beneath his other fist as he groans, lowering his head as he takes some steadying breaths that all sound shaky to your ears. 

“I don’t know what else they can possibly have in those basements to surprise  me anymore – fucking biochemical warfare – one of the drums exploded; there was this- this, I don’t know, powder or fumes in the air; it was everywhere.”

“Are you alright?” You ask urgently, sitting up fully and swinging your legs over the side of the bed; Peter quickly makes room for you so that he’s stationed between your thighs.

“No, sweetheart, I am very much not alright right now. I’ve never been less alright than I am at this very moment, actually.”

Debatable, but you don’t argue. 

“Are you hurt?” You interrogate, your hands automatically starting at the juncture of his neck and shoulder before they start their typical journey over the plains of his lean muscles in search of injuries. They’re stopped short when Peter grasps your wrists.

“Peter, stop. Let me help you.”

“I don’t- that’s not- I’m not hurt, that’s not what I need.” He manages.

You let out a helpless laugh, feeling borderline hysterical yourself as you look at your boyfriend incredulously; his brows dipping inwards in a silent plea that you can’t decipher. “What do you need?”

“You.” 

“What is going on right now?” It’s not said like a question; a rhetorical statement falling from your lips as you shake your head as though rattling your brain might make it work again.

“Please, please.” He whispers, begging as he inches as close to the edge of the bed as possible, hands gentle as he begins to rove the contours of your body. “I need you so bad, I’m losing my fucking mind.” 

“I- what?”

“I’m sorry - I know, I know. I’m sorry. You were asleep. I’m sorry, but I need you, Y/N.”

The puzzle finally begins to slowly come together when you hear the sound of spandex sliding against cotton, and you come to realize that Peter is actually rutting into the side of the bed. 

You make to say something but all that leaves your mouth is a breath; Peter whimpers at the sound as though it burns. 

“Peter?”

“Y/N I need to fuck you so bad and like right now, right this instant, or I swear to God I think I might die. Or explode. Or explode and die; no survivors, multiple casualties.” 

It escapes your lips without your permission, and slapping your hand over your mouth does nothing to combat the look of complete and utter betrayal that spreads across your boyfriend’s face.

“You’re laughing at me.”

It’s not a question, but you answer him anyway, shaking your head as a giggle manages to squeeze through the spaces between your fingers. Peter may be painfully horny, but he isn't stupid, and you can see the outline of his tongue where it pokes into his cheek which signals that he’s onto you.

“You’re laughing at me. Great; real nice, babe. Awesome.” He scoffs, fighting and failing against a laugh-turned-groan of his own as he continues to scold you. “I’m so hard that I’m pretty sure my dick is going to snap right off and you’re laughing at me.”

There’s no hiding your laughter now, reaching out to take each side of Peter’s face; warmed pink, eyes glassy, and his bottom lip swollen from where he’s been gnawing at it. 

“I can’t believe a boner is going to be what finally takes Spiderman out.” He muses aloud miserably, closing his eyes at the way your cool fingers feel near his temples as a sheen of sweat glistens along his hairline. “Tell the press it was something cool, okay? Like, like an alien that I stopped from eating a school bus full of children or, or- or maybe a giant can of Raid.” 

You shake your head at your boyfriend’s soliloquies and lean in to rub your nose against him, startling him out of his spiral before you press your lips to his. 

“I’m not going to let a boner take you out, Peter.” You murmur against his lips, hands weaseling their way behind his neck to help him out of his suit. “What do you need?”

“You.” He almost keens as he all but rips his arms out of the suit and moves to push the rest off, leaving him in his boxers that are strained and growing damp.

“Okay,” you breathe, forcing your eyes away from the way his muscles shift as he pulls his boxers off and exposes his – as described – painfully hard cock, red and drooling as it bobs against his lower abdomen, “okay, and you sai- you said it was a powder?” 

You manage to get the rest of your question out despite the way Peter sets upon your lips like his job is to devour you whole, ridding you of your pajamas as he goes.

“Yeah, yeah. Like-” a kiss “-it was like a powder,” a nip “or maybe an aerosol?” 

He’s no sooner working on sucking a mark into your neck, hoisting you up onto his hips and forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist as you suppress a surprised yelp. 

“Okay, okay. Why don’t we fuck in the shower then, huh?” You hiss as you force him away from your jugular, intent on getting this out before things get too carried away. 

He’s groaning into the opposite side of your neck and immediately makes for the bathroom – carrying you about as though you weigh nothing – and groaning again when you squirm under his touch.

“Fuck you’re so smart and beautiful and perfect and hot I want to put so many babies inside of you.”

“Jesus, Parker!”

[sadsierra2]

[sadsierra2]

[sadsierra2]

[sadsierra2]

murder strut husbands™

[sadsierra2]

8:32 PM

a/n: I have not written anything in *checks watch* over two years (OOF) so this is absolute garbage, but a certain michael kesselring has given me severe brainrot so here we are. this was supposed to be a short lil blurb but I can’t control myself apparently. unedited and written on my phone so…..cheers ig.

warnings: cursing, fingering, bit of a praise kink, a lil dumification bc I love to project, stupid amount of pet names, yk the drill.

you’d always had a thing for hands, and though some would probably call you biased, you swore your boyfriend had the nicest ones you’d ever seen.

everything about michael was large, and broad, and all consuming, and his hands were no exception. you never considered your hands to be that small, but his were so much bigger than yours. his fingers were mind numbingly long, and the veins that ran across the backs of his hands and up his arms could make your mouth water if you stared for too long.

just like you were right now.

you’re staring. you know you’re staring, and intently so, but you can’t seem to drag your eyes away.

there’s a show playing on the tv, you’re pretty sure something one of the guys recommended, but you haven’t been paying attention to anything that’s happened in the last 20 minutes. and really, how could you be blamed when your giant of a boyfriend has you snuggled up tight on his lap, one hand playing with your hair, the other smoothing up and down your thigh with the occasional squeeze.

you’d started out pressed up against his side, but of course it wasn’t long until that wasn’t close enough for him and you were being pulled into his lap with a sweet kiss to your temple and a quiet murmur of “missed you today, baby.”

you almost felt bad. it wasn’t often you and michael got to have a quiet night in together, without having to worry about an early morning for work the next day, and yet you couldn’t even truly pay attention and soak in the feeling of just being with him.

all because of his stupid, beautiful hands.

but any guilt you feel gets swept away when michael’s hand on your thigh slides up and squeezes none-too-gently. any higher and he’d be groping your ass.

you turn your head, only to to be met with that ridiculous, overly confident smirk.

“was wondering if you’d be able to tear your eyes away.” he grins. “my hands really doing it for you tonight baby?”

your teeth sink into your lower lip. “maybe they are… you gonna do something about it?”

his hand flexes, sliding up, up, up, til the tips of his fingers are well past the hem of your thin sleep shorts, and brushing along the edge of where your panties would be, if you were wearing any.

his head tilts, questioning. “are you…” michael’s voice trails off as his hand slides even higher up, now fully under your shorts and resting on your ass. “fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, nipping at your jaw. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“what, not a fan of easy access?”

he shakes his head, smiling. “you’re such a brat.”

“oh please, you love it.” you brush your fingertips up his arm before settling your hand on the back of his neck, playing with the curls there. “if anything you encourage it.”

he buries his head in your neck, placing soft, wet kisses up the column, across your jaw, and along your cheek before oh so teasingly brushing his lips against yours.

“you got me there. but the question is,” michael pauses, adjusting you until you’re properly straddling him, your hands resting on his shoulders while his slide down your waist and you feel the gentle brush of his fingers along the skin right above your waistband.

“are you gonna keep being a brat? or…” he trails off just as his right hand slips into your shorts and two of his fingers sweep across your slit, groaning at how much wetness he finds from that alone. “are you gonna be a good little girl and let me play with your pretty pussy?”

your breath hitches and you can only manage to nod rapidly, nails digging into his shoulders and trying to scoot even closer to him, as if you weren’t already pressed as close as possible.

“yeah? you gonna be good for me baby?” he smirks, sliding his fingers deeper and circling your entrance. “this all it takes to get you to behave?”

you open your mouth to respond with something, anything, but all the manages to escape is a choked whimper, as michael chooses that moment to plunge his fingers in to the hilt. the sudden stretch burns just the slightest, but any other thoughts you may have had get completely tossed out the second his thumb starts rubbing slow, hard circles on your clit.

“look at you,” his tongue flicks out against your top lip. “so dumb for me already, and i don’t even need to get my cock out to do it.”

his fingers start moving, rubbing, pressing, thrusting in and out shallowly. you swear they’ve never been this thick, this long, or felt this good.

he presses against an extra sensitive spot and you can’t help the way your hips jerk forward, or the way your hand flies up to fist his hair. “fuck, michael,”

“right there?” he coos. “is that the spot sweetheart?” and then, because he’s a dick, he presses against it again, and again, and again, all while maintaining that mind numbing pressure on your clit.

“i- i- i’m gonna- gonna-“ you give up on whatever it is you’re trying to say, not even totally sure what it is you’re trying to stutter out, and instead nuzzle your face into his neck. kissing, biting, and marking up your boyfriend’s neck seems more productive anyways.

“gonna what baby? c’mon, use your words.”

you shake your head, biting down even harder on a spot just underneath his jaw, and it takes all of two seconds for michael’s hand that was on your hip to be gripping your jaw and pulling you away. you try to look anywhere but his face, but a finger tapping none too gently on your cheeks has your eyes snapping to his.

“there’s those pretty eyes,” he grins. “i love how empty they get when you’re like this, baby. just feels too good, doesn’t it? can’t help yourself?”

michael’s fingers press harder, the circles on your clit get faster, and your voices gets higher and higher the closer you get.

“michael, michael, please- please i’m gonna-“ you cut yourself off with a whine, rocking your hips harder against his hand.

“gonna come for me?” the hand on your jaw slides down to your neck. not squeezing, not applying pressure, just holding. “gonna make a mess all over my hand?”

you lean into his hold, desperate for anything to stabilize yourself. “yes yes yes yes, please- please don’t stop i’m so close please-“

he cuts off your mindless pleas with a gentle squeeze to your neck. “not stopping sweetheart. not until i feel this sweet cunt come on my fingers.”

he drags your mouth to his for a filthy kiss before pulling away murmuring against your lips, “c’mon baby, do it. empty that little brain of yours and come on me. you can do it, be a good girl for me.”

your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm crashes over you, chanting his name like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

michael works you through it, only stopping when you hiss in discomfort, but keeping his fingers buried inside you. the two of you sit in silence as you come down from your high, your head resting on his shoulder as his unoccupied hand plays with your hair.

eventually, he breaks the silence.

“definitely a fan of easy access.”

[sadsierra2]

red red wine | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

the week leading up to Quinn proposing to you, and the chaos that follows him.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

One Week Before

You stand in the kitchen of the lake house, absently scrolling through your phone while Jim and Ellen sit at the table, chatting over their morning coffee. Quinn is perched on a stool at the kitchen island, Jack and Luke beside him, all three listening in as you think out loud.

“I think I’m gonna get my nails done,” you say, mostly to yourself, glancing up from your screen. “I found this cute place nearby on Instagram. Might go check it out.”

Quinn freezes. Luke and Jack do the same, exchanging quick glances before all three of them force identical, strained smiles.

“Here?” Quinn asks, a little too casually.

You nod and turn your phone to show Ellen the pictures. “Yeah, thought it’d be nice to get a little pampered. Ellen, want to come with?”

For a split second, her eyes flick to Jim before she shakes her head with a warm—if slightly nervous—smile. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I think I’ll stay back, got a few things to tidy up around the house.”

You frown slightly, glancing between them. “I mean, I don’t have to go either. I could just hang—”

“NO!”

The entire Hughes family responds in unison, voices overlapping in a loud, comically panicked outburst. Even Jim, who’s been silent all morning, leans forward, wide-eyed like you just suggested setting the house on fire.

Quinn is the first to recover. He clears his throat and plasters on a quick, reassuring smile. “No, honey, you should definitely go. Treat yourself.” He waves a hand toward the door, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant. “Have a nice day out.”

Your eyes narrow. “Okay…?” You drag the word out, suspicious, but slide your phone into your bag anyway. Grabbing your keys, you head for the door, throwing one last curious glance over your shoulder before stepping out.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Luke lets out a long breath. “Close call.”

Jim shakes his head, grinning. “She almost caught on already. We need to be more careful, boys.”

Downtown is quiet, the main street lined with flower boxes and little local shops. Lakeside Nails sits nestled between a café and an old bookstore, its windows decorated with delicate white lettering.

A nail tech waves you over with a friendly smile. “Hi! You must be my one o’clock.”

“That’s me.” You settle into the chair as she sets up.

“I’m Maya. What are we doing today?”

You pull up a photo. “Something like this? Just a clean, neutral look.”

Maya nods approvingly. “Pretty! So, just a little solo pampering trip?”

“Sort of. I’m staying at the lake house with my boyfriend and his family. Thought I’d take a little break and explore.”

Maya hums, focusing on your nails. “How’d you two meet?”

You smile, thinking back. “Through mutual friends. He was quiet at first, but then he made me laugh when I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know… I just felt comfortable with him.”

“Those are the best ones,” she says with a grin. “Sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “He really is.”

When you walk back into the lake house, Quinn is stretched out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He glances up as you come in, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

“Hey,” he says, sitting up. “Let’s see the nails.”

You plop down beside him, holding out your hand. He takes it, running his thumb lightly over your fingers. “Looks good,” he says, approving.

“Glad you think so.” You lean into him as his arm wraps around you, the warmth of his touch settling you into an easy quiet.

The rest of the evening is simple—pasta and salad for dinner, laughter when Quinn drops a handful of cherry tomatoes and watches them roll across the counter. Later, you curl up under a blanket with an old movie on, his fingers absentmindedly running through your hair. The house is peaceful, filled with the soft flicker of the TV and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You don’t notice the way he looks at you. The way his gaze lingers, like he’s memorizing everything. Like he’s counting down.

Five Days Before

You wake slowly, the warmth of morning light filtering through the curtains. Quinn’s arm is draped over your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip, his breathing steady and close. He stirs, his nose brushing against the back of your neck as he pulls you closer.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile, rolling over to face him. His eyes are still half-closed, messy hair falling over his forehead. You trace your fingers along his cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Good morning,” you whisper.

He catches your hand, lacing his fingers through yours before bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You don’t realize how he looks at you—like you might disappear if he blinks.

“Honey, we’re on breakfast duty,” you remind him.

Quinn groans, shoving his face into your collarbone, stubble tickling your skin. He mumbles something, voice muffled.

You laugh. “No, we can’t let your brothers do it. Unless you want the house to burn down.”

Another grunt, but this time, he shifts, reluctantly getting up. You follow, falling into your usual morning routine.

As you pull on a sweater, he watches from the bathroom mirror, hoping you don’t dig too far into his sock drawer.

Hoping you don’t find the velvet box.

You don’t, thanks to a the higher power, but it only puts more pressure on Quinn to pop the damn question.

Four Days Before 

The lake house hums with its usual morning energy—Jack and Luke bickering over who gets the last pancake, Ellen moving around the kitchen with effortless ease, and Jim sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper like he’s immune to the chaos around him.

Quinn, however, is focused on one thing.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you sit at the kitchen table, scrolling absently through your phone. Every few seconds, you look up to add something to the conversation, laughing as Luke launches a grape at Jack’s head. Quinn should be listening, should be jumping in with a comment of his own, but instead, his mind is caught on a single thought: How do I get her to buy the dress?

The dress—the one he wants to see you in when he finally asks the biggest question of his life. He saw it a few days ago when you were flipping through your phone, showing Ellen some boutique you wanted to check out. You hadn’t bought anything yet, just admired a few pieces before getting distracted by something else.

Now, with only four days to go, he needs to make sure you pick the one.

Quinn exhales through his nose and glances toward his brothers. Perfect.

Jack notices first, eyebrows furrowing as he watches Quinn silently glare at him. What? he mouths.

Quinn jerks his head toward the living room, signaling them to follow. Jack and Luke exchange a glance but don’t argue, trudging after him as he disappears down the hallway.

Once they’re out of earshot, Quinn turns to them, hands on his hips like he’s about to give them the most important assignment of their lives.

“Alright, I need you two to do something for me.”

Jack immediately groans. “Oh my god, what now?”

“It’s important,” Quinn says, leveling them with a look.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Like, life-or-death important? Or are we talking Quinn-important, which means it’s about the love of your life?”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, do we need to prepare a eulogy?”

Quinn ignores them. “I need you guys to get her to buy a dress.”

Both of them stare at him.

“A dress,” Jack repeats flatly. “You dragged us away from breakfast for that?”

“Not just any dress,” Quinn says, rubbing the back of his neck. He feels stupid saying it out loud, but if there’s anyone who can pull this off without making it suspicious, it’s these two. “She was looking at this one the other day. It’s perfect for when I—” He stops himself before finishing the sentence, clearing his throat.

Luke catches on first. His eyes widen slightly before he grins. “Ohhh. You mean the dress.”

Jack still looks lost. “What—Oh. Ohhh.”

Quinn nods.

“Okay, so you want us to, what? Trick her into buying it?” Jack asks, crossing his arms.

“Not trick her,” Quinn corrects. “Just… steer her in the right direction.”

Luke grins. “You want us to gaslight her into thinking she needs it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You basically did,” Jack says.

Quinn sighs. “Can you two just do it?”

Luke claps a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Q, we got this. She’ll be buying that dress by the end of the day.”

Jack cracks his knuckles. “Time to be annoying.”

“Just don’t make it obvious,” Quinn warns.

Luke grins. “No promises.”

–

You hadn’t really planned on buying anything today.

The town’s little boutique district is charming, with its cobblestone paths and flower boxes hanging from the windows, but you were mostly browsing—taking in the sights, enjoying the crisp summer air, and, apparently, getting bombarded with very strong opinions from Jack and Luke.

“I’m just saying,” Jack starts, walking beside you with his hands in his pockets, “you’ve been talking about wanting a nice dress for a while.”

“Have I?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Luke, walking on your other side, nods solemnly. “Oh yeah. All the time. Constantly.”

You snort. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t.”

Jack ignores you. “And look at this!” He gestures dramatically toward one of the boutique windows. “A whole store dedicated to dresses! What are the odds?”

“Crazy,” Luke deadpans.

You give them a suspicious look. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re great,” Jack says. “But you’d be even better if you had a new dress.”

Luke nods. “The best version of yourself, really.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “What is wrong with you two?”

“Nothing,” Jack says quickly. “We just care about you. And your wardrobe.”

“Especially that one dress you liked the other day,” Luke adds casually. “That was a good one.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you even know about that?”

Jack elbows Luke. 

He gives you a pained smile, “intuition?” 

Luke sighs dramatically, turning toward you. “Look,, all I’m saying is that you should try it on. No pressure. No commitment. Just try it on and see how you feel.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “Worst case? You hate it, and we all move on with our lives. Best case? You look amazing, and you thank us forever.”

You roll your eyes but, against your better judgment, let them lead you inside. The boutique is small but elegant, with soft lighting and carefully arranged racks of clothing. A sales associate greets you warmly, and before you know it, Luke and Jack are pushing you toward the exact dress they’ve clearly been scheming about.

You sigh, running your fingers over the fabric. It is beautiful.

“Just try it,” Luke urges. “For science.”

“For science,” Jack echoes.

You huff a laugh. “Fine. But if I don’t like it, you both owe me coffee.”

“Deal,” they say in unison.

Ten minutes later, you step out of the dressing room, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress fits perfectly, hugging in all the right places, flowing just enough to feel effortless. You glance at your reflection in the boutique mirror, tilting your head slightly.

“Well?” Jack asks, leaning forward eagerly.

Luke grins. “Yup. That’s the one.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You guys are the worst.”

“And yet, we just helped you find your new favorite dress,” Jack points out.

You sigh. “Fine. But you’re still buying me coffee.”

Luke claps his hands. “Worth it.”

Meanwhile, back at the lake house, Quinn gets a text.

Luke: Mission accomplished.

He exhales, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Three more days.

Three Days Before

The morning sun spills through the windows of the lake house, casting warm golden hues over the kitchen. You hum softly to yourself as you pour a cup of coffee, the scent of roasted beans filling the air. Ellen is at the stove flipping pancakes while Jim reads the newspaper at the table, occasionally sipping his coffee. Jack and Luke sit across from him, bickering over who gets the last piece of toast.

Quinn stands by the fridge, looking unusually tense as he scrolls through his phone. You don’t think much of it—he’s always been the quiet, deep-in-thought type—but there’s something about the way he keeps glancing at you that makes you pause.

"Morning," you say, leaning against the counter as you take a slow sip of coffee. "What's up?"

Quinn's head snaps up like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His fingers tighten around his phone, and for a second, he looks almost guilty.

"Uh—nothing. Just checking something." His voice is too quick, too casual, and you narrow your eyes.

Before you can push him further, Ellen calls over her shoulder, "Sweetheart, could you grab the syrup?"

You nod and step toward the pantry, but just as you do, Quinn leans closer to Ellen and whispers something.

You freeze mid-step.

It’s barely audible, just the faintest murmur of his voice, but you catch it. Ellen’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she quickly schools her expression into something neutral.

Jim, who’s been mostly uninvolved in the morning chaos, suddenly folds his newspaper with a snap and clears his throat. Jack and Luke immediately stop arguing and sit up straighter, the air shifting ever so slightly.

You narrow your eyes. "Okay, what was that?"

Quinn immediately shakes his head. "What was what?"

"The whispering. The weird glances. Why do you all look like you just got caught committing a crime?"

Jack lets out a bark of nervous laughter. "Pfft, what? No crime here."

Luke elbows him, and he winces. "We were just—uh, talking about, um—"

"The weather," Jim supplies, nodding sagely.

"The weather?" you repeat flatly.

"Yup," Quinn says, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl and peeling it aggressively like that’ll somehow sell the lie.

You cross your arms, skeptical. "And what, exactly, about the weather required a top-secret family meeting?"

Ellen waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, just—just how lovely it's supposed to be this weekend! Perfect for, um, outdoor activities."

Jack nods. "Yeah, so perfect. Like, suspiciously perfect."

Luke elbows him again.

You squint at them, taking a slow sip of your coffee, watching as they all sit a little too still, looking a little too casual.

Something is definitely going on.

But before you can press further, Quinn suddenly steps forward, wraps an arm around your waist, and presses a kiss to your temple.

"Hey, didn’t you want to go into town today?" His voice is soft, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your hip.

You blink up at him. "I mean, yeah, but—"

"Perfect," he says quickly. "You should go. Take your time. Enjoy yourself."

Jack and Luke nod in unison. "Yes. Enjoy. Take hours if you need."

Your eyes dart between them. They are terrible liars. But you sigh, deciding to let it go—for now.

"Fine," you say slowly, grabbing your bag. "But if I find out you guys are hiding something from me—"

"You won’t!" they all chorus at once.

You stare for another long beat before shaking your head and heading for the door.

As soon as it closes behind you, Quinn lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair.

Luke whistles. "That was way too close."

Jim chuckles. "You boys need to step up your game. She's sharp."

Quinn groans, rubbing his face. "I know. And we still have two more days of this."

Jack claps a hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, bud. You're gonna need it.

Two Days Before 

The lake stretches out before you, calm and glassy under the moonlight. It’s late—too late to still be outside, but the warmth of summer lingers in the air, and neither of you wants to go in just yet.

You sit beside Quinn on the dock, your legs dangling over the edge, bare feet skimming the cool water. The night is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of crickets and the distant rustling of trees.

Quinn hasn’t said much in the last few minutes.

He sits close—so close that your shoulders press together, his warmth seeping into you. His hand is resting between you, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but is too lost in thought to do it.

You nudge him gently. "Penny for your thoughts?"

He exhales, a soft, slow sound. "Just thinking."

You tilt your head, watching him. His profile is illuminated by the glow of the moon, sharp angles softened by the night. His jaw flexes, and his fingers tighten slightly against the dock.

"About what?"

He hesitates, then turns to you. "The future."

Your chest tightens, a warmth blooming there. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His voice is quiet, thoughtful. "I was just thinking about... where we'll be, years from now." He swallows, his throat bobbing. "What it'll look like."

You smile, leaning into him. "And? What does it look like?"

He glances down at his hands. "Us," he says simply. "Still together. Maybe a house. Maybe a dog." His lips twitch. "You always talk about wanting a golden retriever."

Your heart stutters.

"You actually listen when I say that?"

His brow furrows. "Of course I do."

There’s something so earnest about the way he says it—so completely sure.

You take his hand in yours, threading your fingers together. "I like that version of the future," you say softly.

Quinn looks at you then, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy sitting behind them. For a second, you think he’s about to say something—something big.

But instead, he squeezes your hand.

"Me too."

He presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead against yours.

You close your eyes, breathing him in, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart.

Neither of you says anything else.

But Quinn’s already made up his mind.

Tomorrow, he finds the perfect spot.

And in two days, he asks you to be his forever.

One Day Before 

The lake stretches endlessly before you, a shimmering expanse of deep blue beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun. A gentle breeze tugs at your hair, and the rhythmic rocking of the boat lulls you into a peaceful state. The water is calm, only disturbed by the occasional ripple from a passing jet ski or the soft lapping against the side of the boat.

You inhale deeply, letting the fresh air fill your lungs as you lean back against the cushioned seat. The warmth of the sun kisses your skin, and for the first time in a long while, you feel like time has slowed down.

Jim sits at the helm, hands steady on the wheel as he navigates through the open water. His expression is relaxed, a rare sight considering the chaos that usually follows whenever all three of his boys are together.

Ellen sits beside you, sunglasses perched on her nose, a soft smile on her lips as she watches the water shimmer.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she muses, her voice light with contentment.

You nod, shifting slightly to soak in more of the sun. “Yeah, it really is.”

It’s not often that you get moments like this—just the three of you. Usually, Jack and Luke are wreaking havoc, Quinn is rolling his eyes fondly at their antics, and everything is a blur of chirps and laughter. But today is quiet. Peaceful.

You glance around the boat, taking in the emptiness where Quinn should be.

Your chest tightens slightly.

This morning, when you asked him if he was coming, he had been vague—mumbling something about needing to run an errand and promising he’d see you later. You hadn’t pushed, but now, with the afternoon stretching on without him, you can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Ellen asks gently, tilting her head toward you.

You blink, realizing you had been staring at the empty seat beside you. Forcing a smile, you nod. “Yeah, just thinking.”

Ellen hums knowingly. “Quinn will be back soon, don’t worry. He’s probably just making sure whatever he’s doing is absolutely perfect.”

Jim chuckles from the driver’s seat. “Sounds about right.”

You frown slightly, narrowing your eyes. “Do you guys know something I don’t?”

Ellen and Jim exchange a quick glance, but Ellen’s smile doesn’t waver.

“Oh, honey,” she says, reaching over to pat your hand. “We always know something you don’t.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of warmth and comfort. You soak up every moment—the way the sun reflects off the water like scattered diamonds, the sound of Jim’s easy laughter, the way Ellen insists on reapplying sunscreen to your shoulders even though you swear you’re fine.

And for a little while, you let yourself forget the strange feeling in your chest.

Meanwhile, deep in the woods, Quinn is on a mission.

Your absence is a weight he feels in his chest, but he knows this is worth it.

His boots crunch against the forest floor as he makes his way through the secluded clearing he stumbled upon earlier. The air smells like pine and fresh earth, the quiet only disturbed by the rustling of leaves in the wind.

It’s perfect. Tucked away from the main trails, surrounded by towering trees, with a small opening where the lake peeks through.

This is it.

Carefully, he unrolls the string of photos he printed last week, each one capturing a frozen moment in time—the two of you at your first hockey game together, laughing with noses pressed close; a blurry snapshot of you mid-laugh, taken when you weren’t looking; a quiet moment in bed, tangled in the sheets with sunlight painting your skin.

Every single one tells your story.

His hands shake slightly as he fastens them to the branches, adjusting them until they drape just right.

“Dude, this is insanely romantic,” Jack mutters behind him.

Quinn steps back, hands on his hips as he surveys the clearing. The photos sway gently in the breeze, catching the fading sunlight. Everything is almost perfect.

Except for Jack, who is standing in the middle of the setup like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“This is so weird,” Jack complains, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know why I have to be her.”

Quinn sighs, rubbing his temples. “Because I need to make sure everything looks right, and you’re the closest to her height.”

“That’s actually so offensive,” Jack deadpans. “I don’t even know how, but it is.”

Luke snorts from behind the camera. “Just shut up and stand there, man. You’re ruining the vision.”

Jack groans dramatically but doesn’t move. “You owe me for this, dude. Big time.”

Quinn ignores him, stepping closer to adjust the positioning. He takes a deep breath, trying to picture you standing there instead of his little brother, who is doing a horrible job of being still.

“This is where I’ll kneel,” Quinn murmurs, mostly to himself. He drops down, testing the angle, the feel of the moment. His heart races, imagining the way you’ll look—eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, the way your breath will hitch right before you say yes.

Jack stares down at him, unimpressed. “I feel like I should be flattered, but mostly I feel like an idiot.”

Quinn huffs, looking up at him. “Can you at least pretend to be in love with me?”

Jack stares blankly for a second before bursting out laughing. “Dude. Dude. I cannot take this seriously.” He turns to Luke, who’s adjusting the camera settings. “Are you getting this? The absolute desperation in his eyes?”

Luke barely glances up. “You’re making it worse.”

“I’m making this worse?” Jack gestures at the setup. “Quinn is professing his undying love to me right now, and I’M the problem?”

Quinn groans, running a hand over his face. “Just shut up and look moved or something.”

Jack schools his expression into something vaguely serious and stares dramatically into the distance. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he says, voice overly soft. “We’ve been through so much together.”

Luke nearly drops the camera laughing. “Oh my god,” he wheezes.

Quinn pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate both of you.”

Jack smirks, but he does settle down a little, standing a bit more still as Quinn makes the final adjustments.

After a few minutes of adjusting the lighting and the placement of the photos, Luke finally lifts the camera. “Alright, let’s get a test shot.”

Jack sighs dramatically but stays put. Quinn watches as Luke moves around, snapping photos from different angles. He frowns slightly, tilting the camera to check the preview.

“It looks good,” Luke says slowly, adjusting the focus. “But I think we need—Jack, stop standing like that.”

Jack scoffs. “Like what?”

“Like a dude who is about to ask another dude to prom,” Luke deadpans. “You look so uncomfortable.”

Jack throws his arms out. “Because I am uncomfortable! I am literally standing in the middle of a fake proposal, playing the role of my brother’s girlfriend.”

Quinn shakes his head. “Fine. Just—stand normal.”

Jack exhales sharply but follows instructions, his posture finally settling into something less stiff.

Luke snaps a few more photos before nodding. “Okay, that’s it. That’s the shot.”

Quinn steps back, taking in the clearing one last time. The photos, the lighting, the atmosphere—it’s all exactly how he pictured it. His heart pounds as he exhales, the reality of it hitting him all at once.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you will be standing here.

Tomorrow, you will be the one in front of him when he kneels.

And tomorrow, you will say yes.

Jack claps him on the back, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Alright, Romeo. Can we go now? I have literally never felt more single in my life.”

Quinn rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness behind it. “Yeah, we’re done.”

Luke stretches, shoving the camera back into his bag. “You better make this the best proposal of all time, bro. Because if we went through all of this for nothing—”

Quinn grins, confidence settling in his chest. “She’s gonna love it.”

Jack sighs dramatically. “You owe us.”

Quinn just laughs, already imagining how perfect tomorrow will be.

That night, you’re curled up in bed when Quinn finally slips into the room. The warmth of his body presses against yours as he slides beneath the covers, pulling you into his arms.

“You have fun today?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Mmm,” you hum, half-asleep. “Missed you.”

His chest tightens.

He buries his face in your hair, arms tightening around you. “Missed you too.”

You sigh softly, relaxing into him.

Quinn stays awake long after you drift off, heart thudding with anticipation.

One more night.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

Proposal Day

The morning sun filters through the kitchen windows, casting a golden glow over the lake house. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air as you lean against the counter, watching the Hughes family settle into their usual breakfast chaos.

Jack is the first to steal the last piece of toast off Luke’s plate, and Luke retaliates by flicking a grape at his forehead. Quinn sighs, stirring his coffee like he’s debating whether it’s worth intervening. Ellen is at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, while Jim nurses his coffee at the table, reading something on his phone.

Ellen turns toward you with a smile. “I was thinking,” she starts, “since everyone’s here, we should do a nice family dinner tonight.”

Luke perks up. “Ooh, like a fancy dinner? Do I have to wear a button-up?”

“Yes,” Ellen says firmly.

Jack groans dramatically. “Can I at least wear my nice hoodie?”

Jim barely looks up. “No.���

You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your coffee. “A dinner sounds nice.”

Ellen nods. “Good, because I already bought all the stuff.”

Quinn finally speaks, glancing at you. “You should wear that dress you got.”

You arch an eyebrow. “The one you definitely weren’t scheming to get me to buy?”

Jack and Luke both snicker, and Quinn glares at them before turning back to you, feigning innocence. “What? I just think you’d look really nice in it.”

Luke leans in conspiratorially. “You should do it. Mostly because if you don’t, Quinn will spend the entire dinner sulking and staring at you like a sad puppy.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Jack smirks. “Nope. That’s how we end up with emo Quinn, and nobody wants that.”

Quinn groans. “I hate all of you.”

Ellen hides a smile as she flips another pancake. “You love them,” she corrects.

Quinn sighs, shooting you a hopeful glance. “So, the dress?”

You shake your head, amused. “Fine. But if I do, Luke and Jack owe me dessert.”

Luke claps a hand over his heart. “Done.”

Jack nods. “Easiest deal of my life.”

Quinn smiles to himself, satisfied. One step closer.

Dinner starts out promising enough. The table is set, the food looks amazing, and the sunset paints the lake in warm hues. It should be perfect.

And then… things start to go sideways.

First, Luke—being Luke—tries to help bring the dishes to the table and nearly drops the salad bowl. In his panic to save it, he elbows Jack, who’s carrying a basket of rolls. The bread goes flying, one roll landing directly in Jim’s drink.

“Nice,” Jim mutters, plucking it out with a sigh.

Ellen shakes her head, clearly unimpressed but used to this kind of chaos. “Can we go one meal without something ending up on the floor?”

Jack, unfazed, shrugs. “Technically, it landed in Dad’s glass.”

You try to hold back a laugh as Quinn pulls out a chair for you, but the moment you sit, you realize something is… off. The seat wobbles, just enough to be noticeable, and before you can react, one of the legs gives way entirely.

“Shit—”

You barely manage to catch yourself before fully hitting the ground. Quinn moves fast, steadying you before you can completely fall, but the damage is done. Luke is doubled over laughing, and Jack is wheezing so hard he can’t breathe.

“I—” Jack tries, but he’s laughing too hard to finish. “I swear—we didn’t—touch—that chair—”

Quinn glares at them before looking at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, face burning as you straighten up. “Just my pride taking a hit.”

Ellen sighs. “That chair was wobbly this morning. I told you boys to fix it.”

Jack wipes a tear from his eye. “Well, now we know it was definitely broken.”

Dinner resumes, and for a few blessed minutes, everything is normal. The conversation flows, the food is delicious, and you almost forget about the earlier chaos.

Until Luke, in all his wisdom, decides he needs more steak sauce. He reaches across the table, miscalculating just how close his elbow is to your glass of wine.

The second the glass tips, it’s over.

Red wine splashes everywhere—your dress, the table, Quinn’s sleeve.

“Oh my God,” you exclaim, pushing back from the table as the cold liquid soaks into the fabric.

Luke freezes. “Oh—oh, shit. Oh, no—”

Ellen is already up, grabbing napkins. “Luke.” Her voice is the kind of exasperated that only comes from years of dealing with sons who can’t sit still. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Luke looks at you with pure panic. “I—I can fix this—”

Jack leans back, shaking his head. “Man, you just ruined her dress.”

“I know!” Luke groans, looking like he genuinely feels terrible. “I’ll—uh—I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

Quinn, who’s been silent through all of this, takes one look at you and then turns to Luke with the calmest voice imaginable.

“Get up.”

Luke blinks. “What?”

“Get. Up.”

There’s a long pause before Luke, sensing the very real possibility of Quinn throwing him into the lake, slowly pushes his chair back and stands.

Quinn doesn’t hesitate—he grabs Luke’s napkin and dabs at your dress, his brows furrowed in frustration. “I told you not to sit next to her.”

Luke throws his hands up. “How is this my fault?!”

Ellen sighs again. “Alright, alright, it’s just a little wine.” She turns to you. “Honey, let’s go see if we can salvage your dress.”

You follow her inside, but despite her best efforts, the stain refuses to come out.

You sigh, looking at Ellen through the mirror. “Ellen, I think it’s unsalvageable.”

She looks up at you, guilt evident on her face. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s fine, really.”

When you return downstairs, Luke looks like a kicked puppy, eyes glued to the floor. Quinn scans your dress, his jaw tightening.

“Goddammit, Luke,” Quinn mutters.

You step beside him, nudging Luke lightly with your foot. “It’s fine, really,” you say softly.

Quinn exhales, rubbing his jaw before looking at you. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

You blink at him. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter now, more certain. “Right now.”

You hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the lingering warmth of the lake. The sound of crickets hums in the background as you and Quinn walk in comfortable silence, his fingers laced through yours. The chaos of dinner fades into the background, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath your feet.

“You okay?” you ask softly, glancing up at him.

Quinn exhales through his nose, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Just… today didn’t go exactly how I planned.”

You squeeze his hand. “You had a plan?”

His smile grows slightly. “Believe it or not, yeah. Kind of.”

You smirk. “Well, that was your first mistake.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Tell me about it.”

You keep walking, but the farther you go, the more familiar the path becomes. It’s only when the trees thin, revealing a quiet clearing, that you realize where he’s leading you. Your steps slow as you take it in.

Strung between the branches, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon and the fairy lights Quinn must have set up earlier, are dozens of photos—memories captured and preserved in time.

Your breath catches as you step forward, reaching out to gently touch one of them. It’s a picture from your first hockey game together, noses nearly pressed together as you grinned at the camera. Another of you mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with joy. One from a lazy morning in bed, sunlight spilling across your tangled limbs.

Every single one tells your story.

You turn back to Quinn, your chest tight with emotion. “You did all this?”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I—I wanted you to see what I see. Every time I look at you, it’s just… it’s all of this. Every moment, every memory, everything that makes us, us.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“I wanted everything to be perfect,” he continues, voice quiet but steady. “I had this whole idea in my head—this big, perfect moment. The dinner, the dress, the way tonight was supposed to go.” He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “And then Luke knocked wine all over you, and Jack wouldn’t stop chirping, and everything kind of fell apart.”

You smile, tilting your head. “Sounds about right.”

Quinn looks at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “Yeah. But then I realized… this is perfect.” He lets out a small, breathy laugh, almost like he’s realizing it in real time. “The chaos, the interruptions, the fact that nothing ever goes exactly how we plan it. That’s us. That’s our life.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He takes a deep breath, then lets go of one of your hands, reaching into his pocket. And suddenly, he’s kneeling before you, a small velvet box in his palm, slightly illuminated by the moonlight.

“I don’t need the perfect moment,” he says, looking up at you. “I just need you.”

Your heart pounds, your vision blurring as you try to take in everything at once—the way he’s looking at you, the way his fingers tremble just slightly around the box, the way the entire world feels like it’s tilting on its axis.

“Marry me?” he asks, voice soft but sure.

You let out a shaky breath, a laugh breaking through the tears already forming in your eyes. “Quinn, of course I’ll marry you.”

A breath of relief escapes him before he grins—grins in that rare, open way he only does when he’s truly happy. He stands quickly, slipping the ring onto your finger before wrapping his arms around you, holding you close.

You bury your face in his shoulder, laughing through your tears. “God, I love you.”

His grip tightens around you, his voice warm against your ear. “Love you more.”

By the time you and Quinn make it back, hand in hand, the Hughes family is waiting—Jack and Luke perched on the couch, Jim leaning against the counter, and Ellen practically bouncing in place.

Jack spots the ring first. “Oh my god—”

Ellen claps her hands together, her eyes shining. “You said yes?”

You hold up your hand, and the room erupts.

Jack groans dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “I can’t believe this. Quinn won at life.”

Jim claps Quinn on the shoulder with a proud nod, and Ellen pulls you into a tight hug, murmuring how happy she is for you both.

Luke hangs back, hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes darting toward you before dropping to the floor. His face is tight, like he’s been debating something in his head.

You don’t give him the chance to overthink it. Without a word, you step toward him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

Luke stiffens in surprise before slowly relaxing, exhaling a breath. “I—I really didn’t mean to ruin your dress,” he mumbles, voice small.

You smile against his shoulder. “I know, Luke. It’s just a dress.”

He hesitates before hugging you back, his grip a little tight, like he’s still worried about the whole thing. “I felt really bad.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Well, you can make it up to me by giving a really good speech at the wedding.”

His eyes widen. “Wait—I can do a speech?”

Quinn sighs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I never said that.”

Luke smirks. “You didn’t have to.”

Jack groans. “Oh god, this is gonna be unbearable.”

Quinn shakes his head, pulling you back to his side. “I should’ve proposed in private,” he mutters under his breath.

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Nah. This is perfect.”

And as the Hughes family falls into their usual rhythm of chirps and laughter, as Quinn’s hand tightens around yours, you know that nothing—no chaos, no spilled wine, no wobbly chairs—could have made this moment any better.

beachy’s notes: hello babes please please, please send me fic requests