#(even if she barely can follow conversations)

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 4

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

You were already home when you opened your conversation with her.

E:

i have to tell you something.

You frowned the second your eyes landed on it.

You were already curled into bed—fresh from the shower, hair damp against your neck, oversized shirt slouching soft over your thighs. The room was dim, lit only by the weak orange buzz of your fairy lights. That Friday exhaustion still clung to your bones, but none of it mattered.

You were settled. Cozy. Warm.

There was nothing better than the thought of spending the whole weekend like this—no plans, no noise. Just your room, your phone, and her.

Something about the message hit different. Not her usual caps-locked chaos or horny emoji spiral. Just plain. Sharp. Hanging in the air like a loaded pause.

You stared at it longer than you meant to, thumb hovering.

You:

heyyyy

yeah?

what is it

You watched the read receipt appear, vanish, then return—followed by the word Typing, then nothing, then Typing again, like she was wrestling with whatever it was she couldn’t quite say.

E:

nevermind lol it’s dumb

just had a brain moment

u ever think a thing and go wait no i’m actually insane?

that was me. carry on.

You stared and your frown lingered.

There was something in it. Something unfinished, like she’d swallowed the thought halfway. It pressed at your chest—not hard, but enough to make you pause.

You let it sit there and tapped your thumb slow against the screen.

You:

don’t do that

if it mattered to you, it’s not dumb.

A beat and you double texted her.

You:

but fine. i’ll stop bugging

just tell me when ur ready

even if it’s weird

i like weird

E:

okay but what if it was like “i was possessed by a sexy ghost” weird

or “i’ve been thinking about ur mouth for 5 days straight” weird

bc that’s the category i’m working in rn

You snorted, the knot in your chest loosening instantly.

You:

girl what

E:

this is ur fault.

ur criminally hot and i’m emotionally unstable.

i almost sent u a poem today and had to physically restrain myself

You:

wait u wrote me a poem???

E:

no one’s ever gonna see it

unless i die then u can publish it posthumously

You rolled onto your side, laughing into your pillow, smiling so hard it made your face ache.

You:

SO how was ur day, poet

other than spiraling over my mouth

did the tragic lesbian survive algebra?

E:

barely

i almost died. they tried to silence me.

i doodled boobs on my notes again. staying humble.

You:

u say that like it’s a coping mechanism

E:

it is. ur boobs specifically

You snorted again, tension bleeding out of you with every stupid message that followed.

You:

do u miss them ??

should i send u some again so u can cope better?

E:

don’t tempt me rn i’m weak and unsupervised

You:

so that’s a yes

E:

that’s an always

You bit your lip, grinning into your pillow like an idiot.

She was back to herself—unhinged and dramatic, talking about how her math teacher was probably a demon who fed on the dreams of students. Complete with all-caps outbursts and at least two conspiracy theories. You kept laughing. Kept typing.

Eventually, your thumbs started to cramp.

You:

i swear my thumbs are buff now bc of u

E:

hot

You:

everything i say u turn into gay

E:

it's given

You bit your lip. Your heart thumped—stupid and full.

You didn’t ask again about the message. You didn’t have to. Whatever she’d meant to say, she clearly couldn’t yet.

You stayed texting until your phone went warm in your palm, until your eyes stung from grinning too long. By the time you checked the clock, it was 3AM.

You didn’t mean to stay up that late, but that’s what always happened with her. The later it got, the more chaotic the messages became. If it wasn’t full-blown unhinged, it was weirdly horny. And if it wasn’t horny, it got accidentally deep—like two sleep-deprived idiots trying to figure out the meaning of life between memes and finger-smash typing.

You:

do u ever wonder what we’d be like if we met in real life?

or would we combust instantly?

You barely had time to brace for whatever ridiculous answer that would get when your phone buzzed again—this time from a different notification.

From Ellie.

You blinked at the name—Ellie, already saved in your phone—and still typed:

You:

who is this?

Ellie:

It’s Ellie. From school.

A faint smirk tugged at your lips.

You:

i know

Ellie:

Just wanted to let you know I’m starting the draft for our project. It’s nothing serious, just bullet points. I figured I’d organize ideas before Monday.

You stared at her message, already smiling.

You:

you couldn’t tell me that earlier in class??

Ellie:

I didn’t think of it until now.

Also I'm still awake, so.

You:

why r u still up anyway ?

Ellie:

I wanted to be productive while the ideas were still fresh.

You snorted.

You:

nerd.

Ellie:

Sure.

You paused, glancing at your other chat. E hadn’t replied yet. Your thumb hovered, tempted to double text.

But right before you did—

E:

sorry went blank for a sec i was picturing how u say my name in a whisper lol anyway what were we even talking about

You laughed out loud, the sound muffled into your pillow.

You:

do u want me dead

E:

yes but like sexily

Another buzz.

Ellie:

Let me know if you’d rather read the notes now or wait for Monday. Either way works.

You laid your phone on your chest for a second, staring at the ceiling. One of them wanted to die at your hands. The other was politely offering to share bullet points at 3AM.

And just like that—when you’re happy, when it’s fun—time moved stupidly fast.

The hallway pulsed with the usual Monday mess—shuffling sneakers, lockers clanging shut, someone already yelling, and of course, that one kid running like it’s a sport.

You felt obnoxiously good for a Monday. The kind of good that only came from two straight days of texting someone who made your brain feel like soda bubbles. You were still carrying a smile that hadn’t fully faded since 3AM.

You suddenly spotted Ellie.

Standing at her locker, blue flannel shrugged over her usual black tee, one side of her hair still sleep-creased. Headphones rested around her neck. She looked a little worn—like sleep hadn’t been a priority. Like someone who’d stayed up too late doing something they didn’t regret.

You didn’t stop walking. Just drifted right up beside her locker, leaned against the one next to it like you had all the time in the world.

She didn’t look at you at first—just shifted her books with one hand, nudging her sketchpad into place. Her fingers lingered at the edge of a notebook you knew too well now. The one she said she started drafting in.

Finally, a glance. Quick and dry.

Then a sigh.

You smirked at her reaction. Tilted your head like you were observing something mildly amusing.

“So,” you said. “How was your weekend?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. Just reached deeper into the locker like she was debating throwing herself inside it.

“Quiet,” she said without looking at you.

You raised your brows. “That’s it?”

She shoved a pencil case into her bag and shut the locker with a dull thud. “What do you want me to say? I spent it drafting our project.”

You leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Mm. So productive.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it if you’re easily impressed.”

“Who said I was impressed?” you shot back, one brow raised. “I’m just asking.”

Ellie adjusted the strap of her guitar case on her shoulder, finally meeting your eyes. “Right. You’re just asking. Because you care deeply about how I spent my weekend.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe I do.”

That got you a blink. A pause. Her gaze flicked over your face—just for a second too long.

You smiled, all teeth.

“Wanna guess how I spent mine?”

Ellie didn’t say anything—just glanced away, too fast to be casual.

You tapped the locker with your knuckles, straightened up slowly. “See you in class, Williams.”

And with that, you walked off and didn’t look back.

But if you had, you might��ve caught the exact moment Ellie muttered under her breath—barely audible over the hallway noise.

“Jesus Christ.”

You slipped into your usual seat, still warm from your walk through the halls and encounter with Ellie. One of your friends tossed a lazy “hey,” but you barely glanced up—already pulling your phone out, screen lighting up with that soft blue glow.

You:

wakey wakey

i’m already in class

don’t blame me again if you end up being late, poet

Your grin was immediate. Unchecked. You bit it back behind your palm, thumbs still hovering when someone cleared their throat right beside you.

You looked up.

Ellie.

You didn’t hide your expression—still smiling like a dumbass, phone in hand.

“Yeah?” you asked, one brow raised.

She was holding out the notebook. The one she told you about. She didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Just—here,” she muttered, placing it down in front of you.

Your gaze dropped to the familiar cover, then back to her.

You smiled wider. “Thanks. I’ll look over it later.”

She nodded, quiet. “Cool.”

She turned without another word and made her way to her own seat. You tapped the corner of the notebook with your fingers, still smiling.

Your phone buzzed.

E:

why are u like this

i was gonna be late but now i’m getting up just to annoy u

also maybe to see what u look like in class all smug and pretty

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

You:

haha u wish

i wish u were my classmate for real tho

i can only think of many things 👀

E:

what things ??

You:

idk

maybe like… we’d be seatmates

and i wouldn’t wear any undies on purpose

Three dots appeared immediately. It vanished and came back again.

E:

ok well. i just flatlined in my desk chair.

thanks a lot

You:

just trying to motivate u to get to school on time

E:

I'M ALREADY AT SCHOOL BRUH

i am not responsible for the thoughts i’m having rn

You grinned, legs curled up in your chair, heart stupidly light.

You:

am i making u…?

right now?

Another pause.

Typing..

E:

ma’am this is a public institution

You:

answer the question :)

E:

let’s just say i’m sitting very still rn

and ur going to hell. congrats.

You bit back another grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

You:

worth it.

E:

i hate u

Your thumb hovered over the screen, still smiling like a complete idiot as the bell rang.

You:

ur really gonna hate me when i say

i’m not even wearing a bra rn

E:

YOU’RE A MENACE

i hope you’re proud of yourself for what you're doing to me

You:

just a little

E:

really huh

if i were ur seatmate

i’d sit too close

thighs touching, shoulder to shoulder

and i’d keep dropping my pen just to bend down and grab it

and yk

You:

AND I KNOW WHAT?

GO ON I BEG U

okay actually u don’t need to

because i already am..

E:

good.

that’s what you deserve.

you wanna play? let’s play.

You:

worth it again

every damn single time

Your phone buzzed again, and you bit back another grin.

E:

UR INSANE

You:

okay well tytl nerd

class starts

but thank u i guess for giving me something to think about while i touch myself tonight

or maybe right after this class ;)

Time blurred.

Class, lunch, class again—standard Monday drag. Nothing special. Just the usual shuffle between subjects and half-awake conversations that barely counted as human interaction.

Now, you were in the library for your last period. Final class of the day. The room was quiet in that stiff, almost sacred way libraries get—like if you breathed too loud, someone would smite you.

Ms. Alvarez, who walked in balancing a thick binder and a tired expression. She barely made it past the first five minutes before clearing her throat and announcing, “Alright, class. I have a faculty meeting in ten. You’re allowed to continue working on your project in pairs, but you must stay in the classroom or within school premises. No one leaves early. Understood?”

You were sitting across from Ellie. She was fully immersed in whatever she was typing on her laptop—jaw tight, brows drawn, fingers moving like she was coding national security protocols instead of organizing character arcs.

You tried to match her energy for a grand total of three minutes before your attention span gave out completely.

Your gaze dropped to the window. From the second-floor view, you could see a couple of students loitering around the quad, stretched out across benches and grass. Someone was dramatically eating a banana. You didn’t know why that annoyed you.

Without thinking, you reached for your phone.

One unread message.

E:

WHAT THE FUCK

IF UR GOING TO TELL ME SOMETHING LIKE THAT IN CLASS AT LEAST LET ME WATCH

FOR COMPENSATION

jk

but yes?

You bit your lip hard—so hard it almost hurt—not wanting to smile in front of Ellie. You slipped the phone away like it burned, then reached toward her side of the table.

She didn’t look up when you slid her notebook over, flipping straight to the page.

Possible Story Structure – v1.0

You stared at it for a beat. Then made a face.

“This is so boring,” you muttered.

Ellie kept typing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. This is criminal. Look at this—no dramatic kisses? No one cries? This is actual villain behavior.”

“They’re just notes,” she said without looking up.

“They’re rules. And they suck.”

“They’re guidelines,” she corrected, finally glancing your way. “And they exist because someone—you—suggested glitter-induced closet sex as a turning point.”

“And yet, you wrote it down.”

Ellie sighed through her nose. “So you’d shut up.”

You jabbed your pen at the “Maybe a forehead touch??” line. “This. Right here. What is this. This is loser behavior.”

“It’s called restraint.”

You let out the fakest gasp imaginable. “Loser and pretentious.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “You want them crying in the rain after a juice box incident.”

“Because that’s real storytelling, Ellie.”

“You literally renamed the central conflict The Tragic Juice Box Betrayal of 7th Grade.”

“It was a betrayal. And it was orange. It stained. It’s metaphorical. You just don't understand.”

You were staring back at each other.

You leaned forward just a little. “Also, I know you sketched the supply closet scene in the margin of your algebra notebook.”

“That was a box,” she said flatly. “It was a literal box.”

“Sure,” you said, unconvinced.

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to summon patience from another plane of existence.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“You’re just repressed.”

She blinked. “Says the girl blushing at her phone two minutes ago.”

You froze.

Ellie tilted her head, a little too smug. “Hmm?”

You cleared your throat. “That’s classified.”

She smirked—barely. “Suspicious.”

You slid the notebook back toward her. “Fix your outline before I submit a new draft with a title you won't really like.”

She rolled her eyes casually, shaking her head as she went back to her laptop.

You leaned back in your chair—annoyed, stretching a little before grabbing your phone again—this time not even pretending to be sneaky about it.

Ellie didn’t look up, but you could feel her noticing.

You opened your chat with E, thumb already moving.

You:

i’m literally sitting across from the most insufferable person alive

she’s so bossy and uptight and acts like she’s above dramatic plotlines

like okay sorry i want EMOTION in my fake scenarios??? sue me???

she actually said “restraint” like it was a flex. loser behavior actually.

You smirked, shot a glance up, then kept typing.

You:

also she keeps pretending she didn’t sketch the closet scene

it was OBVIOUSLY not just a box

You huffed quietly, shifting in your seat. Ellie was still typing—completely zoned in, not looking at you.

You looked back down at your screen.

You:

she’s doing that thing again

getting all serious like we’re submitting this to sundance

like relax. it’s two fictional lesbians and a tragic juice box. let me work.

You paused for a beat, then kept going.

You:

WHATEVER

idk. don’t wanna argue about it

i just wanna talk to you

remember what i said before about making out in the nonfiction aisle?

i’m here at the library ;)

i can imagine our kiss

HOT

i'll have you finger me 'till I cum and my legs shake

and we go back to class like nothing happened

You stared at the message for a second, then laughed under your breath and set your phone down on the table, face-down. You suddenly felt silly—teasing, sure, but also a little giddy. Like you were getting away with something. Especially with Ellie right in front of you, looking like the literal opposite of whatever that text had just suggested.

She was still focused. Still typing. Her MacBook open, her hand flicking her pen across the margins of her notebook. The light hit her rings again. She was chewing her bottom lip.

You grabbed your pen and started doodling in the corner of your notes. Hearts, stars, little lesbian stick figures making out beside bookshelves.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught something—Ellie’s posture had shifted. Her brow furrowed deeper, her eyes narrowed at the screen.

Then she bit her lip again, harder this time. Her hand came up, fingers scratching just above her eyebrow like she was trying to stay grounded. Her expression pinched for a second—like she was trying to keep her face neutral and failing.

You glanced out the window instead. Golden light, slow-moving clouds. You imagined E, imagined her standing on the other side of this table, all smirking confidence and chaos. You smiled to yourself, tapping your pen twice before reaching back for your phone.

Still no reply.

You frowned a little. Refreshed the app. Nothing.

Right then, Ellie stood up.

You looked up immediately. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t meet your eyes. Just grabbed the edge of her chair like she needed to move. “Getting a book,” she muttered, already walking.

You blinked, confused. “You already have like, four.”

She didn’t answer and just walked off. You watched her disappear down the aisle, your phone still in your hand.Still no message from E.

The empty screen felt louder than it should’ve.

A few minutes passed. Ellie didn’t come back.

You tapped your fingers once against the table, then got up, quietly making your way until the nonfiction aidle, farthest row in the back, where no one really went.

You found her there, tucked at the very end of the aisle, half-hidden behind the shelves. She was leaning slightly against them, phone in hand, her eyes fixed on the screen—expression unreadable, but her ears flushed just a little too pink to ignore.

She didn’t notice you right away.

But the second she did, she quickly lowered her phone and reached for a nearby book, flipping it open like she’d been studying the whole time.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Instead, you glanced at the shelves around you, trying not to smile—because of course it had to be this aisle. The same one you’d texted E about, half-joking, half-not.

“What’s funny?” Ellie asked without looking up, now looking so serious.

“Nothing,” you said, too fast.

“Really?” Her tone was dry, eyes still on the page.

You grabbed a random book from the shelf and flipped it open. “I just remembered something.”

“Uh huh.” She said it flatly, like she didn’t buy it.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. But you didn’t answer her. Just turned another page, pretending to read.

Ellie shifted beside you, thumbing through her own book.

“What are you even doing in the nonfiction aisle?” you asked, still not looking up. “It’s not like we’re writing nonfiction.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, actually… sometimes good fiction pulls from nonfiction. Real stories. Background stuff. It makes things feel more grounded.”

You peeked over the edge of your book. “Okay, nerd.”

She shrugged. “Just saying.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts were anything but neutral.

Okay sorry I'm just here because I’ve been thinking about making out with someone against these shelves for three days straight.

You stared down at the page—something about memory and neural pathways—but none of it stuck.

Your mouth twitched into a grin again. E’s dumb chaotic message echoed in your head.

You couldn’t wait to talk to her again tonight.

You glanced up.

Ellie was still there, head tilted slightly, lips parted in concentration, bathed in soft afternoon light spilling through the high windows.

She looked unreal. Sharp in some ways. Gentle in others.

She wasn’t even trying. Her flannel sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was half-messy like she’d forgotten to fix it after leaning against her hand too long. A strand curled near her cheek. Her rings caught the light again when she shifted the book. And her mouth—soft, slightly parted as she read—moved just a little when she wet her lips without thinking.

“Actually…” you started, voice light. “Can I ask you something?”

Ellie didn’t look up. “What?”

You waited a beat. “Have you ever thought about making out with someone in the library?”

That got her attention.

Her head lifted slowly, like she wasn’t sure she heard you right. “What?”

You grinned. Tilted your head. “I mean—have you ever thought about it? Like. Right here. This exact aisle.”

Ellie blinked once. “Do you mean making out with someone who’s… here in the library?”

Her voice had a weird edge. Something unreadable.

You scoffed, playful. “No. Just—like. Making out with someone in a library. Someone you like. A girl or whatever.”

She blinked again. Then scoffed lightly, like you’re ridiculous.

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

She leaned her shoulder against the shelf. “Why would I make out with someone here?” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the library.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well—where would you bring them if you wanted to make out with them?”

That made her pause.

You watched her carefully.

She stared at you, then down at the book in your hands.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

You grinned. “That’s not an answer.”

She sighed and turned the page, trying to ignore you. “Not everyone makes out in public places, you know.”

“Yeah,” you said, shutting your book and letting it hang at your side. “But it’s fun to think about.”

She looked at you again.

“And you think about it a lot?” she asked, voice casual—but not quite.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “I do.” You added, a smirk playing in your lips.

Ellie exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking up to your face—and lingering. You could almost feel her gaze pause on your mouth for a second too long.

Then she shook her head, barely, like she was trying to snap herself out of it.

Without another word, she turned and walked off, heading back toward your table with quick, quiet steps—like she needed to leave before she did something she’d regret.

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[viviansturns]

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊'𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 - wc 8k+

...every time chris has ever fucked up and apologized

cw: angst, crying, begging, repeated toxic actions, extremely toxic relationship, totally unresolved, codependancy, mentions of alcohol, no physical abuse

a/n- hi guysss i'm putting this in the text of fic so you read it!! so this is for my 1,000 follower special! i've done a long fic before (here) so i decided to do another but this ones terribly sad!

it's important to note that i did this is a completely different writing style than mine, especially nearing the end, and I really don't know how much I like it. in addition, i reached the maximum number of "blocks" due to the absurd amount of enters, so theres a continuation to this post. anyways, enjoy! and i'm sorry in advance

Sorry for being a dick

The party is loud enough that you have to lean in to hear what your friend is saying, but you don’t really mind. You’re not even sure you wanted to come at first—it’s one of those crowded, slightly pretentious housewarmings where everyone brings craft beer or overpriced wine.

Still, you like the kitchen best. It’s bright and a little too small for the twelve-ish people squeezed in, the chatter bouncing off white cabinets and cheap tile.

You’re perched on the counter, boot heels knocking softly, drink in hand, laughing at something stupid your friend tells you about her boss. You feel loose, relaxed. You’ve even forgotten for a second that you don’t know most of these people.

That changes when he walks in.

He doesn’t exactly enter the room so much as commandeer it.

Tall. Broad. Annoyingly handsome in that way you can tell he knows. He’s talking to someone behind him, voice a little too loud over the music in the other room, eyes flicking around like he’s casing the joint.

He sees the group in the kitchen, and his gaze lands on you for a second too long before moving away again.

You notice.

“Who’s that?” you ask your friend in a hushed voice.

“Chris,” she mouths. “He’s... you know. He’s cool.”

Which apparently means handle with care.

You shrug. Not your problem.

Except he walks over anyway.

He leans against the counter next to you, beer dangling between his fingers, sizing you up in a quick, dismissive glance.

“What are you all talking about?” he asks, all casual arrogance.

“Hey Chris. My boss,” your friend says.

You smirk. “We’re also mocking ourselves for being fake adults. And I was saying I still write poetry sometimes.”

“Poetry?” he snorts. “Christ. That’s—pretentious as hell.”

It isn’t said playfully. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. Just tosses it out there like a fact everyone would agree on.

The conversation dies for half a beat.

You blink, then let out a sharp little laugh that has no humor in it.

“Wow,” you say, tilting your head. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a hobby.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to you, startled.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

For a second, he actually looks embarrassed.

“Shit,” he mutters. He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. The air shifts—his arrogance deflating fast. “Okay. You’re right. That was... dickish. ’m sorry.”

You raise your eyebrows, a smirk tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“That’s it? Dickish?”

He winces. “Super dickish.”

“Better.”

Silence stretches, filled with the muffled bass from the living room and the sound of someone laughing down the hall.

He huffs out a laugh, looking genuinely sheepish now.

“I really am sorry,” he adds, voice low enough that only you hear it.

You believe him. Which is stupid. You barely know him.

But he looks so uncomfortable.

You exhale, shoulders relaxing.

“Fine,” you say, smiling slow. “You’re forgiven.”

He blinks.

“That easy?”

You shrug, swirling your drink.

“I forgive way too easily. You’ll come to realize.”

His eyes lock on yours then, the apology softening into something else. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

A silence falls between you that is surprisingly comfortable.

Finally, he clears his throat, suddenly awkward in a way that makes you bite back a laugh.

“Can I, uh—can I get you another drink? For being a pretentious asshole.”

You tap your glass thoughtfully.

“You can try,” you tease.

He grins—genuine this time—and holds out a hand for your cup.

You let him take it.

_______________

He disappears into the living room, leaving you with a flutter in your chest you’re definitely going to blame on the cheap wine.

Your friend gives you a knowing look.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin that creeps up.

“Shut up,” you mouth.

But you’re already looking at the doorway, waiting for him to come back.

Sorry for forgetting

You don’t really expect him to text you.

But you check your phone the entire next morning anyway.

Your friend teased you about it all the way home. “Oh my god, you like him.” Which is insulting, actually. You don’t like rude boys who say sorry too late.

Still, you left the party thinking about the way he’d looked when he realized he’d actually hurt you. The awkward apology. The hand rubbing the back of his neck. The real, messy way he’d said I’m sorry like he wasn’t used to saying it at all.

You shouldn’t care.

But you’re not immune.

So when his name finally lights up your screen, you have to bite back a smile before you even read the message.

Chris: hey. you around today?

You roll your eyes at the lack of capitalization.

You: Depends.

Chris: on?

You: On whether you’re gonna insult me again.

The typing bubbles appear. Vanish. Come back.

Chris: i was gonna try not to.

You laugh.

You: Fine. When?

Chris: like an hour?

You glance at the time. You’re not really free but it’s not like you have anything you can’t move.

Your thumb hovers.

You: Sure.

Chris: cool. i’ll let you know.

_______________

That’s how you find yourself sitting in the cramped back corner of your favorite coffee shop, half an hour later, pretending to read while checking the door every three seconds.

He’s late.

Not “five-minutes-traffic” late.

Twenty. Thirty.

You try not to care.

But you’re annoyed.

You check your phone. Nothing.

Finally, you toss your book onto the table and fish your phone out again, thumbs flying.

You: So was this the part where you show up or just leave me hanging?

You hit send. And immediately regret it.

It takes five minutes for the bubbles to appear.

Chris: fuck.

That’s all.

You scowl.

You: Oh my god.

A minute later, your phone rings.

You almost don’t pick up.

But you do.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, rougher than you remember.

“Hey,” you snap.

Silence.

“I’m… sorry.”

You snort. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah. I… I forgot.”

Your mouth twists. “You forgot.”

He exhales, sounding wrecked. “Yeah. I don’t have an excuse. I just… lost track and I didn’t remember.”

Silence stretches.

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“You do realize that’s actually worse, right?”

He groans softly on the other end of the line. “Yeah. I know. That’s on me.”

Your shoulders drop.

You didn’t want a fight. You just didn’t want to feel stupid sitting here alone.

“I cleared time for you,” you say quietly.

He’s quiet too.

“I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.

“I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he says finally.

You blink.

“Chris…”

“I know. Don’t say it. I’m an asshole. A coward. Whatever. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

You sigh. The coffee in front of you has gone cold.

“You did waste it,” you admit.

“I know.”

“But…”

You close your eyes.

“I forgive you.”

Silence.

He actually laughs—a short, disbelieving sound.

“Again?”

“Again,” you say. “But you’re running out of freebies.”

He hums, sounding a little relieved.

“I’ll pay you back for the coffee.”

“You will.”

“And I’ll actually show up next time.”

You let out a small laugh.

“You better.”

Another beat of silence.

“Hey,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “Thanks. For… not hanging up.”

Your chest twists.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He lets out a breath.

“I’ll try not to.”

You hang up first.

You don’t finish your coffee.

But you do leave the shop smiling a little anyway.

Because you didn’t want to like him.

But it’s hard not to like someone who doesn’t know how to be good at this, but tries anyway.

Even if he’s late.

Even if he’s an idiot.

Because he said sorry, and you believed him.

Which is probably your biggest mistake yet.

-

-

-

-

-

-

You’re dating now.

It still feels weird to say out loud.

Not because it doesn’t fit, but because somehow it snuck up on you.

You can’t even say when it happened exactly. One minute you were teasing him about flaking on coffee, the next you were making out in his car, both of you too proud to admit you’d been waiting for it.

It’s not perfect. Nothing about Chris is perfect.

But it feels like it. He’s magnetic in a way you can’t describe. You don’t think you could stop liking him if you tried

—-- 1 month later —---

Sorry, work was crazy…

Tonight, it’s supposed to be your night.

You planned it.

A small, no-pressure dinner at your place. Just pasta, garlic bread, and that movie you keep saying he has to see because you love it and you want him to love it too.

You even clean your tiny apartment. Real cleaning, too, not just shoving socks under the bed.

You light a candle. One. You’re not that desperate…

You’re actually a little nervous.

Which is stupid. He’s seen you at your worst. (hair a mess, drunk at 2 AM crying)

But tonight feels like a test somehow.

And then he’s late.

You tell yourself it’s no big deal.

You know he’s busy. He works stupid hours. You knew that before you kissed him, before you let him press you against his stupid car door and promise to do better.

So you wait.

And wait.

You text.

No answer.

You end up sitting cross-legged on your couch, cold pasta in a pot on the stove, arms folded over your chest.

You’re not angry. Not yet.

You’re hurt.

Which is worse.

___________

When he finally knocks, you think about not opening the door.

You do it anyway.

He’s there, hands shoved into his jacket, eyes tired, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He doesn’t look arrogant now.

He looks like someone who knows he fucked up.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You don’t move.

“Hi.”

He winces. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate.

Finally you step back.

He closes the door behind him carefully, like it might explode.

You don’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Yeah?”

“I am,” he says. He actually sounds wrecked. “I lost track of time. Work was crazy. I meant to text you, but—”

You hold up a hand.

“I don’t want excuses.”

He flinches.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your eyes.

“Chris, I don’t care if you’re busy. Just tell me.”

“I know,” he mutters.

“Seriously,” you say, voice shaking a little. “Do you know what it feels like to be sitting here like an idiot? Stirring pasta for someone who’s not coming?”

He grimaces, biting his lip.

“I do now.”

Silence stretches.

You can hear the candle burning.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He looks up sharply.

“Say you’re sorry.”

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Your chest tightens.

“Yeah.”

He steps forward cautiously, like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“I don’t want to make you feel like that again.”

You sniff, blinking fast.

“You probably will,” you mutter.

He actually huffs a laugh.

“Yeah. I probably will.”

For a second neither of you says anything.

Then you let out a shaky breath.

“I saved you some pasta.”

He breaks.

Laughs, low and a little relieved.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s cold.”

He grins, eyes softening in that way that ruins you.

“Can I have some?”

You roll your eyes but turn to the stove.

He follows you, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

When you set the pot on the counter, he slips his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

You stiffen for a second.

Then relax.

Because he’s warm. And he’s here.

And because even if he’s bad at this, he’s trying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You sigh.

“I know.”

He kisses the side of your neck.

“Still like me?”

You snort.

“Maybe.”

He chuckles, mouth brushing your skin.

“I’ll take that.”

Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that

He’s got one arm around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. You’re telling him about your latest project for work—except you’re excited. Animated.

You don’t even realize you’re babbling until you hear the edge of your own voice.

“So anyway, if this client approves the new pitch, it means I could actually lead the whole campaign, which would be insane. Like, it’s not that big of a company, but still—”

You’re cut off by his laugh.

Not a mean laugh. Just dismissive.

“Babe,” he says, squeezing your arm. “You’re really geeking out about this.”

You go still.

Your face warms.

“I’m… what?”

He raises an eyebrow, still smiling, oblivious.

“You’re geeking out. It’s cute, don’t get me wrong. Just—I don’t know, you’re acting like it’s some world-changing thing.”

You pull away a little.

“Wow.”

His grin falters.

“What?”

You set your jaw, swallowing back the stupid sting in your chest.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Hey.” He sits up straighter. “What?”

You shake your head.

“It’s just funny, I guess.”

He frowns. “What’s funny?”

“That you think it’s cute. Me caring about my job.”

He blinks, mouth opening and closing.

“That’s not—Jesus. That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Because it sounded like ‘Aw, look at you pretending to be important.’”

His face falls.

You hate the way your throat tightens.

“It’s not pretending,” you add quietly.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fuck. Okay. Wait. Hold on.”

You stand up, pushing off the blanket.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting water,” you mutter.

“Please don’t walk away. Can you—just. Listen to me?”

You freeze halfway to the kitchen.

Your fingers curl against your palm.

“Fine,” you bite out, not turning around.

He gets up too, crossing the tiny space between you.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

He exhales sharply.

“Please.”

Slowly, you turn.

He looks miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

You stare at him.

He lifts both hands, palms up, as if surrendering.

“I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean it like that. I was… fuck, I don’t know. Teasing? But it was stupid. And dismissive. And—just wrong.”

You cross your arms.

“It matters to me,” you say. Your voice cracks, which you hate.

He winces.

“I know.”

“It’s the one thing I’m proud of.”

He steps closer, carefully.

“I know,” he repeats, voice low.

He’s so close you can smell his cologne, can see the tiny scar on his eyebrow.

“I love that you care about it,” he says quietly. “That you’re… passionate. That you can talk about it for hours. It’s one of the reasons I fucking like you so much.”

Your breath catches.

He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry I made you feel stupid about it. That’s on me. It was careless.”

Silence stretches between you.

He waits.

And waits.

You sigh, deflating.

“You are an asshole,” you say.

He nods immediately.

“Certified.”

You try to glare at him. Fail.

Your mouth twitches instead.

He sees it.

“Forgive me?” he asks, voice small.

You roll your eyes.

“God, you’re pathetic.”

He grins.

You let your arms fall to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter.

He steps in, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against your hair.

You huff.

“I know.”

I’m Sorry I Didn’t Trust You

It’s one of those nights where you don’t expect anything to go wrong. That’s the worst part.

Because you’re actually happy when you get there—half-buzzed on cheap wine, buzzing from texts with Chris.

You’d invited him.

You told him about this gathering all week.

“Low-key,” you’d promised. Just friends from work and a couple of their partners. Nothing huge. Nothing to worry about…

He said he might come.

Didn’t promise, but you’d hoped.

So when he shows up halfway through the evening, you’re actually thrilled.

You spot him in the doorway, holding a six-pack, eyes scanning the room.

You wave.

You’re laughing when you do.

Because you’re in the middle of a story with Daniel—who’s literally your friend from work. Who’s engaged. Whose fiancé is in the kitchen.

Daniel had just made some dumb joke about your mutual boss’s hair transplant.

You’re giggling helplessly, cheeks flushed with cheap cabernet.

“Hey!” you call when Chris finally notices you. “You made it!”

But the second your eyes meet, you see it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The flash in his eyes.

Your heart sinks a little.

“Chris,” you say brightly, patting the couch cushion next to you. “Come sit—”

But he doesn’t.

He glances at Daniel. At your hand resting lightly on Daniel’s arm.

Your platonic friend.

And his face goes cold.

“Didn’t realize you were busy,” he says flatly.

You blink.

“Chris.”

Daniel gives a polite, awkward smile.

“Hey, man.”

Chris’s answering nod is so sharp it could cut glass.

You bristle.

“Sit down,” you try again.

“I’m good,” he mutters.

“Chris.”

He sets the six-pack down a little too hard on the coffee table.

“Didn’t know you had company.”

Your friend’s eyes widen.

You swallow.

“Daniel’s my friend,” you bite out.

Chris’s lip curls.

“Yeah. Looks real friendly.”

Silence slams into the room.

Daniel coughs.

“I’m gonna… refill my drink.” He escapes, shooting you an apologetic look.

You watch him go, then whip around to glare at Chris.

“Are you serious?”

Chris doesn’t back down.

“What? You two seemed cozy.”

You stand up so fast the blanket slides to the floor.

“Don’t you dare.”

He lifts his chin defiantly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t accuse me of… whatever that was.”

He folds his arms, eyes hard.

“You tell me. You were laughing, touching him—”

“He’s my friend. And he’s engaged!”

Chris’s jaw works.

You see it, the way he wants to back down. But he doesn’t.

“Didn’t look like you remembered that.”

Your mouth falls open.

“That’s low. Even for you.”

“Maybe don’t act like you’re single, then.”

The words are quiet.

Mean.

You flinch.

It’s like getting slapped.

People are staring.

You feel your face burn.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking.

He blinks.

You don’t wait.

You shove past him and storm toward the door.

You hear him mutter something, but you’re already outside, cold night air hitting your face like a wall.

Your eyes sting.

You’re furious.

Humiliated.

Hurt.

You don’t even know where you’re going, just that you have to move.

You make it half a block before you hear footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You don’t stop.

“Wait. Please.”

He catches up, grabbing your arm.

You spin, shoving him away.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit.

He recoils, hands up.

“Okay. Okay.”

You glare at him, breathing hard.

He’s pale in the streetlight.

“Chris, what the fuck was that?”

He swallows hard.

“Please. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, bitter.

“Sorry? You just called me a fucking cheater in front of my friends.”

He winces.

“I know.”

“You embarrassed me. You made me feel like—like shit. For laughing with someone.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracks.

“Why would you even think that about me?”

His face crumples.

“Because I’m an insecure piece of shit.”

You blink.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard.

“I saw you with him and I just—snapped. I was jealous. Fuck. I hate that I’m like this.”

You clench your jaw.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“I know.”

He sounds wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Silence.

Your arms are wrapped tight around yourself.

You want to leave.

But you can’t.

Because he’s standing there looking like the ground just gave out beneath him.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

You do.

He steps closer, slowly.

“I trust you,” he says desperately. “I do. I just—sometimes I get scared I’m gonna lose you. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You swallow, throat raw.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I know.”

“You can’t accuse me of shit because you’re scared.”

He nods rapidly.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll work on it. I swear.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

He waits.

Finally you whisper, “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Your eyes burn.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

He shakes his head.

“No. You didn’t.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t,” he repeats, voice breaking.

Silence.

You take a tiny step forward.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch you without permission.

Finally, you sigh and collapse against his chest.

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair.

You close your eyes.

“I know,” you whisper back.

But you’re still angry.

I’m sorry I took it out on you

You know he’s had a long day.

You can tell from the moment you hear his keys hit the door.

It’s the way they don’t just jingle—they clatter.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, stirring something on the stove. The apartment smells like garlic and butter and the candle you lit an hour ago.

You want it to feel like home.

You want to be the good part of his day.

When the door swings open, you can hear him sigh.

Not relief, but exhaustion.

You peek over your shoulder.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just dumps his bag on the floor. Runs a hand over his face.

“Hi,” he mutters eventually, voice scratchy.

You swallow.

He looks… bad.

Hair a mess. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes shadowed.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you smile gently.

“I made dinner.”

He snorts.

“Of course you did.”

You freeze.

The words are flat. Not grateful.

You stare at him, spoon paused over the pan.

“…Excuse me?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Nothing.”

You set the spoon down carefully.

“No. Say it.”

He exhales, jaw clenching.

“Just—fuck. Can you not do this right now?”

Your stomach twists.

“Do what?”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours, and they’re sharp.

“This.” He gestures vaguely. “The whole perfect-girlfriend routine. Cooking. Candles. Acting like everything’s fucking fine.”

You go still.

Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t… acting.”

He scoffs.

“Sure.”

Silence.

You can hear the pan sizzling.

Slowly, you turn off the burner.

You swallow hard.

“Okay.”

You walk past him toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Where are you going?”

Your voice cracks.

“Anywhere you’re not.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

You don’t wait.

You shut the bedroom door behind you.

It’s not a slam.

But it’s final.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, wiping at your eyes furiously.

You hate crying over this.

Over him.

You hear nothing for a while.

No footsteps.

No apology.

Just silence.

Your chest aches.

Of course. He won’t come.

He never—

The door creaks.

You look up sharply.

He’s standing there.

He doesn’t look angry now.

He looks wrecked.

His shoulders sag.

“Don’t,” you croak.

But he steps in anyway.

“Please.”

You turn your face away.

“Just—go away.”

He crosses the room in three strides.

He kneels in front of you, palms on your knees.

You try to shove him off.

He doesn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t.

“Please. Look at me.”

Slowly, shaking, you lift your eyes.

He’s pale.

Eyes glossy.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He swallows so hard you can hear it.

“I’m sorry.”

Your lip trembles.

He squeezes your knees gently.

“Say it better.”

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, there’s nothing but desperation there.

“I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice cracking.

“I had a shit day. Everything went wrong. My boss was on my ass. I didn’t want to come home because I knew I’d just… ruin it. And I did.”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“I ruined it. Like I always fucking do.”

Your eyes burn.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

You sniff.

“No. I didn’t.”

He nods, tears welling.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you.

Your hands are clenched in your lap.

Finally, carefully, he covers them with his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean any of that. Not one word.”

You swallow.

“I just wanted you to be happy to see me,” you admit, voice tiny.

He breaks.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

He surges forward, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your stomach.

You stay stiff for a moment.

Then your hands move.

They tangle in his hair.

He shudders.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your shirt. Over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens.

“I know.”

He doesn’t move.

He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

You stay like that for a long time.

Silent.

Breathing.

Trying to forgive him.

I’m sorry I shut you out

It starts small.

A text left on read.

No big deal. He’s busy.

You tell yourself that the first day.

By the second, your stomach’s twisting a little when you check your phone.

He’s not ignoring you exactly.

He answers.

Short.

Flat.

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine.”

“Want to hang out tonight?”

“Can’t. Busy.”

No smiley faces. No jokes. No “I miss you.”

Just… silence.

You’re used to him being hot and cold.

But this feels different.

It feels like talking to a wall.

_____________

On the third day, you call him.

He doesn’t pick up.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead you show up at his door.

It’s late. You know he’s home because his lights are on.

You knock.

Nothing.

You knock again, harder.

Finally, the door creaks open.

He peers out, looking wrecked.

Eyes red-rimmed.

Like he hasn’t slept.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps back and lets you in.

The place is dark.

Messy.

You stand in the middle of his living room, arms folded tight over your chest.

“Chris.”

He sinks onto the couch.

Elbows on knees. Head in hands.

You wait.

He doesn’t look at you.

You swallow hard.

“Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Your voice cracks.

“Please talk to me.”

He drags his hands down his face.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“Don’t what?”

He lifts his head finally.

Eyes glassy.

“Don’t try to fix me tonight. I can’t do it.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you whisper.

He huffs a bitter laugh.

“Sure.”

You blink fast, willing tears not to fall.

“You’re shutting me out.”

He flinches.

“You know you are.”

Silence.

You step closer.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say carefully. “I just need you to let me in.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t want in here,” he says, voice breaking.

You go very still.

“Try me.”

He swallows hard.

Then he breaks.

“I’m scared,” he rasps.

Your breath catches.

“Of what?”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“Of this. Of you. Of fucking it all up.”

You exhale slowly.

“Chris…”

He grips the back of his neck.

“I don’t know how to do this. Be good at this. Every time I think I am, I fuck it up. I say something shitty or push you away or… I don’t know.”

He wipes at his eyes roughly.

“I don’t want you to see me like this. Like some fucking mess.”

You move before he can stop you.

You sit beside him and pull his hands from his face.

He resists for a second.

Then gives up.

Your fingers wrap around his.

“Hey,” you whisper.

He won’t look at you.

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Look at me.”

Finally, he does.

Broken.

You blink back tears.

“Do you think I’m here because you’re perfect?”

He huffs a miserable sound.

“Do you?” you demand.

He shakes his head.

“Then stop shutting me out,” you whisper fiercely.

Silence.

He breathes hard, chest rising and falling.

Finally, voice wrecked:

“I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Say it better.”

He blinks, tears threatening to spill.

“I’m sorry I shut you out.”

Your throat tightens.

“I hate when you do that,” you whisper.

He nods rapidly.

“I know.”

You sniff, tears falling now.

“I don’t want to be on the outside.”

He swallows.

“You’re not.”

“It felt like it.”

“I know,” he chokes.

Silence.

You let go of his hands only to wrap your arms around his neck.

He freezes.

Then melts.

Buries his face in your shoulder.

Breathing ragged.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.

You nod against him.

“I know.”

You feel his arms wrap tight around you.

Desperate.

Needing.

You hold him just as hard.

Neither of you says anything else.

But you both know this isn’t fixed.

Not really.

You’re just holding the pieces together.

I’m so sorry I wanted to hurt you

It starts over the dishes.

You can’t even believe it later.

But that’s all it is.

A sink full of plates and mugs and silverware that smell like old takeout.

You’re tired.

He’s tired.

You’ve both had long days.

You’re the one who says it first.

“Can you please help me clean up?”

Your voice is gentle. Careful.

But he’s sitting on the couch scrolling his phone.

He doesn’t even look up.

“Do it later.”

Your jaw tenses.

“I don’t want to do it later. It’ll be worse.”

He sighs—exaggerated, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus. It’s fucking dishes.”

You feel something snap.

“You said you’d help.”

“Yeah, well I’m tired,” he bites out.

“So am I,” you say, voice sharp.

He finally looks at you.

Eyes cold.

“Why are you always on my ass about this shit?”

Your mouth falls open.

“My ass? Chris, I just want you to keep one promise. Help with one thing.”

He snorts.

“Oh, one thing? Fucking hilarious.”

Your chest tightens.

“Don’t.”

But he’s not stopping.

He stands up.

“Here we go. The fucking lecture.”

You throw the dish towel down.

“Because you don’t listen!”

“Because you won’t shut the fuck up!”

Silence slams down.

You both freeze.

You blink rapidly.

Your lip trembles.

His chest heaves.

He doesn’t back down.

“Seriously,” he sneers. “It’s always something with you. Always needing me to do this, do that. You’re so fucking needy.”

You feel the tears immediately.

You try to swallow them back.

He sees.

He sees and he keeps going.

“God, it’s pathetic,” he spits.

You flinch.

He sees it.

He knows.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You act like I’d fucking fall apart without you. You think you’re so goddamn important.”

Your vision blurs.

“Stop,” you whisper.

But he’s shaking.

Voice rising.

“Maybe I’m sick of feeling like a fucking project you’re trying to fix. Like I’m some loser you can save.”

You gasp, choking on a sob.

He freezes.

It’s silent except for your breathing, ragged and wet.

You see his face crumple.

“Wait.”

You take a step back.

“Don’t.”

“Wait—fuck. Wait.”

Your voice cracks.

“Get out.”

He flinches.

You’re crying in earnest now.

“Get out. Get out get out get out—”

He doesn’t move.

He’s shaking too.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Get out!”

He drops to his knees.

Your eyes go wide.

He’s on the fucking floor, palms flat, head hanging.

“I didn’t mean it,” he sobs.

You hiccup.

He sounds broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

You try to back away, but he scrambles forward, grabbing your legs.

“Please.”

You push at his shoulders.

“Stop it—Chris—stop—”

He clings harder.

“I’m sorry. I wanted you to feel small because I felt small. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You can’t even see through your tears.

He’s crying too.

Loud. Ugly.

He presses his face to your stomach, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your shirt. “I’m sorry I wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry I’m like this. I’m sorry.”

Your hands hover over his head.

Shaking.

You want to hit him.

You want to hold him.

You do neither.

You just stand there, crying, as he clings to you and begs like his life depends on it.

“Please,” he sobs. “Please don’t leave me.”

You close your eyes.

Your fingers twitch.

Finally, they sink into his hair.

He chokes on relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

I’m sorry I cant be better

It starts quiet. Too quiet.

He’s been different lately. Not in the way that used to scare you—the shouting, the biting sarcasm.

This time it’s worse. He doesn’t shout at all. He doesn’t say much of anything.

You catch him reading something on his phone in bed. He closes it before you can see. You spot the dog-eared therapy book on the table, spine cracked, pen tucked inside with notes you’re not allowed to read. He goes. Every week. He even tells you. But he never talks about it.

It’s like he’s built walls you’re not allowed behind.

You’re lying on the couch together. Except you’re not together. He’s at one end. Staring at the ceiling.

You finally can’t take it. Your voice cracks when you speak.

“Do you even want this anymore?”

His head turns slowly. Brow furrowed like you’re speaking another language.

You swallow hard. “This. Us. Because if you don’t, just tell me.”

He blinks. “You think I don’t want you?”

You huff, eyes stinging. “I don’t know what you want. You won’t let me in. You don’t laugh, you don’t fight, you don’t—”

You stop. Breathing hard.

He’s silent. Eyes flickering. Like he’s fighting with himself.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I’m trying,” he says finally.

Your chest squeezes. “I know.”

“But I’m… fuck.” He sits up. Rubs both hands over his face. “I’m scared if I don’t try I’ll hurt you. So I’m trying to… not feel anything.”

Your lip trembles. “Chris.”

He drops his hands. He looks so small. So young. So tired.

His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, blinking away tears. “That’s not enough anymore.”

He lets out a wet, hopeless laugh. “I know.”

Silence.

He sniffs hard. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.”

You exhale shakily. “Look at me.”

He does. Eyes red.

“You don’t have to be better. You just have to be here.”

He nods like he understands, but you see the fear in his eyes.

You crawl across the couch, pressing your forehead to his. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you.

He just breathes you in. Shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

I’m so fucking sorry.

It’s late when he shows up. You’re already in pajamas, teeth brushed, trying not to cry. He’s been at “work” for hours later than he should be.

You open the door anyway. He’s standing there swaying, hair a mess, eyes red.

He reeks of cheap liquor.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You stare. Say nothing.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but you. “Can I come in?”

Your throat works. “Why.”

He flinches at your voice. “Please.”

You don’t move. He steps forward anyway, close enough you can smell the sweat and alcohol. Close enough you see it on his face.

Something dead in his eyes.

Your voice cracks. “Chris. What did you do.”

He breaks. Shoulders shaking. He chokes on it. “I’m sorry.”

You feel the floor tilt. Your hands tremble. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head violently. “I can’t. Fuck—I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

He covers his face. Muffled: “I fucked up.”

Your stomach lurches. “Chris.”

Silence. He won’t look at you.

Your voice is a whisper. “Did you sleep with her?”

He makes this awful, broken noise in his throat.

You feel your heart stop.

“Answer me.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes glassy, tears streaking down his cheeks. He nods once.

You can’t breathe.

He sobs. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, backing away like he’s poison. “Get out.”

He steps forward, desperate. “No—please—”

“Get out.”

He drops to his knees. Your vision blurs.

“Don’t do this,” he begs. Voice wrecked. “Please. I didn’t mean it. I was drunk—I was so fucking lonely—I didn’t want her I just—I just wanted to feel something.”

You cover your mouth with your hand. He claws at your leg.

“Please look at me.”

You can’t. You’re crying so hard you can’t see.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry I did this. I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I’m so fucking weak. I’m sorry I ruined everything good in my life.”

Your voice is raw. “You did. You ruined it.”

He chokes. “I know.”

“You ruined me.”

He collapses against your legs, face buried in your thigh, crying like a child. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You try to shove him off but he clings tighter. Begging. Mumbling.

“I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I broke you. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix me.”

You finally wrench free. You stumble back, gasping. Sobbing.

“Get out,” you scream.

He flinches. Truly sobbing now.

“I love you,” he chokes.

Your heart splinters. “Get out,” you whisper, voice dead.

He stares at you like he’ll die if you say it again. But you just stand there shaking.

Finally he stands. Sways.

You watch him stagger to the door. He turns back one last time. Tears streaming. Voice shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You slam the door in his face.

Then you sink to the floor and scream as hard as your lungs will allow you.

—- 1 month later —---

You sit at the edge of the couch, knees bouncing.

He’s across from you, elbows on his thighs, head bowed.

Silence.

Your throat is raw from crying for hours before he even got here.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t dare.

Your voice cracks. “Say it.”

He flinches.

“Say what you did.”

He swallows hard. “...I cheated on you.”

Your eyes burn. Your nails bite into your palms. “Why.”

He chokes. “Because I’m fucking broken. Because I hated myself. Because I wanted to hurt me more than I hurt you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Congratulations,” you rasp. “You did.”

He sobs once. “I know.”

Silence.

Your voice is dead. “Why are you here.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes ruined. “To tell you I’m sorry.”

You breathe. Shaky. He waits.

“You think that fixes it?”

He shakes his head violently. “No.”

Silence.

Your jaw trembles. “I hate you.”

He nods, tears falling. “I know.”

You sniff. Your voice breaks. “I don’t want to.”

That shatters him.

He cries for real. Ugly. Loud.

You lean forward, grabbing his shaking hands. He startles like he’s been burned.

“Look at me.”

He does.

Your voice is shredded. “I forgive you.”

He chokes on it. “No.”

“I forgive you,” you repeat, voice rising. Angry. Sobbing. “I forgive you, okay? I fucking forgive you.”

He sobs so hard he can’t breathe. Collapses forward onto your lap.

You card your fingers through his hair. Both of you crying.

But you whisper, so quiet he almost misses it: “But I don’t know if I can ever love you the same way.”

He clutches you harder. “I know,” he sobs. “I know. I’ll take anything. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

>> continuation (sorry, tumblr only allows 1000 blocks per post and i'm trying this goofy ass writing style)

[queenofhalloween94]

Master List: OotP Ch. List

Summary: Minho visits a certain omega 😉. Y/n realizes something she's ready to tell the group.

Warnings: Just fluffy tiny bit of angsty boi's

Ch. 6 Gravity

You heard the knock just after sunset. Three short raps. A pause. Then one soft, deliberate tap.

You opened the door. Minho stood there in a dark hoodie and jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder, his scent hitting you before the breeze could even carry it fully inside. Vanilla. Tobacco. Warm skin and something feral underneath it.

Minho crouched slowly, eyes wide with gentle curiosity as your cat Luna padded cautiously into the room, tail flicking with mild suspicion. “Hey there, little one,” he murmured, holding out a hand as if asking permission to exist in her space. When she finally rubbed against his fingers, purring softly, his whole face lit up like he’d just been accepted into a sacred secret.

He looked up at you like it was no big deal your normally anti-social cat was letting him rub her belly. “Hey,” he said simply.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until it came out in a shaky rush.

“Hey.” turning red as he assessed you and took a walk around your apartment.

You made tea. It felt easier than trying to start a conversation, and he didn’t push. He just followed you into the kitchen, set his bag down, and leaned silently against the counter, eyes tracking your every movement.

When you handed him a mug, your fingers brushed. That was all it took.

Your scent flared—spiced apple cider, warm and wanting. Not heavy, not uncontrolled. But real. Present.

Minho’s eyes darkened. “Suppressants are gone,” he murmured.

You nodded. “The partial bond has been making them react weird lately. So I ditched them.”

He took the mug, set it down untouched. “Come here,” he said, low and firm.

You walked to him and he wrapped his arms around you like gravity had finally been allowed to do its job.

You didn’t talk for a long time.

You lay together on the couch, lights dimmed, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms around your back like he wasn’t quite sure how to let go even if he wanted to. His scent coated the air now, warm and grounding, your own wrapping around his like threads stitching closed an open seam.

His hand moved slowly over your hair, then down to the curve of your spine. “This,” he said softly. “This is what I missed.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you whispered. “I thought… the longer I stayed away, the more it would fade.”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “It anchors. It waits.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

The Group Chat: Den Racha

☀️ Felix: she’s probably curled up in his hoodie rn

🐿️ Han: he BETTER have let her scent him

🐈 Minho: she’s asleep. on me. 

**sends picture of you with your head tucked under his chin, Luna laying on your side**

💪 Changbin:🥹🥹🥹

🧁 Jeongin: I hate you but also I love this

🐶 Seungmin: do NOT knot her

🐿️ Han: bro it’s MINHO

🌸 Hyunjin: still

🐺 Chan: no knotting

🐈 Minho: I know. She's not ready.

☀️ Felix: …but are you?

Minho didn’t answer that one.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Later That Night

You woke to find him still beside you. Minho was lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped over your hip. His scent was thick but calm, settling over your senses like a weighted blanket.

“You awake?” you murmured.

“Since you shifted.”

You looked up at him. His face was softer now. Bare. Not guarded.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

You took a breath. “Do you ever get scared of how fast this is happening?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “But not because I don’t want it.”

“Then why?”

He turned his head toward you. “Because I want it too much.”

Your heart twisted. You whispered, “Me too.”

He reached up and traced a slow line down the back of your neck. “It’s not just scent or instinct, you know.”

You blinked. “It’s not?”

“No. It’s the way you laugh. The way you look at all of us like we’re not monsters. Like we’re… people. Yours.”

“I do feel like that,” you admitted.

Minho leaned in, breath warm at your ear. “Then let yourself feel it.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

In the hotel suite in the next tour stop, Chan is sat in the back lounge, staring out at the blur of headlights along the highway.

“She’s not coming back the same,” Han said softly from the other end of the couch.

Chan didn’t answer.

“None of us are.”

Chan closed his eyes.

“No,” he agreed. “We’re not.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

In the morning you woke to the smell of vanilla in your sheets and the sound of your kettle clicking off. Minho was in your kitchen, shirt rumpled, barefoot, pouring tea into the same mugs from the night before. He turned when you padded in.

“Your scent is even better in the morning,” he said with a small smile.

You flushed. “You smell like home.”

He handed you your mug then kissed your forehead. It was barely a press of the lips. But it was everything.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

It started the moment Minho returned, the rest of the boys didn’t ask what happened. They didn’t need to. He walked through the suite door with your scent still clinging to him—apple cider and sleep, something sweet and unguarded—and the entire room went still.

Felix’s nose twitched first. His eyes softened.

Hyunjin inhaled slowly and closed his eyes like he was in prayer.

Han, who’d been sprawled on the couch, went quiet for once.

And Changbin… Changbin stood up without saying a word and walked straight to Minho.

He hugged him. Not hard. Not long. Just… enough. Minho hugged him back, being  the rock he needed.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Minho had only been gone for eight hours, and you already missed him. You lay in bed, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled like his scent of smokey vanilla, scrolling through messages on your phone. Your scent was stronger now—untamed, less restrained. You felt their bond threads pull taut, one by one.

Your phone buzzed.

💪Changbin:

Can I call you?

You blinked.

🍎 You:

Yes

The video connected before you even finished typing. Changbin’s face appeared, backlit by hotel lamp glow, hair damp from a shower.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You smiled. “I should be asking you that.”

He laughed—but it wasn’t his usual big, boisterous sound. It was quieter, thoughtful.

“I’ve been trying not to… feel this too hard,” he said. “But it’s like… now that Minho came back, I can’t stop smelling you everywhere.”

You exhaled slowly. “I know. I can feel the pull too.”

His hand went to his neck, fingers grazing the curve where a bond bite might go. “I want it. You know that.”

“I know.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “Jagiya.” He almost whispered, his tone dropping semi lower causing your breath to hitch. The pull aching almost as worse as it was before Minho visited. You bit your lip and turned red causing him to turn pink himself realizing he called you that out loud. The phone cartoonishly being dropped ends the video call.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

The ache really hit Han during rehearsal. They were practicing transitions when someone accidentally brushed his back—just a touch—but it sparked his instincts so hard he almost dropped to his knees. Later, in the locker room, he sat alone, towel over his head, scent leaking no matter how much he tried to rein it in.

Seungmin approached cautiously. “You okay?”

Han didn’t answer at first. Sighing, "I miss her like it’s an ache in my bones.”

Seungmin nodded. “We all do.”

Han, still staring at the floor “We can’t wait much longer.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

You’d stopped fighting it. The need. The pull. The aching want to reach for each of them. They weren’t a maybe anymore. They weren’t a fantasy. They were your pack. Fear of the unknown be damned. 

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, the message was from Hyunjin.

🌸 Hyunjin: You inspired me want to see?

🍎 You: always

He sent a photo. A soft, charcoal sketch of a fox curled under an apple tree in a bed of peonies and roses. Your scent practically bloomed off the screen.

🍎 You: it’s beautiful

🌸 Hyunjin: so are you

🌸 Hyunjin: I want to curl around you and never let you leave our bed.

You clutched your phone to your chest and breathed in and out slowly trying to calm your scent spike down. “Ugh.” You think to yourself “You’re getting as bad as a teenage alpha.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Their manager leaned forward. “Let’s be clear—you’re saying all eight of you are experiencing instinctual bond threads with her?”

“Yes,” Chan said simply.

“And she wants all of you in return?”

“She feels us from the bond echo,” Felix added. “She already smells like us.”

Seungmin crossed his arms. “And we smell like her. The fans notice.”

“We’re not asking for permission,” Minho said. “We’re asking for protection.”

There was a long pause. Then the manager sighed. “So we prepare for a pack bond application. Publicity. Travel documentation.”

“And heat cycles,” Jeongin added softly.

Everyone turned to him.

“She’ll need us for her next one,” he said, voice even. “And we want to be there.”

“She’s part of us now whether you all like it or not.” Chan says as he leads the group out of the room.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

You curled into your pillows as Luna tucked herself into the crook of your side, purring like she could hear the vibrations of your heart through your skin.

Your scent had changed again. You weren’t suppressing anymore. You weren’t hiding and the bond threads thrummed constantly now.

You sent one message to the group chat.

🍎 You: I want all of you. No more hiding.

The response came in seconds.

🐺 Chan: finally

🐿️ Han: I’m gonna cry

☀️ Felix: already did

🌸 Hyunjin: me too

💪 Changbin: I’ve been waiting for 3 days

🐈 Minho: you’re ours

🧁 Jeongin: now and always

🐶 Seungmin: then let’s make this official 

**Thank you for reading!!**

[suliigwp]

✶⋆ No Kingdom

Without You ✶⋆

Prince Carlos Of Solmara x Knight!Reader

part of the TRONAB series - find previous chapters below

First Read All You Need To Know Here

SULI: HEYOOOO TRONAB IS BACK so soon I know — it's so fun writing this series — thank you for your continued support, hope you enjoy this🫶

This picks up right where the last chapter ended

part two incoming...

Warnings: Violence, blood, gore!!!! You have been warned

The woman doesn’t blink.

Not when the steel points of a dozen spears lower toward her chest.

Not when your fingers shift on the hilt at your hip, instinctive and sharp.

Not even when Prince Carlos—your prince—steps forward instead of backward.

You stay close behind him, every sense on fire. Because something about this feels wrong. Off-balance. The kind of silence you only hear before an ambush.

She stands alone.

Draped in travel-worn black, stained with dried blood, dirt, and war. A gash darkens one side of her collar. Her knuckles are raw. There’s no banner on her shoulder. No crest at her chest. Just the way she holds herself—like she doesn’t need one.

The guards part reluctantly, unsure.

But Carlos doesn’t hesitate.

He studies her like she’s a puzzle dropped from heaven—or hell. No crown on his head today. No jewels on his fingers. Just soldier’s black and that calm that unnerves men more than fury.

The assassin doesn’t bow. Doesn’t kneel. She just stands there, still as a shadow that learned how to bleed.

She looks at him like she already knows what he’ll ask. Like she’s been playing this conversation over in her head for weeks.

Carlos speaks first. Low. Cool.

“Dead women don’t usually walk this far.”

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t flinch. She says nothing.

You watch her hands. One of them is gloved, the leather cracked. The other bare, scarred at the wrist. No visible weapons—nothing obvious. But you can tell. You’ve been on enough frontlines to recognize a killer when you see one.

Carlos steps forward.

Carefully.

Measuring.

You move with him, barely a breath behind. You can feel the weight in the air change.

The assassin meets his gaze with something you can’t name. Something that makes the hair on your arms rise.

He stops only a few paces away.

“What do you want?” he asks, flat.

That’s when she moves. Slowly. Smoothly.

She reaches into her coat and pulls out a scroll.

Bloodstained at the edge. Burned at the corner—deliberately, you realize. The edges are still blackened, crumbling slightly in the wind. But even singed, the wax seal is unmistakable.

Valtarys.

You feel your jaw clench.

Your hand tightens around your sword.

But Carlos? He doesn’t even blink.

She holds it out. But doesn’t step closer.

“I bring you something Maximilian never meant to lose,” she says.

Her voice is hoarse. Dry from dust and distance. But clear. Certain.

Carlos tilts his head.

“What’s that?”

Her answer is so quiet, it barely registers.

But somehow, you already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“Me.”

You react without thinking—just a shift of your weight. A breath before drawing. But Carlos catches it without even turning.

“Stay your blade,” he murmurs.

It’s not a warning. It’s a command.

And yet, it’s not you who flinches.

It’s her.

The assassin’s gaze slides to you, finally—like she was saving that look for last.

Her eyes are sharp. Cold. But not unfeeling.

She doesn’t smile. But there’s something in the way she sees you, really sees you, that makes your heart kick once behind your ribs.

She speaks again. Quieter this time.

“Your knight doesn’t trust me.”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t need to.

Carlos says nothing either. His silence is all the answer she gets.

Then, with a slight motion of his hand, he gestures toward the war room.

“Then let’s talk,” he says, turning away from the courtyard. “Where blades stay sheathed.”

She follows.

And for the first time, your prince walks beside a stranger who might bring ruin to every line you swore to defend.

And still… you follow him too.

...

War Room, Solmara Keep

The war room doors slam shut behind you.

It’s darker here. Cooler. The stone walls soak up the heat of the sun and spit back shadow. The scent of wax, parchment, and steel clings to everything — maps laid across the long table, iron daggers pinning down the edges where kingdoms once stood proud and are now just names drawn in red ink.

Carlos doesn’t sit. Neither do you.

The assassin steps inside like she’s been here before. Like war rooms speak the same language, no matter the walls.

She moves toward the center slowly, stopping just before the map of the realm. Her eyes flick once to the pin stabbed through Valtarys. She says nothing.

Neither do you.

Carlos sets the scroll she handed him down gently. He hasn’t opened it yet.

“You know,” he says, voice mild, “offering yourself as leverage is a bold strategy. But I don’t take hostages.”

“I’m not a hostage,” she replies.

He looks up. “No?”

She meets his eyes. Her tone doesn’t waver. “I’m your opportunity.”

You step closer behind Carlos, standing at his right. Ready. Watching.

Carlos studies her for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if she means it — or if this is all just another trap wrapped in a pretty mouth and a sharper mind.

“I should have you executed,” he says calmly. “You show up without a name. Covered in blood. Bringing Valtarys’ seal into my war room and claiming you are what Maximilian lost. That sounds like either a spy’s bluff… or a madwoman’s last act.”

She tilts her head. There’s no fear in her face. No desperation. Just that same steady stillness that unnerves you.

“And yet you brought me here,” she replies. “Which means you believe I’m neither.”

You tense. Just a little.

Because she’s right — and she knows it.

Carlos narrows his eyes. “Let’s say you are who you say. Or… who you imply. Then that makes you a ghost. One my enemies say died in a tower fire. One Maximilian buried in marble. One his council still won’t speak of.”

A pause.

He leans forward slightly. “So tell me. Why are you really here?”

She looks down at the map.

Then at you.

Then finally at him.

“Because you want to win,” she says, “and I want to ruin him.”

A beat.

Then she adds, soft and sharp:

“And I know how.”

The war room stills.

Carlos says nothing.

But you — you take a step forward now. Enough to be heard.

“And why should we trust you?”

She turns to face you directly for the first time. No smile. No performance. Just truth.

“Because I already chose not to kill him.”

You freeze.

Carlos’s brow twitches, but otherwise he remains calm.

She continues. “I was inside his palace. In his chambers. Closer than anyone ever got. And I didn’t do it. I couldn’t.”

Her voice is low now. Like she’s saying it for the first time aloud. Like it still confuses her.

“I thought I could. I was sent to. Trained for it. And then… I saw him. And I—”

She stops. Swallows it.

“I walked away.”

Carlos steps closer.

“And you think that makes you trustworthy?”

“No,” she says. “But it makes me your ally.”

The room breathes.

Carlos studies her. His silence stretches like wire — thin, cutting, waiting to snap.

Then he turns his head toward you.

“What do you think?” he asks, quiet.

He never asks you that.

Your eyes lock with hers.

You see the blade behind her calm. You see the cracks. You see something broken and still burning beneath it all.

...

Carlos’ chambers, late at night.

The fire’s almost out.

Only two candles remain lit on the far end of the chamber — just enough to throw shadows across the war maps spread over Carlos’ desk. Outside the balcony windows, the night wind howls against the cliffs of Solmara. But inside, it’s still.

Carlos stands at the edge of the table, one hand resting on the map, the other pressed to his temple. His sleeves are rolled up. His knuckles ink-stained. You’ve watched him do this a hundred nights before—brooding, sleepless, fighting a war already written in blood.

But tonight it’s different.

Because tonight, she’s part of it.

And you’re still trying to understand how.

You’re by the hearth, arms folded tightly across your chest. Not armored — not now — but the weight of the moment clings to you like chainmail. You’ve been here longer than any of his council. You know every scar on his back, every hesitation in his voice.

And still, you have to say it.

“She’s dangerous.”

Carlos doesn’t respond. Just lifts another scroll, eyes skimming without reading.

You take a step closer.

“My Prince.”

His title hangs in the air. No matter how many times he tells you to call him by his name when you two are alone — "Because who else will?" — you cannot allow yourself.

He exhales. “I know.”

“No, you think you know.” You walk slowly across the room, past the old war banners and blades hanging on the stone walls. “But you haven’t seen her from the outside. You’re too close. Already.”

“She was trained by Valtarys, not born from it.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Carlos looks up at you now.

You rarely see him tired. Angry, yes. Sharp. Clever. But this? This is weariness that’s sunk beneath his skin. The kind that only trust — broken or misplaced — can cause.

“I’m not asking you to like her,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to believe me when I say I know what I’m doing.”

Your arms had been crossed too long; they ached with restraint. Every part of you did.

“She came out of nowhere,” you said. “No banner. No house. No name .And now she’s standing in our war rooms. Breathing our strategy like she belongs here.”

Carlos didn’t lift his gaze.

The candlelight painted golden rings under his eyes, exhaustion making his features softer, older. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just studied the scroll in front of him like he could find answers between the lines.

It only made you angrier.

“She’s too calm,” you pressed. “Too clean. I’ve seen loyalty, It doesn’t look like that. It doesn’t arrive carrying secrets and expect sanctuary.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

You stepped closer, voice low but firm. “You trust her too fast.”

At last, he looked up.

And the look wasn’t heat — it was ice.

Not fury. Something quieter. Colder.

“Do you remember,” Carlos said, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath, “what they said about you?”

The room didn’t move.

Neither did you.

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate.

“They said the same,” he murmured. “No crest. No past. Just a sword and a heartbeat.”

Your throat caught.

Carlos stopped just short of you, the space between your bodies drawn like a fault line — fragile and full of something neither of you ever named. His voice dropped again, soft as breath.

“But you knelt. You gave me your oath. And I trusted it. When no one else did.”

You hadn’t thought about that day in years — not because you forgot, but because it was dangerous to remember. The way his voice didn’t shake, even when others called you a stray blade. The way he looked at you like you weren’t a mistake.

Like he saw something else.

“I remember,” you said.

He nodded once. “Then remember this too.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I’m not asking you to trust her. I’m asking you to trust me.”

It hit like a dagger under your ribs. Not because it was cruel. But because it was true.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. A thousand things buzzed on your tongue — warnings, protests, a plea to protect him — but none of them held weight.

So you said the only thing that felt honest.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. “I don’t want to watch you bleed because of a wrong person. Because you trusted them.”

Carlos blinked — slow. Then smiled.

Not the one he wore for court. Not the clever tilt that masked sharpness.

A quiet smile.

A sad one.

“You didn’t the first time.”

And gods, that undid you.

The first time he stepped between you and a drawn blade. The first time he told a room full of noblemen: “She’s mine. Leave her.” The first time he touched your shoulder in battle and said, “Don’t fall here. I need you.”

You looked at him now — the boy turned prince, the man you followed into fire.

The one who never asked you for love, but had all of yours anyway.

Carlos didn’t hesitate.

He reached out — just barely — and brushed his hand along the edge of your arm.

"—You trust me?"

“Always.”

And you stood there for one more moment, your chest aching, your pulse betraying everything you couldn’t say. Then you stepped back, because if you didn’t, you’d break the promise you'd made to yourself years ago — do not fall in love with him.

"Good night, My Prince."

You left the chamber in silence and took your place outside of his chamber doors.

Still doubting her.

But not him.

Not ever.

...

Long before...

The sun was setting when Prince Carlos of Solmara rode into Velmere.

The sky was bruised. Clouds like split parchment. The air reeked of rot and smoke. This wasn’t how he remembered the town from his father’s old maps — quiet farmlands, a market square, five bridges spanning a river of soft silver.

One bridge still stood.

And the banners on the keep had been burned down to ash.

He dismounted slowly. The ground was too soft. Blood had sunk into it in too many places.

His knights flanked him — six, maybe seven left from the patrol meant to secure this route. The rest had fallen behind. Some to skirmishes. Some to fire. Some... to worse.

“You said this town had no remaining loyalties,” Carlos said, eyes on the fractured rooftops.

“It didn’t,” his scout replied. “Until the Crown came back.”

Valtarys.

King Maximilian’s men.

They’d already come through Velmere once, razing what wouldn’t bend. And now? Now they were here again — not with swords raised, but with coins, promises, and threats sharp enough to draw blood.

And the people Desperate. Starving. Angry.

They bent.

Carlos’s jaw clenched.

“How many?” he asked.

“Hard to say. We have sightings of two battalions. But the locals won’t speak to us.”

"And the resistance?”

“Scattered. Mostly dead. What remains... fights on its own.”

Carlos turned toward the burned chapel in the distance. The sky behind it was black. Smoke or storm, he didn’t know.

He stepped forward.

“Then we’re not here to claim this place. We’re here to hold it.”

“With seven knights?”

Carlos didn’t blink.

“We’ve done more with less.”

The tavern door creaked open slow.

Smoke clung to the ceiling beams. The scent of stale ale and damp wool filled the air, thick enough to choke on. No music. Just the low murmur of tired voices and the dull thud of mugs against battered oak.

Carlos stepped through first. Hood drawn. Dust still on his boots.

His knights entered quietly behind him — not in formation, not in sigils. Just men worn from the road, cloaked in dusk and silence.

Eyes turned. Slowly. Suspicious.

He didn’t blame them. This wasn’t Solmara. This wasn’t even a town anymore — just ruin stitched back together with war-tax and threat.

He moved to the bar with quiet purpose, nodding once to the barkeep. The man squinted at him. Didn’t bow. Didn’t greet. Just asked:

“Coin or cause?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. His voice came calm, even.

“Ale.”

The man stared. Then poured.

Carlos leaned against the wood, scanning the room in the smudged reflection of tankards and broken glass.

A group of men in Crown blue sat near the hearth. Off duty, but not off guard. One had a scar down his cheek. Another rested his boot too close to a dagger. Soldiers. Not from here.

And in the corner?

Locals. Watching everything. Eyes hollow. Fingers tight around empty mugs.

“They know who you are,” one of his knights muttered, low beneath his breath.

Carlos didn’t flinch.

“No, they think I’m a merchant’s bastard with too nice a cloak.”

“That’s not safer."

He took a slow sip of ale. It was bitter. Too bitter. But he swallowed it anyway.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a woman stand near the back. No apron. No tray. Just leaning against the wall like she was built into it.

Watching.

Not drinking.

Not moving.

Her stare found him once — just once — and he felt it land like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

“This place is wrong,” another knight whispered.

Carlos nodded slightly. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Means the war’s still here.”

He set the mug down.

The barkeep looked nervous now.

“You looking to stay long?”

Carlos’s lips curved faintly — not a smile.

“That depends who shows up next.”

It was the only table left near the fire, and her boots were soaked. Her hair was braided loose over one shoulder, still damp from the rain. The road from the southern cliffs had worn the soles thin, and she hadn’t slept in three days. So when the group of cloaked strangers stepped up to the bar—wet, road-weary, and clearly not locals—she didn’t look twice.

At least, not right away.

They weren’t loud. Just talking like men used to war—voices low, words shaped more by what wasn’t said than what was. But she caught pieces anyway.

“…cavalry won’t hold without the ridge…”

“…scouts say the banners have moved east…”

“…and the people?"

"Still silent.”

She sat with one arm draped over the back of her chair, sipping something bitter from a chipped cup. Half-shadowed. Half-forgotten. The tavern was loud enough to cover most secrets, but not to those trained to listen.

And she’d been trained by the best.

They stood only a few paces from her table—close enough she could hear the scrape of one’s leather gloves against his mug. The man at the center did most of the talking. His posture was clean, shoulders back, boots planted firm.

But his voice?

That voice had weight. Command.

And then He turned.

Just a little. Just enough for the firelight to catch the shape of his face.

And her stomach twisted.

That jawline. That slope of brow. The scar near his temple, faint but exact. She knew it. She’d studied it in sketches. Heard it described in whispers from men who didn’t think she was listening.

“Looks like the Queen, they say.” “But sharper. Meaner.” “He won’t last the war, not with that soft heart of his.”

She saw it now.

Older. Weathered. But it was him.

Prince Carlos of Solmara.

The one she’d heard was supposed to be dead after the Siege of Elyne.

The one Maximilian said was too dangerous to leave breathing.

The one she hadn’t expected to see again — much less here, in a ruined town with only seven guards and tired eyes.

She swallowed.

The fire suddenly felt too warm. Her drink too sharp.

He doesn’t recognize me.

Of course he doesn’t. Why would he.

Why is he here?

She shifted slightly in her seat, the movement fluid, practiced. Not a threat. Not yet.

The knights flanking him said nothing that hinted at a royal name. No titles. No sir. No Your Highness.

He was playing it quiet. Smart.

That made it harder.

But not impossible.

She turned back to her cup, nodding slightly at a barmaid to keep up the illusion.

Inside, her heart had already begun to race.

If the reports are true...

If he’s everything they say he is…

This just became more complicated than I can afford.

She didn’t follow.

Of course she didn’t.

When the prince left the tavern—hood pulled low, steps quiet—she stayed right where she was, boots to the hearth, fingers tapping the side of her empty cup. She didn’t ask what his plans were. Didn’t ask why a royal was playing soldier in a ghost town with barely seven knights to his name.

She didn’t care.

She wasn’t here for causes anymore.

She was here for silence. Food, maybe. A warm bed, if she could find one not burned to the ground. And then she’d vanish by morning. That had been the plan.

And she’d stuck to it.

For about seven minutes.

Then the shouting started.

She was just tightening the last buckle on her saddlebag when it hit — sharp voices echoing off stone. The kind of sharp that wasn’t barked orders, but panicked warning. Steel rang. Horses screamed. Somewhere, a horn blew too late.

She froze.

For one heartbeat.

Two.

Then she turned.

The street was chaos. Fires reigniting. A few farmers running. A market stall upended.

And in the middle of it—

Valtarys men.

At least twenty.

Moving in tight. Shields raised. Formation clean. Too clean for a ragtag sweep. This was meant to be final.

And between them Carlos.

Sword drawn, face set, hair wind-wild and dirt-streaked, his back to the chapel doors. His knights flanked him, but there weren’t enough. She could see it from here. The line would break in minutes.

Walk away.

This isn’t your fight.

You don’t owe him anything.

She took a step back.

Her horse was waiting. The road was open. If she left now, she’d be gone before the blood hit the stones.

They’ll kill him.

Another step back.

She turned halfway toward the stable door.

Then stopped.

Her father's face flashed again in her memory — not the man in the street, not the commander giving orders — but her father.

“He's Going to be your King, I know you'll serve him well.”

He’d said it like it meant something.

And now her king was about to die.

She cursed. Under her breath. Then louder. Then again.

Her feet turned before her mind did.

The sword came off her back like breath — smooth, silent, familiar.

And then she ran.

Right back into the fire.

...

The battlefield was a wasteland of smoke and bone.

The kind that smelled like wet iron and dying promises.

Mud sucked at your boots with every step, half-rotted banners twisted in the wind, and your blade—gods, your blade—was so slick with blood it barely shimmered anymore. Just dripped.

You were a shadow between sides. A sword without a sigil.

No crest. No command. No home.

Just a name people whispered with fear and a reputation that left doors closed and throats tight.

They called you wild.

They called you faithless.

And most days, you didn’t argue.

Because survival spoke louder than loyalty ever did.

You’d taken down six men that morning. Then seven. Then eight.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

You were dragging your blade free from the chest of an enemy officer when the cold edge of treachery struck you from behind — not from your foes, but from your own side.

Three soldiers of Solmara. Gold on their sleeves. Spit on their words.

“Who gave you the right to kill him?”

“You could be anyone. A spy. A mutineer.”

“Should’ve put your kind to the sword from the start.”

You straightened slowly, blood-slick weapon still loose in your grip. The dead man at your feet had nearly taken two of them down before you intervened. And this was your thanks.

You narrowed your eyes. “He would’ve gutted you. I saved your cursed lives.”

They drew steel.

Three on one.

Cowards.

You didn’t run. You raised your sword and braced for the last fight you’d ever have.

And then—

“Stand down.”

The words didn’t roar.

They rang — sharp, clear, certain.

You turned.

And he was there.

His cloak was torn at the shoulder, boots dusted with ash. A cut traced one brow. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

But he was still standing.

The three soldiers stiffened. One tried to speak. “Your Highness, this woman—”

“I saw what she did,” Carlos cut in. “She saved your lives.”

The air stopped moving.

He stepped forward, slow and measured, eyes locked on you.

And you — ever-coiled, ever-ready — held your ground. You didn’t lower your sword. Not yet.

For a moment, you didn’t know what he’d do. What kind of prince he was.

A punisher?

A preacher?

A boy in bloodstained armor pretending to be a king?

But he didn’t strike.

He didn’t scold.

He simply lowered his own weapon — steel sliding gently back into its sheath.

Then he said, clear as the crack of dawn after a storm:

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that.”

You blinked.

No one had ever said it like that before. Not with awe.

He turned to the others. “You draw steel on her again, you’ll answer to me. She stands with us.”

They backed down. Like trained dogs.

He turned back.

Stepped closer.

Closer.

You could see it now — the edge of exhaustion in his face, the beginnings of something sharp and clever behind his eyes. He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t naive.

But he was kind. That made him dangerous.

“You have no lord?” he asked.

You hesitated.

Shadows flared between your ribs.

You shook your head. “No.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Then why do you fight?”

A beat. You could’ve said anything. Coin. Glory. Vengeance.

But the truth slipped out unguarded.

“…Because I’m good at it.”

He studied you for a long time. Like he was searching for something under your skin.

Then — carefully, quietly — he extended his hand.

“I’m Prince Carlos of Solmara. If you fight like that without allegiance, I want to see what you’re capable of when you have something worth protecting.”

You stared at him.

Your knuckles whitened around your blade.

And for the first time in years, you felt the faintest ache in your chest — a want.

Not for power.

Not for redemption.

But for purpose.

You didn’t take his hand. Not yet.

But you said, voice rough, unsure:

“…I’m no knight.”

He studied her carefully, his voice low and steady.

“But you know your way around everywhere, yes?”

She didn’t respond at first, her eyes distant, unreadable. Then, after a pause, she nodded slightly — no smile, no warmth, just a quiet acknowledgment.

“I’ve been troubled trying to find one place,” he said, his tone edged with frustration and something softer, almost pleading. “If you know it… would you take me there?”

She held his gaze a moment longer, silent, before finally turning and moving toward the narrow streets, her steps deliberate and sure.

“One place,” she said simply. “No more.”

He followed without question, the tension between them thick but unspoken.

He stopped in the middle of the narrow, winding street, his eyes locked on her with a quiet intensity.

“There’s a place I’ve been trying to find,” he said carefully, voice low and steady like a prayer. “They call it the Bleeding Hollow.”

Her breath hitched, just for a moment — barely noticeable, but it was there. She glanced away, the stone wall beside her catching the fading light, masking the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“The Bleeding Hollow,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not many dare go there anymore.”

He nodded, unwavering.

“I need to see it with my own eyes. I need to understand what really happened.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. The chill of the evening settled around them as shadows lengthened and a cold breeze swept through the streets.

Finally, she spoke, her voice rough but resolute.

“Very well. I’ll take you there."

He met her gaze, solemn and firm.

“Thank you."

With that, she turned and began to walk — slow, deliberate steps leading him away from the flickering torches of the town square and into the outskirts, where the houses thinned and the land grew wild and untamed.

The chill of evening settled over the town as they stepped away from the crowded streets, slipping into the quiet outskirts where few dared wander. The fading light cast long shadows between twisted trees and crumbling walls.

He glanced at her, studying the tight line of her jaw and the way her eyes never quite met his. “Why do you hesitate?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence that had settled between them like a thick fog.

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, her gaze fixed on the path ahead, fingers tightening around the leather strap of her satchel. “Because some places… carry more than just stone and dirt,” she finally said. “They carry ghosts. Memories people want to forget.”

He nodded slowly, his own heart heavy with the weight of what was to come. “I’ve been chasing those ghosts for years. I need to face them, even if it kills me.”

Her steps faltered for a moment. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she warned, voice low and rough. “The Bleeding Hollow isn’t just a place. It’s a wound in this land. The blood spilled there… it doesn’t wash away.”

He met her eyes then, unwavering. “I have to know. For my family. For myself.”

She sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “Very well. But when we reach it, don’t expect answers. Only truth — and that truth can be cruel.”

He swallowed hard, steeling himself. “I’m ready.”

Together, they moved deeper into the wild edge of the town, the sounds of life fading behind them as they approached a place both dreaded and revered. The path grew rough, tangled with roots and shadowed by ancient oaks, and with every step, the weight of the past pressed closer.

The narrow path ended abruptly before a grim, towering stone wall, blackened by time and shadow. Hanging from rusted iron hooks were the tattered remains of banners and cloaks — a macabre display of fallen royals, their faces turned pale in death, names whispered with sorrow and fear. Some only bones now, cloaked in scraps of velvet and steel. Some preserved by winter, faces still bearing the quiet shock of death. All of them royal. All of them a warning.

He stepped closer, breath catching in his throat as his eyes found the familiar shape among the grim procession — his family, cruelly displayed for all to see. The weight of loss and rage twisted in his chest, but he said nothing.

Beside him, she stood rigid, eyes fixed on one particular figure on the wall. His once-proud armor now tarnished and bloodstained, a silent testament to a past she never spoke of.

His mother. His brothers. His youngest sister, no older than twelve. Their family crest had been torn from their garments, but he would’ve known them anywhere. Even now. Especially now.

His breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

And she didn’t look at her father for long.

Just a glance, cold and mechanical, as if confirming what she already knew — his body still there, rusted armor curling at the edges, the same expression he had when she’d last seen him fall.

Then she looked at Carlos.

And she didn’t look away.

While he stood there, frozen, she watched him. Not the wall. Not the ghosts. Him.

She watched the way his jaw clenched. The way his hand twitched, as if he didn’t know whether to reach for a weapon or fall to his knees. The way his eyes lingered on his sister the longest.

He didn’t notice her watching.

Not at first.

But then, slowly, as if pulled by something deeper than instinct, he turned his head.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t speak. Just held his gaze — quiet, distant, unreadable.

He stared at her for a moment, chest heaving once with a breath he didn’t want to take. Then he turned back to the wall.

He stood in front of the wall, still staring at his family — the way the wind tugged at their tattered clothes, the quiet tilt of his sister’s head like she’d been reaching for someone. His voice cracked with quiet fury.

“They didn’t deserve this.”

Behind him, she remained still.

“No,” she said. “They didn’t.”

He ran a hand down his face, fingers dragging across weeks of dust and travel and grief. His gaze drifted to the other bodies — the older soldiers, the once-proud knights hung like animals beside the royals. He paused at one. The armor was dented and rusted, a faded insignia barely visible across the chestplate.

He stared at it for a long moment, something familiar tickling the edge of his memory.

“…I knew him,” he murmured.

She didn’t respond.

“He served my father. Loyal to a fault. I remember… he was there the night it happened. He tried to speak, to stop it—Max silenced him.”

Still, she said nothing. Her eyes remained on the same figure — her father’s.

Carlos shook his head slowly. “I always thought he had no family left. That they killed them all too. He had a daughter, didn’t he?” he asked absently to himself, not really expecting an answer. “I don’t even remember her name.”

She finally spoke, voice even, sharp like flint. “Ghosts dont need names, do they.”

That made him turn to her again — brow furrowed, lips parting with the beginning of a question. But something in her expression, in the rigid stillness of her stance, stopped him.

He stared.

And in that silence, it almost clicked — the resemblance, the chill in her voice, the way she hadn’t needed to ask for directions here.

“…No,” he whispered.

She was already turning away.

“We should go,” she said. “This place stinks.”

She didn’t mean the air, though it reeked of iron and decay. She meant the place itself — the history embedded in the soil, the silence that clung to the bones like mold.

Carlos lingered a moment longer, eyes still tracing the lines of his sister’s face.

Then he turned and followed.

They walked without speaking, the path curling back through the twisted woods, shadows deepening with each step. He watched the back of her head, the straight line of her shoulders. And something in him itched — not suspicion, not yet. Just a hollow curiosity he couldn’t shake.

But she didn’t look back.

Not once. And he didn’t ask again.

...

The trees thinned as they stepped back onto the main road, dusk bleeding into the stones beneath their boots. The silence between them wasn’t heavy now — just worn, stretched thin by what had passed at the Hollow.

He walked beside her, glancing sideways. “So,” he said, breaking the quiet, “where are you headed next?”

She didn’t look at him. “North. Tavren’s Reach.”

Carlos blinked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Huh. Guess we’ve got the same destination.”

She side-eyed him. “Don’t follow me.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “But if we just so happen to share a path…”

She gave him a flat look. “It’s not a path. It’s a trade route.”

Carlos grinned. “A shared trade route, then.”

A beat.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Can’t help it,” he said. “You’ve got the charm of a sword wound, but you keep saving me.”

“I haven’t saved you from anything,” she muttered.

“Not yet,” he said, smirking. “But we’ve still got a few miles to go. I’m hopeful.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t walk faster to leave him behind, either.

Which, from her, was practically an invitation.

As they settled near the campfire, the knights exchanged glances — some curious, some cautious — before one by one they stepped forward to introduce themselves.

The tallest, broad-shouldered one with calm eyes stepped first.

“I’m Esteban,” he said simply, bowing his head slightly. “Esteban Of House Ocon, captain of the eastern guard.”

She cast a sharp side-eye at the knights nearby — the very ones who had once tried to end her life. Their faces tightened, but Esteban caught the glance.

He met her eyes steadily. “They’ve been taken care of.”

A shorter, steadier man with a quiet strength followed.

“Nico,” he said, voice calm but firm. "House Hulkenberg. I keep watch over the northern passes.”

The next was lean, with keen eyes always scanning the horizon.

“Zhou Guanyu,” he said with a nod, “tracker and scout."

From the shadows, a younger man with a quick smile stepped forward.

“Jack Doohan,” he said, voice easy. “I’m still learning the ropes, but eager all the same.”

Beside him, a wiry figure with restless energy introduced himself next.

“Oliver Bearman, messenger and squire. Knight soon, hopefully..."

The tall blonde man who had said that his name was Nico chuckled, patting the young boys on their shoulders.

Finally, a gruff man with weathered hands and a stern face stepped forward.

“Sergio Perez, quartermaster.”

She watched them silently, folding her arms and studying each one as if assessing their worth.

Carlos smiled, glancing at her. “This is your company now.”

She didn’t reply, but the faintest crease softened her brow — maybe the smallest hint of something like acceptance.

“So she didn’t gut you,” Perez said, nodding toward Carlos with mock surprise. “That’s a relief.”

Carlos didn’t miss a step. “I’m harder to kill than I look.”

“Mm,” Esteban muttered. “Lucky for you.”

“She didn’t try to kill me, and that’s already more than I can say for most of the people I know.”

That earned a grunt of amusement from the oldest knight.

Carlos glanced at the group. “We’re heading to Tavren’s Reach. She knows the fastest way in. Keep up.”

...

The road ahead was quiet, dust swirling lazily in the dying light as their horses plodded steadily forward. The group rode in loose formation, the rhythmic clip of hooves the only sound breaking the dusk’s stillness. Shadows stretched long across the trees lining the path, the air growing cooler as night threatened to settle.

Carlos felt the tension coiling in his gut — a soldier’s instinct honed by years of war and loss. Something wasn’t right.

Then, without warning, the silence shattered.

From the dense thickets on either side, a dozen figures burst forth — soldiers clad in dark armor, faces hidden beneath grim helms. Their weapons gleamed wickedly in the fading light, blades drawn and arrows nocked, eyes burning with hostile intent.

“Ambush!” shouted Esteban, voice sharp as he urged his men to draw their swords. Steel rang against steel as the knights sprang into action, shields raised and blades flashing.

Carlos reached for his sword, heart pounding, but before his hand could fully grasp the hilt, a swift movement caught his eye.

She was already moving — a blur of shadow and grace.

With the precision of a predator, she slipped forward, dagger flashing like a streak of moonlight. The first attacker lunged at Carlos’s flank, blade aimed to pierce, but she was there in an instant. Her dagger found the narrow gap beneath his attacker’s elbow, a clean, fatal strike that sent him staggering back, clutching at the wound.

“Behind you!” she hissed, voice low but urgent, as another soldier charged.

She didn’t wait for thanks. With a swift pivot, she brought the flat of her blade down hard, knocking the second attacker’s weapon aside before spinning gracefully to meet a third. Her movements were fluid, deadly — every strike measured, every parry flawless.

Carlos barely had time to process the flurry of steel and shadow. He swung his sword at an enemy closing in, but she stepped between them, deflecting the blow with the crossguard of her dagger and countering with a quick slash that drew a hiss of pain.

The knights fought fiercely, their training evident in every clash and block, but it was her swift, lethal strikes that broke the momentum of the ambush. She moved like a storm unleashed, cold and relentless, cutting through the enemy ranks with ruthless efficiency.

One by one, the attackers fell — some retreating into the shadows, others lying still beneath the trees.

When the last soldier collapsed, silence reclaimed the road, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors.

Carlos’s chest heaved as he stared at her, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You saved me,” he breathed, voice thick with emotion.

She wiped the blade of her dagger on the hem of her cloak, eyes already scanning the treeline for any sign of more danger. “Not the first time,” she said softly, voice steady and sure.

He sheathed his sword slowly, still trying to steady his pounding heart. “I owe you my life.”

She shrugged, a faint smirk touching her lips. “Keep up. We’re not safe yet.”

Around them, the knights exchanged looks — some filled with newfound respect, others wary but silent.

Esteban stepped forward, voice low. “You’ve got their attention now. More will come.”

Carlos nodded grimly, meeting her steady gaze. “Then we move faster.”

She mounted her horse without hesitation, the flicker of firelight catching the determined set of her jaw.

Together, they urged their mounts forward, disappearing into the growing darkness — shadows moving swift and sure through a land stained by blood and secrets.

The night wrapped around them like a heavy cloak as they rode beneath a canopy of stars, the road stretching endless before them. Their horses’ hooves kicked up dust that glittered faintly in the moonlight, the campfire long behind them.

The tension from the ambush had faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of travel and the soft murmur of voices.

Carlos rode near her, his armor still catching the moonlight, but his eyes softened by the quiet night. “You move like a shadow,” he remarked, glancing sideways. “I’m starting to think you’re part ghost yourself.”

She smirked, though she didn’t look at him. “I’m no ghost. Just someone who’s learned to disappear when it counts.”

Behind them, Esteban chuckled. “Disappearing’s a skill. Staying alive? That’s an art.”

Nico, riding just behind, added dryly, “You two should teach me that. I tend to trip over my own feet.”

Jack Doohan laughed softly. “I’ll trade you my clumsiness for your nerves any day.”

Oliver Bearman, ever restless, fidgeted atop his horse. “I don’t get why we’re trusting a rogue like her. Seems risky.”

Sergio Perez’s voice was calm but firm. “Risk is part of the road we’ve chosen. Besides, she saved the lord’s life today. That counts for something.”

She caught Oliver’s gaze and offered a rare, brief smile. “Trust is earned on the blade’s edge, not in idle chatter.”

Carlos grinned. “Well said.”

The group settled into a comfortable rhythm, stories and teasing weaving through the quiet moments.

“So” She said, not believing she was talking herself, “how long have you been captain?”

Esteban’s gaze flicked ahead, steady and unwavering. “Since my father fell at the Battle of Sable Ridge. Fifteen years now.”

Zhou Guanyu’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “That was the battle where the eastern flank nearly broke. We all thought we’d lose the kingdom.”

Jack nudged Oliver. “Bet you wish you were there to see it.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Would’ve rather been anywhere else.”

A low laugh escaped her lips. “History’s full of things best forgotten.”

Carlos looked at her, intrigued. “Not all of it.”

She met his gaze, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.

The night deepened, stories fading into silence as exhaustion settled in.

But for now, in the dark and on the road, they were just travelers — bound by fate and the miles ahead.

The first rays of dawn brushed the horizon, casting pale gold over the rugged hills as the group crested the final rise. Below lay Tavren’s Reach — a sprawling town nestled between ancient stone walls and dense forests, its rooftops gleaming with the promise of a new day.

Carlos slowed his horse, eyes drinking in the familiar sight with a mix of relief and determination. Around him, the knights settled, weary but alert, the weight of their journey evident in stiff limbs and tired eyes.

She rode beside him, silent as ever, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips as the morning light caught her profile.

Esteban’s voice broke the quiet. “We made it. Tavren’s Reach.”

Nico let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Long road, but worth it.”

Carlos glanced over at her, searching for a sign — some hint of what came next. But her face was calm, unreadable as ever.

She met his eyes for a brief moment, then looked away toward the bustling town.

“Guess this is goodbye,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight neither of them wanted to speak aloud.

He frowned, heart tightening. “You’re leaving?”

She gave a faint nod. “I have my own path to walk. This isn’t the end of the road, just a fork.”

Carlos’s hand twitched, wanting to reach out, to ask her to stay. But he held back, knowing some things couldn’t be forced.

“Then I’ll see you again,” he said, voice steady despite the ache beneath.

She gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Maybe. Or maybe we’ll meet where the roads cross again.”

With that, she turned her horse away, melding into the waking crowd, leaving Carlos and his knights standing beneath the shadow of the gate.

The moment she crossed into Tavren’s Reach, a shadow followed her—a familiar, cold presence threading through the bustling streets. The town was waking, merchants shouting their wares, children chasing each other past market stalls, but her eyes caught only the figure lurking just beyond the crowd’s edges.

She moved with purpose, every step measured, heart pounding not with fear, but with fierce resolve. She wasn’t here to enjoy the morning sun or the smells of fresh bread; she was hunting a ghost from her past—a relentless enemy who had tracked her for years, leaving scars deeper than any blade.

Suddenly, the shadow detached itself from the crowd—a tall figure, cloaked in black leather, eyes sharp and unforgiving. Without a word, the air between them thickened, crackling with silent hostility.

Steel flashed.

She reacted instinctively, dodging the first strike by inches, but without the protection of armor, the force of the blow rattled her bones. Her ribs ached as the edge of a blade grazed her side, tearing through cloth and skin alike.

Each movement was a battle against pain. Her dagger was small but deadly, slicing through the air with precision born from countless fights. She struck quickly, but her wounds deepened with every exchange—the blood blossoming warm against her pale skin.

The crowd around them seemed to hold its breath, parting just enough to watch the deadly dance unfold. Her vision blurred slightly with the sting of sweat and blood, but she didn’t falter. Every strike, every parry was a desperate bid to survive—and to finish what she had come for.

A sudden blow landed hard on her thigh, sending a jolt of searing pain coursing through her leg. She stumbled, knees buckling as she hit the cold cobblestones with a harsh breath escaping her lips.

Her opponent pressed forward, relentless as the tide. She twisted to meet the strike, but the lack of armor left her vulnerable—each hit tearing deeper, her strength waning.

Then, as quickly as the fight had begun, the attacker vanished into the crowd, leaving her crumpled on the stones, breath ragged and body trembling.

Pain flared with every inhale; blood pooled beneath her, warm and unforgiving. She was alone, wounded in a foreign town, and the world spun dangerously around her.

But beneath the surface of agony burned a fierce, unyielding fire.

The streets of Tavren’s Reach echoed with the clash of steel and ragged breaths as she fought, every movement sharp but weighed down by pain. Blood seeped from her wounds, staining the cobblestones beneath her, but she refused to yield.

Through the chaos, the pounding of hooves and shouts grew closer — Carlos and his knights rushing toward the source of the disturbance.

“There!” Esteban called out, pointing toward the fallen figure struggling against unseen foes.

Carlos pushed forward, breath caught in his chest as he closed the distance. His heart hammered with a fierce mix of fear and hope.

She was still fighting, even as weakness threatened to drag her down. Her dagger flashed, slicing through the air with desperate precision, but each strike cost her more strength.

Carlos reached her side just as she stumbled, muscles trembling, vision flickering. He dropped to his knees, hands steadying her trembling form.

“Easy,” he urged gently, voice low but commanding. “You’re safe now.”

The knights moved quickly, pressing cloths to her wounds, trying to stem the bleeding. But the color was draining from her face, and her breaths grew shallow, uneven.

She tried to focus on his voice, to hold onto the moment — but the pain was overwhelming.

Her eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open.

Carlos gripped her hand tighter, voice soft but urgent. “Don’t you dare pass out. Stay with me.”

For a heartbeat, her eyes locked with his — fierce, unbroken — then slowly, they closed.

She slipped into unconsciousness just as Carlos dropped to his knees beside her, whispering her name over and over.

Carlos’s world narrowed to the ragged breaths of the woman cradled in his arms and the wet warmth of blood seeping through his fingers. Time fractured — each second stretching unbearably as his heart hammered in his chest like a frantic drum.

“Hold her still!” Esteban commanded, voice sharp but controlled. He knelt beside them, ripping strips from his cloak and pressing them hard against the worst of the wounds.

Carlos gripped her arm gently, desperate to offer some steadiness, some comfort. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, pale and fragile like a dying ember.

“She’s losing too much,” Nico muttered grimly, crouched on the other side, his hands working quickly to bind the torn linen.

Carlos swallowed hard, choking back the rising panic. He stared down at her face — smooth but pale, eyes closed as if in deep sleep. His throat tightened, words caught in a knot.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath.

Around them, the knights moved with practiced urgency, their faces set in grim lines. Carlos felt the weight of their silence, the heavy knowledge of what might come.

But he refused to give up.

His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

“We’re going to get you through this,” he said softly, voice steady despite the storm inside.

Her chest rose and fell, slow and shallow, a fragile rhythm that was still there — still fighting.

“Can you slow the bleeding?” Carlos asked urgently.

Esteban nodded, voice firm. “We’ll do everything we can. But she needs rest, and a healer.”

Carlos’s jaw clenched. “Then we find one. Now.”

...

The healer’s small cottage was cramped and filled with the scent of drying herbs and smoldering incense. Candlelight flickered against rough wooden walls, illuminating the pale face of the woman lying on the narrow cot. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, but steady — for now.

Carlos stood stiffly near the door, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The healer’s practiced hands moved quickly, wrapping fresh bandages tighter around her wounds with quiet urgency.

“She’s stable for the moment,” the healer said without looking up. “But the bleeding is severe. If you don’t get her to a proper healer soon, she might not pull through.”

Carlos’s gaze hardened. “We don’t have that kind of time. Too many eyes are watching. We need to move before someone else finds us.”

The healer’s eyes met his, sharp and unyielding. “If you leave her here, she’ll die. If you take her, she might live — but it won’t be easy.”

Carlos nodded curtly. “Then I’ll keep her alive long enough to get her to safety.”

A moment later Esteban stepped inside holding the reins of her horse — a strong, steady mare with calm eyes.

Carlos didn’t hesitate. He knelt beside the cot and carefully lifted her limp body into his arms. She was lighter than he expected, though fragile, pale beneath the grime and blood.

He draped her across the saddle in front of him, tightening the straps to secure her without causing pain.

As he mounted, the knights gathered around, voices low but urgent.

Nico was the first to speak. “Are you sure this is wise, Carlos? She’s barely holding on.”

Carlos gave a tight nod. “I can’t just leave her here to die.”

Jack added, “The more time we spend here, the more likely we are to get caught.”

“She’ll slow us down,” Oliver said quietly, fidgeting nervously on his horse.

Carlos shot him a sharp look. “Better slow and alive than fast and without her.”

Esteban stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “We need a plan. We can’t afford to lose her—or ourselves.”

Carlos met his gaze steadily. “We move fast, stay off main roads, and keep watch. She’s coming with me.”

Sergio folded his arms. “Then we all watch her back.”

Carlos exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the woman resting across his horse. No softness there yet — only the weight of responsibility.

“This is about not leaving anyone behind.”

With a firm grip on the reins, Carlos urged the horse forward, leading the group away from the healer’s cottage and deeper into the uncertain dawn.

The first stretch was the hardest. Carlos kept her steady across the saddle, his arms locked tight around her. The weight was unfamiliar—lighter than he expected, but heavy with the burden of responsibility.

“Here,” Esteban said, pulling alongside. “Let me take her for a while.”

Carlos nodded, carefully lifting her from the horse and settling her in Esteban’s strong arms. Esteban’s grip was sure, steady, but his jaw was tight, the strain clear in his eyes.

They rode in silence, the only sound the steady clip of hooves on stone and the occasional sharp whistle from Zhou, scouting ahead.

After what felt like an eternity, Esteban eased her down, and Jack stepped forward. “My turn.”

Jack was younger, but determined, cradling her with surprising gentleness despite his nervous expression. Oliver rode close behind, eyes flicking nervously over the woods.

“Think she’ll make it?” Oliver asked quietly.

Carlos kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “She has to.”

Sergio took over next, his movements slow but deliberate. “She’s tougher than she looks. Won’t go down without a fight.”

Nico rode beside them, glancing over at Carlos. “You don’t say much. What are you thinking?”

Carlos’s voice was low. “Just... keep moving. No mistakes.”

Each time they switched, the weight in their arms reminded them what was at stake. The woman they carried was a mystery, a warrior, and now, a fragile life clinging to the edge.

The journey was long, but they were relentless—knights bound not just by duty, but by the unspoken understanding that some burdens must be shared.

The world stirred slowly from a thick fog, edges sharpening like shards of glass against the dim light. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and reluctant, revealing a ceiling shadowed by rough-hewn beams and the faint flicker of torchlight. The scent of wood smoke and damp stone filled her nostrils, unfamiliar yet grounding.

She tried to move, but a dull, persistent ache shot through her side. Panic welled up, sharp and immediate — where was she? How had she come to be here? The weight pressing down on her chest wasn’t just physical; it was the cold grip of uncertainty.

“Where... am I?” Her voice was cracked, raw, barely above a whisper.

A soft shuffle and the faint scrape of boots answered, then a steady, calm voice.

“You’re safe,” Carlos said, stepping into view. His eyes held something new — a mixture of relief and something harder to read.

Safe. The word hung in the air, both a balm and a challenge.

Her heart raced, confusion battling exhaustion, but the weight of her injuries reminded her she was far from whole. The room spun lightly, but she forced herself to sit up, leaning heavily on the rough stone beside her.

“Why... why did you save me?” Her voice was bitter, tinged with disbelief. “I’m no one to you.”

Carlos’s gaze didn’t waver. “You didn’t deserve to die out there. Not like that.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

She stared, wheels in her head stirring.

Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the familiar cold metal resting beside her. The sword’s worn hilt felt like a lifeline, grounding her in a reality she was still struggling to grasp. The room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the hearth and the steady, measured breaths she drew.

Slowly, with deliberate care, she curled her fingers tighter around the leather-wrapped grip. The weight of the blade was comforting—a reminder of battles fought and promises made in blood. She lifted the sword from its place, the steel catching the flickering torchlight, casting a sharp gleam across the rough stone floor.

Her arm extended forward, the blade’s tip meeting the cold ground with a resonant clang that echoed through the room like a call to arms. The sound seemed to stir something deep within her — a stirring of ancient vows and unspoken loyalties.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Without hesitation, she lowered herself onto one knee, her movements slow and purposeful. The weight of the moment pressed down on her chest, but she welcomed it. This was more than a gesture—it was a binding, a declaration carved out of pain and survival.

Her head bowed low, eyes closed for a heartbeat as she summoned the words that had lived at the edge of her thoughts since the day Carlos had carried her through darkness and back.

“I swear my oath to you,” she began, her voice steady but charged with raw emotion. “By the blade I wield, by the blood I have spilled, and by the shadows I have walked through alone—I pledge my loyalty to you.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, each syllable a promise forged from fire and frost.

“I vow to stand by your side, to protect and to fight, through storm and silence. To follow where you lead, no matter the cost. This sword is mine, but my will is yours.”

She lifted her gaze slowly, eyes blazing as they met Carlos’s, fierce and unwavering.

“This is no mere survival,” she continued, voice thick with determination. “This is a bond that binds us beyond words. I am yours, in battle and in shadow, until my last breath.”

Carlos stood motionless for a heartbeat, the weight of her oath settling deep within him like the steady beat of a war drum. The room was thick with tension, the silence fragile as glass. Then, like a sudden gust, whispers began to ripple through the gathered men — low, sharp, and filled with suspicion.

“How can he trust her?” one voice hissed from the shadows. “She has no name, no crest, no house to call her own.”

“She’s nothing but a shadow,” another muttered darkly, “a loose blade with no honor to bind her.”

The murmurs grew louder, a swelling tide of doubt threatening to drown the fragile bond just forged. Eyes flickered with uncertainty, some narrowed in distrust, others exchanging uneasy glances.

Before the doubt could morph into open dissent, Esteban stepped forward, his presence commanding and undeniable. His voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.

“Enough,” he said sharply, eyes burning with quiet fury. “We do not follow rumors or whispers. We follow Carlos—our leader—and his judgment. She saved his life. That alone outweighs any name or title.”

The room fell silent under Esteban’s iron will, the men’s faces hardening with reluctant acceptance.

Carlos’s gaze swept across the assembled knights, steady and piercing, before settling on her — the woman who had just pledged herself to him. His voice was low, calm, but charged with unwavering conviction.

“She is more than a name or a crest,” he said slowly, each word deliberate. “She stood by me. She bled for me. She earned this. Her loyalty is earned in battle, forged in blood.”

He stepped forward, the weight of his presence filling the room as every eye fixed on him. The murmurs died away, replaced by a tense hush.

“This woman — this warrior — is mine.”

The words struck the room like thunder, heavy and irrevocable. A silence fell, thick with the gravity of his claim.

Esteban gave a curt nod of approval, his expression unreadable but resolute.

Carlos held her gaze, the fire in his eyes fierce and unyielding.

“Doubt if you must,” he added quietly, voice edged with steel, “but never forget this — she is mine.”

The room remained still, the knights absorbing the weight of the moment. Some faces softened in respect, others clenched with stubborn pride, but none dared speak against the unbreakable bond forged in that declaration.

TRONAB taglist, comment to be added; @trashmouthsahra @lalala-by-bbnos @fergalaxy @maxswhore33 @b0nesandgh0sts @d160 @mimiastroos if your name is in white make sure you're allowed to be tagged!

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

[dracarysdream]

Little Matchmakers

Fandom: House of the Dragon (Modern AU) Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Reader Word Count: 1k Tags: Modern!Aegon, Fluff, Angst (if you squint), slow burn, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys are little matchmakers. Summary: When Helaena and Jace leave town for a week, you agree to watch their twin toddlers. You’re warned that Aegon has been crashing at their place again, but he won’t be a problem. You haven’t seen him in months, so you’re expecting the usual–hungover, maybe bringing a girl over, maybe both. What you don’t expect is a quieter Aegon. Still a little lost, but gentle with the twins, sober, and…trying? You tell yourself not to get pulled in. But between shared routines, soft mornings, and late-night conversations, it gets harder to keep your distance.

You should have known it was a set-up.

Helaena had invited you over under the innocent guise of a glass of wine and some overdue gossip. You hadn’t seen much of each other lately, and you missed her—so of course, you came.

“We’ll only be gone for a week,” she’d said, hands clasped like she was praying to a god you weren’t even sure she believed in.

“Helaena,” you groaned, laughing in disbelief, “I just finished telling you I can barely pay rent, and now you want me to drop everything and watch the twins?” It was a last-ditch effort to wriggle out of it, and you both knew it.

You could never say no to her. And she was very aware of that.

Money had never been a concern for Helaena, though she never lorded it over you. She and Jace had moved into a house that was way too big for two adults and two toddlers, but you knew why—they practically had a revolving door for visiting family. Most frequent among them: Aegon.

He had his own room there, after all. Mostly because he’d been kicked out of his mother’s house more times than anyone could count.

You, in contrast, were juggling part-time work at a nearby café while taking college classes as you tried to wrap up your degree. Every month felt like a tightrope walk between tuition, rent, and your rapidly draining sanity. You hadn’t told Helaena how bad it had gotten—mostly because you knew what she’d say. She’d offer to let you move in. Rent-free. And you were grateful, truly, but that just wasn’t something you could bring yourself to accept.

“Then move in with us!” she said now, eyes lighting up. “I’ve been asking you to for months. You’re my best friend, and the twins adore you.”

She paused for effect before adding, “Please. I’d ask Aegon to watch them but…”

Both your gazes drifted toward the living room.

Aegon was half-asleep on the couch, a game controller balanced on his chest, his hair sticking up in all directions like he’d been electrocuted. Call of Duty was frozen on the screen behind him while he mindlessly scrolled through his phone. A mostly-empty bag of chips teetered on the edge of the coffee table.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Fair point.”

“I trust you with them. And they really love you,” Helaena said, tugging on your sleeve like a kid pleading for candy. “Please?”

You hesitated for a beat. “I mean… I guess I can move some things around. Take my classes online. Stay for a few days.”

Helaena squealed and threw her arms around you like you’d just agreed to be the twins’ godparent.

“That’s perfect! And we’ll talk about you moving in permanently when I get back,” she added in a firmer tone, her mom voice slipping in.

You glanced toward Aegon again, brow furrowing slightly. The dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual, and he looked... worn. More than normal.

“Did Alicent kick him out again?” you asked, voice low.

Helaena followed your gaze, then sighed.

“It was our father this time,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Something about Aegon needing to ‘find a job and be useful for once in his life.’” She threw up air quotes with a grimace. “I told him he could just stay here, but I don’t know why he keeps going back.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything that wouldn’t come out too honest.

“Do you offer free rooms to everyone, or are we just your favorite strays?” you teased, bumping her arm lightly.

Helaena grinned. “Just the special ones.”

───────────────୨ৎ───────────────

Your suitcase thudded against the floor louder than you intended, and before you even got your coat off, a blur of tiny limbs came flying at you.

“Aunty Y/N!” Jaehaera squealed, already climbing you like a koala.

“Hey, careful!” you laughed, dropping to your knees just in time for Jaehaerys to cannonball into your chest. You staggered back a little, hugging them both tightly. “You guys miss me or something?”

They nodded with such intensity their little curls bounced.

“Mommy said you’re living with us!”

“She said you’re gonna take care of us better than Uncle Aeg.”

“Hey!” Aegon’s voice cut in from the top of the stairs—raspy, sleep-worn, and mildly offended. “I’m right here.”

The twins wiggled out of your arms and charged toward him instead. Aegon came down the last few steps and knelt to meet them. “Good morning, my little dragons,” he said, a rare softness in his voice as he scooped them both up and spun them around in one smooth movement.

“Put us down! You’re dizzy-ing us!” they shrieked through their giggles.

You stood at the door, momentarily forgotten, watching the way his face lit up with them in his arms. It caught you off guard—how natural he looked in that moment. Like someone you didn’t quite recognize.

“You’re here!” Helaena’s voice cut into the moment, pulling you back to earth.

“I’m here,” you said, smiling as she pulled you into a quick hug.

She helped you lug your things into the guest room, chatting animatedly the entire time about the etymology trip Jace had surprised her with. You helped her hang up your shirts, rearrange the drawers, and fill the silence with excited rambling.

“I’m really glad you’re doing this, Hel,” you said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She paused, turning to look at you, and placed her hand gently on top of yours.

“Thank you. For letting me do this.”

You smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. “Of course. You’re my best friend.”

You spent the rest of the afternoon catching up—laughing over dumb stories, complaining about school, and making a plan for the week. Aegon was nowhere to be seen, which didn’t surprise you.

Helaena had assured you he’d barely be around.

You believed her.

You really shouldn’t have.

Authors Note: My first ever fanfiction! yay!

This will definitely a multiple part series if people want me to continue it! I also want to incorporate Ziggy/Sunfyre into the fic, so prepare for that as well!

[doiliedaze]

Pearl on the Shore: The Jewel of the Sea sequel

Warnings: time skip of three years from the original, reader is 28, Sevika is around her mid 40s, reader is depressed, not legally but reader and sev are married, infidelity, taking in Isha, journey to find inner peace, found family

Genre: fluff, angst

A/n: ngl I was nervous asf writing this like shaking in my boots, so I hope I didn’t let y’all down🫡 y’all I’ve been having to block a lot of ageless or blank blogs so please respect my rules! I don’t want minors interacting with my page but especially following me please and thank you!!

1, 2

───────┈ · ·

The water wades inbetween your toes as you lay against your wife. The two of you, maybe around last year or so found this hidden cove. It’s where y’all go to just be. Your head nestles against the hump of her breast as she pulls you in closer. Your eyelids close with a flutter as you ponder on these last three years.

Sevika is a great teacher and was eager to have you prepared to protect yourself! Especially after having such a close call…for a long time you didn’t go anywhere alone. Almost as if having a guard again! Alas she gave you space when proven that you were a proper gunslinger.

That’s not to say there wasn’t many weapons you failed at using…you have a gash on your thigh to prove it!

“Priya” her voice lures you back to reality. Gruff and smooth, with a softness that only blesses your ears.

“We should head back to the ship” she states, “don’t want you to try to turn into a mermaid.” She jokes but you know there’s worry behind it.

You’ve been depressed as of late—the last two years to be exact. It’s been gnawing at you that your own father set you up, but you can't believe your sister and mom where in on it!

It just doesn't make sense! Granted it's not like your father hated you but compared to the relationship you have with your mom and sister, he has the most friction.

Especially when you refused to marry if it wasn't a woman. That conversation happening a month prior to the coronation. That always knew how to make you feel small.

You can feel her speaking to you, but it just wasn't comprehending. Almost like your hearing shut off and all your senses went into your eyes and feet.

The water wrapping around your bare ankles almost like hands wanting to pull you in. Eyes zooming into the water, almost like they were inspecting every ripple you could be floating with.

Sevika; your anchor, hoists you out the water not giving you a chance to think mindlessly.

Your head snaps to her, slight defense in your stance.

"I wasn't ready!"

"You are", and just like that she's holding your hand and walking you back to the ship.

When she tried to walk away to talk to Ran you re-direct her to your shared living quarters.

"What was that?" you say with an anger in your chest!

"Protection, that's what it is!"

"From what? Water? Be serious I-" before you can go on she cuts you off with a gentle hug.

"I'm not trying to offend you, but I need you to understand that I see things in you that you aren't. All I want is for you to be mindful and aware because I be damned if I lose my wife."

You can hear the lump in her throat as she tries to find the best way to comfort you. "You are my whole world and I just...please." She mutters unsure and slightly embarrassed to be emotional even for you.

Deeply you inhale and run your fingers through her hair. "I get it...I'm just so angry? Sad? Hurt? More, I'm not sure and I want to be over it like I should but I'm just not!"

"There's no timetable for this sorta thing, so stop being so hard on yourself."

Before a rebuttal could be made, she gave a very stern look leading to an understanding nod by you.

Gently she cups your face, placing soft kisses till you relaxed into her embrace.

"Me and you forever no matter what" she whispers, and you whisper it back.

Time flies when you are seeking inwardly on why there's a pit in your stomach. You've let go not being a princess, but you need that closure that why. What happens if you get it though? Does it truly change anything?

Your bare feet dangle as you sit in your hiding spot, "world too loud jellyfish?" Only one person is corny enough to call you that.

"Hello to you too Ran." You mutter as you play with your nails.

They call you jellyfish because when the crew came across a group of them you cried from cute they were. You hate crying in front of others so Ran just uses that against you, but that's what best friends are for!

Ran sat next to you, pressing a leg to their chest, "you and Sev fighting again?"

You shake your head no and they mutter a thank the gods. "Fuck you I heard that!" "Oh my word she does curse!" They say with a playful gasp, causing a small smile to break out on your face.

"I just keep thinking about the fact that he wanted to kill me, and that the kingdom is just thriving without me!"

"Well, that's just the outside looking in." You tilt your head to them in confusion. "I'm saying you'll never know till you know so...sneak in."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" "No...but it's worth a shot!"

With that you hatched a plan just Ran and you!

The two of are gonna break inside your father's study, search documents and get some answers! Quick in and out scheme that Sevika doesn't need to know about! You just don't want to worry her more than you have.

Sneaking out of bed was the hardest part of the plan. Removing your head from her chest, watching her softly breathe as she dreams...as she trusts you'll be there when you wake up.

"I love you...please understand that I need this." you whisper and place a long kiss on her parted lips. Leaving a letter on the pillow not knowing how long you'd be gone. If you'll even come back.

With that you met Ran at the exit of the ship and you two were gone.

Juxtapose from leaving your bed sneaking in was honestly easier than you'd thought it would be! Not as agile as Ran but you were pretty damn good.

Remembering your fathers schedule you knew you had an hour to this done.

It took thirty minutes to search his documents till you found something interesting.

"A birth document?" you mutter, it has your sister's name as the child but not your father's name where his should be?

Before you could call out to Ran the doorknob shakes and the two of you hid.

The air in the room is still and your heart is in your throat. You're hiding in the leg space of the desk and if it's your father entering then he'd definitely find you!

All you could think about was that letter you left Sevika. Filled with love and admiration.

Your anxious thoughts were cut short when your name flows out of your mother's lips?

"Mommy?" you say as you crawl out of the desk space.

She steps back to take you in.

A little bit more muscular but still had that pudge to your tummy and arms. Tattoos scattered on your lower right forearm along some visible scars. Your skin a bit darker than before from the sun and your hair longer, the parts she could she coming out your scarf woven into those coils, the coils she gave you.

Her eyes tear a bit at the woman before her; in another way it's like the death of her daughter. This entirely new person in front of her.

Your once soft mother seems on edge, something she would've never let you see before. Her eyes heavy and tired with an aching sadness behind them. Hands shaky and lips bitten.

No one knew who to move first but you had to swallow it. You aren't here alone and you don't know if she's to be trusted.

"How'd you know I was in here?" "Don't matter what happens to you, I can sense my child." She spoke with so much determination.

She clears her throat, "I was walking past and I just felt you and had to see...sometimes it feels like you haunt this place."

"Good! If it were up to you, I actually would be!" You say with a slightly raised voice. Your mother catching the same attitude says, "Mind how you speak to your mother child! I had nothing to do with that nonsense of a scheme!" "How am I supposed to believe that?" You say with hot tears running down your face.

Swiftly your mother embraces you. Her hand cradling your head and shushing you.

She pulls away, "We don't have much time so listen. It was your father...although it was my fault." She says as she looks at the birth document you left out with shame.

"He wanted to punish me because I was in love with another man. See we had an arranged marriage, but I was already in love with this country boy." She says fondly before taking a breather, "regardless of the marriage I kept seeing him and well I had your sister and...to get back at me he told me he'd use you. Back then I wasn't sure how...besides your disagreements he was a gentle man with you till he proposed you take the crown so your sister could care for horses. Besides she cared for school more than her royal duties and it didn't sound that bad. Not knowing he was trying to prove a point he could hurt me deep."

Silence fell over the room as you try to process what you were just told.

Abruptly Ran popped up, "we have to go."

You check your stopwatch and see you are about to cut it close. "Wait here please!" Left your moms lips as she dashed out the room, Ran looking at you anxiously.

It only took her five minutes to run back in and shut the door, "to remember us and to maybe sleep if you hadn't." She whispers as she hands you the bear. Your first and most important stuffie ever.

You didn't let the tears fall as you gave your mom a finale hug and kiss.

When the two of you get back on your getaway boat and sail out for a while, you just look up at the sky head empty for the first time in a long time.

The two-day travel time to the port the crew is stationed at seemed to fly by as you listened to the ocean the whole way.

When Sevika sees the two of you stroll back up onto the ship a shitload of emotions flies through her head. The easiest to express is anger.

"Where were you! You leave in the night with some note for four days? Do you know how worried I was! And Ran I trust you to watch her not feed into bullshit schemes!" She yells stepping into your space but face faltering when she sees the way you're clutching the bear.

She just releases a sigh and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head. "You're gonna be the death of me priya I swear."

Ran pats her shoulder and mutters a sorry and walks pass us.

Sevika walks me to our room but before we enter, she tells me she has a surprise for me.

There was this brown-haired little girl spinning her globe.

"This is Isha, found her yesterday. She was tryna get away from some creeps and I knew we had to take her in. Hope it's not too much."

You put your feelings to the side and go over to her, the two of you stare at each other.

"She can't speak" Sev says as she comes up behind you, you keep that in mind when you slowly extend your hand. She shook it, her small hands kinda rough. You see her golden-brown eyes looking at your bear.

Apart of you wanted to be selfish, childish even and hold it tighter to your chest but you extend it to the child. She took it as an innovation to hug you, and you embraced the small girl.

With journey you just had and the words of your mother ringing in your head you break down crying holding the kid closer. Sevika embracing the both of you.

From this point forward you aren't just going to sail the seas forever, you're gonna make it yours. No more living in what could've been and how it should've gone. Life is throwing love at you everywhere you turn, so live in it!

Your sister use to tell you "To be great is to be true" and now you get what she meant, to be great is to live a life closest to your truest self.

So, you're not some lost princess swept away by the savvy pirate and isn't some lawless woman waiting for an adventure at every turn! The two of you are that and more, this child could be that and more.

As you relish in the love around you, it finally feels like you are breathing in fresh air again, the ocean becoming your home again this time at your pace.

───────┈ · ·

A/n: yallllllll im in love like i love my little family!! I really wanted this to be about reader so I’m sorry if y’all wanted more Sevika input or smut but I just didn’t see it fitting! Really hope y’all enjoy!

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian @furrytaesss @milanyas @highnfemme @5seos @artemisdreamfairie @ellabswife

Dividers- @dollywons

[stealingpotatoes]

you say C-3PO is technically Luke and Leia's brother?

well i mean i depends on how one counts making a robot in a family structure. bc not everything u make is ur kid (even if i personally call half my discord bots my kids LOL). personally i think your relation to a robot is whatever you make it, so you're only your robot's dad if you act like one and anakin just acted like threepio was a lil annoying guy not his kid <3

that being said he didn't cut off threepio's hand or torture him so ya know. maybe he was MORE fatherly to threepio than the twins...

[lambilegs]

getting acquainted with the dildo: attempt #1

contains: sevika teaching reader how to suck the strap, dry humping (reader doing it on sev's thigh), friends with (resolved, thank god) tension, slight humiliation kink, a bit of a spit kink, teasing, inexperienced reader, implied age gap (both reader and sevika are adults), sevika calls reader "kiddo" teasingly, reader's body is referred to w/ the following terms: "pussy," "clit," "cunt"

when you tell sevika that you've never used a strap-on before, you nearly beg some higher force to let the ground swallow you whole. you two have been friends forever, but lately, it's undeniable that some sort of molten desire has been pooling at the center of what you have. maybe it was always there, and had just been in denial. but, it's undeniably present now, impossible to ignore, thick and heavy in the air, lining every interaction with a sort of hot lava.

and it's made confessions like this, ones filled with sexual secrecy and exposed desires, carry a lot more weight than they did prior. you're pretty much confiding in a woman who you're aching to have sex with about just how much experience she should and shouldn't expect of you. it's way more vulnerable, and it feels like you're spoiling her prematurely by peeling away sexual secrets that in a different circumstance, one with just regular dating, she would've discovered on her own in the context of wanting to have sex with you. but, doing it in a friendship, when you don't even know for sure what she feels, is more uncertain. it's farther away from the line of actual romance and desire, and therefore feels risker to admit. because if your inexperience deters her, maybe she'll easily dismiss and rid herself of any attraction she might've once harboured for you, since it'd be simpler to as just friends.

so, to say the least, you're scared when confessing this secret to her.

at least, that's until you see the way her lip curls up when, while laying on her couch, you confess that you're nervous about one day using the strap due to never having done it before. she seems equal parts intrigued and amused by the revelation. from where she sits, picking at one of the screws in her arm, she asks, tone low, steady, "well, do you feel ready?"

"I don't know." you stare up at the ceiling, for the thought of maintaining eye contact through this conversation is a bit too unnerving for your liking. "I mean, I'm sure everyone feels... not ready when they start using it, right?"

she shrugs. "maybe. to a degree. but, you don't need to push yourself if it really scares you." her voice has turned tentative, face absent of the initial mischief. with the way she angles herself away from you, it seems that she's somewhat uncomfortable with giving such earnest advice.

"thanks for the sex-ed," you laugh, trying to ease the mood some.

"well, considering I've actually worn the strap and you've barely touched it, you could use all the advice you can get."

you try not to visibly tense up at the casually tossed comment. you knew sevika has used a strap, of course you did. you've been at her apartment enough times to catch sight of her lube or dildos (because, yes she has several) scattered about. but, god, the idea of it taut on her pelvis, ready to be used to pump into you, has your thighs tightening.

"well, then, oh-wise-one, what would be your advice?"

she shrugs, avoiding your gaze for a few seconds before saying, "getting acquainted with it. with things like sucking, touching, you know."

"sucking?"

"yeah." the corner of her lip quirks up as she raises an eyebrow at you. "never done that either?"

you feel your face warm, feeling awfully pathetic under her pointed gaze, years of experience behind it. "no." you groan, swiping a hand across your face. "god, I'm gonna be so horrible at it when I first do it."

"then, practice."

you scoff. "with who?"

"by yourself?" she drawls, casting you an incredulous look as though she aims for you to question your own stupidity.

you huff, turning away. "I can't do it on my own, how will I know if I'm even doing it right?"

"then, I don't know," she sighs exasperatedly, lighting her cigar. "someone you trust, I guess. someone who wants their dick wet."

"the only person I know who wants to get their dick wet is you," you snap, a petulant part of you hoping you can embarrass her as much as she does with you.

her lips wrap around the tip of the cigar, that scar on the bottom one seeming to deepen. it's almost entrancing, hooking your eyes in and leaving you resistant to its power.

you only snap out of the spell when she says, "is that your way of asking for it to be me?"

the words have your lips parting before you can force them shut. what the fuck is that supposed to mean? you're well-aware of the tension that's been there between you two, of course you are. but, you never imagined that sevika would actually initiate anything. sure, she's flirted here and there, and you're convinced she's started purposely mentioning stopping at babette's for the sole purpose of making you jealous (after all, she always has such a shit-eating grin whenever you fidget or glare at her in response). but, still, it's never amounted to an actual offer, an actual step over the threshold between friendship and, well, something else.

you know it's the more responsible decision to say no, and shut this down before things get complicated. or at least until you clear up whatever it is you guys consider yourselves to be in relation to each other, and if it's something that carries as much emotion to her as it does to you.

but, part of you wants to give into the throb between your legs, the thick tension crackling in the air, the way her gaze is resting on you calmly, as though debating whether or not she should pounce. and god, you want her to, itching with curiosity as to what she'd say if you teased back.

and so, you do. "why, are you offering?"

you get a world of satisfaction from the way she coughs at the question, puffs of smoke blowing from her mouth as she roughly clears her throat. beneath it all, though, is a very apparent underbelly of nerves in your stomach, tingling in anticipation for her answer.

when she finally sets the stupid thing down, giving her lungs a well-deserved break, she says, "why, do you want me to?"

you grit your teeth, a spark of irritation set aflame from this back-and-forth. you wish she could treat you with the courage she does anyone else, just answering your question then sweeping you off your feet with no action required of you. but, no, she just has to be cautious, and hesitant, and sweet. today, of all times.

you sigh. you suppose it's on you to end this game. your chest is tight with anxiety, the words about to roll off your tongue heavy and filled with consequence. but, you push through, anyways. if you remain vague, she will too. if you say no, you may lose your chance with her for god knows how long. so, the only option is: "fine, yes."

immediately, regret weighs upon you, sinking down into your guts. you shift, eyes pointed down to your knees, trying not to panic, when a small huff meets your ears.

it's sevika. sevika chuckling.

your eyes tentatively raise up to her, nails digging into the plush of the cushioned seat you're on. her small, endearing gap flashes as she shakes her head slowly, her laughter sounding split between amused and incredulous, bordering on a scoff.

you feel nearly glued to your spot when her eyes finally rest upon you, the grey shine in them wrapping around you and pulling, pulling and pulling.

she leans back in her couch, spreading her legs out. "well, then, hop on, kiddo."

and that's how you wind up on her thigh, her arm wrapped around your torso as you fist at the fabric taut over her broad shoulders. her mechanic hand squeezes into the silicone balls of a dildo, eyes stuck on your lips as she traces the tip over them. your breaths are heaving with anticipation as she strokes the head along the inside plush of your lips, getting the bulb of it wet and slick with your spit. the experience is exhilarating, for you know she's capable of going harder than this, of fucking your throat raw. but, no, she wants to take her time with you, draw out every drop and dribble of pleasure for the both of you.

"who knew you had it in you?" she muses with a raspy laugh.

before you can even speak to protest, she slides the entire head in, capturing your voice and transforming it into a broken, wanton moan of surprise. her eyes practically gleam at that, and she slides the dildo out of your mouth's confines with a pop before sliding the tip back in. your lips latch on automatically, hugging around the head and letting it roll around the flat of your tongue. despite the sheer anxiety of having sevika's attentive eyes on you, the motions of her push-and-pull into your mouth is almost -- well, relaxing? the repetitiveness of it, the way it gives you something to direct all your five senses to as it lolls about in your mouth, your lips tightening and loosening -- it makes your brain feel softened, hazy, lost in this.

"ah, look at that," she coos, her tone hushed and sharpened with an edge of mockery. "sucking on that like that's all you're good for."

the playful degradation makes your clit fucking throb, and without meaning to, your hips automatically jerk forward, the firmness of her thigh making your eyes nearly roll back.

"oh, someone liked that," sevika mutters.

her thigh suddenly bucks up, sending you bouncing on her lap and nearly toppling over if not for her muscular arm steadying you. the pressure against your pussy makes you whine around the toy, your lips stretching open to release the noise only has her pushing it in deeper, nearly a quarter of it now sliding up and against your tongue.

"suck it in and out, just like that," she whispers, her eyes burning into your skin as she intently watches you. you try to follow her directions, but your sucks are too eager, too fast, and sevika reaches her hand up and gently grabs your jaw, coaxing it into fluid motions that has the dildo being softly pressed and released by your lips' grip, over and over and over again.

you know this is a horrible idea, a fact that only becomes more punctuated with every thrust of the toy into your mouth. you know you should've had some more self-control, and should've put a stop to this inane idea before it had manifested into a reality. but, no, you just had to think with your pussy, and now look where it's landed you? on your friend's, a good, loyal, helpful friend's, lap, practically rutting like you're in heat and sucking dick with zero technique.

"when that gets a bit too repetitive, you can lick it." she abruptly yanks the dildo from your mouth, and an embarrassing wad of spit stretches out with it, spilling thickly down your chin. your face is practically burning from the heat of humiliation, but sevika doesn't seem to mind, only smirking and saying, "now, I was gonna tell you you can get messy with it, but you're a step ahead."

now that your mouth is finally freed, at least you get to spit out, "you're such a dick," as though your pussy isn't practically leaking with arousal.

"oh, so you suck off any asshole, then?"

"maybe I will once you're done with this lesson," you haughtily snap back.

her eyes narrow at that, but she says nothing to it, smacking the tip lightly against your mouth. "open."

despite your snapping, and much to your annoyance, your mouth immediately goes slack, falling open for her.

"tongue out, now."

you obey, sticking it out.

she snorts, shifting in her seat as she raises the dick to you. "such a little sub."

you roll your eyes at her words, jerking when she grabs your jaw, forcing you to face her. "keep those eyes on me."

your pussy clenches down on nothing. god, you need her. not that you'd ever admit it -- the last thing she needs is another ego stroke.

"show me how you'd lick this."

giving you so much control causes your confidence, however little you had of it, to waver. you hesitate before tentatively stroking the flat of your tongue along the head, maintaining eye contact with her the entire time. a tiny burst of pride ripples through you when you see her eyes widen imperceptibly. it's barely there, but you know her well enough to know it wouldn't have happened unless, at the very least, a small part of her was surprised, or maybe even impressed.

the reaction eggs you on, and you do it again, running your tongue along the entire length of the dildo, using the tip to trace along the bulging veins. when that's done, you lap at the head, the flat of your tongue quickly moving along it in steady movements.

when sevika speaks, her jaw is clenched, and the deep breath she takes shudders. "good."

"yeah?" the clear effect you're having on her is most definitely getting to your head, and it makes you desirous to push and prod at her more. "am I being good?" you end the question with a kiss right to the tip.

almost as though sevika is tethered to the toy, she swallows hard at the sight. "yeah," she says, her voice firm. "you're doing good."

the praise has your hips bucking again, and you internally curse at the leverage you've so clearly given her, another wicked smile curling at her lips.

her thigh resumes its actions from before, pumping up to meet your clothed core as her arm grips your waist tightly, keeping you anchored as she encourages you to rub yourself on her. your body acts before your mind can catch up, hips pressing down so that your clit receives some friction through the layers of fabric. you hate to admit it, but sevika's muscled thigh is a perfect helper.

"you can flick your tongue on the tip, too," she says, her voice a lot rougher than it was a few minutes back. you derive some pleasure from it, for even if your resolve is loosening and waning in wake of her touch, at least hers seems to be too.

"how?" you ask, your voice an embarrassing pitch from the desperation accompanying the word. but, as soon as it slips from you, your mind conjures up a single image, and it drives you to ask, "can you show me?"

"you kidding me?"

"no." you bat your eyes, hoping it'll get her more susceptible.

"I'm gonna need a bit more convincing than some pretty eyes."

oh, well, never mind. you deflate physically, though something tickles your stomach at knowing she finds your eyes pretty.

"oh, c'mon, please, sevi," you say, tugging on her arm with a jutted bottom lip.

after a few moments of casting you a deadpan stare, she sighs, tentatively turning the dildo around and raising the head to her mouth. voice warm, so velvety, she murmurs, "like this."

you hold your breath as the tip of her tongue pokes out, flicking along the head of the toy, flapping over it fast and hard. she may not realize it, but she's giving you a crystal clear shot of exactly how she'd look devouring your clit. you pocket the mental image, already knowing you'll pull it out the next time you get off.

when you follow suit, lapping at the tip, your tongue's point making little zig-zag wags, sevika's hand tightens on your hip, and with just one pull, you're back to riding her thigh. the pleasure coursing through your pussy, deep and aching from the pressure, is making you lost in sensation. your eyes flutter close as your hole clenches and your clit swells up, sevika's muscular thigh hard and lovely.

meanwhile, she's easing the toy into your throat, laughing when you gag all over it, spit gushing from your mouth. she's relentless in her practice, just coaxing you to move faster on her thigh as you struggle to accommodate the dildo, pathetic whines tumbling from your mouth everytime she pushes it in and your throat seizes with a choke. it leaves you more sloppy, more wet, more nasty than you were before, saliva trailing down your chin and getting your neck cool and sticky.

sevika's hand slides up your waist, just barely grazing the side of your breast on the way up, before brushing a thumb against the corner of your mouth, wiping away the residue. the touch seems wholly intimate compared to the ones that preceded, especially when she uses the digit to encourage your mouth to open and take the dildo in again. she seems to be more cautious of your limits now, easing it only halfway in. your eyes flutter shut, sucking nonsensically at it, losing yourself to the rhythm as you jut against her thigh faster.

sevika's eyebrows furrow in as you speed up, her breathing laboured, and you nearly giggle around the toy at the evident impact you're having on her. but, that's not all there is to it, for her expression only has a series of more hot, tempting mental images bursting through your mind. her panting like that when thrusting into you, her eyebrows scrunching in concentration like that while she lavishes attention all over your soaked cunt.

the thought has you bouncing faster, and sevika growls. actually fucking growls. her hand abandons your face, opting to grip your ass tightly and drag you harder against her. your bud is practically weeping with desire now, desperate to have its wants sated as you grind down harder. the weight of the toy on your tongue, the way your mind is numbed from the bodily chaos of sucking, thrusting, clutching -- it sends you rolling close to your orgasm, just barely teetering on the edge of it.

what finally sends you hurdling past it is how sevika bites her lip when she pulls you forward again, her thigh pumping up and down to meet your thrusts. she looks so concentrated on you, her dark eyes hooded and intense, and the pure want on her face makes you feel so desired, so aroused at the idea of how many ways you can get that expression on her face again. that, paired with another aggressive press from her thigh, and a tight suck on the dildo, sends your body crashing with an orgasm, walls spasming as your thighs go taut. you writhe in her arm, nearly tipping all the way back if it weren't for her catching you and holding you close. your chest presses flush to hers as you tremble like a leaf, clit sopping and stinging in sensitivity as she continues pushing against it.

you whine in protest, slightly lifting your hips, and she immediately takes the hint, slowing her movements to a stop. all the while, you keep sucking on the dildo, the shape of it in your mouth, the way it offers you something to latch onto and ground yourself with, practically addictive.

sevika watches you carefully for a few moments before gently tugging it out, a string of saliva hooked between the head of it and your bottom lip.

you moan in surprise when shr leans in and runs her tongue along your chin, curling it right at your bottom lip, swallowing down the saliva all for herself.

"you're such a mess," she mumbles, sucking languidly at your chin.

"it's not my fault," you grunt, voice raspy from all the noises you made. now that the heat of the moment has worn off, the searing burn of embarrassment begins to imprint itself on you. god, you were so loud, so desperate, so--

"you looked good."

you lick your lips, some of the nerves calming. "yeah?"

"don't let it get to your head."

"that's true, I already had my fair share of head for today."

her eyebrow raises at you in a distinct lack of amusement. "you're lucky you're cute."

your stomach sizzles with oh-so-stupid butterflies. god, why does she have this much of an impact on you? and it's so effortless on her end too, which makes it all the more frustrating for you.

"you think I'm cute?" you ask, forcing your tone to sound teasing so she doesn't realize just how earnest you are.

when she falls silent for a few moments, you tense up, wondering if she can tell how serious you are.

"who's the one leaking through my favourite pants right now?"

or maybe not. face twisted into a cringe, you grip her shoulders to stumble into a standing position, her hand still loosely hanging by your waist. "on that note, I think I'll go wash up."

her fingers dig with a bit more pressure into your skin, and to your shock, she says, voice gruff, "not just yet. just sit for now."

you let her tug you back into her lap, your arms immediately winding around her neck. "what for?"

she shrugs. "just comfortable." her eyes finally lift to you, and it's like you could plummet to the ground with how swept over her steady gaze makes you feel.

"was it not you who just made made that stupid pants comme--"

"do I need to get the dildo again?"

you burst into laughter, eyes crinkling as you shake your head at her. "is that gonna be your go-to whenever I piss you off now?"

"amongst other possibilities." her fingertips ghost your waist, and you shiver.

other possibilities? you know it's not the smartest thing to dwell on -- after all, she might've just said casually with no serious intent. but, sill, your stomach warms from something you had been trying your best to avoid this entire interaction.

hope.

but, when she touches your waist like that, and seems to struggle to remove her hand from you as you walk away, you can't resist the little part of you of that whispers, maybe it's warranted.

but, you don't want to get ahead of yourself. so, you keep it at just a maybe.

[snoopyracing]

birds of a feather — cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x reader word count: 30k warnings: google translate french and swearing includes: friends to lovers, childhood best friends, soulmates, pining, and angst summary: follows charles and the reader through childhood all the way to present day. based of of 'birds of a feather' by billie eilish.

masterlist

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

five and eight

It's a hot summer day in Monaco the first time Charles meets you.

The evening sun cascaded through the windows, golden rays bouncing off the walls as the smell of his Mother's baking wafted through the house. Charles' legs soon carried him into the kitchen and to his delight he found her oven-mitt clad hand pulling out a tray from the oven. His eyes widen when he sees what it is, it's one of his favorite sweet treats; cookies. His Mother spots him as she turns to set them on the counter. "Bonjour chéri!"

Charles doesn't answer, he's too focused on the cookies. He knows she won't let him have one, it's too close to dinner time, but he could probably sneak one when she had her back turned. So when she goes to put something back in the fridge he knows this is his chance, but he's not fast enough. His little hand barely hovers over one of the cookies before his Mother is gently smacking it away.

"No Charles! They are for the Y/L/N's." She hands him a stack of plates, motioning towards the table. "Now go set the table, s'il te plaît." Charles whines about it not being fair before stomping towards the table.

All day the only topic of conversation in the Leclerc household was about how an old family friend was to be moving back to Monaco today. Charles and Arthur had no idea who the man their Father spoke so highly about was, but Lorenzo mentioned something about him being their "uncle", but not really their uncle. Something that at only eight years old, confused Charles.

Even during dinner it seems like his Father mentions their "uncle" somehow during every conversation. Between the constant talk of this mystery man and the cookies sitting feet away from him Charles thinks tonight's dinner is the longest dinner of his life. He can see them sitting there, the cookies taunting him the whole time he tries to eat the unpleasant brussel sprouts on his plate. He hears his Father mention their "uncle" again and his attention is brought back to the conversation. "Papa. Is he really our uncle?" Charles asks as he shoves around the food on his plate with his fork.

"Ah, no. I mean he practically is, but not by blood. He is a very old friend of mine. We grew up together, but he moved to America around nine years ago." He pauses for a moment, eyes flickering between Charles and Arthur. "I hate that Arthur and you don't know him, but he's back now, so hopefully you boys will see him as an uncle like Lorenzo does. Plus, their house is just down the street, so I'm sure we will be spending lots of time with each other."

All Charles can do is nod at him, he isn't sure that he can call this random man "uncle", but for his Father he will try to like him as much as he clearly does.

Dinner is over shortly after their conversation, with a little help from his Father's impatience to go see his old friend. And before Charles can try and sneak a cookie again they are out the door, the cookies held securely in his Mother's hands, heading to their "uncles" house.

Charles realizes his Father wasn't lying when he said their house was just down the street, in fact it's only a block away. He's surprised his Father wasn't dragging them here earlier today with how close it is.

His Father knocks on the door and after a moment a man answers."Hervé!” 

"Y/D/N!"

The two men embrace each other, big smiles plastered on both of their faces. "If it was up to me we would have been over as soon as you guys arrived earlier today, but Pascale insisted we give you guys a little time to settle in."

"Oh nonsense. You're fine." The man steps aside, motioning for everyone to come in. "Come on in. Don't mind the million boxes scattered around."

"It's a beautiful home." Pascale states as she glances around.

"Merci."

The man's eyes wander to Charles and his brothers. His arms extend towards Lorenzo and the two of them hug, the man tousling Lorenzo's hair as they pull away. "Dieu te regarde! You're practically a man!"

Lorenzo can only laugh at the man, whose attention is now on the two youngest Leclerc boys. He crouches down so he's at eye level with them. "Bonjour. I don't think we have met yet. I'm Y/D/N, a very old friend of your Papa's." His hand reaches out for Charles to shake. "You must be Charles."

Charles gently takes Y/D/N's hand and shakes it, something he's seen his Father do hundreds of times. "I am. How did you know?"

A smirk plays at Y/D/N's lips. "When your Papa and I speak, he loves to talk about his boys. Even the ones I didn't get the pleasure of meeting until now." His attention now moved to the youngest Leclerc. "Like you little Arthur." Little giggles came from Arthur as the man pinched his cheek.

"Are we going to get to meet the other members of your family Y/D/N?" Pascale asks.

"Patience still isn't your strong suit, is it Pascale?" The man teases as he leads them towards the kitchen.

As they enter the kitchen they find a woman with an American accent putting away dishes into the cabinets. From what Charles can gather from the conversation the adults are having is that their "uncle" met his wife while on business in America. They fell in love and he ended up moving there to be with her. They got married and had a daughter. He wanted to raise her here so they decided to move back to Monaco.

"Guess you should all meet the reason we moved huh? Y/N! Ma chérie come here!" Y/D/N yells.

And here you came, barreling into the kitchen, not knowing that there were five strangers standing there until it was too late. Cheeks turning pink as you hid behind your Mom's legs. "This shy little thing is our daughter, Y/N."

Pascale's face lit up at the sight of you. "Oh tu n'es pas une poupée? She's beautiful you two!" She glances over at your parents then back to you. "You look to be around the age of my two youngest boys, no?" She squats down so the two of you are eye level as you peak around your Mom's legs. "How old are you?" As you lifted your hand, little fingers all stood up straight indicating that you were five, Pascale smiled. 

"Oh, that's the same age as my Arthur." She points towards the smallest boy, who's dirty blonde hair almost covered his eyes. She then points to the slightly taller boy in the middle, his soft blue eyes watching his Mom intently. "That is Charles, he's a little older than Arthur and you. He's eight." Then she finally points to the obviously very older son. "And that is Lorenzo, he's a lot older. It makes me feel old to say this but he's eighteen!"

Your shyness somehow slowly got chipped away by Pascale and you were now standing beside your Mom, not behind her. "Go on baby. Say hi to them." You Mom encouraged as she brushed your hair out of your face.

Even if you had braved coming out from behind your Mom's legs, the idea of talking to these strangers still scared you. You looked over to your Dad who stared back at you, a smile on his face and a slight nod in your direction told you everything was going to be okay.

"Hi." You said meekly.

The two younger boys gave you a small wave in return.

The adults had started to converse, leaving the kids to stand there awkwardly. Not knowing each other well to be the one to initiate conversation or play.

Your Mom had noticed the quietness between you and the boys, and your constant presence by her legs. "Why don't you kids go play out back? The house luckily came with a playset that is begging to be played on." She pulled open the sliding door, motioning for the kids to go outside.

Arthur was the first to run outside, he was practically already at the door when he heard the word playset. His little legs were already running up the slide by the time Charles and you had exited the house.

You watched your feet drag across the grass as you swung back and forth on the swing. Your Dad's voice playing in your head as you heard Charles and Arthur's laughter echo through the hot summer air.

"I know this is a big change for you mon amour. But I promise, we wouldn't have made this big move if your Maman and I didn't think it wouldn't have been a good idea. It may take some time for you to adjust, but knowing you, in a couple weeks you'll probably be more of a Monégasque than me!"

"I'm only half though. How could I be more than you Papa?" Tiny giggles escaping you as you gave your Father a questioning look.

"Anything is possible chérie! Plus you remember me talking about your uncle Hervé? Well, he has two boys that are around the same age as you. And I'm positive you three will become the bestest of friends like we were at that age in no time. When your Uncle Hervé and I were younger people would always say "Wherever there is a Y/L/N there is a Leclerc" and I'm sure it will live on through you three."

As you watched the two Leclerc boys chase each other through the yard, you knew your Dad would want you to get up and go join them. He seemed so excited at the idea of you and the boys being friends and you didn't want to disappoint him, but at only five years old, your shyness overruled the majority of your decisions.

Charles, even though he was playing with his brother, had noticed how you hadn't left the swing since coming outside. He tried to put himself in your shoes, he couldn't even imagine what it would be like to move halfway across the world.

What it would be like to leave everything you've ever known behind and move to a country that is nothing like the one you'd spent your whole life in so far. Even if your Father was from here and technically Monaco is as much of your home as America ever was, he knows that at least right now, this place means nothing to you.

So, being the empath that he is, Charles decides that it's his mission to make you feel at home. To make you realize that Monaco has been your home all along. That if he was you right now, all he would want is for someone to befriend him, make him feel less alone. His first step; asking you to play.

His skinny frame soon occupies the empty swing next to you, hands gripping the chains as he barely moves back and forth. His feet mimicked yours, dirt and grass staining his white sneakers.

"Hi." Charles watched as your head perked up at his voice. Your doe eyes timidly looking over at him like you weren't sure if he was speaking to you.

"Hi."

"Do you wanna play with Arthur and me?" Charles hopes you don't run back inside after hearing his question, but when your face lights up, head nodding enthusiastically, his worries dissipate. You were just so glad that he had come over and asked you, because you would have sat there on that swing all evening if he hadn't.

In a matter of minutes your shyness and worries about upsetting your Father were replaced with bouts of laughter as Arthur and you ran from Charles. Gleeful screams and giggles filled the evening air as the three of you played and for the first time since getting told you were moving you felt carefree.

The loud laughter and yelling had gotten the attention of the adults and as they watched their children play through the sliding glass door they couldn't wipe the smiles off their faces.

"That didn't take long did it?" Your Mom felt a relief wash over her. At only five years old she knew this move was going to be hard on you, and she wished they could have just stayed in America. But who was she to deprive you of experiencing the life that was quite literally half of you. Deprive her husband of seeing his little girl experience the same things he did as a child.

And as she watched the way the three kids played together she knew it was the right decision. For you to come out of your shell so quickly meant that maybe things weren't going to be so bad here after all.

"Of course it didn't." Your Dad stood behind your Mom, his hand on her shoulder as he watched his little girl laugh and run around. "Because wherever there is a Y/L/N-"

"there is a Leclerc." Hervé finished, an equally big smile on his face.

The painting of orange and pink hues that filled the evening sky told everyone that the sun was making her farewell for the day. Though, that didn't stop you and the boys from still playing and eventually as the colorful painting turned to a star filled sky you all were called inside.

Rosy cheeks and sweaty foreheads adorned all three of your faces as you clambered into the kitchen. "Looks like you kids had fun." Pascale had grabbed the cookies off the counter, but as she opened the lid to offer the kids one, she had a better idea. "How about some ice cream?" Charles' eyes lit up at the mention of ice cream. He loved cookies, but his one true love was ice cream. "I think the place down the road is still open."

And with an unspoken agreement, they are all out the door and headed towards the ice cream shop. Charles and you walk side by side with Arthur trailing behind the two of you. His complaints about being left out falling on deaf ears as Charles tells you about how good the ice cream place is.

The walk isn't a long one and before you realize it, you've arrived. The sickeningly sweet smell hits you as soon as you walk through the door, and your short legs carry you towards the counter, not paying mind to any sort of line that was already formed. Your face was practically pressed against the glass as you looked at all the flavors to choose from. But even with flavors like triple chocolate or strawberry or peanut butter cup. You always go with your tried and true; vanilla.

Charles and Arthur had joined you, faces as equally as close to the glass as yours.

"You think Maman will let me try them all?" Arthur asks, mouth practically watering at the sight in front of him.

"I don't know about that." You recognize your Dad's voice behind you. "You guys tell me what you want and then go wait at the table outside with Lorenzo." The three of you reluctantly turn away from the ice cream and when Arthur tells your Dad he wants mint, Charles and you share a disgusted look. "Ok mint for Arthur, what about you two?"

"Vanilla!" Comes out of both Charles and your mouth. Big smiles spread across your faces as you realize you both said the same thing.

"No way that's my favorite flavor!" Charles exclaims.

"Mine too!"

By the time your Dad comes outside with the ice cream Charles and you had established that; vanilla was the best flavor of ice cream ever, blue was your favorite color, red was his, you both loved dogs, and that he wanted to be a Formula 1 driver when he grew up. You didn't really know what that was, you think you had heard your Dad talking about it or watching it before, but the way Charles talked about it, it seemed like it was something big.

After many brain freezes and Arthur trying to make Charles and you try his mint ice cream, the night was coming to an end. The walk back home was filled with talks of things that you guys had to do this summer, according to Charles, and about how tonight would not be the last trip to the ice cream shop.

As you arrived at your house the grownups said their farewells and goodnights, while you gave everyone a simple wave goodbye. "I'll see you tomorrow!" Charles yelled as you entered the front door, and all you could do was yell back.

"Ok!"

And Charles wasn't lying, you did see him the next day, and the day after that. In fact, any free day that you or the youngest Leclerc boys had were spent in each other's company that summer. By the time school started back up the three of you were inseparable. 

The idea of starting at a new school in a different country while knowing no one scared you, so you were glad to have Arthur with you in class and just knowing Charles was in the building made you feel more at ease. Any worries you had about moving to Monaco had dissipated and Charles had just somehow knew that he had accomplished his mission of making you feel at home. It may have taken him all summer, but you were practically family at this point to him.

So when he heard from Arthur about a couple boys in your class not being the friendliest towards you, something about you being an annoying American, he knew he had to defend you.

Charles fortunately had caught them in the act one day. Your cheeks slightly damp and eyes red told Charles it wasn't just them saying you were annoying. You wouldn't tell him what they said to you, but that didn't stop him from telling the boys off. It didn't take much for them to run off, heck Charles could have just stared at them and they probably would have darted, him somewhat forgetting they were probably only five or six, but still there was no reason for them to be mean to you.

Charles wiped away your tears before pulling you in for a hug. "They shouldn't bother you anymore, but if they ever do come tell me. You know you've always got me and Arthur and if it gets bad enough I guess we could tell Lorenzo." The mention of the oldest Leclerc boy made you giggle and Charles was so happy to see a smile on your face again. "You've always got me Y/N, we've got each other. I promise." He held out his pinky finger towards you and you hooked yours around his, officially sealing the promise

And from that moment on, you two always did have each other.

 ten and thirteen

Five years had passed since you first met Charles, and in those five years your bond only grew stronger. Not only with each other, but with each other's families too. To Pascale you were the daughter she always wanted and your Dad treated the Leclerc boys like his sons. It was like you guys filled in the missing pieces in each other's families.

Multiple scrapbooks were filled over the years with memories that would last a lifetime. Pictures of the joint family vacations that were taken every year, first and last day of school pictures, birthdays, and major milestones all filled the pages.

Looking back now your Mom could have kicked herself for ever second guessing the decision to move. Clearly this was where you guys were supposed to be, where you were supposed to be. Everything just felt right. It felt like home.

A new thing that had become a part of your life in the past five years was karting. No, you didn't drive them, but Charles and Arthur did. So, that meant it was now a part of you. Multiple weekends were spent going to watch them race, the smell of exhaust and the sound of the engines were ingrained into your brain, but you had grown fond of it.

Although, in the last couple years Charles had started to take karting very seriously. You knew his dream was to be an F1 driver, and you knew (from him teaching you everything about it one day) how much dedication it took from a young age to get to the top. So, over the last year, when almost every weekend he was busy, you tried not to take it to heart.

Unfortunately for Arthur, this year his family had decided to focus solely on Charles' career for the time being, as karting was expensive, and having two boys doing it was just not something they could swing. But with Charles busy and Arthur now free it was almost like the boys had flip flopped positions in your life.

Between the two youngest Leclerc boys it was always very obvious that you gravitated more towards Charles, the two of you having a bond that many didn't understand, especially considering your age gap.

Three years isn't crazy per say, but at the age you two are right now it's a little different. Charles is thirteen, officially a teenager, while you're still only ten. Two very different stages in kids' lives, and sometimes recently it seemed like Charles was moving on, or growing up, and you worried that he wouldn't want to spend time with you anymore. Because really what thirteen year old wants to willingly hang out with a ten year old? You know you wouldn't want to hang out with a seven year old. 

But the slight gap that Charles was currently leaving in your life, Arthur had no problem filling it in.

During the school year you spent basically all your time with Arthur, being in the same grade and him not dedicating all his time to karting at the moment was a big contributing factor. You still saw Charles, but nearly as much as you used to. He had moved up to secondary school a year or so ago and unfortunately Arthur and you were still in your last year of primary school. So your time to see Charles was limited to his rare free weekends and sometimes after school. 

You had thought come summer time you would be able to see him more and were banking on your annual family vacation, but you were wrong. In fact, you barely even saw Arthur this summer. They were so busy with Charles karting it was like they didn't even live in their home. And when they were home your family was busy doing something.

The annual family vacation had to be canceled and you had basically gone the whole summer without seeing them. That was until today, two weeks before school started, when you came downstairs to see Charles and Arthur sitting on your couch talking to your Dad, who was sitting in a chair opposite of them.

"Ah, there she is." Your Dad had spotted you from the doorway. "They've come to steal you."

Rounding the side of the couch you were now stood in front of the two boys. Arthur was the first to jump up from the couch, his arms squeezing you into him, the two of you slightly swaying back and forth as giggles escaped past your lips. "Tu m'as manqué aussi Arthur."

As Arthur finally let you go your eyes fell on the middle Leclerc boy, who was still sat on the couch. "Charlie." The nickname you had given him that first summer had still stuck around five years later. It fell off your tongue with ease, basically second nature for you at this point. He never minded when you called him that, in fact sometimes he preferred it, but god forbid anyone else call him that.

You could see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, dimples peaking out as he tried to resist it more. As he stood up from the couch he finally let it free, the corners of his eyes crinkled and dimples on full display as he wrapped his arms around you. You noticed you guys weren't almost the same height anymore, your head hit at about his shoulder now. Had he gotten taller since the last time you saw him? There was no way he had grown that much in almost two months, but yet the proof was standing right infront of you.

"Tu m'as manqué." Charles stated as he pulled away from the hug.

"I figured you'd have your kart seat stuck to you when I saw you again."

"Well when that seat becomes an F1 seat, I know who will be the last person I invite to a race."

You wedged yourself between the two brothers on the couch as you rolled your eyes at Charles. "Yeah I won't need an invite because I'll have a permanent paddock pass." You weren't even sure if such a thing as a permanent paddock pass existed, but when Charles makes it into Formula 1, you had better have one.

"No doubt about it." Charles states, which gets him a smile from you in return.

"So what was Papa talking about? You guys are stealing me?"

"We've got something fun planned." Charles had a small smile on his face as he made eye contact with you. And as you stared back at him you noticed something else that had changed in the past two months, his hair. It was shaggy and almost covered his eyes if he didn't have it pushed to the side. You were surprised Pascale hadn't made him cut it yet, or that she hadn't snuck into his room at night and at least trimmed the hair around his face. It was just another sign of how long it had been since you'd seen each other.

You glanced over at your Dad, unsure of what "fun" they had planned, but he was no help. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise." Charles had stood up from the couch, eyes staring back down at you. "Well come on. We don't have all day."

"Be careful! Je t'aime!" Your Dad hollered as the three of you walked out the door.

"Je t'aime aussi!" You hollered back.

The warm sun beat down on you as you walked the familiar streets of Monaco, following the two boys in front of you. Your insistent pleas of wanting to know where you were going were ignored. And it didn't take long for you to just start guessing random places, which were all met with groaned no's from the boys.

Thankfully you guys had arrived at your destination because you were running out of places to name, but the place you were standing in front of was not where you had expected to end up. Though truly you should have known better.

"Did you guys really just bring me here to watch you two drive go-karts?" Of course they brought you to the track. It wasn't like you didn't like watching them race or even just screw around on the karts, but as of recently it was the one thing that was keeping Charles away from you. It just would have been nice to do something that didn't involve karting.

"We aren't the ones who are going to be driving them." Arthur's devious little smile on his face tells you everything you need to know.

"I don't think that's safe, and don't we need an adult with us?" So perhaps you were slightly scared at the idea of driving – no you were actually more worried than scared. You didn't want to seem like an idiot because you didn't know what to do or wreck and make a fool of yourself. That little shy five year old girl was slowly creeping back in as Arthur and Charles practically dragged you inside.

"The adult is already here." Charles points at Lorenzo who's filling out paperwork at the front counter. "I think it's time for you to learn, no?" Your eyes focus on Lorenzo, praying as an adult he has enough sense to not let this happen. But it was no use, he had already handed the worker the paperwork and was walking towards you with a bunch of gear in his hands.

"No chickening out this time petite soeur. Today is the day." Lorenzo stated.

Before you can even protest anymore Lorenzo is handing you all this stuff to put on, arms overflowing as you stare at him wide-eyed. "Do I really need all of this for" you glance over at the track then back at Charles "an indoor track?"

"Safety first Y/N. Plus you need to have the full karting experience." His dimples on display as he gives you a reassuring smile, that somehow works wonders on you, because you're putting on all the gear without him even asking. "Oh wait you're gonna need this." He slides a hair tie off his wrist and hands it over to you. His action put a smile on your face as you quickly tied your hair back.

It was something Charles had done for a couple years now, always having a hair tie on him. You were always pushing your hair out of your face or complaining about it being hot and of course you never had a hair tie with you. So, he just started wearing one on his wrist, so when you eventually needed one, he was there to provide.

With your gear on you guys walked over towards one of the karts and you made sure to listen intently as Charles explained how to work everything.

You slipped the helmet on and sat down in the kart, praying that you could remember what Charles had told you. "You've got this. Just remember what I said and we will be right here if you need us. I’ll be right here. I promise." Charles holds out his pinky finger, the familiar gesture between the two of you meant much more than just a simple promise. And as you hook your finger around his, you know it's going to be okay. "Please be careful. I think your Papa will have my head if you come back with even just a scratch." Lorenzo says as he double checks that you're strapped in well enough.

"I'll be fine."

You gave Charles one last final glance, who stood there giving you a thumbs up, before pressing your foot down on the accelerator. At first you were going so slow, scared that if you went too fast you were gonna wreck. But as you completed a couple laps you started to feel more comfortable and the cheers from the boys helped you out too.

"Floor it!" Arthur yells as you pass by on another lap.

You were really starting to have fun, so you listened to Arthur and pressed the pedal all the way down on the next straightaway. You felt like you were flying, but what you didn't know was that they had put you in the slowest kart, so you really weren't going as fast as you thought you were.

After a couple more laps Charles stood by the starting line, waving the checkered flag, a cheesy grin on his face as you passed by him. As the kart came to a stop you understood why they loved karting so much, it wasn't just fun, it was exhilarating, addicting, you already wanted to go again.

The boys surrounded the kart as you undid the straps and climbed out. As you took off the helmet you couldn't wipe the grin off your face. "Looks like you might have some competition Charles." Lorenzo teases.

Charles ignored his big brother's teasing and shifted his focus back to you. He had felt bad about not seeing you all summer and in all honesty not that much over this past year. But things in his life were changing, karting was becoming a much bigger deal, and he was winning, like a lot. He knew things were only going to go up from here. And as much as he loved racing, and god did he love it, he breathed it he dreamt it, racing was in his blood. There just weren't many times anymore where he felt like a thirteen year old, like a kid. It sometimes felt like he was missing out on things.

But Charles knew that when he came home from a busy weekend or practically a whole summer filled with racing, that things would always be the same at home. His Mom would always make spaghetti on Tuesday nights, you had to jiggle the handle on the gate to the backyard to get it to open, if you went into the ice cream shop on a Thursday night when the owner wasn't there you'd get extra ice cream, the lady across the street will yell at your for playing in the street, and you will always be a couple houses down. 

He knew that when he was around you that he could feel like a kid again. Sure, he had made plenty of friends through racing, but it seemed like all their conversations always somehow revolved or ended up referring to racing. Which wasn't a bad thing, because of course Charles loved racing. But sometimes he just wanted to talk about video games or other sports, or just something random. And he could do that with you.

Now granted, for someone who wanted to have a little break from racing before school started, you'd think he wouldn't be back at a track the first chance he got. But Charles had wanted to teach you how to kart for years, but each time he had mentioned it you chickened out. So he had finally gotten the nerve, with a little help from Lorenzo and Arthur, to just force you to learn.

He knew you'd do a good job, he never had a doubt. It was just your worries that prevented you from learning earlier. He knew you had grown to love the sport, from tagging along to some of his races, or how you can't wait for the Monaco grand prix every year, not to mention how glued you are to the TV when his free weekends and the F1 schedule line up. So, somehow in his own weird way, Charles knew you'd be a natural.

"You did do a good job, I'm proud of you." Charles flashes you a smile as you guys exit the track.

"Merci Charlie." You quickly shed all the gear and handed it back to Lorenzo. "I don't know why you guys didn't teach me earlier. That was so much fun. I see why you guys love it so much."

"Don't act like we haven't tried for years to get you to learn." Charles teases. "We basically just had to force you today."

Memories of all the past failed attempts at teaching you how to kart flooded your mind. The one time you hid in the bathroom claiming to be throwing up, the time you 'tripped' on your way into the building and said you sprained your ankle, or the many times you just flat out refused. So maybe them forcing you was for the better, because you wouldn't have taken the initiative on your own to learn.

"Whatever. At least I finally learned."

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The walk back to your house was filled with Charles filling you in on his exciting karting filled summer. From the new friends he had made to the races he had won, he didn't spare any detail. And you just walked beside him, listening to his every word, grateful to just have him back around. Arthur would pipe in occasionally to contradict something Charles had said, fulfilling his little brother duties. And as the three of you traveled through the principality, the summer sun high in the sky, you wished every day could be like this.

The fragrant jasmine shrubs that lined the sidewalk told you guys that you were close to home. "You guys wanna stay for dinner? It's Friday which means Mom's making something pasta related."

Charles would never turn down a Friday night dinner at your house and so he had no trouble in accepting your invitation. Arthur declined, stating that he was going to hang out with some of his other friends, and Lorenzo had split from you guys at the track. Which meant it was just Charles and you, which was fine with you.

The smell of your Mom's famous red sauce, that she swore had to cook for at least half the day, filled your nostrils as you walked through the door. "Mom! Papa! I’m home!"

"In the kitchen!" You heard your Mom shout.

You found your Mom furiously stirring something on the stove as Charles and you sat at the island counter directly in front of her. She tore her attention away from her cooking just long enough to notice Charles was with you. "Well look who's back! I hope you're staying for dinner?" A big smile accompanied her words as she spoke to Charles.

"Of course, you know I love Friday pasta nights."

"Well it's still gonna be a little bit until everything is ready, so if you kids are hungry grab a little snack or something." Her attention was already back to the bubbling pot in front of her before she had finished speaking.

Charles' stomach had been growling the whole walk home, and now sitting here smelling your Mom's cooking had it growling even more. So, he took up her offer and grabbed two tangerines from the bowl of fruit on the counter. Without even thinking about it, he peeled the first one and handed it over to you.

"You're spoiling her by peeling that for her Charles." Your Dad stated as he walked into the kitchen.

Charles shrugged at your Dad's comment as he continued to peel his own tangerine. "I don't mind it. I know she doesn't like to peel them and it's really not a big deal to me. So I guess as long as I'm around she won't have to."

You never gave a second thought about Charles peeling your fruit for you. He's done it ever since you expressed your dislike for peeling them years ago. To you it wasn't you being spoiled, it was just your best friend doing something nice for you. You gave Charles a smile as you popped another piece of the tangerine in your mouth. "Merci Charles." As you looked back towards your parents, you caught them staring at each other, eyebrows slightly raised, and smiles on their faces. "What?" You questioned.

"Oh nothing sweetie." Your Mom answered, attention turning back to the food. She knew you'd figure it out eventually.

The topic of conversation during dinner was all about karting. Your parents wanted to know all about Charles' wins and if anything exciting had happened during any of his races. Charles truly was like a son to them, granted all three of the Leclerc boys were, but you knew Charles was their favorite. They sat there listening intently as he told them everything and your Dad gave him nothing but praises back.

"You're gonna do great things Charles. I just know it."

And finally when Charles changed the conversation to how he finally taught you how to kart, your Dad though first worried at the idea of you getting hurt, was ecstatic to hear that you were quite good and that you enjoyed it. Your Mom didn't like the idea at all, the sour look on her face told you everything. "I can barely handle watching Charles, let alone my baby."

"I was the only one on the track, Mom. Plus it was just for fun, you don't have to worry about me doing the real thing. I really was not as good as Charles says I was." You tried to reassure her, but she still didn't seem pleased.

"Maybe it will help to know that we put her in the slowest kart." Charles chimed in.

Your head whipped to the right of you, where Charles was sat. "You put me in the slowest one?! You really thought I’d be that bad?"

"It was your first time! You were nervous as is, let alone putting you in a fast one."

A scoff came from you. "I feel cheated out of a real experience."

"Well, the slowest is fine with me. In fact, how do we find one slower than the slowest?" Your Mom inquired, nothing shy of a serious look on her face.

As dinner came to an end Charles and you helped clean up and then ventured out back. The sun had just set, allowing for dusk to settle in, the remnants of the sunset still lingering in the sky. The two of you found yourselves on familiar territory, the swings. The metal chains had slightly rusted over the years, but still held strong as the two of you swayed back and forth on them.

Silence fell between the two of you as you tried to figure out how to talk to Charles about the thing that had been subconsciously bothering you for a while. 

Him forgetting about you. 

He had his head down, staring at his feet as he slowly swung back and forth on the swing. "Charles?" He lifted his head at the sound of your voice, blue eyes slightly covered by his shaggy hair.

"Yeah?"

Your hands gripped the chains tighter as you stilled your movements, feet planted firmly in the worn patch of grass. "I need you to make me a promise."

He had copied your actions, even going as far as turning slightly to face you as he spoke. "For what?"

"I need you to promise that you won't forget about me. That when you make it into F1 and become super famous that you won't think I'm some loser. Or even when you move up to F3, just please promise me you won't forget about me."

Charles frowned at your words, never in a million years would he forget about you, or think you were a loser. He didn't want to get into F1 to become famous, yeah it was a perk of the job, but he wanted a seat in F1 because he loved racing, and it meant that he was one of the best in the world.

He held out his pinky finger towards you. "Do you remember what I said to you when those boys were teasing you during your first year here?" You shook your head, the memory replaying in your mind. "That you’ve always got me and I’ve always got you. So that means I don't think I could ever forget about you Y/N, whether I make it into F1 or not. And If I do, I'm gonna need my number one supporter there by my side aren't I? So I promise I won’t forget you."

A big smile spread across your face at his words and as you hooked your pinky finger around his, you knew the promise was true.

But what you didn't know was that sometimes promises are broken.

thirteen and sixteen

Thirteen is a very weird year for you. 

It’s not puberty or the ever revolving drama that comes with being thirteen that is making it a weird year. It’s the embarrassingly painful crush you’ve got on Charles. 

It’s a cliche really, having a crush on the cute older boy you’ve grown up with. 

And one might ask why is it embarrassing? For starters, you can’t be around him for more than five minutes without turning into a blushing mess. He stares at you for longer than a second? Game over. He smiles at you? Done for. He laughs at something you said? You’re dead. 

He doesn’t know he’s turning your thirteen year old brain into mush just by simply existing and it’s embarrassing to even think about him knowing that. 

On the other hand, it’s painful. You’re thirteen and he’s sixteen, once again at very different stages in life. And you know that he doesn’t like you back, that he only sees you as a little sister, but it still hurts. It hurts because you’re thirteen and you think that you’re mature for your age and you honestly think why wouldn’t he like you back. It’s something almost every young girl goes through, and unfortunately it’s happening to you with someone you are very close with. 

Yes, you had always thought he was cute, but that's because he was. That fluffy brown hair, long thick eyelashes that adorned his pretty eyes, his dimples, the little crinkles by his eyes when he smiled. Okay– so maybe that's how you would describe him now, but still, he was a cute kid also, there was no denying that. 

 But if you really had to figure out when you realized you had a crush on Charles it had to have been this past Christmas.   

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The holidays in Monaco were somewhat different than the few years you remembered back in America. You had stopped celebrating Thanksgiving after your Mom’s failed attempt at trying to make a Thanksgiving dinner your first year here. It wasn’t that your Mom was a bad cook, it was that it was somewhat hard to find everything needed for a Thanksgiving dinner in Monaco. And as hard as your Mom tried to make it work, it just wasn’t the same without that damn Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. 

So to make up for not celebrating Thanksgiving your family truly went all out for Christmas. The couple Christmases that you could remember back in America were nothing shy of magical, but ever since moving to Monaco, your family took Christmas very seriously. There was no denying that part of your household was American, because every year your house looked like it came straight out of a cult classic Christmas movie. Like Kevin McCallister or Clark Griswold had taken up residence in Monaco for the holidays. 

It wasn’t just the outside that was decorated, the inside was just as festive and of course the tree was the main focal point. It was a busy tree, your Mom never liked an aesthetically pleasing tree, it was sentimental or nothing to her. Ornaments that were passed down on her side of the family, ones you had made in school, and some you had gotten after moving all had a home on the tree. 

And as if decorating wasn’t enough for your family, your traditions were even more of a big deal. The most important one to you though was making cookies on Christmas Eve. Mainly because Arthur and Charles had been doing it with you since your first Christmas in Monaco. 

Christmas music played on the record player in the living room, the sound traveling into the kitchen as your Mom and you made sure you had everything ready to bake. You were in your own little world, picking out your favorite cookie cutters and humming along to Wham!’s Last Christmas when you heard your Mom speak up. “You’re just in time Charles.” 

Your eyes moved away from the pile of cookie cutters up to the garland decorated doorway where Charles was standing. A smile slowly crept its way onto your face as the two of you made eye contact. He looked cozy, the sweater he had on was slightly oversized and his hair had a messy fluffy look to it. 

You watched as he talked to your Mom, she was surely talking to him about racing, and he would always gladly answer her questions, as she was nothing shy of a second Mom to him. The longer you stared at him, you could feel your heartbeat quickening. And a feeling was arising in you that you had only ever experienced with a boy in your class a year or so ago.  Though, the feeling didn’t last long, you had caught him picking his nose, and with that went away any feelings you had towards him. 

You didn’t even want to think about the word that was happening right now, the idea of it only making your heart race even faster. You tore your eyes away from Charles and noticed that the youngest Leclerc brother was missing, so you blamed your rapid heart beat and surely pink cheeks on that.

You cleared your throat and tried to gather yourself before speaking. “Where’s Arthur?” 

Charles' attention was torn away from your Mom over to you. He pursed his lips, he didn’t know how to say nicely that Arthur said that baking Christmas cookies was for little kids, and he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He let out a sigh before speaking. “He’s not coming, he said he’s too old to be baking cookies.”

“But its-” 

“I know. I told him that it’s tradition and that you would be upset, but he wasn’t budging. So you’re stuck with just me.” 

It annoyed you that Arthur had bailed on you. There was no such thing as being too old to bake cookies, he was just being a jerk. And as far as you were concerned, he’s not allowed any of the cookies when your families have Christmas together tomorrow evening. 

On the bright side you get to have some one on one time with Charles, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise– Arthur bailing on you. You picked up the recipe card from the counter, waving it around in the air. “Well let’s get to work then.” 

Charles is at your side in an instant, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater as he waits for further instruction. 

“Do you think you kids can handle doing it by yourselves this year? I’ve got some last minute gifts that need to be wrapped.” Your Mom inquired, hopeful that you wouldn’t burn the house down on Christmas Eve. 

You didn’t even look up at her, eyes focused on the recipe in front of you, this was clearly something you took seriously. “Yes Mom.” 

Without a word she was gone, leaving Charles and you to your own devices. 

You can feel Charles peering over your shoulder. He’s practically right up against your side and you can feel the soft material of his sweater on your arm. All you can smell is his cologne, something he had started to use within the last year or two, thankfully moving on from the Axe body spray phase. And you’re trying not to make this seem like a big deal, because it’s truly not, but something has shifted in your thirteen year old brain. The same brain being scrambled by him right now, and you think you’ve read the damn recipe card at least ten times now. 

“Did you forget that the recipe is in American measuring terms?” Charles asks. The recipe was your Grandma’s and your Mom had never been bothered to convert it to the metric system. 

“Nope, just double checking everything.” You force a smile as you set down the recipe card and grab a mixing bowl. You added all the ingredients and made Charles do all the labor, which meant he had to mix it and then roll out the dough. 

You dug through the pile of cookie cutters looking for Charles favorite one. “Herree it isss.” You spoke in a sing songy voice as you held up the cookie cutter to Charles. His favorite in question? A penguin with a Santa hat on. Without fail, every Christmas, for the past eight years. Charles made an excessive amount of Santa hat penguin cookies. 

A grin spread across his face as you placed it in his hand. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without this guy.” He wasted no time in pressing the cutter down into the dough and before you guys knew it the first batch was done and in the oven. 

As you started on the next batch Charles kept a close eye on the baking cookies. The two of you allowed for Michael Buble to fill silence in the air and the mouthwatering smell of the cookies soon filled your nostrils. “You know you still call her Mom?”

Your eyebrows furrowed at Charles' random statement. “Huh?” 

He walked away from the oven and back to his original spot next to you. “You still call your Maman Mom.” 

“Yes?” You weren’t really sure where he was going with this, it was nothing new to either of you. 

“I just figured by now you would have made the switch. You speak French with everyone else.” 

You shrugged your shoulders at him, you had never really considered it, the idea felt weird even just thinking about it now. “I’ve always spoken English with my Mom and French with Papa. It would feel weird to switch stuff around now.” You stirred in the flour as you continued the conversation. “You know I could give you some English lessons if you’d like. I think that might have been what you were hinting at.” You teased. 

Charles' eyes widened at your words. “Are you saying my English is not good? I think I speak English very good!” 

“Well.” You didn’t skip a beat. 

“What?” 

“You think you speak English very w-” 

In an instant there is flour all over the upper part of your body, your movements stilled as you’re processing what Charles had just done. You’re mad at first, actually seething because your hair looked so good today and now it’s covered in flour. And you can’t see Charles because you haven’t moved an inch since he threw the flour at you, but he went from having a shit eating grin on his face to a oh shit expression. Your quietness has him worried that you’re actually really pissed at him, but when he hears his nickname come past your lips he knows you're not that mad at him. 

“Charlie. You better run.” 

He isn’t sure he’s heard you right, but when he sees you pick up the whole bag of flour his sock clad feet are sliding on the floor as he runs around the other side of the kitchen island. You're playing cat and mouse around the island for quite some time. The beeping from the oven time ignored multiple times as giggles from both of you filled the room. 

As Charles rounds the corner again his foot catches on one of the barstool legs and you know you’ve finally got him. He doesn’t fall, but he slips just enough to allow you to fully catch up to him. And you may or may not have thrown the whole bag of flour at him, but him being covered head to toe in flour says it was the whole bag. You definitely got him 10x worse than he did you and from that gleam in his eye you know what he’s going to do, but you can’t get away fast enough and his arms are around you in an instant. He shakes his head trying to get as much of the flour off of him and onto you and by you trying to free yourself from his grip he’s transferred a good amount from his clothes onto yours. “Charles! Let me go!” Your pleas are pitiful, laughter dripping off every word. 

“Oh my god!” 

Both of your eyes widen, bodies frozen at the sound of your Mom’s less than pleased voice. The two of you sheepishly stood there as your Mom looks like she’s about ready to cry and cuss you out at the same time. “I can’t leave you two alone for an hour?!” Her eyes shift to behind the two of you, panic written across her face. She’s practically running towards the oven and that’s when you realize the burning smell. And when she not so softly sets the cookie sheet onto the counter you know she’s really not happy. The cookies were burnt to a crisp, the poor Santa hat penguin never stood a chance. “I’m sorry Y/M/N. It was my fault, I started it.” Charles rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. 

“I don’t care who started it because you’re both cleaning up this mess.” A deep sigh came from you Mom as she really took in just how big of a mess the two of you had made, her head shaking in disapproval as she left the two of you to clean up. 

When you knew she was out of earshot you couldn’t but let out a little giggle, it was like in school when you weren’t supposed to be laughing, but everything is just so funny, and Charles follows your actions seconds later. The two of you fools, covered in flour, cookies burnt, and in trouble as you stood there laughing. 

That night you couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in your bed, your brain would not shut off. And it wasn’t because you were excited for Christmas morning, you only wished that was the reason. You couldn’t get how good it felt to have Charles arms wrapped around you out of your mind, or how that stupid sweater made him look even more attractive than he already was. 

As you stared up at the ceiling, you knew you were screwed. You had a big fat crush on Charles and it was going to ruin your life. You knew he only saw you as a little sister and that made everything so much more worse to you. Why did you have to develop feelings for him of all people? 

Christmas morning came and went and before you knew it evening had arrived, meaning the Leclerc’s would be arriving soon. You were in charge of setting the table, a task you didn’t mind, considering being in the kitchen with your Mom on any holiday was like asking to get yelled at. As you folded the last napkin neatly and placed it in its rightful spot you heard commotion coming from the front door, undoubtedly the Leclerc’s arriving. You spotted Pascale struggling to juggle all the presents and you hurried towards her, quick to offer a hand. “Merci chéri.” A grateful smile painted across her face.

The pile of presents grows as you place them under the tree and you’d think your family hadn’t already opened some this morning. Everyone settles into their usual spots in the living room, but your usual spot by Charles is left empty, as you’ve scurried into the kitchen. You’d rather face the unwarranted wrath from your Mom than be unable to compose yourself around Charles. But you don’t get to hide in the kitchen for very long because she’s practically done with everything, so you help her bring in all the food to the table, and admire your table setting skills as you do so. 

Dinner is pretty uneventful and luckily your Dad has Charles preoccupied with racing talk for most of the time. But you can’t help but catch his eye from across the table every once in a while and every time you do your heart skips a beat. By the time presents start getting passed around you had successfully avoided Charles for most of the day, but that is ruined when he plops down next to you on the floor, shoulders brushing as he gets situated. 

“Are you mad at me for yesterday?” Charles' voice is low, like he didn’t want anyone to hear, but he could have talked at full volume, no one would have heard him over how loud your Dads were being. 

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why would I be mad at you?” 

“You’ve been avoiding me all day.” 

Your fingers toyed with the lifted corner of wrapping paper on the present in front of you, your brain trying to figure out what to say. Yes, you had been avoiding him, but it wasn’t because you were mad. It was actually the opposite, but you couldn’t tell him that. “I’m not mad at you. Just didn’t want there to be another flour fiasco today. You thought she was mad yesterday, now imagine that while she’s in her holiday cooking zone.” You give him a reassuring smile, hoping that he’s bought what you’ve told him. But he doesn’t get the chance to respond as your Mom’s voice fills the room. 

“Ok does everyone have all their presents? Our Santa this year was less than enthusiastic about handing out the presents.” Your Mom shoots Arthur a look as he sits down on the floor across from Charles and you. 

“There is nothing left under the tree. I promise.” Arthur states. 

“Alright then everyone get after it!” 

Piles of wrapping paper fill the empty spots on the floor in no time and excited gasps fill the room as everyone unwraps their gifts. You’re always so grateful for everything the Leclerc’s get you for Christmas, they treat you like one of their own, and sometimes you feel they spoil you a little too much. 

With each present that you unwrapped that wasn’t from Charles, you start to get a little worried. You guys exchanged presents every year and if he didn’t get you something this year, you think you might die. So when you come to your last present and it says it’s from his parents, you try to hide your disappointment, especially because it’s an amazing gift. You hop up from your spot on the floor and make sure to go thank them personally, hugs and all. And you’re pretty sure you hear them say something about how you’re their daughter too and how you deserve it, but your brain is still thinking about how Charles didn’t get you anything. 

When you go back to your spot a little perfectly wrapped box with a bow on it is sitting there. You know you weren’t sitting on that, so it had to be placed there after you got up. You think it’s one of Charles that he forgot about, but when you bend over to pick it up you see Charles sloppy handwriting on it. A smile spreads across your face as you look over at Charles who has an equally big one on his. You quickly sit down, eager to know what’s inside. 

“Did you think I didn’t get you anything?” Charles questions, a smirk toying at his lips. 

“Maybe.” Yes. 

“I would never.” He bumps his shoulder into yours, motioning for you to open it. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?” 

You don’t want to seem like you're absolutely ripping into the present, but it probably looks like you are. It’s a tiny box, like one used for jewelry, and you really aren’t expecting Charles to have gotten you jewelry. But when you open the box, nestled in the velvet cushion, is a ring. You glance over at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then back to the ring. It’s just a simple sterling silver ring and somewhat on the smaller side. To be honest Charles could have gotten you a bag of candy and you would have been happy to have just gotten something from him, let alone a ring. 

But when you pick the ring up from the box you see exactly why it’s smaller, and it makes your heart swell. On the inside of the ring you see the words pinky promise engraved into it and as you look over at Charles, he’s holding out his pinky finger, a matching ring adorning it. Your cheeks are hurting from how hard you're smiling, but you don’t care. It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever gotten you and as you slide it onto your pinky finger you feel yourself smiling even more, if that’s possible. Your arms are around Charles instantly, pulling him in towards you, thank you’s tumbling out of your mouth as he giggles in response. 

“I’m glad you like it.” He pauses, trying to figure out the right words to say. “Things are changing. I’m moving up from karting and hopefully into Formula 3 within the next year. It’s just a reminder that we’ve always got each other, even if I’m gone racing or you’re off doing something, we can look at the rings and know we’ve got a piece of each other with us, always.” 

You can’t stop smiling at him, and that crush you’ve got has tripled in size in a few short hours. Your teenage brain over exaggerates everything and you basically think this means you’re gonna be together forever, even though you aren’t even together. 

While you’re in make believe land, your parents are observing the two of you. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged, between them and your Moms can’t help but think it’s cute how close the two of you are. While your Dad in particular, no matter how he feels about Charles, thinks no boy is good enough for his little girl, let alone some sixteen year old boy. 

Perhaps you may be a little dramatic when you say that this Christmas was the best one you’d had so far, but honestly it was the truth. Sure you realized you had a huge crush on Charles that will probably end in tears, but you also got the most thoughtful gift ever, that you will cherish forever. So yeah, this was a good Christmas, crush aside. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

And so you lived with admiring Charles from afar for months. Enjoying what time you got together and just holding out hope that maybe one day he wouldn’t see you as his little sister. But life had a funny way of hitting you in the face with reality, especially at thirteen. 

When Charles shows up to a joint family dinner one night with a girl around his arm you feel like all the air has escaped your lungs. And when he introduces her to everyone as his girlfriend you plaster on a smile even though you feel like someone has pulled your heart out of your chest and ran it over multiple times.

It’s the longest dinner of your life and while everyone gushes over his girlfriend, asking her all about her life and interests, you poke your food around with your fork. It’s not like you have an appetite anyways, getting your heart broken will do that to you. And it sucks even more because she’s so nice, like insanely nice, you couldn’t even hate her if you wanted to. Not to mention how pretty she was, she was everything, and you were some pimple faced, awkward bodied thirteen year old. 

You fidget with the ring on your finger and your heart races at the idea of Charles not wearing his anymore, your eyes glance over at him and when you spot the ring still on his finger it calms you a little. But that still means nothing, just that he clearly still sees you as a little sister. What you don’t see is how your Mom has been watching you the whole night. You’ve never told her about your feelings towards Charles, but she’s your Mom, she just knows things. And she knows you're hurting right now, so when she changes the topic of conversation at the table you’re eternally grateful. 

It’s an early night for you that night, not bothering to join everyone for a game of UNO, claiming that you aren’t feeling well. When really you couldn’t wait to go upstairs and just cry it out. What did you do to deserve something like this? It hurt so bad, but you knew there was nothing you could do about it. And as you laid in bed that night all you could think about was how are you going to live without him liking you back?

sixteen and nineteen

Newsflash you do live without Charles liking you back. In fact your crush goes away by the end of that year, no thanks to the new boy in your grade, who eventually ends up being your boyfriend. But it was safe to say you were over Charles, at least you think you are. 

Charles, on the other hand, stayed with the girl who made you go crazy at age thirteen for over a year, but they broke up over text. And to your disappointment, Charles never told you the reason why. Ever since then it’s been somewhat of a revolving door of girls in Charles' life. Okay – maybe not a revolving door, but at least three different girls in the past two years. None of them lasted for more than a couple months though, and it was getting to the point where no one in either of your families got to know the girls.

Everyone knew that they would be gone sooner than later. After his last “breakup” a couple months ago, he hadn’t brought around a new one, he claimed that he needed to focus on racing, that F1 seat was almost in his grasp and that was all that mattered to him right now, but you knew there was something else going on. 

While Charles was having issues in the relationship department, you were actually flourishing. You had met your now boyfriend Lucas, when he was the new kid your eighth grade year. You thought he was cute from the moment he walked into your History class the first day back from winter break. And when the seat next to you was the only open desk you tried to hide your excitement as he sat down, but when he smiled at you first, it was hard to hide the blush creeping onto your cheeks. He was the first to speak, asking if you had a pencil. But his accent made your ears perk up – he was Spanish. The big brown doe eyes and dark hair fit him, now that you realized he was Spanish. 

“Do all Spaniards come unprepared on their first day?” You teased as you handed him a pencil. It was his turn to be the one blushing as he stifled a smile. 

“No, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.” 

So he was a flirt – noted. 

The two of you became good friends rather quickly, but per your parents rules, you couldn’t date until you were fifteen. So, you played the long game and prayed that no one else peaked his interest. Luckily for you, he was so infatuated with you that he was willing to wait, and on your fifteenth birthday you went on your first date. He was nothing shy of a gentleman, even going as far as asking your parents permission to take you out, something your Dad was very fond of. And as your parents watched their little girl walk out the door hand in hand with a boy, they couldn’t help but feel a little sad. 

“Our little girl is growing up.” 

Your Mom wrapped a comforting arm around your Dad. “I know. I’m glad though, I figured she would waste her teenage years waiting on Charles.” 

A questioning look washed across your Dad’s face. “What?” 

“Oh honey. Don’t act like you’ve been blind these past ten years. They’ve always been drawn to each other, her more than him. She was absolutely heartbroken when he brought his first girlfriend to dinner that one time.” 

“Guess I do remember being less than thrilled at Charles getting her that ring for Christmas that one year.” Your Dad huffed. 

“Hmm,” she rests her head on his shoulder, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his abdomen as they still stand there, staring at the door. “You know Pascale has always said that Y/N would end up with Charles.” 

Your Dad scoffs at your Mom’s words. “And what do you think of that?” 

“I think only time will tell.” 

While your parents were discussing your love life back at home, you were having a grand time on your date. The pizza place Lucas had taken you to was cute, a fitting place for two fifteen year olds to be on a first date. Thankfully it wasn’t awkward or tense, and you had to thank the two of you for being friends for a year before your date for that. It was just like the two of you hanging out. 

On the walk back to your house your hands never separate, even when they start to become sweaty. And when he pulls you closer to him, so you're basically hugging his arm, you realize you could get used to this.The way his brown eyes look like pools of honey when the sun hits them just right as he looks down at you, the feeling of his thumb gently rubbing circles on your hand, and the way your name rolls of his tongue when he talks to you, especially with that accent of his. All of it has that all too familiar warm fuzzy feeling appearing in your stomach. 

When he stops in front of the ice cream shop near your house he doesn’t even have to ask you if you want any, you’re already dragging him towards the entrance. The little bell on the door rings as the two of you walk inside and the all too familiar sugary sweet smell hits your nostrils. 

“Ah! Chérie!” 

The owner Mr. Martin – a short older man, probably in his sixties, with what you would call haystacks for eyebrows was beaming at you from behind the counter. He had grown fond of you and the Leclerc boys over the years, claiming that he loved seeing the three of you grow up, as he never had any grandchildren of his own. Though, when his eyes shifted to the right and saw Lucas standing next to you his smile fell briefly, if you hadn’t been staring at him you wouldn’t have caught it. 

“Who is this handsome young man?” He asks as the two of you walk towards him.. 

You introduce Lucas to Mr. Martin and it’s at that moment that you realize that this is the first time you’ve brought him here. Something that didn’t seem possible to you because you were here so often that you had to have brought Lucas here at least once, but you can’t recall a time. 

Only when a vanilla cone is in front of your face are you brought out of your thoughts. Of course Mr. Martin didn’t need to ask you what you wanted, it’s been the same thing every time for the past ten years. Lucas had already sat down at one of the little tables, chocolate cone in hand, while he waited for you. 

“I was surprised to see you with a boy other than Charles.” Mr. Martin states as he wipes down the counter. “He must be special because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here with anyone other than your family or Charles.” 

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. Yes, this was your first time you had brought Lucas here, but you know you’ve brought other friends here. There was no way in your ten years here that you hadn’t, but once again your mind was drawing a blank. As you glance back over at Lucas a knot forms in your stomach, it suddenly feels wrong to have brought him here. Like in some way you were tainting this place with his presence. Ruining whatever special hold this place has on your relationship with your family– with Charles. 

You completely ignore Mr. Martin’s statements and just give him a smile and thanks before making up an excuse as to why Lucas and you need to leave. He doesn’t take much convincing when you claim to want to see the sunset. His hand is back in yours as you hear the bell ring once more as the two of you leave. And it’s like as soon as you guys are back on the sidewalk walking towards your house, the gut wrenching feeling is gone. The only evidence of it is left in the ice cream and by the time you’re standing on your front porch step it’s all gone. 

Lucas has a lopsided grin on his face, one you’ve grown to love, as the two of you stand facing each other. “You know we are missing the sunset you wanted to see.” His fingers lightly toy with yours, before finally intertwining them again.

“Mmh. It’s okay.” You were getting lost in those big brown eyes of his, the sunset the last thing on your mind. 

“I’d rather stare at you anyways, you’re much prettier.” 

His words make you practically putty in his hands and before you know it you’re having your first kiss. It’s sweet, metaphorically and literally, the taste of ice cream still on both of your lips. His hand cups your cheek and you have to wonder if he’s done this before. But when he pulls away he only has you craving more, so you lean up and steal on more from him. Giggles escaping past your lips as you see the light blush on his cheeks, you were sure yours were bright red. “Guess this is where I ask you to be my girlfriend huh? Not like I’ve been obsessed with you since my first day of school, been waiting all year or anything.” 

You raise an eyebrow at him with a smirk on your face. “Are you going to properly ask me?” 

By the end of the night when you’re laying in bed, you had officially gone on your first date, had your first kiss, and obtained a boyfriend all in a matter of hours that day. You were a giddy mess, excitement coursed through your veins, and you couldn’t help but repeatedly feel your lips, the feeling of Lucas’ still fresh in your mind the whole night. You couldn’t wait to feel them on yours again. And when he texts you that he wants to hang out tomorrow you think your heart just might leap out of your chest. 

Being with Lucas was like living on cloud nine, you truly couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend. As the year progressed you really wondered how you had snagged someone like him– tall, dark, and handsome. You felt like the luckiest girl in the world, and he made you feel like it too, until he didn’t.

That’s the funny thing about first loves, you really think nothing could ever come between you, that it’s going to last forever. But the only thing that lasts forever is the damage they leave when they’re gone. 

You aren’t really sure what switched in Lucas, but after a year of being together he turned into someone who was never happy with what you did, always picking fights over stupid little things. And you know you should have left him already, but you love him, and you think you guys can make it work. You’re only sixteen and your Mom tells you relationships shouldn’t be like this at this age, shouldn’t be mentally draining, but unfortunately this one is. 

All your arguments as of lately had been about Charles. Lucas, though denying it every time you brought it up, had become jealous of him. You weren’t even sure where the jealousy had come from, you barely saw Charles like you used to. He was in F2 on the cusp of getting that F1 seat and you were busy with school and spending time with Lucas. You had even gone as far as rejecting invites to hang out with your other friends to spend time with Lucas, something now you regret very deeply. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

It’s a chilly Friday night in February when everything comes crashing down. The argument started over Charles texting you asking if you wanted to hang out. You were already with Lucas, but you hadn’t seen Charles in a couple weeks and you knew once the season started seeing him would be even more scarce. So, you make the big mistake of asking Lucas if he wanted to hang out with Charles. 

“Why would I want to hang out with him?” His back was turned to you, but you already knew from his tone that this was going to turn into an argument. 

“Well I haven’t seen him in awhile and he texted me asking to hang out, I thought we all could hang out.” You thought maybe by including Lucas in the plans that it would make the situation better. Wrong. 

He turns to face you, walking towards your bed where you’re currently sat. “Did he mention me in the text?” 

“Well no but-” 

“Exactly,” Lucas scoffs at you, his expression sour as he looms over you. “He doesn’t want me to come. I would get in his way.” 

You roll your eyes at his dramatics, Charles was not the guy Lucas made him out to be. “Don’t know what you mean by you getting in his way.” 

“Oh don’t act cute about it Y/N.” Hearing your name roll off his tongue no longer sounded like music to your ears, it now more resembled nails on a chalkboard, like each time he spoke your name it was venom coming out his mouth. “Bet if I gave him the chance he’d try to get in your pants at the first opportunity.” 

Your eyes widened, cheeks getting hot at his accusations. “What kind of girl do you think I am Lucas?” 

“All I’m saying is your friendship with him isn’t normal, and it makes a guy wonder.” 

You were up off of your bed now, the two of you standing in the middle of your room. “This is getting old. I’ve told you, you have nothing to be jealous of.” You had started to twist the ring on your pinky finger, a nervous habit you had developed over the past couple years. 

“That is why your friendship isn’t normal.” Lucas grabs your hand, his fingers twisting at the ring trying to pull it off your finger. “What kind of girl wears a ring another guy got her while in a relationship? Huh? Even worse that you’ve got matching ones.”

Yanking your hand free from his grasp you can feel your blood starting to boil, and you’re thankful your parents aren’t home tonight because you can tell this is going to get ugly. “We fucking grew up together! He’s like a brother Lucas!” You were the first one to yell and you had unfortunately opened the floodgates because now Lucas is yelling.

“Who hasn’t heard that before?! He’s like a brother. Give me a fucking break. You’re telling me you’ve never had feelings for him? Not once in your life?”  

The accusations and ideas he was throwing around tonight were beyond ridiculous. 

“I’m not thirteen anymore Lucas. You know I only love you.” And you don’t realize what you’ve basically admitted until it leaves your mouth and you hear Lucas let out a dry laugh. 

“Ah. There it is. I think that last part may have been a lie, because you still wouldn’t be wearing that ring if you didn’t still feel something for him.” 

You shake your head at him, why couldn’t he get what you were saying though his thick skull. “I only have platonic love for Charles. It’s nothing like what you and I have.” 

He clicks his tongue, and you can hear the gears turning in his head. “Prove it.” You furrow your eyebrows at him, confused as to how you are supposed to prove that you love only him. “Take the ring off and give it back to Charles.” 

You tuck your hands behind your back, afraid he’ll try and rip it off your finger again. “No. It’s just a ring Lucas. You’re giving it more power than it has.” 

“If it’s just a ring then take it off.” You shake your head no at him. “Take it off Y/N.” You shake your head no again and he stalks towards you, causing you to back up until the backs of your knees hit your bed. “Take off the fucking ring!” He’s yelling and you can feel the tears starting to pool in your eyes. He’s never gotten this crazy before and you can tell that this is the end of the two of you. 

“Lucas just go.” You're trying to hold back your tears, but when he tries to reach around to grab your hand you let out a sob. “Lucas, leave! Now!” 

He backs up, and for the first time that night you get a good look at his eyes. They are no longer the pools of honey you once found yourself getting lost in, their dark, like a black void, and he almost looks unrecognizable as he stands there. “You never truly loved me did you?.” 

His words cut through you, because you really did love him, and you thought he loved you. But someone who loves you would never treat you like he has you. “I loved you more than you’ll ever know, but clearly you’ve got some shit mixed up in your head to think that I didn’t.” 

“But you are always going to love Charles more Y/N. You can tell yourself it’s only platonic love, but we both know it’s not.” 

You wipe away your tears as you sit back down on the side of your bed, this was getting old. “I can’t do this anymore. Truly. I’ve tried to tell you how much you mean to me, but Charles is a part of my life and if you can’t deal with that,” You take a deep breath, scared for what's about to come out of your mouth. “Then maybe we should break up.” 

And for the first time that night Lucas doesn’t respond and you’re actually surprised that he doesn’t put up a fight. “Alright then I guess we are done.” When he doesn’t immediately leave and decides to squat down in front of you, you're confused. Especially when he wipes away your tears as his hand cups your cheek. “I never wanted us to end up like this, but I can’t share your heart with someone else.” 

He should be screaming and instigating more arguing, not being gentle and loving. More tears fall down your cheeks as he presses a final kiss on your forehead before walking out your bedroom door. You can hear your parents greet him downstairs, what great timing for them to arrive home, and when the front door slams you’re surprised your Dad isn’t going after him. 

You’re immediately calling Charles and you don’t even have to speak, your sniffles and ragged breathing lets him know that you need him. As you hang up the phone you hear a gentle knock on your door and you see your Mom peek her head in, her heart breaking when she sees the state you’re in. “Oh my sweet girl.” 

“It’s over Mom.” You choke out between sobs. 

She does the only thing that she knows you need right now and just holds you, lets you get it all out as she runs her fingers through your hair. 

But seconds later you’re both greeted with an out of breath Charles standing in the middle of your room. Your tears subside for a moment, as you see him doubled over trying to catch his breath.

“Alright, I’m gonna leave you two be.” Your Mom gives you a reassuring kiss on the head before exiting your bedroom. 

Charles takes her spot next to you on your bed, his arm immediately pulling you into him. “Did you run here?” You ask as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Did you expect anything less when you called me crying?” He’s deadly serious when he says it, and you don’t know it, but he’d drop everything to come to your aid, no matter if you asked or not. You don’t answer him, but when you wrap your arms around his waist and basically tuck yourself into his side, he knows you appreciate him being here. “Am I wrong for thinking this has something to do with Lucas?” 

The tears start to fall again as the fight replays in your head. “We broke up.” Your words barely above a whisper, but Charles has no trouble hearing them, even over your sniffles. 

“Never liked that asshole anyways.” 

You rolled your eyes at Charles' statement, lightly laughing because he was totally lying. “Don’t lie, you liked him, hell everyone liked him.” 

“Ever thought I am just a very good actor? He made you happy, so I just pretended to like him, for your sake.” 

“Wish you would have made your dislike of him known, maybe I wouldn’t be a hot mess on a Friday night right now.” A sigh escapes past your lips, the feeling of Charles gently rubbing circles on your side had started to soothe you. And you wished you could stay like this forever, wrapped up in his embrace. 

Charles doesn’t mean to pry, he knows you’ll tell him when you're ready, but he’s curious as to why the two of you had broken up, as far as he was concerned the two of you seemed happier than ever. But he wasn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t happy about the two of you breaking up, for reasons unknown to him yet. 

“You gonna tell me what happened?” 

Your grip on him tightens and he thinks if he let you, you’d be under his skin if it was possible. “He was jealous of you.” 

Charles feels his heartbeat quicken and he’s not sure why, but he does know he wants to hear the whole story. “And?” 

You know you’re going to start crying again, but it's Charles, you can tell him anything. So you take a deep breath and spill the beans. “It started a couple months ago. He’d pick fights over stupid stuff at first and then it turned into stuff concerning you. I tried to just let it go and make sure he knew he was my number one priority. But tonight’s fight was the worst one yet and I just couldn’t handle it anymore. He was basically insulating that I loved you more than him and I tried to tell him it was only platonic love that I had for you, but he wasn’t convinced.” 

There’s a strange feeling that blooms in Charles' chest as your words hit his ears and it clouds his mind because he’s never had a feeling like this when he’s been around you. It’s foreign and it scares the shit out of him.

You hold back some information from Charles, mainly because you were still processing how you really feel about him. Trying to sort through what Lucas had planted into your brain and what might have already been there, left over from thirteen year old you. But your ring clad finger searches for his and when you feel the cool contrast of his ring, you wrap your pinky fingers together. “Do you think our friendship is normal Charlie?” 

He cocks an eyebrow at you, confused as to what you meant. “Where’s this coming from?” 

Your eyes never break away from your intertwined fingers, matching rings staring back at you. “Lucas said our friendship isn’t normal and basically the fact that we have matching rings isn’t normal either.” 

Now Charles' gaze is also on your rings and for a moment he thinks maybe it isn’t normal, but then he realizes this is your guys normal. So fuck what anyone else or Lucas thought about his friendship with you. “Think he might have been just pulling shit out of his ass at that point. Jealous that he doesn’t have anyone in his life like we do each other.” 

Charles' words do make you feel a little better, because you know no matter what you’ll always have each other and tonight is proof of that, but that doesn’t stop your still broken heart from showing.

“Still kind of made me feel like shit though, like he made it seem like I didn’t love him at all, when I clearly did. I mean god Charles he was my first date, first kiss, first everything. Even with how badly he had treated me these last couple months, we’re always gonna have that connection. How am I supposed to find someone like that again? Fuck. I mean he literally has a part of me that I’ll never get back.” 

And Charles can feel his heart tightening at your words, because you’re truly the most amazing girl he knows, and to know that Lucas treated you badly when all you deserve is the best awakens something in him. 

“I wish you could see how you look to me, how amazing you are. Yes, you have those connections with Lucas, but believe me when I say you aren’t going to have a problem finding someone else.” 

A small smile finds its way onto your face as you hear Charles speak. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” 

“I wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t true. You’re funny, kind, the best listener, and you’re so beautiful. Truly Y/N, anyone would be lucky to have you. And Lucas is clearly stupid for letting you go.” 

The blush on your cheeks probably looked like a bad sunburn with how much you were blushing and as you made eye contact with Charles you suddenly felt like that thirteen year old girl again. His blue eyes burning into yours and when he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear you can’t help the butterflies that erupt in your stomach. And for a brief moment Charles had pushed your thoughts about Lucas to the back of your mind. 

He pulls you into a hug and if there is one place you feel the safest in the world, it’s in Charles arms. And when he whispers into your ear that everything is gonna be fine, you know it’s going to be, as long as you’ve got Charles in your life. 

seventeen and twenty 

He had done it. 

Charles had finally gotten into Formula 1. The thing he had only dreamt of since childhood had finally come true. The long weekends away from home, the training, the tiredness, the stress, it was all worth it in the end. That seat was finally his and you couldn’t have been more proud. He had been in talks with a couple of the teams for a while and he always kept you updated on the possibilities, some weeks it sounded like he would sign with one team, and then the next another. The whole situation was beyond stressful to you, so you could only imagine how Charles felt about it all. 

The day you found out that he signed with Suaber was one you’ll never forget.

Charles had tried to plan some elaborate thing to announce the big news to you, but that meant he would have to keep it a secret from you for at least a day or two. Something he found to be rather difficult once he got home, because the only thing he wanted to do was tell you. 

It didn’t matter to him that it was almost midnight by the time he had gotten home from the airport, he was going to tell you tonight no matter what. He pulled his phone out of his pocket– thumbs moving rapidly as he texted you. 

After dozing off multiple times in the last half hour you had decided to call it quits on your binge session of The Office for the night. You had switched the TV to something random to actually fall asleep to and it didn’t take long for you to be on the cusp of actual sleep until– 

DING

A groan escaped past your lips and you contemplated ignoring it, but when the second alert went off you snatched your phone off the nightstand. It felt like you were staring directly into the sun as your eyes struggled to read the text notification. 

Charlie: come out back 

Your eyes glanced at the time – 12:15. What the hell could he possibly want this late? But you begrudgingly got out of bed, slipping on some shoes and a sweatshirt before quietly going downstairs. 

The light on the back patio illuminated the backyard just enough for you to see Charles sitting on the swings waiting for you. And If you were even thinking about sneaking up on Charles that would have been impossible with the sliding door to the backyard. The thing screeched like nails on a chalkboard even with you opening it just enough to slide through it. His gaze now locked onto you as you scurried off the porch and towards the swings. 

The smile that he greeted you with was one beyond measure. He was clearly happy about something and you could tell just by the crinkles around his eyes and those dimples that right now looked to be deeper than canyons. 

“What’s got you so happy, Leclerc?” 

Your eyes focused on Charles' frame as he swayed back and forth slowly on the swing. He was clearly too big for it – his legs were bent awkwardly and his swing creaked everytime he moved. You could feel the sides of the swing digging into your hips and you realized you probably looked as ridiculous as him. 

“Just happy to see you. Missed you.” His smile still ever prominent. 

You scoffed at his words, he had just seen you a couple days ago. “Yeah right. You wouldn’t have texted me at midnight if there wasn’t something going on. In fact, how did you know I was up or even home? It’s a Friday night you know.” 

“Because I know you Y/N. Your Friday nights are usually spent at home watching some show until you can’t stay up any longer.” 

A grimace finds its way onto your face, what an amazing life you live. “Okay when you say it outloud it makes me sound like a loser.” 

His eyes had softened as the two of you made eye contact. “Nothing wrong with how you spend your Friday nights.” 

You wanted to get off the topic of your nonexistent social life and onto the pressing matter at hand tonight – what had Charles so giddy? “So are you gonna tell me what is actually going on or what?” 

He took a deep breath, he couldn’t believe he was finally getting to say these words out loud. “I’ve got a Formula 1 seat next year.” 

A blank expression is all that is staring back at Charles and he’s worried that you’re somehow mad or upset, but that’s far from the truth. You aren’t sure if you’ve heard him right, because you think you heard him say he’s going to be racing in Formula 1 next year, but your brain has seemed to have short circuited– your heart beating a mile a minute. 

You’re able to get out, “Sorry – what?!” and when you hear those words come from him once again you’re practically leaping out of the swing and into his arms. The fact that it’s nighttime and people are sleeping is the last thing on your mind as you're shouting excited nonsense at him. 

His laughter filled your ears as he stood up from the swing with you still wrapped up in his arms. You just couldn’t believe it, something he had worked so hard for, dreamt about since childhood, had finally come true. If anyone was deserving of it – it was him. 

“Putain de merde Charles! When did you sign and with who?” You asked once you had finally peeled yourself away from him and were able to form a coherent sentence. 

“Sauber – I just signed yesterday. I know it’s not Ferrari like we had hoped-” 

Your jaw dropped and you lightly smacked his arm. “Ferrari will always be there, I promise. And maybe after they see how good you do this upcoming season they’ll regret not signing you. But what I’m really wondering is why you told me you were going to do testing for one of the teams instead of telling me you were going to sign with them!” 

He put his hands up in defense, but the cheesy grin on his face still remained. “I wanted to surprise you! But then as soon as I signed that contract all I wanted to do was tell you. I literally just got home from the airport when I texted you!” 

The fact that Charles wanted you to be the first person he told had you melting and the butterflies in your stomach had you thinking about those unresolved feelings you had towards him. But you pushed it aside because tonight was not the night for that to be lingering in your mind. 

You reached down to his hand and linked your pinky fingers together. The gesture no longer just meant for a promise, but also one of comfort and reassurance. “I do hope you know though how immensely proud I am of you. How proud your Papa would be of you. I knew from that first time you ever mentioned something about becoming a F1 driver when we were kids that you would accomplish it and now look at you.” 

Charles' eyes soften at your words and when he looks into your eyes he feels that funny foreign feeling. The one that blooms in his chest and travels down to his stomach, the same feeling from last year when he held you after Lucas broke your heart. The feeling he chooses to ignore as he pulls you back into his arms, hugging you tightly, like someone might take you from him. He knows his life wouldn’t be the same without you and that he owes some of this success to you– for constantly believing in him even when he didn’t, for dreaming with him, and for being the light on even his darkest days. 

“And I hope you know that I wouldn’t have made it without you. You’ve been my biggest supporter since we were kids, always believing in me, pushing me, coming to support me when you could, and I can’t imagine you not being at my first race.” 

“Oh do you not remember what I said when we were younger? Think I said I’d have a permanent paddock pass, so you bet your ass I’m gonna be there.” 

A small laugh escapes past his lips and his dimples are back out in full force for what seems like the millionth time tonight. “Truly Y/N. Merci, I couldn’t have done it without you. Je t'aime.” 

“Je t'aime aussi Charlie.” 

His pinky finger finds yours once again and when he curls his finger around yours a wave of deja vu washes over you. And that’s when you remembered the last time the two were out here together. You were still kids, but you had made him promise not to forget you once he got into Formula 1. 

Now here the two of you stood, high on the exciting news of him achieving that goal. You can’t help that pit that starts to form in your stomach as you think of what you feared at age ten coming true. You try to hide it, not wanting to dampen the mood, and you know all you can do is pray that he keeps his promise. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

That following March you make the trip to Australia with the Leclerc’s and your family and it’s everything you could have ever dreamed of. Sure you had attended the Monaco Grand Prix every year, and some of Charles F2 races, but you had never been really in the thick of it like this. Maybe it was because it was Charles' first ever F1 race, but the feeling in the air was indescribable. The roar of the engines, the cheers from the crowd, it was something you could get used to experiencing. 

It’s surreal to see him in the car, see him flying around the circuit like it’s nothing, because all you can imagine is eight year old Charles saying he wants to be an F1 driver when he grows up in that car. He ends up placing P13 and for his first ever F1 race you couldn't have been more proud. And you aren’t afraid to admit that you shed a few tears, honestly you think everyone shed a few tears seeing him finally accomplish that lifetime dream of his. 

When you see him after the race he’s beaming like he’d won the thing and you could only imagine what he will be like when he actually wins his first race. You can practically feel the adrenaline radiating off of him when he wraps you up in his embrace. 

“You did so good Charles. You did it, you made it.” Your words slightly mumbled against his shoulder, but he hears you just fine. 

“I’m glad you were able to come. Wouldn’t have been as special if you didn’t.” You don’t think he’s wiped that smile off his face ever since he got out of the car and it only intensified as he spoke to you. 

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” And it’s true because there’s no other place you’d want to be right now. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The next time you see him is for the Monaco Grand Prix and he’s nearly shitting himself the whole week before. You would have thought this was his first ever time in a F1 car with how nervous he was. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, knows this circuit like the back of his hand, but he still spends an unnecessary amount of time on the sim, trying to perfect every little thing. 

With what little amount of time you see him between practice sessions and qualifying before the actual race you try and reassure him, let him know that he’s still an amazing person and driver no matter the outcome on Sunday. And it seems to have worked because by Sunday his spirits seem to be much higher and he’s got a good feeling about the race, hoping to score some points, and maybe win his home race. 

But when his brakes fail and he ends up crashing into the back of another car resulting in a DNF you’re heartbroken, but you know he’s even more upset. You know he’s going to be so hard on himself and overanalyze the whole situation, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to try and make things a little better. 

When you find him he’s pacing back and forth in what little space he has in his drivers room. Helmet still strapped onto his head and his race suit still done up. You spot one of his gloves on the physio table and the other on the ground — evidence that he had thrown them. He’s so in his head that he doesn’t even see you standing in the doorway as he paces. 

“Charlie.” Your voice is soft and you hope by using his nickname that it may calm him a little. 

His movements stop when he hears your voice and when he finally sees you standing there in the doorway all he wants to do is crawl into a hole and die. What an embarrassment to have his first DNF at his first home race. It’s like the gods wanted to punish him for reasons unbestowed to him. 

Your reflection stares back at you through his visor as you approach him, his shoulders relaxing slightly as your hands find their home on them. You finally work up the courage to flip up his visor so you can actually look at him and when you see red puffy eyes staring back at you your heart breaks a little more. 

“Let’s get this helmet off, yeah?” 

With a small nod given from him as permission you reach your hands up to undo the strap. You’re trying to be delicate with your actions, but when it comes to taking off his helmet there really isn’t a way to be nice about it. And Charles knows because he’s got his hands over yours, aiding you in taking it off. 

You couldn’t help but stare at him as he practically tore off his balaclava and threw it haphazardly somewhere in the room. As silly as it seemed, the indentions that it left behind on his face somehow made him more attractive. Combine that with his hair being a tousled mess and his skin glistening from the sweat (and tears) and post race Charles may be your favorite Charles. You watched even more intently as he unzipped his race suit, letting the upper half fall at his hips, exposing the tight fireproofs that you loved more than you should. 

Those unresolved feelings that you’ve tried to shove deep down for years had seemed to be crawling their way back up recently. But for today you pushed them back down because you were here to comfort Charles, not ogle at him, no matter how good he looked at the moment. 

He sat down on his physio table with a defeated sigh, hand running through his already messy hair. “I’ve let everyone down – the team, my family, myself, you. Maybe if I wouldn’t have braked too hard at turn seven or didn’t push as hard in the tunnel-” 

You moved to stand in between his legs, your hands resting on his shoulders. He was on the edge of spiraling and you knew if you didn’t take him back from that ledge he’d be in his head about it for weeks. 

“Charles. There was nothing that you could have done differently, it was an issue with the car. Which means it had nothing to do with you as a person, as a driver, or your talent.” Your hand subconsciously searches for his, and like it’s muscle memory your pinkies link seconds later. “I promise.” 

“A ‘once in a generation driver’ would have avoided crashing.” 

Ugh. The phrases that the media used to describe Charles were – yes very flattering, but they came at a price. He took them personally and the idea of being anything less than what they claimed him to be took a serious mental toll on him. 

“You had no brakes Charles. What were you supposed to do? Bust your feet through the floor and Fred Flintstone it?” You could see the corners of his mouth turn up slightly at your comment and you knew he was backing away from the edge. His hands find their way around your waist and he’s pulling you into him, your head finding a home on his shoulder. 

“I’m still immensely proud of you. Hell, you could finish dead last in every race and I’d still be your number one fan.” This time there is an actual smile that washes across Charles face, but you don’t get to see it, your head is still resting on his shoulder. “ And I know it’s easier said than done, but please try not to be so hard on yourself, especially when it comes to things out of your control.” 

“What would I do without you?” It’s a serious question that Charles asks himself often. You’ve been each other's rocks for twelve years now. Through the amazing times and the horrible times. No one knows either of you like you do each other. 

You’ve pulled away from his embrace now, your eyes staring back at his. “Hmmm. I don’t know. You’d probably be absolutely miserable without me.” 

And when you finally see that pretty smile of his, dimples and all, you know you’ve accomplished your mission. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Although after Monaco– things changed. 

The first thing and probably the most inevitable was Charles moving out. Honestly, you were surprised he hadn’t done it sooner, but in between the Monaco GP and Canadian GP he moved into his own place. Which in theory wasn’t a big deal, but that meant he wasn’t just right down the street from you anymore. He had gotten an apartment further into the city, which in Monaco that’s not that far, but you knew it would make a difference. 

The days of popping into his house and expecting him to be there were long gone. The whole thing really shouldn’t have been such a big deal to you, but you couldn’t help but think that him moving out was only going to aid in your worries of him forgetting about you to come true. 

After Monaco your communication with Charles started to slowly lessen.Texts that once were answered in minutes now went hours without an answer or sometimes no response at all. You blamed it on his busy schedule, trying not to think too much about it. But much to your dismay, your worries do come true. 

It’s inevitable to you that you are drifting apart when you realize it’s been three months since you’ve seen him, almost a month since you’ve talked to him. And when you see him make it official with some girl you hadn’t even heard mention of after the British GP you feel like it’s just another nail in the coffin. 

You don’t even make the effort to reach out anymore, in fact you make sure not to after seeing that he’s got a new girlfriend. You’d just be wasting your time and energy. And it may seem like you're giving up on keeping Charles in your life, but really what else could you do? It truly hurts like hell to see the person you care about the most not seem to care about you, but you can’t force someone to talk to you or see you. 

He’s living his dream, traveling the world, partying, surrounded by stunning women. You’re still in school, still only seventeen, and not sure what you want your life to look like. It was inevitable really, for the two of you to drift apart, but that little part of you that ten year old you still holds on to, hopes that Charles remembers that promise he made and eventually comes to his senses. Because you know and you know he knows that you two are always going to have that special bond, the ring on your finger a constant reminder of it. And you wonder if he still wears his, but you don’t hold on to much hope that he does. 

Even though Charles and you aren’t exactly the closest at the moment you do want to try and attend another race before you start your final year of school and are forced to give that all of your attention. So when Arthur texts you asking if you want to go to Monza with Pascale and him you don’t pass up the opportunity.

Arthur filled you in on stuff regarding Charles during the flight, not that you asked, but he knew the two of you hadn’t really been talking. And you don’t mean to ask about his girlfriend, but you do, and you can see Arthur tip-toeing around his words. “She’s… nice. I’ve only met her once so I really couldn’t tell you much. You haven’t met her yet though, right?” 

You shook your head at him. “I haven’t even seen Charles since the home race. So no, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her.” 

“Merde. I didn’t think it had been that long.” 

What Arthur doesn’t tell you is that Charles doesn’t know their Mom and him are coming, not to mention you. You only figure it out when Arthur says something about making sure Charles doesn’t know to the Sauber team member who gives him three VIP passes. Arthur claims you guys are here to surprise Charles, give him a little pick me up after his last two races were DNF’s. 

The idea of seeing Charles again after so long already had your stomach in knots, but now knowing he doesn’t even know you’re coming makes it even worse. You were under the impression that he knew you were tagging along with Arthur. And everyone knows Charles is horrible at hiding his emotions, what if he sees you and can’t hide the fact that he doesn’t want you here? A million possibilities ran through your brain as Arthur dragged you towards the Sauber garage, while Pascale went to hospitality. 

Qualifying had just started and you were thankful for the extra time to mentally prepare yourself to see Charles again. With the way you were acting you would have thought you hadn’t seen him in years, but truthfully these three months had felt like years. 

The roar of engines were slightly muffled as you put on a headset, eyes focused on the monitor in front of you. Even with your nerves through the roof, it felt good to be back at a race. The atmosphere was intoxicating, you loved the hustle and bustle of it all, the adrenaline you got from just being here was crazy. 

You were so engrossed in watching Charles that you didn’t even notice someone come up behind Arthur and you until you felt him tap your shoulder. When you turn around the person standing there is the last person you expected to be seeing.  

Leah— Charles' girlfriend.  

Her lips are moving, but you aren’t hearing a word, and that’s when you realize you’ve still got your headset on. You quickly pull them down around your neck just in time to hear her say. “You must be Y/N?” You're shocked she knows who you are and from the look on your face she knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Charles has mentioned you before. It’s nice to finally meet you!” 

It’s sad to say that you had a hard time believing that Charles talked about you to her, but you put on a fake smile and accepted her invitation for a hug. “It’s nice to meet you too!” While Arthur and her spoke you tried to get a good read on her, but it was hard to tell if she was naturally this friendly or if it was all just an act. 

Time slipped away as the three of you chatted and you hadn’t realized Q1 was over and that Charles hadn’t made it into Q2 until you saw Leah’s eyes widened at something behind you. That something turned out to be someone and that someone turned out to be Charles. Leah’s practically hanging off of him while she’s trying to take a million photos and videos. And that’s when you know why Arthur tiptoed around his words about her earlier. Yes she was ‘nice’, but she was clearly using Charles for her own benefit. 

Charles on the other hand was oblivious to Leah shoving her phone in his face. His vision had zeroed in on you from the moment he entered the garage, even with your back turned to him he could spot you in a crowd of hundreds. When you finally turned around he felt like his feet had been cemented to the ground. His body felt hot, like a fever was running through his veins, and it wasn’t from being in the car moments ago. 

Arthur wasn’t supposed to be here and you weren’t either– especially talking to his girlfriend. It throws him for a loop and he can’t seem to get his brain and mouth to work together to even greet you, so he stands there while Leah makes sure everyone knows she’s dating a Formula 1 driver. 

The tight lipped smile you throw his direction doesn’t help how he’s feeling. You should be beaming at him, in his personal space (preferably in his arms), laughing at something dumb he said, anything other than how you were right now. And he knows it's no fault but his own, but it still hurts to see you stand there and act like you don’t like him, like you haven’t known each other for twelve years.

Charles could blame his absence in your life on his career, but that wasn’t the whole truth. 

He had seen your texts and truthfully sometimes he was so busy that he would forget to text you back. But those times when he could give you his full attention over text or the occasional facetime were times he never took for granted. He loved hearing your laughter, seeing your smile, or even just having you send him a text about your day. But with those things he loved so dearly came that funny feeling in his chest. 

The same feeling that he first felt last year when Lucas broke up with you, the night he told you he made it into F1, at his home race, and sprinkled in occasionally at other times. He had realized what it was not too long after the Monaco GP and at first he denied it, he thought there was no way it was possible. But then when that feeling would happen just from getting a text from you he knew he was fucked. He wasn’t even going to say the word out loud, not even think it, afraid of what might come if he even allowed the universe the satisfaction of him accepting what he was feeling. You were supposed to be his best friend and not someone he had feelings for. 

So what did he do to combat this insane revelation he had found out about himself? 

Distance himself. 

If he wasn’t in contact with you or seeing you, then surely this silly little thing, that he once again would not acknowledge by its government name, would go away. Plus his ever so busy career was the perfect excuse for him to use in case his Mother or you questioned him. 

And at first it wasn’t hard at all, he had gradually weaned himself off from facetiming you and then texting. And it wasn’t that bad because he had racing and training and media duties and parties– all the stuff that his life involved now to distract him. But then your texts became less and less and then on one off week he realized just how badly he missed having your stupid contact photo pop up on his phone and how he may have fucked everything up. 

But then he met Leah through another driver’s girlfriend and he had her to distract him even more. He knew what kind of person she was from the get go, but he was basically using her too, so if she wanted to make her whole instagram about him then so be it as long as his brain was free of that thing that must not be named about you. And Leah worked for awhile, she was relatively nice and it helped that she was pretty, but she wasn’t you. 

There was no real connection between them and sometimes Charles would rather watch paint dry than have a conversation with her. And most of the time he just let her sit there and talk while he scrolled on his phone, trying not to act like his heart didn’t skip a beat when a post of yours would pop up on Instagram. 

He wanted to contact you so badly, but what was he supposed to say? Hey, I've been so busy that I haven't even picked up my phone to text you hi. 

He knew he had caused some damage to your relationship when his Mom asked why he wasn’t coming home to see you anymore and that you weren’t yourself. He feels like shit about it, the idea of him making you upset is practically nightmare fuel for Charles and he doesn’t know why he thought distancing himself would make things better, they had just made things worse. Made him miss you even more without even realizing it. 

Clearly Charles had never heard the saying distance makes the heart grow fonder because if he had then maybe he wouldn’t have been stood there like a fool in the Sauber garage right now. Heart racing faster than the car he just got out of at the sight of you standing here in front of him for the first time in three months. 

What the hell was happening to him? What was this sudden effect you had on him? Had it always been there and he hadn’t realized it until now? He couldn’t think straight – it was clearly not a good idea to have tried to ignore these realizations (feelings) he had about you. A bad idea to not see you for months because now that you are here everything is rushing back up to the surface 10x worse than before. 

“Long time no see stranger.” Your voice brings him back to reality, but your closer proximity has him searching for an out. His head glancing in every direction for someone– his race engineer, one of the mechanics, Leah, anybody to distract him from you. 

When his search comes up short he resorts to making his stomach hurt even more by talking to you. 

“Yeah. How have you been?” God. Did he not even know how to talk to you anymore? Small talk with someone you know better than yourself had to be a torture method used by government agencies. 

“I’ve been good.” Lie, but he didn’t need to know that. “I see you’ve been living it up since I saw you last.” 

You were expecting a little awkwardness between the two of you, but the way Charles was acting was insane, it was like it was your first time meeting or something. He couldn’t maintain eye contact to save his life and honestly looked like he’d rather be someplace else at the moment. Your fear of him not wanting you here was clearly not a silly worry, it was reality. 

“Um yeah. Always busy doing something recently.” 

You’ve been fidgeting with the ring on your pinky finger the whole time and your movements catch Charles' gaze. His eyes immediately locking in on the silver ring still shining on your finger. He’s surprised after the way he’s treated you these past couple months that you still have it on, but yet here you stood in front of him with it on, a sign to Charles that he did not deserve you one bit. 

When he sees you realize that he’s staring at your ring and then sees your eyes shift to his naked finger his heart rate quickens once again. His stomach feels like it's about ready to drop out of his ass at the sight of hurt on your face that’s then quickly replaced by a blank stare. He can’t get his words out fast enough, he’s chewing on his words, mouth drier than the Sahara desert. 

“I-um-It’s in my-” 

“It’s fine Charles, really. We’re not little kids anymore. I shouldn’t be holding on to silly childhood promises.” It wasn’t fine, it was far from fine. You’re blinking back tears, your words referencing everything but the ring. But it’s a combination of everything that’s got you upset. The two of you drifting apart, the broken childhood promises, wanting to hate him right now but still being so proud to see him out there doing what he loves, and that damn ring. 

You felt stupid for still having it on, for thinking that he would still have his on. You needed to start being more realistic, but you were still only seventeen. An age that held so much fun and whimsy, you should be out having fun with your friends, not getting upset over a guy who clearly didn’t feel the same about you. The two of you were always going to be at two different times in your lives, it was never going to work out, but fuck there is always going to be apart of you that still holds onto him. He’s got his fingers dug so deep into you that you think you'll be old and gray and still wonder what could have been. 

Each word you spoke felt like a stab to Charles' heart. He wanted to tell you that he still wears his ring. That it’s sitting on its designated spot in his driver's room. But once again he can’t get his words out fast enough, his brain still hung up on your words for some reason. He’s hoping you would realize that the reason he doesn’t have it on was because he had just been in qualifying, but when he sees you slide your ring off and toss it in your bag those stabs to the heart intensify. He feels like he’s losing everything right in front of him, but he can’t seem to get his mind and body to work together to stop it. 

He feels an arm wrap around his and he knows it's Leah. Where was she moments ago when he was looking for an out? Maybe this situation could have been avoided and Charles wouldn’t feel like he had just lost the one person in his life who truly cared about him. 

“Good luck tomorrow Charles.” 

You don’t feel like sticking around any longer, especially if you have to look at Charles and Leah. You let Arthur know you're gonna go find Pascale, but you don’t leave without taking one last glance at Charles. 

It’s a long evening with Arthur’s prying questions about what's going on between his brother and you. All you can do is shrug your shoulders because really you don’t actually know what happened yourself, you assumed you drifted apart, but was there something else that happened that you didn’t know about? 

The next day you decide to watch the race from Sauber’s hospitality with Pascale, hoping to get away from Arthur’s never ending questions and Leah’s presence in general. Pascale luckily hadn’t pressed you on the Charles matter, but she’s practically your second Mother and she knows too that there’s something going on between Charles and you, she’s known from the beginning.

Charles ended up placing eleventh, which is miles better than his last two races, which were DNFs. Though you don’t even bother to go to the garage with Pascale, opting to stay in hospitality until it’s time to leave. It may have been petty of you, but you really weren’t in the mood to see Charles again and from his behavior yesterday he clearly doesn’t care that you're not there. 

But that was far from the truth. In fact Charles was praying that you would show up in the garage this morning, but when Arthur shows up solo he can’t hide the frown that forms on his face. The praying then moves onto seeing you post race, but that is quickly diminished when his Mother shows up without you in tow either. 

Your words from yesterday hung heavy in Charles' mind all last night. I shouldn’t be holding onto silly childhood promises bothered him more than it should have. And he wracked his brain trying to figure out what you could have been referencing. It wasn’t until he was almost asleep that he remembered a certain promise that the two of you made at ten and thirteen. Sleep was the last thing on his mind as he laid there wide awake staring at the ceiling recalling the memory in his mind.

He was such a fucking asshole. He’d done the one thing you promised him not to do. Granted he never really forgot about you, you were still clearly on his mind these past three months, but to you it really did seem like he had forgotten about you. Like he had gone off and became this famous race car driver that couldn’t be bothered to text his childhood best friend.

God he had fucked up, like truly fucked up, and all he wanted to do was explain himself (without revealing you know what), apologize, and try and get back to the way things used to be. That though, was proving to be easier said than done when you wouldn’t even come around. And by the time he’s done with his post race duties you’re back at the hotel ready to head back home. Charles doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance to redeem himself and you're left wondering why you even agreed to come in the first place. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

A week later you're at home sitting on your bed, face shoved into a math textbook trying to figure out some formula when your phone rings. Charles' contact photo pops up on your phone and you contemplate not answering it. You haven’t had any contact with him since Monza so you wonder why he’s decided to call you of all things on a random Monday. But against your better judgment you press answer and put it on speaker before tossing it back down on your bed. 

“Bonjour?” 

There’s muffled sounds in the background, but Charles hasn’t spoken a word, and you wonder if he accidentally butt dialed you. 

“Y/N.” His voice finally echos through the speaker and you hate the way your heart flutters at the sound of your name rolling off his tongue. 

Charles had been working himself up to call you for hours, his finger hovering over your contact too many times to count. He thinks he may have blacked out a little when he finally pressed his thumb down on the screen and then heard your sweet voice, hence his delayed response. Today was his last chance to tell you the big news he'd hoped to tell you last week in Monza, but that clearly didn’t work out. 

The big news in question? Him finally signing with Ferrari. 

The team that he had dreamt of driving for once he got into F1 had finally given him a chance. It was not only his dream, but his Father’s dream for Charles too. Many weekends with his Father spent at race tracks had all led up to him getting that initial seat this year and then finally getting that Ferrari seat for next year, he only wished his Father could be here to witness it. Charles couldn’t have been more happy to finally accomplish that dream not only for himself, but also his Father. 

The other person who knew about how badly he wanted to be sporting that Ferrari red and supported him in finally reaching that goal was you. And to Charles it didn’t matter if you guys perhaps weren’t exactly on the best of terms right now, he wanted you to be the first person he told, just like last year when he got into F1. He sure as hell didn’t want you to find out from the press release, so here he was telling you over the phone. 

“Oui?”

“I’ve done it. I’m driving for Ferrari next year.” It feels good to say it outloud, especially to you because you know just how much it means to him. 

There’s silence from your end for some time and Charles checks to make sure you hadn’t hung up on him, but the call time is still going. He’s about ready to say your name when he hears sniffles echo through the speaker.

“Are you crying?” He’s worried he’s somehow done something once again to make you upset. 

You are in fact crying, as much as you hate it. It’s a mixture of happy and sad tears that you're desperately trying to wipe away like he can see you. Happy tears for him finally signing with Ferrari, a goal that you knew he would accomplish with no issue. Sad tears because you wished he was here telling you in person, wished that things were like they used to be, wished that you never developed feelings for him, and wished that whatever that situation was in Monza last week had never happened. 

“I’m just really happy for you Charlie.” His heart skipped a beat hearing you call him Charlie, it had been too long since you’d graced him with that nickname for his liking. “I told you Ferrari would see what they had missed out on and come running.” 

A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled that night on the swings when he told you about him getting into F1. “I wanted you to be the first person to know.” You can’t ignore the butterflies that form in your stomach at the thought of him thinking about you, wanting you to be the first to know, but you’re still crying, your emotions all over the place. 

When silence fills the line and he still hears your sniffles, he knows it’s not just happy tears you’re crying. It was time to face the elephant over the phone. 

“Listen I know things have been weird between us these past couple months and,” He paused, trying to choose his words carefully. “I know it’s my fault. I broke that promise I made you and I hate myself for it everyday.” The idea of him distancing himself from you was the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He wasn’t better off without you, he was better with you. His feelings towards you aside, he’d rather die than not have you in his life. 

“I got so caught up in this new lifestyle and I lost myself for a while.” Maybe he shouldn’t be lying to you, but he wasn’t about ready to admit you know what. He’d already fucked up enough, he didn’t need to go spilling his guts and fuck everything up even more.

“And then in Monza I was shocked to see you there and I felt like an ass for forgetting about you and I was trying to figure out what to say, but you were clearly upset and it was honestly just a mess.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Basically what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for being a dick and that I really miss you.” 

His thumb toyed with the ring on his finger as he waited for your response  and he remembered you still didn’t know he still wore his. “I also still wear my ring. I just hadn’t gotten the chance to put it back on after qualifying last week.” His gaze never broke from the ring as he spoke. “I don’t like that you think I would ever stop wearing it. Gonna wear it till the grave Y/N.” 

His last sentence was mumbled, but you heard him loud and clear. Your gaze shifted towards your dresser where the silver ring had sat for the past week. Perhaps you had jumped the gun with your actions last week, you knew he had to take off his jewelry when he got into the car, but in the moment your emotions were telling you otherwise. “You made me feel like shit Charles. It’s a horrible feeling to see someone exiting your life in real time and knowing you really can’t do anything about it.” 

“I know and I’m so sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair in frustration, and he thinks he’s done it so many times that he might have a bald spot by morning. 

You feel like you’re forgiving him too easily, but you’ve missed him so much. And to hear him finally admit that he fucked up and say that he missed you too has you unfortunately very easily swayed. He’s been in your life for so long it’s felt like a piece of you was missing these past couple months without having contact with him. So, you forgive him, because you love him.

“I want things to go back to normal, like before.” You’re standing in front of your dresser now, ring rolling between your fingers. 

“They will.” He glanced back down at his ring. “I promise.” 

“You promise?” You asked as you slid the ring back on your finger, a missing part of now you back in its rightful place. 

“I promise.” 

twenty two and twenty five

Over the past four years Charles and you had matured significantly. 

You had graduated and landed a job that you loved at home in Monaco. It required you to travel a lot, which you loved, but also came with amazing off time and flexible hours. A perk you were beyond grateful for because that meant you could attend the majority of Charles races. You had also gotten your own place, a cute little apartment, and was truly embracing adulthood. 

When it came to the love department though– Charles was still there.

Over the four years you had your share of talking stages and two boyfriends who both only lasted a couple months. Your hectic work schedule didn’t help matters, but neither did your feelings towards Charles that you’ve been harboring for the past eight years. You really would have thought you’d have gotten over those, figured it was a thing of adolescents, but your twenties came and the feelings never went. It wasn’t as bad as when you were younger, you learned to handle yourself better and your job keeping you busy helped that. The two of you were at a good place in your relationship and you came to terms that unless you were a big girl and confessed your feelings to him, then you were just going to have to live with him at arms distance. 

Like you when it came to romantic relationships–  you were still Charles number one, as much as he tried to make it work with other girls, they just weren’t you. He had thought multiple times over the years that he was going to tell you how he felt, but you were either talking to someone or had a boyfriend, the timing never right. So he learned, like you, to live with his feelings towards you. A thing that was necessary if he didn’t want a repeat of what happened when he tried to distance himself from you.

So here the two of you were– adults who were completely oblivious to how either of you felt about each other for years, hopelessly pining over each other. 

Charles' career on the other hand was more of a success story than his love life. In the past four years he had accomplished his Maiden win in Belgium during his first year with Ferrari and then his second the next week in Italy. Then went on to win three more races during this year's season. 

A season with three wins may sound like a great accomplishment, but the thing was that he should have had more than three. To say that Charles' fourth season with Ferrari was stressful was an understatement for the ages. He had never been more happy for winter break to arrive than he was this year. He had started the season out on a high by winning the first race of the season, but life somehow had a way of humbling him. 

Horrible strategy calls from the team, bad pit stops, and car troubles had cost Charles his chance at the championship. It seemed like for every high he had– five lows followed. So needless to say when he saw the checkered flag at Abu Dhabi he was somewhat relieved that the season was over and perhaps making the podium may have lifted his spirits a little too. 

But that relief was short lived, because in true Charles fashion, he can’t get out of his head about the what ifs from the season. He had wanted to just let it go, leave it behind him and look forward to this time off and the new season ahead. But all his brain wanted to think about was maybe if we would have gone with softs instead of hards or pitted one lap earlier or managed his tires better then maybe he would have been still coming down from the high of winning the championship right now instead of sulking about. 

He’d been a little distant since break started and you knew he was probably in his head about everything. So when a text pops up on your phone from him late one evening telling you to meet him at the harbor you don’t even think twice about telling him you’ll be there in ten. If you had to guess what he had planned, you’d bet all your money on taking his yacht out to look at the stars. It was something the two of you had done for a couple years now, but it was usually over summer break, not the week before Christmas. But for Charles you would do anything, even brave going out on the water, at night, during the winter. 

When Charles see’s you walk up to his slip on the dock wearing what looks to be the coziest outfit and holding his favorite blanket from your apartment he thinks his heart is about ready to explode. “You’re lucky I love you Charles. It’s gonna be so cold out on the water.” 

I love you. The words echo in his mind as he helps you into the boat. It’s nothing new for you two to say it to each other, and he’s under the impression you’re saying it platonically, but god does it sound so heavenly to hear those three little words come out of your mouth and be directed towards him. 

“I’m the luckiest man alive.” He’s referring to you and that glimmer in his eye would tell anyone that he was, but you don’t see it, you’re too busy getting situated in your designated spot next to the captain's seat. 

Once he’s got the boat a good enough distance out into the water he deploys the anchor and you make your way out to the loungers on the deck. You push two of them together, making a big enough space for both you and Charles to relax. 

You’re already cozied up with the blanket by the time he makes his way over to you, but he doesn’t even have to ask, you’re already pulling back the blanket for him to slide under. 

He lets out a sigh once he gets comfortable beside you. “I needed this.” 

A hum in agreement comes from you as you scoot a little closer to Charles, a gust of cold wind blowing through the air. 

“There’s the big dipper.” Charles points his finger up to the sky, your eyes following where he’s pointing to. The two of you take turns pointing out what you think are constellations, but are undoubtedly random stars in made up shapes, but it doesn’t matter to either of you. 

The gentle lull of the waves crashing against the boat fills the silence that falls between the two of you once you’ve run out of things to point out. And you’ve somehow ended up cuddled into Charles' side, his arm wrapped around you, and your head on his chest. You couldn’t help it, he’s always been a walking furnace, and when the opportunity presents itself to be in his arms you were gonna take it. 

It was something that was happening more and more with you two recently– pushing the envelope per say on what your friendship entailed. Cuddling, staying the night at each other's apartments, hands lingering a little too long after a hug were all normal things for friends to do– right?  Friends who somehow while doing these things couldn’t tell that the other person felt the same as they did. 

Love may be blind, but in Charles and your’s case, you were blind to love. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but you think you could spend eternity out here with him. The feeling of comfort, safety, and the feeling of home that he brings you when he’s around is something you don’t think you can ever live without again. He’s your person and you hope you're his, no matter what the future for the two of you entails. 

The feeling of his fingers ghosting across your arm and down towards your hand tells you he’s searching for one thing and when his pinky finger links with yours you know he’s got something on his pretty little mind. 

“You wanna talk about it?” You whisper, your head still resting on his solid chest.

He doesn’t respond for a while and you think he perhaps didn’t hear you, but then he speaks and it sounds like blasphemy coming out of his mouth. 

“What if I quit?” 

Your body freezes at his words and you’re hoping he’s not meaning what you think, but when you lift your head to see nothing close to a joking manner on his face you know this is about to get serious. 

“I’d think you’d be miserable. You love racing, you were born to do it, it’s in your blood Charles. All the hard work you’ve put in from a literal child to now–” You shake your head, not even wanting to think about him quitting racing. “Don’t be stupid and throw it all away. You’re just only getting started.” 

A deep sigh comes from him, his eyes fixated on your now intertwined hands as he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “I’m not going to, but there were so many times this past season that I thought about it. I know that’s crazy to say after I won three times, but god the lows of racing truly are lows. I’d have a good weekend and then have literally a weekend from hell the next race week. It’s just a lot– mentally. Trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, the teams, the fans, the media, and my own is like a mental prison sometimes.” 

You had sat up at this point, and almost like a small child Charles had clung to you, his head in your lap as you gently ran your fingers through hair. You knew he had a rough season, but you didn’t think it had taken this much of a toll on him. 

“And you’re right. I love racing and I’d be miserable without it, but sometimes I’m miserable with it.” 

The frown that had formed on your face moments ago had deepened at his confession. “I didn’t know the season had affected you this much Charles. Wish you would have talked to me sooner about it.” 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for Charlie, you’re allowed to feel how you feel. And I know you probably get sick of hearing me say it, but I’m still so immensely proud of you. Like I’ve said before, you could finish dead last in every race and I’d still be proud. I know this season was a rough one at times, but you won three times and were on the podium eleven times. That’s still something to be proud of. So for every time you're miserable because of racing, think about me telling you repeatedly how proud I am of you and maybe you’ll just be miserable because of me instead.” 

You see the corners of his mouth move up and you know you’ve gotten a little smile out of him. “That’s funny that you think me hearing you say that you’re proud of me would make me miserable. It actually has the opposite effect, so your plan may work, but it would result in me being happier instead of more miserable, which is what I think we want to accomplish right?” 

“Yes, I love happy Charlie, but I still love miserable Charlie too.” 

He’s sat up, the two of you sitting face to face now, and you aren’t sure if it's the cool breeze or him staring at you that makes a shiver run up your spine. “That’s good to know.” 

He’s still staring at you and even with only the moon as your source of light, those pretty blue eyes of his are as bright as ever, and staring into your soul. And for a split second you think he’s leaning in and you think this might be the moment he’s gonna kiss you, the moment you’ve been waiting for since you were thirteen. But you’re completely wrong, he’s only reaching for the blanket as he leans back onto the lounger once more. 

“Merci Y/N, truly. For always being here for me, especially for tonight. It was nice to finally get that off my chest. Je t’aime.’ 

You claim your spot back next to Charles and you don’t even second guess yourself when you lay your head back on his chest. “Je t’aime aussi Charlie.” 

Charles, while he can’t complain about having you in his arms and your head on his chest. He can kick himself for that moment mere seconds ago. He was finally going to do it, it was the perfect time, but he chickened out and reached for the blanket instead of using that hand to cup your cheek. He could drive a race car at 230 mph, but couldn’t work up the courage to kiss the girl he was in love with. Maybe he’d find the courage sometime in the next four years. But for now he could live with having you cuddled up against him and knowing that even if it may be platonic, you love him too. 

twenty three and twenty six 

The Monaco Grand Prix. 

An world renowned event. A pinnacle for motorsports. People from all around the world come to the tiny principality every year to watch twenty of the world's best drivers race around the streets of Monaco. 

As a child you watched the grandstands go up every year and you dreamed of getting to watch Charles race those very same streets that you took to school. The two of you as kids watching from the crowd, not knowing that some of those drivers Charles would drive alongside one day, even being teammates with some of them. Charles could only hope that one day that would be him on that top step, hearing his own national anthem play at his home race.  

That one day had yet to happen after six seasons in F1. After three DNF’s, horrible strategy, and two lost pole positions– Charles really didn’t think winning his home race was ever going to happen. He had started to believe the “Monaco curse” more and more year after year. 

You on the other hand didn’t believe that the curse existed. You did believe that the idea of one had made Charles be more in his head when the race came around every year, and in a sense perhaps making him not perform the best at times. But no, you didn’t believe in the Monaco curse.

Every year you had hoped he would win and sadly when he didn’t you were there to pick up the pieces. You knew his time would come and granted you didn’t think it would take this long. But the universe works in mysterious ways, there’s a reason for everything, and you knew there was a reason Charles hadn’t won yet. 

And as this year's grand prix rolled around you hoped that this time the universe was ready to give him what he deserved. 

You did have a good feeling about the race this year, or at least a better feeling than prior years. It was mainly because Charles had been so– carefree these past couple days. He’s usually already thinking about Monaco at the race the week before and the nerves have set in come media day, but this year he’s different. 

He’s excited of course, to be at home for the week and to see everyone for more than a couple days, but during the days leading up to media day he doesn’t show you any sign of nervousness or doubt. And you can’t help but think that this year is the year, he seems to finally be in the right headspace to win this thing. 

Charles and you had spent basically every free moment the two of you had together this week. It was nice, the two of you together again like old times. You had gotten the week off from work, a perk from your job, and it wasn’t like Charles had to travel to another country. So, the two of you took full advantage of the week. Dinner with both families together, hanging out with friends, and just enjoying each other's company filled your Monday through Wednesday. 

But come Wednesday evening you found yourself at Charles apartment after a long day on the water with all your mutual friends. You’re absolutely beat and ready to be back at your place when Charles asks you to come back to his, and you want to say no, but the way he looks in golden hour could be used as a hypnotization technique, so you say yes. 

He claims he’s got something to show you, but the whole car ride and trek into his apartment he won’t budge on telling you what it is. It isn’t until he sits down at his piano with a blush creeping up his neck that you know what he’s got to show you. 

“Have you been working on new music?” You ask with a hopeful smile on your face. 

His fingers ghosted over the keys and his pinky lightly tapped one– the sound filling the room. “For a while now and I think it’s finally ready.” The blush had made its way onto his cheeks and he’s fidgeting with his bracelets as he makes eye contact with you. “So, I think it’s only right that the person that it’s for should get to hear it first.” 

Your eyes widened in surprise and now you’ve both got crimson painted cheeks. “You wrote a song for me?!” 

“Yeah.” He states sheepishly. 

You’ve always loved hearing Charles play the piano. There were many late nights spent where you sat in his apartment and just listened to him mess around on the piano. Those nights were shamelessly some of your favorite moments with Charles, it was like the world didn’t exist and it was just you two and the piano. So to know that he thought and even cared enough about you to write you something had your heart about ready to leap out of your chest. 

“Well, let's hear it then.” You sat down on your usual spot on the couch and eagerly waited for the music to hit your ears. 

He hesitates at first, his fingers slightly slipping on the keys, but once he gets himself sorted the sound that comes from that piano nearly brings tears to your eyes. It’s beautiful and heartfelt and you can’t believe he wrote something like this while he was thinking of you. It’s tugging at those feelings you’ve still got for him after ten years and you try not to get your hopes up that this means he feels the same as you. 

When the song is over his head immediately turns to you for reassurance, but all he sees is your body barreling towards him. You’ve got your arms around him before he can even process what’s happening, but from your excited words of nonsense he knows you loved it. 

“Oh mon dieu!” Is the first coherent thing you’re able to get out. 

“I take it you liked it?” 

“Liked it? I loved it Charlie! It was beautiful and the fact that it was for me made me love it even more. Truly what did I ever do to deserve someone like you in my life? Merci a million times.” 

“I’m glad you loved it. I’ve been working on it for months, wanted to get it perfect in time to show you now.” 

You’re both beaming at each other and to anyone from the outside looking in, the two of you looked so in love it was crazy. Crazy that the both of you have been harboring feelings for each other for years and years and neither of you have made the first move. 

“Will you play me some more?” You try to give him your best puppy dog eyes and of course he can’t say no to you, puppy dog eyes or not. You give him one last hug as a thank you before you sit back down on the couch and let the melodic sounds soothe you. In fact it soothes you so much that combined with the tiredness from being on the boat all day you end up eventually falling asleep. 

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you feel Charles gently shaking you awake telling you that is time for bed. It’s not uncommon for the two of you to spend the night at one another’s places. You’ve spent many nights in Charles' guest bedroom after drunken nights out or sometimes just for fun. You’re clinging to him, still basically asleep, as he helps you walk towards what you think is the guest bedroom, but it’s his. 

Charles was only going to grab your pajamas that you had left here last time, they were just in the laundry basket on his dresser and it would just take a second. But you followed him into his room still thinking it was the guest room and Charles doesn’t even know you’ve come in behind him until he turns around to see you crawling into his bed.

That all too familiar feeling starts to bloom in his chest as he sees you curled up and comfortable in his bed. He’d want nothing more than to climb in next to you and hold you all night, but he knows the guest room is his room tonight. Charles doesn’t even make it two steps before you call out his name. When he turns around he’s not expecting to see you lying there staring at him with those sleepy eyes, comforter pulled back as you pat the empty spot next to you. He knows he shouldn’t, this is different than cuddling on the couch or sharing beds as kids, it feels different at least. But against his better judgment he climbs in next to you and like he’s your missing puzzle piece you instantly slide into Charles arms. 

It’s like home, being in each other’s embrace. 

The next morning when you wake up in Charles' room it takes you a minute to remember everything, but the blush that creeps onto your face at the memory of you and Charles cuddling in his bed is embarrassingly bad. And you thank god Charles isn’t next to you right now to see it. 

You do wonder where he’s gone though. He’s not in the living room or kitchen, and it’s still too early for him to have left for media day, but then you hear complaining coming from the bathroom. 

“Maman! No, that's going to be too short!” 

As you peek around the door frame you find Pascale cutting Charles' hair, a tradition the two of them have had every year before the Monaco GP. 

“Charles last time I checked you’re not a hair stylist, let your Maman do her job.” You teased as you finally entered the bathroom and you see him roll his eyes at you in the mirror.

Pascale lights up at the sight of you and leans over to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. “Mon amour, you’re here early.” The look on her face tells you she knows you spent the night, but it’s not like it’s something new or anything happened. Hell even if she didn’t know she could definitely tell you had just rolled out of bed. 

“I spent the night. Fell asleep after we were out on the boat all day.” You shrugged your shoulders, it truly was no big deal (you sleeping in his bed and cuddling with him aside). 

She doesn’t say anything, but she does nothing to hide the smile on her face and sly looks she gives you and Charles the whole time she’s cutting his hair. She’s been waiting for the prophecy to fulfill itself forever and that prophecy just so happens to be Charles and you ending up together. Call it Mother’s intuition, but she’s known you two were made for eachother since you were kids. If you didn’t end up together soon she was going to have to do her own plotting to get you two to fess up about your feelings.

Pascale can see how you two look at each other, how Charles’ eyes light up when you enter the room. How you’ve always been his soft spot since you were little kids. The way you speak about Charles like he’d hung the stars and the moon in the sky. She knew you fell first and Charles a couple years later. All these little things she’s noticed and stored away for that eventual wedding day. 

You can see Charles staring at you through the mirror and it’s making you squirm, his eyes burning into you. “You gonna get rid of that facial hair too?” You try to get him to focus on anything other than you at the moment. 

His mouth opens in fake shock and Pascale curses him for moving. “I’m actually thinking of growing a full beard.” 

“Oh please don’t.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ 

Charles and you don’t speak about you spending the night in his bed or in his arms. In fact you don’t see him again until qualifying on Saturday where he puts it on pole. You’re ecstatic and you can tell he is too even though he’s trying to remain calm and collected while he does his press duties. He’s gotten pole two times before in Monaco, he knows pole doesn’t mean you win, but he can’t help but think it’s a good sign. 

That night you find yourself back at Charles' apartment by his request once again. Which was a surprise, you figured he’d want to be alone the night before the big race. But it’s quite the opposite, he wanted your company, he can’t get how good it felt to have you in his arms in his bed the other night and he selfishly hopes it happens again tonight. 

“Feeling good about tomorrow?” You asked as the two of you sat down for an amazing pre race dinner of pizza. His trainer may not like it, but you two thought it was a good idea. He needed all the positive energy he could get and if that meant pizza for dinner, then so be it. 

“Yeah. The car has been consistent the past two days and I’ve got pole.” He paused for a moment and you can tell he wants to say something, but he stuffs his mouth with pizza instead. You don’t press the matter anymore, figuring he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, didn’t want to possibly jinx anything. It’s a relatively quiet dinner the rest of the time, he asks about how your job is going and you two shamelessly gossip for a moment about two old friends who recently broke up. 

It’s not until you’re putting the leftover pizza into the fridge that he brings up tomorrow again. 

“It feels right this time.” He’s leaning against the counter, eyes trained on you as you turn back around to face him. “I mean tomorrow– it feels right. I think it’s gonna happen.” 

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you move to lean against the counter next to him. “I think so too. You’ve been different too, more relaxed this week. Think it might be the universe telling us it’s finally gonna happen?” 

A deep sigh comes from Charles. “Mon dieu I hope so.” 

You glance over at the time on the microwave– 11:00 p.m. Shit. You didn’t think it was that late already. 

“It’s getting late Charles. You should be in bed and I should be heading home. It’s a big day tomorrow.” You go to give him a hug goodbye, but he’s just staring at you, and it throws you for a loop. “What’s wrong?” 

He swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Was he sure he wanted to ask you this? Would it make things weird? It never has before when he’s asked you, but this time felt different. Fuck his palms were drenched in sweat and he could feel his heart beat racing. 

“Um– well you could just spend the night if you wanted to” 

You try not to act like you weren’t silently hoping the whole night that he’d ask you to stay. You had figured he wouldn’t want you to again after you basically invaded his bed the other night, so hearing him tell you to stay made you a little giddy. 

“Traffic is a nightmare this time of year…” You act like you're weighing your options while you fully know you’re going to say yes. “Probably take me twice as long to get home, even at this time of night.” You fake ponder some more, really putting on a show. “Yeah I guess I’ll spend the night.” 

He tries to hide the smile on his face when he hears you finally accept his offer and as much as he would like to stay up and talk some more, he really did need to be getting to bed. “Well, I probably should be in bed by now. So I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” 

“Yeah. I should go to bed too.” 

So you follow him down the hall towards the bedrooms. When he reaches his room he opens the door, but lingers in the doorway. You being a couple paces behind him, figured he was just waiting to tell you goodnight. But when you reach the guest room, which is across from his room, he doesn’t say anything to you. Your hand lingers above the door knob and something inside of you tells you not to open it– to turn around instead. 

You’re met with his piercing blue eyes staring at you as you turn around. His gaze sometimes could be so intense, but this time you matched him. There was an obvious tension in the air, but neither of you were brave enough to be the one to break it. Then suddenly you see Charles nod his head towards his room before finally going past the doorway. He’d left the door open behind him and you knew that was just another unspoken invitation. And like a moth to a flame you followed behind him, not even second guessing your actions. You hadn’t even opened the guest bedroom door, you were a goner as soon as he asked you to spend the night. 

For the second time in a week the two of you shared the same bed, not sexually, but it definitely wasn’t friendly or at least how normal friends would share a bed. But tonight he’s in your arms, your fingers lightly combing through his hair as he rests his head on your stomach. He falls asleep rather quickly, his light snores filling the room, but sleep evades you that night. Your heads a mess, you can’t help but think that Charles has to feel the same way as you, there’s just no way that he doesn’t. 

What man is this intimate with someone in a non sexual way and doesn’t have the slightest bit of feelings for them? But then your heart breaks at the idea of him just stringing you along and you know you’ve got to set up some boundaries to protect yourself. Unfortunately you were never going to be the one to admit how you felt first, so unless he spills his guts, then this was the last time you’d share a bed with Charles like this. 

The next morning he’s already gone and at the track by the time you wake up and when you grab your phone from the nightstand you see he’d sent you a text. 

Charlie: i left early this morning and you just looked too peaceful to wake up before i left. so i’ll see you before lights out. 

A sigh escaped past your lips as you tossed your phone on the bed, today was going to be a long day. 

You made the journey back to your apartment to get ready and then fought the traffic again to get down to the circuit. The hustle and bustle distracts your brain from continuing your spiral session from last night, something you were grateful for. You were here to cheer on and support Charles, not go into a frenzy once again about whether or not he likes you. 

A good amount of your time is spent in Ferrari’s hospitality chatting with everyone and discussing potential outcomes for the race. You don’t end up seeing Charles until the time between the drivers parade and race time. He’s in his drivers room when you find him and he’s literally the calmest you’ve ever seen him before a race. 

His face lights up when he sees you and he’s immediately pulling you in for a hug. “Didn’t think you were gonna come for a second. We’ve usually seen each other by now.” 

“You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just got caught up talking to everyone and you know how our Moms get in a large group. I had to wrangle them in before they invited everyone over for dinner tonight.” 

“Well I don’t plan on being home for dinner tonight. I’m going to be out celebrating.” He’s got a cheeky grin on his face as speaks. 

You laughed lightly at his new found confidence. “Oh someone is sure of themself.” 

He only laughs along with you, as the two of you sit down on his physio table.

The two of you chat some more about random things, like if he’s planning on going to Jimmy’z or someplace else tonight. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been talking until he gets a knock on his door letting him know it’s twenty minutes till lights out. Before you leave you stand in front of him, holding out your ring clad pinky finger and like a natural reflex Charles wraps his around yours, pulling them close to his chest. 

“You’re gonna do great and when you take that top step on the podium I’m gonna be there front and center cheering you on.” 

“You better be.” He’s serious, he doesn’t want to win this thing if you aren't right there alongside him.

“I promise Charlie.” 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You think you might pass out or throw up when the lights go out and the race finally begins. It then turns into thinking you’re going to do both when there’s a red flag not even halfway through the first lap. Your mind automatically goes straight to Charles and your stomach churns at the idea of him being hurt, screw the win, all that mattered to you was that he was okay. Thankfully he’s not involved in the crash, but the red flag lasts for what seems forever. And eventually you have to endure the start of the race again. 

You’re a nervous wreck the whole race, but you think with how hard Pascale has been gripping your hand that she might be more nervous than you. It’s the longest 78 laps of your life and you’re praying he can maintain the lead, put a big enough gap between Oscar that he can just ride this race out. Lap by lap he’s holding steady but that just makes you more nervous. The knot in your stomach grows more and more as that lap number gets closer to 78. 

He’s driven so well the whole time you couldn’t have been more proud. You’d been holding back tears since lap 68, but when you hear him over the radio on lap 75 say that he’s just going to bring it home you can’t help but let a couple tears fall. And by now you know the win is his. He’s got almost a nine second lead and as long as he keeps his head clear he was going to be the first one to see the checkered flag. 

The feeling of seeing Charles cross the finish line and knowing he had won was indescribable. The whole Ferrari unit was going crazy, already rushing down to be there when Charles got out of the car. You’re cheering as tears run down your face, your Mom and Pascale hugging you, the two of them also in tears. It’s surreal, him finally winning, you can only imagine what he’s feeling like right now. You waste no time in heading over to get the best spot to watch the podium ceremony. You’re front and center, the metal barrier pressed up against your abdomen as more people fill the crowd behind you. 

The feeling you got seeing him come out, take that top step, and proudly hold that trophy was something you wished you could feel forever. To see him wrapped up in the Monaco flag as the anthem played, the visible weight taken off of his shoulders. You were so unbelievably proud of him and so utterly in love with him. The tears just wouldn’t stop coming as you watched him shine up there. The universe had finally decided that this was his time, he was destined to win this race today. 

Charles feels on top of the world as he looks down at everyone in the crowd, he can’t believe he’d finally won his home race. He’d immediately spotted you as soon as he took that top step and he could see how happy you are for him, tears streaming down your face paired with that beaming smile. His heart has never felt as full as it does right now. And as he stands there hearing his national anthem play at his home race he knows that today was meant to be. The universe put him here, put you here, for a reason. He’s tired of pretending like his life wouldn’t be better without you being his. The two of you haven’t broken eye contact for awhile, both of you grinning like fools, and he decides that now is the time. 

“Je suis amoureux de vous” He mouths to you. 

It takes you a moment to realize what he was saying, but when you do you think you’re dreaming. There’s no way he just admitted to being in love with you right here, during his podium celebration. You pinch yourself just for good measure before mouthing it back to him. And if it was even possible his smile gets even bigger. 

You’re the first person he wants to see after the celebratory champagne pop. He can’t wait a second longer to tell you how he actually feels out loud. He doesn’t care that he’s drenched in champagne or that there’s hundreds of people around. He’s waited too long to let a moment like this go by. He’s pushing his way through the crowd to find you, he’s basically getting manhandled, but he doesn’t care, you’re his priority. And when he finally finds you it’s like a scene straight out of a movie. 

His adrenaline is pumping and he doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, he’s just running straight towards you, his heart fluttering when you smile at the sight of him. His hands cup your face and in an instant his lips are on yours. It takes you by surprise, but once your brain finally processes what’s happening, you grab him by his race suit, pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss. He tastes like champagne and sweat, his lips soft, and his facial hair tickles your face. Kissing Charles is everything you could have ever dreamed of and more, you’d never thought the day would come. 

When you finally pull back it feels like the world is spinning and Charles laughs at you being drunk off one kiss from him. His hands cup your face once more causing you to focus on him. “I’m in love with you. Have been for years, but I’ve just been too scared to say anything, but winning today let me know the universe was on my side. And I couldn’t pass up the opportunity once again to tell you how I feel.” Your eyes widen at hearing him say he’s been in love with you for years. “Don’t act so surprised. I made it painfully obvious sometimes.” His dimples peaking out as he smiles at you. 

“I’ve been in love with you since I was thirteen Charlie.” 

Now it’s his turn to look surprised. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Was too scared that you didn’t feel the same.” 

“I could never not love you Y/N. It’s always been you, you’re my person. I wish I would have  told you sooner so I could have been doing this more often.” He pulls you in for another kiss and you think if he didn’t have his arms around you your legs would have given out. 

Never in a million years did you think that Charles would be confessing his love to you after he’d just won his home race. If thirteen year old you could see you right now she’d probably die. You can’t believe the man you love with every fiber of your being loves you back. The universe definitely wanted today to be a win not only for Charles, but for you. 

He grabs your hand and presses your ring clad pinky finger to his lips. “Mon coeur.” Then he presses another kiss to your lips. “Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime aussi.” 

thirty three and thirty six

The summer sun had started to make her farewell to the principality of Monaco, pink and orange hues swirled in the sky. A little boy and girl play on a weathered playset, their giggles echoing through the open air. The sound of a screeching sliding door tells them that their Maman is coming to get them before they even hear her holler their names. “Come say goodbye to grand-mère and grand-père!” 

Their tiny bodies run towards the house and are soon met with lots of hugs and kisses from their grandparents, who they see very often, but it wouldn’t seem like it by the way they were acting. 

“Ok, who wants ice cream?” Their Papa asks after all the goodbyes are said and they are out the door. 

“Me!” Is said in unison from the two children. 

The little girl has her Papa wrapped around her finger, he just thinks the world of her as they walk hand in hand down the street, while the little boy is definitely a Maman’s boy. 

“You know your Maman and I used to come to this place all the time when we were younger.” 

“We know Papa, you’ve told us a hundred times, and we come here all the time.” The little girl sasses her Papa.

“I know but I just like to reminisce.” The man gives his wife a wink and she knows he’s about ready to go down memory lane.

The journey to the ice cream shop is filled with stories about their younger years and luckily for the children the ice cream shop isn’t that far away. 

That all too familiar sweet smell soon fills the parents senses and it brings them back to when they were around their children’s age. That same bell on the door dings as they enter and that same old man who should have retired a decade ago is still working behind the counter. 

“Ah the Leclercs! My favorite family. You know I’m gonna have to start making extra vanilla ice cream just to accommodate you guys.” 

taglist: @rana030 @blueflorals @sltwins

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

fine line ── l. hs

↳ summary ── heesung's got two problems: (1) he can't sleep, and (2) he's addicted to the 1AM combo of instant ramyeon and coffee milk from his favorite convenience store around the corner. the only thing more consistent than his insomnia? his nightly visits for his beloved snacks (and maybe to glare at the new night shift employee, too). & pstt, spoiler alert: you're the said new night shift employee. and you don't know what's worse: his weird food choices or his apparent superiority complex. either way, if you have to watch him inhale another bowl like it's his last meal ever, you might lose it. but hey, you know what they say—there’s a fine line between love and hate...

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au, convenience store worker!reader || angst hehe, crack, eventual fluff

↳ ✎ᝰ 15.4k (gasp, she kept it under 20k????)

↳ contains ── so much bickering and banter, reader is kinda sassy and a lil crazy, heeseung is a lil weirdo at first, CRACK (this entire fic revolves around EXTRA HELL FIRE RAMEN PLS), angst, both heeseung & reader can't communicate their feelings & are stubborn as hell, tension tension tension! , deep conversations about life choices lol, cursing

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM ALIVE (barely) ! i survived a global expedition (one 12 hr flight) just to come back and face an apocalypse (i got a bug infection and a cold) but dragged myself out of my deathbed (my comfy bed) to finish editing this because i told yall i would and bc i felt bad ghosting everyone for a week LOL apologies (if anyone cares,,,pls tell me u do or i'll cry rn) anyways i hope yall enjoy this one,,,this one was fun to write, it felt very sitcom-y and was lowkey based off of backstreet rookie vibes (only bc it's set in a convenience store). i hope you all enjoy & pls let me know what you think :') thank u for the support & love always <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really. 

Customer service voice on, a smile plastered on your face, greet the customer, scan the item, take their money, bag said item, throw in a half-hearted ‘Have a good night!’

And repeat. 

Well, most of the time. 

Occasionally, there’s the fun of kicking out a few drunk teenagers looking for a bathroom that you definitely don’t have (yes you do). But otherwise, this graveyard shift at your local corner convenience store? 

Total dream job. 

You get paid—as in actual, legit money—to sit behind a counter, scan snacks, and feast on your personal holy trinity of microwavable cheesy ramen, peach juice, and potato chips. What could possibly go wrong? 

At least, that’s how the manager sold it during your interview. And by interview, you mean the three-minute conversation that went something like: 

“Can you work nights?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool, you’re hired.” 

No background check, no follow-up questions, not even a glance at your resume. A broke college student with insomnia and schedule flexibility? You were the perfect candidate. 

And it’s not like you’re picky. You needed cash, and this seemed like a pretty solid deal. What can you say? College is expensive, and someone’s gotta fund your caffeine addiction and deeply specific (and yet completely necessary, you would argue) habit of playing at every single claw machine game you stumble across. 

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

Because on the night of your first shift, exactly at 1:09AM, the doorbell gives its friendly little ding, and in walks...something.

Someone?

Whatever it is, it's a walking shadow. Oversized hoodie. Baggy pants. A baseball cap shoved under the hood. A black face mask covering whatever’s left of his identity. You think it’s either a ninja, a celebrity in disguise, or—more likely—a vampire who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Joseon era (you’re leaning more towards vampire).

But more than the wild theories running around in your head, something else piques your curiosity.

Because unlike the other weirdos that usually shuffle in at these ungodly hours, this one moves with true purpose. He beelines straight to the ramen aisle, snags something off the top shelf (most likely the ultra-spicy soup one because, of course, you already have the shelves memorized), and then grabs a bottle of coffee milk from the cold drinks section without even so much as glancing at it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before and is now on autopilot mode.

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

Because who in the right mind pairs volcanic spicy ramen with coffee milk? Is that even legal?

You’re barely recovering from your own appalled thoughts before he’s already at the counter, placing his borderline apocalyptic snack combination on the counter in front of you with the same eerie precision he has.

You fail to keep your poker face on when you scan his items, your face scrunching up in disgust.

“Uh,” you shake it off, forcing yourself back to reality, “That’ll be—”

But before you can even finish your sentence, he’s already fishing out the exact amount—three crisp bills—out his back pocket and holds it out for you.

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare down at the money in his hand for a second too long, suddenly convinced this guy practices his convenience store interactions in the mirror or something.

When you don’t show any further signs of moving, he eventually gives up, placing the money on the counter with a quiet sigh, grabbing his ramen and coffee milk, and striding off to the self-service corner like he personally owns the place.

All of this. Without. A single. Thank you.

Wow. Okay. So tonight’s customer is potentially a vampire with a side gig as a professional jerk. Good to know.

You internally scoff at the entire interaction, but—unfortunately for you—you can’t look away. Because this guy? This walking shadow?

You’re weirdly intrigued. Like when you accidentally click on a pimple-popping video and immediately regret it, but still end up watching five more.

It’s a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye (because obviously you’re not staring, you’re just…hyper-aware of your surroundings), you watch him execute his ramen-and-coffee-milk routine with the precision of a man possessed.

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

Step three: Wait for exactly one beep before yanking the microwave door open with alarming speed, as if he's scared to even give the second beep the chance to ring.

Step four: Peel the lid back in slowly—so painfully slow you're about to march over there and do it yourself.

Step five: Insert the straw into the coffee milk—of course, perfectly right in the center. Bullseye.

Honestly? It's all kind of impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

And, of course, just when you think you might finally look away, because out of sight, out of mind—he slides onto one of the bar stools by the window, right in your direct line of vision. The perfect spot for you to get a pristine view of his back, which, spoiler alert, is completely unhelpful in your personal mission in trying to see even a glimpse of what this guy looks like.

Maybe if you squint hard enough, you can make out his face in the reflection of the store window. Maybe. Just maybe—

Nope.

All you catch is a brief glimpse of his eyes—barely visible beneath his excessive hoodie and hat combination. Even his mask stays glued to his face and you wonder how he even plans on eating his outrageous meal.

But even so, you still can’t look away. What even is that color? And why can’t you look away?

Whatever. It’s just eyes. Totally normal. Everyone has them. Not noteworthy at all.

Except it is.

Because you catch yourself still squinting, hoping the glare of the fluorescent lighting against the window hides your not so subtle mission from him. You’re probably risking retinal damage at this point with how hard you’re trying to decode this guy’s entire identity from literally just his eyes.

You catch another short glimpse of his eyes as he shuffles in his seat and just as you’re trying to piece together why his eyes look oddly familiar—

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours in the glaring reflection of the store's windows, and you freeze.

Abort mission. Now.

You cough—loudly, dramatically—and your eyes immediately dart elsewhere, your hands shuffling on the discounted candy bars displayed on the counter top, pretending to look busy and silently praying he didn't catch you looking for too long.

When enough time passes by, you risk another quick glance back at him, to see he’s now digging into his ramen, head tucked so low you can’t even see his eyes anymore. He’s gone full turtle mode.

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

A weirdo with an ego. Slurping and sipping away at his crime-against-humanity meal as if he owns the building.

Maybe he's mute. Or a people-hater. Or a cryptid who thrives on ramen and coffee milk instead of human interaction. Maybe I'm being pranked?

You shrug it off, because no matter how hard you try to figure him out, one thing is glaringly obvious: he does not want to be bothered.

And you're not sure if that makes him more intriguing or more annoying.

You’re in the clear. At least, you think you’re in the clear. 

After your first weird encounter with Mr. No-Name-No-Face—spicy ramen enthusiast and potential vampire—you’ve begrudgingly adjusted to his nightly visits. 

He shows up at 1:09AM like clockwork, grabs his neon red Extra Spicy Hellfire Ramen (yes, that’s the real brand name, and yes, your soul dies a little every time you even have to think about it), and parks himself in the window seat across from your counter like it’s a Michelin-star ramen bar—and not your humble convenience store with a health inspection rating of B+ (don’t ask). 

By night three, you’ve downgraded him from potential murderer to mildly annoying ramen connoisseur. 

By night four, you’ve decided he’s your own personal karma sent by the universe. 

It starts off with the door chime. You don’t even flinch. 1:09AM. Right on schedule. 

You don’t look up from the colorful juice pouches you’re restocking. You’re halfway through creating a perfectly symmetrical pyramid display—color-coded, of course—because, clearly, you’ve peaked as a human being. 

Behind you, footsteps head straight to the ramen aisle. And sure enough, you peek over your shoulder, and there he is: drowning in black hoodie layers, hood up, mask on, the patron saint of please don’t perceive me. Same old routine, same old—

Wait. 

He freezes, mid-reach for his usual ramen on the top shelf, his hand hovering in the air. And then, horrifyingly, he turns. 

And looks directly at you. 

Your face heats up—probably not as red as the hellfire ramen he was about to grab, but it’s close, you imagine. You find yourself clutching onto the random juice pouch in your hand as if it’s your lifeline before you clear your throat, “Uh—is something wrong?” 

He glances from you and back to the shelf in front of him, and for the first time in…ever, he speaks. 

Gasp. 

So we can cross mute off the list. 

“They’re out of my flavor,” he says. His voice is deep, which isn’t surprising to you, given he’s the literal human embodiment of the color black, but it’s also serious. So unnecessarily serious that you almost laugh. 

Almost. 

Because his tone isn’t just serious—it’s accusatory. As if you personally raided the ramen aisle and hid his favorite flavor for entertainment. 

Excuse me? 

Your mouth opens then closes, flopping like a fish that now deeply regrets every life choice. The fire rising in your chest is about two seconds away from erupting into a full-blown lecture on how supply chains work, but you keep it in, deciding getting fired on the fourth day probably doesn’t look good on your resume. 

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look. 

“Uh..yeah, it looks like it,” you deadpan, inching closer to where he’s standing to investigate the shelf. 

Leaning up on your toes, you scan the shelf for any hidden Hellfire cups, hoping some miracle will save you from continuing this interaction. 

Nope. It’s empty alright. Emptier than your will to entertain his dramatics. 

“Tragic,” you glance back at him, strategically avoiding eye contact, and settle on offering a shrug. “There are plenty of other flavors. Maybe try…the regular spicy?” 

You grab the flavor below his usual one and hold it up as an olive branch, but he cuts you off with a tone that even convinces you that you’re deranged. 

“No.” 

You blink. 

“No?” 

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.” 

You blink again. 

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes. 

This man is dead serious. 

You’re standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit ramen aisle, at your minimal wage night-shift job, at 1:12AM on a random Tuesday, and this guy is dead serious. 

And he’s staring at you like this is a life-or-death situation. And judging from the look in his eyes, it’s looking like you’re facing death. 

But then, you really notice his eyes. And for a split second—just a split second—you’re derailed from your rising anger. 

They’re brown. But not just any brown—the kind of brown that makes poets write bad metaphors. Cinnamon swirls. Autumn leaves. Possibly falling in love in a Hallmark Christmas movie. 

But then you blink again, hard, snapping yourself out of whatever ridiculous moment your sleep-deprived brain just conjured. This is not the time. You’re literally staring at, like, three inches of this guy’s face. 

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N. 

“Uh, yeah,” you clear your throat, trying your best to sound professional through your disbelief. “Sorry. We probably put in our shipment request late. But I’m sure you won’t implode by going one night without it?” 

You tack on a small laugh and smile at the end of your sentence, hoping to lighten the mood. 

He does not smile back. 

Not even a flicker. 

Instead, he continues to stare at you like you just suggested he eat plain, untoasted bread for the rest of his life. 

You want to bury yourself into a hole. Maybe getting fired on the fourth day won’t be so bad afterall. 

“I’m sure the regular spicy one is just as good. What’s the worst that could happen?” you offer weakly when he makes no sign of saying anything, and you really hope this guy doesn’t explode in front of you—mainly because you’re not confident in your own ability to explain that situation to your manager. 

“I’m not risking it,” he finally deadpans. 

Your jaw drops slightly. 

“You’re not ris—” you hesitate, debating whether you want to ruin your night further. But you’ve come this far. “You’re being…serious?” 

The question lined with your clear judgement hangs in the air between you two, and no amount of fake customer service can mask the expression of disapproval on your face. 

His eyes narrow at you as he scoffs, “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Oh, I understand,” you tilt your head, your annoyance slowly reaching a boiling point, throwing all professionalism out the window. All you wanted was to enjoy your juice-sorting in peace, not babysit this walking ramen manifesto. “I understand that you’re just picky.” 

At that, his eyes flash—sharp, unreadable. “I’m not picky.” 

“You won’t eat a perfectly fine ramen just because it’s not named after the ninth circle of hell.” 

Silence. 

He stares at you with the intensity of someone about to write a strongly worded online review. 

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he finally mutters, “Fine. I’ll take the mild one.” 

You blink at the flavor in your hand—the one that’s clearly labeled in giant, blazing-red, font: Regular Spicy. Then you look back at him. 

“You mean regular spicy.” 

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.” 

He grabs the ramen cup from your hand and stalks off to grab his usual coffee milk, leaving you stranded in the middle of the ramen aisle, questioning every life choice that brought you here. 

Before you’re about to mentally spiral, his voice cuts through the store. 

“Hello?” 

Oh. Right. Your job. 

You scramble back to behind the register, quickly moving your hands to ring him up and get him out of here as soon as possible. 

He hands you his three crisp bills, and before you hand him his glorified ramen and godforsaken coffee milk, you hesitate, pulling them back slightly. He freezes, his hands hanging in the air between you two. 

“You know,” you narrow your eyes as you look up at him, “some people would say thank you for the recommendation.” 

His brow arches—or at least, you think it does. It’s hard to completely tell under his stupid hat. Then he fires back—

“And some people wouldn’t forget to restock the ramen.” 

Your mouth falls open, your words failing you as he grabs his goods from your hands, heading to the self-serve station to continue his nightly noodle worship as if he didn’t just verbally body-slam you. 

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic. 

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore? 

Between back-to-back choreo sessions, recording tracks at hours that shouldn’t legally exist, and navigating the emotional and physical minefield of constant shows, interviews, photoshoots—you name it—nothing about his life is consistent. 

However—

There are two things—two sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness. 

The first? 

Insomnia. 

Not by choice, of course. He doesn’t love being awake at 3AM, staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to take over. But it’s a loyal companion, like a stray cat that keeps showing up at your house no matter how hard you try to shoo it away. Heeeseung’s insomnia is always there for him, night after night, ensuring he gets exactly only four hours of sleep—with a side of existential dread. 

And the second? 

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk. 

Yes, it’s a weird combo. 

No, he doesn’t care. 

This unlikely pairing is Heeseung’s personal slice of heaven he can actually control and choose in a life otherwise ruled by the rest of the world. 

Every night, he drags himself to his favorite corner store, grabs his fiery ramen and sweet, creamy coffee milk, and plants himself in the window seat to enjoy his culinary masterpiece in peace. 

Then—and only then—can Heeseung catch a few hours of sleep, the spice-induced euphoria lulling himself into a temporary state of calm. 

Does he have a problem? Absolutely. 

Is he addicted? Without a doubt. 

Does he care? Not in the slightest. 

Because in a world that demands he change at the drop of a hat, this little routine of his is the one thing that stays consistent. 

Well, except for last night. 

Because last night, someone dared to disrupt the cosmic balance of his existence. Someone failed to restock his precious Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen. 

He had stared at the empty spot on the shelf, the betrayal hitting him like a personal attack. He went home last night only a quarter satisfied from the mild spicy ramen he had settled with. 

And the worst part? 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible. 

Now here he is, stepping into the corner store at 1:09AM, ready to make up for last night’s disappointment of an outcome. 

Heeseung steps into the brightly lit store, the familiar ding ringing behind him as he enters right on time. He continues his familiar route to the ramen aisle, but not before shooting a quick glance from below his hat toward the counter. 

Yup, there she is. 

You. 

The new graveyard shift employee. The one who dared to challenge his sacred ramen ritual and stared at him like he was a walking poor life choice. 

You’re here again. This is five nights in a row. Heeseung wonders if you 1) are insane, 2) have no life, or 3) are purely here just to spite him. 

But tonight, he’s prepared. His focus is razor-sharp, his mission clear: Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk. Nothing will get in the way tonight. 

Heeseung looks up, exhaling in relief when he spots the fiery red packaging of the Extra Spicy Hellfire sitting innocently on the shelf. There you are. 

He grabs the cup (with too much excitement that it should honestly embarrass him), cradling it like a long-lost love, before he makes his way to snag his coffee milk. 

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night. 

Except—

Except, of course, you’re watching him. Again. 

He doesn’t even need to look up to know it. He can feel your judging eyes burning into the back of his head like you did the other night—like you’re seconds away from filing a report against his own taste buds. 

He doesn’t get it—what’s so strange about ramen and coffee milk? It’s not like he’s dipping the noodles in it. Why you’ve made it your personal mission to antagonize him, he has no idea, but it’s really throwing him off his ramen zen. 

Heeseung sighs to himself as he steps up to the counter, making sure you hear the sheer misery in this voice—because, of course, fate has cursed him with yet another encounter with you.

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?” 

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night. 

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and that same unimpressed, judgmental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What's right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spicy and sugar.’” 

Okay, ouch. 

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not. 

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off. 

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help,” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.” 

For a moment, Heeseung considers firing back, but then his gaze catches yours for a millisecond too long as you take his cash and, immediately, he’s wondering—for the hundredth time—if you know. 

Do you recognize him? 

The thought has been gnawing at him since the first time he stepped into this store and saw you sitting there five days ago. Sure, he’s got his identity pretty much concealed under his borderline clinically insane hat-mask-hoodie combo, but still—most people at least give him a double take, a lingering glance. Something. 

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast. 

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him. 

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands. 

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

Heeseung throws you one last glare before shaking his head and stalking off to the self-serve station. He puts the cup down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and pours boiling water over the noodles, glaring into the steam as your voice rings in his head. 

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues. 

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest. 

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk. 

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious. 

And now you’re in his head. 

Great. 

By night six, you don’t know whether to pity the guy or stage an intervention.

The ding of the automatic doors announces his arrival, as usual, at exactly 1:09AM. You know it’s him—Ramen Guy. The guy who you’re convinced single-handedly continues to keep the Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen business float. 

You lean against the counter and subtly watch him make his usual pilgrimage to the ramen aisle, internally scoffing to yourself at the weird moment he picks up his ramen like it’s his newborn child.

He’s so weird. 

You wonder what kind of person he is outside this convenience store. Does he always make such objectively strange choices? Like, does he wear socks with sandals? Does he mix his cereal with orange juice instead of milk? 

Your haunting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his usual unholy pair of snacks hitting the counter in front of you with a soft thunk. You look down at the items before glancing back up at him with a skeptical look on your face, “You ever think about switching it up?”

Ramen Guy, clearly expecting the snark, doesn’t miss a beat, “You ever think about minding your business?” 

“Not really. Boredom makes me nosy,” you shrug. “And at this point, you’re the only thing keeping me entertained at this hour.” 

He rolls his eyes so dramatically you’re mildly concerned he might sprain something. 

“And I’m starting to think you like judging me a little too much.” 

“Wrong. I like judging everyone equally,” you scan his items, then tilt your head. “But maybe you’re a special case. With issues.” 

To your surprise, he snorts. Like, an actual, out-loud laugh. 

“Says the girl who voluntarily works the night shift.”

Your smirk falters for half a second. He catches it.

Ramen Guy raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “What? Too close to home?”

You shift in your spot, “Bold of you to assume I have issues.”

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shift the attention back to him. “What about you, then? Why do you keep showing up here, huh?”

At that, something changes. The words in the air, and for the first time, you notice a slight shift in his demeanor—the slight awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight. 

Then, after a brief pause, he meets your gaze and throws the question right back at you.

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

You freeze, putting his items back down on the counter, caught off guard by the reversal. "Touché. But I asked first."

There's hesitation again for a moment, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter impatiently—nervously?

"I like the peace and quiet,” he finally says, and for the first time tonight, he meets your eyes.

For a split second, you’re startled by the sincerity in his gaze and sudden shift in tone—it’s almost distracting. But you shake yourself out of it just as quickly.

"Nothing about Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk sounds peaceful or quiet," your voice softer now but still teasing.

"Okay, Miss Graveyard Shift," he fires back, leaning a little closer over the counter. "Why are you here every night? Do you have a thing for fluorescent lighting and cleaning up after drunk customers or something?"

You don't miss the faint challenge in his voice as you narrow your eyes at him.

Then, you settle for a shrug and take a breath, answering honestly.

"It's flexible. Pays well enough," you start, before looking back at him, and add, almost as an afterthought, "...and I like the quiet too."

It’s an honest answer, one that seems to hang in the air between you two for a beat too long. His gaze softens ever so slightly, and you swear you see something shift underneath that stupid cap of his, but before you can dwell on it, he straightens up.

He places his three bills on the counter, grabs his items, and pauses.

“So,” he starts, his lighter tone breaking the silence, “do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Graveyard Shift Girl?”

You raise a brow, amused, as you start putting his bills away, “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Ramen Guy?”

For a split second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something smug, something entertained. And you don’t know it, but under his mask, his lips twitch, fighting back a faint smile.

“Touché,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words before stepping back from the counter, items in hand, but lingers just a moment longer than necessary—like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the self-serve station, falling back into his regular routine.

And you should do the same.

You try to do the same. But as you go back to your usual tasks—wiping down the counter, restocking shelves, pretending to be productive—you find yourself sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye toward his window seat.

He just sits there, just like he always does, stirring his ramen absentmindedly as he stares out into the empty street. And yet, tonight, something feels…different.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just curiosity. Natural, given how he keeps showing up every night, breaking up the monotony of your shift with his weird food choices and even weirder personality.

And yet—

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you earlier, the way his demeanor shifted even slightly.

It’s nothing.

Still, your gaze flickers back at him, catching the way his fingers tap lightly against the table, lost in thought. You wonder what kind of things keep a guy like him up at night.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to find his weird little habits endearing, too.

The faint sound of the store’s music plays in the background, the clock ticks, and eventually, he finishes his ramen, tosses his trash, and makes his way toward the door.

And then—he hesitates.

Just for a second. A small pause, a barely-there moment where he stops, glances over his shoulder just slightly—just enough to look at you.

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, all you can manage is to stare at him. Then, as you fail to ignore the weird blooming feeling in your chest, your words slip out almost on instinct:

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

The next night, you do something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—you take your cheesy ramen, peace juice pouch, and bag of potato chips and plop yourself down right next to Ramen Guy and his usual window seat. 

He pauses mid-slurp. Keeping his head low, he turns to you slowly. Suspiciously.

“What…are you doing?” 

“Having dinner,” you say matter-of-factly, popping open your bag of chips. 

His gaze drops to your meal, and then back to you. “It’s almost 1:30AM.” 

“Okay? Dinner, early breakfast, midnight snack, call it whatever you want,” you shrug, unbothered as you continue unwrapping your meal. 

Ramen Guy exhales through his nose, shaking his head to himself like he’s just accepted his fate. Without another word, he turns back to his own meal and resumes eating. 

A surprisingly comfortable silence follows—the only sounds filling the empty store the quiet hum of the store’s playlist, the buzz of the lights above you, and the synchronized slurp of two insomniacs with poor diet choices. 

Then, without thinking, you tilt your bag of potato chips, holding it out between you two, “Want one?”

He stops mid-motion, as if he’d almost forgotten you were still here.

Almost.

A glance into your bag, a small shrug, and then, just like that, he grabs a chip and pops it into his mouth, moving so fast you barely catch a glimpse of his face without the mask.

“Thanks,” he mutters before taking a sip of his coffee milk, still keeping his head low.

You hum in response, your fingers drumming against the counter before your curiosity wins the best of you, “So…what kind of life leads you to seek peace and quiet in a convenience store?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since last night’s conversation. What can you say? You’re a creature of curiosity.

Ramen Guy shrugs next to you, “What do you mean?”

“Like…you’re here every night. Why at night? Why not during the day?”

He lets out a short chuckle. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

You exhale sharply, your fingers now absentmindedly swirling the noodles in your bowl. “Look, I’m just saying—most people are asleep at this hour.”

He smirks. You can hear it in his voice without even looking. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“That’s different, this is my job,” you scoff, amused, before pointedly gesturing at this meal before him, “Unless you want to call your weird habits a job. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was paying you to subject your tastebuds to that every night.”

And he laughs. It’s small, barely there, but you catch it. Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally answers, “It’s like I told you before, I like the quiet at this hour…I don’t get a lot of that.”

You stop twirling your noodles, the air shifting into that same unspoken understanding from last night. Faint, but unmistakable.

Something unsaid hanging between the two of you, something that tells you this guy is more than just an insomniac with questionable food choices.

You tilt your head. “So, what, you got a bunch of loud roommates or something?”

A small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Something like that.”

You raise a brow at his vague answer but don’t press. Instead, you nod towards his food. “And your criminal meals? That part of the quiet too?”

He huffs, “Maybe I just have superior taste.”

“Right, totally,” you laugh, the tone in your voice almost testing him. 

Ramen Guy finishes up his meal, wiping his mouth quickly with a napkin before putting his mask back on and finally turning to face you fully.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You think you have me all figured out?”

You mirror his actions, facing him fully for the first time tonight, folding your arms, “Oh, I do have you all figured out, Ramen Guy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans forward slightly. “Alright, go on. Tell me who I am, Graveyard Psychic Girl.”

You roll your eyes but accept the challenge, leaning back in your seat.

“You’re a creature of habit, clearly. You like consistency. Probably because your life is very inconsistent otherwise.”

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

“You’re a night owl, but not by choice. You want to sleep, but your brain won’t let you.” Your eyes flick down to the coffee milk. “So, instead, you drink this, even though it probably makes it worse.”

Still no response.

“So now, you just keep showing up here because it’s predictable,” you finish with a small shrug. “And maybe…‘cause you’re kinda lonely.”

That makes him pause.

You immediately regret saying it. Because…what was that?

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or peer them at you the way he does a million times a night.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

“…Not bad,” he says finally, reaching for another chip from the bag in your hands.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, kinda harsh, but…mostly true.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.

A beat of silence passes before Ramen Guy speaks up again, “So basically, you’re saying we’re the same.”

You let out a snort, “Not even close.”

“We both work weird hours. We both like the quiet. We both eat the same convenience store junk food.” He holds up the bag of potato chips before eating another one.

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan. 

“Yeah, but I’m still eating them, which means my taste is obviously elite.”

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

“Okay, you’re the one who made it weird.”

A mischievous smile starts forming on your face as you snatch your bag of chips back from him, “So you agree your food choices are weird?” 

His smirk falters as a small giggle rises out of you. 

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.” 

The next night, Heeseung does something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—he’s late. It’s 1:30AM, well past his usual 1:09AM show-up time, and the store is Heeseung-less.

He blames late-night dance practice. He also blames Ni-ki for stealing his usual black hoodie—forcing him to spend an extra thirty minutes looking for another one. Not that the hoodie matters, he would argue (yes, it does).

When he finally steps through the door at 1:32AM, the familiar ding barely finishes echoing before—

“Wow,” you drawl from behind the counter, arms crossed. “Tragic. Unbelievable. I was starting to think you found a new place to bother.”

Heeseung snorts, making a beeline for the ramen aisle, “You wish. Wouldn’t want you to get bored without me.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, “Wow. Thoughtful and self-aware. Who knew you had layers?”

Heeseung tries to ignore you, moving to grab his coffee milk. But his lips twitch under his mask, and he’s glad it’s hiding the way he’s failing to fight the smile growing on his face.

When he finally reaches the counter, you push off from where you were leaning against the counter, hands settling on your hips. “Okay, be honest. Outside of this, do you have anything else going on in your life?” 

Heeseung raises a brow, completely caught off guard. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few nights, it’s that you’re incredibly nosy. And for someone who claims to like working the night shift because of the quiet, you’re absolutely terrible at keeping things that way. 

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned that you work weird hours yesterday,” you gesture vaguely at him. “So, spill.”

His stare remains blank, debating if he can distract you by handing you his three bills of cash (he can’t).

“I do…stuff.”

“Stuff,” you repeat, “Quite riveting.”

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

You shrug, taking his cash and putting it away. “You must do something interesting. You’re too weirdly confident for a guy who just bums around convenience stores at night.”

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

"Yeah, like—" You wave around you. "You walk around like you have some big, mysterious purpose. But all I ever see you do is glare at instant noodles and sip milk like a sad Victorian child."

Heeseung shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Maybe that is my purpose."

Then, he simply shrugs. But there’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, like he’s deciding exactly how much he wants to say.

"It’s hard to explain,” he finally says. “I just…have a weird work schedule.”

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in, I don’t really get normal hours. Always moving, always working. Makes sleep kinda impossible."

You pause, taking in his words. Then, you shift slightly, crossing your arms. "Sounds exhausting."

Heeseung exhales a laugh, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea."

For a moment, a familiar and warm quiet fills the air as the two of you linger, as if waiting for the other to say something more.

And he doesn’t know why, but his chest feels a little too tight—like he’s let you stumble into a part of him you weren’t supposed to see yet.

“Well,” you say quietly, your lips curving into a soft smile that sends a weird jolt through his body that he chooses to ignore. “I’m honored you’ve chosen this fine establishment as your official sanctuary.”

He scoffs, reaching for his items. "Don’t let it go to your head, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

Heeseung pauses, turning back at you like an awkward child lost in the middle of a store.

“My name,” you clarify, casually returning to sorting the register’s bills. “A lot easier to say than Graveyard Shift Girl.”

Heeseung gives you a slow nod, something unfamiliar and unplaceable twisting in his stomach as he turns back around.

And when he finishes his meal and leaves that night, he calls out—

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And, this time, he doesn’t fight the smile under his mask when he hears your voice, a little softer, call back out:

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

Heeseung doesn’t even make it past the threshold before a familiar melody drifts through the weak convenience store speakers and to his ears.

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

Familiar because it’s literally his voice singing the line.

His stomach drops.

Instead of his usual beeline to the ramen aisle, Heeseung turns towards the counter where you’re idly tapping on your phone, oblivious.

The hum of the melody continues, and Heeseung is suddenly too hyper-aware of how loud his own voice sounds in the otherwise dead-silent store.

Panic creeps up his spine.

He moves fast, crossing the store in a few long strides, slamming his hands down onto the counter that divides the two of you.

You jump in your seat.

“Geez—” you clutch your chest, wide-eyed as you take in his very sudden, very urgent presence. “What the hell?”

Heeseung ignores you, pointing above him, “Did you put this on?”

Your brows furrow as you put your phone down, glance up at him, then at the speakers he’s pointing at. You barely register the song before recognition flickers across your face.

“Oh—this? Nah, it’s the store’s playlist,” you gesture towards the iPad behind the counter, currently playing a Current Hits playlist on shuffle. “It’s some group’s new song. Pretty catchy.”

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

The realization sends relief crashing over him, but he quickly snaps out of it with a brand-new problem—because now he has to decide what the hell to do with this information.

Does he tell you? Drop the act and lay it all out? Would you believe him? Would you even care?

“You okay?” Now you’re staring at him, suspicious. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Heeseung clears his throat, realizing his stance is way too conspicuous, and slowly removes his hands from the counter to stand up straight, attempting to sound normal, “No reason.” 

You squint at him.

Then—

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Wait.”

His heart stops. Oh, shit. She figured it out. This is it.

“Are you a fan?” you blurt, leaning forward in your seat eagerly.

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

“Oh, you totally are,” you continue, completely missing the way his soul is currently leaving his body. “You came straight to the counter like a man on a mission. Oh my god. Are they, like, your favorite group or something?”

Heeseung has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does in this moment.

“Something like that,” he mutters, bringing a hand to rub this temple, because no way this is happening right now.

You beam brightly from your seat, “That’s cute. Who’s your bias?”

At that, Heeseung does laugh—because this is now officially the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—after a deep breath, a long and heated internal debate, and one last glance at your innocent, completely oblivious face—he finally exhales, looking you straight in the eye.

“This guy,” he says as he hears his own voice ring out through the store. “Because that’s me. That’s my voice.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

Then you tilt your head. "I'm sorry—what?"

Heeseung watches as your expression cycles from confusion to skepticism to outright disbelief. He braces himself.

"My name is Lee Heeseung," he repeats slowly. "From Enhypen."

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

"Okay, Ramen Guy," you snort, crossing your arms. "Very funny.”

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, I’m sorry, but when in our thriving relationship have you ever given me a reason to believe that you’re actually a famous idol and not just some guy who has concerning dietary habits?"

Heeseung groans.

He regrets everything. He regrets this entire conversation. He could have lied. He could have said literally anything else. But no—he had to be honest. And look where that got him.

"I’m serious," he insists, leveling you with a look.

You stare back at him.

Then, something seems to click in your brain, because you suddenly lunge for your phone.

"Oh, we’re doing this," you mutter, fingers flying across the screen as you type in his name. "Let’s see if—"

You stop.

Heeseung watches as your eyes widen, scanning the images in front of you. Then you look up at him. Then back down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Take the mask off,” you mutter quietly, slowly holding your phone up next to his face.

With an exhausted sigh, Heeseung does what he’s told and pulls it down for the first time in front of you.

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

You don’t know what shocks you more—the fact that a literal celebrity has been standing in front of you this whole time, or the realization that the once-random stranger you used to relentlessly tease has, somehow, always been this ridiculously good-looking all along. 

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

"Something like that?" You shove your phone toward him, your screen now displaying the group’s Instagram page. "You literally have fans. Like, millions of them."

Heeseung cringes, "Okay, you don’t have to say it like that."

"Like what? Like you’re a superstar and I’ve been treating you like a regular guy who can't cook for himself?"

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

“Unbelievable,” you scoff, shaking your head. “So you sing. You perform. You—commit crimes against humanity with your ramen choices each night.”

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” you echo, standing up from your seat behind the counter. “So you’re telling me that every night, an actual, real-life idol has been showing up here, inhaling a week’s worth of sodium, and I—” You pause, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you even allowed to be eating this garbage?”

“And are you ever able to mind your own business?” Heeseung counters, now fully regretting this entire conversation.

“Absolutely not, Lee Heeseung, because this is literally the plot of a drama,” you wave your hands in disbelief. “Mystery insomniac convenience store guy turns out to be a world famous pop star—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“—and I, the unsuspecting cashier, unknowingly roast him every night like he’s just some sleep-deprived college student instead of a millionaire with talent. Wait—” you then pause again, placing your hands on your hips, staring at him with a newfound judgment. “—you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

Heeseung pinches the bridge of your nose, exasperated, “Why is that your takeaway from this?”

“You are!” you exclaim, your smile widening as you ignore his suffering. “You’re rich and you’re out here eating instant ramen every night!”

Heeseung groans again, dropping his head onto the counter in front of you, “Oh my god.”

Grinning, you bend down to this level. “So this whole time, you’ve been lying to me?”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "It’s not lying. It’s…selective honesty.”

You scoff, straightening up just as Heeseung does, meeting his gaze with an accusatory squint. “That’s literally the definition of lying.”

“Look, it’s not like I planned to make a habit out of this,” he gestures to the store around him. “I came in one night, and then I came back, and suddenly, I had a thing going. Then you showed up and started running your mouth, and—”

“And you kept coming back anyways,” you finish, crossing your arms, a slow, amused smile tugging at your lips.

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you—charged, almost personal—until you decide to cut through the tension with a smirk.

“What if I play your group’s music over the speakers every night?”

The look on his face is deadly. “You wouldn’t.”

Your grin grows, “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“This is the worst night of my life,” Heeseung drags a hand down his face and turns towards the ramen aisle. “I’m leaving.”

“Aww, c’mon,” you tease, calling out after him and delighting in his suffering. “Also can we talk about how you literally just said you’re your own bias?”

“Shut up.”

You’re still laughing when he returns to the counter thirty seconds later—Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk in hand, cheeks tinged pink.

“Alright, serious question,” you say, leaning in slightly from your seat at the window barstools. “If you had to give up either Extra Spicy Hellfire or coffee milk for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

Heeseung immediately stops chewing, his chopsticks frozen midair as he turns to you with a look that says you just personally offended him.

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just throw life-altering hypotheticals at me like that.”

“Choose.”

He stares at his ramen. Then at this coffee milk. Then back at you.

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Aw,” you flash him your sweetest, most infuriating smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me. Like, ever.”

Heeseung shoots a glare at you, “I hope your regular spicy ramen tastes like disappointment.”

“Oh, it totally does,” you look down at your own ramen in front of you and take an exaggerated slurp, “It’s just so awful.”

Heeseung’s lips perk up into a smile at your weirdly endearing antics before shaking his head, “You’re a lost cause.”

You giggle to yourself, taking a sip of your own juice when you hear Heeseung, barely audible, suddenly mutter:

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

“I know, okay?” He rubs his temples as if the decision is actually hurting him. “It’s like choosing between two children. But at the end of the day, ramen is ramen.”

You nod along, pretending you understand the gravity of his heavy decision (you don’t). But still, you smile—because you were the one who got him to betray his beloved coffee milk.

Heeseung takes a sip of it anyway, groaning as he swirls the bottle in his hand. “I hate that you made me think about this.”

“You should be thanking me. Y’know, character growth and all that.”

“More like character damage.”

You grin, victorious, and he just rolls his eyes before pausing for a second to think, then—he nudges his ramen cup toward you.

“Here. Try some.”

You recoil immediately and look up at him with a look that tells him he’s absolutely psychotic.

“Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? You scared?”

“No, Heeseung, I just have these things called taste buds.”

He scoffs, shoving the bowl between you two closer. “Just one bite. C’mon, Graveyard Shift Girl, live a little. For me.”

You hold his gaze, suspicious but faltering, because—damn it—he’s looking at you like that. All smug and teasing, head tilted slightly, and it affects you.

And then he moves. 

He picks up his chopsticks, twirls them in the bowl, and catches a perfect bundle of noodles before leaning forward, holding them up between you two. He waits.

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flicker to the steam curling from the noodles, twisting in the air between your faces, fragile and fleeting.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, it’s ramen. But the way the space between you suddenly feels thin, the way his grip on the chopsticks stays steady, his fingers just inches from your lips, the way his dark eyes stay locked onto yours, watching you with something unreadable flickering beneath the usual teasing glint—it feels like time slows down.

You blink rapidly, clearing your throat. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re overthinking.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and slowly lean in to take the bite.

Your lips brush the chopsticks as you close your mouth around the noodles, and for a split second—one charged, unspoken, split second—neither of you move.

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

You can see the soft curve of his mouth, the way his gaze flickers over your face, the way his breath catches slightly like he just realized something.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the close proximity and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. Panicked, you pull back quickly and settle into your seat like nothing happened.

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

No, wait. Wait. That heat in your cheeks?

Oh.

Oh no.

Yeah. It’s definitely not because of Heeseung (well, maybe a part of it is). 

Because the second you swallow down the bundle of noodles—the embodiment of heat, pain, and suffering all slams into your mouth instantly.

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

“Oh my GOD—” you choke, slamming your hands onto the counter, your body shaking as the spice courses through your veins.

Your throat ignites, your sinuses clear, and you swear you can hear colors.

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated. 

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers. 

And Heeseung? 

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help. 

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air. 

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him. 

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great. 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?” 

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?” 

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you. 

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?” 

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box. 

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—” 

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.” 

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts. 

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it. 

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.” 

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push. 

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.” 

And that—that makes Heeseung look up. 

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too. 

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his. 

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that. 

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving. 

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck. 

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here. 

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.” 

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store. 

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.” 

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought. 

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves. 

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.” 

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.” 

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing. 

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter. 

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight? 

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance. 

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster. 

Why? 

Because, it’s 2:21AM. 

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with. 

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening. 

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him? 

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around. 

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to. 

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then. 

You see it.

A tweet. 

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple. 

Yet entirely soul-crushing. 

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!” 

Your breath catches. 

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?” 

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—” 

He stops. Starts again. 

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings. 

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too. 

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t. 

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words. 

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think. 

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch. 

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days. 

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did. 

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did. 

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest. 

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers. 

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly. 

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both. 

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out. 

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense. 

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you. 

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows. 

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer. 

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise. 

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he’s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it. 

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once. 

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else. 

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side. 

You were always meant to cross it. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

However—

There are three things—three sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

[levigarden999]

dumb!bakugo x reader °❀.ೃ࿔*

theme : you’re crushing on bakugo, but he just doesn’t get it ♡︎

you’ve been crushing on bakugo for months now, while mina and ochacha both have questioned your mental sanity after you told them about this. you understand where they’re coming from though – bakugo isn’t exactly the brightest or the most charming guy out there. but you just can’t help yourself.

often you try to follow bakugo around and have casual chat with him, even subtly flirt with him. however, even though how straight forward you try to be with your flirting, it just seems like this guy is completely clueless about the fact someone could be interested in him like that.

one time – no, for the millionth time – you followed him after another training session. he was walking with kirishima next to him, but you quickly caught up to them. ”kats, hey!” you exclaimed and touched his shoulder gently. you were blushing and your heart was pounding at the sight of his bare, round, muscular shoulders under the tanktop.

”what, extra?” he sighed and didn’t even bother to look at you, as if he was fed up with your antics.

”um, i-, i was just wondering, you wanna hit the gym tomorrow with me?” you asked. kirishima was snickering next to him, obviously realizing what was going on here.

bakugo turned his head to you, a shocked look on his face. as if you had done something illegal, asking such things from him.

”huh?! why are you even asking that? of course not! i prefer going alone, you idiot!”

yup. why did you even like him?

you often also tried to sit with him at lunch and 'accidentally' have physical contact with him. today you had abandoned mina and you were glued to katsuki’s side in the cafeteria, your knees subtly touching. he was sitting at the edge of the bench, so he had nowhere to move.

”have you heard about a concept called personal space? why are you acting like that?” he asked through gritted teeth, those red eyes piercing through you.

”i can sit wherever i want” you said back and held your head high, not moving an inch.

he rolled his eyes. ”ugh. brat.”

kirishima was sharper than bakugo (not that it required much intelligence to notice your feelings for him) so he easily noticed the way you got flustered wherever you were near katsuki. the way you held back your smirk whenever his shirt raised to show a teasing amount of his abs, or the way you blushed every time katsuki said a word to you.

”have you really not noticed?” kirishima asked bakugo one night when they were alone in the common room.

”yes, i’ve noticed she’s gone insane or something. such a nuisance” bakugo hissed and crossed his arms, referring to the fact how much you had been clinging to him recently. kirishima laughed.

”no, idiot. she has a crush on you. are you seriously that blind?”

bakugo’s eyes widened and a grimace appeared on his lips.

”huh?!” he snapped, eyebrows furrowed.

”yup. dude, you’re so slow.”

after that conversation, bakugo looked at you differently. he started to reasses the situations and moments you two had had together, and he quickly understood that kirishima was right. there was no other possible explanation to the way how desperately you were acting around him.

since then, he had been a little, a little, nicer to you. he didn’t yell or snap at you anymore – if he was annoyed, he merely grumbled something under his breath and crossed his arms like a petulant child.

he started to notice you were actually quite… good looking. the way your eyes sparkled with something innocent, something sweet every time you looked at him. the way your outfits during practice always hugged your body perfectly, the way you were so determined to be the best hero out there.

after weeks with his conversation with kirishima, bakugo became the flustered one around you.

you were blunter and more straight forward now since you realized he was finally catching on. your flirty smirks and seductive words about his appearance and the subtle touches to his hair and face made him feel like a little boy who had no idea how to act around a girl.

bakugo found a new attribute about himself that he didn’t like that much – blushing. it was as if he blushed every time you spoke to him and he hated the way he felt so awkward and helpless with you smoothly flirting with him.

however, he also loved it. he was curious yet also a little scared to see where this would eventually lead.

❀ part 2 here

[kuidore]

More random ZoeYstery HCs ✧ KPOP demon hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ They’re a little codependent but the sprinkles of toxicity are mutual so it cancels out

✧ Mystery never wants to go anywhere if Zoe isn’t going. He goes to social stuff because she goes and he wants to spend time with her.

✧ Zoey will still go to things on her own sometimes, leaving Mystery to hangout at home, but she spends a lot of time on her phone texting him and always leaves earlier than she would have if Mystery was with her

✧ This is entirely her choice, not once has he ever asked her to come home or complained about her going out. She just misses him extra hard sometimes and finds herself getting bored way faster when he isn’t around

✧ If it was up to either of them, they’d be together literally all of the time.

✧ They can’t actually do that, so he just follows her everywhere like a puppy on an invisible leash as much as he can

✧ He can see perfectly fine through his bangs (demon logic) but he still has a habit of running into things as if he couldn’t. Poles, signs, corners, fire hydrants. He’s surprisingly clumsy

✧ that’s because he doesn’t look where he’s going. he stares at Zoey instead

✧ totally worth it to him, especially the times when Zoey would start fawning over the possibility of him being hurt

✧ ‘a girlfriend wants a boyfriend who she can turn her brain off around’ except Mystery is the girlfriend

✧ He’s sorta an airhead, he’s ignorant to a lot of things that humans would think of as common knowledge

✧ Mystery thinks Zoey is the smartest person in the entire world and he says it a lot

✧ he eventually gets comfortable enough to ask her questions not just about herself, and she answers him with lots of details and excited hand gestures

✧ She’s happy he’s curious about humans in general and happier that he was asking her.

✧ In reality he’s still just curious about her and not all humans. No other ones, really. Maybe the rest of Huntrix, barely. he could handle her friends because they were extensions of Zoey.

✧ he was asking about topics he remembered her mention before in conversation.

✧ Zoey forgets what stories she’s told and what conversations she’s had with what people, so it doesn’t really click together that she just happens to know at least a little bit about pretty much about everything he asks

✧ he’s not doing it with manipulative intentions. Dude just genuinely could not care less about anything if he can’t play ‘seven degrees of Zoey Huntrix’ with it

✧ He compliments her multiple times a day, usually just blurting out something he was thinking as opposed to any sort of setup or cute delivery. In his eyes he’s just saying things that are true, but Zoey always giggles and thanks him anyways

✧ His deadpan tone and complete lack of awareness, in Zoey’s eyes, is a cute delivery

✧ Zoey is a crazy good baker. Mystery will hangout in the kitchen with her, sitting down and staying the hell out of her way as she zooms between cupboards

✧ Every so often she stops in front of him, a piece of chocolate or pastry or whatever else she was messing around with pinched between her fingers, and pops it in his mouth for a taste test

✧ He’s never any help when she’s trying to figure something out, but Zoey already knows that. She’s not expecting critique, she just gets all giddy seeing him smile and say it’s yummy when he tastes it

✧ where Jinu never lets Rumi see his demonic eyes, Mystery is exactly the opposite with Zoey

✧ When they’re at home, even after he’s started pinning up his bangs, he only ever has bright amber eyes with cat-like pupils

✧ Mystery has nothing but his demon form in his past, and as much as he didn’t care, sometimes he wondered what Zoey thought. If she ever remembered he was a demon when she was alone and recoiled at the thought of his ‘real’ form

✧ it’s the first question he’s afraid to ask her, so he doesn’t

✧ One day when she’s laying on top of him on their couch and his eyes are closed, she presses her lips to his eyelid, telling him not to open them as she did the same on the other side

✧ He opened them back up and just raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs back at him and tells him he has pretty eyes

✧ she gets a new thing for her ‘what makes Mystery blush?’ list

[superhoeva]

“you’re in my spot.”

robby only grins from his kneel in front of your chair, tongue slathering your clit in a wet glob of slobber. you curse, leg hanging helplessly in the air and gripping the sides of your chair for dear life. you can’t even find the manners to greet the grey-haired man as he slinks his backpack off his shoulder, the suckle of robby’s lips making it too hard to think.

“not my fault you took the long way here,” words muffled by he shrugs, hand creeping up to tug at one of your nipples.

“he bein’ nice to you?”

your head shakes lazily, face frowning into a pout that has jack smirking in his hang over you.

“n—fuck, no,” you whine, back arching with a squirm when robby purposefully drags his tongue up your slit a little harder at your answer. “no, he won’t let me come—“

“i don’t know what she’s talking about,” robby flicks his eyes to abbot then back to you before giving your swollen bud a soft suck. “you can come any time you wanna, sweetheart.”

you groan in half-bliss, half-annoyance, your lash line shining with frustrated tears as you turn to jack.

“he keeps stopping. right when i’m about to—ugh. fuck, see?” your whine to jack is covered up by robby, who’s pulling away from you with a giggle.

your head tosses back with gritted teeth, robby and abbot sharing a little look. the former just shrugs while you’re not looking, lips shining as they bend into a smirk. jack shakes his head, trying not to laugh before guiding you to raise your head. his lips dance down your jaw, fingers finding home in flicking one of your hardened nipples.

“so he’s not being very nice, huh?” the question at your ear is low but still heard by you and robby. as you shake your head, a shiver runs corses you.

jack’s hand sinks lower, dragging across your stomach, stopping to press tenderly just above your mound before thumbing at you’re clit.

fuck, robby must’ve done a number on you, ‘cause you’re soaked. jack’s fingers barely have to brush you for them to be covered in your slippery slick. he raises them to his mouth to lick it all off, circling them right back around your clit as you moan a loud curse.

“let’s see if this helps, yeah?” jack speaks lowly next to you, a silent conversation with robby happening easily. the man still on his knees in front of you takes the hint, kissing your thigh and sinking his tongue back inside you. “maybe this’ll make it a little easier, baby.”

the men work in perfect tandem. robby flicking and gliding his tongue deep into your hole just beneath your clit, nose bumping the tips of jack’s fingers every now and then.

eating you hungrily, robby groans, eyes rolling a little when he peeks up to find you sucking on jack’s tongue with a quiet mewl every time he pushes it into your mouth. reaching down to palm his throbbing cock, robby licks you faster. following the pattern abbot’s rubbing against you with a perfect precision.

the three of you are a mess of moans, a few growls even rattling from abbot when your teeth nibble at his lip.

“help me get her there, mike,” jack pants against your lips, bicep bulging as he works you. robby obliges, eyes closing and letting the sounds oozing from you take over his mind. you’re buzzing, thighs shaking and hawing for any kind of air.

“i’m coming,” you rush out and the men groan. “fuck, i’m coming.”

that you do, robby having to hold you steady as you body nearly trembles itself out of the chair, jack also letting you lean you weight against him while you sob into his mouth.

“that’s a girl,” robby mumbles, hot pants rolling across you. he dips his tongue into again, yanking it upwards to dance along side abbot’s fingers as they both help you through it. “that’s it, baby, keep soakin’ me.”

it takes a long few minutes for you to calm. jack’s touch has slowed and and robby’s tongue has lightened, but their touches still ride you high.

“see,” jack declares, pecking your cheek. “just needed a little teamwork, that’s all.”

robby chuckles, hands rubbing along your tired legs. jack studies him, eyes squinted.

“don’t forget to ice your knees, you grandpa,” he tells the man quietly, and even in your post-orgasm haze, it’s pretty funny. robby rolls his eyes with a smile, trying not to wince at the pain shooting through them already.

“fuck off, john,” robby gripes, straightening to pull the other man into a wet peck. it lingers for a long moment before robby pulls back with a grimace. “and, yeah, go grab the ice. please.”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[dksfml]

LOVE 119 [PART II]

part of my paramedic!jungwon series. masterlist.

pairing: paramedic!jungwon x doctor!reader genre: enemies at work, lovers at home. secret dating. jungwon is hot when jealous, suggestive, fluff summary: your coworkers think that you and niki look cute together while jungwon, your boyfriend is literally standing next to you and it's driving him insane. word count: 3.5k author's note: hey everyone! as promised, i'm here to serve another paramedic jungwon brainrot because it's not fair to just devour this cutesy alone. enjoy and leave some notes <3 read part 1 first and reply if you want to get tagged for the next parts!

You’re midway through a lukewarm coffee in the hospital cafeteria when your coworker leans in, voice low and eyes gleaming with intrigue. “So…” she starts, drawing the word out slowly, “who’s the lucky guy?”

It takes you a second, but the question sinks in just as she tilts her head, nodding toward your neck with a smirk. Your hand instinctively rises to the spot Jungwon’s lips had claimed last night, right at the juncture of your neck and shoulder—a parting gift as you’d curled up together, something you didn’t think twice about until now.

A blush surges to your cheeks. “What? Oh, no, that’s… I scratched it too hard,” you say quickly, heat rising not only from the surprise but the memory of last night—Jungwon’s sleepy grin, the way he’d pulled you close, whispering in your ear as he pressed soft kisses down the curve of your neck.

“Sure you did,” she teases, crossing her arms as her smirk widens. “You’re going to need a better excuse than that. So… is it Niki?”

“What?” you laugh, the idea so out of the blue it’s almost comical. “Niki? Why would you even think that?”

She shrugs, the smugness on her face never faltering. “You always have a soft spot for him. You never scold him like the rest of us. Plus, everyone’s seen the way he hovers around you in the halls, he’s clearly smitten.”

Your eyes widen at the notion. Niki, your young, eager junior who fumbles his way through shifts and who you can’t help but look after because he’s new and a little too starry-eyed for his own good? It’s laughable. “It’s not like that,” you manage, shaking your head. “He’s just… young, that’s all.”

“Mhmm,” she says with a knowing chuckle. “Sure, if you say so.”

Before you can protest further, your phone vibrates. Glancing down, you find a message from Jungwon: a photo of his lunch, neatly arranged with a sweet message beneath it. “Eat well, ily.”

The casual intimacy of it makes your stomach flip, and you feel an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You quickly swipe away the notification, hoping she didn’t see the smile or the faint hearts in your eyes.

The day unfolds in the usual rush of patient check-ins, chart updates, and emergency calls. You busy yourself to the point where the cafeteria conversation drifts from your mind—until you catch a glimpse of yourself in the break room mirror and spot the faint outline of that now-infamous hickey, the concealer having barely managed to mask it. You tug your collar higher, hoping to hide it through the rest of the shift.

The afternoon in the ER has been a blur of movement and urgency, leaving you barely a moment to breathe. Every time an ambulance pulls up, your heart skips a beat, half-hoping, half-dreading that it’ll be Jungwon walking through those doors.

But each time, it’s someone else, and you return to the steady rhythm of your work, instructing Niki at your side as he follows your lead. Despite the tense environment, he’s attentive and focused, learning from you as he manages each step of the patient’s treatment with remarkable ease.

Afterward, you and Niki head back to the department office, the adrenaline settling as you both chat lightly, unwinding from the chaotic pace. As you enter, you spot Jungwon down the corridor, heading the other way with a stack of documents.

It’s almost comical how, even amidst the bustling hospital, his presence stands out so starkly to you. For a split second, he glances your way, and the fleeting moment feels charged, pulling your attention and making it impossible to look away. But as soon as your eyes meet, you glance down, hoping no one notices how that brief connection leaves your pulse racing.

Once back at your desk, you feel your coworkers’ eyes on you, their curious glances flickering between you and Niki. You try to brush it off as nothing, settling into your usual seat, with Niki across from you. Just as you’re starting to sift through some files, Jungwon’s familiar stride enters the department office.

His easy confidence fills the room, and he greets everyone with that understated charm, heading to a nearby colleague to ask for specific documents. You’re not even looking at him, but his presence is impossible to ignore. You focus on your papers, hoping that looking busy might steady your nerves, but the pages blur in front of you, your mind too distracted by the fact that he’s just a few steps away.

Then, just as you’re juggling a pile of documents, you accidentally knock over your iced coffee. The mostly empty cup clatters over, spilling what’s left onto your coat. The moment the coffee splashes onto your coat, Niki and Jungwon are both at your side in an instant. Niki’s quick to pull out a box of tissues, while Jungwon silently holds out a pristine handkerchief, a touch of annoyance already flickering in his gaze.

Caught off-guard, you instinctively reach for Niki’s tissues, leaving Jungwon standing there with his handkerchief, his jaw tightening slightly as he watches you dab at the stain.

Your coworkers notice the scene and immediately latch onto it, their laughter filling the room. "Oh, come on, you two," one of them teases, grinning at the pair of you. "Why don’t you just date already?”

Another chimes in, "Yeah, it’s obvious there’s something going on. I mean, look how attentive Niki is—always ready to help you out."

You wave them off, laughing it away, but the teasing only grows louder. Someone else playfully nudges Niki. "What’s next, bringing her coffee in the morning?"

Niki laughs, scratching the back of his head, visibly flustered. "Come on, guys, we’re just… coworkers," he insists, though his blush only adds fuel to the fire.

Meanwhile, you can feel Jungwon’s gaze on you, sharper and more intense than ever. His silence speaks volumes; the usual relaxed confidence he carries seems to be tinged with something harder, a jealousy that simmers just beneath the surface. It unsettles you, tugging at something guilty inside as the teasing around you grows.

Suddenly, Jungwon steps forward to you, interrupting the chatter with a clipped tone. "Enough with the tissues,” he says, leveling his gaze at you, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "Stop fussing with that coat—you’re only making it worse. Change into something clean, or the smell will stick with you all day.”

The room falls silent, your coworkers exchanging amused glances. You roll your eyes, unwilling to let him get the last word.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Practicality. I can handle a few drops of coffee,” you retort, folding your arms and meeting his gaze with a defiant tilt of your chin.

He raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk forming on his lips.

"Right, because dealing with a coffee stain is something you’re well-prepared for," he says dryly, folding his arms to match yours. "Clearly, practicality isn’t your strong suit."

You scoff, refusing to back down. "And since when did you become an expert in coffee stain management? It’s barely noticeable, and I’m perfectly fine with it."

Jungwon’s gaze doesn’t waver, the challenge sparking between you both as he leans in just a fraction, his voice lower. "Just because you’re fine with it doesn’t mean everyone else is." His eyes flick down to the stain and then back up to yours, a knowing glint in them.

Your coworkers are watching with raised brows, amused but also visibly intrigued by the tension between the two of you. "Are we interrupting something?” one of them jokes, breaking the silence. "Honestly, the way you two bicker is like a married couple."

The comment makes you blush, but Jungwon doesn’t flinch. Instead, he holds your gaze, his smirk deepening. "At least one of us knows how to handle these little emergencies,” he quips, voice steady, though there’s a hint of something raw behind his eyes—a hint of jealousy that only you can catch. The way he’s looking at you, there’s no mistaking it: he’s anything but amused by the teasing around Niki.

But before you can respond, Niki steps forward, awkwardly placing his coat over your chair. “Um, here,” he says, clearly trying to ease the tension. “You can wear mine for now if the coffee’s bothering you that much.”

The room erupts into more laughter, someone nudging Niki with a grin. "See? He’s a gentleman. Really, you two should just make it official."

Another coworker teases, "Or maybe they already have, and they’re just not telling us."

Jungwon’s expression hardens as he watches the exchange, his eyes narrowing. His gaze flickers from Niki to you, a frustration simmering beneath his calm facade.

You feel the tension growing, an almost tangible weight of jealousy in the way his jaw clenches, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh.

Finally, he speaks up, cutting through the laughter with a controlled but slightly irritated tone. "Enough of the matchmaking." His gaze falls pointedly on you, something possessive flickering there, though he masks it quickly. "And you should change. That coffee smell won’t just vanish."

You narrow your eyes at him, refusing to back down. "If it bothers you so much, why don’t you bring me a change of clothes yourself?"

"Thanks," he says shortly, taking the stack of paperwork with a polite nod. He turns back to you and your coworkers, offering a quick, “See you all later. Take care, everyone.” His voice is casual, but as his gaze lingers on you for a fraction of a second longer, you feel the weight of everything left unsaid.

With that, Jungwon strides toward the door, his usual self-assured calm back in place. You watch him leave, but just as he reaches the exit, your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance down, your pulse quickening as you read the message from him:

“I have something you can change into in the back of the car.”

It’s simple, yet there’s something about it that makes your stomach flip. You glance up just in time to catch Jungwon’s silhouette disappearing down the hallway, feeling the tension of the moment linger in the air long after he’s gone.

The rest of your shift rolls by with its usual demands, and you brush off the incident from earlier, deciding against getting the change of clothes Jungwon offered. By the time you finally clock out, the sun is setting, casting a warm glow over the nearly empty parking lot. Just as you step out of the hospital doors, Jungwon’s car pulls up in front of the exit.

You feel a small smile tugging at your lips as you walk over and slip into the passenger seat. “Hey,” you greet him, but his focus remains straight ahead, his hands firm on the wheel, his paramedic uniform clinging to his form. The sight of him in that navy blue uniform, complete with the badge and patches, usually makes your heart race, but today his expression is unreadable. A flicker of surprise hits you. Jungwon, who is usually quick with a playful remark, doesn’t even turn his head as you settle in, leaving you feeling a bit deflated.

You tilt your head, watching him closely, noticing the slightest crease of annoyance in his brow. With a slight pout, you try breaking the ice, “So, how was your day?”

He answers, but his tone is clipped, barely more than a few words. "Busy. The usual."

You blink, feeling a hint of tension in the air. Normally, he’d be cracking jokes or filling the car with easy chatter, but now he’s focused on the road with a seriousness that feels almost uncharacteristic.

Leaning back in your seat, you give him a sideways glance. “Is this about the clothes?” you finally ask, crossing your arms as you look at him. “Are you upset I didn’t change into them?”

A quick denial. “No,” he says, a bit too fast, but still refusing to look your way.

You can’t help but smile a little, noticing his hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual. “Uh-huh. Doesn’t sound like you’re not upset,” you tease, leaning forward to get a better look at his face.

“I’m not upset,” he repeats, but he’s biting his lip, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead as if he’s hyper-focused on the road. His brow furrows, and he lets out a soft sigh.

“Come on, Jungwon, it’s cute when you sulk,” you say, your smile widening at the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly, revealing his irritation in the most subtle way.

This finally gets a reaction. He glances at you, his eyes narrowing just a little. “I’m not sulking,” he mumbles, but the denial lacks its usual conviction.

“You look pretty sulky to me,” you murmur, enjoying the rare moment of catching him off guard.

Just then, the car comes to a stop at a red light, and you glance over to find him holding a long breath, his expression somewhere between frustration and fondness. The tension in the air shifts slightly as he turns his gaze towards you, and in that moment, you feel the familiar flutter of butterflies in your stomach.

Without breaking eye contact, he places his right hand gently on your lap, rubbing small circles with his thumb. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, igniting that familiar spark between you two. It’s a simple gesture, yet it feels so intimate, especially with the way he’s staring at you as if he’s trying to convey everything he can’t say out loud.

He resumes driving as the light turns green, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but his voice softens, a hint of vulnerability slipping through the usual bravado. “I’m not upset,” he assures you, though the sincerity behind his words hints at something deeper, something he’s wrestling with beneath the surface.

You can’t help but smile at him, the weight of his earlier mood lifting slightly. “Then what’s with the whole silent treatment? You know you can just tell me, right?”

Jungwon shakes his head, a faint smile creeping onto his face despite his mood.

“It’s more complicated than that,” he says, his voice maintaining a lightness that’s undercut by an earnest edge. “I don’t want to be the guy who gets all worked up over people assuming you and Niki are a thing.”

You bite your lip, the realization sinking in that his jealousy is more about their perceptions than the spilled coffee earlier.

“Well, I’m definitely not dating Niki,” you reply softly, trying to ease his tension. “He’s just a good coworker. You know that.”

He glances at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile as he focuses back on the road.

“Good,” he mutters, his hand still gently rubbing your thigh, sending tingles coursing through you. The intimacy of the gesture makes your heart race.

He passes another intersection and accelerates, the car moving smoothly through the streets.

“But you know,” you continue, trying to keep the mood light, “if you were just a little quicker with your offer, I wouldn’t have to deal with all this teasing.”

Jungwon lets out a soft chuckle, the tension in the car easing slightly. “I thought I was quick enough,” he says, a playful tone returning to his voice. “How was I supposed to know you’d be so stubborn?”

“Stubborn? Me? Never,” you tease, rolling your eyes dramatically.

He shakes his head with a laugh, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh, a subtle reminder of the unspoken bond between you two. As he navigates the streets, the silence stretches comfortably, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of traffic.

“Hey, you should know,” you add after a moment, “if you want to make sure I’m not wearing Niki’s clothes, maybe you should just… keep me in yours.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Is that your way of saying you want me to dress you?”

“Maybe,” you reply coyly, biting your lip again, the playful banter making you feel bold.

He laughs, shaking his head as he pulls into a quiet parking lot. “You really know how to make me feel like I’m the jealous one, huh?”

“Just speaking the truth,” you say, leaning back into the seat, enjoying the rhythm of the moment.

As he turns off the engine, the atmosphere shifts slightly, the playful banter fading into a more intimate silence. Jungwon finally meets your gaze, his expression earnest. “Just so you know, it’s not about Niki. I just…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “I want to be the one you lean on, the one you trust.”

Your heart swells at his confession, a warmth spreading through you. “You are, Jungwon. You’re the one I always want to lean on.”

He smiles, a genuine light returning to his eyes, and in that moment, everything feels right.

When you arrive at your apartment, Jungwon opens the door for you, the familiar scent of your space washing over you. As soon as you step inside, he follows closely behind, and before you can even set your bag down, he closes the door and turns to face you.

In an instant, the air between you shifts. Jungwon steps forward, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you closer. You barely have time to react before he captures your lips with his in a deep, passionate kiss that takes your breath away. The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you and the electric tension that crackles in the air.

His lips move against yours with a fervor that surprises you, and you feel your heart racing, responding instinctively as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He deepens the kiss, his mouth coaxing yours open as he explores the sweetness of your taste. It’s intoxicating, and you lose yourself in the moment, your worries and doubts melting away.

In the midst of the kiss, he breaks away for just a moment, breathless and looking down at you with those soft eyes. “I can still smell the coffee,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You giggle, feeling heat rise to your cheeks, the reminder of the earlier incident making you giddy. “Well, I didn’t exactly plan for that to happen,” you reply, your voice teasing but breathless.

“Maybe I should get you a proper change of clothes next time,” he quips, his eyes sparkling with mischief. But then he adds, more seriously, “You should probably take those off; the smell will cling to you.”

His suggestion sends a thrill through you, and you find yourself biting your lip in excitement. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you want me to take them off?” you tease, your heart racing as you lean closer, feeling the warmth radiating from him.

He chuckles softly, but there’s a glint of something deeper in his eyes. “Okay, maybe it’s a little selfish,” he admits, his breath ghosting over your skin as he moves in even closer.

With a playful grin, you decide to indulge him. “Fine, but only if you do too,” you say, your fingers finding the buttons of his uniform. You start to unbutton it, your hands trembling slightly with anticipation. Each button that comes undone reveals more of his toned physique, and your breath hitches as you take in the sight of him.

As your fingers glide over the fabric, Jungwon watches you, his expression a mixture of desire and admiration. “You know, this might be the best idea you’ve ever had,” he murmurs, his voice low and enticing.

You finally push the uniform off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. In that moment, the playful atmosphere shifts into something more intimate. He captures your lips again, and you feel the heat between you both intensify as you pull away the last barriers that had been keeping you apart.

Just when you think it can't get any more intense, he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for air. “I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he admits, his breath mingling with yours, creating a palpable tension that thrums in the air.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, your voice teasing yet filled with warmth.

“You know I can’t let everyone find out I’m dating the hottest doctor in the hospital, or else…” he argues, a playful grin breaking through his earlier seriousness.

“Oh, please,” you bite back with a smirk, playfully nudging him. “Like they wouldn’t notice that the ‘sexiest and charming paramedic’ is completely smitten.”

With a smile that could light up the room, you lean in for another kiss, feeling the world around you fade away once again as you get lost in him.

masterlist.

[angelsforthenight]

i could eat that girl for lunch… (ellie williams)

ways you can help gaza🇵🇸

summary: you post cute pictures on your story in the hopes of gaining a certain girl’s attention… luckily you get more than what you anticipated ;)

cw: mdni, fem!reader, texting, cunnilingus, desperate top!ellie, teasing sub!reader, cannibalistic metaphors, cursing, ellie is goofy lmao

you’re this close to screaming. the winged eyeliner on your left eye somehow keeps fucking up; either looking too splotchy or shorter than your right one. what’s pissing you off the most is the fact that you aren’t even going anywhere… getting all dolled up just to take it all off in 15 minutes, just to post cute little photos on your story and, of course, just to get her attention.

ellie williams. the name rolled off your tongue with such velvety sleek. every single one of your friends knows her name; has had to endure through your countless obsessive gushes.

you two had met during a party. having been in a drunken haze, you barely remember the first conversation that sparked such an interest, but you do remember her gin breath against your ear: asking/shouting, amidst the blaring music, if you had wanted to go somewhere a little more quieter. the night ended up in you being fingered in her car, before being driven back home by her. a freckle-faced angel in a leather jacket coated with small pins and badges. you were immediately hooked. but it’s been a week since then, and you two haven’t spoken. having achieved her number, you thought of messaging, but didn’t want to come across as desperate, even though you so are.

you thank instagram suggested for bringing you her account on a platter; being filled with niche, introverted posts of every cool-looking thing but her face. she doesn’t even have a “me” highlights! you can’t tell if her lack in posting her face is a blessing or a curse. so here you are, getting ready to post on your story since you followed her the day before. the skin around your eye is starting to sting by the amount of times you’ve been wiping and restarting your eyeliner. it needs to be perfect. you’ve orchestrated all this to be perfect. you take a deep breath and focus, striving to get the perfect wing.

“thank fuck.” you murmur under your breath once you finally get it right, before enveloping your lips in lipstick. you admire yourself in the mirror once done. you look fucking amazing.

since you spent way too long putting on your makeup, it wouldn’t be fair to yourself to only post one picture, so you post a couple. a mirror picture following up a layout of 4 images with the perfect song in the background. a little smile tugs at your lips as you replay the story two, three, four times before setting it on do not disturb and finding something else to do. your heart pounds at the thought of ellie seeing it, praying that she’ll interact. even a simple like will do.

after removing your makeup and getting into your pyjamas, you click on a movie to pass time, setting your phone on do not disturb. half an hour passes, and you’ve been neurotically checking your phone for a sign of ellie to appear on your notifications, but nothing. you check your story to see if she’s seen it but again, nothing. another hour passes, and you check for any sign of ellie. nada. look at my story, you freak! are the words etched in your head, words you wished you could telepathically scream at her. you remember you set your phone on do not disturb for a reason, so you place it far away and focus on finishing the film.

a while later, you’re slumped on your couch on the verge of falling asleep. the movie’s ended and it was so boring that you’re finding it hard to keep your eyes open. you decide to check your do not disturb notifications one last time before taking a nap, until your eyes fall on the name ‘ellie.’ you immediately jerk up, awake and alert: your thumb automatically pressing the notification centre so you can see what it reads.

seventeen minutes ago.

ellie liked your story

ellie liked your story

ellie replied to your story: doll face

ellie replied to your story: you need a seat? lemme volunteer 🙏🙏

a shit-eating grin lights up your face. fucking finally! not once but twice! you excitedly draw your knees up to your chest, eager fingers tapping away, ready to respond - regardless of how long you’d been waiting for her texts. play it cool….

y/n: hahaha thank u thank u <3

y/n: (replied) oh word?

you’re surprised and very happy when you see the ‘typing…’ your heart doing goddamn backflips.

ellie: wooooord

ellie: literally cannot stop replaying ur story… bring that over here 🙁

ellie: come over

!!! your heart sinks all the way down to your ass. the hell does she mean come over?

y/n: ur not serious lmaoaoaooa

ellie: i’m being deadass,,, come over.

you look at the time. it’s almost 1 in the morning.

y/n: idek where u live bru😭😭😭😭

y/n: if anything you should come over since you’ve driven me to my house b4

ellie: mmm nahhhh

you blink in disbelief when ellie sends her location over. she’s not kidding.

y/n: girl i look bummy… i don’t even have any makeup on anymore :< took it off

ellie: i really don’t care

ellie: plsplspsls come over

ellie: u won’t regret it……………. trust 🤓🤓

next thing you know you’re leaving your house in your plaid shorts and a silly graphic tee. thankfully, ellie only lives 10 minutes away, so you take a bus before walking up to her apartment.

y/n: i’m cominggg

ellie: LOL yeaa you will be coming real soon 😇😇😇

though you cringe at her text, your body betrays you; your stomach forming a deep pit. she’s so sultry and playful you don’t know even know what to think. and there goes your heart again, hastily beating away like there’s no tomorrow. you reach the door, a trembling hand raising up to knock.

“hi.” ellie beams, smiling like an idiot. her eyes seize you from head to toe, “nice fit.”

“told you i looked bummy...” you mumbled, trying your best not to seem nervous. ellie moves aside so you can come in. her apartment smells exactly like she does; that faint campfire scent, conjoined with a forest-ey musk. a forest fire you were more than willing to burn in.

“so…“ you begin, with nothing prepared to follow up after that.

“sooooooo….” ellie repeats blithely.

“it’s been a week since… you know…” you whisper, awkwardly shifting your legs.

“since…?” ellie blinks, furrowing her eyebrows. she’s taunting you, trying to play innocent when it’s pretty fucking obvious what you’re on about.

“the party.” you respond, entertaining her coyness for no reason.

“party?” ellie pretends to think, looking up at nothing. “oh!! yeah… jesse’s one.” she smirks.

you smirk back, furrowing your eyebrows in amusement. “you could do so much better at playing dumb, y’know…”

“you think so?” ellie narrows her eyes, tilting her head as she steps closer. the impish smirk on her face never leaves. she’s having fun. you both are.

“yup. for your own good, don’t choose acting as a career.”

“for my own good?”

“for your own good.” you haven’t even realised how close you two are to each other now, daring eyes locked with another pair of daring eyes. takes one to know one. a silence permeated with tension fills the room.

“c’mere…” ellie finally mumbles before cupping your face with both hands and bringing you in for a kiss. you’re quick to melt in her grasp, your hand finding it’s way to ellie’s hair, giving it a playful tight squeeze that elicits a quiet groan from her. her hands, those goddamn hands, then move to your waist, pulling you closer. you two don’t even waste time before you’re making out with such fervor. save the sweetness for later, it’s the hunger that’s on display for now. the memory of her lips were starting to slip away from your mind and you’re glad you’re here to reboot it.

once you pull away, ellie’s eyes drift to something behind you. you follow her gaze, only for your eyes to land on a chair in the middle of the goddamn living room. it’s so random that you can’t help but burst out laughing.

“why is there a chair?” you ask in the midst of your laughing fit. it’s not even that funny, but the laughing is helping with your nerves.

“it’s for you.” ellie giggles too, a light pink tint on her cheeks that’s hard to miss.

“me?” you blink rapidly, your gaze darting from the chair to ellie, “do i sit?” you ask stupidly.

“no, you stand.” sarcasm laces her tone, as she giggles a little more, “go sit.”

“don’t order me around like i’m your dog.” you respond playfully, but you do as she says. despite your ‘tough’ front, you’d do anything she’d tell you to. guess she was being literal about offering you a seat…

ellie grins down at you, angling your chin up so you’re looking at her. you can feel the heat start to prickle in your face, down your neck and pervading the rest of your body. her thumb traces along your bottom lip, slightly dragging it down. there’s that same darkened look she had back in her car, one that makes you feel so small.

“so cute… like a human deer.” she murmurs distractedly, almost like she’s talking to herself instead of you. your head grows fuzzy, blushing even more. you mindlessly squeeze your thighs together, trying to ease the growing heat in between. ellie notices.

“you doing okay?” she softly asks, unable to mask the smug look on her face. you nod quietly. with her eyes kept on you, she lowers down until she’s on her knees, her smile growing. she kisses the top of both your kneecaps in such a tender way it sends tingles down your spine.

“can i eat you?” she breathes, her voice hollow and needy. it takes a second for those words to register in your brain.

“you…” you trail off. ellie’s gaze is very, very distracting. so intense and intrusive. she patiently waits for your answer, resting her chin on top of your knees. how can someone look so adorable and intimidating at the same time?

“please?” she adds, and you smile. a realisation has just dawned on you: you like to make her wait.

“eat me?” you cock your head to the side in feigned confusion. now it’s your turn to play dumb.

“yeah… like, your pussy.” ellie mumbles, becoming so desperate that it’s funny. she needed to be humbled at least a little. “i want a taste…”

“yeah?” you mock, and ellie’s face warps into a frown. “stop teasing me.”

“it’s only payback.” you shrug.

“for what?” ellie whines.

“for taking a week to text me.”

ellie stares at you for a moment. “then let me make it up to you…” her eyes travel down to your clamped thighs, wanting to open them up so bad. truth is, you’d let her devour you. chew you up like a deranged creature and watch her greedily lick the blood from her fingers. but teasing her was just so damn fun.

“aren’t your knees getting tired?” you tease, cupping the side of her face as she stares up at you with puppy eyes. it’s getting hard to resist. ellie immediately shakes her head.

“for you? never.” she whispers. your grin broadens in satisfaction. such sweet words. meaningless? maybe, but cute nonetheless.

“fine…” you sigh, leaning back and gesturing for ellie to go forth. ellie’s face lights up like a bulb, eagerly parting your legs. the movement makes you shiver, as you can feel the heated moisture of your arousal seep through your underwear. despite your shorts still being on, ellie’s lips travel up, both hands gripping your sides as her lips leave fond, wet kisses along your inner thigh. her teeth clench around the hem of your shorts, letting out a muffled chuckle as she playfully pulls your shorts down with her teeth. she’s kidding around but that’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life.

you adjust your knees so that your shorts can be pulled down. you’re so wet your underwear is fucking see-through. you just know she’s about to say something.

“someone’s real excited-“

“shut up and keep going.” you hastily cut her off out of embarrassment. ellie laughs, glancing at you one more time before leaning back down again, dragging her ardent tongue up your inner thigh. you gasp quietly, and that little noise influences her to do more, letting out a sigh of her own; the sort of sigh you do when relaxing in a hot bath, or when pissing after holding it in for so long… like she’s needed this. you’re startled when ellie drags her tongue right in the center of your clothed heat, your breath hitching. you want more.

ellie’s teasing is relentless and mean. she sucks your clit through your underwear, eyes on you; observing the way your hips are desperately buckling up, the way your thighs are twitching.

“so mean…” you whine as ellie flicks and rolls her tongue against your underwear.

“did you want something?” ellie blinks. again with the coyness. you scowl and ellie grins in return.

“you can’t outdo the do-er, babe.” she chirps, pulling the drenched underwear off your legs. she opens your legs wide, staring at your pussy like it’s the best piece of artwork she’s ever seen. you can practically see sparkles in her eyes. you shiver when you feel her fingers pry your cunt open.

“so fucking hungry for you…” she whispers, her breathing shallow and her eyes glazed-over. she gets to work immediately, a firm trail up your vulva before kissing it with her lips. a fleshed moan doesn’t fail to escape your own lips, as your eyes flutter shut. of course she’d be good at this.

ellie moans too, gripping your thighs and pulling you closer, burying her face in between your legs as she goes to town on you. she’s moving like she’s starving, like she hasn’t eaten for weeks and has been presented with a banquet.

her lips tug at your folds, your pussy slick with a mixture of your arousal and her spit. every single time her lips hit your clit it elicits yet another strong reaction from you. she’s so vigilant that she’s quick to notice that that’s your most delicate spot, so she abuses it; kissing it and pulling on it, her head shaking as she pleases you with her tongue. you nourish her with hushed praises: ones like “yes, yes…” or “you’re doing so good” to keep her going. it fuels ellie like no other, and drives her to go harder, a little faster.

her movements are so consistent and perfect that you could froth in the mouth right here and now. you grip her hair tightly, and ellie adores it: groaning happily when you squeeze too tight. you mindlessly push ellie’s head closer to your pussy, feeling the tip of her nose buried in. your moans begin to crescendo. you’re in fucking ecstasy.

“getting close, are we?” ellie pants, her thumb rubbing your clit in slow, teasing drags as she resumes sucking on your cunt.

“i’m gonna cum… i’m cumming… e-ellie…” you babble, tears threatening to pour; and it isn’t just the eye tears we’re talking about here…

“yeah? you gonna let yourself go?” ellie stares up at you, her voice a little higher and breathier. her face is warped into one of pleasure, like she’s the one being fucked.

“yeah… please ellie, i’m really close…” you whine: barely coherent, light tears streaming down your face. ellie chuckles at how adorable you look, taking a second to appreciate how good you look when needy. she dives back in, her nails digging into your thigh as her mouth moves with the perfect vigour to push you off the edge. and oh, you do.

one last strong lick gets you off: your spine bending backwards, same as your head as you let out a strangled scream. you grip her hair tightly, your eyes momentarily rolling to the back of your head as ellie purposely continues to extend the high a little bit. eventually, she pulls back. the both are you are completely out of breath - huffing and panting like dogs.

you slump back in your chair, completely out of it and in a daze. ellie smiles.

“you okay?” she murmurs, appreciating your cute, spent look. you nod quietly in response.

“fuck, my knees.” she mumbles, before sitting back and stretching them. you laugh a little.

“there was no need for the chair.” you reply.

“i know… but i wanted to. it was hot.”

“it was.” you smile. you’re glad you decided to get dolled up for your story tonight.

a/n: i’m back! i’ve been so caught up in school that i haven’t been able to post fics as much but i’ll try 2 be more active :33 i’m absolutely obsessed with billie’s lunch so i made an ellie fic based off of it. hope u enjoyed and if u have any requests leave them in the ask inbox !!!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Soft Spot

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Alpine is determined to gain access to your room while you are resting.

Warnings: Bucky’s conversation with a cat lol; Bucky being jealous of a cat; fluff; feelings; Bucky is a sweetheart

Author’s Note: I just needed to write a little something and this came out. Hope you enjoy! Also, I probably will be posting the next chapter of like a Phoenix tomorrow. This is a part of a series with a loose timeline, but you can also read this as a stand alone. Hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“Nah, Alp, c’mon now.”

Bucky sets his mug of tea down on the kitchen counter with a quiet clink - he never used to drink tea before moving in with you, but living with you changed that.

The little white kitten Bucky and you adopted from the shelter a few months ago paws insistently at your bedroom door, tiny claws scratching against the wood. She lets out a sharp, impatient mewl.

Bucky sighs, before striding over to her hurriedly and scooping the little ball of fluff into his arms before she can make more of a racket.

“Alpine,” he warns, almost too firmly considering he is talking to a cat. “Cut it out, yeah? You’re gonna wake her up.”

The kitten wiggles in his hold, clearly unimpressed. She meows again. Loud. Indignant. Bucky huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head and scratching her behind her ear.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, glancing at the closed door to your room. “Ya miss her. But she’s had a rough couple weeks, alright? Stress n' exams, you know, the whole damn deal. She needs the rest. Can’t have you climbin’ all over her like the little menace you are.”

Alpine stares at him with those big blue eyes, as if she understands every word but refuses to accept the reasoning. Another sharp meow, this time more of a protest.

Bucky sighs dramatically, shifting her into one arm and rubbing her chin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t gimme that look. I ain’t the bad guy here, buddy. Just tryna let her sleep.”

Alpine doesn’t seem to hear a word.

Before Bucky can react, the little furball twists her tiny body and slips right out of his grasp, landing softly on the floor.

In an instant, she is back at your bedroom door, paws crawling, tail flicking, and meowing like she is under torture.

Bucky groans quietly, dragging his hand down his face. “Jesus.” He crouches down, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches her.

He reaches out, rubbing slow and soothing circles on her soft white fur. “You just wanna be near her, huh, girl?” His voice is softer now. He sighs, deep and heavy, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I get that.”

Because Alpine loves you. She doesn’t hide it - follows you everywhere, curls up in your lap, meows until you give her attention. She’s got no hesitation when it comes to showing how much she adores you.

And that is what Bucky envies.

Because Bucky loves you too. He just can’t show his affection that outright. He’s your best friend. Your roommate. And that’s the part that stings.

He would do anything for being able to show you how much he adores you without crossing the line he is afraid to.

His chest tightens long enough for him to really feel the ache and he stands up, exhaling through his nose with a resigned breath.

“Alright, you little punk,” he mutters, shaking his head as Alpine turns those blue eyes back up to him. Expectant.

Slowly, he reaches for the door handle, giving the kitten another warning glare. “Just for a quick visit, yeah? No bouncin’ on her. No wakin’ her up, got it?”

Alpine meows.

Bucky huffs, pushing the door open carefully.

The small cat whooshes past Bucky the second the door cracks open, a blur of white fur darting straight for your bed. He barely stops himself from calling out, biting back a curse as he runs a frustrated hand down his face.

Damn cat’s got a one-track mind.

But he can’t really blame her. You’re on his mind probably even more often.

He steps inside, deliberately avoiding the creaky floorboards. He’s been in your room often enough to have memorized them by now.

Alpine reaches your face and bumps her small head against yours with a high chirp before rubbing along your cheek.

You don’t stir in your sleep.

Curled up on your side toward the direction of the door, hands tucked near your face, you’re completely dead to the world, your breaths slow and even.

Bucky guesses the stress from the last weeks must have finally caught up to you because you don’t even twitch when Alpine starts licking at your fingers.

“Alpine,” he whisper-yells, stepping closer, ready to scoop the little cat up and drag her outside before she wakes you.

But Alpine starts to circle, once, then again, before settling right against your hip, tucking herself into a comfortable little ball. She lets out a soft, contented sigh.

Bucky stops in his tracks, hands on his hips, shaking his head with an amused smirk on his lips.

“You’ve got no idea how jealous you’re makin’ me right now, Alp.”

Something tugs and turns in his chest, watching the way you sleep so peacefully, completely unaware of anything. Of how easy it is for Alpine to curl up against you and claim you like it’s the most natural thing to do.

He lets out a breath, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Alright,” he utters in a whisper. “Guess I’ll just stand here like an idiot while you get all the cuddles.”

Alpine flicks her tail.

Bucky stands there for a moment, arms crossed loosely over his chest, just watching you.

The way your brows are at ease, your face soft and relaxed - peaceful and serene in a way he hasn’t seen in too damn long.

And oh how it calms something deep inside him.

The past few weeks had been brutal on you. It was a mess of late nights, long assignments, and that damn stubborn streak of yours keeping you from slowing down, no matter how many times he told you to.

You pushed yourself too hard - always do - and every time it drives him up the wall.

He hates seeing you stressed and he did what he could. Brought you tea, draped blankets over your shoulders when you were too caught up in your work to notice the chill. Left food by your side when he knew you’d forgotten to eat.

And you accepted it all - gave him those sweet little smiles accompanied by a thanks, Buck in that soft voice of yours that always knocks the wind out of him - but you never really listened.

Never listened when he told you that pushing past exhaustion isn’t the solution. That not having a clear head is worse than not being prepared at all.

But now you are finally resting.

For the first time in what feels like months, you are letting yourself breathe.

And Bucky feels like a weight is falling off his shoulders, a tension he was gripping finally loosening.

He exhales a deep, relieved sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

Alpine stirs slightly at your hip but stays balled up, her soft purring filling the room beside your deep breaths.

It’s then that Bucky notices the book half-tucked against your arm. You must have been reading before finally crashing, trying to quiet your mind enough to let yourself sleep.

He steps closer, cautiously, eyes flickering to your face to make sure you don’t wake up.

For a second, he worries it’s one of your damn textbooks - because if you fell asleep studying for god knows what now, he is going to have to give you some words.

But as he leans over you slightly, fingers brushing the covers and gently pulling it away from your arm, he lets out a pleased breath. Just a novel. Good.

He carefully marks the page, folds the book shut, and sets it on your nightstand.

Bucky straightens, and he knows he should walk back out - really, he should - but his eyes stay on you a little longer. He almost feels like some kinda creep just standing here, watching. But hell, he can’t help it.

You look so damn adorable with your little pout. So damn beautiful with your hair falling just so, features so soft, color in your cheeks.

His breath hitches unintentionally and his pulse skips, his heart only a trembling thing in his chest.

Taking in a deep breath, he takes a hold of your blanket and gradually tugs it up over your shoulders, up to your chin.

The fact that Alpine gets dragged along with it and the grumpy chirp she lets out gets ignored by him. She glares at him in annoyance but does not move from her spot.

“Mhm… Buck…?”

Your voice is thick with sleep, soft and drowsy, and it nearly knocks Bucky off balance. Literally. His foot catches on the floor and he stumbles slightly, heart lurching in his chest like the idiot he is.

His gaze snaps to your face. You blink up at him, slow and unfocused, brows scrunching in confusion. Eyes half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, your voice slurring slightly.

Jesus. You’re so damn cute like this.

Bucky clears his throat, forcing himself to school his expression. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos in a whisper, gentle and soothing. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He shoots Alpine a pointed look, but the cat, as usual, doesn’t seem to give a damn.

You shift slightly, nestling deeper into the sheets, eyes fluttering shut again. Without thinking, Bucky brushes his hand through your hair, over your cheek in slow and soothing motions to coax you back into sleep.

You hum in contentment. That little sound does something to him, settling deep within him.

And hell - if his heart doesn’t clench at the sight of you like this. So soft, so sweet, so damn beautiful it hurts.

A lightness swells beneath his ribs. An airy flutter dances.

He focuses on the way your breathing evens out, the way your body melts back into the bed.

And when he’s sure you’ve slipped under again, Bucky lets himself lean down, lips ghosting over your temple in the lightest of touches, giving you a soft kiss. He lingers just a second, long enough to whisper against your skin, voice barely more than a breath.

“Sleep tight, doll. You better dream of me.”

And with one last glance, so full of longing, he forces himself to pull away. He lets Alpine stay with you, despite the fact that he wants to be the one who gets to do that.

But he slips out of the room as quietly as he can, shutting the door behind him with a faint click. Leaving with you the racing of his heart you caused and the ache of something he isn’t sure he’ll ever have the guts to say out loud.

“Her, because she makes life poetry, she turns every bit of it into art.”

- butterflies rising