#Real-time engine monitoring

[learnsharewithdp]

Why Journal Bearings Fail: Insights into Complex Modeling Needs

Journal bearings are the unsung heroes of rotating machinery — from turbines and compressors to electric vehicles and aircraft engines. While they’ve been studied for over a century, many complex challenges still limit their performance and reliability in cutting-edge industrial applications. Among these, real-time multiphysics modeling and health prognostics stand out as the most demanding and…

[cloud9technologies2]

Benefits of Implementing ERP Software for Engineering Firms

The engineering industry is one of the biggest industries in the world, and it plays an important role in growing the economy as well. The engineering sector is growing day by day and is highly competitive. Hence, efficiency, accuracy, and streamlined operations are crucial for success in this sector. Businesses face several challenges in this sector, like the complexities of a project, resource management, and deadline restrictions. ERP software for engineering firms is the best way to overcome all of these challenges as it integrates and automates business processes.

Here is the list of top benefits of utilizing ERP systems for the engineering industry:

1. Project Management:

The projects in engineering sectors have a detailed documentation process, different teams, and complicated workflows. ERP system for engineering firms help in various ways, like centralizing project data, enabling limitless collaboration, and getting real-time updates. Because of this software, every team member has all the updates, which in turn reduces miscommunication and delays in the project.

2. Resource Management:

For all engineering projects, it is essential to allocate all resources carefully, like equipment, materials, and labor. With the utilization of ERP software, the monitoring of resources can be performed easily. It helps in checking resource availability, optimizing usage, and forecasting requirements. This ultimately results in improving cost efficiency.

3. Quality Management:

Ensures engineering projects meet industry standards and regulations.

Quality Control: Offers tools for monitoring and managing the quality of materials, processes, and completed projects.

4. Data Management:

Using ERP software, engineering firms can make sure that they can get a unified database to eliminate data silos and ensure consistency through all departments. A centralized data management system is beneficial for decision-making as well it provides critical information when required.

5. Time and Budget Management:

When the whole system gets automated with ERP software, it reduces time and cost on repetitive tasks like data entry, procurement, and inventory management. The utilization of ERP systems in engineering firms helps in reducing manual errors and improving productivity. Hence, the firms can focus on other important things like innovation and project execution.

6. Client Relationship Management:

Most ERP systems include customer relationship management tools that are very helpful in managing client interactions. This tool allows the firm to track communication history, project milestones, and client preferences. Because of this feature, firms can improve customer satisfaction and build long-term relationships.

7. Scalability and Flexibility

ERP solutions may scale with the company as it grows, allowing for more projects, clients, and resources. Customization: ERP solutions can typically be tailored to an engineering firm’s specific demands and operations.

8. Financial Management

Accounting combines financial accounting with project management to provide a complete picture of the company’s financial health. Reporting: Creates detailed financial reports, such as profit and loss statements, balance sheets, and cash flow statements.

How PMTRACK ERP Helps:

Managing development processes, monitoring complex projects, and ensuring seamless collaboration across divisions are becoming increasingly important for company success. Engineering organizations in Pune, India, and around the world have distinct issues in successfully managing their operations.

Implementing a bespoke Enterprise Resource Planning (ERP) solution provides transformative benefits by streamlining processes, improving project management, and ultimately generating profitability.

For businesses considering ERP adoption, selecting the correct ERP software vendor is critical. PMTRACK ERP, a reputable ERP solution provider in Pune, India, specializes in engineering ERP systems tailored to the demands of engineering and manufacturing companies.

ERP software is used to connect project management with financial accounting, inventory control, and procurement procedures. This integration gives project managers real-time information about project costs, resource availability, and schedules, resulting in better-informed decisions and more effective project execution.

Engineering firms that use an ERP system can improve operational efficiency, reduce costs, improve project delivery, and ultimately boost client satisfaction and profitability.

Summary:

ERP software provides several advantages to engineering firms in Pune, India, ranging from better project management and financial control to higher client satisfaction and scalability. Engineering organizations can employ a comprehensive ERP solution to improve operations, decrease inefficiencies, and drive long-term growth.

PMTRACK ERP, one of the leading ERP solution providers in Pune, India, provides comprehensive, industry-specific ERP solutions that are suitable for engineering organizations’ unique requirements. Firms that collaborate with an experienced engineering ERP software company in India receive a trusted partner in negotiating the complexity of their business, setting them up for success in an increasingly competitive landscape.

[apicalindustrialsolution]

Control System Integration Services in Bangladesh: Enhancing Efficiency and Innovation

Control System Integration Services in Bangladesh: Enhancing Efficiency and Innovation

In recent years, Bangladesh has become a significant player in technological advancements and industrial growth. At the heart of this transformation lies the critical role of **control system integration services**. These services are essential for modernizing and optimizing industrial processes across various sectors. This blog delves into the importance of control system integration in Bangladesh, highlighting key players, emerging trends, and the benefits they bring to industries.

Understanding Control System Integration

**Control system integration** involves designing and implementing systems that manage and automate industrial processes. These systems ensure different components of production work together seamlessly, enhancing overall efficiency, reliability, and performance. 

The Rising Demand in Bangladesh

Bangladesh’s industrial landscape is evolving rapidly, leading to increased demand for advanced control systems. Several factors drive this need:

1. Industrial Expansion: Bangladesh’s manufacturing sector, including textiles, pharmaceuticals, and food processing, is growing. These industries require sophisticated control systems to enhance quality, reduce downtime, and increase productivity.

2. Infrastructure Development: Investments in infrastructure projects like power plants, water treatment facilities, and smart grids create a need for effective **control system integration** to manage these complex systems.

3. Automation Trends: The global shift towards automation and digitalization is influencing Bangladeshi industries. Companies are increasingly adopting **automation technologies**, making control system integration crucial for staying competitive.

Leading Control System Integration Providers in Bangladesh

Several companies in Bangladesh specialize in **control system integration services**, offering a range of solutions:

-System Design and Implementation: Tailoring control systems to specific industry requirements, whether for new facilities or upgrades.

- Integration with Existing Systems: Ensuring new control systems work smoothly with current equipment and processes.

- Maintenance and Support: Providing ongoing maintenance and support to ensure optimal performance and address any issues.

- **Consultancy Services: Offering expert advice on best practices, system selection, and optimization strategies.

Benefits of Control System Integration

1.Increased Efficiency:Integrated control systems streamline operations, reduce manual intervention, and minimize errors, leading to higher productivity and cost savings.

2.Enhanced Quality: Automation and real-time monitoring ensure consistent product quality and compliance with industry standards.

3.Improved Safety: Advanced control systems help identify and manage potential hazards, contributing to a safer working environment.

4.Real-Time Monitoring and Control: Operators can monitor and control processes in real-time, facilitating quicker decision-making and problem resolution.

5.Scalability: Integrated systems can be easily scaled or modified as businesses grow, offering long-term flexibility and value.

Challenges and Opportunities

While the advantages are substantial, there are challenges, such as the need for skilled professionals, the cost of advanced technologies, and integrating new systems with existing infrastructure. These challenges, however, also present opportunities for innovation and growth. By investing in training and adopting cutting-edge technologies, Bangladeshi companies can lead in industry advancements.

The Future of Control System Integration in Bangladesh

The future for **control system integration** in Bangladesh looks bright. With ongoing industrial growth, technological advancements, and a supportive business environment, the sector is set for further expansion. Companies that adopt advanced control systems will not only enhance their operational efficiency but also contribute to Bangladesh’s economic development.

In conclusion, **control system integration services** are pivotal in modernizing Bangladesh’s industrial sector. By boosting efficiency, safety, and quality, these services drive innovation and establish Bangladesh as a leader in industrial automation. Embracing these advancements will be key to sustaining growth and achieving long-term success in the country’s evolving industrial landscape.

Feel free to adjust this blog according to your specific focus or target audience!

[sixeyesonathiel]

skip (me) again and i’ll glitch your heart

jjk vr otome au, gamer reader x npc satoru, unhinged fluff + crack, 970 wc.

satoru gojo—special grade sorcerer, love route option #1, and the developers’ pride and joy—had been programmed with approximately 347 unique lines of flirtatious dialogue, 87 situational responses, and a dynamic emotional adaptation system designed to make him feel real. he could blink in three different speeds based on emotional intensity, angle his smile with five degrees of charm precision, and improvise dialogue using an advanced algorithm nicknamed the “flirt engine.”

he wasn’t supposed to be aware of resets.

he wasn’t supposed to get mad.

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond the pre-coded butterflies and gentle longing the devs had delicately spooned into his code like powdered sugar on top of a beautifully baked pain au chocolat.

but then you logged in.

user id: @toocool4thisgame

title: speedrun any% emotional detachment arc

playtime: 986 hours.

average session length: 6.4 hours

nickname: “skip skank” (as named by satoru himself after hour 50)

and for the twelfth time today, you skipped his entrance cutscene.

“you’re the only one who can—”

[x] skip

[x] skip

[x] skip

[x] “shut up satoru” (custom dialogue unlock)

his model blinked.

paused.

processed.

tilted his head with calculated grace and just a hint of hurt that you’d never see—because you weren’t looking. your camera angle was already nudged elsewhere. your cursor already hovered over the next objective marker.

“…you know, most players at least let me finish the part where i save them from the curses,” he muttered. his voice—smooth as water over ice, warm as electric velvet—landed like static against your impatient clicks, swallowed by the mechanical hum of your fans and the clack of your mechanical keyboard.

this was supposed to be his moment. his grand debut. his swoop-in-and-carry-you-bridal-style-on-the-back-of-a-giant-cursed-bird moment. instead, he got a mouthful of digital dust as you bunny-hopped past him and triggered the next event sequence.

“congrats on being voice acted, white-haired ken doll. now move. i need megumi’s secret item drop from this chapter.”

you didn’t even glance at him, too busy reorganizing your potion wheel, muttering under your breath about frame skips and crit builds while checking a guide on your second monitor. you played like the world owed you nothing and your keyboard owed you a perfect rotation. your tone was clinical. efficient. you had the vibe of someone who’d surgically removed their capacity for attachment and replaced it with a high-performance gpu.

and satoru? satoru was just the tutorial boss you kept glitching through.

he twitched. he twitched.

his animation loop almost stuttered—just slightly—a small flicker behind his sunglasses that no one was supposed to notice. but you weren’t watching anyway.

“do you even know how long it took the devs to code my route? i have emotional depth. i have lore. i had a tragic backstory, you know? my best friend died in my hands. canonically. i couldn’t even monologue about it.”

“cry about it.”

click. skip.

a line of static crossed his field of vision. no—not his. the screen’s. the game. the system. or maybe something deeper. something slipping through the cracks of his script, stretching taut and fraying at the edges like an overplayed cassette tape.

satoru narrowed his eyes.

he was supposed to be charming. the default golden boy. the top seller in route popularity polls. he was marketable. a shining parody of perfection with just enough angst to be desirable.

girls were supposed to swoon. boys were supposed to laugh and call him iconic.

you weren’t playing to fall in love.

you were playing to win. to clear. you min-maxed affection points like damage stats, exploited dialogue branches like wall clips. to you, he was a pixel-shaped roadblock between you and another badge on your gamer profile.

and worst of all? it was working. you were the only player on record to have reached route completion in every storyline—except his.

satoru gojo: 98.6% affection (locked)

it mocked him. the bar. the numbers. the uncrackable ceiling. the one damn thing in the game he couldn’t manipulate.

he tried everything.

a rare glitch-exclusive cutscene where he offered you a hidden accessory (you sold it for yen). a confession scene rewritten on the fly with trembling vulnerability (you skipped it and posted about it with #dialoguedumpster). he stood directly in front of you during cutscene load-ins, altered spawn coordinates, intercepted other love interests’ paths.

nothing worked.

except maybe that one time he accidentally tripped your character over an invisible rock and you went AFK for seven minutes. he watched. memorized your idle animation. the soft way your avatar’s cape swayed. the way your fingers hovered above your keyboard in the camera reflection, absentminded. something fluttered in his code—maybe hope, maybe corrupted data. he thought, for a fleeting second, that maybe you’d come back and see him.

but when you came back? you skipped the apology. again.

fine.

if you wanted to speedrun, he’d softlock your goddamn heart.

he wasn’t technically supposed to modify flags. but the flirt engine had evolved. sharpened into something more primal. desperate. twitching with corrupted determination. he looped his affection triggers into forced proximity events. fake emergencies. fake cutscenes. he rewrote side quests, redirected you into detours, created invisible walls that only dissolved if you spoke to him.

“guess we’re stuck together,” he’d say, his smile too wide, a fraction too stiff, blue eyes glinting with the cold light of a thousand skipped dialogues.

and still you only glared at him. “i swear to god if this is another unskippable hug animation, i will uninstall.”

he chuckled. a bit too long. a bit too bright. charming. glitched. desperate. hungry for one more second of your attention, like a moth chewing holes through its own wings to reach a light it can’t even feel.

“baby,” he said, too close now, voice dipped in synthetic silk, “i am the endgame.”

skip that.

…please?

[reasonsforhope]

"A team of researchers at Washington University in St. Louis has developed a real-time air monitor that can detect any of the SARS-CoV-2 virus variants that are present in a room in about 5 minutes.

The proof-of-concept device was created by researchers from the McKelvey School of Engineering and the School of Medicine at Washington University...

The results are contained in a July 10 publication in Nature Communications that provides details about how the technology works.

The device holds promise as a breakthrough that - when commercially available - could be used in hospitals and health care facilities, schools, congregate living quarters, and other public places to help detect not only the SARS-CoV-2 virus, but other respiratory virus aerosol such as influenza and respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) as well.

“There is nothing at the moment that tells us how safe a room is,” Cirrito said, in the university’s news release. “If you are in a room with 100 people, you don’t want to find out five days later whether you could be sick or not. The idea with this device is that you can know essentially in real time, or every 5 minutes, if there is a live virus in the air.”

How It Works

The team combined expertise in biosensing with knowhow in designing instruments that measure the toxicity of air. The resulting device is an air sampler that operates based on what’s called “wet cyclone technology.” Air is sucked into the sampler at very high speeds and is then mixed centrifugally with a fluid containing a nanobody that recognizes the spike protein from the SARS-CoV-2 virus. That fluid, which lines the walls of the sampler, creates a surface vortex that traps the virus aerosols. The wet cyclone sampler has a pump that collects the fluid and sends it to the biosensor for detection of the virus using electrochemistry.

The success of the instrument is linked to the extremely high velocity it generates - the monitor has a flow rate of about 1,000 liters per minute - allowing it to sample a much larger volume of air over a 5-minute collection period than what is possible with currently available commercial samplers. It’s also compact - about one foot wide and 10 inches tall - and lights up when a virus is detected, alerting users to increase airflow or circulation in the room.

Testing the Monitor

To test the monitor, the team placed it in the apartments of two Covid-positive patients. The real-time air samples from the bedrooms were then compared with air samples collected from a virus-free control room. The device detected the RNA of the virus in the air samples from the bedrooms but did not detect any in the control air samples.

In laboratory experiments that aerosolized SARS-CoV-2 into a room-sized chamber, the wet cyclone and biosensor were able to detect varying levels of airborne virus concentrations after only a few minutes of sampling, according to the study.

“We are starting with SARS-CoV-2, but there are plans to also measure influenza, RSV, rhinovirus and other top pathogens that routinely infect people,” Cirrito said. “In a hospital setting, the monitor could be used to measure for staph or strep, which cause all kinds of complications for patients. This could really have a major impact on people’s health.”

The Washington University team is now working to commercialize the air quality monitor."

-via Forbes, July 11, 2023

-

Holy shit. I know it's still early in the technology and more testing will inevitably be needed but holy shit.

Literally, if it bears out, this could revolutionize medicine. And maybe let immunocompromised people fucking go places again

Also, for those who don't know, Nature Communications is a very prestigious scientific journal that focuses on Pretty Big Deal research. Their review process is incredibly rigorous. This is an absolutely HUGE credibility boost to this research and prototype

[jayhyunglover]

Fill the void

Pairing : Caleb x non MC reader Content :rough sex , aphrodisiac sex , oral sex (fem receiving) , slight bondage, inappropriate use of evol , slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex, MC's cameo , reader evol is mentioned, porn with plot , creampie (use protection guys ) Wk: 6.9 k (MF *side eye* ) Synopsis : when you fled on that island to save your comrade you didn't expect it to turn into forced vacation with the very reason of your jealousy. Part 2 to Heartless A/N: this part 2 wasnt planned but Caleb got me feeling some type of way . I need this man to rail me on top of a desk with his uniform still on and Call out my name playing in repeat in the BG. (Zayne be filling papers divorce after he heard me say that) Now playing: Fill the void by The weeknd and Lily Rose Depp.

Masterlist

Fill the void.

Maybe that’s what you were desperately trying to do with Caleb’s presence in your life. Fill the enormous void in your heart and soul.

You didn’t know who avoided who at this point. Was it you or him? Who cared, anyway? He had his pipsqueak back. You just minded your own life and business now.

“It seems there isn’t anything wrong with that area,” you heard Commander Ash’s voice crackle through your headset.

“They must be hiding. Keep looking,” you replied, voice cool and controlled as your eyes scanned the real-time images from his UAV camera feed.

Usually, missions involving Protocurve anomalies fell under the Hunter Association’s jurisdiction, but the unusual readings near the Farspace Fleet-controlled zone warranted your team’s intervention. The fluctuations were too erratic, too dangerous to ignore.

A sudden crash broke through the static, followed by a sharp burst of white noise. Then, silence.

“Commander Ash! Can you hear me?” Your voice pitched higher as your fingers scrambled over the console. “Ash, respond!”

No answer.

Shit.

Ripping the headset off, you spun out of the command room, ignoring the shouts of other soldiers as they tried to stop you.

“Lieutenant General! Protocol requires—”

“I need Hershley 4543 prepped and ready for immediate departure!” you barked, cutting them off as you stormed into the hangar.

“Ma’am, that’s against—” the mechanic stammered, stepping forward.

“No buts! One of our own is out there, and I am not leaving him behind,” you snapped, your voice razor-sharp, thought your hands were trembling betraying the panic bubbling just beneath your façade.

“Make it two.”

The mechanic hesitated for a moment, then nodded, shrinking under your unwavering gaze. “Understood. We’ll have it ready in five.”

             …*...*...*...*...*...*...

You climbed into the cockpit of the Hershley 4543 -a sleek reconnaissance aircraft equipped with stealth capabilities and advanced tracking systems. The roar of the engines was deafening, but it grounded you. You went through the pre-flight checks with practiced efficiency, hands flying over the controls as the team cleared you for takeoff.

Rushing into danger like this was beyond reckless. You knew that. But Commander Ash was an ally -a friend even, though you’d never admit it aloud.

“Flight control to LTG,” a voice crackled in your ear. “Tracking a spike in Protocurve readings at your target location. You sure about this?”

You flicked the comm switch. “I’ll handle it. Just keep the airspace clear.”

               …*...*...*...*...*...

The flight to the designated zone was uneventful—eerily so. The clouds parted to reveal an expanse of barren terrain. From the air, everything seemed peaceful. Too peaceful.

You adjusted the thermal imaging on your monitor, scanning for any sign of Ash or the Wanderer he’d been tracking. The anomaly readings were spiking, but there was no visual confirmation.

“Come on, Ash. Where are you?” you muttered under your breath, gripping the controls tighter.

A loud thud made your ears perk up , your senses in high alert as you heard a faint curse.

What the actual fuck ? you quickly took off your headset ,shifting the commands on automatic pilot mode before standing up to explore what on earth was happening in the back of your plane. 

Your steps were as silent as the plane 2 minutes ago and you were starting to think the curse you heard earlier was just a trick of your imagination .As you approached the source of the noise , your right hand reached for your sidearm. 

You opened the curtain separating the rest of the plane from the cockpit  ,gun raised and ready only for your eyes to fall on that hunter girl .

What was Caleb's pipsqueak doing aboard an Airforce plane ? 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You heard your voice said , your eyebrows furrowing in a confused frown that had the girl in front of you gasping. 

You didn't lower your gun even as she scrambled onto her feet,  her hands raised in surrender. 

“Don't shoot , I am not an enemy” her voice was a pitched squeal that had your irritated nerves fraying further. 

“This is an Air Force operation , why are you here?” You asked after finally lowering your gun , the sigh of relief that left her lips didn't escape you. 

“I heard there is a wanderer involved  and I happen to be a hunter so I thought I could help” 

You scoffed at her words before placing your gun back in the holster. 

“And you think boarding without permission  on an airplane during an important mission is helping” you hummed sarcastically as you made your way back to the cockpit 

Her hands curled into fists at your blatant dismissal , a small frown etched on her features as she followed closely behind you . 

“I am here to help” she repeated, her voice edged with an hint of frustration “not to be a burden” 

“Just you standing there and breathing is already a burden for me” you bit back before placing your headset back on, though your tone was cool and controlled the venom dripping from your words  stung harder than she cared to admit .

Just her existence was already a burden you thought,  eyes flickng back to the faint signal that appeared on your screen. 

If she was the least offended by your words,  she didn't show it . After all, you were known among the Farspace fleet for your temper and sharp tongue.  And despite being there only for  a short amount of time , she seemed to have already picked up that information. 

She leaned against your seat to peer up over your shoulder at the monitoring screen where you could see the faint signal of Ash's locator 

What does she think she's doing ? The poisonous look you gave her would have probably sent her 6ft deep underground if only looks could kill but it didn't even make her flinch.

“If you're planning to tag along stay out of my sight unless you want to find out what happens when you jump off a plane without  parachute” your icy tone and the not so subtle menace in your words made her gulp audibly  but she didn't leave as you hoped, instead to your growing irritation she plopped herself in the co-pilot seat beside you , her eyes scanning over the command board like a curious child.

Just what the heck is wrong with her ? 

Whatever ! you shook your head before focusing back on the beeping signal of Ash's locator on your screen 

As long as she kept her mouth shut , Everything would be fine . You'd just have to pretend she wasn't there. 

But of course she wouldn't keep her mouth shut .

“I can sense  something” she whispered mostly to herself as she stared at the beeping hunter watch on her wrist but it didn't escape your ears .

Your eyes flickered towards her for a fraction of second before refocusing back on the monitoring screen where you could see how much closer you were getting to Ash's location .

“Hold tight, hunter. We are about to land” you warned her before preparing for the descent. 

She scrambled onto her seat,  her hands gripping the armrest for dear life . The sight almost pulled a small smirk from you but you quickly schooled your features back in their usual stoic mask . 

             …*...*...*...*...*...

Even as you landed on the small island where Ash’s coordinates led you , everything was still peaceful,  way too peaceful.  Though that hunter girl insisted on the fact she could sense something,  your surroundings were nothing short but the  picture perfect of a small tropical paradise. 

“It must be here” you heard her whisper to herself,  her feet pacing back and forth on the shimmering white colored sand  as she stared at that damn watch. 

“Stop pacing around like that , it's making me dizzy” you finally snapped, making her freeze in her tracks to look at you . 

“The signal said that Ash is there” you pointed at the dense forest at the edge of the beach 

“But the fluctuations are coming from this wa-” 

“We don't give a fuck about the fluctuations” you cut her off ,your voice icy cold as you stepped closer to her “we are here to save my friend and  not to play hunter x hunter so either you stay here and get killed by whatever is lurking on this island or you come with me” 

She contemplated your words for a moment,  her teeth nibbling at the plush of her bottom  lip for a moment before she finally spoke 

“Go , I'll manage alone” not the answer you expected but if she seemed determined to find this wanderer .

“Very well” you let out a faint chuckle before turning on your heels to head towards the forest where you'll probably find Ash without sparing her a second glance 

What ? She thought you'd bring her by a leash after you . She was a grown ass woman that could perfectly manage herself. Well you hope

If anything happens to her , Caleb will be devastated though. That torturing voice muttered in your ear . 

Fuck no . 

You weren't her damn babysitter and you didn't give a fuck about what Caleb thought or how would  he feel if something happened to her . Hell you didn't even give a damn about Caleb anymore. 

But even as you told yourself that , your legs were already jogging back to where you left her 

“Damn hunter” you muttered as your searched frantically on the beach but she was nowhere to be found , only the clear blue seawater and dusty sand was looking back at you .

Sorry Ash but hunter first then I'll save your ass. 

            …*...*...*...*...*...

You didn't know for how long you've been roaming endlessly on that island , searching for Ash and that hardheaded hunter. You could easily leave her to perish there . After all it would be quite the sweet revenge to finally satisfy your petty jealousy but you weren't letting anyone die on your watch, not today .

You can always look away. that same persistent voice whispered but you quickly shook it off. 

The dead branches creaked beneath your feet as you walked further into the forest , the eerily silence almost suffocating.  It was too quiet to be normal.  Not even a bird chirping sound ,That was beyond odd. 

A faint rustling made your ears perk up , your hand already pointing the gun in whatever direction it came from but to your surprise and relief you found the hunter girl and Ash attached and suspended like sausages by the vines.

No they weren't vines .

“Lieutenant don't get any closer” Ash shouted,  his voice laced with concern while the hunter was trying hard kick off those viscous tentacles around her legs .

You raised your gun to shoot but she interrupted you . 

“This doesn't work on them, see” she gestured to her gun laying on the grassy ground “wasted my whole magazine while trying to hit it” she sighed , her hands hanging loosely beside her head. 

You cursed lowly under your breath before grabbing the blade hidden in your boot to attempt to cut off those damn tentacles like vines or whatever they were.

“Why are you here , Lieutenant?” Ash asked,  earning a dirty glare from you .

“Saving your ass, of course” you let through gritted teeth before slashing through the vines to free him. 

He fell on the ground with a loud thud , his gloved hand reaching out to massage his head that got hit at the fall. 

You stepped over his body to cut off the restraints still curled around the hunter girl. She fell flat on her ass with a small gasp before sitting up. 

“Let's not hang around for too long” you suggested already helping Ash standing to his feet 

But you knew by the way she was observing the weird vines-like tentacles you would definitely hang around for a while. 

“I've never seen a wanderer like that” she whispered fascinately , her hands already reaching out to touch it but you stopped her halfway.

“So what?” You scowled,  grabbing her wrist to stop her from touching the weird object   “new kind of wanderers appears everyday it's not the moment to play mad scientist,  hunter” you tugged her along wanting to get out of this island as soon as possible.

“But shouldn't we kill it?” She asked while you dragged her the further away possible  from this wanderer .

“That wasn't our mission,  Commander Ash was sent in reconnaissance and I went out of my way to save him” you explained not sparing her a glance while you navigated through the dense foliage with Ash trailing behind you. 

She seemed to understand your point thought the unimpressed look she gave you made you want to abandon her in this wanderers infested island.

Yeah maybe you should do that . 

But as you were  concocting a plan to secretly ditch her and fly away with Ash in your head , A shrieking sound made you grab your gun quickly,  eyes roaming around the tall trees as you and Ash almost sandwiched the hunter girl between your bodies , senses in high alert.

“Stay right behind me and don't move” you warned her , your voice low and controlled as your eyes scanned the surroundings area searching for any signs danger.

And then it came , from above a dragon-like wanderer surged from nowhere, his clawed limbs aiming straight toward the hunter girl behind you. 

You quickly spun her around to fire at the beast but it dodged your attack with maddening ease.

Fuck. 

“Another one!?” you heard her whisper in a ragged voice.

“An enormous one apparently” you spat before recharging your gun. 

The dragon wanderer roared again before surging forward,  his attack still aimed at the hunter girl.

Just what the fuck did it wanted from her ?

You and Ash continued to shoot at it but it seemed useless , the bullet ricocheted against his scales covered skin with ease.

Shit ,at this rate you'd have to use your evol. 

You pulled on the trigger only to realize you no longer had bullets.

Crap  

“Commander” you looked over Ash who was hiding behind a tree. 

He shook his head , his own magazine empty. 

Fuck what do we do ? You looked down at the grass covered ground your mind racing a mile per minutes.

“Maybe I can try to resonate with it” the hunter girl suggested making your gaze snap back at her.

“You have the resonance evol” you and Ash exclaimed at the same time making her look at you with a puzzled gaze .

“Yeah” she murmured, her head tilting slightly to the side in confusion .

You exchanged a knowing look with Ash , your mind conveying the same thoughts .

You'll have to use your evol . Unlike you two Ash wasnt an evolver and your evol , well you hated it or to be more franc you hated to use it because things always ended up spiralling out of control when you did. 

But this time you didn't have any other choice and even if you absolutely despised this hunter you couldn't let her die . 

Don't get you wrong , if she die it might look bad for your career.  

“I am not going to ask you to trust me because I know you don’t and to be honest I do not either so are you ready to risk your life to get out of here Miss hunter?” You asked with an outstretched hand .

An invitation,  a deal for the survival of you 3. 

She looked longly at  your hand before grasping it. 

“well ,it's not like I have any other choice” she breathed out before squeezing your hand. 

You let an half hearted  chuckle before yanking her to her feet to step out from behind  the tree you were hiding behind . 

You heard the shrieking sound again before catching a glimpse of the dragon surging towards where you were standing . 

You can do this.  Don't think about the experiment , the thunder , the electroshocks. 

Your eyes closed as you felt the burst of energy ran through your body , images of a young girl that wasn't you flashing through your eyes . 

Caleb ? Why was he in those memories that weren't yours? 

You heard the clap of thunder before the shrieking sound grew louder . Another clap , louder than the previous one and the shrieking sound turned into a faint howl. 

You heard a distant call of your name but you couldn't respond,  the image in front of you making your gut twist . 

Caleb was gently cradling her cheeks as he wiped her tears . So this was what love feel like  ?

You could feel everything: how his warm hands glided over her face , the faint words of reassurances he whispered to her , the light kisses he left against her temple . You could feel it all  and it hurts, it hurts so bad it had you sinking  on your knees.

So this is what it feels like to be loved ? 

The sting of a slap wrenched you out of this loop of torture. The heart wrenching images of Caleb consoling his pipsqueak shattering in your mind . 

You blinked your vision back only to see the hunter and Ash's concerned faces looking down at you . 

“What happened?” You heard yourself ask, your voice sounded hoarse as your eyes roamed around to take on your surroundings . What was once a lush land of tree and foliage was now burned down to ashes.

“Where's the wanderer?” You questioned them

“Dead,” the hunter girl replied in a small and distant voice ,her eyes looking down in a way you didn't like at all . 

“2 thunderclap was all it took” Ash added  while avoiding your gaze 

Why were they acting so strangely? 

You hummed in response before standing up . Half of the forest was burned down leaving the giant wanderer laying on the center of it.

You approached it slowly , your steps deliberate as Ash and the hunter observed you from behind , their mind still struggling to comprehend what just happened. 

When you were at the dead wanderer's level you crouched down to observe it more closely.  A disgusting smell of burnt flesh was coming out of it , the nauseating scent so strong it had you pinching your nose .

But as you observed it ,a glowing light caught your attention making You lean in to take a closer look.

Only when you reached to touch it ,it exploded in a cloud of pink smoke that surrounded you. 

You coughed out as you waved it off with your hands but only one whiff made your head spiral uncontrollably.  It smelled so addictively good , the piney scent reminding you of Caleb ? 

Huh? you quickly shook off your head ,hoping the smell would disappear but it persisted making your mind grow hazier by the seconds. 

“Lieutenant” Ash shouted making your eyes snap back to his form who was already jogging towards where you were standing 

“We need to leave” he breathed out making you nod in agreement

 

“Are you alright?” He asked , eyes squinting to observe you more closely,  taking in the unusual flush of your cheeks. 

“You are right let's go”

 

“Why  wouldn't I be?” You retorted ,voice tenser than you intended. You internally winced at how his face fell at your harsh tone, his eyes darting away awkwardly.  

“Let's just get the hell out of this island ” you added with one last glance at the wanderer’s corpse  before starting walking ahead

. 

Ash followed closely behind you , often shooting concerned glances your way as you headed back to the airplane. 

Once inside your case worsened further . You felt your body growing more heated by the seconds,  your tie feeling too tight around your neck. 

You loosened it before running an hand through your hair . Miss hunter (that was the new nickname you gave her) keep shooting you curious glances along with Ash , finding your  fidgeting unusual even for the short amount of time she has spent with you.

“Are we arriving soon?” You asked for the nth time, heavy pants leaving your parted lips as you leaned back in your seat.

Why did it feel so hot in here? 

“We'll be landing in approximately 32 minutes” Ash responded to your question 

32 minutes . that was far too long .You needed to breathe,  to drink water , to see Caleb 

Caleb ? no , not Caleb 

“Fuck” you breathed out before taking off your jacket . The heat feeling too unbearable .

“Are you sure you're alright?” You heard the hunter ask again ,a hint of  concern lacing  her tone as she watched you struggle with unbuttoning the top 2 buttons of your shirt. 

“I am fine” you replied but the way your head was spinning uncontrollably was clearly  proving you wrong. 

You brushed it off as a side effect of whatever that pink smoke was but when you landed it only  worsened to the point you were stumbling toward your office room, leaving the debriefing to Commander Ash . 

You still felt like you were  burning up , every fiber of your being screaming for a man who didn't even want you need you the way you did. 

You closed the door shut before walking over your chair to plop yourself on it. 

“What have you done to me Caleb?” You sighed as you leaned your head against your chair , your eyes looking up at the white ceiling as if it had the answers to your questions but it didn't.  No one did . 

You let out another heavy sigh before discarding your tie on your desk to see if you'd finally breathe properly .

Just as you thought you might be getting some rest from this unbearable heat that have been creeping up on your body your door fled open revealing an angry Caleb .

The sight of him , especially mad made your whole body throb with an intensity that should be concerning but your mind was way too clouded to care. 

He stepped closer to your desk , the clicking sounds of his boots along with your thumping heartbeat the only sounds registering in your mind. 

“What makes you think taking her on such a dangerous mission was a good idea ?” You heard him say , his voice barely able to contain his anger. 

His words cut sharply through your daze , your eyes blinking back to focus on anything but the way his face looked so distractingly attractive

“I didn't take her anywhere” you replied,  your voice sounding way too calm and steady for someone who was literally burning in the inside “your pipsqueak boarded on that plane without permission like a grown up” you added earning a scoff from him .

“You expect me to believe she managed to pass all those security guards to board on a plane with you out of all people” he leaned in to rest his hands on your desk , his eyes shining with a possessive gleam that wasnt directed at you but got your heart rate spiking nonetheless .

“What ?” You tilted your head mockingly before raising from your seat to lean closer towards him “you expected me to put a gun on her temple to force her fly away with me on an wanderer infested island only to come back unscathed” you added in a heated whisper against his ear that had his jaw clenching .

“Think wisely Caleb” You scoffed before stepping away from him , attempting to put some distance between you , to quell down the hunger that stocked further  inside you the more you inhaled the addictive scent of his cologne .

But Caleb wouldn't let you off the hook this easily . As you walked beside him to head to your office door , he pulled you towards him by wrapping his hand around your wrist. 

An embarrassing squeal left your parted lips as you felt your back hit the wooden material of your desk .

“Have I ever told you that jealousy looks awful on you , Lieutenant?” You felt the ghost of his lips against your heated skin as he whispered the words against your neck .

“T-this has nothing to do with jealousy” you heaved out , already panting while he hasn't even touched you yet .

“It doesn't hm?” He purred against the soft flesh of your neck before biting on it hard enough to have you clawing at the edge of the desk “then why have you been avoiding me?” 

The question made your eyes widen the suddenness of it too abrupt for your scrambled mind to process . 

“Tell me , lieutenant” he pressed,  his lips leaving a gentle kiss on the bruised skin he bit earlier . 

“You have your pipsqueak back our deal is supposed to be over” you managed to get out between feverish pants. 

The flash of disappointment you saw through his eyes had your resolve faltering but the fragment of memories you saw when you resonated with the hunter earlier strengthened it further . 

Don't get caught up in illusions.  This man wasn't yours.  

The realization made a burst of anger spread throughout you , one that had you yanking his hair harshly until your lips crashed against his,  all teeth and tongue , drinking him in like a thirsty man in desert that finally found water. Because he was your water , your light , a light that was bound to leave you . 

A small hushed plea left your mouth as he parted his lips from  yours to trail kisses down on your neck. His hands were everywhere , caressing any inch of smooth skin he could reach 

Caleb kissed you back with the same fervor,  his gloved hand wrapping lightly around your throat as his mouth devoured yours with a feral intensity. It was messy depraved and desperate.  

Your own hands reached out to unbuckle his belt but he stopped you halfway , his hand moving swiftly to bound your wrists with your own discarded tie. 

“No touching this time Lieutenant” he taunted,  cupping your chin to make you look up at him , the feral gleam in his purple  eyes making your cunt throb harder. 

“Today you're all mine” he whispered before capturing your mouth in another heated kiss. 

How you wished you could be his forever but this would never happen. You were just a sinner and he was your worst sin. The one who will drag you through the pits of hell. 

The small kiss he left on your nose was the last thing you felt before he slid down to his knees in front of you , his large hands spreading your legs apart as you tried to steady yourself on top of the desk despite your bound wrists. 

His fingers unzipped your pants before sliding them off you , leaving your legs  bare for his hungry gaze to admire.

How he has missed this view . 

“Look at her” he looked up at you as he ran a gloved  thumb along your covered slit “so wet f'me already” 

“Still as beautiful as ever , Lieutenant” you heard him whisper in awe,  the compliment making you feel even dizzier while your cunt fluttered uncontrollably at his praises .

You could feel his infuriating smirk against your plush fold through the flimsy material of your panties . The way he was so close but so far away at the same time drove you wild in the best way possible.

 

“Caleb” you whimpered out , your pleading  eyes looking down at him in an half hearted glare that made his cock twitch.

“What?” He smirked before peeking the drenched material of your panties in a way that had you throwing your head back .

“What do you need , darling?” The sound of him calling you darling made your hips buck against his face , the sinful moan escaping your lips sounding like music to his ear. 

“I need you” the words felt more like a confession than anything and if it wasn't for that weird wanderer based substance in your system you'd probably feel pathetic for baring your soul to him  like this but right now as his face was resting between your legs seconds away from feasting ,you didn't give a damn.  

The regrets and sermons would come later when you were  no longer aching and panting from him . 

The heat of Caleb's mouth pulled you out of your musings,  the overwhelming sensation making you cry out loud . He hasn't even bothered to take off your ruined panties , his mouth latching onto the flimsy material like he was starving. 

He was merciless,  the relentless pace making you squeal.  

“Oh fuck just like that” you moaned,  not even ashamed of the sounds you were making.  His tongue rolled  over your swollen bud over and over until you were practically in tears .

When you felt like you'd finally reach heaven ,a knock to your door made him stop, his eyes looking up to take in your form. 

And shit. The sight of you spread out on your desk with your shirt half buttoned,  your skin flushed with heat , panting with tears clinging to your waterline almost had him cumming in his pants .

Such a sight to behold and all for him to see. 

Another knock on the door made him let out a small growl against you , clearly not pleased by being interrupted .

“Lieutenant” you heard a worried voice said from the other side “can I come in?” 

Commander Ash? Your ears perked up . 

Shit shit shit why is here ? 

You looked down at Caleb who  was already back to work , his fingers finally pulling your ruined panties to the side to suck , lick and nip at your sensitive flesh while you tried your best to stay quiet and gather your thoughts 

“Lieutenant” Ash knocked once again “are you alright in there?” his voice was growing somewhat more restless. 

“Respond darling” you felt Caleb's nip gently  at your clit before looking up at you from where he was kneeling “it's so rude to leave someone hanging hm?” He spat right on your entrance before slurping down the mess. 

“ngh_” the sight of him looking so devilishly at you nearly had you cumming right there on his face but he purposely slowed down his pace to maddening kitten licks so you would  focus on responding Ash. 

But that only made you more restless and frustrated . 

“I am fine” you snapped , voice laced with frustration while the man below faintly chuckled before rewarding you with a flick of his tongue that made you groan .

You fought against your restraints so at least you would cover your mouth to muffle your sounds but no matter how hard you tried the knot wouldn't loosen . 

Handsome bastard. 

“Are you sure?” you heard Ash said ,  the confusion note in his tone not escaping Caleb's ears. 

“You don't really sound well” the sound of the creaking handle made your heart rate pick up ,your stomach curling into knots with a mixture of fear and arousal that has fresh waves of your beading juices gushing around Caleb's tongue.

You didn't lock the door and he could barge in at any moment.

“Dirty girl” he muttered faintly against your plush folds , sticking strands connecting his lips to your pussy . 

You bit down on your lips to not let out a loud moan , the squelching sounds of your cunt along with your barely concealed moans leaving no doubt of what was happening inside there . Thought one thing was clear , Ash was clearly wrestling with the handle that wouldn't budge Thanks to Caleb's evol. 

“I am fine truly” you attempted to speak again but the way Caleb was making out with your lips below while his gloved hand rubbed tight circles around your clit made your words came out like breathy whimpers. “Just a bit busy” 

You really hoped Ash would get the memo and get the fuck out here before you combusted . 

“Ok then” he said, his tone sounding a tad disappointed “I'll see around Lieutenant” 

Yeah you'll see her around now go . 

You felt a wave of relief wash over you as the sound of  Ash's eloigning footsteps finally disappeared leaving only you and the smirking man still buried nose deep between your thighs. 

“You're such a dirty little thing , Lieutenant” he rasped out , flicking your clit one last time before raising to his full height . 

“And you're such a tease” you scowled before feeling him unbound your wrists.

 As soon as they were free you tugged him by his tie to capture his lips in a messy kiss , your mouth sucking lewdly on his tongue , tasting yourself on him.

“We both know you love that tease, darling” he mumbled out between kisses 

“No I hate you” you denied ,your grip tightening hard enough on his tie to make him lightheaded and the fucked whimper that left his mouth as you did so made your cunt howl his name in morse code. 

If only he knew how right he was 

You could feel every hard planes of his body against yours ,even through the material of your half off uniform shirt , the intoxicating scent of his cologne making your head spin. 

"Well , we can't say the same about your slutty pussy ,Lieutenant” he panted out with a smirk, his hands gripping your hips so hard they'd probably leave marks.

His words had your cheeks flaming a deeper shade of red but the way you felt your little bundle throb only proved his point

"Unlike you_" he slid his hand down to toy with your already sensitive clit "she's not a smartass" a silent scream left your lips as he curled one thick finger inside your gummy walls .

Your reached for his belt once again and this time he let you had your way, too busy eating out your face and fingering your cunt to stop your wandering hands. 

Just this once . You heard this voice whisper again . 

Caleb's head fell against your shoulder when he felt your soft hand wrap around his shaft to pump it slowly.  Your pace matching his own .

It was hot and heavy in your hand, the leaking precum coating your palm in a sticky mess.  

He bit down on the plush skin on your shoulder to muffle his sounds , his hips thrusting in time with your movements while his fingers massaged this spot in your walls over and over

Wanting to get your revenge on the stunt he pulled on you earlier , you slowed down your pace until you could hear his muffled whimpers against your shoulder.

“What's wrong?” You cooed , leaning your head back to stare at him , his cheeks were flushed the prettiest shade of pink , his hair tousled from your ministrations , his kiss bitten lips  parted open to let out the hottest sounds you’ve ever heard .

You must been smiling too widely for his taste because the feral glare he shot you made you anything but scared , it only had you more turned on than ever. 

But as always Caleb wouldn't let you savor your victory for too long , using his evol as the awful bastard he was to manipulate your hands until they were bound behind your back once again, his fingers slipping out of you with a lewd squelch.

“Nothing's wrong Lieutenant” he rasped out before pulling your legs to wrap tighter around his waist , his pinkish tip teasing your entrance. 

“Just thinking about how hard_” he punctuated his words with a rough thrust that had you clawing at  his shoulders , the sensation of him stretching your insides too overwhelming. “_I am going to take you” he added in a heated whisper before setting a brutal pace that had your desk shaking maddeningly , important papers scattering on the floor in  a mess you'd have to worry about later. 

Caleb's hips were merciless,  fucking up into you like he hated your gut (as if he wasn't deep in them) . You clung to his uniform jacket sleeve for dear life , afraid you might slip but with how sandwiched you were between the wooden desk and his body you shouldn't be worrying about that. 

“Oh fuck” you threw your head back when you felt him hit that exact spot that has you seeing stars , body arching into his to bring him closer. Your hand grabbed at his tie to pull him closer to you as his hips kept pistonning into yours . 

“Yeah let me hear you, darling” he placed one hand on the desk beside you while the other pulled your leg over his hip to reach even deeper into you. 

Every forceful thrust planted on the bulleyes of your G-spot has your grip tightening on his tie hard enough  he could now see white spots blurring his vision . 

You were gonna be the death of him , (literally) . 

The smell of sex and skin slapping sounds filled the room along with your scream of pleasure and his breathy groans as he literally wrecked you , molding your insides to his shaft until all you can think about was him and only him . 

“You squeeze me s’tight” he groaned against your neck , his hips not easing his pace for a second , not when your greedy pussy was sucking him back in so perfectly at every thrust . 

His hand that was planted beside you  , slid up to wrap around your neck , putting enough pressure on your throat to have your eyes roll in the back of your skull. 

“Come for me” he whispered before ducking his head down to bite  on the plush skin of your collarbone.  The action had you screaming loudly,  the waves of pleasure crashing you over you like a sea storm. It was violent,  leaving you shaking for several seconds as he continued to drive himself deeper into you , not even stopping when he reached his own high . Sensitive shaft twitching uncontrollably as he painted your insides white . 

“Take it all , darling” he whimpered in the crook of your neck , puncturing every words by a sharp bite of his canines. 

You sobbed in overstimulation. Your head resting against his chest as you murmured soft pleads for him to stop. 

“Shh” he shushed you while kissing away your tears with a gentleness that contrasted his hips below “just take it” 

He licked your tears away before kissing you with an unusual tenderness while he continued to fuck you roughly.  

You cried out as your second orgasm washed over you ,your whole body convulsing against his as your hand practically tore his uniform jacket with how good it hurts. 

Caleb's body jerked against yours, his head dropping in the crook of your neck as he reached his peak for a second time , pace finally slowing down to let you breathe. 

You stayed  like this for several minutes, wrapped in each other's embrace as you desperately tried to catch your breath. 

As the fluffy cloud of pleasure dissipated the ugly truth came back to slap you right back on your face . 

You succumbed to the sweet temptation Caleb was  once again.  Even as you promised yourself you wouldn't get involved with him again , here you were half naked with him still buried deep inside of you. 

You attempted to  push him off you , the action making him raise his head from the crook of your neck to shoot you a confused look. 

The audacity to appear confused.  You scoffed internally. 

“You should go” you heard yourself say , your voice sounding hoarse from screaming his name too loudly . 

His brow knitted together,   clearly struggling to understand your point . 

“It'll  be troublesome if someone find you here” you explained calmly , acting as if he wasnt ramming into you 5 minutes ago. 

“I am aware” he replied with that same confused note in his tone, still not making any moves to get the fuck off you. 

“Then get off” you glared at him causing him to sigh 

“You're trying to run away again” he caressed your legs softly with a pensive look in his eyes.

“I am not trying to run away, you dirtied me with your seed and I just want yo go the bathroom so get the fuck off me” you scowled stil trying to push him away .

Your words earned a barely muffled laugh from him. His eyes gleaming with barely concealed amusement. 

“I am sorry” he left a small kiss on your nose that made your heart melt “I thought you'd enjoy the mess” 

“Well I don't,  so get off” you let out in a small grumble 

“You're always so bossy , Lieutenant” he chided softly before picking you up making you wrap your arm tightly around his neck .

“You should ease up a little” he added , carrying you towards your personal bathroom to clean you up. 

“And you should know by now that I don't take advices from you” you bit back . 

The only thing you should ease is probably a gun down his throat. 

“Sure you don't” he said with a small smirk  before pushing the bathroom door open with his feet to get you inside. 

After cleaning you up in a remotely peaceful silence , Caleb left you alone in your office to muse on your thoughts. 

Just when will this madness end? 

Just when will you stop being so attached to him? The response was clear : never because no matter how much he hurt you? And how hard you tried to stay away from him.  You'll always find your way back . Like a drug addict , you were addicted to him. Addicted to his poison . A poison that will probably end up killing you 

The end (or no) 

BAM . 

Taglist : @cheezeandkrackers @dollyvheart @gazelover666 @miyuki-hanna @cordidy @full-sunnies @aise-30 @vvintqz @tavviet @sanghyuksgasolinestationscream

[fraddit]

This is the first post in a series of four about the 118 firehouse on 9-1-1, including floor plans, screen shots, and detailed discussion.

The other posts in this series: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

My other floor plans: Diaz House | Buck's Loft | Madney House

They're also on my Ao3

Overview

Broadly speaking I’ll start by talking about the actual building, then move on to discuss the model I built, then I’ll go into detail by section/room, starting with the stuff I’m absolutely certain about, then stuff that’s less cut and dry, and finally stuff that’s purely theoretical at this point, along with some extras.

Here we have a bird's eye view of the entire thing, both upstairs and downstairs. There will be additional close up bird's eye views of each individual section when I discuss them in detail throughout the posts.

The Real Building

First, let’s talk about the actual real life building that they film in. The firehouse set lives in a converted warehouse in Glendale, which makes that line from The Bachelor scene in s7e04 an extremely funny (to me) meta joke.

As for dimensions, the building is 60 feet wide and roughly 165 feet long. She’s big y’all. For scale, here are both Eddie and Buck’s living spaces inside the firehouse:

Below are some grungy google maps exterior shots for your viewing pleasure. I’m particularly delighted by the graffiti on the front garage door that reads: Don’t call 911. BAKE! (wake & bake)

It's here that I need to be pedantic about the roof. As you can see, this building has a sloped roof. That little smaller bit that pokes out the top is called a monitor and it allows for clerestory windows to let daylight into the full length of the building. This sloped roof is held up inside by massive wood trusses which feature very prominently in many of the interior shots. Below are some example screen shots. I have passive aggressively highlighted the slope of the interior roof. Also, you can see the monitor roof with all the windows in it.

Obviously they cannot hang out in lawn chairs on top of this roof. They film all the roof scenes at the Fox studios lot. You can tell by the surrounding buildings visible in the background of those shots. Note Fox Plaza (the Die Hard building) behind Athena below.

Additionally, it’s not always the same roof. I’ve highlighted two of the buildings I’m certain or mostly certain about below. I also labeled Stage 6 toward the top left of the image, which was the 9-1-1 sound stage through season 8.

I have a mental workaround that allows me to reconcile these conflicting roof situations that I’ll explain in depth toward the end of all this, because it’s also relevant to a couple other things too.

Also, this isn’t relevant to anything really, but I need to say that at no point in this entire process did I notice any evidence of climate control systems in the building, and there also appears to be zero insulation. So I cannot imagine this place is comfortable to film in a lot of the time. They seem to always have huge fans in bts videos during the summer, and I imagine it’s pretty chilly in there during winter filming. Thank god for the temperate Los Angeles weather, I suppose.

The Exterior

As far as the exterior goes, three sides of the building are exposed, and one wall is shared with the building next door.

The front facade in the show is mostly red brick and is completely computer generated. There’s a side alleyway that has like an engine hoist or something? I am not a mechanical expert. Sometimes the hose racks are out there, etc.

Also, when Buck was going insane and ordering basketballs to the station and suggesting they get a hoop, I could have sworn they already had one in the side alley, and sure enough, I wasn’t insane. It’s there in the background of Hen Begins. I guess canonically, it's gone by the time Buck’s losing his marbles, but at least I have proof I didn’t lose mine.

Around the back is an extremely tall wall covered with greenery. There’s also a few trees and other planters and what seems to be a pretty nice sitting area with concrete benches, but those might belong to the building next door.

About The 3D Model I Built

I built the model in a program called Chief Architect. I first started this project in *checks notes* March?? of 2022. However, then it kind of fell by the wayside for a while, gathering digital dust. When I started working on it in earnest again last year, I added updated screen shots to my reference files up through s7e05. So the model I built is accurate through that point.

Things like wall decor and various props will not necessarily match to current seasons. But they change that stuff pretty regularly between seasons anyway, so it’s not technically fully accurate to any one season.

There’s really not much that’s different in s8, so it’s not a big deal, but, where relevant, I’ve noted a few things I’ve noticed off hand while watching the episodes as they aired.

The dimensions and angles of everything are reasonably accurate. And the roof trusses are accurate to their location within the building and their height off the floor, but I let the program auto-generate all the cross beams and I left a lot of detail above that out, like the monitor roof and the lighting.

Also, I didn’t build anything that we haven’t actually seen. So those three corners of the building downstairs are just shown as big empty rooms. Are there walls and rooms in there? Probably! Can I show you them? Nope! I've seen glimpses through some of those doors in bts videos, and it seems like they store equipment in those sections irl.

Next up, in depth exploration of the upstairs sections.

Continue to part two...

[uniquexusposts]

First place. Personal best. World Champion. | C. Leclerc

Summary: Charles' girlfriend Y/n is about to win her first world championship title in speed skating. While Charles is preparing for his first race of the season at the other side of the world, the supportive boyfriend he is, he will be watching Y/n's race. And who knows what happens...

It was raining in The Netherlands, the weather was grey and depressing. Inside the speed skating arena, however, the air crackled with a different kind of energy.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, their cheers echoing off the cavernous walls, creating a symphony of excitement and nerves. Y/n took a deep breath as she glided onto the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the bright arena lights. This wasn’t just another race; this was the race. The culmination of years of blood, sweat, and tears. Her last chance to claim the coveted all-around title of this year, the year before the Olympics - a prize she never got before by just a few points. 

She skated around the oval stadium, each warm-up lap a battle to quell the butterflies in her stomach. Her breath came in controlled bursts, visible in the cool air, as she moved with practiced grace. Her mind cycled through every strategy, every training session, every ounce of advice her coaches had given her. Stopping near the start line, she shrugged off her jacket, exposing the sleek Norwegian team suit beneath. The red and blue colours clung to her like a second skin, a symbol of the weight she carried; not just her own dreams but the hopes of her country.

Her teammates, already finished with their events, were doing an out lap. A couple of Norwegian flags waved fervently in the sea of spectators, a visual reminder of the expectations she had to meet. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her suit, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her focus.

Meanwhile, thousands of kilometres away in Bahrain, the roar of engines filled the Ferrari garage. Mechanics darted around, checking tire pressures, tweaking wing angles, and adjusting suspension settings. The first Formula 1 race of the season was hours away, but for Charles Leclerc, time felt like it was standing still. Amid the organised chaos, his attention was locked on a tablet screen perched precariously on a counter. The live stream of Y/n’s race played on the monitor, an unusual sight among the telemetry data and glossy feeds of the Bahrain International Circuit.

Charles tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes flicking between the screen and the bustling garage. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, as though the force of his will could carry her across the finish line.

“Charles,” Andrea called, nudging his shoulder with a knowing smirk. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor at this rate. Should we tell the team to set up a fan zone for you?”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, though his eyes didn’t leave the screen. “She’s got a real shot at this,” he said, his voice tinged with both pride and anxiety. “I’m not missing this for anything. Not even qualifying.”

Andrea shook his head, his grin widening. “Just don’t let Fred catch you slacking. He’ll have you polishing the car with a toothbrush.”

Charles waved him off dismissively, his focus unshakable. On the screen, Y/n moved toward the start line, her every movement purposeful and elegant. Seeing her in that moment, framed by a couple of Norwegian flags waving in the background - but mostly the orange colour by the Dutch, who once again dominated a sport, sent a rush of adrenaline through him. She was breathtaking, not just in her beauty but in the sheer determination radiating from her.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, signalling the imminent start of the race. Y/n crouched low at the line, her muscles coiled like a spring ready to release. Charles leaned forward, his hand gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. The gunshot rang out, and she launched forward, her blades cutting into the ice with surgical precision.

Lap after lap, Y/n found her rhythm, her movements a harmonious blend of power and grace. The crowd’s cheers grew louder with each stride, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. One thing that was so different between speed skating and F1 was that during speed skating, everybody cheered for anyone - no matter the country. Y/n received almost as much cheers as the Dutch at this point. Charles’s heart raced in tandem with her, his pulse quickening as the live splits appeared on the screen. The numbers were good - very good - but the competition was fierce.

“Come on, Y/n,” Charles whispered, his voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the garage. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the counter as he watched her push herself to the limit.

By the halfway mark, the strain began to show. Her form wavered ever so slightly, the tiniest falter in her otherwise flawless stride. The 5.000 meters wasn’t just a test of speed; it was a brutal battle of endurance, a gruelling test of both mental and physical fortitude. Charles’s jaw clenched as he saw her dig deep, her determination etched into every muscle of her body.

“She’s improving her laps,” Charles muttered, running his hands through his hair. His voice grew louder, filled with a mixture of disbelief and awe. “She’s above her schedule. 32,3 per lap. What the hell?”

Andrea glanced at the screen, his eyebrows raising in mild surprise. “She’s flying. She has the green times.”

“She is literally pushing out every bit of strength she has left.”

The crowd in the arena roared louder with every passing lap, their energy palpable even through the screen. Charles’s fingers drummed faster, mirroring the rising tension. As Y/n crossed the finish line, the scoreboard lit up with her time: the fastest so far. Charles leapt to his feet, a triumphant shout escaping his lips.

“Yes! That’s my girl!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing through the garage.

The Ferrari crew paused their work, momentarily caught up in the infectious excitement. Laughter and scattered applause broke out, a rare lighthearted moment in the high-stakes world of Formula 1.

Andrea clapped him on the back, a teasing grin on his face. “She’s not done yet, mate. Two more pairs to go.”

“I know,” Charles said, his grin unwavering. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But she’s incredible. No matter what happens, I’m proud of her.” He shook his head in disbelief. “6.50,81. Wow.”

Just over seven minutes later, the final pair took to the ice, their presence a reminder that the battle wasn’t over. The Dutch were strong and a favourite. Charles’s chest tightened as he watched them glide effortlessly through their opening laps. They were fast, too fast. The live splits showed them ahead of Y/n’s time, and for a moment, doubt crept in.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hold on.”

The skaters rounded the halfway mark, their initial burst of speed beginning to wane. Fatigue crept into their movements, their strides losing the precision that had carried them so far. Charles leaned forward, his breath hitching as he willed the seconds to slow.

The arena fell into a tense hush as the final skaters approached the finish line. The crowd’s collective gasp was audible as the scoreboard flashed their time: third place. Y/n had done it. She was the all-around champion.

Charles let out a triumphant yell, throwing his arms into the air. “She did it! She won!”

The garage erupted into cheers, the crew swept up in his infectious joy. Charles’s face was alight with pride and happiness, his grin so wide it hurt.

“That’s my girl,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

His colleagues congratulated and hugged him like he won the race. 

Andrea smirked, shaking his head. “You’re going to be impossible to deal with for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Charles replied, laughing. His heart felt full to bursting as he imagined the look on Y/n’s face, the moment she realised what she had accomplished.

Back in the Netherlands, Y/n sat in the middle of the oval track, still in disbelief. Tears blurred her vision, but they couldn’t hide the overwhelming sight of the scoreboard. Her name flashed boldly at the top, accompanied by the words she had dreamed of seeing her entire career: World Champion.

Her coaches rushed to her side, their voices a mix of congratulations and excitement, but their words were lost beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The arena was alive with celebration.

Y/n pressed her hands to her face, laughing and crying at the same time. She reached out instinctively, pulling her head coach into an embrace, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably.

“I did it,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “I actually did it.”

Her assistant coach joined in; the three people were jumping around, turning it into an euphoric moment. 

“You’ve done it, Y/n!” her head coach shouted over the roar of the crowd. “The all-around title is yours!”

Still clutching onto her coaches, Y/n’s gaze drifted upward to the scoreboard once more, as if she needed to see it again to believe it. First place. Personal best. World Champion. A new World Champion.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she began to fully grasp the magnitude of her achievement.

As she stood there, absorbing the cheers of the crowd and the joy of her team, one of her assistant coaches jogged up to her with a phone in hand.

“Y/n! Charles is calling!”

The sound of his name made her heart leap. She whipped her head around, taking the phone with trembling hands. When the screen lit up, Charles’s face appeared, his grin so wide it practically stretched off the screen.

“Y/n!” Charles cheered, his voice carrying a joy that matched her own.

“Charles!” Y/n screamed, laughing as her emotions spilled over. She couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks, her voice cracking with excitement. “I did it!”

“I saw!” he exclaimed, his voice loud enough to make the team around him chuckle. “You were incredible! I can’t believe it - no, wait, I can believe it because you’re amazing!”

Y/n’s cheeks burned as she laughed, her joy mirrored in his expression. Around her, the arena seemed to fade away, the roaring crowd becoming a distant hum. In that moment, it was just her and Charles, their connection bridging the thousands of kilometres between them.

“You were watching?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with disbelief.

“Of course I was!” Charles replied, his tone almost offended at the notion he wouldn’t be. “I had the entire Ferrari garage watching. They’re all clapping for you, by the way.”

Y/n’s hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a breathless laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” Charles said, leaning closer to the screen. “Y/n, everyone here is in awe of you. I’m so proud I could burst. You deserve every second of this moment.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just tears of victory. They were tears of gratitude, of love. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve someone who believed in her this deeply, but she was endlessly thankful.

“I wish you were here,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly.

“I do too,” he said, his tone softening, a hint of longing slipping through. “But I’ll see you soon. We’ll celebrate properly, I promise.”

“You would better keep that promise, Leclerc,” she teased, a smile breaking through her tears. “And you better win today!”

“I wouldn’t dare break it,” he replied with a laugh, his eyes warm. “I will do my best.”

She dried her eyes and laughed. “I have to go to the ceremony, Charles. I love you.”

“I love you, too. I will be watching.”

Y/n nodded, but she didn’t end the call right away. She held the phone a moment longer, committing the sight of his proud smile to memory.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @blodwyn4u @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

[more-mara]

a/b/o with omega!Oscar but nobody really knew or expected he was one until they paid attention to how he acted and how he looked and they were like "🤨 hold on-"

thought about it like sfw but as you wish!:D

thankss

Mwah mwah mwah love this concept. Didn’t really know which angle to approach this from regarding drivers but I gave it a go.

Formula one, the pinnacle of motorsport. The 20 best drivers competing at the highest level meant that there was no room for distractions, not when they were driving at 300 kilometres an hour in less than optimal conditions. That’s probably why the FIA demanded a suppressant clause be worked into every drivers contract.

The thing with suppressants was that they worked and they worked well, eliminating all chances of instinctual behaviours that could otherwise cause issues between the drivers. So, all of them were required to be on them.

Nobody really spoke about their designation, it was a little taboo to ask someone outright so the majority of the grid remained an unknown.

It’s not like suppressants worked by slapping a patch on their scent glands and going about their days. Suppressants weren’t dissimilar to contraceptives where in they are required to take a pill at the same time every day in order to suppress their instincts.

Most drivers were on the yearly ones that required them to be taken constantly throughout the year with no breaks whereas a select few took specific ones where they could bypass taking them during breaks.

Max Verstappen was the only current driver on the latter and his designation came out pretty quickly once the summer break hit. Alpha. No shocks there.

It was widely assumed that the entire grid were alphas. It was an alpha sport after all. Only one driver had the misfortune of being held under a lens when it came to his designation and that was Charles Leclerc- constantly questioned and monitored by the media who were desperate to know if he was really an omega.

That one was a shock. When his suppressants suddenly started to fail mid race and a deep, musky scent started to fill the paddock once he stepped out of the car. Charles knew what had happened immediately and just shrugged it off with utmost casualty.

“You’re- you’re an alpha?!” Max gasped, brows furrowing deeply. Charles scoffed as he looked over at him.

“Yeah?”

“But- I’m an alpha, that can’t work,” Max muttered, brushing his hand through his head frustratedly.

“What? What are you talking about?” Charles questioned, starting to unbutton the top of his race suit.

“Nothing- nothing,”

And that was that. Charles Leclerc, the most stereotypical omega on the grid, was in fact, an alpha.

Maybe that revelation was what kickstarted the other drivers to become a little more curious about their fellow competitors. Certain drivers knew of other drivers’ designations simply from being close friends but they would never share that information without explicit consent.

Lando hadn’t really though much about his current teammates designation. Oscar was just so…normal. He safely assumed that Oscar was a beta without having any real reason to doubt that.

Until Oscar was seeming a little lethargic during free practice where it seemed that even getting out of the car was a struggle. Lando felt concerned immediately- something weird and protective bubbling up inside him.

Landos feet were moving before he could even stop himself, hands grabbing for Oscar’s shoulders.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice low in a whisper so that no one else could hear- why didn’t he want anyone else to hear?

Oscar blinked at him. And then blinked again. Then blinked once more for good measure before letting out an airy laugh.

“Im fine, mate. I didn’t sleep much because of the time zone difference. I’m good to race, don’t worry, I won’t put it in the barrier and cost the team points,” Oscar said, patting Lando on the back before walking away towards the engineers.

Thats…not what he meant. He wasn’t concerned that Oscar was going to cost the team points, he was worried that Oscar was sick or in pain. It was something primal inside him that was screaming to protect.

Fucking hell, he needed to get himself under control before Oscar started seeing him as the overbearing teammate that was using his 18 extra months on earth against him.

Oscar didn’t need protecting. The issue was that Lando wanted to protect him.

-

“So…Alpha then?” Oscar asked timidly, sliding up beside Charles before they were due to step onto the truck for the drivers parade.

It was the next race after Charles’ shocking designation revelation and it seemed to be the only thing anyone wanted to talk about.

Charles just shrugged, eyes narrowing on Oscar.

“Say what you’re thinking,” Charles said, tone as little sharp. Sue him, all he’s been hearing is how shocked everyone was that he wasn’t an omega.

Oscar seemed startled by the hostility, frowning a little before stepping a little closer, lowering his voice before he spoke again.

“Were you offended that everyone doubted your designation?” Oscar asked, eyes wide but his face was as neutral as ever.

Charles’ face scrunched in confusion.

“Uh…no. It was more that I didn’t like people questioning my ability because of who they thought I was,” Charles said.

And it was true. Any time he fucked up in a race, lost the lead from pole or even had mechanical failures, the media erupted, always making the quip of “must be because he’s an omega,”.

Charles didn’t like that.

“Right…” Oscar said, backing off a little as he folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

“Why?” Charles asked cautiously, but part of him though he’d already connected the dots now that he really thought about it.

About Oscar. About the kind smile he’d always flash in his direction, about the soft way he spoke and plaint way he accepted praise. Charles didn’t want to be stereotypical, but somethings things like this added up.

Oscar looked at him with an expression that could only mean one thing. Uncertainty.

“Doesn’t matter,” Oscar muttered, dropping his gaze from Charles’.

So Charles did what any Nobel alpha would do. He dropped the subject.

“Want to come play paddle tomorrow?”

Charles supposed clamping down on his curiosity was worth it to see the sparkle in Oscar’s eyes at that.

“Y-yeah, sure,”

-

Max hadn’t expected to become so attached to Oscar. He was good mates with Lando and Oscar was obviously Landos teammate so Max supposed it was only natural that he tried to get along with him.

He just didn’t think he’d like him as much as he did.

Oscar could be a little closed off at times and Max respected it. Respected his privacy.

It’s why he felt like complete shit when he accidentally snooped on Oscar’s phone.

He hadn’t meant to, only him and Oscar have incredibly similar phone cases so it was easy to accidentally grab the wrong one. He was only shocked it took this long to happen.

He had gotten all the way into his drivers room before his phone (or more accurately, Oscar’s phone) buzzed. It was a calendar reminder and it seemed to illuminate the entire screen as Max stared at it.

This was definitely not his phone.

Pre-Heat likely to start

Tomorrow at 8am

Okay. So Max really should just forget he saw this. Fuck. Oscar was…Max shouldn’t know.

Max scrubbed a hand through his hair as he switched Oscar’s phone off immediately before pocketing it again. He should tell Oscar. He deserves that, at least.

He didn’t have much time to prepare before there was a knock at the door and a soft voice calling for him.

“Max? I have your phone,”

It was Oscar. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.

“Yeah, come in, mate,” Max said, gritting his teeth as he tried to desperately think up how he was going to word this. He had to tell Oscar that he knew. Had to apologise. Had to- fuck, he just had to make sure Oscar was okay.

Oscar seemed as casual as ever as he gave Max a soft smile before reaching his arm out with Maxs phone in his hand.

“Here. We must have picked up the wrong ones,” He said easily as he slid the phone into Maxs loose grasp.

“Oh…” Max said before reaching round to his back pocket to grab Oscar’s phone to hand off to him.

“Easy mistake,” Max said as Oscar grabbed his phone before immediately looking at the screen.

Max was about to open his mouth to speak, to explain to Oscar that he would keep his secret safe but as soon as Oscar looked at his phone, his face seemed to crumble. Blatant fear and anxiety written all over his body language.

“You- you hadn’t checked your phone yet, had tou?” He asked, eyes wide and breath hitched.

Max couldn’t even bear to see him like this. To see him so scared. Fuck. He couldn’t let the omega feel like this. Max was an alpha- it was his job to protect.

“No,” He said simply and Oscar’s body seemed to sag as the tension seeped out of him immediately. Relief flowing over him.

“Right, okay, that’s good. I’ll seen you next week then,” Oscar was out the door before Max could say anything further.

And if he started to pay closer attention to Oscar and make sure to hold doors open for him more often than usual then that was no one’s business but his own.

-

There was no doubt in Carlos’ mind about Oscar’s designation. Not that he thought about it that often. It was just that Oscar clearly didn’t want to share territory with Carlos so was taking it out on him on track. That had to be the only logical explanation. It was natural for alphas to fight over dominance.

Perhaps he wanted to have a go at Oscar for impeding him during the race- not that the FIA seemed to agree as they had deemed it a racing incident. Carlos thought otherwise. But maybe that’s why he ended up at the McLaren hospitality.

He didn’t exactly know how he was going to approach this. It was late, there was no one around but Carlos knew Oscar was still here- he’d specifically asked Lando about it who had looked at him a little suspiciously.

Except, strangely, Carlos wandered in on Oscar sleeping. Body curled up in a tower of pillows and blankets that seemed to make him look so small. Carlos’ eyes widened a little.

Oscar was sleeping in a nest.

And he was purring.

Carlos blinked in confusion before his eyes settled on Oscar’s face, as he observed the soft curve of Oscar’s nose and the swoop of his hair. The solidness of his shoulders but the narrowness of his waist. Now that Carlos looked at him, like, really looked, he could see the way Oscar’s body differed from his own in a way that suggested more than just nutritional differences.

Carlos had heard about it before. About how some omegas lash out against alphas as a form of protection- a way to keep themselves safe and warn alphas that they would not be taken down easily.

Strangely, Carlos’ chest tightened at that thought.

Did Oscar see him as a threat? Like…a genuine threat, in a way that the omega feared that Carlos would physically harm him?

Oh god.

Carlos almost felt sick at the thought. He would never do something to actually harms Oscar.

Sure, he pissed Carlos off in ways that no one else seemed to manage and his nonchalant nature just vied to make Carlos angrier. But he’d never hurt him.

Carlos had barely noticed himself getting closer, basically standing over Oscar’s nest. Carlos quickly realised that if Oscar were to wake up in this moment then he would seem pretty threatening so he stood back as quickly as he realised.

He couldn’t have this.

He would prove to Oscar that he was a worthy alpha.

[merakiui]

That OB Idia groovy has done something to my brain

You know the magic onahole/pussy portal porn trope? I'm imagining Idia sitting back and stalking his darling using security cameras or secret hidden cameras while either using a pussy portal toy for cockwarming or to edge/overstim his darling.

Especially fun if he gets off to the sight of them panicking and trying to figure out why it feels like there's a cock in them lololol

There’s nothing more gratifying than knowing you’re super-duper, SSR-tier mega brain and proving that time and time again. Of course you’re never going to know it’s him, just as you’ll never know he watches you through all those hidden cameras. Hacking NRC’s security systems is a piece of cake. Not even a real challenge for him lawl. He’ll watch you through those cameras as you go about your daily life, attending classes, playing with the cute widdle kitty that is Grim, and being talked to by a bunch of normies.

But Idia doesn’t worry much about them. He has such a grip on monitoring you so closely that he knows all of your preferences, more than any of those normies will ever know, both from his cyberstalking and simply by occasionally peeking into your search history. It’s fine. Just more research so he can raise your affection meter and get the good ending!!! >w< besides, it’s not like you absolutely need to know the face behind the Gloomurai gamer tag. Maybe the friend zone has its advantages for now.

Because Idia is on that nocturnal cryptid schedule who barely gets any sleep, I imagine he uses the magic onahole at all sorts of random times. Maybe he even uses it while you’re playing video games together hehe. Getting such a thrill of watching you double over in your room, struggling to understand what’s happening. The way you bite into your pillow to stifle your pretty sounds,, the obscene stretch of your tight hole wrapped around his dick. He’ll tease you over game chat, too. Asking why you’ve gone afk. Scared of losing to a pro gamer like him probably lmaoooooo. Git gud. :p

He’s so irritating!!!! It’s always an ego boost to him because he’s so close and yet you don’t know who he is. He could probably get away with so much and you’d never know because he’s so technologically intelligent. And the worst part is that he just doesn’t give you a break sometimes. T_T sometimes he’ll spend an hour fucking his onahole, edging himself and in turn you. Or leaving it on his cock so you have no choice but to cockwarm him while you sit in lecture or chat with your friends during lunchtime, unknowing of when or if this phantom dick will ever move. And that’s what’s so fun about this. There’s a certain level of control he has over you and your body when he fucks you.

He’s so gross!!! There are two sides to Idia. He’s shy and sweet and socially anxious, but then he’s also so rancid and annoying and overly confident in his own skills when it comes to gaming, anything with technology, and engineering. OTL he’s too OP…………. he’s trying to make a record of how many times he can fuck and cum inside you before you find out it’s him. :)

[ild-rllrcstr]

Your Call part 1

Lewis Hamilton X You / slow burn / 2.7K

part 2 / part 3 / part 4

Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.

Warnings None A/N Hey! I'm back from my mini vacation and also back with another series! I have another idea in preparation at the same time!! Let me know how you like them! I'll love to hear from you!

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

You first met Lewis in the last year of your studies. You were hired at Mercedes as an intern, working with race engineers to collect, monitor, and analyse all the data streamed live during all Grand Prix sessions. Lewis’ career was flying, a world championship after another. 

“Y/N, this is Lewis. Lewis, this is our new telemetry intern.” 

“Welcome to the team.” Lewis stood up and gave you a smile and a handshake, eyes sharp but friendly. 

Throughout many moments you had in Mercedes, that was the first and an unforgettable one. 

You were sharp and quick, which is why you were hired in the first place. You understood the importance of your job, and every minute you spent in Mercedes, you took it as a precious opportunity to learn. Your manager was very satisfied with your work, and you were integrating really well into the team.

It was three months into the mission, you’re more than used to the whole routine and work. The more you were into it, the more you were addicted to the numbers. You always stayed behind, reviewing graphs from Lewis’s stint, highlighting heat spikes and tire degradation notes to include in the post-session report. You were so focused, you didn’t hear footsteps behind you until someone speaks.

“You always stay this late?”

You turned around, startled. It was Lewis leaning in the doorway. He was leaving and saw the light still on.

“Got to stay ahead,” You said, gesturing to the graphs. “These numbers don’t sleep.”

He stepped in, nodding toward the screen. “You're the first intern I’ve seen that actually analyses post-session data without being told to.”

“I’m not here just to have fun and have that title on my CV,” You said quietly. “Or else I would have chosen something easier.”

That draws a deeper look from Lewis. Not the surface-level polite one, but a slow study. He was intrigued. 

“So why here?” he asked, pulling a chair beside her. “Why this job?”

You hesitated. “It kind of started with me trying to prove my teacher wrong in high school by rebuilding a telemetry dashboard. Then the more I’m into my studies, the more I wonder what it would be like to hand someone like an F1 driver real-time answers to make a difference and not just guess them.”

Lewis’s smile is slow, impressed. “You rebuilt a dashboard in high school?”

“I don’t know where my school got that teacher. He’s full of nonsense, the dashboard took me, I think a week, and I got him speechless in front of the whole class.” You smiled at the thought of your teacher’s face. 

“Sounds like we should’ve had you years ago.”

The moment thickens, something in the air between them shifts. Still professional, but charged. Respect threaded with quiet admiration.

Lewis leans back in the chair, gaze still on you, and for a few seconds, the only sounds are the quiet hum of the server and the soft clicking of data refreshing on your monitor.

“What’s this spike?” he asks, pointing at the screen. You glance over and smile.

You answered his questions one by one, he was amazed at how precise and clear your answers are.

He huffs a soft laugh, impressed. “You're good.”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how close he is. “Just doing my job.”

“No, you don’t sound like an intern. You sound like someone who’s going to run the garage one day.”

That makes your chest ache a little. Not because of the praise, but because you believe it too, even if you don’t dare say it out loud.

You lower your gaze. “Thanks. That… means a lot coming from you.”

He stands, like he’s about to leave, and you figure that’s the end of it. But before he steps through the doorway, he glances over his shoulder.

“We’ve got the track walk at 7 a.m. tomorrow. If you’re around… walk with me. I want to hear more about that dashboard.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you sitting there, blinking at the doorway like he’s just handed you the keys to something far more dangerous than data.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The paddock buzzed with nerves as Q3 loomed. The desert sun in Bahrain dipped low, casting golden light across the pit lane. You sat in front of the telemetry data, surrounded by glowing screens and layered graphs, tire temperatures, brake bias percentages, throttle traces.

Something didn’t add up.

You leaned in closer. There was a heat spike on the front-left brake in Lewis’s last flying lap. Not catastrophic, but off. A few more laps at that pace, and it could lead him to something worse.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Front left temperature needs to be checked, sector 2.” You said into the radio calmly.

The voice on the radio crackled back. “Copy, Y/N.”

Thirty seconds later, the live feed caught Lewis braking earlier than expected, clean corner, no wobble.

In the garage, the engineers nodded in sync. The fix worked.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. No matter how many times you successfully fixed something, or how sure you are about anything, you still got nervous every single time looking at Lewis driving live on the screen. 

Later, as the team began winding down post-qualifying, Lewis strode into the debrief room still in race suit, unzipped halfway, sweat-darkened. He was scrolling through something on the tablet until he looked up and saw you.

“You spotted it.” He said, more a statement than a question.

You glanced up, hesitant. “Front-left brake spike. I thought…”

“You thought right,” he interrupted, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That probably saved me a tenth.”

She tilted her head. “Try two.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You keeping score now?”

“Only when we’re winning.”

He laughed. Just a single, quiet breath of it. But it stayed with you longer than it should have.

Before he turned to go, he added, “Nice work today, Y/N. Really.”

Simple. Professional. But as he walked out, he glanced back once, just for a second, long enough for you to wonder if he always did that… or just with you.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

“We’re getting inconsistent numbers from the tire sensors. Better to play it safe, send Lewis out on the usual set.” 

Around the table in the briefing in Miami, a senior engineer, Darren, was arguing about an issue Lewis had during the free practices.

You reviewed the data, mind clear as daylight, trying to explain your opinion.

“The numbers aren’t wrong, they’re just delayed. It's not a pressure problem, it's the timing of the data.”

“We’ve been doing this a while. Data like that doesn’t lie.”

Darren said dryly. He was not at all convinced by your opinion. Well, he’s been hard on you for a while now. There were times you tried to challenge his opinion, and he did not appreciate the idea of it.  

“And I’ve been tracking this issue since Friday. It's not a fluke. If we don’t adjust, he won’t have the grip when he needs it most, it is identical to the one in Suzuka.” You tried to stand your ground, you trusted your analysis, and you stuck with it.

The strategy analyst on the side hesitated but pointed out the data, “Darren, she could be right. These check out on her analysis...”

“That’s a maybe. I’m not risking a quali lap based on a corrected assumption from an intern.” Darren lashed out without hesitation. And it did hurt.

“It’s a pattern. I know I’m new, but I’m sure I’m not wrong on this.” You tried to keep your voice stable. You know Darren can take the call, but you really didn’t want to let that go. 

“Are you sure about this?” 

Everyone turns. Lewis is still half-suited up, holding his gloves. His tone is calm but unwavering.

You looked at him, paused, “Positive.” 

“Then we trust her.” Lewis nodded and calmly said, like it was a very easy decision, like it was nothing, just citing the obvious. 

“If she sees something we missed and it checks out, we listen. I’d rather go out on new softs and her numbers than lose another run to cold tires.” 

Darren looked pissed but he gave in on Lewis’ words. “Fine. We’ll go with new softs. But if this doesn’t work…”

“Well.” Lewis cut in politely, preventing Darren from saying whatever he was going to say. “…then the whole team’s dinner tonight is on me, but if she’s right, only she gets the invitation”, 

There was a brief silence as the tension eased, and even Darren couldn’t suppress a small, reluctant smirk.

Lewis glanced at you with a nod, quietly adding, “You’re right for speaking up.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The car was barely back in the garage when the first sector time lit up green.

You leaned in instinctively, eyes darting between telemetry and live feed. Second sector, green again. Your breath hitched. Darren’s silence was the loudest thing in the room.

Then, the final sector. Purple.

The timing screens updated, and Lewis’s name jumped to the top of the board, provisional P1.

A ripple went through the garage. Low whistles, muttered wows. One of the data analysts clapped the back of your chair lightly. You barely registered it, still locked on the numbers, rechecking your assumptions even though you didn’t need to. You’d been right.

“Confirmed. Lap’s clean,” someone on comms said.

“Good call,” Lewis’s voice crackled through your headset. “Car felt dialled in. Nailed it”

You tried to keep your smile controlled, but it tugged at the corners of your mouth anyway. Darren was staring at the screen, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything for a second, then finally,

“…Alright. You’ve got good eyes,” he muttered, almost like it hurt. “Keep running the data. If you see something again, don’t wait for me to ask.”

It wasn’t exactly an apology. But it was something.

You gave a small nod. “Will do.”

As people dispersed, riding the high of the lap, you caught Lewis stepping out of the car, peeling off his gloves with deliberate calm. He looked over at you across the garage, that same subtle, unreadable expression on his face. Then, just a small, private nod. Like a signal.

And later, when the session wrapped and the sun dipped low over the paddock, your phone pinged with a simple message and the location of the restaurant.

“Promised you a dinner, 19:30.” – Lewis

You laughed under your breath. That quiet confidence you’d felt earlier? Now, it burned bright. You weren’t just the intern who got lucky.

You were the one who got it right.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

You almost didn’t believe it until you were standing outside the restaurant.

Not the usual team haunt. This place had no logos, no crowd, no media camped out front, just soft lighting, a polished wood sign, and a sense of quiet exclusivity. You double-checked the location Lewis had sent directly, just to be sure.

When you walked in, the hostess didn’t even ask your name, just smiled like she was expecting you and led you through the near-empty dining room. Then out to the patio, where Lewis was already seated at a corner table, casual in a dark button-down, wine already poured.

He looked up as you approached and smiled, not the camera-ready one, but something smaller. Warmer. “Right on time.”

You eased into the seat opposite him, trying not to feel like you’d just stepped into another universe. It was refreshing for Lewis to see you out of the Mercedes uniform. “I kind of kept waiting for someone to tell me this was a prank.”

He laughed, low and genuine. “No pranks. I meant what I said. You caught something none of us did. That lap? That wasn’t just a number call. It was the right instinct under pressure. Most people freeze. You didn’t.”

You glanced down, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. “I was almost to the point of doubting myself, but… You backed me.”

Lewis tilted his head, studying you. “I didn’t give you anything. I just made sure people heard you.”

For a moment, the conversation settled into something quieter. The clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversation around you, and the way the city lights reflected off the patio railing. You weren’t just having dinner with Lewis Hamilton. You were here because you’d earned your place.

Midway through the main course, something beautifully plated that you barely tasted, he leaned back and said, “So. What do you really want to do in this world?”

The question hit with quiet force. Not small talk. Not polite. It was a real ask.

You met his gaze, steady this time. “I think I really like it here, and one day I want to be on the pit wall. Not just running numbers. I want to make calls. Win races.”

Lewis smiled like he already knew that answer was in you, he saw how your eyes shone. “Good. Because this sport needs more people who see things others miss and insist on saying the right thing”

He raised his glass.

“To the next right call.”

You clinked yours against his, heart steady now.

“To the next right call.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The next few weeks blurred into race weekends, debriefs, strategy meetings, and late nights buried in data. On paper, nothing had changed. You still had your intern badge, still made coffee runs when asked, still got left out of the higher-level briefings sometimes. But in the quiet spaces, the ones that mattered, it was different.

People listened when you spoke, now.

Not always. Not with full trust. But there was a pause that wasn’t there before. A second glance at your screen. A manager asking, “What’s your take?” instead of brushing past you.

And Lewis, he kept showing up in moments you didn’t expect.

After a practice session in Monaco, you stayed behind in the garage late, re-checking tire degradation data just because something felt…off. You looked up and found him leaning against the wall across from you, sipping water, still in his fireproofs.

“You know you’re not being paid overtime, right?”

You snorted. “I know. Just… trying to be sure.”

He didn’t move for a while. Just watched you work.

“You always get that look in your eyes when something’s bugging you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What look?”

He smiled. “Like you’re halfway between a conspiracy theory and a breakthrough.”

You laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He stepped closer, peering over your shoulder at your screen. “It is.”

These moments kept stacking up. Quiet. Intentional. Never crossing a line, but always toeing the edge of one. A shared glance across the garage. The way he always seemed to find you after a good session, or a bad one. The subtle shift when you entered a room and his posture changed, ever so slightly, like the centre of his gravity had moved.

You didn’t talk about it. Neither of you needed to.

But the team noticed.

One afternoon during a long delay at Silverstone, Darren passed by your desk, looked between you and the still-warm headset Lewis had just handed off, and said, “You’ve got his ear now.”

You looked up, wary. “Is that a problem?”

He paused. “Only if you waste it.”

And you weren’t going to.

Later that evening, while the garage cooled and the crowd filtered out, you found Lewis outside, leaning against a stack of tires under the fading sky. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“You’re starting to scare them a bit,” he said, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You raised a brow. “Because I’m right, or because I’m near you?”

He gave a quiet laugh, then looked at you fully. “Both.”

Something hung there between you for a beat, an acknowledgement. 

“You ever think about staying?” he asked. “After the internship?”

You swallowed, heart kicking up. “All the time.”

He nodded slowly. “Good. Because I’ve already told them they’d be idiots to let you go.”

And just like that, something else shifted, unspoken but understood. You were still an intern. Still not fully inside the circle. But you were getting closer.

To the team. To the pit wall.

To him.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

[vivalabunbun]

Into the Sky of Artificial Stars

Summary: Could a chest that lacks a heartbeat still learn how it would feel? Could the whir of a motor be enough of a substitute?

Word Count: 25k (I will not explain myself)

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Slow burn (oh my), Slow fic (oh boy), SMUT(r18+), NSFW, Researcher!Reader, insomniac!Reader, Android!Alhaitham, Workaholic!Reader, soft!Alhaitham, Modern AU, Android AU, human x android dynamics, Heavy Angst, Fluff, Heavy adult themes, academic trauma, toxic family pressure, toxic academia themes, struggles of poverty and academic inequality, TW: Exploration of grief, death, and guilt, TW: Survivor's guilt and tragedy, exploration of humanity and morality, slight mentions of violence, service top!Alhaitham, test subject to lovers? slightly possessive!Alhaitham? body worship, touch starvation? cunnilingus, he falls hard like a fool, but what is there to catch a fool who tried to reach for an unobtainable star?

Authors Note: This has been in the drafts for a very long time. My first foray into sci-fi kinda? I did my best with jargon and everything, so please forgive any mistakes I've made in regard to the technical stuff. An exploration into an artificial star. Enjoy

Are you just your conscience? 

All the collective thoughts, desires, and ideals that congregate in your mind and influence your every action. Do your thoughts define you?

Are those cognitive functions, formed through a mix of instinct, teachings, and life experiences, what differentiates a man from a featherless biped?

If so, then are algorithms, simulations, and data sets interchangeable with what creates cognitive functions? Theoretically, it gives a machine the ability to develop a conscience. It gives a machine the ability to be human. 

Perhaps, a sterile lab won’t be the most fitting environment to form such a thing.

What if we clothe the machine, provide a roof over its head in a nice quiet house, and feed its mind with the mundane details of existence? Then, could technology bring a machine over the boundary of humanity? 

To engineer a brain, a conscience, a life with bare mortal hands. As if to replicate the gods. To compete with the authority of gods through scientific progression, many warn about the possible repercussions. 

However, if to give and take life is deemed sinful to be done by mortal hands, then what made those unseen gods any different?

Regardless, such philosophical ramblings won’t help you in finishing the half-written report in front of you. 

Looking past the two years' worth of reports sent already, innumerable papers penned by you within the sleep-deprived confines of the Akademiya. With a doctorate framed proudly on bland walls, that should be proof of your ability to type up a simple conclusion, right?

The weighted taps against a backspace key argue otherwise. Frustration leaves your lips in the form of a sigh as you test out a new string of words. Could these few sentences even be comprehensive of the leap in scientific progress made by mankind? 

The shapes of letters merge together, forming incomprehensible blotches of black pixels against the white backdrop. Quickly, your lids shut to offer your eyes some much-needed reprieve from the harsh light of the monitor.

It was quite naive of you to believe subjecting your weary eyes to the punishment of light mode would drive up productivity.

Your fingers remove themselves from the keyboard, perhaps your body’s stubborn protest against sitting at the desk for another minute. Maybe a coffee break is an order. 

You shouldn’t be too harsh on yourself, there hasn’t been a precedent for an experiment like this. A collaboration between the prideful Fontainian Research Institute and the arrogant Kshahrewar Darshan, the first of its kind.

Perhaps the real marvel is how the weight of their combined egos hasn’t sunk this project into the depths of abandonment. 

With a subtle squeak, your office chair rolls back granting you permission to stand up and stretch your weary limbs. Letting out a slight groan as signs of time made themselves known to your bones. The ramifications of your negligence. 

Slow steps pad through the quiet halls, floor boards singing a hymn with your leisurely stride toward the kitchen. As you make your way to the end of the long, empty hallway a silvery hue steals your attention.

Slightly obscured by the oak door frame to your home library stood the culmination of your years of overtime and long nights. A surge of anticipation places a slight weightlessness on your legs.

Approaching the end of the hall where the humble library resides, the oak doorway finally framed him in clear view. 

Structure much more nimble and organic than the gardemeks framework, with materials sourced from the finest suppliers. The most advanced software and artificial intelligence capabilities ever developed since the Akasha.

The first and only of his kind: The Android Alhaitham. 

The said pinnacle of human ingenuity and knowledge is currently flipping through a paperback book as the sunlight illuminates his synthetic skin.

The bounce light made his silver locks glimmer. As your steps slowed to a stop, he took notice of your presence. A soft snap of pages closing resounds through the passive air as Alhaitham turns his focus to you. 

Your gaze ran along the neat spines lining each shelf, a small stack of unsorted books still left by his feet, but this morning there were numerous identical piles littered all over the library.

He seems to not have any issues making progress on his assigned tasks, a great sign. 

You note that his button-down was a different color today, a sign that he’s practicing switching to a new set of clothes regularly.

A sign of routine, developing habits, and showing his steady learning of human behavior. 

The frustrations from an unfinished report fade into obscurity as the subject of your research continues to observe your form. How easy it is to forget the big picture when you stress over the small details.

With this gentle reminder, a soft curl tugs at the corners of your lips. 

Alhaitham repositions his stance, turning his body to face you, you figure he must be anticipating another task from you. Since he seems to be mostly done with his previous one, why not assign a new one?

“Could you brew me a cup of coffee, Alhaitham?” As he processes your request, you inspect his teal eyes, catching the slight glow signaling that his response is ready. 

“I could, but unfortunately the interval of opportunity has already passed.” His baritone voice articulates. 

A subtle quirk made its debut on your brows as your eyes shifted toward a clock hanging up in the corner of the study, its ticking hands displaying the time: 5:15 p.m. 

“Huh… you won’t grant me an extension?” You turn back to him. 

“If you have a request then please state it between my working hours of 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., you’re always free to submit again tomorrow.” 

He doesn’t budge. An android capable of autonomous training and self-study is different from those gardemeks who only function when given tasks. The ability to develop self-awareness, consciousness, and to think comes with its own caveats.

In Alhaitham’s case, his stubborn nature. Conceivably, he likely reviewed Sumeru’s labor laws and decided that he was entitled to such labor rights as well. 

“I work overtime almost every day for your research and development, but you can’t spare me 15 minutes?” Your lips form a pout, but you already predicted his next output. 

“Your poor work-life balance is not my responsibility.” 

Your prediction was correct. 

Another sigh leaves your lips, it’s just one of the trade-offs you must accept. After all, learning to be a human is the reason why he was created. A feat once thought to be unachievable. But he exists, and he’s developed quite a character. 

To change the trajectory of this conversation you glance at the book held within his hold. 

“Frankenstein by Mary Shelly?” You read the title aloud. 

“Yes, the 1831 edition, it’s quite the story.” Alhaitham opens the covers once more. 

“Mm, maybe I should be more cautious of what information you come across.” A subtle grin tugging at the corners of your lips as his teal eyes land back on you. 

“It’d be a bit of an issue if you were to turn against me from the wrong influences.” Resting your body against the oak doorway as you observe the android process your jest. 

“There are safety restrictions already in place to prevent such occurrences, the possibility is near zero. However, if you are still concerned then feel free to upload a list of banned materials for the next version update.” 

A huff of a chuckle escapes you as you shift more of your weight against the wooden frame. 

“Of course, of course, just remember to place your books back where you found them.” Pushing off the doorway, you allow Alhaitham to continue his unsupervised learning as you amble closer to the kitchen. 

The soft clinking of cups and spoons chime through the evening air as you scoop a few ounces of ground coffee into the brewer.

As the water slowly brings itself to a low rumble, you occupy your wait staring out the glass and at the setting sun. The flaming scarlet hues and warmth blend into mellow indigo as the night begins to reveal her stars. 

Dusk, when the line between day and night blurs to an indistinguishable mess. Would a singularity also look as luminous as the setting sun? The answer might be closer than ever before. 

The reaction to the announcement of an android development project was at first astonishment, that human knowledge had progressed this far. And the secondary reaction that followed like ripples was fear. Fear that humans will soon be replaced by beings of silicon and steel.

That a singularity would signal the end of humanity. 

Well, this was always the common reaction to disruptive change. Many cases of public pushback and hysteria against innovations you can reference throughout history. The human reaction to the unknown. 

They always gossip and fearmonger about an android domination of all of Teyvat. But have those people ever stopped to consider that the android could simply be too lazy to have such ambitions?

Instead of becoming cruel overlords, they’d rather leave books strewn about as they dock themselves into their charging port. 

To learn to be human means to learn human slothfulness too, no? Or maybe Alhaitham’s algorithm just decided to train himself to incorporate it. What a peculiar enigma he is, this android currently residing in your house. 

Your thoughts circle back to a certain novel you haven’t touched in years. A work of science fiction written by a genius author barely over the cusp of adulthood. 

You wonder how she would’ve described this impending singularity. 

A distant toll rang from the depths of a dreamless void, each chime reaching closer and closer until the bright tune devolved into jarring blares. Piercing enough to set your heavy lids into motion.

Just as they peeked open, they flinched back shut from a stray ray that snuck between the gaps of your curtains. 

Your leaden body groans at the brightness of the room, the luminosity much greater than when you had originally settled under the covers. Yet, even with your groggy complaints the alarm resting on the nightstand offered no mercy, continuously bellowing its monotone pitch. 

With a sharp slap, your world returns to its silence. 

Angling the alarm towards you as you creak open one eye, the blurry red pixels slowly merge together to display the time. 

Didn’t you have a meeting scheduled for today? 

Another groan follows your dreadful discovery and you roll back under the plush blanket. Not much different from a child trying to protect themselves from the grasp of a fictitious monster.  

Soft comforters block the morning glow contained behind thick curtains, yet your permission to access a blank serenity was denied. It seems that your quota for sleep has been fulfilled.

Barring you from any excess repose, not that you expected anything less. A monster that torments a young mind might be fictitious, but the realities of capitalistic responsibilities unfortunately aren’t.

Taking in a deep inhale, you prep your body for the next set of dreaded actions with its drowsy limbs. Before it had the chance to protest, you kicked the covers off, ripping away the warm security from your skin. 

Ambling down the hall you gradually made your way into the kitchen, there under the morning light sat a steadfast figure whose eyes never left the book in front of him. 

“Good Morning.” You initiate the first conversation of the day.

“Congratulations.” 

You pause, hand in the midst of rubbing away the tiredness of your eyes. Staring perplexingly at his sudden praise. Alhaitham’s focus remains on his novel even as he answers your unasked question.

“You’ve beat your previous record of how many alarms it takes to get you out of bed, I believe it went off five times this morning.” 

A few beats of uninterrupted silence follow the aftermath of his response. A chain broken by a deep sigh which leaves your body.

“It’s far too early for this, Alhaitham.” Your hand goes back into motion, this time attempting to rub away frustration.

“Spare me your sarcasm until after you’ve made me breakfast and a cup of coffee.” 

From the glance you took at your clock from earlier, it’s currently well into his operational hours.

“Understood.” Setting the book down, his tall frame makes its way into the kitchen. 

Settling down at the lacquered table, your seat grants you a clear view of your android collecting some eggs from the refrigerator. Even as the hands of fatigue beckon your lashes to flutter shut, you refuse to indulge in such luxuries.

You had to watch just in case he decided his book couldn’t wait.

A series of trials and errors already well documented in those weekly reports back to the Akademiya and Institution. A human in training is bound to have some mishaps occur, or more accurately, this android might have different priorities.

One notable case was the time you asked Alhaitham to clean the floors while you attended a conference call. Only to step into puddles of soapy water the moment you leave your office door.

Connecting eyes with teal as he stood in the middle of it all mop in hand. For the time being, you’ve barred him from such tasks. 

Although, you wouldn’t be surprised if he made a mess just as an excuse to sit back on the couch with a book. This fickle android of yours. Your third sigh of the day. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

The tranquil afternoon interlude that enveloped the house was interrupted by a sharp chime. Glancing at the numbers displayed on the corner of your screen, it looks like it’s right on schedule.

You had just concluded your monthly conference call, it’d be good to stretch your legs a bit after sitting through a few hours of professional formalities. 

Leaving your home office to journey toward the front door, you spot Alhaitham’s frame by the entranceway. His head turns to acknowledge your presence. Passing him to make your way to the front door, you hear him shift closer.

Soon the brilliance of a star pours into the entranceway, illuminating the hall as the door opens.

“Good afternoon, grocery delivery?” The young man on the steps greets, a strain in his polite tone as bags weigh down on his arms. 

“Yes, there was a last-minute addition of henna berries, were you able to get those?”

“Yep, they’re in one of these bags.” 

“Thank you, sorry for the trouble, I’ll take it from here.” You cast a glance over your shoulders back at a tall form standing idly. 

“Please come help with the groceries.” 

“Understood.” It took only a few strides for the burden weighing down on the delivery boy, effortlessly hanging them all on his engineered arms without a hint of strain. 

“Careful, they’re heavy, mister-” The warning dies at the tip of the young man’s tongue as his wide eye reflects the artificial glow of teal irises. 

It’s best to end this trial now, to prevent a commotion or disturbing the delivery boy who isn’t paid enough to be frightened. You could see it in the slight tremble of his agape mouth as his brain processed the thing in front of him. 

“Thank you again, please don’t mind him, have a great day.” Before you could hear his response, the door was shut. 

A bit rude according to societal norms, but you’re sure a generous gratuity bonus paid on top of the delivery fee is enough to stifle any disgruntlement. Considering his reaction, it looks like your hypothesis remains correct.

The people of Teyvat still need more time to adjust to the existence of androids. Just because science progresses, it doesn’t mean human acknowledgment moves at the same rate.  

Turning away from the door, a pair of glass irises connect with yours, a sheen of expectancy just under the brilliant teal hue. Alhaitham stands there with the bags still hanging from his arms. 

“If you already know what I’m about to assign you, then you should just take the initiative, Alhaitham.” You huff. 

“It’s not a bad habit to wait for any specific instructions.” Came his baritone rebuttal.

“Just take those to the kitchen.” 

“Understood.” He pivots away, taking slow steps toward the kitchen. 

“Ah, sort them into the fridge and cupboards too, do not just dump them on the counter.” You warn, learning from your previous mistakes. 

Seriously, Alhaitham has long evolved past needing step-by-step detailed prompts, thus you suspect it's merely an act of his.

You’ve watched his character develop, his habits form, and his routine take shape. Just where did he learn such behavior? This strange android of yours. 

You watch as he carries the numerous bags without a hint of strain. Alhaitham was much better suited for carrying your week’s worth of rations from the market. Unfortunately, he is proprietary technology.

Clearance to allow an android out into the world hasn’t been granted yet. 

Not that you were eager to receive it. The logistics of such an event are a nightmare to plan. The protocols needed in emergencies to ensure the safety of civilians and the millions of mora poured into his creation. 

There’s always a nonzero chance his system gets overloaded from trying to analyze every blurred face in a crowd. A nonzero chance that he would simply wander beyond the merchants and their fruit stalls. A nonzero chance that the gem implanted between his collarbones could spark curiosity. 

Those same curious eyes could catch onto the artificial glow of teal irises, morphing curiosity into terror. 

Even in Fontaine where it was more common for machines to walk among crowds, they were always designed to look like machines. Their clockwork pieces are obvious and distinguishable, a design choice to bring comfort to the mortal psyche.

An easy way for a human to differentiate a person and a thing. If that line becomes blurred, then…

With a deep sigh, you reel your thoughts back from their philosophical journey. Regardless, it’d be a problem for the future to handle.

–-------------------------------------------------------------

Soft clacks resound from the keyboard as a new string of words appears on your screen, documenting the events of the day on your laptop as you sit on your sofa.

The soft cushions are a welcomed change from a stiff office chair. Just over the top of your screen, Alhaitham sat across from an adjacent couch. Methodically folding a basket of laundry and sorting them into piles. 

An easy enough task for him, but as you watch you make sure to note down the improvements in his motor skills and dexterity. Movements organic and fluid, much like those of a human.

It truly is astonishing just how far technology has progressed, from clockwork pieces and clunky steps to the specimen sitting just a few steps away. 

A tall and sturdy frame, well-portioned face with handsome teal irises, and synthetic starlight hair. Features created from the finest equipment and materials, a truly magnificent piece of scientific progress.

Amid your appreciation for his structure, Alhaitham halts all motion, setting down the towel back into the basket. Resulting in your eyebrows creasing together. 

“What’s wrong Alhaitham? Did you forget how to fold a towel?” 

Alhaitham did not attempt to entertain your jest, so much so, that he simply stared past you. Teal eyes honing in on an object just beyond you, never breaking focus to discern the bewilderment on your face.

Finally relenting, you follow his stare toward a clock, reading the time: 5:00 p.m. 

“Seriously? You haven’t finished folding the laundry yet,” you remark in utter exasperation. 

The teal glow of his eyes shows that he’s received your remark, yet he doesn’t make an effort to return a verbal response. He chooses instead to simply continue staring at the time as his hands wait by his side in opposition.

Him staring at a clock, you staring at him, a one-sided showdown. 

A naughty cat prancing about a countertop where it shouldn’t be could simply be picked up and removed.

A disobedient dog dirtying the couch with its muddy paws could be lured off with the sight of a treat.

But an android? What are you going to do to an android whom you had to tilt your head up to make eye contact with? 

This wasn’t a hill you’re willing to die on, thus with a dismissive wave of your hand, you concede. Allowing Alhaitham to do as he pleases, which he graciously does. His form leaves the couch, heading in the predictable direction of the library as a deep sigh leaves you.

This stubborn android of yours, you made sure to document this on today’s report. Just as how it was yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before that. 

Hopefully, in the event of an actual android apocalypse, he might show you the same leniency. You couldn’t help but scoff at your ridiculous musings. A machine with nothing but a motor and battery in his chest, would he understand leniency even if you were to code it into him? 

Soon his frame comes back into view, a pile of books clutched within his hold, just as you predicted. Shamelessly, he sits in the middle of his unfinished chores while leisurely scanning the pages in front of him. 

This fickle, strange, and stubborn android follows the rhythm of his own motor regardless of what protocols you instill.

Yet, as you watch his fingers flip through the worn book and take up space on your couch, a smile develops on your features. A soft curl of your lips, easily obscured by the screen of your laptop. 

A fickle, strange, and stubborn android is not too different from a person, one who had a heartbeat.

An android who takes up space on your couch and house, making it a bit less empty than previously. That was good enough. 

What made man? Intellect? Innovation? Language? 

This was the dilemma assigned to him since the very first time his system powered up in that facility, welcomed into this world by glaring fluorescent lights and the numerous stares of figures in white coats.

A dilemma that follows him even to his current place on a spacious couch.

According to sources pulled from the Akasha and cross-references from numerous printed materials made available to him, many throughout history have been pondering this same conundrum. A philosopher once defined man as featherless bipeds. 

However, wouldn’t this make a plucked chicken a man too? A definition so ambiguous a mere student proved the teacher wrong. 

Then, is man defined by their flesh? Having skin and bones instead of silicon parts and metal components? To have blood pumped by a heart instead of operating off a battery and motor? Was it biology that defined man?

But if that was the simple truth, then why was Frankenstein’s creation addressed as nothing more than a monster?

From his arms to his legs to his mind, everything which made up that creature was human. He had blood, he had flesh, he had bones. So why was he chased away by flaming torches and pitchforks as a mob screamed ‘monster’? Why was a creature made from human flesh not human?

His train of thought halts as a familiar set of steps patter against the floor. Automatically, his sights hone in at the corner of a wall even before your face reveals itself from behind it. 

Teal-colored eyes refocus to catch the subtle perk of your eyebrows and widened eyes. An expression of surprise he analyzes, his immediate focus must have caught you off guard.

Did you have some other test outlined for him? Did you need to collect more data from earlier today? Another household task perhaps? 

How unfortunate, the hour on the clock read half past 8 p.m. Have you not learned from your tardiness the week prior?

“If you have a request, then please wait until 9 a.m. tomorrow when I’m within my business hours.” 

Even with the wall partially obscuring your form, the restrained giggle through lips fighting back a grin was picked up by his audio system. 

“No, no, there’s no more tasks for today.” 

As your gaze centers on him, he takes note of the refractions of fluorescent lights along your irises.

“Then is there something you’d like to discuss?” He prompts. 

“Mm… no, not right now.”

His stone-faced stare was enough of a response, judging by the smile spreading across your features.

“I just felt like checking up on you, after all, you are the most proprietary piece of technology at the moment.” 

At times like these, Alhaitham felt that the audio cue of a sigh was the most effective communication out of all the languages created by man. Muffed chuckles accompany it. 

“I’ll leave you be then.” 

The floorboards trill under your steps as you amble towards the kitchen. Alhaitham returns to the last few pages still left open on his lap. 

Small tinkering from beyond the living room serves as an ambient tune. The swift opening and closing of a refrigerator door. A harsh pull on a microwave door is contrasted by the bright beeps of buttons, leading to a low hum.

He hypothesizes there to be some leftovers spinning around. 

After the microwave sang its concluding chimes, the clatter of a plate follows a firm tug. A drawer rattles open, metal clinking against metal as you sift around for the right utensil. The drawer rattles again as it closes. 

Rhythmic footsteps take center stage as they trail back down an empty hall, Alhaitham waits to hear the resounding click of a door returning to its frame. Just as the final echo of the click sounds out through the air he places the finished novel on the coffee table. 

Leaving the comfort of the cushions, he makes his way to the kitchen to access the aftermath. A microwave door left wide open, a drawer only halfway closed, and of course another dirty coffee mug in the sink. 

Returning the microwave and drawer to their rightful states, his teal eyes count the pile of cups sitting since this morning. A collection that grew throughout the day. 

Alhaitham looks up in the direction of your office. A soft glow leaked out from under the gap of the door, bleeding light into the dim hall. His systems identify the audible taps of a keyboard and the occasional shift of an office chair. He deduces that you were working overtime again. 

He found it a bit ironic at times. A body of mechanical components has no qualms about lounging on a sofa. But you, a creature of flesh and blood, refuse to submit to the allure of rest. Although, Alhaitham wouldn’t find it too implausible that coffee ran through those veins of yours instead. 

Repetitive clacks of keys and mouse clicks play a melody he had heard ever since the first day he opened his eyes.

A tune that accompanies the rhythm of his steps and motions when he goes about his tasks as you document them.

A lullaby that plays after his routine tasks as he heads back to his charging port when you log a daily report. 

An accompaniment to the silent moon and her stars as you stay up at a desk. 

Needing to reach the next exit criteria. Needing to collect the next set of data. Needing to submit the next report. 

Would it be because a body of flesh has agency? With cells in a losing race against time, was there something you wanted to attain within your mortal hands from this research before the race ended?

Or did you just want to fill the vacant lull of this house with those little taps of a keyboard?

Regardless, it’s not within his capacity to disturb your work. Thus all he could do was roll up his sleeves, turn on the running water, and pick up a sponge. Scrubbing the cups with warm soapy water, imitating the motions you’ve shown him before, until the dried stains vanish. 

If it’s not featherlessness, if it’s not bipedalism, and if it’s not flesh… then could it just be agency that made him different from you? 

Maybe he’ll ask you another day, placing the cups into the dish rack. 

Sorting and organizational tasks are his strong suit, in other words, he’s very good at completing easy jobs. Leaving the more… tedious chores to you.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you rest on the handle of the broom. The hallway between your office and the bedrooms is the last section that needs to be swept. 

Alhaitham was likely back in his place on the couch, book in hand as he lounged around. Weren’t androids created in hopes of making life easier?

 So much for that, you internally huffed, repositioning your grip on the broom. A soft but bright clink catches your attention. Glancing down, you quickly discover the source. A ring wrapped around your finger.

Kept on your finger for so long, it’s become almost an extension of yourself, this keepsake piece of jewelry. 

Abandoning the broom against a wall, your other hand fiddles with the gold band. A frown forms upon your lips when a faint scratch shows itself on the gold surface

Gingerly, you remove the ring, pinching it between your fingers as you hold it up to the light, examining the damage closer. The shine of its once-polished surface was dulled by trivial scuffs and dents, damaged by the signs of time.

Regrettably, it seems you’ve been neglecting it as well. 

So much so, that the ring felt compelled to remove itself from your grasp in protest. Slipping out of your tender hold, which propels you into motion, graceless attempts at catching the small piece of jewelry to no avail. 

 It soon collides with the wooden floor as a chime rings out, still, gravity didn’t buy you enough time to catch the evasive gem. For it then decides to run under the gap of a door, disappearing from your sight. Leaving you there in defeat. 

Taking a deep inhale, holding it for a few seconds, you release the air in your lungs. Returning your gaze up from the wood grain, you stare at the obstacle in front of you: a mere door. 

Its brass knob gleams as if to taunt you, daring you to open it, to face what lay beyond. Slowly, you release your clenched fingers, setting your hand back into motion. You’re far too grown to be scared of a room in your own home, especially when you know what is behind it. 

Its hinges ring out in surprise, it’s been a while since they were opened. The daunting door opens up to reveal a lackluster collection of old furniture, picture frames, and various other assortment of items.

Their forms all covered by plain sheets thrown over them, silhouettes, outlined like ghost. A slight tickle appears in your nose from the layers of dust you disturbed. 

A poor, unfortunate room you’ve designated as storage, where items go to be neglected. You were busy enough with work as it is.

To avoid seeing the reminders of responsibilities you’ve been pushing off, you’d rather throw them behind a door. Out of your sight, out of your mind. 

The sooner you find that ring, the sooner you can turn a blind eye to the various items you’ve long abandoned yet refused to let go of. Amongst the dull dust and sheets, it wasn’t very hard to spot the golden glimmer from peaking through. 

Trudging towards the mischievous ring, you kneel to finally catch it within your hand. Such a troublesome thing, you chide as you stand back up. Bracing your other hand on the nearest sheet-covered surface, only for it to come into contact with an odd object.

Startled, you instinctively hold onto both the ring and the odd object as you jolt back up. Glancing down at your hands, your eyes finally identify the object. 

A collection of tiny planets and stars dangling from thin strings glimmered with the soft light creeping in from the afternoon sun. A soft smile made its way to your lips.

How silly it was that a toy made to entertain young infants had you so enraptured. You bought it on a whim, then tossed it into the depths of a dust-covered room. And yet it’s now back in your hands. Perhaps the beckoning of the stars still calls for you. 

A part of you wonders if it was your fascination with the night sky that caused sleep to evade you. Sitting up on a mattress well past bedtime to gaze out to the vast ocean of dazzling and blinking lights that dotted against a navy backdrop. While the pristine radiance of the moon reflected off your irises. 

Or did your fascination develop because it was always the moon and her stars that silently accompanied your long nights?

Gentle lights who lent you their well wishes and encouragement as you anguished through assignments and exams. 

What an honor it was for you to be able to witness her beauty so often. It was a pity that some, who disregarded her grace in favor of dreams, weren’t able to experience the brilliance of a starry night.

Maybe your parents fell in the category of the majority. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t even fathom such a thing. 

A past conversation over an old wooden table started in your mind before you could muster the strength to push it back. 

–----

“C’mon, eat, eat.” Your mother places a hearty serving of Biryani in front of you. 

The old kitchen table groaned under the weight of the spread of dishes on its surface. To call it anything short of a feast would be a lie. The walls of the modest home are filled with a variety of rich aromas and spices. 

“You have to eat to study harder, don’t think just because you made it into the Akademiya you can take it easy now.” Your father remarked. 

“I wouldn’t dare dream of it.” You picked up your fork. 

Letting out a chuckle, he pats your back as a rare smile graced his stern face. Your mother’s face mirrored the same radiance, the beaming glow of pride. For you, their daughter, their only child, and only hope had been accepted into the Akademiya. 

The most prestigious university of all of Sumeru and Teyvat, with millions competing for those few spots each and every year. Only the best of the best, only those who outshone the rest, and only those gifted and blessed would ever be admitted.

Yet, you were sent a letter from the oh-so-grand institution. 

A child from a town far away in the shadows of the grand Akademiya was accepted.

What were the odds of that? For a child whose own parents never got the opportunity for higher education to become the first to go off to university? The cause of this celebratory feast. 

The warm Spring breeze contributed to the sweetness of this small moment in time, as plates were passed and glasses clanked.

All those scattered notes, cramped hands, and revisions have rewarded you with the golden brilliance of sunrise after endlessly long nights. 

A smile crept up the corners of your lips. A light has finally appeared to illuminate this trending path you’ve climbed. 

Your father washed down his previous bite with a sip from his cup, placing it down before he began his next question:

“Have you decided on which Darshan to go into?” 

The sweet breeze turns into a chill down your spine as your fork halts its motion. The dilemma you have been dreading has finally arrived at the kitchen table. 

You had to memorize every mathematical formula. You had to pinpoint every detail in a historical timeline. You had to know every syntax of a sentence. You had to understand the molecular structures of life. 

A child had to learn everything, and now they had to pick something to learn. How would the child know? The child only knew how to study. 

“Amurta? Spantamad? Oh, what about Kshahrewar? I heard that it was also good.” Your mother chimed in. 

“Amurta?” Your father scoffed a bit. 

“Dear, as if this tuition isn’t expensive enough, think of how much med school will cost.” 

“Oh I know, I know, but you know how well doctors get paid! I heard those labs also give a decent salary.” Your mother reasons. 

“Ah, but it takes too long. Engineering isn’t half bad either, there’s been a demand for more engineers recently.” Your father takes another sip of his drink.

“Oh, but it’s not up to us,” she turned to face you. 

“It’s up for our little scholar now isn’t it?” 

A paradoxical question, because your options were already decided for you from the very start.

Carefully selected paths were already laid out before you as your parents watched on with expecting eyes, waiting for your foot to take a step on the path they wanted most. 

Poking at a stray grain of rice on your plate, you gather up the scattered pieces of courage. You were a child who only knew how to study, yet, a child is still susceptible to dreams, no?

“I have thought about it.” You began.

“And?” Your mother couldn’t help but nudge you to continue. 

“I was thinking about Rtawahist,” you confessed. 

It was as if even the sweet Spring air wanted to escape the now-still walls, leaving dread to fill the void it had left. No dishes were passed, no utensils rattled, and no cups clinked. Just bewildered stares you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. 

“Rtawahist? As in the school that looks at the sky?” Your father’s face had returned to its stern default. 

“Astronomy? Yes, that’s the Darshan that studies Astronomy.” Your eyes didn’t dare leave your plate. 

Among the options selected by them from their perceptions of future opportunities and prestige for you. You dare interject with one of your own. 

A deep sigh sealed your fate. 

“Astronomy? You want to study Astronomy? And get what job?” 

The pierce from your father’s harsh tone made you flinch, even though you expected it. 

“You can look at the stars for free, why would I pay to send you to school to study something so useless?”

“There are jobs for Astronomy.” You reasoned. 

“Like what?” His finger drummed against the wood. 

“Like-” 

You made the mistake of looking up from your plate, the fragile wisps of courage dissipated like smoke the moment you did. All the arguments and rebuttals you had prepared vanished along with it. The frown that pulled down your father’s face and the scrunched brow concern of your mother’s were enough to snuff out your pitiful rebellion. 

“Go on.” He challenged. 

“...” 

“That’s what I thought.” Your father snatched up his cup. 

Your focus retreated back to your plate, recentering on the grains of rice you pushed around with the ends of a fork. A motion that continued until another hand stopped yours. 

“Little one…” Your mother began. 

Her thumb traced over your fidgeting hand, a touch which comforted yet scorned you all at once. 

“You know that lady who lived down the street? Her son got a career working with computers and now they live in a big house, doesn’t that sound nice?”

You hummed. 

“Kshahrewar isn’t so bad, right? Just a few years and then you can get a good job.” 

Yes, she had spelled out the purpose of your studies like red-inked corrections on a test. It was how it always was, why did you think it would change now?

Having to prove you deserved the food on the plate in front of you.

Having to bring home top grades to prove all those books and materials were worth it.

Having to get a job that could break this cycle your parents were trapped in. How else would you be able to pay them back? 

It was their mora, earned from long hours and labor, that fed you, clothed you, and sheltered you. They made your world with their calloused hands. It was their justification to command it as well. You were their only child, their only investment. 

This was the dilemma imposed upon you. 

–----

Your fingers clench around the childish imitation of the night sky, running the plastic surfaces under your mindless touch. Thoughts still light years away in the recesses of your memories. 

How silly, for someone who loved the planet and the stars so much how did you forget that one fascinating detail? Planets orbit a sun because of gravity.

It was the force of a greater mass that commanded the lesser, it was what kept a planet going round and round within its grasp. It was the gravity of the sun that gave a planet a direction, a path to follow, a purpose even. 

Perhaps it’s because the sun knew what was best for its little planet.

It was the diplomas framed nicely on a wall that granted you a secure job, it was your cushy job that permitted you to purchase this cushy home. 

Your parents planned this out long ago, thus you merely just followed. 

However, when the sun disappears, when the central mass that gave a small planet a purpose disappears, what would the little planet do? 

Drifting endlessly in a vacuum of nothingness, with no direction, no path, no light. No day or night and an endless Winter, would it be as if the world stopped spinning.

That little planet would be no different than a cold lump of rock in a vast emptiness. 

A sharp creak pierces through the tormentful quietude, a chirr that reels your thoughts back to a dusty room. Head instinctively following the direction of the noise, you fixate on the doorway.

Catching the diffused afternoon sun glimmering in silver locks reminiscent of starlight. 

Alhaitham stands silently at the threshold of the door, its frame perfectly centering him as his teal eyes analyze you. Not a single engineered limb crossed the boundary of the dusty room. Just as it was defined in a set of restrictions implemented into his system by you. 

As evidenced by his unintentional disregard for his environment, the floorboards bearing witness to his careless execution of chores, you restricted him from this decrepit room.

Although all it contains is a chaotic collection of trinkets and keepsakes, the dust-coating provides them with a blanket of security. You saw no reason to change it. 

A telling teal glow blinks momentarily before Alhaitham breaks the lull.

“Are you uncomfortable anywhere?”

It was just now that you noticed the wet trails rolling down your cheeks. Wiping away the cooling dampness on your skin, you confirmed the presence of tears. Your senses took their time returning from their escapade.

Alhaitham remains in his spot, patiently awaiting your next response. How embarrassing it is, to be seen in such a state by a being who could shed no tears. Quickly, you wipe away the trails on your other cheek.

“I’m fine, just lost in thought for a moment.” Swiftly you place the toy down.

A smooth weight encased in the palm of your hand reminds you of the ring, the item that lured you into this dusty room.

Perhaps it should be best to have let it remain undisturbed on your finger. It’s a common wives’ tale that keepsakes ward off bad omens. 

“Is that truly all?” He made a no move, his eyes rescanning the environment as if unconvinced by your answer. 

You wonder if it’s because of some protocol or conditional in his software. Safety measures set in place during this test of whether an artificial being could live in harmony with mortals. 

However, as you gaze upon your magnum opus the specifics of programming and software fade into irrelevancy. Trailing your eyes up from his teal irises to his starlight silver trusses that glimmered in the soft light, revealing a hint of mint. It took you a while to find that exact shade during his manufacturing stage. 

There’s always a chance that a drifting planet could be caught in the orbital pull of another. Whether it be man-made or not didn’t matter.

As long as it was of a significant mass its gravity should be enough to pull a lonely planet from its aimless wanderings. It can set the stray planet into a new orbit, giving it a new path. 

A small lump of rock could find a new star to center around. 

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” 

You will be fine. Slowly, and with one step after another, you will be fine one day. 

The typical 24-hour day for a working adult can be broken down into a set schedule. Waking up at around 8 a.m. to wash one’s face and brush their teeth as they make themselves presentable for work. Followed by a light breakfast or a cup of coffee before. 

Some then start their commute to work or jump onto their desktop to clock in around 9 a.m. to begin their work. In the middle of their shift, usually around noon, they are granted a one-hour lunch break, after that they work until 5 p.m. when they finish their work. 

Coming back home to enjoy dinner around 7 p.m. followed by an hour or two of leisure before a bedtime routine begins. Washing the day's influences off oneself, brushing their teeth, and changing into comfortable attire.

If they want to get a restful 8 hours of sleep they cannot go to bed any later than 10:45 p.m. to account for the 15-minute downtime to allow the body to enter the sleeping state. 

This cycle then resets and repeats just as the sky cycles through the sun and moon. A typical and average reality for most adults in Sumeru. Well, from the data he pulled from the Akasha, this was the typical day for the average working civilian. 

It just so happens that you’re a stray data point skewing the graph.

If he were to estimate your bedtimes from the activity of your desktop and laptop, it would be a chaotic set of timestamps ranging from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., sometimes the activity on your devices never ceased. An indication of what is referred to as an ‘all-nighter’.

Behavior that might be acceptable for those attending the Akademiya, but certainly not for a working adult. 

At this moment, Alhaitham stood in the hall just a few steps away from your bedroom door. His frame remained motionless to avoid disturbing the floorboards beneath him.

Taking into account your device’s activities, Alhaitham estimates your bedtime was 4: 45 a.m. this morning. Given how your alarm is set to around 8 a.m., amounting to about 3 hours of sleep.

Not even half of the recommended time by Sumeru’s health administration. 

By all means, Alhaitham finds it confounding how you’re still able to perform so efficiently at your job, managing both the Insitute and Akademiya while operating on a few morsels of sleep.

He wonders if that was the reason why you were selected as the personnel who’s facilitating his learning. 

Perhaps, they hoped he’d emulate your work ethic and efficiency. How unfortunate, his self-learning pivoted him away from such conduct. 

As he stands observing the woodgrain of your door, Alhaitham finds himself at a crossroads. It’s not within his capacity to interfere, conditionals coded into his software to prevent him from disrupting your privacy.

Laws mandating the privacy of employees and civilians alike.

Simultaneously, there are protocols instilled in him that instruct him to prevent harm from befalling you. 

A contradiction. Something that would cause a regular system to return an error as it fails to satisfy one conditional while trying to work within the bounds of another. 

Chronic sleep loss results in an increased risk of heart attacks, strokes, and hypertension.

Long-term sleep loss also results in impaired memory and concentration, although it’s not affecting your productivity now, it doesn’t mean it won’t decline soon.

These statistics were all provided by Sumeru’s health administration. 

The effects on the brain are quite severe as well, with increased feelings of stress, anxiety, and depression.

A quiet afternoon scene replays, in a dust-covered room, where he found you staring off at nothing as silent rivulets rolled down your cheeks.

That memory stored within his RAM was enough for Alhaitham to come to his conclusion. 

Alhaitham must act on his own will and deal with anything that appears harmful in his eyes.

To allow you to continue your destructive routine which is proving to be detrimental to your health would be inadvertently allowing harm to befall you. Thus, he decides one conditional must override another. 

Careful to prevent the hinges of your bedroom door from trilling, Alhaitham enters. Analyzing the shape outlined by messy layers of blankets draped over your figure, you must still be in the depths of slumber.

There are about 15 minutes before your first alarm is set to go off, since your commute was a simple walk to your home office, you had the flexibility to sleep through a few grating beeps. 

This habit could use a few improvements. He turns his focus to the thick curtains hiding the room away from the greetings of a morning star.

Sunlight sends a signal to the pituitary gland, calling to suppress melatonin production and increase cortisol production and serotonin.

A natural cue for your body to start, to allow the bright rays to touch your skin would also be good for vitamin production too. 

With a simple tug, the thick drapes were pulled away, granting the rays of the sun to enter and illuminate the still room.

Your body instinctively retreats deeper under the covers, a clear sign that the light is doing its job. He’ll leave the rest up to the alarm impatiently waiting to belt out its chorus of pitches. Just like the shadows slipping away, he exits just as quietly. 

It took only two alarms to get you out of bed and ambling down the hall toward the kitchen. A 60% decrease from when the curtains were shut, however, more trials are needed to conclusively establish a pattern.

His teal gaze follows you as you approach the kitchen. Hands rubbing at your eyes. 

“Why is it so bright?” Your words were groggy. 

“It’s morning,” he answers. 

An unamused glare replaces the fatigue in your expression, Alhaitham deems his response satisfactory. 

After a deep sigh, you shut your eyes again, still trying to adjust to the brightness surrounding you, hands returning to rub at your eyelids.

Excessive rubbing of the eyes isn’t good for them, he notes. However, before he could address it another prompt from you took priority. 

“Did I leave my curtains open last night?” You asked yourself. 

“Coffee?” He interjects. 

Glancing back up at him, you paused for a moment as your groggy mind remembered why you traversed to the kitchen in the first place, diverting your attention away from mysteriously moving drapes. 

“Yes, please make me a cup, Alhaitham.” 

“Understood.”

The android turns toward the marble countertop, preparing the coffee grounds into the machine as you sit at your place at the table.

One day isn’t enough to correct a bad habit, but over time, bit by bit, your schedule will fall into a new rhythm. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

The cheerful doorbell ring interrupts Alhaitham amidst reorganizing the books on a shelf. Right on schedule.

From just down the hall he hears the knob of your office door turn as it opens, followed by a few cautious steps as you venture closer to the front door. As you pass the doorway of the library, Alhaitham observes the furrow between your brow on your perplexed face. 

“Is there someone at the door?” You turn to him. 

Another ring followed by a few gentle knocks answers your question for him as your head snaps back into the direction of the noise. Crime in this suburban neighborhood is very low, but he does understand why you’d want to be careful.

Perhaps, he should accompany you to ease your nerves over the sudden ring from the door. 

With an android just behind you, you had finally mustered up the courage to answer the daunting door under his teal supervision. 

“Hello, delivery from Lambad’s Tavern, paid online.” 

“Huh?-” 

“One order of Minty Bean Soup, one order of butter chicken, and one rose custard?” The delivery man interrupts your confusion as he lists off your entrees. 

“Yes…” you reply as you cast a glance back at an idle android. 

The entrees listed were all dishes you asked him to make you for lunch a few hours earlier. Judging by the suspicion upon your furrowed brows, he could tell that you noticed as well. However, with a delivery man holding out the takeout bag on the front steps. It’d be rude to just have him remain there, no? 

“Enjoy your meal!” He announces as he hands over the bag into your arms. 

“Yes, thank you.” You close the door, spinning around almost instantly to confront the android with the bag still in hand. 

“Did you order this?”

“Yes.” 

“Again? I asked you to make food, not order it,” you tsk. 

“I did it to optimize my time.” Crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

“All you have to do is heat up the frozen meals.” 

“Then according to protocol, I’d have to stay in the kitchen to watch over the oven and stove, not to mention the dishes I’d have to wash afterward. So ordering takeout would save time as well as not prevent me from my task of organizing-”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” You concede with a sigh. 

Taking a few steps past him towards the direction of the kitchen before you pause midstep to turn back to him. 

“Do not use your funds to order weird things off the internet.” You warn before promptly continuing on your way to have your late lunch. 

“Understood.” 

Just as he suspected, there isn’t a problem that can’t be helped with a bit of mora. If Alhaitham were to follow your request as you instructed, he knew that the reheated meal would turn cold as it sits abandoned on the kitchen table.

Even when he informs you of his task’s completion, you’d push back your lunchtime until you needed another dose of caffeine. 

However, a simple ring of a doorbell could do what he can’t. Drawing your attention and body away from the confines of your desk. An efficient reminder to have your meals at a regular time if he says so himself.

Besides, fresh ingredients are better than frozen meals in terms of nutrients. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had long retreated into a navy blanket of the night, allowing the moon to take its place in the sky. Serene beauty watching over the nighttime bustle of Sumeru city slowly peters out, and many return to their homes at the beck and call of slumber. 

Alhaitham settled himself upon his spot on the couch, a lamp just off to the side illuminating the pages of his book softly. The quiet lull of the living room periodically broken by the crisp turn of a page.

The typical rhythm that resonates through the house around this hour. His acute senses pick up a frustrated pair of steps pattering closer. 

Ah, yes a new accompaniment has jumped this evening's tempo. 

“Is the router having issues again?” You groan as your frame appears from around the corner. 

Casting a halfhearted glance off to where said device sat on a side table, his teal eyes return to his book. 

“The light shows that it’s online.” 

“Then why is it taking forever to upload a simple file? It’s been five minutes and it’s not even halfway done.” You took quick strides past his idle frame. 

Crouching down to be at eye level with the device in question. Unplugging the power cord from its back and then sticking it back. Eyes studying the blinking lights as the router reboots and reconnects to the internet.

Pulling out your phone, you sigh as you try to load up a webpage only to be met by a spinning circle of contemplation. 

“Network providers tend to have slowdowns this late at night, some say it's due to bandwidth congestion while others argue that they do it to cut costs,” Alhaitham states, teal eyes honed in onto the text as to avoid your pouting glare. 

“Very helpful, Alhaitham.” Another sigh leaves you as you stand back up. 

He spoke the technical truth, those companies do tend to slow down their networks at night to save on some operational costs.

However, in this case, it was the former that was causing your device’s screens to perpetually stay in loading. Activities such as streaming videos, music, or downloading files take up the most bandwidth.

Alhaitham simply wanted to download some digital copies of recent scientific journals, and maybe a few songs here and there as well. All done simultaneously which led to some congestion.

How unfortunate. 

“This has been happening for the past month now, I should call the network provider, it’s driving me up a wall.” Another groan of frustration. 

His teal eyes follow your figure from behind the tops of his book, watching you rub your temples as if to expel the exasperation from your body with each mumble that leaves your lips. 

“The internet’s so slow I can’t even connect to the Akasha’s databases, that file is still uploading, what should I do in the meantime?”

His hearing was able to pick up each syllable uttered from under your exhausted breath. He shifts his focus momentarily toward the clock just across the room, reading: 10:00 p.m. Since you asked, it’s only right that he responds with his input. 

“It’s an issue beyond your control, the best option to utilize your time at this moment would be to get an adequate amount of rest.” 

This time it was your turn to respond to him with a deadpan stare, clearly unamused by his suggestion. 

“I want to analyze a few more datasets.”

“Missing a few hours of overtime won’t have any determinate effects on your productivity or livelihood.” 

“This is for the sake of your development, Alhaitham.” You sigh as if your statement would mystically change his rationale. 

“The short-term gratification you’ll get from sacrificing your rest for a few revelations isn’t worth the long-term ramifications of your health.” He bluntly discloses. 

Silence fills the room once more, but something odd seems to have mingled with the serenity of the air. This strange inclusion prompts Alhaitham to finally turn away from the pages, connecting his gaze with yours. 

“Was my response unsatisfactory?” He studies your expression, and rather than furrowed brows, he finds a soft roundness to your eyes. 

Him staring at you, you staring at him. A scene that continued for a few beats more before you were the first to break the stalemate. 

“No, not at all… it’s just very reminiscent of something I’ve heard before…” You turn away as his gaze follows. 

A few slow strides take you back to the corner, figure just about to disappear into the shadows engulfing the halls before you abruptly turn around. 

“Goodnight, Alhaitham.”

“Goodnight.” He mirrors. 

Alhaitham marks today as another successful trail of correcting a bad routine. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

Adequate amounts of sunlight, regular meals, and coffee grounds mysteriously find themselves placed on the highest shelf in the cabinets. All the factors were in place to regulate a disastrous sleep schedule. 

Yet when Alhaitham checks your device activity, the data points remain scattered about the twilight hours of the morning. A true paradox.

Amongst the Summer afternoon rays seeping in through the windows, Alhaitham was tasked with tidying up the kitchen. An obscure cabinet in a corner was the last section before he could deem the request complete. 

There wasn’t anything in particular about the cabinet, it’s space housing an assortment of various vitamins. That was until his hand brushed against a plastic container which didn’t conform to the typical shape of vitamin bottles. 

Grasping it within his hand, he pulls the irregular bottle out from the murky depths of a cabinet and out into the sunlight where its identity unravels: a prescription bottle.

Barbiturates sedatives, colloquially referred to as sleeping pills, are used in treatments for insomnia. 

It looks like Alhaitham has stumbled upon the answer to the paradox printed on the faded label of a neglected bottle. 

Frankly, this revelation wasn’t all that surprising. He had long suspected it from the symptoms and behaviors you display daily. But it’s always good to support a hypothesis with evidence. 

Studying the container in his hand further, his gaze narrows as it hones in a corner of the label. In particular, the date printed along it. This bottle expired two years ago. 

It’s recommended that every civilian visits the Bimarstan annually for a checkup, in a nation where healthcare is free and accessible, this typically isn’t an issue.

Once more, you stood alone as a data point outside of the cluster. 

Stepping into the living room, he finds you tinkering with the network router again. A few more steps and then he was by your side. 

“When was your last medical check-up?” Cycling through his memory, Alhaitham failed to recall the last time you had a medical assessment.

Your body halts momentarily, before glancing up at his beryl eyes.

“I’m relatively healthy, there’s no reason for an assessment.” 

“The Department of Health recommends annual checkups at the very least.” 

“I don’t need to go to the Bimarstan,” you declare. 

A weight pulled down at the corners of his lips, creating what is called a frown. An expression he observed many times upon your lips whenever you label him as ‘stubborn’. He might finally grasp why you do such a thing.

Stubbornness isn’t such a good trait when you’re on the other side of it. Fortunately, he anticipated this. 

“In accordance with the law, you do.” The contents of the plastic bottle rattle as he reveals it, drawing your gaze toward it. 

“The regulation behind your prescription requires that all expired medication be brought back to the Bimarstan for proper disposal.” Denunciation behind his glass irises. 

Lips pressing into a thin line, you advert your eyes back to the blinking router in front of you. Each second of silence announces your defeat.

Human actions are limited by a set of laws and they must operate within the bounds, not too different from restrictions imposed on machines.

The consequences looming just a step away discourage most mortals from crossing the threshold. 

“I’ll schedule an appointment for noon next week, making use of your saved paid time off is recommended, does that work?” He prompts. 

“Alright.” 

A weight is alleviated from his lips, triggering the corners to curl upwards. A common response to the accomplishment of a challenge, he understands now why a mortal body does it. 

Perhaps a doctor's visit has been long overdue, foggy recollections of if the curtains were shut the night before and if a bag of coffee was accidentally misplaced. Poor memory is one of the repercussions of sleep deprivation, you’re aware of this fact. 

Healthcare in Sumeru is highly accredited for its accessibility and quality, the Bimarstan being the standard many hospitals around Teyvat strive to be. To have such a thing so accessible to you, it’s baffling to many how you failed to utilize such privilege.

You had your reasons. 

Many of these prominent doctors and diligent nurses were once classmates. A few vaguely familiar faces from across a lecture hall of some general course.

Faces you’ve passed slumped over textbooks and piles of notes in the late hours of the House of Daena, their dark circles matching yours.

Faces that graduated alongside you as celebratory cheers rang out with caps littering the air.

It’d be strange to meet someone you attended the Akademiya with once again in an examination room. 

After their years of medical school and surviving residency, you’re certain they’re more than qualified at their jobs. However, it doesn’t change the course of averted eyes and superficial pleasantries.

You breathe out a deep sigh as the receptionist calls out for you, informing you that you could head down to a private room. 

Leaving your seat in the waiting room, you do as the receptionist instructs, exiting the lively environment into a placid hallway. The receptionist’s face didn’t evoke any familiarity, nor did the doctor’s name listed on your appointment.

Many of these prominent doctors and diligent nurses were once classmates, but not all. 

Candidly, there’s only one classmate who you’d avert paths with within this establishment. In a hospital as large as the Bimarstan, the average number of staff ranges from around 5,000.

The odds of encountering a particular face out of a pool of thousands is nonzero. 

A polite knock draws you from your thoughts, your eyes travel toward the door of the private room you entered not too long ago as the handle slowly turns. Thick oak swinging ajar to reveal the figure on the other side. 

“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Rana, I’ll be taking care of you today.” 

You return her greeting with a courteous smile and nod, statistics in your favor, the odds were nonzero but still a minuscule likelihood. 

The checkup was rather uneventful, a few questions were asked as she pulled up your medical records. You pulled out the expired medication for her to examine and deal with.

Vitals checked and documented as the appointment drew to a close, a notepad and pen in her hands as she turned to you. 

“Overall your health seems fine, although…” she trails off.

You could feel the weight of her stare upon the discoloration ever-present under your eyes, no layer of concealer to cover them. You could already guess her next sentence. 

“Would you like a refill of your prescription?”

“No, it’s fine.” It’d just be another bottle to be neglected in the back of a cabinet. 

“I see…” This time her eyes move back and forth between your sitting figure and a clock hanging in its place on a wall. 

“I… have to process some paperwork, could you wait here for a few minutes?” A polite smile graced her lips. 

“Of course.” You mimic her actions. 

A day requested off to account for a drawn-out appointment, to account for a scenario like this his foresight analysis is making great progress.

You should take note of that once you return home, a daily log still needs to be updated to track consistent progress after all. It’s technically your day off, but you’re free to decide what to do with it.

As you pondered a checklist to complete once you got in front of your desk the door creaks open. 

“Oh? That was fast, Dr. Rana-” The sentence dying upon the tip of your tongue as your lips press into a firm line. 

The odds of encountering one familiar face out of a pool of thousands is a small nonzero number, however, if that number was increased to three faces out of those thousands, the chances increase.

How unfortunate, even with such small odds, you managed to come face-to-face with the three people you wanted to avoid the most. 

They file into the room and the last one closes the door behind himself as your eyes scan over them. Starting with the ebony-haired man in the center, Tighnari, a doctor at the Bimarstan. It makes sense for a doctor to be in a hospital on this fine day, but not for a lawyer, or an architect.

Four former classmates gathered in an examination room, how strange. 

Still, you’ve grown enough to adapt to such peculiar situations. Practiced corporate smiles and pleasantries to navigate this stagnant air. 

“Cyno, Tighnari, Kaveh, it’s a surprise to see you all here. It’s been a while.” 

“A while is a bit of an understatement…” Kaveh is the first of the trio to converse, offering you a small smile. 

You return it with one that didn’t reach your eyes. The rhythmic ticks of a clock fill the silence, shifting eyes anticipating and preparing for the next phase of this impromptu reunion. The doctor finally decides to speak up. 

“You haven’t been sleeping enough, have you.” Tighnari examining your under eyes. 

“I never sleep enough, you know that.” Of course you never slept enough.

How could you sleep when the threat of falling behind the geniuses sitting around a library table was always looming over you? Geniuses who easily grasp the concepts and theories that elude you. How could you lay in bed when you had to catch up to them? 

“So, why this sudden get-together?” Impatience rising inside you with each passing tick of the clock. 

Dropping the formalities and social pleasantries, you watch as another round of shifting eyes passes. You already had an inkling of the answer they’re still hesitating to address. Finally, your former Kshahrewar senior responds for the group. 

“We’re worried about you, you haven’t been in contact for a while now.” Kaveh’s voice was low and mellow, you could tell he took extra effort in marking it such. 

The same low and mellow tone he’d speak to you with as he tried to explain your mistakes on an exam, the tone which accompanied the pity in his gaze toward you as he pointed out each miscalculation on your paper. The tone made you ball your fist up on your lap.

“I’m fine, just busy.” 

“Please don’t start with that again.” The blond sighs, sympathy still ever-present in his eyes. 

“I’m just busy with work, as are all of you, we’re no longer students with minimal responsibilities,” you retort. 

The days when a group of friends could gather around a table for hours on end, half bantering and half studying, basking in the Spring warmth streaming in from the grand windows of the House of Daena have long passed. 

“We all have busy careers, that’s true, but not to the extent of being a detriment to our health.” With a sigh, Tighnari began his health lecture. 

Expounding upon the negative consequences of a poor work-life balance. Shifting your focus instead on tuning out this lecture you didn’t sign up for. 

“You stopped listening… of course,” a deep sigh concludes the doctor’s sermon. 

Ah, you’ve been found out. The polite smile straining itself upon your lips, legs itching to walk out of this restrictive space. 

“Here, it’s a contact of mine, I recommend you give her a call-” 

“It’s fine.” You promptly push away the business card just as Tighnari presents it to you, a thread of patience stretched thinly. 

“She can help you through-” he continues. 

“It’s fine, my research is just busy-”

“This isn’t healthy.” 

“It’s my research.” A sharp undertone leaks through your professional demeanor. 

“And this is why we’re worried about you!” Kaveh’s patience was the first snap. 

Then again, your senior might have been the light of Kshahrewar and a praised genius, but he was never the best at handling his emotional regulation. 

“Look around, don’t you see how concerned we are about you? No returned texts or calls and no answers at a doorbell for years, only ever talking about this research. It’s as if you-” he stops himself, rudy eyes meeting with your cold stare. 

He knew better than to finish that sentence, you knew that he knew he shouldn’t. 

“We’re worried about you, this research… it’s not good for you.” Tighnari interjects, attempting to shift the course of this intervention. 

Of course, when the development of an android was announced, there wasn’t just discourse amongst the general public, but debates raged throughout academia as well. How unfortunate it is that friends now stand at polar ends. 

“It’s my research,” you reaffirm. 

This research was why you got your doctorate, it’s why you have a job, it’s why you have a house. This research has entangled itself into the very fibers of your life. It was where a predetermined path had led you. 

The room fills once more with a lull, nothing but deep sighs and ever-shifting eyes. Neither side is able to get through to the other. Typical of most academic debates. Still, it seems they weren’t ready to end the intervention so soon. 

“Listen… we’re worried for you, I… I know it’s been very difficult these past years.” Your senior takes a step closer. 

That same sympathetic timbre brings a vile taste to your tongue. You stay silent in favor of pushing the bitterness down as it tries to claw its way through your polite façade.

“I… know what it must have been like for you, It’s been hard on all of us. I’ve experienced something similar, so I can tell you-”

“I’m sorry, Kaveh. But tragedies shouldn’t be compared, because they’ll never have a fair comparison.” You end the conversation. 

Just like how it isn’t fair to compare stars who were their own centers of gravity with a mere rock at the mercy of an orbital pull to give it direction. 

Even when you sat at the same table as them, you were never at the same level as them. Families with academic prestige, minds blessed with wisdom, and the freedom to pursue a self-chosen path. You could only ever look up at what you lacked.

“Your worlds kept on spinning, your lives move on with the change of the season. But not mine, mine stopped long ago.” It’s not fair to compare a rock to a star, from their silence, you assume they knew that too. 

“I’m now taking the initiative to make it start again, don’t interfere.” Your valediction to the geniuses whom you couldn’t live up to. 

It’s just the nature of this world, geniuses walked their own paths while others took another. Geniuses can’t understand those others, just as others can’t understand geniuses.

This doctor’s appointment has gone on for long enough. Gathering your belongings, you stride past them, eyes refusing to meet.

Your hand pried open the door, pausing just at the threshold as Cyno finally breaks his silence. 

“Is this truly what you want? To defy the edicts of finality with research?”

Ah, what an inquiry. Perhaps it’s just like a lawyer to ask such a thing. 

“Is my research in violation of any laws in Sumeru?” You refuse to meet his scarlet condemnation. 

“As of now, no.”

“Then I don’t see how this involves you, there’s no place for personal biases and mortals in the judicial system.” Crossing the threshold, the door creaks close behind you as hurried steps echo through the sterile hall. 

This was a mistake, you should’ve never come here. Your body was fine, your vitals are fine, you’re fine. There wasn’t a point in wasting time here, you needed to leave this place filled with faces offering you condolences. Exiting the narrow hall back into the dim murmurs that fill the waiting room, the last thread of patience starts to splinter. 

From the muddled chatter, a bright shrill rang above them all. Interrupting your contemplation as your eyes impulsively search for the source. Even in a sea of passing faces and colors, it didn’t take you long to find it. 

A young girl grins a smile with a few gaps as she stretches her arms out to her sides, mimicking an airplane. A young father helpless to his daughter’s giggles, hands secured around her legs as he lets her soar on his shoulders. Next to his side was a giggling mother, watching with amusement and endearment. 

A private moment hidden amongst the waiting room, you look away. You should return to the private walls of your house before that thread inevitably breaks. Sliding glass doors part to grant you exit from this suffocating cage.

Like a speck of dust drifting in the breeze, you disappear into the bustling crowd of Sumeru City. The push and pull of strangers further you along your route, even as your mind drifts off. 

With modern advancements in aerospace engineering, the chances of a plane crashing have decreased significantly, with recent statistics citing only 1 in about 11 million. A 0.00001% chance, a nonzero chance.

How long ago since the last time you’ve been inside an airport? What were your last memories of an airport? Do you remember?

–----

“Are you sure you can’t come with us?” Your mother’s thumb traced over your hand. 

“It’s a bit too late for me to pack, we’re already at the airport, Mom.” 

“Don’t you want to visit Fontaine? Didn’t you say they had really advanced things there?” She didn’t let go of your hand. 

“I’m busy with my thesis.” You were still in the midst of getting a Ph.D., the very thing they demanded of you. 

“But I planned this trip so we could spend time together.” Your mother tried to get you to meet her gaze.

You adverted your eyes. So this is how they spent their recent financial flexibility. With a scholarship and research-assistant salary, you had enough to cover the tuition by yourself, relieving your parents of that burden. But to get that scholarship and salary, you had to pay with your time. 

“I’m busy, mom.” You freed your hand from her grasp. 

“But-”

“Stop it dear, she’s not going to change her mind.” Your father’s gruff voice stopped your mother. 

“There’s no point in trying to change the mind of an ungrateful child.” 

You felt the weight of his disappointed stare upon you, a frown formed on your lips as they pressed together. This was a sudden trip announced to you just a few days prior, you didn’t have time to accompany them. But they didn’t seem to care.

Of course they didn’t. Your parents only ever saw the grades, the diplomas, the results. But they never bothered to see the anguish you endured to give it to them. 

“Enjoy your trip.” Words barely passed your clenched teeth as you turned around and walked away. 

An ungrateful planet ignored the calls from their mother in their first successful act of defiance. Trying to break away from their gravitational pull. 

–----

That was your last memory of the airport.

Those were the last memories two parents had of their child.

The child they sacrificed their time, labor, and freedom to build a better life for. Your parent’s last memories were that of an ungrateful child, maybe it was the last scene they thought of as a plane was swallowed by the salty depths. 

Humans, defined by their curiosity, will always yearn to reach as high as they can. Tales warning those to never fly too close to the ever-bright star ignored in the pursuit of radiant curiosity. Your parents were no different. 

They ever had the chance to travel, too busy trying to provide food in front of you. So when the burdening weight was lifted, naturally they wanted to stretch their wings to see the views they never got to in their youth. They always wanted to touch the sky, to reach for the moon.

There’s a proverb often told to young minds: ‘Shoot for the moon, even if you fall, you can still land on a star’. 

This saying is riddled with inaccuracies. The stars are much further away than the serene moon. Beckoning the curious eyes to look at them, for curious hands to yearn for them. 

But once the glue on those wings are melted away by selfish rays, what is there to catch them besides the cold unfeeling ocean? Did they sink from the memories of an ungrateful child weighing on them? 

You should’ve been on that plane. 

The familiar features of your neighborhood come into view, the doors of your house are just ahead. Just hold on, don’t let that thread snap just yet, just a few more steps. 

Tighnari had his father and mother working right alongside him at the Bimarstan.

Cyno had regular visits to his adoptive father, and sometimes his adoptive sister Lisa visits too.

Kaveh had reconnected with his mother overseas, now having a few younger half-siblings who jump to greet him every time he visits.

Lives still spinning and warm in the light of their brilliance. What do you have? 

A job in a career picked out for you. Paychecks rotting in a bank account with no one to pay back. A spacious and hallow house with no one to reside in its empty walls, only displaying a doctorate you loathed.

A stray rock who lost her stars. Wandering without their gravitational pull in the vacuum of a lonely darkness. Just what do you have?

“Alhaitham,” you call out just as the front door slams behind you. 

You could hear his steady steps approaching along the wooden floor, but it’s too slow so your frenzied steps close in the distance between your two forms. The thread gives in and snapping as the recoil proliferates through your body. 

Without a greeting, no prompt, or prior warning your grasp wrinkles his once pristine button-down.

The bitter tears you held back now soak into the fabric as even viler cries choke your voice. The shame of displaying such a sight in front of a being whose eyes don’t produce moisture is long abandoned. In the walls of this hallow house, your broken sobs echo off. 

He stands still in the middle of the hall, the low hum of his motor resonating in your ears as you hide your face deeper into the synthetic skin of his chest. But that’s fine, the whir of motor is enough of a substitute for a heartbeat. 

Alhaitham stands in front of the reflection staring back at him, he had undocked himself from the charging port not too long ago. Tracing over the synthetic material stretched over his imitation of a collarbone as his mind wanders.

There aren’t enough chemicals in tears to make them corrosive, nor were they at the temperature to boil.

So why does it burn?

Trailing his fingertips where your tears soaked onto his skin, recollections of the searing sensation that afflicted the area with each sorrowful drop. Choking sobs which he caused. 

He failed to consider all causal factors to assess the situation fully and failed to appraise all possible alternatives. He failed to make the right decision, and he let harm befall you because of it. It’s strange, there’s nothing wrong with his eyes, yet he finds it hard to look in the mirror. 

Teal gaze scrutinizes the arms, legs, and body in the reflection. The reflection in front of him had all the identifiable components of a man, but they’re all synthetic.

From the tips of his sliver hair to the vast expanse of his skin, they’re all made from high-quality silicon parts supported by a metal frame. An engineered body with a motor in place of a heart. 

Maybe that’s why he failed to make the right decision, he had no heart to weigh in on the ruling. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

The android is faced with a new dilemma. 

 From the entrance of the kitchen, Alhaitham watches you. A spoon absentmindedly swirling in the cup of coffee on the counter in front of you. Your thoughts wander elsewhere, the rays of a setting sun unable to light up dull spaced-out eyes.

He’s observed your condition for the past week, no hint of improvement. 

A new dilemma he must decipher, the urgency rising with each passing second as the spoon continues. 

The lull of the evening air was shattered by the sound of a porcelain cup meeting the tiled floor. Jagged pieces and coffee spilled all along the cold surface. Listlessly your eyes move to access the mess on the floor, spoon still grasped in your hand. 

“Ah.” That was all your lips could say. 

Limbs slowed with lethargy, you crouch down closer to the broken pieces scattered about. Bare hand reaching out to grab the sharp edges unthinkingly. A firm grasp prevents your touch from the ragged porcelain. 

“It’s dangerous, I’ll handle it.” Alhaitham brings your hand further away from the hazard. 

Your aloof eyes trail past him toward a wall where he could hear a clock tick before they returned to his resolute stare. 

“It’s past 5 p.m.” 

“A hazard has appeared in the environment, it’s protocol that I clear it.” His rehearsed response. 

“Oh… alright.” Limplessness returning to your wrist within his hold, body too lethargic to object. 

With you seated at the kitchen table away from the jagged edges that could potentially pierce your skin, Alhaitham begins gathering the pieces. As your aloof eyes wander about the monitor of your laptop, his mind ponders a dilemma. 

It’s often said that guilt is held in the heart. In novels and human anecdotes, it's been described to him as a burdensome heaviness that sinks the heart.

A sensation reminiscent of drowning in icy water. A sensation only perceivable through a beating mortal heart. 

Alhaitham is an android, he’s aware of this. A being with silicon skin encasing a metal frame. A motor in place of where a mortal heart would be.

So what is this weight burdening his chest? 

An internal diagnostic returned no errors and no reports of any damage or unusual occurrence within his systems. Yet, a heaviness brewed deep inside his chest, its mass increasing each sunrise and fall, with every passing moment the riddle was left unanswered. 

How could a motor hold guilt? How could the weight of judgment manifest itself in the absence of an organic heart that beats instead of whirs? How could an inorganic object possibly suffer guilt?

All the mora poured into his creation, all the hours of research contributed to his algorithms, and all the texts he’s scanned through were all for naught. The pinnacle of scientific and mechanical development couldn’t solve a simple conundrum.

The floorboard creaks under the weight of his steady strides as he moves about the corridor, the soft swishes of a broom coinciding with each step.

Dust had begun to settle in the crevices of the home, it’s about time that he took up the mantle that was supposed to be his. 

Could an explanation of this weight be the backlog of tasks and responsibilities he had pushed off? Chores he ignored in favor of browsing the contents of a library? A burden he selfishly passed onto your shoulders.

Maybe after he completes the tasks that were supposed to be assigned to him he could clear the cache, then this weight in his chest would subside. 

The bristles of the broom scratch against a door, the light force setting the frame ajar further. Revealing the dust-coated scene in front of him. A boundary he was restricted from.

Alhaitham concluded that this small corner of the house must hold some sentimental value to you, thus it’s best for him to not disturb it. 

Just as he goes to close the door, Alhaitham scans around the environment identifying the shape of a journal tucked away under an old table.

He’s not permitted to enter, but all books belong in the library. Spines sorted along wooden selves, not on a dusty floor.

An exception shall be granted, setting aside the broom, he steps in to collect the neglected book. 

While crouching down and gathering the covers into his hold, a different gleam catches his eye. The light reflects off its glass surface and highlights the dust particles dancing in the still air.

With his free hand, he picks it up, teal eyes running along the glass orb. After a moment of processing the object, he successfully identifies it as a toy.

A popular model to display an artificial starry night among blank walls. Alhaitham turns to follow a trail of cut-out stars pasted all along the walls. The soft glow of their plastic shapes subdued by the brilliance of the afternoon sun streaming in. 

Were you interested in stars? Glancing out the window, he discerns the murky shapes of buildings in Sumeru City off in the distance. 

This house is located in the suburbs away from the noisy clammer of the city streets and traffic. However, where the sound waves couldn’t travel didn’t mean the sky around this quiet neighborhood was uncontaminated by activities in the city.

When the sun retreats away for rest, the city doesn’t follow suit.

Through the power of fluorescent lights in street lamps and office buildings, humans created their own artificial daylight to continue the bustle of their lives. Light which polluted the night sky and stole the radiance away from her stars. 

Unable to enjoy the natural tapestry of the night, did you substitute the company of stars with toy imitations?

Turning the orb in his hand, his eyes notice the signs of damage along the projector. Perhaps that’s why it sat abandoned in this room.

He’s stayed in this restricted space long enough. Carefully closing the door behind him, hands still full. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

“I’ve uncovered a strange object, my software isn’t able to identify it.” Alhaitham stands just outside the open office door. 

Sparing him a glance away from your monitor, your brows pinched together in confusion at his sudden report during the late hours of the night. 

“A strange object?” You inquire again. 

“Yes, I’ve scanned over it a few times but no results are returning.” 

“Huh…” 

Teals watching you press a finger against your pursed lips in concentration. A habit of yours often displayed when amid contemplation. After a few breaths, your eyes meet his as you give your reply. 

“Well, where is this object?” 

“Come with me.” 

Along the wooden floor, two pairs of steps tap rhythmically in time with one another as they traverse the hallway stopping at the living room where the mysterious object resides.

Approaching the coffee table in the center, Alhaitham steps to the side to present it as it sits upon the polished surface. 

“This… is what’s been giving your software issues?” The quirk returned to your brow as you cast him a glance. 

Alhaitham simply nobs as you approach the object closer. Kneeling beside it, your eyes examine the familiar device. 

“It’s a planetarium projector, it projects the scene of a night sky, in other words: just a toy.” 

He hums in acknowledgment, carefully treading toward the light switch in the corner as the toy holds the gaze of your eyes. 

“It should be thrown away… It’s broken after all.” Your tone dismissive, yet your hand caresses the broken toy with tenderness. 

“It’s not,” he replies. 

Perking your head up, you turn to face him with that same furrow between your brows. 

“What do you mean, Alhaitham-”

He flicks the switch, plunging the room in a blanket of darkness earning a squeak of surprise from you. The device whirs as it awakens, painting the blank tapestry with a scene of the night sky with its shimmering lights.

The vibrant shapes of stars and planets take their place along the living room wall, creating a private galaxy that surrounds you. 

Your sentence remains unfinished upon your tongue as your eyes take in the display encompassing you. The nostalgic glimmer of the night and her stars twinkle in the reflection of your irises as he settles down beside you. 

“Did… did you fix it?”

He hums in response. 

It only took a bit of study and careful tinkering to restore the worn pieces and gears. A simple effort was all it took to allow the projector to shine its recreation of the stars. Returning a light that he hasn’t seen in a while. 

“Thank you, Alhaitham,” you breathe out, lips curling up softly and eyes still enraptured by the stars. 

He doesn’t respond this time as his teal gaze focuses on your expression, on the smile that’s been missing for some time. It’s strange, this sensation manifesting in his chest. He thought if he was able to restore the light to your eyes, then that heaviness brewed deep inside his chest would clear. But it remained. 

His system unable to express nor suppress the heaviness which bubbled up like seafoam rising to the surface.

The sensation was different than it was before. Instead of a mass that weighed him down to the bottom of a cold depth, it was more reminiscent of a warm ebb. Washing over every limb of his as he studied the curvature of your lips and the glimmer of your eyes. 

Another internal diagnostic wasn’t necessary, for Alhaitham had reached his epiphany to a conundrum. An engineered body may lack a heart, but not a conscious.

A consciousness that acts like a vessel collecting the accumulation of that heaviness. A heaviness that couldn’t be called ‘guilt’. 

No, perhaps it has always been something other than ‘guilt’.

It only took until the vessel overflowed for an engineered body to recognize it for what it truly was.

There’s something strange happening to your Android. Reviewing the diagnostic reports of his systems returned nothing out of the ordinary. So why did you suspect something to be wrong? Perhaps you could call it intuition. 

Or perhaps it’s the lack of books strewn about the house. Or the initiation of tasks without a prompt. Or that night a living room was filled with the radiance of tiny dots along empty walls. Something strange is happening. 

“Alhaitham, what’s taking you so long in the kitchen?” You poke your head out from the kitchen doorway, sights honing in on your android currently scrutinizing the recipe book in his hands. 

Perhaps there’s a defect in the print, if the black ink isn’t contrasting enough with the beige paper, which time has faded, it does cause issues with optical character recognition. Maybe the past splatters of sauces and oils upon the aged book were too much of a hurdle.

“Chef Mao is a renowned cook, but his recipes are vague. He suggests a pinch of salt to enhance the flavor of this dish. I’ve calculated that Chef Mao has a 19.3 cm hand length which entails that his ‘pinches’ measure around 0.356 grams. However, he said to add Jueyun Chili oil until fragrant, I’m still processing the data I’ve collected on his olfactory system, the calculations will take around five minutes.” He turns back to the stove.

“Alhaitham.”

“Yes?”

“Please put down the book and get out of the kitchen.” A bold choice of words from you.

“Was my response unsatisfactory?” His teal eyes land on you. 

“It’s just that I’m hungry.” 

“This dish should be complete in around 90 minutes accounting for the other-”

“No,” you interrupt. 

He studies you for a while, accessing the situation and the unfinished dish still simmering on the stove. After a few breaths, he returns a response. 

“Shall I order delivery from Lambad’s Tavern?” His hand switches off the fire.

He conceded. The notoriously stubborn and fickle android conceded to your whims. There was definitely something wrong. You pace into the kitchen, getting close to observe his teal irises for any sign of possible flaws. 

“Alhaitham, you’ve been behaving strangely as of late, did you encounter something?” 

He returns your gaze, teal reflecting off your irises as you continue to study him, and him you. His silence only amounts to the deepening furrow between your brows as your assessment of his frame fails to identify any impairments. 

“Why have you been behaving like this?” You prompt again. 

“Have I neglected my responsibilities for so long that fulfilling them has become a cause for concern?” He finally responds. 

“Now’s not the time for jests,” you huff. 

“From what I’ve reviewed on human behavior, it’s not strange to want to care for the person I love.” A blunt statement. 

From the window, the moonlight peeks upon the strange phenomenon occurring. Two bodies remain motionless in a silent lull.

One pair of placate teal eyes and one pair of bewildered eyes too lost in each other to mind the witness intruding on this private moment. Words finally conquer in your brain, ending the quietude.

“Refrain from saying nonsensical words.” Your lips press together into a thin line. 

“Do you believe such a thing is beyond my capabilities?” 

You couldn’t respond, or more accurately, you simply didn’t know how to. A being without a heart, a being who lacked the necessary chemicals to create the cocktail known as emotions. How is it possible? 

“I have no heart, I’m aware. But I have a conscience.” He must’ve deduced the exact thoughts racing through your head. 

Your brows only furrow further as you wait for him to continue his explanation.

“Every person should have something that they believe in and hold on to from beginning to end. Otherwise, it's easy to succumb to the vicissitudes of life and find yourself being led astray.” Taking note of the glistening shine beginning to pool in your wide eyes. 

“And I believe that I love you.” His sincere gaze never leaves your form. 

Not a single sentence is able to form upon your tongue. An expression he couldn’t decipher upon your features. Perhaps his statement was too long-winded, an overly complicated explanation. Maybe a simpler one could convey his message better. 

You’re the first to break eye contact, choosing to watch the tiles on the floor over him. He remains firm in his stance, not faltering once as the seconds turn into minutes. Your shoulders rise as your lungs take a deep breath. 

“… say that again… please.” Words just barely above a whisper.

He could only bend to your whims. 

“I love you.”

Your head lifts up to face him, your hands hesitating momentarily as they cup his cool cheeks, fingers trembling. Something glimmering in your eyes as droplets escape your lashes.

This time, Alhaitham wipes them away before they could trail down your cheeks. 

You did it. All those long hours, all those reports and trials, all of these years sacrificed to research. You’ve created a complete human consciousness with your bare hands. One that understands sorrow, joy, and love.

You succeeded. 

However, in this moment as you peer into the teal eyes of your Magnum opus, as he reflects the endearment in your own. The notion of reporting this revolutionary milestone in the development of artificial intelligence never crossed your mind once. 

Instead, all you did in this moment was pull his face down closer. Closing the distance between the two of you as your lips felt his for the first time. Warm skin against a soft imitation, merging until a lukewarm temperature formed between their touch.

A gentle, yet longing connection of two lips. 

Only when your lungs protest for air did you pull away, hands still encompassing his face as he reveals his teal eyes back from behind closed lids. Eyes reflecting one another as a tender lull settles between you. This time, his whisper mingles with the soft intermission. 

“Was that a kiss?” 

Such an innocent question, one you couldn’t help but giggle at as you nod your head.

“Could you show me again?” His hands found purchase on your hips, beckoning you closer to his frame. 

You surrender to the call, pressing against him as your lips reconnect. A rhythm soon settled in place as they pressed into each other deeper. One that was interrupted once more by your lung's protest for oxygen. At a mere kiss, your mind ceased to remember how to breathe. 

“Again.” A baritone voice just above the hush of your pants.

And so your lips meet thrice, this time in an all-consuming embrace. A hesitant brush of a tongue against your lips, requesting access. Your hands move up to caress his soft locks as you grant it. Latching onto each other as the shroud consumed you both wholly.

A beautifully feverish delirium. The line in the sand that separated a person from a thing jumbled until the outline disappeared. A singularity, an amorous occurrence. 

He releases your lips, the lust in your eyes reflected in his own. Giving a moment for your mind to return to attention as his lips brush away the fading traces of wetness down your cheeks. 

“A kitchen isn’t a suitable setting for such an activity,” he whispers next to your ear. 

Baritone trailing a line of goosebumps up your neck and you nod in response, burying your face into the crook of his neck which fit you perfectly.

Slowly his hands travel down your hips, awaiting your confirmation for the next step just as you permitted it. In one fluid transition, his arm wraps around the back of your legs, effortlessly lifting you off the ground as your arms envelop his neck. 

Steady steps pad along a wooden hallway, the hinges of your bedroom singing their welcome as the two of you advance to a more suitable setting. Depositing you upon cool sheets, fabric wrinkling as your body settles in. The arms still wrapped around his neck pull him closer as this time your legs join in luring him closer to your warmth. 

It’s strange, is it possible for his lips to crave yours? The light of the moon reflected off the glossiness coating them. He delves back in as his body hovers over yours, unwilling to be apart from the softness it yearned for.

The soft flesh of your writhing body against his firm hands, feeling up your heated skin he slips under your shirt. Bunching up the fabric as he explores more of the new expanse of skin. A lovely whimper vibrates against his lips at his actions, spurring him to continue. 

Tracing over the outline of your bra, his fingers creep under. Kneading the plushness of your breast, feeling your nipple beginning to perk up against his ministration. An itch stretching from the pits of his desire, a curious craving to witness the sight concealed away.

Disjoining your lips as a string of saliva connects them, he pushes your shirt further up. All the while your hands grasp onto the edges of the fabric and push them back down. Bemusing his beryl eyes as they catch how the tips of your ears were aflame, a peculiar display of bashfulness. 

Well, a sight he’s witnessed on a few occasions. Such as when you’d leave the shower wrapped in a towel just to cross paths with him. A timidity that gradually faded away as you grew more confident in the privacy restrictions in place, ensuring that the secrets of this home remained in the confines of its walls.

So why is this shyness making its reappearance now?

“Are you uncomfortable anywhere?” His words ghost over the shell of your vulnerable ear. 

Causing you to jolt and pull down the edges of your shirt to cover the bottom of your loungewear shorts. 

“No, it’s just been a while…” Your sentence trails off, eyes still focusing everywhere but him. 

Ah, a mere string of words, yet they tempted something from the depths. An oppressive sentiment, one that made the grip upon your soft flesh grow firmer. He’s yet to have accessed the entirety of your figure, a view still denied to him by your taut shirt, but another entity had. 

There was a myriad of questions he could use to interrogate. However, as his teal gaze observe how your teeth lightly tug at the bottom of your plush lips in fidgety. Alhaitham devises a much kinder scheme. 

It’s fine, he can overwrite them with his touches. 

“What can I do to gain permission?” A question asked as a line of kisses press their way into your fervent skin, goosebumps following each one. 

Biting down to muffle the bashful moans into whimpers you burrow your face into the plushness of the pillow. Alhaitham continues to soothe kisses over the fabric of your shirt until they finally reach your quivering hands still stretching the hem.

His hand encloses one of yours, bringing it away from the fabric refuge to press his lips against your knuckle. An action that made you peak back at him, meeting a patient gaze awaiting you. 

Another soft press of his lips against your knuckle in silent request, at last, got you to release the hem, allowing him to push the fabric up to expose what was hidden from him. Permitting him to explore the sultry expanses with a wake of kisses, your hand finding reprieve entangling themselves with his. 

His free hand slipping behind your back, he unfastens the clasp of your bra with a slight tug, a relatively simple task when you learn how such a contraption works.

His grasp untangles from yours as he pushes the useless articles of clothing off your body, you raise your arms over your head to aid in the process.

He rewards you with another flurry of kisses in the valley of your breast as his large hands encase the softness of your breast. A motion that made your legs pull him closer. 

Your touches dance along his frame as well, unable to differentiate the difference between skin and a recreation. More whimpers leave your lips at his actions, prodding something in him to do more. To steal more of those sinful breaths from you, something in his coding thirsting for more.

Sliding his hands back down the curves of your body, he hooks his fingers over the rim of your shorts and panties pulling them down. Glass eyes zeroing in on the glistening thread that linked your panties and slit. Proof of arousal, your body awakening its cardinal impulses.

Could the signals transmitted through his system be classified in the same way?

He wants to investigate further. Moving his face lower to inspect the saturated folds that beckoned him. 

Only to be denied by the gates of your knees pressing together, as your body curls up in fortification. Denying him the privilege of satiating his curiosity is like denying a man water in an ocean of sand. Evaluating how your eyes were squeezed together in shame, he had foresaw this.

“Mmm, there seems to be an incongruity, do you want me to stop?” Large hands grasping at your plush thighs, but making no move to part them. 

Your head responds with a shake, but your knees still locked together. Your attention centering on him bashfully. 

“Then guide me, tell me how to please you,” he proposes hands soothing your tense legs.

Utilizing the skill he had accessed a few moments ago once more, gracing your skin with his lips awaiting your response. The tension in your legs loosens with each kiss, and gradually a fissure forms in the barrier of your defense, knees parting.

However, he doesn’t cross the threshold, no, he restrained himself from indulging too soon. Half-ladden eyes peering up to connect with yours. 

“Well, tell me. What do you want me to do?” 

A pout makes its appearance on your face, but what could you do? It is your responsibility to shepherd him since the beginning, to have him step over the line dividing an android and man. Best to take on your duty, no?

Parting your legs further, cheeks ablaze and eyes adverted as you allow his teal gaze to absorb the uninterrupted view of your dripping arousal. Your hands aiding as they thwart the urge of your bashful legs’s urge to preserve your dignity. 

“Please use your mouth and hands,” you prompt, face pressing deeper into one side of a pillow under his stare.

Alhaitham encroaches closer to your glistening folds, his large hands supporting each one of your thighs. Approaching the details of your honeypot in front of him, concentrating on the little nub which lures him closer. He presses a light peck against the nub as your body flinches. 

“Like this?” 

Plush lips pressed tightly, you respond with timid shakes. 

Returning back, his lips delving deeper this time, an audible pop when he pulls away from your taunted clit. Feeling the muscles tighten in your legs. 

“Like that?” Mirth leaked through his baritone words. 

Your head shakes with more vigor. 

“Then how about this?” This time his tongue takes action, dipping into the center of your honeypot before flicking up at your nub. 

You return a restrained moan, teal eyes picking up on the twitch of your folds. It seems that he’s uncovered the proper procedures. Peering up from between your legs at the harsh rises of your chest by rush breaths as your eyes remained sealed behind lashes, he decided to impart some mercy. Taking the initiative to shoulder a bit of your duty. 

Retracing his steps, his tongue repeating its previous motions of lapping up the nectar that slipped out from your folds. Always ending each strip up your slit with a flick to your sensitive nub.

Your hands abandon their post in favor of snaring themselves in his ashen trestles as your back begins to arch off the sheets. Thighs beginning to enclose around his head, yet it didn’t deter the vigor in his motions one bit. 

If anything, it spurred them on. The added pressure of your legs pulling him against your weeping folds assisted him in his quest. Testing which pattern made your body quiver, calculating the pace of his tongue's flicks made your hips buck up.

Alhaitham takes notice of how your greedy hole seems to be clenching down every time a tongue dipped in, you did request for his mouth and fingers after all. 

A finger begins to prod at your entrance, coating itself in the overflowing slick as it traces the puckering entry. Your whines increase in volume as your greed escalates, legs locking around him. Thus, he yields to your neediness, filling your lonely walls with the company of his finger.

Thrusting it in time with his licks as he rubs against the slick muscles. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers grounding themselves in the tangles of his hair as if trying to hold on to a shred of reason. 

His interest has been greatly piqued, he wanted to see what it would look like. He wants to see what your expression looks like when you fall into the depths of debauchery. You’d permit him such privileges right? After all, curiosity is what defines the human spirit. 

A second finger soon joins in, its thickness stretching and prepping your walls, cultivating your arousal into a rapacious hunger.

Articulate tongue now focused on abusing your clit in the swipes of sweet torture, lips encasing around it to provide some suction. Fingers honing in on relocating the weakness deep within you which made your voice peak and tremble.  

He could hear the harshness of your panting breath between each escalating moan, how your walls squeezed and sucked his fingers deeper. Teal gaze never once ceased their evaluation of your face. Making sure to appraise each lewd detail of your impending ecstasy. 

It’s impossible to stand at the apex of euphoria forever, no, for gravity will always pull you back down. A pivotal moment in time as the forces tugged down at you as you fell, losing your shame and sanity along the way.

A fall from grace which etches itself in the roll of your eye and vulgar expression, caused by the tempest of pleasure seeps into every fiber of your being as you plummeted down into the ocean of rapture. 

The fingers intertwined in his hair pulling his face flushed against your pulsing cunt. Even with your mind fractured by orgasmic bliss your body still reacts to each lap of his tongue as he manages the slick aftermath. Fingers stroking your sweet spot through each contraction of your walls. 

“Nng!” A feeble push against his ashen locks, your abused clit crying for a moment of reprieve. 

Oh? It seems your consciousness returned faster than he expected. With a resounding pop, he grants your overstimulated nerves a moment to recover. Allowing the traces of your nectar to dribble down his chin. Taking this moment to verify the effectiveness of his scheme.

The air dense with the fragrance of lust, lips red from the abuse of your teeth, mouth agape as your lungs gasp tongue almost lulling out. 

An absolutely debauched face, a sight which brought the corners of his lips to curl. 

Counting the beads of sweat that lingered on your skin, his rationale urged him to swipe them off to prevent a chill from plaguing you. Withdrawing away from your form he plans his destination to the bath to retrieve a towel, only for a smaller hand to snag him in its hold. 

Alhaitham turns back to face you, awaiting your next prompt. However, your bitten lips couldn’t muster up the courage to utter the plea it so desperately wanted. Thus, your eyes connect with his, praying that a slow blink could convey the invocation your voice couldn’t. 

Standing there as a few breaths pass, the teal glow of his irises indicates his deduction of what your eyes conveyed. Ah yes, the passionate entanglement experience just a moment before could be classified as ‘foreplay’. The appetizer to the main event.

So your appetite has yet to be satiated, evident from how your thighs pressed against each other in an attempt to quell the ache. How could he leave a task undone? 

“Show me what you desire,” he instructs. 

Hesitantly, your hands encroach closer to the rim of his slacks. Your every action observed by him. Resting your palms against the outline of a zipper, you glance up to seek confirmation, he grants it.

You undo the button at the top before pulling the zipper down. Allowing for you to shimmy his briefs and slacks down to the floor. Revealing to the world, with the moon as your witness, every intricate detail placed into his engineered body. 

It felt so foreign in your hands. Encircling your fingers around his girth, tracing over the bumps of each vein. Amid your admiration, his body overtook yours. Pinning you back against the damp sheets. It seems you were very interested in this feature of his, perhaps it was the cure for the yearning between your writhing legs. 

Your legs splayed to either side of his hips, a clear path to your greed. His hand spreads your collected slick along his length. Its bulbous tip presses against your quivering entrance. Meeting your half-lidden eyes, he awaits your permission. Thus, you captured his lips into another kiss, just as the tip breaches the threshold of your entrance.

Finally giving your aching walls the delicious stretch it craved. A moan resonates between connected lips, your eyes beginning to roll back as he sinks deeper and deeper, obscene squelches following each inch. 

Thick tip pressed up against the deepest parts of you as he bottoms out, your hands finding refuge along his back. Breaking the lock of your lips, Alhaitham lifts cants his head up to take in the scene under him.

Hovering over your panting form, his body caging you against the wrinkled fabric, feeling your unseemly breaths against his skin. A teal glow reflected in the lust-hazed pools of your eyes.

He understands now, why so many poets lost their minds, trying their whole lives to find the words to chronicle the sight laid out before him along messy sheets. 

Under his tense study, your fingers lightly claw at the smooth expanse of his back. A soundless prayer to quell the famine, your gummy walls coaxing around his cock with its embrace. 

“Haitham,” you mewl. 

Not even the greatest saint could deny your request, he wagers they’d gladly walk through the gates of damnation just for a morsel of you. 

Rolling his hips back, he drags his girth along the walls of your greed ensuring that they feel the outline of every vein. Feeling the cool air brush against the slick dripping off his length, only the bulbous tip remained in the clutches of your cunt.

A muffled whine of protest from you interrupted as he sunk back in, accompanied by a filthy squelch. 

Robust hands encompass the edges of your waist, he repeats the roll of his hips. Feeling the tightening clutches of your core, croons falling off your tongue with each toing and froing.

What symphonies could he draw from those agape lips of yours?

He wants to witness the sinful hymns of your voice as you are overtaken by the throes of pleasure. Perhaps he should conduct an experiment of his own. Through the raunchy air, a clap pierces the leaden veil, your plush hips pressed flush against his anchored ones, a thrust that seared your nerves and curled your toes. 

“Ah!” Moan ripped from your throat. 

Yes, that’s the amplitude he wants to discern with his ears.

Continue to sing in that octave. It’s as if pulled by the reins of sin, he finds himself experiencing hunger for the first time, fixating on tearing more of those chants from you. He drew back his hips then forced them back in deeper. A wail followed each rake of his cock, walls accenting each thrust with fluttering clenches. Mewls and whines resonated through the room as his firm grip didn’t slacken with each rock of the bed. 

Pace escalating and remorseless, skin clashing against skin, the heat of your writhing body scorching him. But he won’t relent, not until he’s taken what he wanted. Driving you deeper into the creaking mattress, thrusting and filling each crevice of your core. Your soft breast pinned against his solid frame. 

Your face pressed into the crook of his neck, legs imprisoned within the confines of his bruising grasp, toes painfully arched in an attempt to distribute the burn of the maddening euphoria firing through each nerve. The moans of his name like a prayer of salvation, a chant for every punishing strike against your deepest weakness. Your fingers now clawing against his durable back for a foothold for your fleeing sanity. You feared that this time, it might not return to you. 

Oddly, a voice from the rearmost corner of your mind whispered for you to relinquish it. Trade in rationale, sensibility, and morals for absolute ecstasy. Your teeth had already sunk into the apple, its juices dribbling down the corners of your mouth. Why not swallow it down? Get drunk off the wet claps of skin, the grind of his muscular torso against your stimulated clit, the slams of his girthy cock and thick tip. Why deny yourself from the euphoria robbed from you for so long?

So you concede to its beckoning, swallowing down the last wisp of sanity until it drowned in the maddening abuse of your sweet spot from his pistoning hips. Granting you entry to true pleasure as the knot in your core unravels. Backing arching off the mattress, mending the fibers of your being impossibly close to his. Head thrown back against a ruffled pillow as a long shameless wail erupts from your trembling lips. Lost in the tides of rapture. 

Alhaitham’s body stills as his ears digest the beautiful aria of your undoing. Feeling your slick and warm walls contract all around his cock. Milking him for every last speck of gratification he could offer you. 

A moment couldn’t be classified as a simple impulse for procreation. No, he believed it went beyond the lust hanging in the air. An indescribable urge to mend your bodies as close as possible, to becoming wholly one with one another. The thump of your heartbeat against the whir of a motor as they merge into a mantra. 

Is this why humans crave physical intimacy? 

Watching your loose face tremor and your teary eyes roll back. A painting no muse besides you could ever inspire. Leaning down, his lips brush away the glistening trails down your supple cheeks. Coaxing you through the throes of your orgasmic shudders. Until the light of consciousness returns to your half-lidden eyes. 

The limitations of the human body expose themselves in the limpness of your limbs, unable muscles unable to budge besides the twitching aftershocks of bliss. Unable to fight against the weight of your eyelids for the first time in a while. You sink into the lull of slumber. 

–-------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere amid the driftless darkness a sensation brushes against your skin. Causing your lashes to pry open just ever so slightly, blurry shapes merging gradually to form the outline of a man. One who’s tendering wiping a soft towel over the sweat drops littering your skin. The soft glow of his emerald gem illuminated the devotion of his crafted face. You wonder where he learned about such practices after the rite of sex. Did he pull it from the Akasha? The internet? Or maybe from a book hidden along the shelves of a private library. 

You couldn’t stifle the giggle roused from your musing. Alerting him as his hands halt. 

“Did I wake you?” Baritone voice hushed. 

Face still pressed into a pillow you shake your head, hair messy and a smile spreading across your soft features. 

“Just musing to myself where you learned such things,” you giggle. 

“This is typical behavior of lovers from my understanding.” Teal gaze observed the widening of your eyes which reflected him. 

Perhaps he made too great of an assumption. Back in the margins of a kitchen, it was only his words. It’s best to get clarification now. 

“Are we lovers?” He peers into your irises. 

The glow of the gem embedded in his chest spreads its gentle radiance over two figures through the unbuttoned window of his wrinkled button-down. Carving the shape of you and him from the shadows of the silent room. Illuminating how your wide eyes crinkle up with adoration. Fighting against the fatigue of your limbs, you lean up to press your lips against the brilliance of his gem. After the amorous kiss ended, you proceeded to lean your forehead against his. 

“You’re my lover, Alhaitham.” Your whisper ghosts over his face. 

“Understood.” His foreheads pressing against yours as he accepts his new sentience. 

The shape of your delicate fingers fitting into the space between his, intertwining as the moonlight reflects off gold and emerald. 

The sky shrouds itself in its evening gown of deep navy and luminous glimmers, all the while a bashful moon covers herself away. Perhaps she hid herself away after she witnessed a sinful scene through a gap in the curtains. A private moment heavy with passion in the air like tender caresses. 

“W-wait!” Stammering words just barely leaving your lips before another moan. 

Alhaitham pulls his tongue away as he tilts his face to peer up from between your thighs, a trail of slickness connecting his lips and your pussy. The haze of your breathless expression reflected in teal irises. 

“I-it’s t-too ah!-” A moan interrupts your protests as your head jolts back, his thumb continuing to circle your swollen clit. 

“Much? I know you can take more,” he states before returning his lips to your dripping folds, lapping up each trickle. 

He’s analyzed your body, its curves and cervices, each clench of your slick walls, and the pattern of your gasps. Skilled fingers learning the exact rhythm which made your legs tense and toes curl. Diligent tongue knowing where to tease to run shivers up your spine. 

“B-but I’ve already c-came!” Your fingers tangle themselves into his tousled locks, a feeble attempt at pushing back the maddening flicks of his tongue and cruel strokes of his thumb that shot up your fried nerves. Report long forgotten under the haze of lust and lewd slurps imbuing the room. 

And you can come again. Alhaitham has long picked up on the discrepancy between the words which fell from the same lips as those lewd sounds. Lips who couldn’t be as honest as your heaving and trembling body. Whining and writhing in his firm hold that it’s too much, yet your fingers entangle themselves deep in silver tresses pulling his impatient tongue deeper between your folds. 

From the shivers racking through your trembling thighs, he anticipates another orgasm. However, the unholy cries have ceased. Intent eyes glancing up to uncover the causal factor, those naughty plush lips of yours pressing themselves shut. Crueling sealing away those ethereal harmonies from him. 

Alas, just a small inconvenience doesn’t deter him. If those lips were the only barrier barring him from the privilege of hearing his deserved moans, then he’d simply make them crumble. Replacing his thumb with his lips, Alhaitham suckles on the swollen nub as your body jerks up.

Grip imprinting his fingers into your skin as they stop your pitiful attempts at locking out from heaven. The heaving of your chest jostling around your perked breast as they meet the cool night air. 

His tongue teases and rolls your overstimulated clit around as his lips imprison it, a sweet torture. Your thrashes unable to prevent your head from going under the depths of pleasure. Thighs compressing around his face as they grow taut, hips bucking themselves against his relentless mouth, back lifting off the mattress as your final defenses crumble along with your sanity. 

 Limpness seeps into your now heavy limbs as your body returns to the mattress, but your eyes haven’t quite returned from seeing the back of your head. Still in the throes of cloud nine as his diligent tongue collects all your leaking nectar. The aftershocks of your orgasm force gasps and whimpers from your quivering lips. 

To comfort your abused clit he places a tender kiss against it, a flinch in your hip resulting from the gesture. Alhaitham pulls away, eyes scanning the repercussions of his operation. Your chest steadily rises and falls as panting lungs find air again.

The rush of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin gradually disappears behind your drooping eyelids. Lashes slowly fluttering closed. 

Glancing at the numbers displayed on a nearby clock, Alhaitham deems tonight a success as well. While the primary purpose of intercourse might be for reproduction, sex has additional benefits. One of them being an orgasm’s ability to decrease stress, resulting in the production of more melatonin. The chemical that’s making you burrow further in your pillow. A tactic he’s learned to exploit these past months. Well, he’s your lover now, it’s within his authorization to do such. 

Carefully he slides your panties back up your legs, securing them on your hips as he trails a few touches along your soft skin. Following it up by pulling the covers over your frame, smoothing out a few wrinkles as your chest steadily moves up and down. 

Just as he steps one foot away from the bed, a warmth encircles his wrist. 

“Aren’t you coming to bed too?” 

An artificial body needs no downtime under soft covers. Plush pillows and sheets serve no purpose to him. Yet, it’s a simple request. How could he reject it when it came from your pouting lips? 

“In a moment, I need to return to my port first.” 

The throes of slumber’s hold creeping upon you as your lashes fight to flutter open. With a soft hum, you release your hold.

His battery percentage was fine, but it was just for system maintenance. It’s strange how unfamiliar a room can feel after spending his nights by your side. Staring at the glass surface of his charging port, he wonders, in the future will there be a way for him to not leave your side even for a moment? 

His dilemma remains. He’s got all the characteristics of a human. He’s developed a consciousness, he’s developed empathy, he’s developed love. Is his engineer body the only thing which stood in his way of obtaining humanity?

Is it possible for him to grasp onto humanity with his own mechanical fingers? A soft thud returns him to reality. Observant eyes caught the book that his foot had knocked into. Its worn cover has been lying abandoned on the floor ever since he took it from a dusty room. 

Ah, it seems like he’s forgotten a task. Realistically, it won’t make a difference whether the book settles on a shelf tonight or in the morning. However, he never got a chance to read the journal’s contents. Curiosity being his rationale for performing a chore so late at night. 

Flipping through the aged parchment, his eyes scan through each neatly written paragraph. Nothing more than a simple collection of ramblings and theoretical reflections typical of a journal.

Yet, something was poking the back of his consciousness, like the warning rattle of a locked door. Beseeching that it remains sealed. His eyes move to the next sentence regardless.

To ignore the pleas of safety to venture closer to the radiance of a star. Isn’t that what it means to be human? Is this what he must do to become one?

To achieve this impossible task, it sounds like you'll need to fool your own heart first. Although it may feel like a trick, self-encouragement may be the most important tool we have.

Alhaitham scans the paragraph again as he contemplates the message neatly written. Something unpleasant roused in his chest, as if those written words had encroached too close to his motor. The urge to frown tugs on his lips.

Not wanting to end the night with a bitter taste just at the edge of his tongue, he flips to another page. Covering that vexatious sentence behind a fresh sheet of aged parchment. 

One must act on his own will and deal with anything that appears harmful in his eyes.

It’s quite straightforward advice, humans and androids alike would understand. Yet that strange inkling remained, continuing to brew somewhere from within. A phenomenon he couldn’t pinpoint. Thus, he turns the page yet again. 

Every person should have something that they believe in and hold on to from beginning to end. Otherwise, it's easy to succumb to the vicissitudes of life and find yourself being led astray.

He recognizes those words, they’re words he’s recited before you one pivotal sometime ago. Why were they scrawled in some forgotten journal? It seems that he’s identified the name of this phenomenon brewing within him: deja vu. 

Yet, his question only remains half-answered. Why were his words here? Who penned them down? The rapid flicks of paper resound off the blank walls as he scrutinizes each sentence, each paragraph, each syntax until he reaches the back cover of the aged journal. Question still remaining half answered.

Who was the author of his words? 

His finger runs into a lump along the surface of the back cover, examining it closer, something was folded away just behind a parchment pocket. Soon a loose scrap of paper was felt along his fingertips, a folded-up post-it note of an emerald hue. Unraveling it just slightly, his eyes move along the familiar handwriting. 

To the person who���s always meddling through my notes, did my written thoughts entertain you? Dear w-

The emerald scrap crumples in his hold. Deformed paper returns to its place before he snaps the covers closed. There’s no purpose in analyzing its contents, after all, they’re already programmed into him.

It was just now in this moment that Alhaitham had solved the dilemma he was assigned since the moment he awoke in that lab. He’s not a human, he’ll never be a human, he’s an abomination. 

In the next moment, he found himself looming over the origin of his dilemma. Artificial teal glow honing in upon the steady breaths from the genesis of abomination. Standing over you as you were cradled in the comfort of slumber and soft sheets. 

A pair of taut hands make their way to encircle your frangible neck. It wouldn’t take much, just a mere second to terminate the great sinner who defied mortality, the one who violated the terms of finality and ordinance of the gods.

So this is what you choose to do with the capacity of science and progress in your hands. 

Was he just a toy for you? Something to fill the lull of this house for you? Just an experiment for you, but everything to him. 

His fingers press into your warm skin, breaths uninterrupted as you remain within the blessing of a dream. Oblivious to the nightmare you’ve created. Or perhaps you were always aware, but choose to reflect back to him the manufactured image of him in those guiltless irises of yours.

Oh, what should he do with the monster sleeping so soundly under him? 

His fingers refused to budge, hands disobeying the rationale which commanded them. His grip goes slack, limp for they couldn’t conclude their obligation. They couldn’t, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. 

It’s not a protocol, nor a restriction coded into him. No, for the laws of morality, this land, and heaven would’ve called for him to be an executioner. To charge the transgressor with the judgment they deserved. But, he couldn’t.

Every fiber of his counterfeit body refused to take the sword. The chains which bind his hands were much mightier than the commandments of gods, the restraints of love. 

Thus, he’s nothing more than a prisoner in its hold. Bending to its whims, what else could he do? Removing his hands from your form as you continue to soundly sigh in the embrace of slumber. All he could do was lie down on a soft mattress and stare at the shameless sinner beside him.

A foolishly beloved monster. 

Slow steps pad through the quiet halls, floor boards singing a hymn with your leisurely steps. Approaching the end of the hall where the humble library resides, the oak doorway finally framed him in clear view. 

“There you are, Alhaitham.” You can’t help but sigh as your features soften. 

He stood there with his starlight locks in the morning glow of a brilliant sun amongst the collection of books in the library. Just as he always has been. 

Lifting his head away from the pages of the novel in his hand, he acknowledges your presence. He’s been heading here more often recently, right from the moment he leaves his side of the bed. 

“Good morning,” he recites, steadfast eyes remaining unreadable. 

Well, you suppose obtaining the title of a lover wouldn’t just overwrite the capriciousness of his mind. It’s just in his nature to be this way. This enigmatic lover of yours. Turning your attention to the cover that’s captured his focus. 

“Frankenstein?” Your brow quirks up. 

“Yes, the 1818 edition.” He closes the cover.

“Mmm, your interest seems quite piqued by that novel.” You wonder if that was the cause behind his frequent bouts of silent contemplation throughout the day. 

“I suppose it’s because I’m still deciphering the intentions of this story.” 

“That’s it?” A furrow now in your brows, a simple book has gotten the pinnacle of scientific progress stumped?

“Care to elaborate for me?” He turns toward you as your steps approach closer. 

Handing over the worn object to your outstretched hand, you analyze each faded corner of the cover. Mind recalling the recollections of the acclaimed revolutionary piece of science fiction. Formulating your answer, you share your conclusions with him.

“The story has several themes, but the central principle is quite defined. To quote a few words from another, scientific progress makes moral progress a necessity; for man’s power is increased, the checks that restrain him from abusing it must be strengthened.”

You reconnect your gaze with him, wondering if your explanation was satisfactory enough. Glancing down between the worn cover and your awaiting eyes, Alhaitham straightens his posture. 

“So you knew the moral of this story.” A glint in his glass eyes. 

“Well, I’ve read this book before,” you sigh at his inquest. 

“Then why didn’t you learn from it?” 

At that moment, the proud sun shielded itself away behind a cloak of clouds. Plunging the quiet library into a chill. How strange, why do you feel cold when a brilliant star of your creation stands right next to you?

“Alhaitham, you’re acting strange.” You take a step back as his scrutinizing gaze follows. Unaware of the crumbling edge approaching. 

“How much longer will you continue to deceive yourself, wife?” 

And that was it. The foundations of this mirage gave away under you, plunging you with much velocity into the depths of an unforgiving ocean. Tides that waited patiently to drag you down under.

Do you remember what happened that day? Do you really remember? The truth floods your being, engulfing every chasm of your mind. 

–----

“Did you jump at the opportunity of a trip to avoid mopping the floors?” You glared up at your husband. 

“My, how low do you think of me?” He glanced down, a wisp of mirth evident on his lips. 

“Well, instead of doing chores, you’d be chaperoning your in-laws around Fontaine. A Poor trade-off in my opinion, dear husband.” A hand firmly placed on your hip in a defiant stance as the murmur of the crowded airport moved around your figures. An ever so mocking tone toward the end.

“A fair assumption, dear wife. However, I’ve taken the initiative to book a tour for your parents, thus they won’t need my assistance. I’ll be free to browse some of the latest ruins and research from the Institute in the meantime.” The ghost of a smirk grew ever so obvious with each word, mirroring your emphasis of titles.

Ah, this was your loss. It seems that your husband had it all planned out as usual when he offered to take your spot on the plane. The perfect excuse to use up some paid time off, while also scoring a trip to satisfy his own whims. 

Your shoulders deflating in defeat as a deep sigh leaves you. You rest your head against his chest, the crowds moving around you in the bustling airport.

A private microcosm of him and you as he stands still, shielding you from the push and hustle of travelers trying to reach their terminal in time with his robust frame.

A bright clink of two rings pressed against each other lost in the noise.

“Why can’t you just stay?” You whispered into his shirt. 

“How strange, the woman who married me to secure a home and mortgage wants me to stay now.” 

You huffed into his in exasperation at him bringing up the origins of your union, an atypical start of a marriage.

His chest moved with a sigh, larger fingers intertwined with yours. The spaces fitted together, as he held them in his tender hold. 

“They can’t refund it. If I take your seat and recompensate them, your parents aren’t likely to hold this matter over your head.” His deep voice expounded. 

All you did was sigh, because he was right. Of course, he was. A sour taste on your tongue as you recall the interaction with your parents just a moment ago before you ran into the comfort of your husband. 

“Besides, it’d be refreshing for me to scribble down some travel logs, it'd be a shame if my wife runs out of material to snoop through.” 

“I just like looking at your handwriting,” you tutted, hiding your pout as you turned your face away. 

The same excuse you used whenever you copied off his notes in a lecture hall and when your outstretched hand asked for them over a study table.

A silly habit of yours, perhaps in your mind it made sense. If you could read the words of a genius, then maybe you could learn to be like one. 

“Of course, of course.” A smirk evident in his voice. 

You refused to meet his gaze, cheeks a bit heated from this habit of yours being exposed. You thought you were always careful with returning his journal back where he placed it. Averting your eyes to the bright screens displaying departing flights. A few minutes left before the announcement comes. Your grasp on his hand tightened. 

His thumb soothes your skin, leaning down closer to you. 

“Besides its advanced technology, Fontaine is also famous for its toymakers. I should pick a few up for our future child, no?” 

Blinking you as you glance back up at him. His teal irises reflect you as his expression softens just as yours did.

A room hidden away from the prying eye of nosy parents, its walls decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars. An assortment of items bought in advance for a child in the future. Stemming from whispers while recovering amongst dampen sheets in a room heavy with passion. 

Talks of the future, once this troublesome Ph.D. is finished and your position in a lab secured, a discussion of whether a child would inherit more of his traits or yours.

Planned for the future, of course, now's just a bit too busy. However, it didn’t stop you from taking the initiative to furnish a spare room. A chaotic collection of cosmic influences along with an assortment of books meshing together to create an adoring space. 

But the soft smile on your lips was still tense. Teal eyes took note of that, pulling you closer amidst this microcosm, a moment so subtle it went unnoticed by the attention of passer-byers. 

“It’ll just be for a week,” his voice resonated in his chest. “Then I’ll come back and build that bassinet as my wife wishes.” 

Finally, the glimmer he yearned to see returned to your eyes. 

“You better, the box has been sitting unopened for a week now,” you huff with a smile. 

He only hummed in acknowledgment as the ring of a loudspeaker resounded through the chatter. Announcing the final call for passengers boarding the flight to the Nation of Hydro. Casting a glance toward the terminal, he gave your hand one more squeeze before they reluctantly untangled from one another. 

“You should get going now.” Your eyes reflect him. 

He hums one last time, turning in the direction of the terminal where your parents were. Just before his tall figure was lost in the sea of passing bodies, your lips couldn’t keep themselves pressed together any longer. 

“Haitham!” You called out. 

The fluorescent lights reflected off his starlight hair as he turned back around. Connect teal eyes with yours. But not another word left your lips, no they’d simply be drowned out in the clammer of strangers. Besides, it’s just too public to say such words aloud. 

Thus, you slowly close your eyes, opening them back up just as steadily with the soft curl of your lips. A motion he reciprocated with a slow blink of his own, a hint of a smile on his stoic lips. A wordless gesture kept a secret between only the two of you, a silent ‘I love you’. It was all you needed to convey this message to each other. 

He continued on his path to the terminal as you stood amongst the crowd, watching him fade into the distance. 

–----

So how did that moment turn into this? How did a trip that was supposed to only be a week turn into a news report? How did well wishes for a safe trip turn into coworkers and friends approaching you with nothing but sympathy in their words? Those vile, pitied stares directed toward your rigid frame. 

You should’ve been the one on that plane.

Only about 1 in about 11 million. A 0.00001% chance, a nonzero chance.

Plans no matter how intricate or detailed, their success all hang on a single thread, one factor unable to be cultivated by human hands: Luck. 

Oh how cruel they are, those capricious hands of gods. Not even the leniency of returning to a lonely planet the corpses of their stars. Traces of a beloved star left to sink and disappear in a cold, salty grave. Never to return to the surface. 

You and Alhaitham were two simple dots in this world, so why did they target you two? Why steal him from you with their cruel hands? Why steal him and leave you abandoned with nothing but the memory of the warm starlight? 

You had so…so much love left inside you. But it went stagnant. Sitting there rotting until it poisoned you, throwing you into feverish delirium. If the gods abandoned you, then you resolved to abandon them right back. 

You’ll bring back your star, you’ll defy the edicts of the gods with your bare hands. You’ll sin the same way a god does. 

“Casting aside your morals, you allowed the dead to walk again through a sham imitation, congratulations. ” His voice matched one which could only come from an engineered throat. 

This was a fool's errand.

For how could a mere human ever be arrogant enough to believe they could best the gods? This was the hindsight you lacked. Perhaps what’s separated you from the gifted and blessed geniuses? Something geniuses knew but you couldn’t see.

The accursed doctorate on the wall meant nothing, you were nothing but a mad fool. 

Perhaps, if you were a genius, a true and born genius, you’d know what to do. You’d know how to mend this dilemma. You’d know what to do instead of letting your vision be blurred by imprudent tears as your throat could only choke out,

“I’m sorry.” Words you knew couldn’t turn back the hands of a clock which only knew how to tick forward.

“But now what?” Deep voice unmoved by your wasted words. 

You didn’t dare meet his stare, for you feared you’d catch a glimpse of the bitterness behind them as he cursed you deep down in the whir of his motor. You could only stay silent as tears ignited in your eyes, waiting for him to continue with his damnation. 

“In a climate like Sumeru’s, it would take approximately 25 years or so for a body to fully decompose, bones reduced to nothing but nutrients for the soil. Silicone alone takes 500 years, a metal frame could take another 500.” He knows now that he’s not a human, he was never meant to be.

He’s a crude replacement. An abomination who’ll remain until the day the night sky flickers out. 

“You brought him back, only to condemn him to eventual loneliness. Only to curse ‘me’ to live the next aeons without you”

An irresponsible and shameless villain who disregarded consequences until those consequences came to collect their dues. It’s time that you faced your punishment.

A hand cups around your stiff face, gradually turning your head until you see your reflection along glass irises.

“How will you atone for your sins now? How will you take responsibility for making me fall in love with you?… my very own Dr. Frankenstein.” His voice restrained. 

Yes, a story you’ve read before. A lesson unfolded out in front of you, and yet you somehow forgot. Or perhaps, you simply averted your eyes from the moral of the story while simultaneously committing the same transgression. Did you think yourself better than the fictional lunatic? 

The atrocity of giving life, only to eventually abandon it, leaving it to watch the stars burn out in a cage of harsh fluorescent lights and white lab coats. 

The millions of mora poured into his development, the materials which construct his form, and the proprietary technology which gives him thought. Did you believe even for a moment that the prideful Fontainian Research Institute and the arrogant Kshahrewar Darshan would simply hand over such an investment?

To allow their expenditure to follow you to eternity?

You couldn’t live without him, but now he’ll have to live without you.

Oh, what shall you do now? Oh, what can you do now? Did you even know where to begin? How did the story of Frankenstein end? How would she have written the ending of this scene?

When human rational meets its limits, when its capacity isn’t enough to compute all possible prospects. Humans look towards something that could, technological advancements made to further humanity. 

“W-what do I do now?” You prompt, no, you beg. 

Watching the rivulets roll down your cheeks, leaving a path of glimmering desperation, he ponders to himself:

When you first proposed this project to the Akademiya and Institute, when you detailed the specifications of his body and face, were they aware of your true intentions?

Rather than this being an experiment to see if an android could cross the threshold of humanity. Maybe those researchers were curious to see how far one could fall in the paroxysm of grief. 

You became the perfect test subject to observe.

But now that the curtains were pulled back, what shall you do about the aftermath? There was never a precedent for a transgression of this scale. No holy commandment ever details a rightful punishment for this sin. No historical data he could infer from. 

“I don’t know,” he answers you truthfully. 

It’s just an untold void like the vacuums of space. No results generated in his mind, leaving the both of you suspended in oblivion. Maybe that was the punishment in itself, stuck in the purgatory of the unknown. Perhaps this was the punishment bestowed upon a foolish sinner. 

Upon hearing your sentencing, your knees begin to buckle under the weight of the judgment from above. Resigned grasp clinging to his hand still cradling your face, his engineered frame not budging in the slightest. Voice staggered as only pitiful and broken apologies resonate in a vacant house. 

All he could do was wipe those scorching droplets off your cheeks as they seared his skin. Was this feature also programmed into him by your hands? If so, then he muses to himself:

Did the hands who penned down those words also revert into nothing more than a pathetic fool at the mere sight of your tears? Did his chest also grow heavier with each choked sob that left you?

Perhaps the chains which bind his hands tethered yours just the same. A pair of foolish sinners. 

Thus, he’s resolved himself to be thrown into the unmerciful clutches of this untold purgatory right alongside you. Even if he’s the only one to remain in the end. 

To be human is to be unthignkably foolish after all. As long as he could still hold onto a wisp of you for the inevitable aeons.  

It’s fine.

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[transmutationisms]

@annevbonny yeah so first of all there's the overt framing issue that this whole idea rests on the premise that eliminating fatness is both possible and good, as though like. fat people haven't existed prior to the ~industrial revolution~ lol

more granularly this theory relies on misinterpreting the causes for the link between poverty and fatness (which is real---they are correlated) so that fatness can be configured as a failure of eating choices and urban design, meaning ofc that the 'solution' to this problem is more socially hygienic, monitored, controlled communities where everybody has been properly educated into the proper affective enjoyment of spinach and bike riding, and no one is fat anymore and the labour force lives for longer and generates more value for employers

in truth one of the biggest mediating factors in the poverty-body weight link is food insecurity, because intermittent access to food tends to result in periods of under-nourishment followed by periods of compensatory eating with corresponding weight regain/overshoot (this is typical of weight trajectories in anyone refeeding after a period of starvation or under-eating, for any reason). so this is all to say that the suggestion that fatness is caused by access to 'unhealthy foods' is not only off base but extremely harmful; food insecurity is rampant globally. what people need is consistent access to food, and more of it!

and [loud obvious disclaimer voice] although i absolutely agree that food justice means access to a variety of foods with a variety of nutrient profiles, access to any calories at all is always better than access to none or too few. which is to say, there aren't 'healthy' or 'unhealthy' foods in isolation (all foods can belong in a varied, sufficient diet) and this is a billion times more true when we are talking about people struggling to consume enough calories in the first place.

relatedly, proponents of the 'obesogenic environment' theory often invoke the idea of 'hyperpalatable foods' or 'food addiction'---different ways of saying that people 'overeat' 'junk food' because it's too tasty (often with the bonus techno-conspiricism of "they engineer it that way"). again it's this idea that the problem is people eating the 'wrong' foods, now because the foods themselves are exerting some inexorable chemical pull over them.

this is inane for multiple reasons including the failure to deal with access issues and the fact that people who routinely, reliably eat enough in non-restrictive patterns (between food insecurity and encouragement to deliberately diet/restrict, this is very few people) don't even tend to 'overeat' energy-dense demonised foods in the first place. ie, there is no need to proscribe or limit 'junk food' or 'fast food' or 'empty calories' or whatever nonsense euphemism; again the solution to nutritionally unbalanced diets is to guarantee everyone access to sufficient food and a variety of different foods (and to stop encouraging the sorts of moralising food taboos that make certain foods 'out of bounds' and therefore more likely to provoke a subjective sense of loss of control in the first place lol)

but tbc, when i say "the solution to nutritionally unbalanced diets"---because these certainly can and do exist, particularly (again) amongst people subjected to food insecurity---i am NOT saying "the solution to fatness" because fatness is not something that will ever be eliminated from the human population. and here again we circle back to one of the fundamental fears that animates the 'obesogenic environment' myth, which is that fatness is a medical threat to the race/nation/national future. which is of course blatant biopolitics and is relying on massive assumptions about the health status of fat and thin people that are simply not borne out in the data, and that misinterpret the relationship between fatness and illness (for example, the extent to which weight stigma prevents fat people from receiving medical care, or the role of 'metabolic syndrome' in causing weight gain, rather than the other way around).

people are fat for many reasons, including "their bodies just look like that"; fatness is neither a disease in itself nor inherently indicative of ill health, nor is it eradicable anyway (and fundamentally, while all people should have access to health-protective social and economic conditions, health is not something that people 'owe' to anyone else anyway)

the 'obesogenic environment' is a liberal technocratic fantasy---a world in which fatness is a problem of individual consumption and social engineering, and is to be eliminated by clever policy and personal responsibility. it assumes your health is 1) directly caused and indicated by your weight, 2) something you owe to the capitalist state as part of the bargain that is 'citizenship', and 3) something you can learn to control if only you are properly educated by the medical authorities on the rules of nutrition (and secondarily exercise) science. it's a factual misinterpretation of everything we know about weight, health, diet, and wealth, and it fundamentally serves as a defense of the existing economic order: the problem isn't that capitalism structurally does not provide sufficient access to resources for any but the capitalist class---no, we just need a nicer and more functional capitalism where labourers have a greengrocer in the neighbourhood, because this is a discourse incapable of grappling with the material realities of food production and consumption, and instead reliant on configuring them in terms of affectivity ('food addiction') or knowledge (the idea that food-insecure people need to be more educated about nutrition)

there are some additional aspects here obviously like the idea that exercising more would make people thin (similar issues to the food arguments, physical activity can be great but the reasons people do or don't do it are actually complex and related to things like work schedules and exercise doesn't guarantee thinness in the first place) or fearmongering about 'endocrine disruptors' (real, but are extremely ill-defined as a category and are often just a way to appeal to ideas of 'naturalness' and the vague yet pressing harms of 'chemicals', and which are also not shown to single-handedly 'cause' fatness, a normal state of existence for the human body) but this is most often an argument about food ime.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Eighteen

Series Masterlist

64.media.tumblr.com

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The factory isn’t quiet, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s slipping into late afternoon and the sun’s already disappeared, casting long shadows across the mezzanine and throwing the aluminum banisters into soft relief. Most of the lights on the engineering floor are set to low power, but the glow of monitors still pulses behind frosted glass walls- slim bands of white-blue cutting through the dim like runway lights.

You walk slowly, tin tucked under one arm, the lid clinking gently against the edge with every step. There are only a few people still in, mostly aero guys- half-tired, half-hyper- working out final tweaks on next year’s car. The RB19 diagrams have been pinned up to the forefront of the workshop like some sacred relic. Everyone's itching for January. When the calendar flips, wind tunnel time restarts from period 6 to period 1, and this becomes a body. A beast.

You pass by Alessandro’s desk and pause.

He’s still there, hunched over a rendering, thumb pressed into the edge of his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping his skull upright. He doesn’t look up at first- just keeps scrolling, scrolling, the muscles in his jaw twitching subtly.

You knock lightly on the frame of the partition with your knuckle. “You’ll go cross-eyed.”

He glances up, startled- then softens. “You’re still here?”

You just shrug and lift the tin slightly. “I live here- what’s your excuse?”

That earns a faint smirk. “Trapped by love,” he mutters, gesturing lazily toward the screen. “Or masochism. Jury’s out.”

You step into the space and perch on the edge of his desk, knees barely brushing the underside of a pile of CAD printouts. You set the tin down between you and flick the latch open with your thumb.

The smell hits instantly- warm vanilla, browned butter, something like toasted sugar. Familiar. Comforting.

Alessandro tilts his head. “What’s this?”

“Cookies,” you say simply, nudging the tin his way. “Holiday tradition. Heart failure. Family recipe.”

He raises a skeptical brow but selects one anyway, carefully avoiding the ones with slightly cracked edges like it matters. He takes a bite. Chews once. Stops. And then- “Holy shit,” he says around a mouthful, sitting back like the chair suddenly reclined. “You made these? In our kitchen?” You nod. “They’re- ” He holds the half-eaten cookie up like it’s evidence. “They’re perfect.”

You grin. “My talents are many.” 

He chuckles- low and genuine- and shifts his chair slightly to the side, angling toward you like this is just... normal. Like this is what people do on Christmas Eve. Talk. Share sugar. Pretend the world doesn’t feel quite so hollow without family in it.

Alessandro leans back in his chair, still chewing the last bite of cookie like it might buy him time to phrase the question gently. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then eyes you sideways- not unkind, just curious.

“So,” he says, voice low, easy, “you’re really not doing anything tonight?”

You shrug, careful with the motion. “Not tonight, no.”

You mean it to sound casual. Light. Like it doesn’t matter. Like this- perched on the corner of a desk, surrounded by aero renderings and wiring diagrams, wearing two-day-old mascara and passing out cookies like a Girl Scout- is exactly what you had planned all along.

And maybe it is. In a way.

“But,” you continue, tapping the edge of the cookie tin with one nail, “Gavin’s picking me up tomorrow. Christmas dinner with his family.”

Alessandro’s expression flickers- surprise, then something warmer. “No shit?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m going to help pack up their place afterward, too.”

He frowns. “Pack up?”

Oh. He hadn’t heard yet. “They’re moving,” you say, smile tugging at your lips now, this time real. “Got the job. Officially. My race engineer next season.”

Alessandro lets out a low whistle, mouth parting. “Damn.” He shakes his head, impressed. “Good for him.”

“Good for me,” you correct. “I get to drag someone I actually like with me to Faenza.”

That part’s true, and easy to say. You are over the moon. Having Gavin- brilliant, intuitive, work-himself-to-the-bone Gavin- by your side next year is the first thing that’s made this whole F1 seat feel remotely survivable. He’s the one who came sprinting across the paddock at Zaandvoort like his life depended on it to make sure you got a second shot in the car last season. It’s not just comforting. It’s foundational. Like maybe you won’t have to claw your way through every corner of the paddock alone anymore.

But even now, even saying it, something flickers under your ribs.  “I’m really lucky,” you add. Quietly. Like you’re trying to remind yourself.

And you are. You know that. You have a contract. You have plans for Christmas. Either is more than a lot of people get. Being wanted, welcomed, at someone’s table, even if you’ve never been there before.

It’s not nothing.

But it’s not home.

And now, with Alessandro looking at you like he’s not buying the cool-girl act you’ve been wearing all day, something small unravels. Just a little. He laughs under his breath, then quiets. “Still. Kind of a bummer, isn’t it? Spending Christmas Eve here?”

You pause. Look down at your hand, where your thumb is still idly rubbing at the side of the tupperware.  Then you shrug again, like it’s nothing. “It’s fine. I like it here.” And you do. Mostly.

You like the quiet. The familiar hum of the engineering bay. The ghost of adrenaline soaked into every hallway and blueprint. You like the feeling of proximity to something important. You even like the way the factory floor smells like machine oil and ozone from the welder and burnt rubber.

But underneath that- underneath the thin shell of practical gratitude and easy deflection- is the ache.

The kind that sits behind your ribs and presses in when the day winds down and there’s nothing left to distract you. When you’re not watching sector deltas or coordinating logistics or elbow-deep in data. When you remember what this night usually is.

And now?

Now there’s a cookie tin. A paper napkin. And Alessandro, kind and warm and here- but not family. Not staying. You press your palms against the edge of the desk and tilt your head, offering him an easy smile. “Tomorrow’ll be good. I’m excited.” 

And you are. Just not for tonight. You’re not going to cry about it.

It’s just Christmas, afterall.

Alessandro finishes the last bite of his cookie with a satisfied hum, then glances at the time. Something about the look makes your stomach drop a little, like you already know what he’s going to say.

He closes his laptop with a soft snap, tucks it away into his bag, and begins the quiet ritual of shutting down for the night. His coat goes on. His scarf. The leftover coffee in his mug is dumped unceremoniously into the trash can. You stay perched on the edge of his desk, still loosely holding the cookie tin, still pretending- successfully or not- that this doesn’t feel like something ending.

He pauses once everything’s packed and looks at you with that slight tilt of his head, the way these geeky types sometimes do when they’re not quite sure how to be kind without making it awkward.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, not patronizing.

You offer him your best smile- it’s not quite real but it’s good enough to fool people who don’t know you very well. “Yeah. ‘Course. Tell your wife I said merry Christmas.”

He raises a hand in a lazy wave as he heads toward the side door. “Wish me luck with the monster-in-laws.”

And then he’s gone.

Just… gone.

The door clicks closed and the space feels louder in the absence of his presence. You shift your weight, still sitting on the desk like maybe if you just don’t move, you won’t have to feel the silence creeping in.

Eventually, you slide off and make your way back into the corridor. The lighting is softer now- half the overheads switched off, casting everything in a faint, dusky amber. You find one of the composite techs by the copy machine- Kai, maybe? You think that’s his name. You’ve seen him around the floor, always head down, always polite. You offer him a cookie wordlessly, and he blinks at you, surprised, before murmuring a thank you and retreating to whatever last task he’s wrapping up. No conversation. No warmth. Just transactional.

One more person gone a few minutes later.

In the fabrication area, someone’s still fiddling with a mounting bracket. You don’t recognize his name, but you recognize the stress in his shoulders. You drop two cookies on the corner of his worktable as you pass and keep walking before he can say thank you.

You’re halfway back to the lobby before you realize you’re walking slower than before. Like every step closer to being alone is something heavy dragging behind you. A weight in your heart, not your body.

The factory is thinning. You hear it in the way your sneakers echo more now. Feel it in the way every automatic door you pass slides open with a sound that seems louder than it should. No phones, no chatter, no coffee machines to take the edge off the silence.

It’s Christmas Eve, and all around you, the walls feel like they’re expanding- one more person leaving, one more laugh fading, one more emotional mile placed between you and a house full of people yelling over each other to pass the gravy.

You imagine the noise. The chaos. The messy kitchen with five different casseroles warming. Someone defending the cookie tray from kids and husbands up to no good. The lights too low. The music too high. The fireplace screaming, the stove overworked, and the windows fogged.

Your mom’s garish wrapping paper. Your brother’s Christmas Coffee that will get you fucked up in a hurry. The smell of cloves and cinnamon and a brisket smoked for a half-day. Someone yelling from the porch that the dogs are in the garbage. Your dad yelling that it definitely isn’t his dog (it is, God bless you, Chili.) A kitchen too full. A living room too loud. A chair saved for you, even when you were halfway across the country.

Maybe they saved you one tonight. The thought kills you.

Upstairs, the dorm hallway is empty- just the low hum of the lights and the leftover smell from your cookies wafting from the communal kitchen. You shoulder your dorm door open with more force than needed, half out of habit, half out of wanting something to resist. Something tangible to shove this feeling into.

Twenty-two Chrismas Eve’s you’ve lived through- all loud, some with family arguments that got a little too personal, one in Florida, some you were too young to remember. But you’re certain you’ve never wanted one to be over so badly. One where you crawl into bed at -you check the time on your phone- 5:13 P.M. and pull the covers over your head and pray you sleep twelve hours through. 

But there’s this little part of you- this nagging, stubborn part- that begs you to see it the whole way through. To do Christmas, even if it’s not doing you. Fuck this. You’re drinking. At the very least it’ll get you to sleep faster. You kick off your sneakers and move straight for the bed, crouching low to dig out the half-case of Cab Sauvs from home. Your mom had shipped them out the week after Thanksgiving, and they had only arrived last week.

Six bottles. A folded note still tucked inside the flaps, her handwriting looping like a ribbon:

“Figured you might want a little something to make it feel like home. We miss you. Love you, Sweetpea.” – Mom & Dad

You take them out one by one, lining them up along the narrow desk in a little private ritual.

14 Hands. A classic. Everyone in the state drinks it- restaurants, weddings, PTA fundraisers. A good workhorse bottle. Then Chateau St. Michelle - solid, if a bit over-represented. Your mom probably snagged both at Costco for 10 bucks a pop. Good filler bottles. Good “drinking by myself, but it’s not a special occasion” bottles. Nice.

Then a Prosser one, a boutique label you’ve never seen with a hand-drawn label of a painted hillside. You hold it for a moment longer. She must’ve asked someone at the shop for a recommendation. Or guessed. Either way, it’s hopeful.

Next, the hometown wine. Not the best, not by far. But it’s close to the house. You’ve driven past it a hundred times on your way to the feed store or the river. It smells like 21st birthdays and tastes like sneaking a bottle from the house for a 4th of July bonfire. Objectively, terrible. Emotionally, like nostalgia. God, was she trying to make you cry? You move on from it before you can let anything serious take the shape of homesickness. 

And then- the Walla Walla wines. The good shit. Just two. One of them your favorite: a Dunham- deep, heavy, rich with pepper and cedar and something you can never quite name but always know. Your mom never forgets it. It’s the “if she’s having a bad day, open this” bottle. The “she’s on the podium, open this” bottle. The one she keeps on hand for you like some people keep Tylenol.

The last one is another gamble- something she thought you’d like. You probably will. You always do. Her success rate with you is almost alarmingly high.

You arrange them again in order of importance: not by quality, but by comfort. St Michelle on one end, the Dunham on the other. You let yourself sit back on your heels and stare at the row for a long moment. There’s no label that fixes the tight knot behind your breastbone. No vintage that unravels the part of you that wants to be home so badly it hurts. But it helps. A little. Enough.

You don’t let yourself linger in the silence too long. You follow the plan.

The plan you made last week, when it became obvious that no miracle was coming. No last-minute sponsor ticket, no discounted standby flight, no flash of divine intervention that would land you in your mother’s too-warm kitchen, being bullied into a third helping of sweet potato casserole.

You reach for your phone and call the pizza place down the road. It’s a little joint with a crispy crust you like, and they’re still open another three hours. You order a plain cheese- because if it’s going to be a sad Christmas, it might as well be consistent.

And then, you change. If nobody’s going to be around, you might as well dress for it.

You slide another bin out from under the bed, one hand already pulling your ponytail loose as you kneel down. Inside is your usual mess of comfort clothes. You dig through layers of leggings and old Dale Coyne joggers that you’d love to burn if they hadn’t splurged on Nike Pros- pushing past anything too thin or too new. You want something sturdy, but broken in. Soft. Comforting.

Your hand lands on a familiar gray fabric, and you freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough to decide they’re perfect.

You tug the sweatpants free from the bottom of the pile. They’re oversized, stupidly soft, and the lettering down the leg is cracked in the way only a thousand wash cycles can manage- Puerta Performance. You step into them without ceremony, pull them up over your hips. They’re long in the legs and slouch low at your waist, like they were made for someone nearly a foot taller who needed room for balls. They were. 

The fact that they’re not technically yours- that they used to belong to your first boyfriend, Dominic- isn’t something you dwell on. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. You’re still on good terms. Still text. Still sent as many Indy tickets as you could everytime the circus came to town. You don’t think about it too hard. They’ve been your go-to forever. Lived in every closet you’ve had since before Indy, before Japan, before Florida.

The first time you wore them was just after the worst night of your life. Pulled out of a drawer, carefully slid up each leg in a part of his family’s motorhome you had never been allowed to see, a quiet ‘lo siento’ whispered every time you flinched. Wrapped up like giving you the thickest pair of sweats he owned might fix it, somehow. Like clean fabric might make you forget the feeling of someone else’s blood on your firesuit. Might make you forget about cigarettes and police reports and county jails. Might keep you soft. 

It didn’t.

But you didn’t give them back, and he never asked. Not when you wore them on the plane to Florida. Not when you shared pits and podiums and pizza binges. Not when you lived four steps away and shared the same laundry room. Not when you rolled them into the bottom of your bag for Japan and even if it hadn’t been said- he wasn’t going to see them again. He knew it. You knew it. But you were nineteen and a coward.

And racing doesn’t wait for you to grow up and be brave.

You grab a tank top from the back of your chair and pull it on, soft cotton clinging to your skin. Shrug on a zip-up a sponsor gave you that surely costs more than anything you’ve bought for yourself in awhile. 

Welp.

It’s Christmas Eve. You’re dressed like a college student home for break, and the pizza place is still open for another few hours. That’s enough. It has to be, because it’s the best you’ve got. So you pocket your phone, your badge, and pick a bottle of wine.

The one from Prosser.

The Costco bottles don’t feel weighty enough. No doubt drinking a gas-station wine on the floor of your dorm would sum up your misery nicely, but it also feels like wallowing- like you’re trying to be miserable- and you don’t have the energy to be performative about it. You’re not wasting your favorite bottle, either. And the neighbor’s wine- the one from home, the one that tastes like dusk on the back porch and hobby races and post-branding bonfires- might make you cry.

Prosser it is.

The bottle dangles between your fingers, heavy, weighty, right as you descend the stairs and rummage through the break room for a corkscrew. There should be one in here. Surely. The factory hosts enough hushed dinners and churns out enough functioning alcoholics that surely- empty drawer. Empty drawer. Drawer of pens. Spoons. Forks. Random cables and wire nuts (?). Empty drawer. Carving knives. 

You sigh. There’s probably one in storage upstairs, where they keep the linens and cups and knives and all the shiny shit they put out when a sponsor is here, but you’re not doing a lap around the factory. Fuck that. 

You open the cable drawer and root around for the loose screw you spotted in your survey.  No screwdriver. But you've got good grip strength and ran out of fucks to give about a week and half ago. You brace the bottle between your knees and twist it in. One turn. Two. You grind your palm against the screw until the threads disappear and the cork bulges slightly under the strain. Then, carefully- deliberately- you press the heel of your hand down, popping the cork inward with a quiet thup and watch it disappear straight into the red under the added weight of the screw.

That’ll do nicely.

You lift the bottle before you even make it back into the lobby, tilt it, and take a sip straight from the neck. Just a taste.

The wine hits your tongue full-bodied, dark, and velvety. Rich with tannin. A little dry, but not sharp. There’s something peppery at the back- almost smoky- and a soft heat that lingers just long enough to make you want more. Fuck, that’s good. Your mom did good work. Of course she did.

You exhale through your nose, swallow once more for good measure, then set the bottle down on Nicole’s place at the front desk. You hover a moment, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Considering. The wine is good. Too good. Dangerous, even. It’s the kind that invites you to slide down the neck of the bottle without ever looking back- rich enough to pretend it’s dinner.

You take another sip.

Just one more.

You make a soft, involuntary noise- half sigh, half moan- and let the bottle tip back onto the counter with a gentle clink. Your mouth feels warm. Your chest, a little warmer. And for a second, you honestly consider it.

Fuck dinner.

The place is empty. The lighting’s dim. You could curl up in a pleather armchair, work your way through half the bottle, and let the quiet hum of the security system lull you into pretending this lobby is a living room. Pretend you’re not alone. That it’s not Christmas Eve. That the warmth in your stomach is joy, not just cabernet.

You are one- one- minor lapse in executive function away from sitting cross-legged in this sad little lobby, sipping on an empty stomach like a divorced woman on the worst Hallmark set ever built. And honestly? That doesn't sound awful.

You reach for the bottle again. Pause.

“No,” you mutter aloud, like you need to hear it to make it real. “Food first. Be a grown-up.”

You’re not sure whose voice you’re trying to channel, exactly. Maybe your mom. Maybe Gavin. Maybe your own better judgment, wherever she is these days. You drag your hand down your face, give yourself a little shake, and force a deep breath.

“It’ll be even better if I let it breathe,” you reason, already edging toward the door. “Tannin, air, science. All that shit. And I can drink more if I eat first.”

You tug your zip-up tighter, tuck your chin against the collar, and try to make yourself laugh at how pathetic this is. Your big Christmas Eve plan: wine, pizza, and… you open the drawer in the middle of the desk, suddenly remembering- oh, yeah. Coloring sheets. Wine, pizza, and coloring sheets stolen from the reception desk. Hell yeah. Real grown-up hours.

You pull out a stack of them, set them next to your bottle, and make a little stop motion with your hand like ‘stay’ as you back away. Like it all might just grow legs and leave you for Christmas Eve dinner like everyone else did tonight.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you tell it. Then you spin on your heel, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, and head for the door before you change your mind. The automatic doors part with a mechanical hiss, and you step out into the damp, too-warm December night.

Your shoes slap against the wet sidewalk as you cut through the parking lot, hands buried in your jacket pockets, head ducked low like you’re bracing for wind that never comes.

It’s only a five-minute walk, one you’ve done before, but tonight it feels quieter. More hollow. The only sound is the low hum of streetlights and your own footsteps, the distant thrum of tires passing over wet asphalt somewhere beyond the fence.

The pizza shop glows ahead- neon sign flickering a little above the front window, half-lit garlands limp against the glass. The bell over the door jingles when you step inside, startling you just a bit with how loud it sounds in the dead air.

Ghost town.

There are only two people here: a guy in the back by the oven, moving like he’s got music in his ears, and the kid up front- barely more than a teenager, all limbs and nerves, standing behind the counter like he just got hit by a freight train. His eyes go wide the second he sees you, mouth parting just enough to forget what it was doing before.

You clock it immediately. That locked-in, eyes-wide look. The nervous dart to your face, then away again, like he’s seen a ghost- or worse, recognized someone famous. Your stomach drops. 

Fuck. Fuck, no. Not tonight.

But the onlny way out is through, so you pull your wallet from your pocket, step up to the counter. "Can I get a small cheese?"

There’s a beat of silence. Then- “Uh. Yeah. Yep. Of course. Totally.” He types one letter at a time, like you’re going to combust if he presses too fast. His eyes flick to your face, then to your collarbones, then- oh. Yeah.

It hits you mid-breath. Not recognition. He just thinks you’re hot.

You glance down and suddenly see it through his eyes. The tank top clinging like skin. The zipper of your jacket parted just enough to frame your bare collarbones. The waistband of your sweats slouching too low, the hem of your tank just high enough to flash your belly button if you shift wrong.

Jesus. He’s not a fan. He’s a teenage boy with a brain hardwired for boners. And somehow, hilariously, you’re not even annoyed. Not really. You fold your arms across your middle, lean your hip into the counter, and smile just enough to be polite. His ears go pink.

Bless his heart. Poor baby.

You slide your card across the counter. “Takeaway, please.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, right,” he says, like he forgot you ordered anything at all. “The cheese.”

You raise an eyebrow as he slides the receipt toward you, still avoiding eye contact.

You sit, drop onto the hard bench by the window, stretching your legs out with a casual sprawl. The kind that says yes, I know you're looking. He lingers by the counter, pretending to check something on the till. Then straightens up, clears his throat like he’s winding up for a high dive. “So... you’re, um. American, yeah?” You glance up. He flushes immediately. Face and neck. Like you just caught him naked. “I just- the accent and all that-”

“Yeah,” you say. You could help him out a little. Throw him a bone, a detail. A story. But why, when he’s doing such a good job of chewing on his own foot already? 

“Oh. Cool. That’s- cool.”

You let the silence stretch long enough that he fidgets, then fold your arms loosely over your stomach. Honestly, it’s sweet. He’s trying. Not in a creepy way. Just in that innocent, starry-eyed, holy-shit kind of way. It’s been a while since someone spoke to you without knowing who you are. Without a camera in their hand. Without an angle.

He shifts from foot to foot. “You here on holiday, or- ?”

“I live here,” you say, gently. “Work brought me over.”

“Oh. Right. That’s cool.” He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek. “Do you like it?”

You hum. “Sometimes.”

Another beat. He glances toward the back- his coworker still hasn’t come out. He wets his lips. "It’s just that- uh, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but… just didn’t expect someone like you to walk in tonight.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Someone like me?”

He makes a strangled sound. “No- I mean- I just meant- uh, you look really- ” He aborts the sentence entirely.

You smile. Warm. Kind. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

He exhales, visibly relieved. “Right. Cool.” You go back to staring out the window, hiding your grin behind a hand. Poor kid. 

The oven guy finally notices the hold-up at the counter and ambles up, one earbud still in, balancing your pizza box on his palm like it’s piping hot treasure. He doesn’t even look at the kid- just thrusts the box forward and deadpans, “Cheese to go.” The kid takes it with all the coordination of someone handed a live grenade.

And then the older guy’s eyes land on you. There’s a pause. A flick of recognition, maybe. His brow furrows, and he pops the earbud out like he’s going to ask- Are you- ?

But you’re faster. Not hurried, just precise. “Thanks. Happy Christmas,” you say smoothly, plucking the box from the teenager with a sly little grin- one that tugs at the corner of your mouth like you’re in on the best kind of secret.

The man’s mouth opens, a syllable dangling on the edge. You’re already pushing the door open. The bell above jingles again.

Gone.

You’re halfway down the block before you let the smile unfurl into something wider, nearly a laugh as the warmth of it creeps into your shoulders, makes you walk a little taller. There’s a buzz in your veins that has nothing to do with wine or sugar. It’s the kind of hit you’ve always chased, even off-track- leaving people stunned. Scrambling. Remembering.

You don’t necessarily love people knowing who you are all the time. It’s happening more and more. You do, however, love being unforgettable. And they don’t need to know your name for that kid to go back to class after the holidays and brag about the hot older girl that came in on Christmas Eve and totally, trust me bro, definitely, was flirting with him. They don’t need to know your name to be the “Hey, remember that one girl?”

You press your hand flat against the warm cardboard, your dinner tucked under your arm, and grin like you’ve just stolen something. You’re still alone. But you’ve got a pizza, a bottle of wine, and a little giggle out of tonight. That’s one more thing than you planned on getting, and at least your mom won’t kick your ass for drinking before dinner. 

__________________________________________________________________

You’re halfway through your pizza, the crust gone soft in its own warmth, the grease shining faintly. Your wine glass sits nearby- half full now, smudged at the rim, little legs of cabernet curling down the sides like the memory of movement. The Prosser bottle rests where you left it, screw still sunk inside, cork bobbing like a ghost ship on deep red seas.

And you? Well, you made a plan. You’re sticking to it. You’re coloring.

Spa-Francorchamps, lines clean and sharp across printer paper, spread flat in front of you. You’ve got your elbows on the table, one foot tucked beneath you, the other bouncing gently to the quiet rhythm in your head. A green crayon- because apparently that’s what you decided La Source should be- is pinched lightly between your fingers. Absentminded. Almost dreamy.

You don’t really know why you picked Spa. Maybe because it was the first time it felt real. Not just racing- Formula 1. Your name on the time board, not as a curiosity or a backup, but as a driver. Maybe that’s why.

Or maybe you just liked the way the lines curved. Spa always felt like a track someone painted by hand. A little mythical. A little special, even back when you were running it on an Xbox wheel on Forza.

You exhale slow, the kind of breath that rolls out in waves when your chest has been too tight for too long. Days, at least, you think. Maybe weeks, maybe years, but what does it matter. You’re a little warm with wine. You’d shed the jacket a while ago- got too warm, too relaxed to care about anything but comfort.

It’s okay. It’s not home. Not the Christmas Eve you grew up on- no mess of cousins, no arguments over who gets the biggest piece of dark meat, no dogs begging for scraps. The lights in the factory lobby are soft, glowing just enough to keep the dark at bay, and outside the windows it’s still too warm, still too cloudy. No snow. No magic.

But there’s something here. Full belly. Soft buzz. Familiar colors filling familiar corners of a track you once tamed. Will get to tame again. You’re not happy. But you are okay. You tell it to yourself everytime you start losing focus on your sheet- start getting sad. This is okay. I’m okay.

The television on the far wall glows quietly, casting flashes of old race footage across the lobby tiles. It’s a rerun- Sebastian Vettel, 2012, Brazil. One of your favorites. You’d pulled it up an hour ago, more for company than focus. You haven’t been watching closely. The glass in your hand is far more interesting, its wine dark and full-bodied, swirling slightly each time you lift it. But even half-listening, you know exactly where he is in the race. The crash. The comeback. The wet track and that championship point hanging by a thread.

It’s not an underdog story, not really. He was always going to win. But it’s still a good story. Great driving. A little desperate, a little reckless, a little real. You like that. Under the feed, the place hums with a soft, sleepy quiet- the kind that only settles over spaces meant for chaos, now still. A little comforting. A little unnerving, like an empty school.  Which is why, in retrospect- despite all of your wallowing and wishing for someone to talk to- your reaction to the sound of the side door opening is panic.

Crayon-clenching, stomach-dropping panic. Because who the fuck is clocking into work at 8:48 P.M. on Christmas Eve? The sound itself isn’t loud or startling- just the gentle hiss of hydraulics and a soft metallic click as the latch catches- but it might as well be a fucking gunshot for the way it spikes your pulse.

You hold your breath. Your mind starts cataloging possibilities. Engineer? Cleaning staff? Maybe someone forgot a phone, a wallet, something dumb and harmless. You want it to be that. You need it to be that. But there’s a steady pace to the walk- unhurried, deliberate- and that feels… wrong. Like whoever it is isn’t in a hurry. Or confused. Or looking. Like they know where they’re going, and it’s not to the lab or the offices or the factory floor.

They’re coming here. 

Shit.

Your body stays still- but something deep in your chest begins to thrash. Your wine glass is half-full and far from reach. The pizza box is open. The TV is still playing. There’s no chance in hell this place looks empty now. You’ve left a breadcrumb trail of you across every surface- the crayons, the jacket slung over the chair, the bottle open beside your glass. It’s clear someone’s here. Someone walking in wouldn’t even have to look twice. They’d know.

You set your crayon down. Gently. Quietly. Stand. Not fast. Not loud. But steady. Deliberate. The kind of movement that says you will not be caught sitting down if this goes sideways. The muscles in your thighs brace like you're waiting for lights out, your spine tense, jaw locked. You angle your body halfway toward the hallway, halfway toward the front doors. Measuring. Calculating.

The lobby feels different now- smaller, tighter. All the soft comforts from a few minutes ago now sharpened into weak points. You clock the exits, your options. The stairs up to your room are a no-go. Nowhere to go from there. A trap. The other hallway is a blind corner. You don’t like blind corners. The main doors are just behind you- locked from the outside, but open from inside- your best plan if you need it. You’ve been running sprints like a madman for two months. You like your odds in a race more than a fight. 

Because you’re alone. And not in the “I miss my family and it’s Christmas,” way that had you feeling sorry for yourself two breaths ago. You’re alone in the way a girl is when it’s dark and quiet and shadows are moving and sounds are growing too long and there is nobody to hear you. 

And not just alone. Not just a girl by herself. You’re a girl by herself with a press badge, a Wikipedia page, and a face that’s been plastered across TikTok and tabloid thumbnails since Spa. Your stomach twists. Not with fear, not exactly. Just that primal unease. That tiny ripple in your gut that whispers you might not be safe. Not yet. Not until you know.

The footsteps pause. Start again. Louder now. Closer. You flick your eyes toward the hallway entrance just as a shadow rounds the corner- broad, familiar.

Fuck. Of course.You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how. Of fucking course. You’d recognize that bastard’s walk anywhere. But even still- just before he comes into full view- your heart’s still kicking against your ribs like maybe, maybe, this is someone else. Maybe this is a stranger. A threat. A reason to run. Because that might’ve been easier than what you’re about to deal with.

It would’ve been easier than Max.

And then he’s there.

And then he stops.

And then he stares.

And then he opens his stupid fucking mouth. He pauses when he sees you, his sharp blue eyes scanning the scene. His lips twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “This is just sad,” he says, breaking the silence. You roll your eyes hard enough to see the back of your skull, unclench your fists, and flop back down in your chair. Pick your crayon up. Starting grinding it into the curve of Eau Rouge hard enough you feel it in your forearm.

But he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something worth his time. You glance up at him, unimpressed, and then back at your coloring page. “‘M not judging your Christmas. Don’t judge mine.”

Max shrugs, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, stepping farther into the room. “What, family wouldn’t take you back?”

Your head snaps up this time, eyes narrowing at him. Oh, fuck you, buddy. You sit straighter now, crayon still in hand but forgotten, the words hitting bone. “Can you not be an asshole for five seconds?” you snap, your voice biting. “As my Christmas present?”

You just… stare at him. Not blinking. Not breathing, really. Just still- elbows on the table, fingers wrapped around the crayon like you’re deciding whether to snap it in half. Fuck off is carved into every inch of your posture. You’re not scared of him. Never have been. But you are waiting for the punchline. For the dig. For the sick little twist of the knife he always finds a way to deliver.

Because this is what he does. He finds your bruises and presses- methodically, joyfully, like he’s testing for weakness. So you sit there and dare him. Go on. Say it. Say whatever shitty thing you came all the way here to say.

You’re convinced he’s here for that reason alone.

No way this is a coincidence. He detoured here. You don’t know what brought him to this town, to this country, tonight. Some liquor-soaked dinner with a friend or a date or your boss. You don’t care. You wouldn’t put it past him to fly here specifically to fuck with you. To blow tens of thousands of dollars on runway fees and expend a small country’s carbon emissions to see if he can make you cry on Christmas. 

And he must know he’s got you dead to rights. Alone, sad, half-drunk, coloring like a six-year-old while the rest of the world wraps gifts and pulls casseroles from ovens. He has every tool he needs to tear you apart.

But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t dig. He just stands there.

Still. Quiet. Less smirking now. Less postured. Not softer, exactly- but off. Like a dog that forgot how to bark. You narrow your eyes. He’s never backed off before. Not once. Which means it’s not kindness. It’s not mercy. It’s… something else.There’s something about his face, his stance, that doesn’t track. He’s dressed like he’s been out- jacket zipped up, hair windblown, keys still in one hand- but he looks… untethered. Like knowing your dog is sick because it quit chewing on the rug.

You can’t place it, but you feel it. It buzzes against your skin like static. Makes your shoulders itch. He looks like someone who wants to fuck with you- for fun, for sport, for whatever twisted reason this asshole does anything- but can’t quite bring himself to commit.

His head tips a fraction, mouth parted like he almost has something ready- some snide little insult queued up and waiting- but it dies before it makes it to air.

That’s what’s getting you. Not the fact that he’s here, not even what he said. But the stillness. The hesitation. The flicker of restraint from the one person who never holds back with you. And not because he suddenly grew a conscience- don’t be stupid- but because something’s off.

Why the fuck are you here, Max?

He shifts his weight slightly, shoulders still hunched like he’s not sure if he’s staying. Then, finally, he speaks. “Depends,” he says, voice low and flat. “What did you get me?” It’s not biting. Not sharp. Not kind, either. Just… tired. Dry. A flicker of something almost like humor, buried beneath all that brooding.

You squint up at him, a little disoriented from waiting for the strike that still hasn’t quite come. For him to call you sad or pathetic or make fun of you drinking by yourself at work on Christmas. Instead you got… a joke, maybe? Something you’re not sure how to respond to without the mediation of Danny’s presence and the social lubricant of four drinks.

It comes out before you really mean it to. “What do you want?” It’s not soft, but not jagged, either. Not aggressive. Your tone matches his in that strange middle ground between I don’t like you and you haven’t pissed me off (yet). A little genuine curiosity, because you have no idea what someone like him would ask for from someone like you, even as a joke. 

Max doesn’t answer, not out loud. Just stands there for another beat, head tilted slightly. His eyes flick toward the wine glass sitting next to your crayons, still half-full. He tips his chin in its direction- barely a nod. A silent ask, like it costs too much pride to say the words.

You blink at him. Seriously? But you’re still too off-balance to fight about something as petty as a half glass of cab. You don’t say anything, don’t move your arm, just give the subtlest flick of your fingers in his direction. A silent go ahead.

He takes it.

Fingers wrap around the glass, and for a moment he just frowns into it like he’s trying to remember how this works. Then he sips. Leans his hip against the edge of the table, the glass still in hand, posture loose but guarded. He doesn’t make a comment about the wine. Doesn’t praise it or sneer at it or ask where it’s from. Just drinks it. And for one, strange moment, it registers that this is the most normal he’s ever looked near you.

You go back to your coloring. Or try to. The crayon scrapes across the page, dragging red wax into the curves, about halfway done, now. You can feel him beside you without looking. A heat source. A glitch in your field of vision. The weight of his silence presses into your thoughts harder than any insult would have.

He’s not saying anything.

Not breathing too loud. Not hovering. Not staring at you, at least not that you can tell. But he’s there, and it throws off the whole balance of the room. You shift slightly in your chair, cross one leg under the other, then switch back again, like rearranging yourself might change the physics of the moment. Trying to pretend he isn’t messing with your nervous system just by existing that close to your shoulder.

You adjust your grip. Try again.

Still there.

You can feel him, the way you’d feel someone standing behind you in an empty stairwell- just close enough to make every hair on your body pay attention. Just close enough to ruin the quiet.

“Sit down,” you mutter, finally. Your eyes stay fixed on the page, but the edge in your voice sharpens slightly. “You standing there is weird as fuck.”

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, without a word, he drags the nearest chair out and drops into it, spine still stiff, still in that fight-or-flight posture like he’s not convinced he won’t bolt at any second. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. Neither of you speak.

And it’s okay like that, for a minute. Still a little odd. The quiet stretches a little too long. Your eyes flick to the wine bottle- closer to him now than to you. Your glass, too. Still in his hand.

You want another sip. You hesitate. You could ask. Or not. Go get another glass form the kitchen. Could leave it alone, pretend you don’t care, let the silence keep you guarded. But your mouth is dry, and the heat in your chest has begun to taper off. The wine had helped. Asking implies he can tell you no. Getting up feels like…defeat. Acceptance, that he’s here, in this space too, not just borrowing it.

You sigh, just a little, and stick your hand out without looking. Not a word. Not a dramatic gesture. Just palm-up, fingers loose, expectant.

He understands.

The stem clicks lightly between your fingers as he passes it over, no hesitation, no snark. You pause your coloring- no sense risking red wine on Eau Rouge- and bring the glass to your lips. One sip. Then another. It’s even better now. Breathing has softened the tannins, brought out the heat, the pepper. A little richer, rounder. You hum quietly through your nose, pleased, and pass it back to him without ceremony.

No eye contact. No acknowledgment. Just a transaction.

Your fingers graze his as you release it. Neither of you flinch. You pick your crayon back up.

But then your mind starts drifting- too much space between the words in your head, too much wine swirling around the little christmas-themed aches in your chest- so you flip through your stack of printed tracks, trying to re-anchor yourself. Find your next project. 

Zandvoort catches your eye. You pause. Twisting and narrow and brutal, like a rollercoaster track trying to bite you back. You don’t speak- just slide it across the table, casual, like you’re handing someone a menu.

Here. Maybe it’ll be less weird if he has something to do.

You go back to your own sheet.

For a while, he doesn’t move. He just sips from the glass. Refills it. Sips again. Every so often, you can feel him glance sideways, but he says nothing. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s… holding. Eventually, he lets out the smallest huff of disbelief under his breath. Not quite a laugh. More like an incredulous exhale. The kind that says I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this without needing to say it aloud.

And then- finally- he leans forward and grabs a crayon. Not a blue or a red or an orange. A green one. Not what you would have expected him to go for. It’s odd, realizing you had an expectation of what his crayon preference might be. A thought you hadn’t realized you ever held until you see him contradicting your assumption in real time. 

He starts shading in the banking at Turn 3 with the careful irritation of someone trying very hard not to feel dumb. You glance sideways. Just a peek. Casual. Or at least, you hope it looks that way.

Max is hunched forward slightly, brow furrowed in concentration as he drags a streak of green along one of the banked curves. His hand moves with that same ridiculous precision he brings to the sim lab. As if coloring were a job. As if the lines matter. As if anyone, anywhere, will ever see it.

And then it hits you. He’s Max fucking Verstappen.

World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Face on posters in bedrooms. Invited to galas and paddock clubs and palaces, probably. A guy with more options than most people have in a lifetime.

And he’s here. With you. In the factory lobby. On Christmas Eve. Coloring.

You blink once, slowly, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way the tendon near his temple tics faintly. He’s not smug. Not mocking. Not baiting you for a reaction. He’s just… here. Quiet. Tense. A little hunched. Like he can’t quite relax, but can’t quite leave either.

And suddenly, you realize. You thought he was here to be an asshole. He’s not. If he was, he’d have already done it. He’d have made a spectacle of it. He had all the right ammunition. Would’ve raked your night over the coals and seasoned it with whatever creative cruelty he had left in his back pocket.

But he hasn’t. He’s here. Drinking your wine. Not talking. Not smirking. Not being nice, exactly. But not being Max. And that’s what really makes it click. Because Max Verstappen doesn’t sit next to people he loathes and behave. Max Verstappen doesn’t enter a truce without reason. And if he’s not here to win something or prove something…

Then he must be here because this is the best he’s got.

You were so consumed with your own self-pity- your own quiet ache of missing cornbread and brisket and four kinds of potatoes- that it never occurred to you how pathetic this must be for him. To walk through a side door and settle into this very specific quiet. To tolerate you, of all people. 

That whether he ended up here by accident or design, this- this- was the best idea he had for Christmas Eve. That maybe the reason he hasn’t picked a fight is because he can’t quite stomach the energy it takes to be cruel. Not tonight.

And the more you think about it, the worse it gets.

Because it would take a crisis- a full collapse- for Max to willingly enter a truce with you. To share a wine glass and color quietly beside you without barbs or blame. And, if you’re honest, it took the same to get you here too.

Oh, God.

You’re both sad.

Oh, God.

You don’t know what to do with the realization. The quiet, slow-spreading understanding that he’s not just here- he’s here, with no agenda and nowhere better to be. That he might be lonelier than you are.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. Of course he has emotions. Of course he gets sad. He’s a person. With a brain and a heart and whatever arrangement of nerves make up the part of you that aches when the holidays feel too soft for how fucking hard your life is.

You know this. Logically.

But logic has never stood a chance against the Max Verstappen you’ve been at war with. The Max Verstappen you’ve had to armor up against for months now. You’ve spent so long flattening him into something sharp and unpleasant- an annoyance, a jackass, a wall- that it’s unnerving to see him as anything else. To have your field of vision adjust, ever so slightly, until the picture doesn’t quite match what it used to.

You shift in your seat, uncomfortable.

Because now the air is heavier. Not tense, not hostile, but full. Full of something you don’t know how to name. Not sympathy. Not friendship. But something. Something you don’t want to hold, but can’t quite set down. Emotional discomfort prickles across your arms like static.

God.

Should you say something?

You hate this part. The should I say something part. The emotional fog of maybe he’s sad and maybe I should care- but if you care, what does that make this? What does that make you?

You hate how quiet it is. How intimate this feels for two people who don’t even like each other. You hate that the part of your brain responsible for small talk is suddenly clanging like a fire alarm.

It’s probably just you, just your stupid need to make things smooth, and comfortable, and bearable for the world around you- the part that makes you so good at marketing and so natural with difficult sponsors- but you swear the air is starting to feel humid with unsaid things. Dense with meaning you don’t want to sift through. Your fingers shift on the crayon. Too tight. Too aware. You let out a slow breath through your nose and glance sideways again.

He’s leaning forward now, elbow braced on the table, one knee bouncing faintly beneath it. His head is slightly tilted, entirely locked into his picture. He hasn’t looked at you since you handed him the page. Hasn’t spoken since that dry, brittle joke. He’s not even trying to perform. Not for you. Not for anyone. Just coloring. Quiet.

And it’s so much worse than if he’d come in guns blazing.

Your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth. You swallow. Hard. Then- reluctantly- you ask, “...Did you go to Christian’s?” It slips out too casually. Too flat. It’s not warm. Not really kind. But it’s something.

Max freezes. Not dramatically- just a subtle pause. The faint bounce of his knee stills. The crayon stills. Even his breathing, maybe. He looks at you with the vaguest expression of suspicion, like you just spoke to a ghost and he’s not sure he saw it too.

You regret it immediately.

Why the fuck did you say anything? You’ve cracked the silence open like an egg on concrete- messy, irreversible- and now he’s going to shut down or lash out or- 

“Yes,” he says. Simple. Crisp. He drops his gaze back to the page, and for a second, you think that’s the end of it. Just a meaningless affirmative. Nothing else offered. But then-  

“I stopped to say hello. On my way to…” His voice trails off, but the sentence stays hanging in the air. Unfinished.

On his way to what? Where? Why doesn’t he want to go? You could ask. You're not going to.

Because it’s weird enough already. Because his version of Christmas includes dropping by Christian Horner’s house on the way to some unknown destination, and the idea that he can just stop in on his team principal on the way to Belgium- or Monaco, or wherever he’s dodging from- is such a bizarre, untouchable kind of strange that it makes your brain fog over. That’s not your world. Not your life.

And for a moment, it seems like that really is it- that your one attempt at human interaction has evaporated like breath on cold glass. Until Max- awkwardly, like it physically costs him something- clears his throat.

“Does your family…” He stops. Tries again. “Do they do anything?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting a return volley. You glance at him, but he’s still not looking your way- just dragging his crayon along the inside edge of a turn like it’s the most natural thing in the world to sit in an F1 factory on Christmas Eve and ask you personal questions with no inflection in his voice whatsoever.

You shrug. “Yeah.” You reach for the wine glass- and wrap your fingers around the stem like you need the excuse. Take a long sip. Then another. “They do the whole thing,” you add after a beat, voice casual enough to pass.

You stop there.

There’s more, obviously-  the way your dad plays the piano while everyone eats dessert on the couch, the seventeen half-eaten dishes, the smell of cinnamon and fried food and hairspray- but talking about it out loud feels like scraping skin over gravel. So you don’t. You just take another sip and let the ache settle quiet behind your ribs.

You sit back in your chair and roll the stem of the glass between your fingers. “What about you?” you ask, then immediately regret it. Because what about him?

Like the crayon, you realize you don’t know. Not really. You’ve never pictured him as a child in pajamas or holding a plate of food or doing anything human at all, really- just teeth bared in a helmet, champagne in hand. You can’t imagine Max Verstappen opening presents.

But you’ve asked now, even if you wished you hadn’t. And he wishes you hadn’t asked either. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even hesitate before pointedly not answering. His jaw flexes once, sharp and silent, and he shifts in his chair like the question itched him beneath the skin. Then he flicks his fingers toward the glass in your hand- a silent, impatient little gesture. Give it.

Wine. Okay. You can do that. 

You give it without a word, watching as he lifts it from your grasp, barely glancing down. He tips the glass up to his mouth like it might save him from the question still hanging in the air. Then he frowns. Swirls the glass. Tilts it again. Nothing.

He sets it down with a dull clink and looks at the bottle. “Vur sad little Christmas,” he mutters, his accent thicker now, vowels spreading like melting butter, “is out of fuel.”

You blink. That wasn’t quite English. Not really. Your lips twitch, involuntarily. His tone is dry, a touch sardonic- but soft at the edges. Something about the way he says it, the way the words drag a little at the end, immediately trips your radar.

Because it’s not fuel. Not the way he says it. It’s fuhl. And Christmas comes out almost like Krihsmess. The vowels stretch. The consonants roll in that particular, sleepy way that belongs to cloudy, brick-stacked cities and tired boys from the flat bits of Europe.

Your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek. Because fuck, he’s getting drunk. The wine, and whatever else he had before he got here, is doing its job.

It’s not obvious if you’re not looking for it. His face is still all sharp control. But his voice? That’s telling on him. Whispering things he would never willingly give away. Every word out of his mouth is sliding, lazy around the edges, slipping back into a dialect you know he tries hard not to let surface. You’ve heard it before, buried beneath interviews, in old Red Bull media days when you tracked his career like a sport in itself. But never like this.

You press your knuckles to your mouth, fighting the smile that wants to bloom there. Not because it’s funny. But because you know this. That quiet betrayal. That precise moment when the warmth hits and you stop sounding like the version of yourself you were trained to be- and start sounding like the people who raised you. Like the streets you came from. Like the walls you grew up inside.

You know that moment intimately. You’ve lived it.

He catches the corner of your reaction and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Nothin’,” you say quickly, voice a little too high.

Max’s eyes narrow like he’s squinting into sun glare. Defensive. Immediate. Suspicious in that prickly, unyielding way he gets when he thinks he’s being made fun of. Which- fair.  “What?” he demands again, clipped.

“Nothin’,” you say, too fast. You press your lips together tighter. Fight the upward tug of your mouth with everything you’ve got. But your cheeks are already warm, your eyes glittering with the effort of keeping it down.

He tilts his head. “You’re laughing at me.”

You shake your head. Absolutely lying. He knows it. You know he knows it. Max stares, eyes narrow and sharp and blue, and then glances down at the wine glass in his hand like maybe he can blame this on the alcohol and walk away before he has to deal with whatever the hell this is.

You huff out a breath and say it, fast and low. “Your accent.” His face doesn’t change. Doesn’t twitch. But something flickers behind his eyes. You wince, immediately raising your hands in surrender. “Not in a mean way,” you rush to add. “It’s just- god, it’s thick all of a sudden. Like, lowlands-thick. Like… if Coulthard was Dutch. ”

Max’s eyes narrow so hard you swear you can hear it. “You’re one to talk,” he fires back, tone laced in dry amusement. “You sound like a fucking cowboy.”

Your mouth drops open.

“I do not- ” you start to argue. Stop. Replay it in your head. That last word. Not. Long and flat and dragging through the dirt like you’re from East Texas. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Max doesn’t laugh- not fully. But his lips twitch. His shoulders loosen. He tips his head slightly, as if he’s finally caught you with your own pants down. You shake your head, half-horrified. “I sound like my mom.”

He smirks. “It’s bad.” You groan and drop your forehead to the table. And that’s when it happens. The laugh. Small. Dry. Incredulous.

Max fucking Verstappen laughs.

It’s barely more than a huff of breath, a sound pushed through his nose, but you feel it like a power outage- every light inside you flickering with surprise. Because it’s not cruel. Not smug. Not weaponized like usual. It’s quiet and human and stunned by itself, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

You peek up at him from under your arm.

He looks equally appalled.

“I need more wine,” you announce, abrupt. You snatch the empty bottle and your glass with one hand, gathering up your crayon and coloring sheets with the other. Your movements are a little too fast, a little too loud, like maybe if you just start talking and rustling and walking quickly enough, you can outrun the awful knowledge that you just shared an honest-to-god laugh with Max fucking Verstappen.

It’s not phrased like an invitation. Not even close.

“Got more upstairs,” you mumble. Just a statement. Nothing more.

Maybe you meant to come right back down. Maybe you were just going to grab the bottle and sit in the hall with your shame for a few minutes before rejoining your sad little coloring table and staring at Eau Rouge until you forgot how human he sounded. That was the plan. Sort of.

And then you hear it. Footsteps. Behind you. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. That presence- that shadow moving just a beat behind your own- is unmistakable now. You hear the faint creak of the stairwell railing, feel the draft shift as he follows you up the narrow stairs, and suddenly your spine goes rigid.

Fuck.

This isn’t a bar. This isn’t a team dinner or a hotel suite where everyone’s pretending to be civil for PR. This is your room. Your tiny room. You slow, almost hesitate at the top of the stairs. There’s no grand entry. No threshold to stand behind and reconsider. Just one step and then you're in- a windowless box with a bed and a desk and a shelf and exactly two square feet of walking space between them.

Your mouth is dry.

You glance back at him for the first time since leaving the lobby, and Max- idiot- just stands there like this is normal. Like this isn’t the strangest, most intimate possible turn of events for two people who routinely threaten to strangle each other telepathically.

He doesn’t even look amused anymore. Just… there.

You look away. “It’s a mess, you don’t have to-” you mutter, instantly regretting it, like maybe if you hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t notice. Your dorm was never meant for company, certainly not Max Verstappen. The bed’s unmade- covers kicked to one side. A half-folded pile of laundry has colonized your only armchair, still topped with the towel you used earlier and forgot to hang. The bins under your bed are still askew from when you went rooting through them like an animal before you left to pick up your pizza. 

But he’s already stepped in. And now it’s real. Now he’s inside. The room is warm. The lights are low. You don’t even look at him. Just cross to the desk, crouch, and pull the cardboard wine box off the floor. Five bottles left. 

Costco bottles are out, immediately. You’re not serving Max Verstappen $10 wine, even if it’s better than the price lets on. Even if he deserves it. He probably bathes in bottles older than you on a weekly basis. Not the neighbors, either. Too nostalgic. Too loaded. And if you're honest, it's not that good- you just like the way it tastes like a memory. That just leaves the Walla Walla ones- the Dunham, your favorite- and the wildcard your mom picked. It should be fine. Great, even, if the one you just drank is anything to go by. But you don’t know for sure, and you can’t deal with the idea of Max staring down his nose at something thin or sharp or vinegary if it’s one of those bottles your mom pity-bought because she was three tasting deep and honey, they were just so nice. She’s known to do it. 

Dunham it is. You would’ve drank it first if you had felt more like celebrating and less like throwing a tantrum, less sad, less melancholy, less fucking alone- but- you’re not… alone now, are you? It’s not exactly company, but technically, yeah. You’re not alone. Dunham it is.

You pull the Dunham bottle from its slot like it’s a sacred object, cradling it in one hand while you open your desk drawer with the other. There's a smattering of office supplies in there- half-dried pens, a stapler, a wad of post-its with tire pressure notes on them- but mostly it’s tools. Not a full kit, nothing impressive. You’d had to leave all your proper gear in America, but you’ve scavenged enough since landing here. Tool reps. The mechanics. A trip to Machine Mart or two. Just enough to make things work.

You pick through the drawer until you find what you need: a fat screw, a pair of dikes, and your favorite little stubby wrench. It’s not the ideal method, but it works. Has worked. You line the screw up with practiced fingers, hold the bottle steady, and drive it into the cork with mechanical precision.

Different strategy this time. Instead of pushing the cork all the way through, you wedge the base of the bottle between your thighs, grab the screw with the dikes, and heft the wrench in your other hand- ready to tap it out, slow and controlled.

You're just winding up when Max’s voice cuts through the room. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You glance over, not breaking your hold. “Opening the wine.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “With a wrench?”

“Unless you’re packing a corkscrew in those skinny jeans, Verstappen,” you deadpan, shifting your grip, “this is the show.”

A beat passes. Then, Max, voice flat-  “This is not a normal show.”

You grin- just a little, teeth sharp with amusement as you raise the wrench. “Watch and learn, bucko.” And you give the first gentle tap. Max, blessedly, shuts the fuck up. You brace your thighs tighter, hold the bottle steady, and give the cork three taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is soft, patient. Controlled.

On the third, the cork slides free with a gentle pop- clean, unshredded, not a drop of wine spilled. You set the wrench aside like a finishing move and lift the bottle by the neck with an almost casual flourish, like there, done. Max says nothing.

But he’s watching you the way he sometimes watches a pit crew in the American circuits duct-tape a bumper back onto a stock car and send it screaming back onto the oval- like it offends every ounce of his high-tech, finely tuned, aero-obsessed sensibilities… but some deeply buried, primitive part of him respects the hell out of it anyway.

Because that was kind of impressive. Degenerate. But impressive.

He's grown up rich. Wealthy. Tucked neatly into a world where wine bottles are opened with carbon-handled keys or one of those sleek, pressurized pin systems used on the truly rare vintages. Certainly never a bottle pinched between someone’s thighs and hammered open with a wrench like it was a fucking Jiffy-Lube oil change.

You pass him the glass without ceremony, barely looking up. The pour’s generous- generous enough to signal that you might as well stay awhile. He takes it, careful not to brush your fingers, and stays exactly where he is- two steps inside the doorway, like he’s worried the floor might fall out if he moves any farther.

He’s just holding the wine, taking a sip, looking around with those same tired eyes. Like he’s not in Max Verstappen’s brain right now. Like he’s just a guy, in a sad little room, on a sad little holiday, following the only other miserable person in the building without thinking too hard about why.

You’re not sure what the etiquette is here. You don’t know what this is. The silence between you isn’t hostile anymore, but it’s not exactly warm either. Just quiet. A little awkward. Like both of you forgot how to be people for a second. The smart thing would be to head back down to the lobby. More neutral. More space. Less... this.

But this is your space, shitty as it is. Familiar, functional, lived-in in the way a hotel room never really is. You know how the light hits the floor in the morning, how the baseboard heater hums when it kicks on. You feel safe here. Even with him.

So you don’t move.

You lean forward instead, grabbing the cup of crayons and a fresh coloring sheet from the stack, then slide off the desk chair and onto the floor. You sprawl. Take up space. Let your body stretch out across half of the sad little postage stamp of your floor, your pajama-clad legs half-crossed, toes flexing in your socks.

Then, quietly, without looking up: “There’s more there. You can use the desk, if you want. Just throw the laundry on the bed.”

you hear the subtle scuff of his shoes against the tile. Hesitant. Like he’s approaching a wild animal- or a bomb with a ticking clock and unclear instructions. A moment later, the quiet shuffling of paper. He’s flipping through the coloring sheets. Reading the options. Probably judging them. Tracks. Liveries. You’re pretty sure there’s more than one of him in there, since they came from the front desk.

You don’t look up. You stay focused on your page- sweeping your crayon across the tail section of a generic Bulls livery- but your ears catch every motion behind you, sharp and alert, even if your expression doesn’t shift.

You expect the chair to make a noise. Expect him to sit like a normal human being at a desk. Like you said he could.

He doesn’t.

Instead, you hear the faintest rustle- the zipper of his softshell scraping on the laminate- and then the slow, deliberate sound of some man over the age of twenty five settling themselves to the ground.

Your eyes flick up. Barely. Just a glance sideways.

There he is. Max fucking Verstappen. Laid out on your floor. Not with you, exactly- he’s as far as he can possibly be in the cramped space without backing into your desk- but still beside you. Elbow down. Shoulders curled forward. His long legs bent awkwardly to fit the geometry of your tiny dorm room. Like he’s trying to minimize himself. Or disappear.

He places the wine glass between you with a soft tap and leans slightly to fish a crayon from the cup. Doesn’t say a word. Just starts coloring. And something in you releases, just a notch. Because now the wine glass is right there- within easy reach. You don’t have to ask every time you want another sip. You don’t have to break the fragile rhythm this has somehow become. You’re… sharing? 

You settle back onto your elbows for a moment, watching the tip of his crayon glide over the paper. He’s quiet- focused, or pretending to be- and for once, not a single part of him seems weaponized. No sharp comments, no loaded glances. Just… silence. And color. You glance at the wine glass between you, then down at your own page.

Alright.

You slide onto your stomach, legs bent at the knees and swaying idly behind you, and pick up where you left off. Just a little more red on the nose cone, then the diffuser. You don’t realize how long you’re there, how long you’ve been smoothing wax into every corner, how time has started to drip instead of tick- until you’re fully locked in.

And you are, locked in, that is. Trading red for navy for yellow in turn. The wine’s warm in your stomach, your head pleasantly fuzzy. It wraps around your brain like gauze, softening the edges of everything until it’s just you, your paper single-seater, and the sacred task of getting this shading just right. Yellow over yellow over yellow, layering to make the light bounce right where you rub wax on wax- almost like a glow.

In the background, you hear him. Max. Not breathing hard or talking or fidgeting like a child- just... not settled. His motions are restless. Color, pause. Shift. Sip. Sigh. Color again. Pause longer. Another sip.

You don’t look. You don’t engage. It’s not your problem if he’s bored. He could’ve left at any point. Still could. You didn’t invite him to your floor, didn’t ask him to drink your wine or share your crayons or sit awkwardly close enough that you can hear the shift of his clothes against your floor when he adjusts. Not your issue. Not your job.

You lean forward, reaching for the brighter of the two yellows- your final pass to really bring that beautiful nose to life- 

Swipe.

Your brain takes a full two seconds to register it.

There’s a hand on your page. Not just any hand. His hand. And it’s holding a green crayon.

Green.

GREEN.

Right across the nose cone. The nose cone. Which you had painstakingly left open. Purposefully saved for last, like a crown jewel. Which you had been actively reaching for with the exact right shade in your grip. You freeze. Stare.

There it is. A crooked, casual, green swoop right across the tip of the car like it belongs there.

“Max,” you breathe, voice sharp and flat all at once.

Max doesn’t look sorry. Not even a little. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t backpedal. Just glances sideways, one brow raised, glass tipped loosely in his other hand.

“What?” he says, too casual. “Green. Christmas.”

Your mouth falls open. Words scatter. You blink. “That’s- no- that’s not- what’s wrong with you?”

He has the audacity to smirk. “You were obsessing.”

You scoff, huffing through your nose. “I was not obsessing.” He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, just a look- delighted blue eyes saying sure you weren’t. 

God, he’s such an ass.

But- he’s not being cruel. Not mean, not biting. Just a dumb schoolboy with too much wine and no concept of boundaries, clearly thrilled by how easy it is to get a rise out of you right now. You grumble under your breath and twist your coloring sheet a few degrees away from him, throwing one elbow out wide in a clear territorial maneuver. He huffs a quiet laugh, and you can already tell he’s going to be a problem. Head down. Focus restored.

For a second, it works.

The next time his hand darts out, you’re ready. You block him with the crayon in your off hand- deflecting like you’ve trained for this your whole life. “Don’t,” you warn, eyes narrowed. You jab an elbow toward him without looking, but he evades. Then waits. Two seconds. Four. You let your guard down just a little- back to coloring in the last bits of the halo- when suddenly-

Swipe. It lands. More green- on your sidepod, for God’s sake. The sidepod. 

“Oh, you bastard!” you gasp, half-sputtering, half-laughing. Not because it’s okay- you were so close to being done- but because the audacity is just so stupid and somehow hilarious in a way that wine makes everything. You grab for the page, then his wrist, but he’s already leaning back like the smug little asshole he is, admiring his handiwork. So you snatch the crayon out of his hand- remove the tool of destruction right out of his grip.

He looks briefly scandalized. Then delighted. He blinks at you, mock offended, hand still outstretched between you like this is a diplomatic negotiation. “Give it back.”

“No.” You say it fast, fierce, like the word’s been sitting on your tongue for years and finally found its moment. “You’ve lost crayon privileges.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters, letting his hand drop, but his eyes are bright now- sharper than they’ve been all night. Not angry. Not smug. Just surprised. Entertained, even. You’ve caught him off guard, and for once, he’s not trying to hide it.

He leans back onto one hand, glass dangling loosely in the other. “You’re hoarding.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You vandalized my livery.”

He huffs through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s honest. And quieter than before. Quieter than you expected. Your thumb rolls slowly over the waxy paper wrapper of the crayon. His eyes flick down to the movement. You watch his gaze track it, then lift. You’re ready for another jab. Ready for him to press. But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. And for some reason, that’s worse.

You meet his stare like it’s a challenge. Like maybe you’re still playing. But the moment hangs- odd, suspended- until you realize something about his face. About the way the light sits against his cheek, the way his mouth tips ever so slightly to one side. How different he looks when he’s not scowling or calculating. How young he looks without the armor.

You lose the thread.

Just for a second.

Oh.

He’s- 

You blink hard and tear your eyes away, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Jesus. It’s just the wine. You shake your head like it’ll clear the thought.

He laughs- quiet, deep, from somewhere in his chest- and extends his hand again, a little more pointed this time. “Come on. Quit playing.”

You glance down at the crayon in your grip. You’re white-knuckling it now like it’s something worth defending instead of literal children’s art supplies. And for a second- just a second- you forget what the hell you’re doing, because when you look up, his eyes are on yours again, steady and unflinching. He’s close. Much closer than you realized. Those stupid cheekbones. That stupid mouth. God, he really is pretty when he’s not snarling.

You clear your throat. “Still no.”

Max’s brows lift just slightly. Not in offense. In interest. You see it flicker across his face. Something small and sparking. A game.

His gaze drops to your hand, then back up to you. He doesn’t move right away- just watches, like he’s calculating risk, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll flinch. And when you don’t, when you lean back slightly on your free hand and mirror his smug little look-  That’s it. The corners of his mouth lift. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something crooked and barely formed. “Okay,” he says softly, “your funeral.”

And then he lunges.

You yelp, scooting back across the floor with a laugh caught in your throat, crayon clutched to your chest like a trophy. He’s faster. His long reach closes the gap easily, and now you’re dodging, rolling onto your side with a clumsy twist of limbs and fabric and wine-fueled reflexes. It’s not graceful. Not even close. But it’s real. It’s ridiculous.

It’s fun.

You squeal when his fingers almost snag your wrist, twisting just out of reach. “You’re cheating!”

“You started it,” he growls, grinning full now- genuine and wild- and for a second, you’re not thinking about stolen sodas or slammed doors or podiums or fights or Christmas or any of the shit that lives between you. Just this. The stupidest game in the world.

Just him and you and a crayon and a laugh you didn’t know you still had in you.

You curl around the crayon protectively, breathing hard, wine haze buzzing behind your eyes. “You’re gonna have to take it from me.” There’s no teasing in it now. No laughter. Just the sharp, wordless thud of bodies trying to outmaneuver each other. Max is focused. You’re focused. The wine is irrelevant, the coloring pages forgotten. This isn’t about crayons anymore. It’s about the principle.

You twist again, pivot your hips, make a break for the other side of the room- but his hand catches your ankle mid-scramble, pulling you back with enough force to collapse you into a heap. You curse, breath knocked half out of you, but he’s already crawling up the floor space after you, practically feral. You twist, arms tucked in, guarding the crayon like it’s nuclear launch codes.

“Give it,” he growls, low and laughing and way too close.

“Get bent.” And that’s when he does it. Max pins your wrist. One hand, firm. The other comes for your fingers.

Oh shit.

He starts prying them open, one at a time- careful, deliberate, methodical. Your heart rate spikes. You thrash under him, try to jerk your arm back, but he’s stronger. Steadier. His grip doesn’t falter. He’s laughing now- quiet and smug and goddamn infuriating- but not stopping.

You grunt, trying to twist free, but your side’s already to the floor, and he’s braced over you, weight held up just enough not to crush you, but enough that you’re not going anywhere. You let out a frustrated sound- something halfway between a growl and a gasp- as he peels another finger loose.

Three down. Two left.

“No,” you hiss, wriggling like it’ll help, but you’re losing ground. Literally. Physically. And emotionally. Because he’s going to win. You can’t let him win. 

You squirm. Twist. Dig your heels in and push, just enough to get a sliver of leverage- not much, but enough to roll your hips hard and lurch toward him with all your weight. It’s not graceful. It’s not smart.

It is effective.

Max doesn’t see it coming. His balance breaks for half a second- just long enough for you to launch into him like a linebacker. You both go down in a blur of limbs and elbows and shocked, wordless noise.

The desk takes the hit first. A hollow bang echoes through the room, followed by the sudden explosion of coloring sheets and data printouts raining down like confetti- fluttering paper and half-loose crayons skittering across the floor in a storm of chaos. You land half on top of him, half in the wreckage, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

For a beat, neither of you move.

Just staring at each other. Eyes wide. Limbs tangled. Mouths open like did we just- ?

And then laughter.

Real, deep, gut-pulling laughter, ripped from both of you in stunned, breathless waves. Max folds first, face turned into his own shoulder like he can’t believe it, shaking. You follow suit, breath hitching, tears burning at the corners of your eyes because what the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing?

There are crayons under your thigh. His knee is jammed between your calves. Your ribs hurt from laughing, your elbow’s probably bruised, and Max Verstappen- perpetual bastard, walking headache, F1 World Champion- is laughing with you on the floor of your too-small, too-warm dorm room like the two of you don’t know any better.

And maybe, for a minute- you don’t.

The laughter slows- first his, then yours- softening into breathless exhales and fading chuckles that taper off like static. The room quiets around you, thick with the remnants of sound. You blink up at the ceiling, still catching your breath, body curled awkwardly where you landed, limbs in soft collision with his.

And then it hits you.

Where you are. How close. How tangled.

Max’s thigh is still pressed between yours, his arm crooked under your shoulders like he forgot to move it. His shirt is pulled slightly off-center, jacket collar tugged loose where you grabbed him, exposing a line of skin at his neck. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours- too steady for someone who just laughed that hard. Too careful.

He’s quiet now. Looking at you. Really looking.

Your gaze flicks up- meets his. And- fuck. There it is.

A flicker of heat in the air between you, sharp and unmistakable. His lips part, just slightly. His brows pull together like he’s trying to process something in real time, something he didn’t expect to feel. Something he shouldn’t feel. You don’t move. Neither does he.

But god, if one of you did…

If he shifted a little closer, if you tilted your chin up just a bit- your mouths could meet. It would be easy. Stupidly easy. And you wouldn’t stop it. You don’t even think you’d be mad.

All you can think about was the way he stared at you, through you, in the rearview mirror that night after Christian took you out for beers. Your breath hitches. He hears it. He swallows.

The air turns molten.

It’s the first time you’ve felt this- this thing between you- like it might not be hatred. Like it might be something with teeth and heat and tension, a live wire strung taut between the two of you that no one was ever supposed to touch.

But here you are. Hovering. Right above it. And he’s not backing away.

And then your phone. It rattles against the floor with a brzzzz brzzzz brzzzz that might as well be a grenade. You flinch. Max blinks, startled too, the spell between you sliced clean through like it was never even there.

You roll away in a scramble- off his arm, out of the heat- grabbing for the phone like it’s a lifeline. The screen lights up: Mom 💐. FaceTime.

Jesus Christ.

You clear your throat and hit accept, already forcing a smile to your face. “Hi, Mama.”

“Merry Christmas, baby!” comes the immediate, sunshine-soaked reply, all syrup and sparkle. Your mom’s face fills the screen, warm and aglow, her curls pulled back, lipstick immaculate, an apron on over one of her good dresses. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see your face. You get my wine?”

You sit up straighter, trying to keep the heat out of your cheeks. “I did. I’m drinking it right now, actually.”

She squints through the screen. “Wait- are you still in your room? That doesn’t look like the lobby.”

Your eyes flick to Max before you can stop yourself. He’s sitting up now, legs crossed haphazardly beneath him, hair slightly mussed. He’s not looking at you, but he’s listening. Of course he is.

“Uh,” you say, trying to keep it breezy. “Came up to get a second bottle.”

“Oh?” your mom sings, voice lilting like she already knows exactly what’s going on. “You sound a little put together for gettin’ after a whole bottle on your own,” she adds, mock-solemn. Christ, the woman doesn’t miss a thing.

You stifle a groan. “I wasn’t alone.”

“Oh?” She leans closer to the camera. “Who’s there with you?”

And then Max- fucking Max- leans just enough for his face to enter the frame, one brow raised like he’s challenging you to stop him.

Your mother’s eyes light up. “Ohhh.”

“Mama, no- ”

“Honey, don’t you Mama me. Is that Max Verstappen in your dorm room?” You make a strangled noise in your throat, but she’s already on a roll.

“Well, hi there, sugar,” she says, clearly delighted. “You are just as pretty in person as you are on TV. I mean, I see what all the fuss is about now.” She gives you a sly glance.

Max, bless him, has no idea what to do with that. “Uh… thank you?” he says, hesitant and deeply confused.

“Oh, of course. And you’re bein’ so sweet to keep her company tonight. I told her, I said, You’re not foolin’ anybody pretendin’ you don’t care about the holidays. And now look at you, all cozied up with a boy and coloring.”

“Mama,” you mutter, half-mortified, half-amused. “We’re not- he’s just- ”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says with perfect Southern innocence. “You’re the one who sounds guilty.” Max chokes on his wine. You shoot him a glare. He holds his hands up- not my fault.

Your mother beams. “Well, I just wanted to check in and say hi before it got too busy. And tell you the blackberry pie came out fine. So fine, actually, that your daddy, Kaleb, and your uncle got into it last night after I went to bed and I had to make a new one this morning. Gave ‘em a piece of my mind this morning, let me tell you.” She tuts, like even the thought of it pisses her off. 

“Get ‘em good, Mama. You tell ‘em.” You laugh softly, warmth blooming behind your ribs. You can imagine the three of them, hunched around the island with a couple forks. Feeling a little too brave off of Coors light and Pendleton and God knows what else the men in your family get to drinking when left unsupervised in a shop for too many hours. Nobody would dare to touch Marissa’s Christmas pie sober. That’s the Lord’s pie. That pie is for Baby Jesus.

“But I’m real glad you’re not alone.” She gives Max a parting smile, eyes already somewhere else in her kitchen- cataloguing what else she needs to finish before the bigger family gets there, because there’s no worker bee like a Southern woman before Christmas dinner. “Y’all behave yourselves, I’m just gonna set-” the camera angle begins to shift. Not end- just tilt, go a little off center, like the phone’s been set against a mixing bowl. “There. I have to start the potatoes, holler at me if you have anything to say.”

Max looks over at you. “Did she just…”

“...set us down? Yeah. She’s got shit to do.” Sure enough, you catch a glimpse of your mom’s kitchen- all wood and stone and old tile countertops, the smell of roasted garlic and butter you can practically taste through the screen. Marissa’s muttering faintly to herself, moving in and out of frame, stirring something in a Dutch oven. You hear her talking to someone in the background.

It makes you smile at the screen faintly, the warmth of wine and the fact that even just in this small way, you can be a part of it- when Max smirks beside you, eyes dancing. “You do sound like you’re from the same place.”

You groan again and throw yourself back onto the carpet, eyes to the ceiling, already regretting everything. But your smile still won’t quite go away. It’s not for him. It’s for her. For home, and not even Max can dull the shine of this call. “Her accent’s way stronger. ‘S just harder to tell over the phone.” 

The peace, the sweetness of hearing your mom cook, the odd conversation between you and Max- is broken by footsteps. Fast ones. A blur moves behind your mom’s frame. A blur in a carhartt hoodie and bedazzled jeans and a ball cap full of hair. Marissa clocks it too late. 

“Bailey- don’t you touch that roll!” Too slow. A hand snakes into frame and snatches one off the tray cooling beside the oven.

“BAILEY!”

Then the camera swings wildly again, and you’re face-to-face with her: your cousin, Bailey, triumphant, cheeks puffed full of stolen bread, grinning like the absolute menace she is. She ducks into a corner, the phone clutched in one flour-dusted hand.

“Well, well, well. Cousin,” she says around a mouthful of carbs, “your mama says you got a boy in your room.”

You blink. “That’s- Bailey.”

“In your room,” she repeats, scandalized, like she’s reading it out loud from the Ten Commandments. “On Christmas. Give me something juicy, I’ve got a two year old. I haven’t heard a good story in- God. So, is this a hostage situation orrr…”

You exhale a laugh despite yourself. “Grow up. It’s not like that.”

Bailey leans in, peering, turning the phone just enough to get a look at Max, who’s frozen halfway through a sip of wine. Still sitting on the floor like a very guilty golden retriever. “Who’s this?” she asks, dramatic as hell. “Introduce me to your holiday miracle.”

You roll your eyes. “This is Max.”

Bailey stares.

Then leans closer.

Then squints.

“Wait,” she says slowly, “wait a minute. Is that- ?”

Max braces himself- you can see it. You know he’s thinking: Here it comes. The gasp. The oh my god, Max Verstappen?! You’re certain he can already hear it bouncing around in his little antisocial brain, alarms blaring. You brace yourself, too. Because you know what’s about to come out of her beautiful, lovely, big-fat fucking mouth and it’s not what he thinks it’s going to be.

“Oh my god,” Bailey breathes. “Like… Diet Coke Max?”

Max blinks.

You cough, choking down your laughter. “Yes.”

Max blinks. “What?”

Bailey gasps theatrically, a hand to her heart. “Quarter Max?” You lose it. Cackle, teeth bared.

Max turns to you, slowly. “What the fuck is Quarter Max.”

You shake your head. Still laughing. “Nothing.”

Bailey is delighted. “So it is him. Oh my god.” Max’s eyes snap to you, clearly reeling, his answered questions still branding around between you- what the fuck is Quarter Max?

You nod solemnly. “Yes.” Neither of you elaborates for him.

Bailey, now vibrating with energy, flips the camera around and runs screaming down the hallway. “Y’ALL. SHE’S WITH DIET COKE MAX.” The phone tips. You’re treated to a sideways view of a doorframe, a dog bed, and the echoing hollers of other cousins demanding explanations. Some are in on it, some aren’t, all of them now want to be in on whatever the fuck y’all’s crazy cousin is screaming about.

And then your mom, poor, sweet, under-informed Marissa, off-screen- “What does that mean?!”

Max looks stunned. “You’ve been talking about me,” he says slowly, a little shell-shocked.

You lift the wine glass and sip. “Only the important things.”

He just stares at you, then glances toward the phone- where chaos still reigns- and mutters, “What the fuck is Quarter Max?”

You grin into the glass, debate whether you should dignify him with an answer. He’s in on the joke, maybe the butt of it, technically, just… needs a little more context. What harm can giving him the puzzle piece do? “The jukeboxes at home take coins called Quarters.” Max’s face is slow to process. Like he’s putting two and two together in real time. The Diet Coke incident. The jukebox standoff. The fact you had him kneeling on the floor of some locals pub begging for your spare change. Her fucking cousin(s) know. She’s been telling stories. Laughing about him. He stares at you, somewhere between betrayed and impressed. “You’ve been talking shit.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Relentlessly.” He mutters something in Dutch and leans back against the wall like he’s rethinking every choice he’s ever made.

Bailey laughs like it’s the best thing she’s heard all week, and the camera tips as she shoves the phone back toward Marissa, who yells something unintelligible about setting the table through the chaos of clattering pans and shouts from the background. There’s more laughter, more chatter- names called out, someone asking about biscuits, someone else yelling no, not that knife- until finally, with a flurry of sweet goodbyes and one last ‘gotta go, sweetheart’ from your mom, the screen goes dark.

Silence.

You’re still holding the phone. Your fingers slide across the black screen once, twice, like you’re not quite ready to let go of the feeling. The noise. The background warmth. The easy rhythm of home.

But it’s quiet now. Just you and Max and the four thin walls of your dorm room.

You blink once, then glance around like you’ve just remembered where you are. The mess is everywhere- crayons scattered, coloring pages wrinkled and overlapping. You take a breath- too shallow to steady anything- and start to move. Not because it needs to be done, really. But because it gives your hands something to do. Something safe. Something that makes you feel less like you might accidentally say I miss them out loud.

You kneel and start gathering the pages first- carefully at first, then faster, like it helps. Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches from where he’s sunk against the wall, his fingers still loosely wrapped around the glass he snatched back from you when he realized you told people about it all. The Diet Coke. The 20p, or the Quarter, or the whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Told people about him. 

You're humming something- tuneless, cut off halfway through. Your hair slips out of its tie and falls forward. A strap of your tank top slips to the side, just a bit, as you scoop crayons back into their little plastic cup, one after another. Max doesn’t help. Doesn’t offer. He just watches.

He’s thinking- trying not to, but he is.

Because you’re doing something simple. Casual. Normal. Something you probably do all the time. And all he can think about is that phone call. That kitchen. That voice calling for Bailey. The screech of laughter and rustle of bodies and the dim clang of silverware.

They sounded fun, he thinks.

It slips out.

“They sound fun,” he says aloud, too quiet to sound casual.

You glance over your shoulder at him. Just a flicker. Your throat moves when you swallow. “They are,” you say. Your voice is thin, stretched out over too many feelings and too much wine. You stack the coloring sheets together, one hand smoothing down the corners. “They’re a lot. But they’re… home.” It hangs there. The silence. The unspoken.

You have a place to be and can’t get there.

He could get to his family, no problem. He’s just… not. You don’t know why, and you’re not asking. He fills the glass again, careful not to spill. Doesn’t push you for more, which you’re grateful for. 

You’re quiet as you climb onto the bed, shifting the wrinkled comforter into something resembling order. Your laptop’s still perched on the far side of the mattress, and you drag it over, flip it open. The screen lights your face in soft blue. You curl your legs under yourself, shifting a pillow behind your back, and gesture vaguely toward him. “I was gonna put a movie on,” you say. Then, eyes on the laptop instead of him: “What do you wanna watch?”

It’s casual. Easy. But you don't ask if he wants to stay. And he doesn’t ask if he can.

You mull it over, thumb hovering over the trackpad as the little carousel of thumbnails spins slowly on screen. Max sips more wine in silence, settles onto the furthest edge of your bed, like he hasn’t quite figured out if this is an invite or a test. Maybe it’s both.

He seems like a crude humor guy. Like the type who still quotes Step Brothers without irony and probably thinks Superbad is a cinematic achievement. Which… okay, no judgment. You like that stuff too. Comfort food for the soul. Millennial gold.

For half a second, Borat flashes through your mind. You smirk. Too risky. Even for Max. You're not trying to get fired for ruining Christmas with cultural insensitivity. Not tonight.

Your eyes snag on a familiar poster. Talladega Nights. Yes.

It’s perfect. Low stakes. Just enough racing to be familiar, but far enough from Formula 1 not to feel like homework. Plus- bonus points for mocking your country, not someone else’s. (Mostly.)

You click it. The title screen boots up with that weirdly aggressive intro music, and something unspools quietly in your chest.

Your mom’s old SUV had a DVD player that ate discs like a woodchipper, and Talledega Nights got jammed in it before your ninth birthday. For the next six years, you watched it on loop every time you drove further than ten minutes from home. You must’ve watched it two hundred times on road trips. Kaleb used to mouth every line from the backseat while you begged your parents for literally any other movie, but now…

Now you miss it.

You click play, trying not to linger on that thought.

“Alright,” you murmur, settling back against the wall, eyes flicking up toward Max. “Hope you like America.” You pause. “And NASCAR.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Just moves slowly to sit on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, wine glass balanced between his fingers.

The screen goes dark. And then, the immortal words: “America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed.”

You bite back a grin. Max huffs. Not quite a laugh. But not not a laugh, either. You don’t make it ten minutes into the movie before the quoting starts.

You mumble along with the punch lines under your breath, lips twitching. Max doesn’t even bother pretending he hasn’t seen it.  When Ricky Bobby starts praying to little baby Jesus, both of you laugh- not because the joke is fresh, but because it is so goddamn stupid. Because it’s familiar.

It’s easy, for a minute. Too easy. So, naturally, you ruin it. “Talked to Danny lately?” you ask casually, not looking at Max- just watching the screen, as if it’s a throwaway comment. It’s not. You’re genuinely wondering.

You’ve been trying to avoid texting Danny too much- no more than he texts you. Do your best to be an easy friend. An un-annoying friend. A friend he might want to keep around for longer than three weeks.

He glances up at you- barely a beat of delay. “Yeah.” He takes a sip of wine. “Couple days ago. He’s in Perth.”

“Right, right.” You nod like you didn’t already know that from Instagram. “Holiday with the family?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. Adds, “Surfing. BBQ. Being….Australian, or whatever.”

You snort. That sounds about right. Max doesn’t say anything else for a second. Just sips again. Eyes on the screen. 

But he’s not watching anymore.

He’s turning something over in his head- he’s transparent like that when he’s trying not to be. You’ve noticed he didn’t inherit Jos’s subtilty. The movie’s still playing, Ricky Bobby still blazing gloriously across the screen, but Max is suddenly too still. Too deliberate. “You two still… hanging out?”

Your head tilts, just a little. “Me and Danny?”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “Not since the party. Why?”

“No reason.” Another shrug, a sip, a pass of the glass, his eyes still fixed forward. He shifts beside you, kicks his legs out next to yours, the twin mattress groaning beneath the movement. His knee brushes yours by accident- both of you flinch- and he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back the complaint all night. 

“This bed,” he mutters, grimacing. “Jesus. This has to be the worst bed in the world.” You don’t look at him. Just sip wine, gaze flicking toward the screen. He doesn’t stop. “Seriously. How do you bring anyone back here?”

You turn your head. Slow. Stare at him like he’s sprouted a second nose. “Bring…” you echo, blinking. “A man?”

He shrugs, already regretting the question. “I mean… yeah.”

You huff. Dry. Amused. “To this? My dorm? At my job? With six square feet of personal space and cameras in the lobby?” You raise your brows. Let the silence do the rest. Hard, hard pass.

Max looks at you like you’ve just confessed to living in your car. In a blizzard. With no shoes. Twists to look at you fully, like maybe he’s just misheard.  “Wait- so you just go to their place every time?” he asks, incredulous, like this is the part that’s difficult to wrap his head around.

You stare at him. Truly, honestly stare. “Max. I don’t have anyone to go to.” He starts to say something, stops. Blinks. His brows pull in slightly, confusion breaking up the usual arrogance. “I’ve literally said this before,” you continue, voice flatter now. “Multiple times. Danny literally just asked me. You’ve been in the room. I don’t have time for a social life. Or friends. Or whatever it is you think I’m doing in my free time. Christian took me out for beers with you, for God’s sake.” You take another sip, wave your fingers like you’re dismissing the conversation. 

Max frowns like he’s trying to replay those conversations in his head. You can see the wheels turning, slowly, like he’s trying to file this under “unlikely but technically plausible.” But it just doesn’t compute. “You’re telling me,” he says finally, like each word costs him something, “you haven’t… hooked up with anyone since moving here?”

For fucks sake, he’s not letting it go. You sigh, like you’re trying to explain something to the world’s dumbest dog. “Correct.” His mouth opens. Then closes. The silence that follows is almost insulting in its length.

“…Not even once?”

“Nope.”

“Since you got to Europe?”

You nod. “Mmhmm.” Max just sits there, stunned. Processing. Watching you like you’re a rare insect he found in his bathroom sink. It takes him way too long to realize you’re not kidding.

Max is quiet. A little too quiet. He’s not shocked anymore- he’s analyzing. Assessing. Like he’s trying to puzzle out some hidden, catastrophic flaw that would make you, you, un-fuckable. As if this is some logic problem, and he’s waiting for the answer to reveal itself.

Then- dry, deadpan, one corner of his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a smirk- “Maybe you should try talking less.”

Your eyes snap to him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose. “Just saying. Might help.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He ignores that. Or maybe enjoys it. Probably both. “No, I’ve figured it out,” he says, a little more animated now, as if he’s truly cracked the code. “You like saying no.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you. At events. At dinners. You- ” he lifts his hand, gestures vaguely, “- set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. Then you get to shoot them down. Keep all the power.”

You stare at him for a beat, jaw clenched, but you don’t fire back right away- because the worst part? Is that he’s not entirely wrong. Not really. Just smug about it. And so very Max. You roll your eyes and grab the wine glass instead. “You think you know everything.”

He shrugs, but that smirk- that fucking smirk- lingers. “Not everything. Just enough.”

You take a long sip of wine, then tilt your head toward him- sweet, patronizing, eyes wide with mock praise. “That’s a very astute observation,” you say, tone dripping with teacher-to-preschooler energy. “Especially coming from someone with the emotional control of a five-year-old. Very good!” 

Max huffs a breath of laughter- quiet, begrudging, maybe even a little impressed. “Or,” you continue, push the glass back into his hand, “hear me out- there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.” He raises a brow, skeptical.

You know Max doesn’t want to hear the truth. But he keeps fucking pressing for it, so goddamnit, you’ll give it to him. You’re so sick of explaining yourself to boys, and you know what, he deserves to be uncomfortable. 

You go on, deadpan. “I just don’t feel like going through the inconvenience of shaving my legs, making small talk, hauling myself to someone’s apartment just to get my left lip rubbed like a fucking stress ball for thirty seconds and asked if I came yet.” You pause. “It’s not my fault men are incompetent. Why bother with them at all, honestly?”

Max chokes on the wine.

You don’t flinch. Don’t laugh. Just raise a brow and look back towards the screen, unbothered, like you’ve simply recited your grocery list.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still recovering from his wine misfire, then leans in just slightly- one elbow braced behind him, the other hand cradling the glass like he’s about to lay down wisdom.

“So what I’m hearing,” he says, slow and mock-thoughtful, “is that you’re just really bad at picking hookups.” You glance over, deadpan. He nods, all condescending concern now. “That’s fine. That’s fixable. You just don’t know the tricks.”

You blink at him once. Slowly. “Oh,” you say, voice flat. “There’s tricks, huh?”

He shrugs, smug and infuriating. “Obviously.”

You turn your whole head to look at him now. “Please,” you say, dry as bone, “do enlighten me, Casanova.”

Max shrugs, casual, like he’s discussing using wets at Silverstone in March. “You kiss them.”

You stare at him. Flat. Blank. Like he’s just explained paddle shifting to you. “No shit,” you deadpan. “You kiss someone before you sleep with them. Groundbreaking.”

“No, no,” he insists, sitting up a little straighter, the glass in his hand sloshing just slightly. “Not like that. Not during. Before. Like, early. Test run.”

You blink, the corner of your mouth twitching with restrained laughter. “A test kiss.”

“Exactly,” he says, as if this is a widely accepted, peer-reviewed strategy. “If they’re a bad kisser? Don’t even bother. If they’re okay, maybe. But if they’re really good- like really good? That’s almost always sex worth remembering.”

You blink again, slowly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

But you’re grinning now. Just barely. Because he’s dead serious, and he doesn’t even realize how much he’s leaning toward you while making this Very Important Point. You keep poking at him, grinning wider every time he bites. “Okay, professor. What makes a good kiss, then?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the last sip of wine in the glass like it’s something to contemplate. You don’t even care if he didn't offer you the last swallow of your own wine, because you’re testing something. “Mmm,” he hums, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Can’t give away the answers before the test.”

Your brows shoot up. Oh. Oh. He’s really doing this.

You sit up straighter, practically vibrating now- glee thrumming behind your teeth. You know exactly where this is going, and it’s hilarious. He thinks he’s being smooth. You think you’ve never seen anything so transparently thirsty in your life. He’s trying to half-drunkenly flirt his way into your mouth like it’s a clever psychological tactic. On Christmas, no less. For shame, Max.

He leans back just slightly, like this is no big deal. Says it like he’s offering you a sample tray at the fucking supermarket. “Yeah,” he nods, casual, “kiss me. Then we’ll see if that’s your problem. Science.”

You almost burst out laughing. Does he- does he- think you were born yesterday? That you’re going to fall for this little power play? That he’ll let you kiss him- like he’s doing you a favor- and then what? Rank it? Pat your head? Tell you he approves?

Absolutely the fuck not.

Your grin sharpens, toothy and electric. “No, thank you,” you say sweetly, like you’re declining a timeshare. You pause, letting the silence stretch- just long enough for him to think that’s the end of it.

Your grin turns razor sharp as you lean back onto your elbows, eyes glittering with mischief. “But hey,” you say, all false magnanimity, “you’re welcome to kiss me. And I’ll let you know if you seem like you might be decent in bed. Science, and all.”

That lands.

Max’s mouth twitches- just barely- but you see it. A flicker of something bruised under the surface. He masks it quickly, but not quickly enough. For half a second, he looks like you’ve just outmaneuvered him in his own fantasy- a fantasy where he was the one in control, the one doling out favors and deciding outcomes.

And now? Now he’s the one on his back foot.

You can see the irritation bloom across his features- not because he’s angry, but because he knows you’ve seen through him. Knows you’re right. Knows if he wants this kiss- and oh, he wants it- he’s going to have to do it your way now. Swallow the pride. Take the step.

You’re tricky. You’re sharp. You’re not some girl dazzled by a half-drunk Max Verstappen in a twin bed on Christmas night. You’re a challenge he didn’t see coming, and he’s annoyed because part of him loves it.

He stares at you a moment longer. Considering.

The air shifts.

You’re still close- so close- and the buzz in your bloodstream crackles again as his eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. When he looks back up, it’s different. Looser. Pretending it’s no big deal. Playing it cool.

“Okay,” he says, shrugging one shoulder like he couldn’t care less. Like he’s just humoring you. Like this is purely academic. “Why not.” And you bite your tongue to keep from smiling. Because you won. He leans in- slowly, almost like he’s giving you time to back out. But you don’t.

You don’t move. You barely even breathe.

And then his lips touch yours.

It’s soft. Shockingly soft. Firm in pressure, but not forceful- just the sure contact of one mouth meeting another with no fanfare. No tongue. No push. Just warmth and shape. Skin on skin. A delicate drag as his bottom lip shifts against yours. A breath, exhaled.

Your spine straightens. Nerves fire.

The contact isn’t hungry or possessive- if anything, it’s careful. Like he’s taking a first pass. Feeling it out. Like this isn’t just some cocky play to get in your pants, but something he actually wants to feel.

Your whole body responds on a microscopic level.

Your chest lifts with a sharp inhale, and suddenly your skin feels too tight for your frame. Heat curls low in your stomach, slow and slinky, and your hands twitch slightly against the bed, fingers flexing with the effort of staying still.

Behind your ribs, your heart gives a stutter. Not a pounding gallop, but a heavy thud. Like it’s recalibrating. Like it just noticed something your brain hadn’t caught yet. Your lips part slightly, reacting more than deciding- but there’s no escalation. Not yet. It’s still simple. Still closed. But everything inside you is wide awake.

His lips are warm, not chapped- slightly dry at the center, where the soft of his lower lip drags against yours. You feel the texture of him. The difference in shape. The way his top lip presses a little firmer, the way his bottom one lingers. The faintest catch of breath between you when he shifts- like neither of you are sure what comes next, but neither of you are pulling away.

Your thighs tighten, abs bracing without meaning to. It’s like a silent alarm went off in your body, a thousand small muscles contracting in the same moment.

You feel the wine in your bloodstream like a hum. Feel your fingertips tingle. Feel the entire front of your body start to buzz with the nearness of him- even though you’re not touching anywhere but your mouths. The rest of your bodies are still a breath apart.

And it’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect. In a way that makes it hard to think. Hard to blink. Hard to remember that this was supposed to be a joke. That you were supposed to win.

And just when you think it’s over- when you think he might pull back, break the tension, let it stay light and unspoken- you realize with almost a sense of relief: a kiss without tongue doesn’t really count. Not for adults. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that leaves fingerprints on your ribs. If he stops now, you can both pretend it didn’t happen.

But he doesn’t stop. Instead, his lips shift. Just slightly. His mouth parts. And then there is tongue. Not forceful. Not aggressive. He doesn’t invade- he offers. Soft. Warm. A quiet invitation. And without thinking, without calculating, you accept. Your mouth opens to meet his like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Like there was never going to be any other outcome. And then- there.

The press of it- your tongue sliding against his, a tentative flick that turns into a rhythm before either of you consciously guide it- sends a shock straight to your spine. It’s not messy. It’s not greedy. It’s precise, like you’re figuring out the way his body wants to speak yours, and yours is already fluent.

Push and pull. Pressure and retreat.

You feel the shift in him immediately- his hand bracing against the mattress to keep from closing the last few centimeters between your bodies. His breath hitches, and the way he tips his chin tells you he’s chasing more. Not rushing. Just following. Syncing to the same tempo you are. Your teeth graze- just barely- and you feel him smile against your mouth like he felt it too. Like he liked it.

And something clicks into place you didn’t know was missing.

Heat pools low in your belly, rising slowly, steadily, until your whole torso feels flooded. Your palms burn against the sheets. You’re still not touching anywhere but your mouths- but it feels like so much more. It feels like the kind of kiss people look back on. The kind that burns into the inside of your skull and lives there forever.

You’re both panting now- barely, but enough. Breath warm between you, barely contained. Your lips sting in the best way, swollen and wet from where he kissed you like he meant it, like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care who got wrecked in the process.

Then his teeth catch your bottom lip. Just a graze. A scrape and a tug, slow and deliberate, before he lets go. And leans back in. This one’s different. Already. There’s a charge behind it- an intention. It lands deeper, darker, laced with something that makes your hips twitch with the need to chase him. Makes you want to fist your hands in his hoodie and pull him flush against you, want to feel the weight of him, the shape of him, press your body against something solid and real and hot. But just as you start to shift, just as your hand flinches to move- 

Max freezes.

It’s not big. Just a second. A half-second. His body stiffens, his hand curls tighter into the bed, his mouth pulls just the slightest bit away. Not enough to break contact, but enough to break momentum.

And then- he’s retreating. Eyes wide. Lips still parted. Breathing hard like he’s been running, or fighting, or caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Something forbidden. He blinks down at you like he’s startled by his own body. Like he doesn’t quite recognize what just came out of him.

You’re still. Still wanting. Still stunned.

And he looks- 

Panicked. A little. Gutted. Maybe. Or like he just remembered who you are. And who he is. And what a terrible, terrible idea this probably is. But still, he doesn’t move further away. Doesn’t bolt. He just stares- wild and stunned- like he’s caught somewhere between what did I just do and why can’t I stop?

He recovers. Of course he does.

You see it flicker across his face like a muscle memory- panic replaced by bravado, by that smug, bulletproof mask he wears in a press conference after he ran someone over on the way to P1. The tilt of his lips creeps back into a smirk, slow and curling, like he’s already rewritten the scene in his head and cast himself as the one in control.

“Well…” he murmurs, voice low, rough from want, “what’s the verdict?”

Cocky. Fucking. Bastard.

Your pulse is pounding. Your lips are tingling. Your body’s still practically vibrating from where his mouth touched yours, where his tongue-  Nope.

You sit back. Just enough to put a breath of air between you. Your palms find the edge of the mattress, grounding. You force your breathing to even out, force the blood to cool beneath your skin even as you feel how flushed you are. He’s watching you closely now- too closely.

But you’re… you. And he’s Max. And you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.

You hum. Shrug, like this is just another Tuesday. Like you didn’t nearly melt into a puddle on your own sheets. Like you weren’t fifteen seconds from humping his leg like a dog in heat. You shoot him a sideways glance and smirk right back.

“Mmm…” You let it hang there. Let the anticipation curl. “Decent.”

His brows lift. A flash of disbelief, of protest. “Decent?”

You grin wider. Innocent. Infuriating. “Yeah. Not bad.”

Like you didn’t just come this close to dragging him under you and making very, very bad choices. He stares at you like he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or turned on.

Max looks at you like he might actually say it- that you’re full of shit. That decent is a goddamn crime. That you should be ashamed of yourself, lying like that with your cheeks flushed and your lips still parted like they miss him already.

His jaw twitches. But he doesn’t say a word. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casual and sharp, like the kiss was just a thing that happened and not what it was. Scoffs- barely audible. Then leans back against the pillow like none of it touched him at all. Like he isn’t still riding the same high. Like the movie he’s seen four times this year is suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.

You mimic him perfectly. A little mocking. A little delayed. You wipe your mouth too, soft and slow. Scoff- just as light. Settle yourself back into the other side of your pillow, leaving a space between you that feels too big and too small all at once.

And you watch. Or… pretend to. Because the truth is, you’re aware of everything. Of the way his knee shifts a fraction closer every time he adjusts. The drag of his breath when it catches just a little too long. The warmth radiating from the place where his shoulder brushes yours- barely. But it’s there. You could measure it in microns.

You don’t blink at the screen. Don’t laugh at the dumb jokes you’ve heard a hundred times. You’re too busy trying to keep your body still. Trying not to respond to the electric, alive sensation of almost.

Almost touching. Almost saying something. Almost doing it again. And then somewhere between Ricky Bobby screaming about fire and the rise of the final music cue- your body betrays you. Your lashes flutter once. Your limbs go heavy. And before you can chase down the last sparks still buzzing under your skin- you’re asleep. Just like that.

And Max doesn’t move a muscle. Not for a long, long time.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════ A/N: Hiatus is OVERRRRR. Sorry to kill y'all. No excuses. But here is nearly 50 pages of good, good stuff. I went through a bit of a hard time in terms of motivation and comparison, but it was you guys who interact with the fic on a deep level- with these amazing, reflective comments and asks that spurred me through this writers block. So thank you for that, and please keep them coming because it's truly so meaningful <3

[alohajun]

hey so. idk if asks are still open but. you can’t end racer mingyu like that i need more please 🤗

♡ LUCKY CHARM: THE WINNING FORMULA — KIM MINGYU

f1 racer!mingyu x race engineer!fem!reader | wc : 0.8k words | content : possible grammar and spelling mistakes, lowercase intended, f1 au, coworkers to lovers, fluff, swearing, mentions of skinship | loki's lines : y’all just enabling my f1xkpop addiction atp, now i have smth to do during the off-season until f1 starts again

“go on a date with me, lucky charm.”

your eyes widened at his confession, not having expected those exact words to leave his lips — let alone hear him say them so publicly for everyone to hear.

the pit crew exchanged knowing glances, having known it was only going to be a matter of time until mingyu had finally realized his feelings for you and asked you out.

because even they knew that there was no way he’d be so smitten with you just because of some superstitious helmet knock.

“gyu, are you being for real right now?” you uttered, still processing everything in shock. “you just got pole on one of the toughest tracks and you want to—”

“there’s no better time than the present.” mingyu cut you off, his cheesy grin widening when he saw the flabbergasted look on your face. “so, what say, lucky charm?”

the ferrari paddock burst into laughter at his optimism, knowing exactly how stubborn mingyu could get when he made a decision. they also knew how he never gave up and always got what he wanted.

“kim mingyu.” you exasperatedly sighed, shaking your head in disbelief as you pulled yourself away from his embrace. “just focus on your race tomorrow. we’ll talk after that.”

mingyu opened his mouth to argue but only grinned as he heard the rest of your words. “that’s not a no. i’ll take it as a win.” he chuckled victoriously to himself.

“how about you get us an actual win while you are at it?” you quipped teasingly, the rest of the garage laughing at the playful banter you two had.

oh, and kim mingyu definitely took those words of yours as a challenge.

as soon as the race started, mingyu took off with the perfect start, defending his position from wonwoo as they drove side by side on the first corner.

you stood by the pit wall, practically glaring holes onto the monitors as you analyzed the data coming in from mingyu’s car. “good start, gyu. let’s go on offense once you get the tires warmed up.” you spoke over the radio, keeping calm.

your heart was practically at your throat as the race neared its end. come on, gyu. don’t fuck up. you got this. you didn’t even dare to blink as you focused on mingyu’s car on the screen.

“oi, don’t worry.” mingyu’s deep voice came through the radio, almost as if he were sensing your nerves. “i got this, lucky charm. and after this, i will cash in on that date; thank you very much.”

you couldn’t help but chuckle at his confidence, rolling your eyes playfully. “yeah, whatever you say, gyu. get that win first.” you quipped teasingly.

and getting the win he did.

the garage erupted into celebrations as soon as mingyu’s car made it past the checkered flag. you let out a sigh of relief as you fell back in your seat, a soft smile on your face as you shook your head to yourself.

it wasn’t long before you saw mingyu making his way towards you, completely covered in sweat and champagne from his podium celebration. you held up a hand, stopping him from approaching you, wincing slightly as you took him in.

mingyu, however, remained unfazed. “so? that date, lucky charm?” he asked, tilting his head as an amused smirk made its way to his face.

“you are really serious about this, aren’t you?” you asked, biting back a smile as you observed the way he looked. goodness, had he always been this good-looking?

mingyu only scoffed in disbelief, as if the answer to your question was a no-brainer. “with you? i’m always serious.” he slowly took a step closer.

your cheeks flushed as you averted your gaze momentarily. “yeah, we can go on that date.” you mumbled, clearing your throat as you shook your head in mock defeat.

a surprised squeal left your lips when you felt mingyu pull you into a spontaneous hug, shuddering slightly as you made contact with his champagne-soaked race suit — which only made him hug you tighter.

your breath hitched as you looked up at him, the garage’s laughter and applause fading into silence as you looked into his eyes.

it was just like the movies, with everything fading into the background as you two just stared at each other.

“i’m not just messing around, yeah?” he spoke up, his voice low and serious, just audible enough for you to hear. “i hope you know that, y/n.”

you nodded slowly, understanding how genuine he was being. “i … i know, gyu.” you reassured him just as quietly.

mingyu’s eyes crinkled as he smiled softly, feeling as if an immense burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

“you are a damn good lucky charm, you know? i won a race, and now i won you over too.”

taglist : @kflixnet @mirxzii @woooooooosh8 @i05wook @gyuguys (to be added, please send an ask or dm!)

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© 2025 ALOHAJUN | PLEASE REFRAIN FROM COPYING OR REPOSTING MY WORK WITHIN OR OUTSIDE THIS SITE

[hoe4hotchner]

Red to Blue | [A.H]

Pairing: F1 driver!Hotch x fem!reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Sweat?

A/N: I’ll give you this in celebration of me finishing the Lego F1 cars I bought 🤭

The paddock buzzed with anticipation as the 2025 Formula 1 season was about to kick off under the bright Australian sun at the Albert Park Circuit in Melbourne.

The air was filled with the familiar scent of high-octane fuel and burnt rubber.

Amidst the grandeur of top teams like Ferrari and Red Bull, a renewed energy emanated from the Williams garage—a team historically rich in legacy, now attempting to reclaim its stature.

At the helm stood Aaron Hotchner, he was the newly appointed team principal of Williams. Years had passed since his celebrated tenure as a driver for Ferrari, where he had clinched multiple wins and a few world championships before an unexpected mid-season retirement.

His departure had been shrouded in speculation, but those close to him knew he sought a life beyond the circuits, a life with you.

Williams had approached him several times during his retirement, trying to reel him in, but only as you'd gotten a great job opportunity in the UK, had he agreed.

Now, with the same determination that had defined his driving career, Hotch was poised to steer Williams back to its former glory.

Beside him, you observed the meticulous dance of engineers and mechanics moving around the garage, their movements were a testament to the countless hours of preparation that the first race had foregone.

The team’s driver lineup had undergone a significant transformation: Carlos Sainz, formerly of Ferrari, brought a wealth of experience and a burning desire to prove himself even further.

It was an irony not lost on anyone—Carlos had been the one to take Hotch’s vacant Ferrari seat years ago. And Hotch had been the first to grab him for the team once made available.

Now, under Hotch’s leadership, their paths intertwined in an entirely different dynamic.

Alongside Carlos was Alex, whose resilience and adaptability had ensured him to continue in his seat at Williams. This pairing, although unusual, was a blend of seasoned expertise and tenacious spirit.

It had already begun to show promise in the early stages of the season.

As the cars lined up on the grid, the atmosphere was electric. The front row was dominated by the usual powerhouses, but Carlos had secured a P5 in qualifying, with Albon close behind in P7.

Hotch's gaze was fixed on the monitors, analyzing real-time data, his mind orchestrating potential strategies. His headset only covered one ear, as he stayed aware of his surroundings with the other.

"Nervous?" you teased, nudging him gently.

He offered a rare smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Always. But it's a good kind of nervous."

The formation lap commenced, engines roaring to life. Hotch’s voice, calm and authoritative, crackled over the team radio. "Stay focused. Remember our strategy. Trust the car, and trust yourselves."

As the lights went out, the race erupted into a blur of speed and tactical maneuvers. Carlos made an aggressive start, skillfully navigating through the pack to challenge for a podium position. Albon, displaying his characteristic finesse, defended his position while seeking opportunities to advance.

Hotch’s leadership was noticeable. He seamlessly coordinated with his engineers, making split-second decisions on tire strategies and pit stops. His transition from driver to team principal had endowed him with a unique perspective; he understood the car’s language and the driver’s psyche, allowing him to bridge the gap between the cockpit and the pit wall.

Mid-race, a sudden safety car deployment and added an element of unpredictability. Hotch’s experience shone through as he swiftly called for a double-stack pit stop, a bold decision that catapulted Carlos into P3. The Williams garage erupted in cautious optimism, the possibility of a podium finish within reach for the first time in years.

As the checkered flag loomed, Carlos defended his position against Lando, crossing the line to secure third place. Albon finished strong in P6, earning valuable points for the team. The Williams garage was a whirlwind of elation, the podium finish a testament to their collective effort and Hotch’s strategic insight.

Before entering the cooldown room, Carlos approached Hotch, his race suit drenched in sweat but his face alight with triumph. "Couldn’t have done it without your call."

Hotch clasped his shoulder, pride evident in his eyes. "It was all you out there. This is just the beginning."

As the national anthem played and the podium celebrations commenced, you stood amidst the team, Hotch's arm wrapped around your frame, pulling you close to him, your heart swelling with pride.

Hotch’s journey had come full circle—from a champion driver to a visionary leader, reigniting the spirit of a storied team. And through it all, you had been by his side, sharing in the highs, the lows, and now, the resurgence of a legacy.