#chapter 614 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cryoculus · 20 days ago

Text

— TRACK 02: ALL YOURS ⟢

the last thing you expect for mydei to do is ask you to help write a song. it could have been out of pity, or a means to distract, but little do you know, those fragmented lyrics will pull you so much closer into each others' orbit.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 7.4k (ongoing)

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; i'm cross-posting chapters gradually so i don't end up clogging the tags with my updates LOL 😭 also, i bulldozed through the 3.3 trailblazer quest and was royally pissed off by those 10-second cutscenes lmfao!!!! but i liked the story anyway so here's chapter 2~

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

@TheFlamechasers [📸 Photo Post] “First live charity set with our newest member, #DIANA. Let’s hear it for the cause and the chaos. 🔥” → 🧡 132,940 likes | 💬 View all 9,021 comments

@stagebattles [🎥 Clip: Diana’s solo, crowd screaming in the background] “One show in and she’s already melting faces. Flamechasers just hit reset.” → 🔁 18.2k shares | 💬 “did NOT expect that tone shift. she’s got teeth.”

@lionmouth17 [Tweet] “did she really play Nightingale Static like THAT?? this is why we stan musicians who feel the music.” → 9.2k likes | 2.4k reposts | #Flamechasers #DIANA

@heph_saves_hearts [Fan edit clip of old Hephaestion solos vs. Diana’s live set] 🎧 “i miss him.” 💬 Comments are disabled.

@flamechasers_confessions Anonymous post “I saw Diana once at a show before she joined the band. She was front row, crying during ‘Firestarter.’ I swear it was her.” → 614 likes | 109 comments | 🧊 tagged: “unconfirmed,” “fan theory”

@ cipher [Instagram Story] 🎤🎸 “Our newbie killed it! Whole band was lit tonight. 🔥 #Flamechasers”

@GarmentmakerCH [Photo Post] Image: Diana, still in stagewear, clutching a bouquet Caption: “Operational success.” → 🧡 49.1k likes | 💬 “why do you talk like a cryptid and also make me cry”

Life hasn’t slowed down. If anything, it’s moving faster than ever.

Hyacine keeps your inbox clogged with 4K Ultra HD fancams of every angle of your debut, each one timestamped and over-captioned like she’s running PR. Her support warms your heart, really. But while you do your best to hold on to your tradition of monthly coffee shop catch-ups, even that’s starting to lose its place in your tightly packed schedule.

Rehearsals blur into fittings, fittings into interviews, interviews into frantic note-taking at midnight when a new riff won’t leave your head.

You should be too busy to feel anything.

And for a while, you are.

Cipher’s energy barrels through every room, impossible to dodge and secretly comforting. Phainon never forgets your drink order, not even once. Castorice taught you a new tuning last week and gave you a fist bump that landed like quiet approval. Even Anaxa has stopped scowling every time you walk through the door—mostly.

And Mydei… is still Mydei. Distant and watchful, but the silence between you is thinner now. Less like a wall, more like a pause.

It feels like the kind of chaos you used to dream about.

Until it doesn’t.

You only meant to stop by the practice room to pack up your gear, maybe tighten a string or two. Ten minutes. Fifteen, max. Rehearsals finished up late, and you’d rather head back to your apartment before you get caught in the evening rush hour.

But time slows differently in the quiet.

The rest of the studio is dim, lit only by the soft amber spill from a hallway bulb. Your amp is still warm. The hum of cables left half-wound coils at your feet. Outside, someone laughs, distant and muffled. Inside, it’s just you.

And the space where Erin should be.

Where she would’ve sent a dumb sticker just to make you smile, ask how your songwriting is coming along and offering her own input. She’d probably request a selfie in your stage jacket, too, before cheering you on with You did it. You’re really doing it!

The silence settles too heavily on your shoulders. You sit down, but it doesn’t help.

Your fingers find the pick hanging from your necklace out of habit, but they don’t move. You hold it like a lifeline. Like maybe, if you sit here long enough, your sister will walk through the door. Crack a joke. Roll her eyes. Hug you hard.

But she doesn’t. She never will.

The ache swells slowly and surely as it drags the air from your chest. Your throat tightens. And then, before you can stop it, the tears come—hot and thick and aching. You don’t sob right away. It’s quieter than that. Breath catching, shoulders curling inward, the sound of something unraveling from the inside out.

You don’t hear the door at first. How the hinges creak softly, and how the air shifts just a bit. You’re too deep in the grief that still curls tightly around your ribs. Your guitar pick is still clenched around your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground.

Then—

“…Hm? You’re still here.”

For a second, your heart stutters like maybe you imagined it. But you know that voice, even clipped short like that.

Shit.

You don’t want to look. You really don’t.

But your head turns anyway like it’s not entirely yours.

Mydei’s standing in the doorway, half-shadowed by the hall light behind him. His blonde hair’s still damp from today’s rehearsal—fiery tresses flattened by sweat and motion, and just a little frizzed at the edges. His jacket’s unzipped, slouched carelessly off one shoulder, like he left in a rush and didn’t bother to fix it.

But it’s his face that lands the hardest.

His usual mask of cool, unreadable nonchalance is gone. There’s no aloof arch to his brow, no smug curve to his mouth. Golden eyes catch on yours, and you expect them to flick away like they always do. But strange enough, they stay.

He looks stunned.

As if he wasn’t prepared to see you like this. Red-eyed and trembling and small in a room that was never meant to feel so empty. He says your name—the real one—like it might be enough to ground you or himself. Maybe it’s the only thing he has to offer.

You scrub at your face, clinging to the hope that if you wipe fast enough, you can pull yourself back together before Mydei speaks again.

But you can still feel him looking.

You sit up straighter. You don’t offer an explanation, and you sure as hell don’t ask for comfort.

“I’m fine,” you say with more bite than intended. You don’t meet his eyes.

He doesn’t call you out on it.

Instead, there’s a beat of silence, then the sound of heavy combat boots shifting against the floor. He glances over his shoulder at one of the cluttered work tables against the far wall—half-covered in scribbled lyrics and old water bottles.

“…Wanna help me write something?” Mydei asks quietly. “Could use another brain for this one. If you’re up for it.”

The question lingers in the air like he’s offering you a cup of tea instead of an outstretched hand. The shift is so gentle that it takes you a moment to register it. You’d braced yourself for indifference. Maybe a clipped nod before he turned and left.

But this? This quiet pivot, a small gesture toward something normal and shared—it unsettles you in a different way.

You risk a glance at him. Mydei’s already walking toward the table, grabbing a pen, and dragging over a chair with one foot like he’s not waiting for your answer.

Like he just assumes you’ll come.

And maybe that’s what does it.

You stand slowly, the heaviness in your limbs not quite gone, but a little easier to carry now. The space between you stretches but doesn’t pull apart. You cross it quietly, your steps careful as if the floor might shift underfoot if you make a single misstep.

The pen moves in his hand, tracing idle loops into the margin of the page. Not really in a rush. He allows the moment to breathe.

But the first lines don’t come easy. Mydei starts one, scratches it out, then hesitates. His gaze constantly flickers toward the corner of the page, where a few lines already sit—half-finished, older ink, not his handwriting.

“These lyrics have been sitting like this for a while now,” he says quietly, as if he noticed where you’re looking. “Felt wrong to just leave them this way.”

The strokes are unfamiliar, but the rhythm is there, off-kilter and aching, like someone left mid-thought. You want to ask whose writing it originally was, but you hold your tongue.

Something tells you it’s better not to ask.

He tries again, careful and deliberate with a softer furrow in his brow. The silence doesn't feel as sharp anymore. It rings more warm and worn at the edges, like an old sweatshirt you haven’t had the heart to throw out.

Mydei taps the pen once, twice, then gives you a sidelong glance.

“Is this too vague?” he asks, and nudges the page a little closer in your direction.

You hesitate. The instinct is to deflect—to say it’s fine and stay in your lane—surfaces in your chest. But his tone isn’t guarded. There’s no challenge in it, only a quiet question, maybe even a thread of trust. So, you lean in, eyes scanning the scribbled lines.

“Maybe,” you murmur, voice still hoarse around the edges. “The image is strong, but it feels…detached. Like it’s circling something it doesn’t want to say.”

He hums low in his throat. Then he tries again, crossing out half a line and rewriting it beneath in smaller, tighter script.

“Better?”

You nod. Less hesitant, more curious.

Just like that, it becomes something else, less about grief and the sharp edges still catching in your chest. More about rhythm, phrasing, and two people hunched over a messy page trying to make sense of feelings without naming them outright. You offer a few lines. Mydei adjusts them without comment, or sometimes just nods, tapping his pen as he reads them back. A small, quiet rhythm begins to settle between you—call and response, edit and listen, breathe and try again.

And in the space where your sorrow had curled in tight and silent, something else begins to take its place.

Not peace. Not yet.

But maybe some sort of reprieve.

It’s a windless afternoon. The kind where the sky is washed-out blue, thin clouds stretched like gauze, and the world feels hushed, like it knows not to speak too loudly.

You don’t come here often.

Not exactly out of guilt, or avoidance. The thought of having to tread the winding paths is just difficult on most days. Like turning the knob on a door that’s never stopped creaking, no matter how many times you oil the hinges.

But today, you seem to tolerate the noise a lot more than usual.

Hyacine walks beside you with her hands tucked deep into her coat sleeves. She doesn’t say much, just matches your pace with the kind of quiet only someone who’s seen you at your worst knows how to keep. You’re grateful for it. Words feel too loud today.

The cemetery gates groan. Grass crunches under your shoes, soft and brittle from the cold. You know exactly where to turn, even if you haven’t been here since the leaves were green.

Erin’s headstone is simple. All that’s there are her name, the dates, and a single line you still can’t read out loud without your throat closing up.

Bright enough for both of us.

The flowers in your hand are plain and store-bought, wrapped in thin paper. You crouch slowly, knees a little stiff as you brush away a few windblown twigs before laying the bouquet down. The pick at your neck presses warm against your skin where it always sits, strung on that old chain. You catch yourself holding it, rubbing over the faded swirl. You don’t even realize you're doing it until Hyacine speaks.

“You doing okay?”

You nod. Or maybe you shake your head. It’s somewhere in between.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” you murmur. “Join the band. Stand on that stage. It felt wrong. Like I was taking something I didn’t earn.”

She doesn’t rush you, shifting closer to let you know she’s there to listen.

“But… The other night, I stayed late at the studio and Mydei showed up. We ended up working on some lyrics together.” You pause. “It didn’t really fix anything, but it kind of made the air feel lighter. I’m not sure how. Or why.”

You glance at the headstone again, heart squeezing as you picture Erin nodding along to what you’re saying. “I think you'd laugh if you saw us. Me acting like I know what I’m doing. Him pretending he doesn’t care. It’s stupid. But it’s something.”

Hyacine smiles gently. “She’d be proud.”

Your throat tightens, but the tears don’t come this time. You simply press your palm flat to the stone for a moment—steadying, not letting go—and then slowly rise. You’ll be back to tell Erin more stories. When you’re ready.

But for now, you turn toward the path again, the pick resting safely over your heart.

The label’s meeting room is too bright.

Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, sterile and clinical, bouncing light off a polished table that’s longer than most stages you’ve seen. You’re seated near one end, far enough from the center to feel peripheral, but close enough to know you can’t tune out.

Castorice sits to your left, sketching little spirals in the corner of her notepad like she’s done this a thousand times. Phainon’s on your right with his legs crossed at the ankle and a look on his face that says meetings are just another gig with worse acoustics. Cipher’s across from you, half-asleep behind her sunglasses.

Meanwhile, Mydei is situated somewhere farther down, arms folded with that casualness that always seems to come natural to him. You think he’s distracted, half-absorbed in whatever’s glowing on his phone screen until his amber-eyed gaze catches yours. The eye contact startles you, but you hold your ground, giving a small nod in acknowledgement.

He nods back.

You’ve never stepped foot in this room before. But after the glowing response to the last show, the label’s CEO, Caenis, called for a mandatory team huddle. Team, of course, being loosely defined because: 1) Anaxa is nowhere in sight, and 2) Aglaea and Tribbios weren’t invited. In fact, they were explicitly told to stay out of it.

Cipher mentioned once that Caenis might have some long-buried beef with the band’s management. At the time, you filed it under company rumors. But now? It’s starting to feel a little too plausible.

Then the door opens.

Caenis enters like she owns the air you all breathe, wrapped in a white suit with gold accents that look less like fashion and more like ceremonial armor. Her assistant—an automaton named Lygus—trails behind with a tablet and an efficient silence that somehow amplifies hers.

“So,” Caenis begins, noting how the team is lacking one member. “Where’s Anaxagoras?”

Phainon raises his hand lowly. “We haven’t heard from him all morning. He wasn’t answering our calls.”

That earns a pause. “Okay. We’ll proceed anyway. Let’s talk about the Renascentia performance.”

Lygus taps something on his tablet. A screen lights up at the end of the room, projecting a slow loop of stills from the charity show—sweaty hair, bright lights, screaming crowds.

And there you are. Caught mid-riff, stage jacket thrown back, eyes fierce. Diana.

Caenis doesn’t comment on the image. She gestures toward it with a nod instead.

“The numbers speak for themselves. Donations spiked. Engagement tripled. Public sentiment’s high. Press is calling it a comeback tour waiting to happen.” She glances at Lygus, who pulls up a calendar as well as a projected map that’s already making your head spin with one glance.

Then: “We agree.”

Your stomach flips. You hear a stream of murmurs from your bandmates, but you can’t make out what they’re saying through the roar of your pulse.

“We’re prepping for a ten-city run by the first quarter of the following year. Local venues first, then we’ll scale up depending on performance metrics.” She turns back toward the table with a sharp grin—like she’s already projected the profit margins and filed them away. “You’ll have support staff. Stylists. Full PR scaffolding. Any questions?”

None of you answer, as if the news is taking its sweet time to settle.

Unfortunately, Caenis isn’t a fan of idle silence and immediately levels a perfectly manicured finger at you. “Diana, questions?”

You jolt a little at the sound of your name—stage name, technically, but the way Caenis says it leaves no room for distinction. Every gaze at the table shifts your way. You clear your throat, sit a touch straighter.

“None at the moment,” you manage, voice steadier than you feel. “I'm just...looking forward to everything, I guess.”

You risk a glance down the table.

Mydei doesn’t say anything, but his brow lifts. A flicker of amusement, or maybe approval. It’s hard to tell with him.

Caenis seems satisfied. She nods once and moves on. “Good. Phainon, I want you working closely with Lygus on wardrobe scheduling. Cipher, you’re liaising with the media arm on socials. I don’t want another hashtag mishap this time.”

Cipher snorts but doesn’t argue. Phainon salutes, casually earnest.

Her gaze shifts smoothly across the table. “Castorice, you’ll be looped in with the audio techs and logistics—set maintenance, pedal configurations, all of it. I want clean transitions this time. No surprises.”

Castorice blinks once, then gives a polite, “Understood,” like she’d already prepared for this exact assignment.

“And Mydei…” Her voice pauses here, ever so slightly. “You’re still overseeing final track selections. Diana’s assisting, yes?”

You blink.

“She is,” Mydei answers.

Just two words. Flat and unfussy. But your ears burn anyway.

Caenis’s eyes flick to you. “Then I expect both of you to have the first phase of the setlist locked in by next month. We’re tight on turnarounds. The second phase can wait after you've all discussed the next album with our producers, but do work on it ASAP.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you murmur.

The rest of the meeting devolves into logistics—tour graphics, merchandising approvals, the usual swarm of numbers and timeframes. You try to keep up, taking a few notes out of habit, but your brain’s still hooked on what Mydei just said.

She is.

Like it’s that simple. Like it’s so obvious.

The impulse to hit him flares up, but you tuck it neatly behind your teeth.

The hallway outside the meeting room feels colder somehow, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline crash setting in. Still, you fall into an easy rhythm. Down one elevator. Past some unfamiliar cubicles. Toward the wing of the building that actually feels like it belongs to all of you.

The studio.

Cipher’s the first to punch in the access code. “Bet Aglaea’s fuming,” she mutters, almost cheerfully.

“She was already fuming before we left,” Phainon adds dryly. “Which means we’re walking into something that’s probably evolved.”

The moment you step inside, you catch the sharp sound of Aglaea’s voice—even muffled behind the closed soundproof door to the main room, it cuts through.

“—again! Do they think I’m just here to hold everyone’s coats?!”

Tribbios’s voice follows in gentle, practiced tones. “It’s not personal, Aggy. You know how Caenis is. You know how these meetings go.”

“That’s the problem. They always go like this.”

You exchange a glance with Castorice, who simply nods, then quietly nudge the door open.

Aglaea’s pacing. Blazer off, hair a little more frazzled than usual. She stops mid-step when she sees all of you. Tribbios waves at you with a smile though her eyes are a touch tired. “Hey, good timing. I think I just barely talked her out of emailing Caenis an itemized list of all the things we’re excluded from.”

Phainon sighs. “We’ve got a tour coming,” he announces like he’s reporting the weather. “Ten cities. Local start. No breathing room. Highly hinted that Caenis is expecting a setlist with songs that haven’t even been written yet.”

“She’s already assigned everyone homework,” Cipher adds, dropping into one of the beanbags. “I get to babysit the hashtag situation. Again.”

Tribbios perks up. “Already? That was fast.”

“It’s Caenis,” Mydei says, settling onto the edge of the low couch. “Fast is slow by her standards.”

Aglaea clicks her tongue. “And she didn’t think it was worth telling the management team?”

“She thinks of you as management-adjacent,” Cipher offers with mock wisdom. “Somewhere between ‘essential personnel’ and ‘miscellaneous staff.’”

Aglaea looks like she might actually throw a clipboard, and you’re not sure whether you should look away or take cover. “That...witch. She can’t keep icing us out of the strategy loop just because I questioned her about rerouting funds during the last tour—”

“Breathe. Please breathe,” Tribbios pleads, placing a calming hand on her arm.

Castorice, always the mediator, pipes in softly. “You’re not wrong, Aglaea. But we’ve got the details now. Let’s just work with what we have, okay?”

Despite looking like a ticking time bomb personified, she takes a deep breath to loosen the nerves. Once your manager’s got her wits about her, the room hums with overlapping chatter—discussions of setlists, scheduling conflicts, wardrobe speculations, and whether anyone actually knows where half the venues are.

You’re just starting to feel like this might finally settle into something normal when the door opens again.

Anaxa steps in, three hours late, coffee in hand and not a hint of repentance on his face.

“Did I miss roll call?”

Aglaea glares at him like she’s about to combust. “Nice of you to show up.”

He arches a brow before settling on the sofa next to Phainon. “Sorry. Some of us had a rather…demanding night.”

Aglaea doesn’t respond. She just stares at Anaxa like she’s calculating the precise velocity required to launch a pen through his skull. Before you can think about what his words could possibly mean, Tribbios steers everyone back on track.

“Can we move on, please? We've got lots of ground to cover.”

Cipher snickers under her breath but quickly quiets when Castorice elbows her in the ribs. Phainon flips the page in his notebook like it’s just another day in paradise.

“According to the schedule that witch...I mean, Director Caenis handed out,” Aglaea starts, finally back in her element. “We have a week until the first official planning session for the new album. Which means we need everyone clear on deliverables, expectations, and actual attendance.”

That last part hangs in the air like smoke.

Mydei cuts through the silence with a raise of his hand. “I’ve actually started writing something.”

“Since when did you start early?” Cipher asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

His gaze shifts briefly before jamming a thumb in your direction. “Since she started helping.”

Every head turns to you.

You manage a thin smile, but your stomach ties itself into knots.

You weren’t expecting him to mention that night—when he’d shown up unannounced, finding you in a moment when grief felt inescapable. When the rest of the band had already gone and it had just been the two of you, creating something quiet and strange and new. You thought it would stay there.

You look down, muttering, “It wasn’t a big deal.”

But no one really buys that. Especially with how Mydei treated you during the first few weeks since you joined. Not Cipher, who’s already wearing that grin again. Or Aglaea, who’s giving Mydei a slow, narrowed look that could mean a dozen things.

All this time, you thought things would be easier once the ghost of Hephaestion's presence has all but dissipated, but you're not enjoying...whatever this is any better.

“That's great,” Tribbios replies—either oblivious to the shift in the room or choosing to ignore it. “Let’s flag that for review in the draft session.”

The conversation moves on. Your face still burns.

And the memory refuses to let you go.

r/TheFlamechasers u/bandforbrainz

Diana vs Hephaestion—When Will It End? Her debut was a hit, but I’m seeing so many fans still comparing Diana to Hephaestion. She played her heart out, and it’s clear that she syncs up well with the band. Why can’t y’all just let her be?

⬆️ 635 ⬇️ 45 💬 137

hephforever • 2h WAKE UP! Diana’s not bad, but there’s no replacing Hephaestion. The band isn’t the same without him. Period.

AnalWithAnaxa • 2h Honestly, it’s so weird that people won't let go of him. He's the one who left without a word, why’s the new girl getting all the heat?

bandforbrainz • 2h ^^ so true, user AnalWithAnaxa

justagrrl • 15m sorry, i’m a new fan. but do we really have no clue why heph just packed up and left?

AnalWithAnaxa • 5m all you’ll dig up here are rumors. the most popular being: he and mydei broke up 🤣

myphaestion • 3m Why call it a rumor if it’s true?

bandforbrainz • 3m @Admin the rabid shippers are here, pls help

myphaestion • 1m KYS 🖕

This thread has been locked by the moderators.

You start to suspect that something’s amiss during your first brainstorming session.

The main studio has been converted into songwriting HQ for a better part of the week. Someone brought snacks, someone else forgot cables, and everyone’s half-tuned and vaguely alert, notebooks and stray riffs scattered across the floor. The label’s producers gave you all creative liberty for the next album, and everyone is, miraculously, locked in.

You’re perched on the sofa, trying to find the words that go with a chord Anaxa dropped earlier, when you hear them.

“…it’s not like he wanted to leave,” Castorice says softly. “He just—he couldn’t stay.”

Cipher hums. “Yeah, but it was Aglaea who—”

Their voices dip lower.

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but they’re just behind you, and there’s no mistaking what you hear:

Hephaestion.

The name itself no longer makes your chest tight with an emotion you can’t name. Several months in, and you’ve more or less found your footing as part of The Flamechasers. Caenis wasn’t lying when she said that public reception of you as the new lead guitarist was mostly positive. But hearing his name again, so casually thrown into a conversation, catches you off guard.

It’s the first time you’ve realized that your bandmates have never mentioned him to your face. Not once.

You know it’s not your place to ask. The label made it clear from the start: the matter was buried, swept away as quickly as possible, and that seemed to be the same story for everyone in the band. But from the way Cipher and Castorice spoke, it made you think that they’re in the know.

About what really pushed Hephaestion to leave.

Part of you thinks, if you were the same person you were a year ago, you’d already be down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories. You would scour old interviews, dive into every scrap of gossip and half-whispered rumor you could find. But now that you’re literally sitting in the same room as the people who once called Hephaestion their brother, you learn that some truths don’t come so easily.

You contemplate about asking. Just a casual curiosity.

But you never do.

As the seasons change, the silence around Hephaestion’s name grows deeper. No one speaks of him again, and you’ve mastered the art of pretending you never overheard. You smile for every camera, nail each rehearsal like it’s second nature, and pretend everything is perfectly in place—even when all you want to do is scream.

You think you’re fooling everyone. The band, the fans, the media, everyone who expects nothing less than the polished version of Diana. The confident guitarist who’s got it all together, who fits in seamlessly with The Flamechasers like she’s expected to.

But one quiet evening, something disrupts the rhythm you’ve so carefully rehearsed.

Mydei finds you again when you least expect him.

You know he has a habit of staying late at the studio, hovering by the mixers, fine-tuning vocals, obsessing over the way sound meets silence. But the tracklist for the new album was finalized days ago. There’s nothing left to fix. No reason for him to be here this late.

Yet, here he is.

“You up for a few drinks?” Mydei asks, his voice more casual than you’re used to. “There’s a place nearby. Still open.”

“…Now?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets, as if he hasn’t just disrupted your entire idea of how tonight would go. “Unless you’ve got a better offer. You don’t strike me as someone with cable TV and a bedtime.”

Hesitation shadows your face. “But why me?”

Mydei glances around the empty studio hallway. “Do you see anyone else here?” Then he turns, keys jingling loosely from his finger. “C’mon. I’ll even drive you back. If anything bad happens, Aglaea will personally make sure I die a slow and painful death.”

You’re not afraid—just mildly weirded out. This isn’t the Mydei you’re used to. Sure, things between you have warmed with time, but he’s never been the type to invite people out on a whim. That’s more Cipher’s territory, or even Castorice on a good day. Mydei is more reserved. More deliberate. Yet, here he is, tossing you an offer like it means nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

It feels like déjà vu.

Like the night he found you unraveling in the studio months ago, when instead of pressing or prying, he’d asked if you wanted to help him write something.

You’d thought it was his way of distracting you.

Now, you can’t help but wonder: is that what this is, too?

You sigh, grabbing your jacket off the back of the chair. “You better not make me pay.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Fine. Just for tonight though.”

You follow him out into the night, the soft hum of the city settling into your bones like a lullaby you hadn’t realized you missed. A dimly lit bar is tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat, the kind of place you’d never look twice at during the day.

Inside, the lights are low, the music soft, and the bartender doesn’t bother carding you when Mydei raises two fingers in a silent order. You settle into a booth near the back while he disappears to grab your drinks, and for a few moments, you're alone again—with your thoughts, your doubts, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

What is this, really?

When Mydei returns and slides a glass toward you, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just sits across from you like he’s been doing it for years, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he finally says, raising his glass in a lazy toast. “Here’s to the biggest PR gamble of the year. New album and the tour reveal, both dropping at 7 PM tomorrow. Genius or disaster?”

You snort, clinking your glass to his. “Definitely a disaster.”

He grins, eyes crinkling slightly, and your heart stutters just a bit at the sight of it.

You sip your drink, letting the warmth crawl through your chest. For the first time in a while, you see Mydei, not as the cool, distant frontman, but as someone off-center. A little tired, but a little more human.

And then he says it—casually, but not without weight:

“Remember that song we wrote together a few months back? The one that didn’t make the final cut?”

Your fingers still around your glass.

“Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

Mydei swirls his drink lazily, gaze fixed on the ice clinking against the glass. “I tried to make it work. We all did. The lyrics were solid—hell, the producers begged me to keep it. But every version we laid down? I don’t know. I just…couldn’t feel it.”

You blink. “You?”

He nods, face unreadable again. “It didn’t groove right. Not with me, anyway. Maybe it was the arrangement. Or maybe it just wasn’t meant for me to sing.” Then, softer, almost like an afterthought: “I’m sorry. I know you put your heart into that one. I meant to bring it up earlier, but couldn’t find the right timing.”

You can tell this wasn’t easy for Mydei to say. He doesn’t apologize often, if at all. You take a sip, the bite of the drink grounding you, so when you answer, your voice is steady.

“Then maybe I’ll cook something up myself.”

That gets his attention. His eyes flick to yours, a hint of surprise breaking through the usual calm.

“I mean, if it’s not working for you, doesn’t mean it can’t work for me.” You lean back, tapping your glass. “The lyrics are already written, so I’ll just tweak the rest. Who knows? Maybe it’ll finally groove with someone.”

A beat passes before Mydei laughs, quiet and genuine. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“Then here’s to that.” He lifts his glass again, this time in a real toast. “Make it all yours.”

You will. Even if it’s the last thing you did.

The rest of the night slips past before you know it. Mydei is surprisingly more amicable when he’s got a few glasses in, but he maintains the distance that’s typically there. Not that you mind.

After an hour of exchanging stories and nursing drinks, Mydei pulls up just outside your apartment. You unbuckle your seatbelt, hand already on the door handle, when he says:

“Wait.”

You pause, turning toward him.

He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out something folded and worn. The corners are already creased, but most of it remains intact.

When Mydei hands it to you, you recognize it instantly: the original lyric sheet. The one the two of you scribbled on months ago, passing it back and forth between verses. Your handwriting all looped and anxious. His, sharp and decisive. Ink smudges where the ideas came too fast to be neat. Even the few lines that some stranger before him wrote still linger in the corner.

You hadn’t even realized it still existed.

“I almost threw it out,” he admits. “Didn’t see the point in keeping something we weren’t going to use.”

You look down at it, then back at him.

“But you didn’t,” you say.

He shrugs. “It just felt wrong.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the paper. It smells faintly of his car—coffee, freshener, something electric. A memory, or maybe even a beginning.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Don’t let it collect dust,” Mydei replies, his tousled, golden hair catching in the reflection of his headlights. “Do something with it.”

You nod and slip out of the car as his gaze weighs on your shoulders. Mydei doesn’t linger any longer, and speeds back into the empty streets without another word. Even so, the cold brushes your skin like a reset, and you’ve never been more determined for a do-over.

The first show of the tour is nothing short of a triumph.

Okhema turns out in droves—old fans, new fans, the curious, the skeptics—and they roar. From the first chord to the final chorus, it’s electricity. You’re so in the zone, it barely registers when the spotlight hits your face just right, or when Castorice drags out a solo longer than usual just so you can go feral on the outro. Even Mydei, usually cool and clipped offstage, breaks character to grin between verses.

It’s one of those shows where everything clicks. No missed cues, no out-of-sync harmonies. Just rhythm, sweat, and fire.

And you? You burn the brightest.

Afterward, the crew buzzes with high-fives and hoarse laughter. Tribbios starts talking about press clippings before the amps are even unplugged. Phainon calls the entire night “a cleanse.” Cipher insists on a group selfie and, for once, Anaxa doesn’t protest. Even Aglaea allows herself a single relieved nod before getting on the phone with someone probably much more powerful than anyone in this room.

Someone suggests an after-party. Everyone’s already halfway out the door.

Well, everyone except you.

“Not coming?” Castorice asks, already halfway into her glittery jacket.

You shake your head. “I’ve got something I need to work on.”

There’s a general chorus of lame, and booo, and we’re telling the fans you ditched us to do taxes. You flip them off with a smile, which just makes Cipher blow you a kiss in return. But as the group files out, you catch Mydei watching you, recognition simmering in his eyes at some sort of shared secret.

He doesn’t say anything, but he spares you a barely perceptible nod.

You nod back.

When you get home, your apartment smells faintly of sweat and stale confetti. You kick your shoes off at the door, hang your jacket on the back of the nearest chair, and make a beeline for your bedroom-slash-studio. The walls still hum with adrenaline. Your ears are ringing a little, but your fingers feel ready.

You slide the lyric sheet out of its folder, smoothing out the creases with a gentle hand. Mydei’s voice lingers in your head, that clipped softness: “Do something with it.”

You plug in your audio interface, boot up your laptop, and open a new session.

The first thirty minutes are great. You mess around with tempo changes, layer a synth you think is moody but not too moody, and even hum a few melody lines that feel promising. There’s a spark. It’s there.

But then it slips.

Nothing fits.

Everything you lay down fights with itself—either too loud or too hollow. It’s like trying to rebuild a house with someone else’s blueprints and none of the original bricks. You get what Mydei meant now. There’s something evasive about the song. Something emotional that doesn’t translate on command.

But you’re not giving up.

You loop the chorus section. You tweak the pre-chorus. You try a half-tempo bridge and hate it. You drink three cups of water and one of bad espresso. You mutter, “What are you even supposed to be?” to your screen at least five times, and it still doesn't feel right.

You try again, but your hand slips off the mouse. The screen blurs a little. For a moment, you consider closing your eyes. Only for a few minutes.

But when you open them again, you’re slumped against your desk, the lyric sheet crumpled beneath your cheek, faintly damp with drool.

The screen of your laptop glows in front of you, frozen on a blank measure.

You rub your eyes, annoyed. With the arrangement, with the interface, with yourself. The melody slips every time you think you’ve got it. The lyrics feel empty even if they felt alive when you wrote them. You’re chasing ghosts in someone else’s song, and none of them are showing their faces.

You stare at the interface until your eyes sting.

Then you grab your phone.

Me: Ci

Me: Please tell me you're up

Cipher: duh

Cipher: i’m still in full concert eyeliner and fear no sleep

Me: ??? It's 9 AM

Cipher: so what?

Me: At least wash your makeup off 😭

Cipher: are u rly texting me just to tell me off

Me: No

Me: I'm working on a project Mydei handed over

Me: He already warned me that it was difficult

Me: And now it’s been kicking my ass for WEEKS

Cipher: ohhh? is this the one that didn't make the new album

Me: Yeah, I'm starting to suspect the lyrics are cursed or something

Cipher: no, sweetie. mydei was just being an idiot and gave up on it too early

Cipher: getting ultra-stumped just means you're halfway there

Me: Halfway to setting my laptop on fire?

Cipher: 🔥🔥🔥 creative process 🔥🔥🔥

Cipher: want me to swing by tomorrow? bring snacks? my expertise as the band's synthesizer?

Me: Yeah that would be great

Me: But I need sleep, so do you

Cipher: true

Cipher: i was trying to get aglaea drunk but got my ass handed to me

Cipher: my vision's still spinning, kinda

Me: Good night, Ci

Cipher: gn, newbie 🖤

On the promised day, you and Cipher work until something cracks.

It’s not polished. It’s not clean. But it moves—twitching and alive in a way that’s too raw to be careful with. Cipher high-fives you so hard it stings, then collapses backwards onto your floor, laughing breathlessly.

“Okay,” she groans. “I’m done. I’m fried. I’m leaving before I fall in love with a chorus we’ll regret in the morning.”

You snort. “Coward.”

She flips you off from the floor, then drags herself up, throws her jacket on backwards, and stumbles out of your apartment with little ceremony.

You're left in the glow of it. Still wired, and riding the high of something shaped like success. You bounce the track—just a rough cut for now. No title yet, so you type something dumb just to save it quick.

You mean to drop it in your local drafts, but in your sleep-deprived fog, you drag it into the band’s shared cloud instead. You don’t even notice. You’re already shutting your laptop without closing the audio interface. Still buzzing. Still hearing the bones of what you and Cipher made echoing in your skull.

You fall asleep face-first into a pillow with your hoodie still on.

Mydei’s at the studio on a designated day-off.

Not for the sake of productivity, exactly. He just doesn’t sleep much during tour season, and the first show’s adrenaline has yet to leave his system.

His body’s still buzzing from the gig, but not in a good way. It feels more like residual static. Too many people, too much light, and not enough room in his head. So he took a long stroll from his place until he ended up here. Only the soft hum of the monitors and the familiar chill of over-air-conditioned space offer him company.

Mydei boots up the console in the producers’ lounge, lets muscle memory guide him. He doesn’t think about it much. Just dragging folders, opening sessions, looking for last show’s harmony stems that Tribbios insisted were “absolutely perfect, don’t lose them.”

He scrolls.

Pauses.

Then, near the top of the shared cloud, Mydei spots a file he doesn’t recognize.

It could be Cipher’s. The title’s chaotic enough to fit her. But it could also be some half-finished garbage file Anaxa dumped in as a joke. He did once upload a mix that was just thirty seconds of dolphin noises over a kick drum. Maybe it’s corrupted. The name doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

But the timestamp stops him from dragging it to the trash bin. Just a few hours ago...

He should be organizing. Or doing literally anything else.

However, curiosity wins, and he plays it anyway.

At first, it’s all wrong. The levels are a mess, the bass clipping, one vocal harmony accidentally doubled and panned entirely left for no reason. It sounds like it was exported in a panic and bounced through a trash compactor.

But then—there.

That melody. His melody. Or at least, it used to be.

Now it’s got teeth. Rougher, louder. It doesn’t tiptoe around its own structure anymore, it kicks straight through the drywall and rebuilds itself mid-bar. Someone dragged this once-desolate song somewhere new, bent it at the joints until it stopped pleading and started fighting.

It’s not just rearranged.

It’s claimed.

The old bones are still there, buried under snarling guitar overlays, flickers of digital grit, and a deliberately broken drum loop that shouldn’t work, but somehow does. At the midpoint, there’s a climb—a sudden rise like a held breath—that breaks into a guitar line so fast and furious it leaves him blinking.

And he knows that hand.

Knows the impulse behind it. That frantic precision. That particular way of saying I’m not sorry with every note.

Yours.

Mydei leans back, a soft, involuntary laugh escaping before he can stop it. He runs the track again. Eyes closed this time.

Because it isn’t his song anymore. It’s all yours now, stubborn and spit-shined and loud in all the ways he never let it be. And he likes it. More than he thought he would. More than he probably should.

The file ends. The room falls quiet.

He doesn’t move, he simply sits there—slack-jawed and blinking like he’s been hit by a hurricane. The glow of the screen still frames the filename in the corner:

workign title.mp3

God, what a disaster.

Wrong format. No stems, no session file. Just a lumpy, flattened brick of noise. He can’t solo the layers or trace the guitar back to its source. Can’t reverse-engineer the chaos.

All he has is the wreckage, and somehow, it’s perfect.

The quality got decompressed. The reverb's unhinged. The bassline tried to kill itself twice.

But it’s you.

Every note is stained with your persistence, your teeth-gritted drive, your weird timing and weirder decisions. The melody clawed its way out of his hands and into yours, and now it sounds like something that actually wants to live.

Mydei catches himself grinning.

Like a damn idiot.

Then he opens a new folder, drags the file in, and labels it:

workign title (DO NOT DELETE).wav

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #mydei x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei hsr #mydei #cryoculus

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annaswrites00 · 27 days ago

Text

Just Between Us - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Margot Piastri (OC)

(3.3k)

Chapter Four - Miami Heat

Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary – The Miami Grand Prix weekend brings heat, high stakes, and quiet moments that linger longer than expected. As Oscar takes the win and Lando finishes just behind, Margot finds herself pulled further into something unspoken. A hotel room, a breath held too long, and a parting that stays with her. Warning – Mentions of disordered eating

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The Florida heat clung to Margot's skin like a thick blanket even as the sun dipped low over the paddock. The air shimmered with the scent of burned rubber, champagne, and summer sweat. Camera shutters clicked in fast succession, a frenzied chorus competing with the crowd's cheers.

Oscar was on the top step, drenched in victory.

The glint of the trophy caught the stage lights as he lifted it overhead, the confetti storm raining down like pastel snow. He took a deep breath, waving down towards their dad. Lily stood off to the side next to them, her smile as bright as the lights overhead. The moment was theirs, golden and loud and blinding.

Margot stood half-shadowed beneath the podium awning, sunglasses hiding her eyes, arms crossed loosely across her chest. Her lips were neutral—not a smile or a frown—just stillness. She looked like a part of the crew, yet outside of it, she looked like someone watching a film through thick glass.

Her gaze wasn't on the trophy.

Lando stood one step below her brother, a bottle of champagne dangling from his fingers, some dripping from his curls. His smile was genuine, but it didn't quite reach up. Not the way she'd seen it when it was just the two of them. Still, he played the part. He always did.

And then, maybe accidentally, maybe not… he looked her way. It was brief. Barely a moment. But it hit like a pull, gentle and strange. He nodded once. Like it mattered.

She didn't nod back. Just held his gaze until he turned again.

The noise didn't soften, but she felt a little quieter inside.

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Her phone buzzed sometime after midnight.

She'd been lying on the hotel bed for over an hour, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the air conditioner's hum barely masking the dull ache in her chest. The post-race adrenaline had long since faded, leaving only stillness—heavy and familiar.

The message lit up her lock screen.

Lando

you around?

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second. Just long enough to admit to herself how fast her heart had jumped.

Then…

Margot

yeah. room 614.

The soft rush of her breath filled the small room as she hit send, then tossed the phone to the mattress like it burned.

She didn't move right away. She sat cross-legged in one of Oscar's old t-shirts and a pair of soft cotton shorts, her damp hair curling at the ends from a shower she didn't fully remember taking. Her skin was warm and clean, but her mind felt foggy like it hadn't caught up.

When the knock came, it was soft and tentative. Her pulse stuttered. She padded to the door, the carpet muffling her footsteps, and opened it. He was there.

He was wearing joggers, a jacket, and a hoodie pulled over his damp curls. His sneakers were loose and slightly scuffed. One hand was in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't sure if this was a good idea. He was a little tired around the eyes.

She stepped aside without a word.

Lando moved past her slowly, his shoulders brushing the edge of the doorway. He didn't speak either; he offered her a faint, crooked smile as he slipped inside. The room swallowed him up, all shadows and low light, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across the carpet and catching the edge of his profile in gold.

It smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, mingled with hotel linen and the ever-present hum of Miami's heat pressing on the sealed windows.

"Do you want water or anything?" she asked, her voice quiet and rough around the edges.

He looked at her like he was about to say no, then nodded instead. "Yeah. Sure."

She moved toward the mini fridge in the corner and pulled out two bottles. She handed him one and set hers on the counter, where a glass already sat—full, untouched. Next to it, a protein bar, still in the wrapper, and a bowl of almonds.

Also untouched.

He didn't say anything, but she felt his eyes pause there.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, curling one leg beneath her, the other foot still flat to the floor. "Didn't go to the team dinner thing?"

He twisted the bottle open and took a long sip before answering. "Nah."

That was all.

Her mouth twitched. "Same."

"Yeah, I figured."

She looked at him and saw how he'd settled into the armchair by the window. He'd done this before, and he knew the shape of her space. One ankle crossed over his knee, fingers drumming lightly against the cap of his water bottle. Not tense. Just alert in that way, he always was — like his brain was still partly on the track.

A silence drifted in, not sharp or uncomfortable, but something slower. Ambient. Familiar.

"You looked pissed getting out of the car," she said finally, half teasing.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out.

Lando gave a soft, rueful sound and scratched the back of his neck again.

"I was mostly pissed at myself. Shit start. Screwed turn one, lost momentum. Took me too long to work my way back up."

"You still made up for it."

He nodded slowly. "Hmm."

Margot tilted her head, watching him. "P2's not exactly a tragedy."

He looked at her for a beat. Not annoyed, not defensive. Just… tired.

Then: "You sound like my engineer. Like Zak."

"Does it mean more coming from me?" She laughed breathlessly.

That pulled something looser from him. A laugh that felt real. She liked that one.

Lando leaned back further, letting his head fall against the cushion behind him. "You ever wish you could just redo the first ten seconds of something?"

Margot blinked. "Like, in general?"

He nodded. "Race starts. Conversations. Days."

She thought about it for a moment. "Only a million times a week."

That earned her another soft smile.

She looked down at her knees. "You didn't fuck up the whole race, though."

"No," he admitted. "Just... didn't get what I wanted."

"And what did you want?"

His gaze slid toward her, a little sharper now. Curious. "A win."

He went quiet again.

"Would've felt nice. To have that. Two years in a row. Something concrete."

"You mean the trophy?"

"I mean... yeah. And no." He paused. "Oscar deserved it. He drove clean. Smart."

"So did you."

He looked at her like he wasn't sure how to respond.

She stood then, slowly, and crossed the room. Taking the chair at the table across from him.

Outside, the city glowed in streaks of gold and red, blurred through the tinted glass.

"Does it ever get easier?" she asked, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room. "Losing, I mean."

He was quiet for a long beat. "Sometimes."

She turned her head at that. Found him already looking at her.

Something about it made her throat tighten — how his expression softened when she didn't look away.

"Wasn't your win," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But it wasn't a loss either."

Lando's fingers stilled on the bottle. "You're not really talking about the race anymore."

"No," she admitted.

And the silence that followed wasn't empty at all.

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They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed by the time the second episode started — some painfully scripted dating show with too many slow-motion makeouts and too much crying. The kind of thing you weren't supposed to like but kept watching anyway.

Margot's back rested against the headboard, knees pulled up, arms around them like a shield. Lando sat beside her, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. His hoodie was off now, draped over the foot of the bed, and his curls were still damp, drying in soft coils that made her want to reach out and touch them more than she should.

The room was dim, bathed in the flicker of the television and the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. Outside, Miami breathed in restless waves of light and sound, but inside, it was quiet, thick with the hush of almosts, the kind of silence that wrapped around them like a held breath.

Lando shifted slightly, and the side of his leg brushed against hers. She didn't move.

"You know this is actually the worst show I've ever seen," he murmured, voice low like even the silence around them deserved respect.

"You love it," she replied, barely above a whisper.

He turned his head, not all the way, just enough that she felt it. "Don't tell Oscar. He would never let me hear the end of it."

His arm brushed hers again, this time on purpose. Not enough to startle. Just enough to feel.

Margot didn't look at him. Couldn't. Her fingers were curled into the edge of her oversized shirt, and her chest felt too tight in a way she couldn't explain. Not painful, just heavy.

The protein bar was still on the counter. The water glass still full.

And she knew he'd seen.

Lando played with his fingers a bit. "When's the last time you ate something?"

The question should've come sharp, but it didn't. It came like mist, like concern wrapped in cotton.

Margot blinked at the screen. A girl was crying on a poolside lounge chair. Her bikini was glittery, her face blotchy.

"I had… a smoothie. After qualifying."

"That was yesterday."

Her throat closed up. She should've just lied. With him, though, it felt like she didn't have to.

"I'm fine," she said, quiet but firm. Maybe if she said it softly enough, he wouldn't hear the shakiness in her voice.

Lando didn't respond right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and unhurried. Then he shifted again, slow and careful, laid back against the pillows beside her, arms behind his head.

"I was gonna order fries," he said simply. "And grilled cheese. It's good here."

She shook her head before he could finish. "I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask," he said, not unkindly. Soft. Reassuring.

Margot's jaw tightened. She stared harder at the screen. Forcing herself to focus on the couple's on-screen argument. Not the thick tension building between her and Lando.

He glanced over at her, then back up at the ceiling. "You don't have to eat. I just don't want to eat alone in my room."

Something in her chest gave out a little. Bent. Not broken — not yet. Just tired.

The space between them was an inch. Maybe less. She turned her head then, just slightly, and looked at him — really looked at him. The faint crease between his brows. The line of his throat. The way he wasn't watching her but was entirely aware of her.

"You don't have to stay," she said, barely audible.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

He was quiet for a moment. A car honked faintly outside, swallowed by the thick hotel windows.

"Because you didn't ask me to leave."

Margot's breath caught.

And maybe it was stupid, the way that landed. Like her ribs had been strung too tight, and his words plucked one loose. She let her head rest back against the headboard, not quite looking at him, not quite away. Her voice was steadier now but smaller.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"You don't know that."

"I don't need to." He paused.

She stared at the screen. The couple was kissing again. Music swelling. Everything fake and fluorescent.

"I don't want to make this your problem," she whispered.

"You're not. I'm not going to push. Not right now." He said it like it was the truth and he didn't need her to believe it immediately. Like he was willing to wait.

And then, it was quiet again—not awkward. She felt the weight of him beside her, steady and unmoving, his thigh warm against hers, his breathing slow. Then his fingers brushed hers—barely.

An accident.

She didn't pull away. She linked her soft fingers with his — calloused and warm, worn by years of pressure and precision, and yet they held her like something delicate, like maybe he knew she was.

And for a moment, that felt like enough.

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Morning came slowly.

The curtains were half drawn, letting in a slip of sunlight that stretched across the floor like a quiet invitation. Margot stirred before she opened her eyes, aware first of the heaviness in her limbs and then of the shape beside her—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

She blinked up at the ceiling. The TV was still on, volume low, frozen on the streaming menu screen. Her neck ached faintly. Her legs were tangled in the sheets. And Lando was still here.

He was lying on his side, arm bent beneath his head, curls a little messier than the night before. His eyes were open, gaze soft and far away. He didn't move when she shifted, only offered the smallest smile, barely there, as if he didn't want to startle the moment.

"Hey," he said, voice low and gravelly with sleep.

Margot sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face. "Hey."

She didn't know what time it was. Didn't want to check.

Her stomach felt hollow and tight. Her throat was dry. And still, somehow, none of it was loud. Not like it usually was. Just a faint hum, tucked behind the quiet.

Lando stretched an arm over his head, then let it fall again. "I did not mean to fall asleep."

"You didn't snore," she said softly, attempting a smile that almost worked.

He laughed under his breath. "Didn't mean to overstay either."

"You didn't."

He sat up slowly, groaning like he was trying to dissolve the stillness. Then he glanced around, found his hoodie at the foot of the bed, and tugged it on in silence.

Margot watched him, uncertain. Part of her expected him to say something. To bring up last night. But he didn't.

And she was grateful.

He stood, ran a hand through his hair, then looked at her again. "I'm heading out in a bit. Flight home."

She nodded. "Right. Week off."

He paused for just a second. "I won't say anything. About… any of it."

Margot did not respond at first. She looked down at her hands, twisting the corner of the sheet between her fingers.

"Okay."

His voice was gentler then, lower. "You don't have to talk about it. I just meant… I am here, alright? When you want. If you want."

She looked up, and this time, she let the quiet between them speak for her.

He smiled again, soft and crooked, then moved toward the door. Just before he opened it, he turned back.

"I'll see you in Imola?"

His voice was tender, woven with something that wasn't quite a question. He knew the answer but wanted to hear it from her anyway.

Margot nodded, her throat thick. "Yeah. I will be there."

Lando didn't move right away. He lingered in the doorway, one hand resting on the handle, the other still tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. The morning light kissed the side of his face, softening the curve of his cheek, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the slight pink mark pressed into his jaw from where it had rested on the pillow.

She thought he might say something else. But he didn't. He just looked at her.

So she got up.

Barefoot, steps hushed on the carpet. Her oversized shirt hung low on her frame, and her hair was gently disheveled, her sleep woven into the strands. She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the trace of his shampoo, faint hints of hotel soap, and something warmer that was just him.

For a second, they didn't speak.

Then she stepped forward, just slightly, just enough, and wrapped her arms around him.

Lando froze for the smallest beat. Then she felt the slow exhale, the way his hands rose to meet her back, one resting at her waist, the other curling gently around her shoulder.

It wasn't rushed. Deep and quiet, the kind of embrace that settles into the bones. His head tilted, his chin brushing the top of her hair, and his thumb moving slowly against her spine. Margot let herself lean in and let his warmth anchor her for a breath longer than she should have. Her face found the hollow of his neck, where his pulse moved steady and slow.

Neither of them spoke.

Not when she shifted slightly, lifting her chin to look up at him.

Not when his eyes flicked down, briefly, to her mouth.

It was an almost that lingered. The kind that lived in the air between two people like a held breath. His hand stayed at her waist. Her fingers rested light against his chest. She felt his breath catch, just once, then ease.

Then, slowly, he pulled back. Just enough to look at her. His gaze traced her face like he was trying to memorize it.

"I'll see you soon," he said softly.

And then he turned, opened the door, and disappeared down the hall.

Margot stood in the doorway a moment longer, her fingers tingling with his imprint. The hotel room felt colder now.

She closed the door gently, rested her forehead against it for just a second, and whispered to the stillness,

"Okay."

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The airport was cold in that artificial, too-bright way airports always were. Margot sat cross-legged in a terminal seat with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the hum of people and wheelie suitcases and low boarding calls all blurring into background noise.

She wasn’t sure she’d slept much. Her body ached the way it did when rest didn’t quite reach her — shallow and scattered. But she was warm. She kept thinking about that, oddly. Her skin still felt warm, like some part of Lando had lingered. The press of his hand at her waist. The shape of his voice in her hotel room. I’ll see you soon.

She wasn’t used to people meaning it when they said things like that.

"Flight’s still on time?" Lily asked, sitting beside her and tipping her head onto Margot’s shoulder.

"Mhm."

“You gonna try and sleep on the plane?”

“Maybe.” She looked down at the worn handle of her carry-on. “I’ll try.”

A few minutes passed. Oscar was off grabbing a water from a nearby shop, and Margot let herself sink into the lull. Her body was tired. Her brain was noisy. But there was something... softer about today. Even in the static hum of an airport, she felt like she could breathe a little better than she had the day before.

“Hey.”

Oscar’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He crouched in front of her, bottle in hand, his brows a little pinched.

“You okay?” he asked.

She blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

He glanced to the side, checking that Lily wasn’t listening — though she had her earbuds in now, probably pretending to nap.

Oscar looked back at her. His voice dropped a little.

“I just meant… you know. The food thing. Are you doing okay? I don't want you falling into those old habits. Mom and Dad would want me to check in.”

Her heart did that annoying thing where it jumped and curled at the same time.

She forced a small smile. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Oscar didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on her face, like he was reading too much into the lines under her eyes, the way she held herself. But he nodded eventually.

“Alright. Just checking.”

She didn’t thank him. She couldn’t quite make herself. Instead, she stood and smoothed the sleeves of her hoodie down over her wrists.

“And Margot?”

She pulled back, meeting his gaze.

“Eat something today. For real.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

She’d try.

Maybe.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Thanks for reading!

tagged: @henna006 @wherethezoes-at @landofotographyy

#lando fic #ln4 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #lando x reader