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celestie0 · 3 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch8. two steps back

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of 7 years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw slight age gap bc gojo in this fic is 34 n reader is 29

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 8/x

ᰔ words. 10.2k

a/n. hellooo my ihm loves! i missed you all very much. i don't have much to say here lolol but i'll see you at the end!!! hope you enjoy the first gojo pov chapter!!

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“Now see this? The little bunny ears?” Gojo says from where he’s crouched down towards the freshly-sprinkle-wet pavement of the sidewalk, his fingers pinching sparkly pink shoelace together, his view of the children’s size seven shoe obscured by his tie dangling from his neck. He would flip it over his shoulder and out of the way, but he had not one second to spare when it comes to keeping the attention of a five-year-old.

“Mhm…” Juno mumbles, nodding her head slowly as she tucks her chin to look down at the tutorial.

“Okay,” Gojo says, “just like I taught you last time, you take the bunny ears…and then cross them over like this…” He does it slowly enough to where she can follow along. And then threads one loop through the other to form a knot.

“They’re friends! The bunnies!” Juno chirps, squealing at the possibility.

“Yes, Juno, the bunnies are friends,” Gojo says.

“Are they best friends?”

“They can be whatever you want, kiddo.”

He finishes tying the shoe, and the second that he does, Juno stomps her other foot in front of him, the lining of her sole flashing bright with lights from the contact. Pink sparkly shoelace is now splayed out on the pavement once more.

Gojo levels his gaze with her, resting his elbows on his knees. “No, Juno. That’s why I showed you how to do it. You have to do the other one.”

“But! Uncle Toru! You’re faster at it.”

He sighs, hanging his head a little in defeat, some of his fringe he had slicked back for the purpose of his 12PM house showing falls over his forehead from the movement. He looks back up at Juno and she looks entirely thrilled to be stressing him out like this. “I can’t do this for you every time, kid. Your uncle’s getting old. My back hurts, and my vestibular system is degrading. I’m gonna start looking like Grandpa Lou Pickles real soon.”

She slaps her hands to her mouth, one over the other, to try and stifle that full-of-glee giggle that bubbles from her throat.

There was nothing like making a kid laugh at your own expense.

Gojo smiles at her then pushes up on his knees to stand up straight with a small huff. He smooths down his tie to lay it flat with his grey suit jacket and corrects any creases. “You’ve got it?”

She nods enthusiastically, kneeling down quickly to tie her own shoes. She makes the little bunny loops, gets confused when she crosses them over, her pinky finger somehow getting caught in the knot, but she manages to pull the laces through and makes a very uneven bow. But at least a bow, it was.

She stands up, jumps up and down with happiness, clapping her hands together saying, “yay!! I did it!!”

“Good jooooob, Juno,” Gojo says, ruffling her curly hair until she’s annoyed by it and pushes his hand away to smooth down the frizz he just created. “Now, let’s get going. You’re going to be late.”

Gojo doesn’t need to park ten minutes away from Juno’s elementary school, and force her to walk all the way to the entrance, since in theory, he could wait in the agonizing line of parent drop-offs that’ll get her off right at the gate. But some of his favorite memories when he was a kid was when his dad would walk him to school. They’d count every Volkswagen beetle that would drive by, or slugbugs as his dad used to call them, and he’d get a free pass to punch his old man in the hip every single time he saw one. Either that, or a dollar towards ice cream after school at the end of the week. He outgrew the violence by the time he got to third grade. And curiously, that’s also when he developed a sweet tooth.

The nice thing about being a realtor is that Gojo had a pretty decently flexible schedule. And although he found himself working on most weekends, since that’s when he’s able to book showings for the most part, it at least means that he has the capacity to drop his niece off at school at 10am on a random Tuesday when her parents can’t. Because he has no place he’s expected to clock in or show up to that’s against his will. But, of course, that means he’s basically their go-to contact for moments like this. Where they can’t drop her off at dance practice, pick her up from school, or keep an eye on her when she’s at home. He would never complain about it, though. Not with the way Juno blabbers his ear off during the ten-minute walks to school about all the latest happenings of Sophia the First like there was no other person in the world she’d rather share all the drama too. And also the fact that, instead of punching his hip whenever she sees a slugbug, she opts to hug his leg instead.

“Are those kids still bothering you at school?” Gojo asks her when she hops over a tiny rock.

She glances down at her shoes, the grip of her hand wrapped around Gojo’s finger weakening slightly. “No…”

“Juno, are you lying to me?”

“No!” she yells, loudly, as if she was offended by the assumption.

“You let me know if they are, okay?” Gojo says. He stops walking and pulls his finger from her grip so that she’ll stop kicking rocks and actually pay attention to what he says. She looks up at him and blinks. “I need you to know that no matter what, family will always have your back. Understood?”

Her lip quivers a little. “Yes Uncle Toru.”

Gojo takes Juno’s tiny hand in his again as the two of them continue to walk down the sidewalk and finally pass the noisy cross-section of Juno’s elementary school.

“Uh-oh…” Juno stops in her tracks suddenly once they’ve reached the courtyard in front of the main entrance where there are bustling children making their way inside the gates. She pulls her hand from Gojo’s grip before glancing up at him and twiddles with a coil of her hair. Parents are walking their children up to the walk-in zone, some giving their kids hugs and kisses goodbye. The colors all around are nauseating, with bright neons and blue and pinks and, quite frankly, hues that not a single person in the world has any business meshing together. Like barf green and mustard yellow. But chaos was comfort to the undeveloped brain.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Gojo says as he looks down at a doe-eyed Juno, turning his ear towards her because it was hard to hear her meek voice over the teachers yelling as they try to round the kids up before first period starts.

“Um…” she blinks, “I forgot my lunch moneys.”

“Oh,” Gojo says, his shoulders relaxing, then he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, pulls out a twenty dollar bill, then hands it to her, “here you go. No problem.”

Juno glances down at it, her tiny hand gentle with the paper, careful not to crease it. She looks up again. “Um. Uncle Toru.”

“Uh huh?”

“Lunch is three dollars.”

“I don’t have any ones on me, sweetheart. Just keep it. Buy one of those books from the book fair.”

Her eyes light up at that before the excitement stifles with some realization. “Oh. Um. It’s,” she counts on her fingers, “twenty-six dollars for book and my lunch.”

He fishes out another twenty, but squats down again to level his gaze with her before he hands it to her. “Your mommy didn’t give you money for the book fair?”

Juno gets shy, averting her gaze to the ground as she rubs her ankle with her other foot. “No…I wanted, um, the fairy book.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But mommy said no. That there is no money.”

“No money?”

She nods. “Mhm.”

“Okay…” He frowns. “That’s all she said to you?”

Juno nods.

“Are–” Gojo starts, but then the loud-pitched shrieking of a couple of girls towards the right cuts him off.

“Juno!!! Juno!!!” they yell, skipping up to Juno with excitement before squeezing her into a bear hug, looking like a huddle of pigtails and sparkly backpacks. Gojo stands up straight again and watches the scene unfold.

Juno, her cheeks as red as beet, smiles when they pull away from the hug and jumps up and down with them.

“She’s here! She’s here!” one of her friends exclaims.

“Hey, hey, hey, wanna trade silly bands?” the other one chirps.

Gojo lets out a slow exhale, waving a hand back to Juno when she bashfully glances over her shoulder at him as she walks towards the school entryway with her friends. He makes sure to keep an eye on her all the way until she gets through the gates, into the sea of students. He pushes his hands into his pockets, his gaze set straight ahead at the green paint outside the school, still watching Juno as she approaches the heavy double doors. There is some unsettling feeling at the base of his ribs, as if to warn about unfinished business. The feeling doesn’t pass, even when he’s satisfied at the sight of Juno making it inside school. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, but his train of thought is interrupted by a feminine voice that calls out from behind him.

“Is she yours?” he hears the voice call out, and when he turns his head to the side, he sees a woman dressed in faded mom jeans, a striped long sleeve, and black leather boots approaching him from the side.

“Oh, no,” Gojo pulls a hand out of his pocket to shake his palm in front of him, “she’s my niece.”

“Ahhh,” the woman smiles, “she’s adorable.”

“Right? Super smart, too.”

She lets out a small exhale through her nose, one that’s reminiscent of a laugh, before turning her head to look over her shoulder towards the playground where the preschoolers next door were still preoccupied by their playtime. Gojo trails her gaze to a small group of boys by the monkey bars, and he sees one of them making snow angels face-down in wet dirt. When he glances back at the woman’s face, she looks affectionately disturbed.

“That’s my Timmy,” she says, “and I really can’t say the same about him.”

He laughs. “It’s fine. I was just like that when I was a kid. He’ll grow out of it.”

“Do you have any of your own?” she asks.

“Not that I know of,” he responds.

She laughs at that. He had half expected her to roll her eyes.

“I’m Mari, by the way,” she says with a smile, smoothing her palms down the fabric over her thighs.

“Satoru,” he responds, and he doesn’t pass over the gesture of a handshake, which she seems taken aback by, but still accepts when she squeezes his hand.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before…” she trails off.

He squints his eyes a little to see if he can place her face too. Or maybe come up with places she may have seen him. When he runs a blank, he says, “I’m here often to drop my niece off. My sister and her husband are–” he feels that same sensation in his ribs, “pretty busy these days.” They’ve asked him to drop Juno off at school so many times by now that the moms around the place are starting to recognize him.

“That’s sweet,” she says, crossing her arms and rubbing at her elbow as she glances over at her son again. “I wish I could have help like that. They're so lucky to have you around.”

“Yeah…I should really hold it against them more often.”

She laughs. “Seriously though!” She sighs, and when he remains quiet because he can tell she’s building up to something more vulnerable, she takes the invitation to vent. “Just–...you know, it’s so hard to juggle everything. Work, the kid–”

“Yeahhh.”

“It’s like there’s just never enough hours in a day–”

“Definitely.”

“Some days it just gets so overwhelming to the point where I’m, like…like not even really a person anymore–”

“I can imagine.”

“And–” she stops to look at him, suddenly embarrassed, “I’m sorry, I think I’m just venting.”

He shakes his head at her. “You’re all good.”

She purses her lips together in thought, squinting her eyes slightly at him, before her shoulders relax. “Would you…” she starts, “like to get coffee sometime?”

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m–” he pulls his left hand up out of his pocket to hold it up in the air, but then stiffens entirely when a chill runs down his spine.

Because it wasn’t a reflex of recent events,

It was a reflex from years ago.

“You’re…?” she says, tilting her head to the side curiously as if to feign innocence of the fact that there’s a ring on his finger until she hears the words from him personally. As if the ring would vanish with enough wishful thinking.

His shoulders, tense and rigid, slowly drop back down before he breathes in deep and says, “I’m married.”

. . .

As Gojo makes his way back to the neighborhood where he parked his car, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his recent calls, and is surprised to find that his brother-in-law’s name is a bit higher up on the list than he thought it would be. Or wanted it to be.

He lifts the phone to his ear when he presses dial, and the phone almost rings through four times before someone finally picks it up.

“Yo! The man! The bro-in-law! What’s goin’ on, dude!” he hears Jun’s rather chirpy voice on the other line.

“Hey Jun,” Gojo says into his phone, walking down onto the residential street, “Just calling to let you know Juno’s been dropped off. I found out from one of the teachers that it’s only a half day today, though. So you’ll have to pick her up earlier.”

“Oh shoot…” Jun trails off, and Gojo can already tell what he’s about to ask of him.

Gojo likes Jun. He’s always liked the guy, actually. Although he always thought Sana would end up with someone Gojo didn’t like, as some act of defiance. But Jun was a lot different than the waste-of-space high school boyfriends Sana brought home during her teenage years (sorry if that sounds rude, it’s just that, once upon a time, Gojo used to be a waste-of-space high school boyfriend, as most teenage boys are, so he knows how awful they are and eventually grew into the conscious reasoning of loathing them). But anyway, Jun was a reliable guy. Hard-working, always seemed like he was on the hustle with his business, but he was a little unsettlingly cheerful all the time. The first expression of his that comes to mind whenever one thinks of him is a smile full of pearly white teeth and eyes squinted shut from the curve of his cheeks, but Gojo always figured it was some businessman tactic that eventually integrated into his personality as a whole.

“Do you think you could—” Jun starts.

“No, Jun, I can’t,” Gojo cuts him off, “I’m closing a sale today.”

He knows he said he could never complain about looking after Juno, but in a sense, forcing her dad to ditch a measly hour of work to show up and pick her up from school is in a way looking after her. Kids need their dads, and it’s a little sad that even just showing up is something not a lot of them care to honor.

“Ayyy that’s okay then, I’ll just figure it out,” he says, “but thanks for dropping her off this morning!”

“Sure thing.” Gojo’s phone starts ringing, and he sees he has an incoming call from one of his clients. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. But remember, her school gets out at 1:30.” And he barely hears the acknowledgement from Jun before he switches calls.

By the time Gojo wraps up his afternoon showing, and spends a couple hours putting together all the paperwork for the sale he’s closing later today, he’s starving. And he considers picking up some Thai food on his way home but then he gets a text from you.

|| 1:04PM Neighbor HerbGarden: hey I made chicken parm. would you like me to set aside a plate for you

He can’t help the smile on his face from the message, and how strangely polite it is. He’s usually the type to call someone to respond to a question they ask him through text (the worst kind of person), but instead he finds him typing back.

|| 1:05PM Gojo: Sure although I’d prefer mine without any poison please

He sees the little three dots as you type.

|| 1:06PM Neighbor HerbGarden: unfortunately I cannot make any such accommodations

And there it is again, that amused grin he can’t help. It’s uncannily similar to his days of being a waste-of-space high school boyfriend, except now he’s texting on iOS 18 instead of a Nokia brick. But also, he’s not seventeen anymore. It’s kind of dangerous that you make him feel like he is, though.

He hears his phone ping again.

|| 1:08PM Neighbor HerbGarden: also can you please pick up some orange juice from the store

|| 1:08PM Neighbor HerbGarden: without pulp

He blinks at the screen, before responding with,

|| 1:08PM Gojo: 👍👍👍

He stares at the messages for a few more seconds, then up at the blank grey contact number and your name Neighbor HerbGarden. He has a lot of numbers in his phone, from years and years of building clientele both in one of the biggest Metropolitan cities in the country, and also here in Dayton County within the past year that he’s lived here. Sometimes it was just easier and more efficient to save people in his phone as something that’ll make him remember who they actually are rather than just an arbitrary name. In one of the first times he met you, you brought him two bunches of dried oregano from your herb garden, and so he saved you in his phone as Neighbor HerbGarden to differentiate you from Neighbor BasketballHoop to his right.

Gojo presses his lips into a thin line then glances up to the sky as he stands outside of the vacant home he’s about to make major bank on today, and then clicks edit on your contact name.

He backspaces Neighbor HerbGarden then types,

Wife

He exhales slowly, then adds,

… (?)

To the end of the word.

Then shoves his phone in his pocket.

—

“God, that was delicious,” Gojo sighs as he sets the plates in the dishwasher, “I mean, seriously, you could open a restaurant. Er, actually, on second thought, probably not. Considering the natural disaster level of a mess you’ve left the kitchen in after making just one meal.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you say, and he turns around to see you standing behind him still clad in your marinara-stained apron and your hair that was once pulled taut up into a ponytail now falling loose over your shoulders. The only thing that could make the sight even sexier is if you were topless. “Now sign this,” you say, holding up a sheet of paper to his face and placing a stern fist to your hip.

He blinks at you and slowly turns the faucet off before drying his hands off on the towel while still facing you. His eyes briefly skim the top of the page which says Contract.

“Uh, what’s this?” he asks.

“Our rules.”

He doesn’t even take a second to read another single word before his eyes flit up to yours, his brow quirking. “Rules?”

“Yes,” you say, and blow a puff of air up your cheek to get the hair out of your face, “remember? No touching, no sex, no sneaking into my room, no peeping in on me in the shower, and—” You point a finger up, “New one. No. Flirting.”

His mind fixates on the word sex. “No sex? Didn’t you ask me to fuck you the other day?” he says as he leans back on the counter, an amused look on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“That—” you stiffen then relax your shoulders before pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration of yourself, “I don’t recall such an event occurring.”

“Really? Well thank god I’ve got a ring camera set up in the living room.” He pretends to pull the app up on his phone.

“No!” you yell, reaching out to hold his forearm to stop him, likely through a way of distraction as his eyes flit to the curl of your fingers as you sink your nails into his skin. He quietly sucks a breath in through his teeth. “….stupid ring camera,” you mumble dejectedly, “I hate it.”

He sighs. “Baby. You’re the one that demanded I get it installed.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You and your strange fear of home invasion.”

“Don’t call me baby,” you hiss at him, and it’s rather easy to see the flush to your cheeks, “that counts as flirting.” You slam the paper down onto the counter. “Now sign this.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, “don’t wanna.”

“Sign. It.”

“Nope, not without my lawyer present.”

“Ouuuuuu that really handsome one with the tight trousers and the sexy Benz?” you swoon cartoonishly.

He glances up at the ceiling in thought, then takes the bait. “Who needs lawyers, anyway.”

“Mhmmmmm exactly,” you hum in satisfactory agreement then wave the paper in front of his face again like he’s a dog. “So sign it.”

He hesitantly takes the sheet from you. “What good is signing a makeshift contract going to do?”

“I’m sick of people pretending like they don’t know that they’ve wronged me. So, with this contract, when you eventually wrong me, I’ll have it in writing that I specifically asked you not to.”

God damn you were kinda crazy. It was simultaneously hot and scary at the same time. I mean, he’s always known that about you; that you’re a bit differently strung than most people he’s ever met, even more so compared to the women he’s met, but there was something oddly charming and redeeming about it all too. It’s hard to explain. In the city, people are nice to your face but then fuck you over behind your back. Like, invite you over for dinner when their family is in town but then tell the principal that your kid shoved their kid at school just so that their kid gets the last spot on the T-ball team. But here in small Dayton County, people care less of the small gesture frivolities and would rather go straight into repairing your flat tire on the side of the road no questions asked, and no thanks needed, but God forbid you expect them to flash you a smile when you pass by them on the street. He kinda liked the latter, preferred the latter, and considering that you were born-and-raised here, you’re a woman who was as close to that Dayton County sentiment as anyone here could get.

He liked it though. Sure, you cuss him out often and act in ways that confuse the ever living hell out of him, but something told him that when it came down to it, and I mean really came down to it, you were someone he could trust. And trust is a feeling that’s hardly given out carelessly in this day and age.

He finally takes a better look at this contract of yours. Just a few lines of size 12pt font of Times New Roman and a numbered list with rules on it. It was a poorly put together contract of contingencies of which he knew he’d have no business following. Sure, he’s exercised self restraint up until this point, perhaps his biggest challenge thus far having been captured in 720p resolution on that Ring camera over in the other room that faces the couch, but if you kept wearing those prudish nightgowns all over the house and asked him to fuck you in the middle of a weekday one more time, he’s ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure he’d have no willpower left at that point.

He sighs and pretends to fully read all the words typed out on your contract, then flips it around so the contents face you as he holds it up. “Cross out the no flirting and we’re good.”

“I am not crossing that out.”

“If you live with me, I’m going to flirt with you. That’s just how it’s going to be.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Baby. This ask of yours is what’s borderline ridiculous.”

“Stop with the ‘baby!!!” you sneer at him and he can’t help but laugh.

He places the paper down on the surface of the island and clicks the pen, crosses out no, writes in occasional and adds is okay after the word flirting so that it reads: occasional flirting is okay. Then scribbles his signature on it.

“Here you go,” he says as he hands it back to you.

“I did not permit any addendums.”

“Look, honey, it’s the best you’re gonna get.”

He sees you scribble something down onto the page and then you hold it up for him to see.

No pet names.

“Do you agree?” you ask in a way that suggests you won’t take no for an answer.

He sighs. “Sure.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied as you stare down at the contract with approval before looking up at him again with a narrow, almost pissed-off gaze. It gets him borderline excited. “Now, are you a man of your word?”

“I hope so.”

“That’s not very reassuring. Try again.”

“It’s hard for me to say.”

“Why?”

“Well, with you, it’s hard for me to say.”

“That makes me self conscious.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you respond, then shuffle across the hardwood floors of the kitchen into the dining room where you sit down there along with all the hospital bills you’ve had scattered there since you moved in.

He sighs, watching as you grab a stack of all your envelopes and papers and manila folders then dump them all on the kitchen island.

“Sorry,” you say, “I’m running out of space.” You turn on your heel to head back to the dining table but then spin to face him again. “And please don’t look at the bills. I’d rather pretend they don’t exist.” Then you turn the corner back to where you came from.

Gojo sighs to himself, his eyes briefly flitting down to the stack of unsorted papers you’ve left on the table. He sees scribbles of paid and to be paid and ask for itemized bill and has already been sent to collections and repeat charge all over them, wondering how in hell you manage to keep track of all this. He feels stressed on your behalf.

Something catches his eye, among all the paperwork. A tiny corner poking out from under a bill for a thirty-four-hundred dollar chemotherapy infusion. The finely printed black ink on it is hard to read, but Gojo tugs it out and holds it up at eye level.

Carevest Capital est. 2024

Invest in a healthier you!

And when he skims to the bottom, he sees CEO Jun Miller, phone: (851)-334-5555 for the contact.

His brow furrows together. He inhales deeply before shuffling his feet over to the dining hall.

“Hey,” he says, pinching the card between his index and middle finger then holding it up, “what’s this?”

You turn over to look at him, eyes wide and blinking innocently before you squint at the card. “Huh? Oh. That’s your brother-in-law’s business card. For his healthcare cost relief company.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Mhm.”

Gojo frowns. He brings the card down to look at it again. Last time he checked, Jun ran a small local auto parts repair shop. Routine stuff like cracked windshields and tinted windows, with the hopes of expanding business to a couple more places within the zip code. Gojo had never heard of any healthcare cost relief company. And he figured Jun would’ve provided some sort of proof of pay for it when Gojo helped him process the loan for their new house. It doesn’t make sense.

Gojo sighs, and chalks it up to ambition. He knows how businessmen are. A lot of his clients are like that. They always think they’ve caught the next-best-thing and want to chase it before anyone else can.

You’re still blinking at him with a mildly confused face.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I wouldn’t put any money into this if I were you, though.”

You sigh and slump your shoulders. “As if I even could.” But then you turn to look at him again. “Why? You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“What? Entrusting large sums of your money to some company that promises to somehow double it and give it back? Of fucking course not.”

“You don’t trust your own brother-in-law?”

“It—” He’s a little taken aback by the question. “It’s not that I don’t. It’s just that I don’t really trust businessmen at large.”

“Aren’t you…technically a businessman?”

“What?”

You put your elbow up on the chair’s backrest and twist your torso more to look at him. “Last time I checked, you sell houses.”

“That—…that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m a realtor. Not a businessman. Business people, you know, they play dirty to get what they want. I’m just helping people with a task that they don’t always have the time or resources to do.”

“You literally make up contrived skit scenarios so that your clients find houses more memorable, and also pimp yourself out to divorced housewives so they’ll follow through on a return offer. That’s no better than the way a businessman manipulates.”

“Is your opinion of me really that low?”

And he asks it with genuinity. Not laced with mirth, or faux arrogance, or a childlike desire for banter. He genuinely wants to know, after the past few weeks of getting to know each other a little bit better, if you really think of him as someone like that.

As if you felt the way his tone cut through air, setting precedent for what had otherwise felt like a neutral conversation tethering on an edge of hostility, you sit up a little straighter in your chair and your eyes are wide again as you blink at him, and he sees the shallow rise of your chest as you breathe through the movement of your marinara-stained apron.

“No,” you say, your expression softening, “it’s not.”

He’s not sure what exactly your words accomplish in him, or what reward he gained for seeking them out, if any, but he just lets out a huff of an exhale and grabs his suit jacket off the back of the chair at the head of the table, pulling his arms through the sleeves before shrugging it into place. Then he grabs his keys off the wooden surface and glances at his watch. “Alright,” he says, “that’s good to know.” Then heads towards the door.

—

“You know, Satoru, I met my wife on a military excursion to Thailand. It’s precisely why I’m ruined for all American women. The women over there, they just move with this sort of sensual grace that the women here can’t compete with.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo barely nods in acknowledgment of his client’s words as he sits at the lonesome dining table located in the otherwise chilling vacancy of this house he’s about to hand over. “So, did you two have a chance to take a look at the walkthrough report?”

The wife curls her arm around her husband’s bicep, and from an outsider’s perspective, it would look awfully inappropriate given she looks at least twenty years younger than him, but to Gojo, it’s something he tends to see pretty often when he makes sales up in the neighborhoods of this part of town.

“Yes,” she says, smiling up at her husband, and the action alone ages her ten years from the ripples of botox visible in her cheeks, “Len and I are so ready to call this home our own.”

“What do you think of Thai women, Satoru,” Len asks him, completely ignoring any and all tasks at hand because he’s not satisfied with the low level of interest his realtor is taking to his fruitless words.

“Never been with one,” Gojo comments flatly as he flips through the closing documents and highlights whatever needs to be signed.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, and maybe it’s because he remembers your words from earlier. About pimping himself out or playing dirty like a businessman. Gojo’s brow furrows slightly as he stares a little excessively too long at a simple key release form. But he just feels annoyed. So what if he pretends to get along with guys like Len up until that 6% commission hits his bank account? What’s so wrong about making a living? Not everyone has to be sacred about what they do for work.

“You’re missin’ outtttt, man,” Len comments as Gojo passes all the papers over to the two of them. He only takes a quick glance at the papers before saying. Gojo taps his pen on the table as an annoyed tick, looking at the documents sitting in front of Len and thinking just sign the fuckin’ papers already, but instead, Len sets his pen down to further stall. “Why don’t we head out to lunch after this? To celebrate. I’m craving some Tom Kha Soup,” he says with an exaggerated accent, then points the pen at Gojo. “And we’ll hook you up with a nice Thai lady while we’re there.”

“I already had lunch,” he says, not even bothering to say and I’m also married because he knows the ‘already having had lunch’ excuse would hold more weight to Len than any declaration of lifelong romantic commitment.

“Bummer,” Len says, “you ate at home?”

“Yup.”

“I gotta start doing that, too, you know, eating healthier,” Len says before leaning back into his chair with a grunt. “Doctor said somethin’ to me about my cholesterol gettin’ too high and that even the statins won’t be able to save me.”

His wife looks like she’s just heard the most fantastic news ever, but conceals it with a frown, then swats a playful hand towards Gojo.

“Does your wife cook for you?” she asks cheerfully.

Technically, you’ve only offered to include him in your lunch plans two or three times so far, and coincidentally only on the days he mowed the lawn in the morning like you asked him to, but he says, “yeah, she does.” To keep things simple. But he also comes to the realization that you’re trying to Pavlov him into doing more chores around the house by feeding him ridiculously good food.

“See, Len? Some men actually appreciate their wives’ cooking.” She pretends to appear offended as she playfully smacks at her husband's chest.

“Sweetheart, you know I didn’t marry you for your cooking,” he drawls, saying it near her ear as if it were meant to be said in secret and she bashfully giggles.

For fucks sake he’s not sure how much longer of this he can take. The feeling of awkwardness as he sits on the other end of the most classic stereotypical conversation he would ever have the displeasure of hearing between a boomer and his too-young-for-him foreign wife. He wonders what you’d say if he bitched about this conversation to you. He could picture you yelling in passion about the perpetuation of the patriarchy with the disgraceful existence of predatory men like Len.

In the midst of his borderline cognitive crisis, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

The number looks vaguely familiar, but it’s unsaved.

“Hey, sorry you two,” he says to the couple seated across from him before he gets up out of his chair, “I’ve gotta take this.” Then excuses himself into the hallway and brings his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Marium calling from Rockwell Elementary, I’m looking for Mr. Gojo Satoru?”

“Yeah, speaking.”

“Oh, wonderful, thank you for taking my call. I’m just reaching out because we’re getting close to closing up the gates for school now.”

Gojo glances at his watch. 2:57PM.

“The kids got out of school about an hour and a half ago but no one has come to pick Juno up yet. She’s the last one here. We tried contacting her parents, but no one answered, so we had to reach out to her emergency contacts. Mrs. Shapiro is waiting with her, but if someone isn’t able to take her home soon, we’ll have to send her to the KinderCare on Ventura Street once the last bus comes by.”

Gojo pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes tightly. “No, I'll come pick her up. I’ll be there in ten.”

Gojo now finds himself back at his niece’s elementary school, waiting at the gate for the teacher to being her around to the courtyard. No major sale closed. His clients are going out of town tomorrow, so they had to sell today, and he’s now obligated to share some portion of his eighty-thousand dollar commission with his colleague who’s doing the favor of wrapping things up for the sale in his absence. All because Jun couldn’t even remember the time he was supposed to pick Juno up from school, even after Gojo told him twice when she’d get off. And it was safe to say he was a bit pissed.

“Uncle Toru!!!” he hears Juno’s voice chirp from a distance, and when he turns his head, he sees her running towards him, her backpack bouncing up and down in her sprint, before she crashes into Gojo’s arms as he kneels down towards the ground and wraps her arms around her.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, then picks her up, “you ready to head home?”

Before Juno can respond, Gojo hears a man shout from the drop-off zone. He turns his head towards that direction, squints his eyes and makes out Jun’s silhouette approaching from a car that has its hazard lights turned on and he’s hastily making his way over.

“Juno!!” he waves his hand up in the air, the sound of his keys that hang from his thumb jingling as he gets closer. Gojo sets Juno down and is surprised that she doesn’t immediately run to her dad, but instead grips onto Gojo’s index finger with her whole hand and itches her ankle with the tip of her other shoe.

“Hi daddy,” she says, peering up at him underneath the roof of her baseball cap.

Jun crouches down to eye-level with her, and holds his arms out. “Hey sweetheart, how was school?”

She’s hesitant before she slowly releases her tight grip on Gojo’s finger and walks towards Jun, and accepts his embrace. “Good,” she says shallowly.

Jun sneaks a glance up at Gojo’s face, and Gojo couldn’t even hide the disappointment if he tried.

“Hey, Juno, why don’t you go sit in the car? I have Frozen playing,” he says to her, placing a kiss on her temple, and that news entirely excites Juno as she squeals with happiness then runs toward the car. Both Gojo and Jun watch her climb into the car and close the door before properly regarding each other.

“Listen, Jun, I’m just going to give it to you straight because I’m not in the mood to bullshit,” Gojo says, “I get that you’re busy, but you can’t just forget your own kid at school and leave her stranded to the point where admin have to call her emergency contacts just to get her home safely.”

“I know, I know, it’s just that—”

“I mean, last weekend you forgot what time her dance recital was and completely missed it. The one she had been practicing towards for weeks. You’ve basically asked me to drop her off at school every day for the past week and a half with no good excuse as to why. And then you do this. Like, what’s gotten into you, man?” He takes a breath to prevent his tone from turning too sharp, but when he thinks about Juno sitting all alone in a classroom with her teacher after watching all her friends get picked up with love and taken home on what was supposed to be a fun half-day for her, he feels pissed off at the negligence. “She’s a smart kid. And as proud of that as you should be, it does mean that she’s smart enough to notice these things. And it’s going to make her feel like her own dad doesn’t care about her.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry,” he says, panic on his face as the mistake settles in, “it’s just, you know, with Sana going back to work, her being occupied with the new job and everything, I dunno, I’m so used to her taking care of Juno but now that more responsibility has fallen on me, it’s really hard to manage with my businesses—” he catches himself, his eyes widening, and Gojo narrows his, “…my business.” He corrects himself.

“What could be more important than your own kid?” Gojo asks.

“Nothing. At least there shouldn’t be. You’re right.”

But even after Jun gave him the answer he expected to hear, the question still lingers in his head. Businesses. Jun is running more than just the auto parts company, at least one other one that he knows of based on what you told him regarding the business card. He just found out right now that Sana is going back to work, after about six years of being out of the workforce.

And then he recalls what Juno said to him this morning.

But mommy said no. That there is no money.

Gojo’s brows furrow, and he blinks at a very guilty-looking Jun in front of him, before his expression relaxes and the stiffness in his shoulders relax.

“Is—” Gojo starts, unsure on how to tread the question, “is everything okay?”

Jun stands up a little straighter. “Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he chirps rather unconvincingly, with that same level of faux cheerfulness he often displays.

Gojo sighs, glances over to the right. He sees the preschool next door, with its playground completely deserted, then he glances back at Jun.

“If you need help,” Gojo starts, “with anything at all,” and he sees the way Jun’s posture dampens slightly, “don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Will do, man,” Jun said, “but I’ll make sure I’ve got Juno’s school schedule in my phone so you won’t have to do this again.” And something tells Gojo that Jun is purposefully pretending as if he didn’t catch onto the fact that Gojo was referring to finances as some preservation of his pride in front of another man.

Gojo gives himself a couple seconds to consider if he should push the subject any further, but just respects the deflection, and says, “alright.”

—

God forbid a man has a drink or two during happy hour at his favorite bar to get over a rather stressful day, just to end up running into his fake wife’s ex boyfriend before he can even catch a little bit of a buzz.

Wait, that’s a lie, the first single malt was starting to flow through his veins.

And he knows you told him that he didn’t need to bother trying to make the guy jealous anymore,

But god, it was just so fun. And he could really use the entertainment right now.

“Oh every position possible, pal. Doggy, prone bone, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl. Anything from the Kama Sutra. You name it, we do it,” Gojo says.

He’s seated at the far end of the high-top, his preferable location as it was away from the bustling tables and gigantic TV on top of all the kegs that’s playing the Seahawks vs 49ers semifinals game, but it’s still close enough to the bartender to make small talk when he wanted it. Up until he was interrupted by the guy to his right who’s standing with fists clenched tightly at his sides from hearing Gojo flaunt of this allegedly stellar sex life he’s got with the guy’s ex girlfriend. Truth be told, Gojo forgot his name. He tries to place it as he looks the man up and down from where he’s seated. Nappy black hair, long enough to curl at the back of his neck, wearing an obnoxiously tight black shirt, along with black leather pants.

“She doesn’t even like cowgirl,” he says defensively, “always used to say it hurts her knees.”

Fuck. Of course you have knee problems. Think, Gojo, think. “Uh, she likes it with me,” he comes up with, “she likes anything with me.”

Gojo glances up at the guy once again when he doesn’t respond back fast enough, seeing the way his jaw clenches and his hands further condense into fists at his side. The amusement of making him get all riled up quickly dissipates, as he imagined it would anyways, and instead, he almost feels sorry for him. Gojo knows exactly what he must be thinking right now. Memories of you naked that he’s preserved like holy water after the end of a seven year relationship, now morphing into visuals of you getting railed by your new husband instead, and that sweet image he has of you in his head will never be the same. Forever being ruined by another guy’s dick. It’s an intrusive thought that every man on the planet has experienced at some point or another, himself included. He’s already fucked you more in this guy’s imagination than he’s even remotely gotten close to doing in real life (well, he was partially to blame for that) but Leather Pants over here isn’t going to know that when he’s losing sleep over it at night. And now Gojo’s got guilt on his conscience. His least favorite feeling.

Ah.

Choso.

Choso Kamo.

That was his name.

Gojo glances down at his glass of scotch, trailing the line of the rim with the pad of his index finger, feeling more heat radiating off of the rage from Choso’s body than the woodfire flame of the heaters behind the high-top counter.

He sighs then glances over at Choso again, eyeing him in dim lighting. “You’ll find someone else, man,” he says, “don’t get hung up on just one person. It’s a useless kind of torture.”

He speaks as if he’s entirely detached from the sentiment.

Choso crosses his arms. “So it’s not just some scam, then? You two really are married?” He grits his teeth. “In good faith?” He mocks the law in his tone as if he doesn’t defend it.

Gojo stares blankly at the surface of wood in front of him, the color charred with black and faded with use, his expression sobering for a moment as he lets out a deep breath. His stare turns shallow, like he’s about to dissociate, and for some reason, the lie doesn’t come as easy to him this time. “You were there in the courtroom. You know the answer to that question.”

Choso huffs, and as if he couldn’t help going against his own oath to secrecy, he declares, “I’m investigating, you know. At least I will be. Collecting evidence.”

Gojo exhales, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before bringing the rim to his mouth and tipping some of it back.

He’s familiar with US federal law regarding marital insurance fraud. 8 U.S.C. 1033 and 18 U.S.C. 371 provide for a penalty of up to ten years in prison for it. And under that statute, perpetrators can also be expected to be fined up to $250,000. And although millions of people everyday get away with all sorts of illegal activity, he knows that there’s also millions of people everyday that don’t. That was the problem with the law in an otherwise tumultuous country. You never know how much you need to truly fear it. As if it were up to personal choice rather than any real social stature.

Truthfully, Gojo isn’t really the type to not think things through before going through with them. He’s fiscally responsible (minus his boat), tries not to get attached to places or people a little too easily, and always makes sure he knows the traffic situation ahead of time before going down Interstate 10. On the outside, he lived a rather simple life. Getting tied up into an insurance scam was certainly not the first thing he pictured for himself when he left New York City for little old Dayton County without anything other than a cabin suitcase that was mostly empty anyways. But he got invested in his rather strange neighbor who’s going through a tough time, and suddenly he’s going against everything that’s inherent to him. As previously mentioned, there is a part of him that finds it exciting. Y’know, that part that enjoys a little bit of chaos and uncertainty, that part of him that chases a thrill. That tendency to think first, act later, the one that gets people into a lot of trouble. But it’s almost like he’s been subconsciously itching for it this entire time. And maybe even for his entire life, now that he (and the alcohol) thinks about it.

But going to jail is definitely where he draws the line on adrenaline seeking.

And besides. He doesn’t want to see you fail.

He knows that to people who aren’t American, the whole idea seems so strange.

Why risk time in prison and the potential to be fined upwards of a quarter million dollars just to get healthcare for you and your loved ones?

But it’s only because that risk of consequence hardly rivals the reality of the situation anyways.

He saw your bills. He knows you told him not to look, because he knows the only way you keep your sanity and keep your head above water is by allowing a part of yourself to ignore the existence of your suffering.

But for fucks sake, forty-two-thousand-dollars out of pocket just for your mom’s two-day hospitalization? And that was just one of the outstanding bills? With big bold letters IF YOU DO NOT PAY THIS WITHIN THE NEXT 5-7 BUSINESS DAYS, WE WILL SEND THIS BILL TO COLLECTIONS.

You put any layman in a situation like that, and he couldn’t imagine suicide wouldn’t cross their mind at least once.

Gojo glances over at Choso’s jacket. The Club at Snoqualmie Ridge.

As the saying goes, keep your friends close, and keep cops who threaten to perform a full blown investigation of the legitimacy of your marriage even closer.

“You play golf, Kamo?”

“What–” Choso stutters, a little surprised by the question, but his fists relax slowly, “yeah?”

“We should go for a swing sometime.”

“Huh? But—”

Gojo pushes his empty glass of scotch up the table a few inches then gets up out of the chair, standing in front of Choso, gaze leveling before he pats him on the shoulder, and says, “Just to see who’s the better shot.” Then brushes past him to go close out his tab.

—

It’s late in the evening by the time Gojo finishes running some errands and can finally unwind on the couch. A crisp cold can of diet coke in hand…impractical jokers playing for background noise from his 86 inch OLED smart TV, his legs stretched out in front of him onto the coffee table he made himself, and sunk deep into his favorite corner of the couch. The one he’s broken in over the years into that just perfect amount of give to sink ratio. It truly was the simple things in life.

He picks up the book he had left off reading from the coffee table. A white cover with bolded red letters that read Crucial Conversation: Tools for Talking When Stakes Are High. It was some self-help book one of his partners at the brokerage firm recommended to him that apparently revolutionized the way he sells houses.

“Hm,” Gojo hums to himself, flipping the pages of the book, that freshly-printed-processed-wood smell hitting his senses satisfactorily. He gets to the part he had left off on.

He squints at the pages, hard to read with contacts that are half a step below his prescription, but he at least tries to skim for the buzzwords.

The pool of shared meaning is the birthplace of synergy.

Okay, whatever the fuck that means.

He skims some more.

People don’t get defensive because of what you’re saying; they get defensive because of why they think you’re saying it.

He skims more.

If you don’t talk it out, you’ll act it out through passive aggression.

He skims more.

The key to building safety is to step out of the content and address the conditions.

He doesn’t really know what exactly this all means but he feels like he should be taking notes.

Right when he leans over to open one of the drawers of the coffee table to fish for a pen, he hears keys jingling by the front door, somewhat frantically, before finally pushing into the lock and then the door flies open. He sits back, slightly startled, as he takes in the image of you storming inside the house looking angry as hell when you slam the door behind you.

“Hey,” he scolds, “easy on the doors, please.”

You’re pacing back and forth in front of the foyer table, clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling what sounds like profanities to yourself over and over again, cheeks flush with rage, face scrunched up like a prune, and huffing and puffing so fast that he’s astonished he can still make out some of the words that you’re spewing.

“That…little…mother…–” You shuffle back and forth on the hardwood floor, “fucker. What a fucking–” You’re borderline hyperventilating, “JERK!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Gojo rests his book splayed open in his lap and blinks at you. “Uh. Is everything alright?”

“No!!!!” You immediately snap at him, turning to face him, and he flinches from where he’s sat. “No, it’s not!”

He’s too scared to move at this point, let alone breathe.

You breathe in deep then let out an exhale. “That–” You close your eyes from pure fury. “That motherfucking Choso Kamo,” you struggle to even say the words without gritting your teeth, “told the entire Dayton County police department that he’s the one that broke up with me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Wow,” Gojo says.

You glare at him. “I don’t need your fake sympathy.”

“All I said was wow?”

“Well, it felt very disingenuine.”

“But–”

He blinks at a fuming you, who has your arms crossed over your chest tightly, tapping your foot on the ground impatiently, expression narrow.

He glances down at the page that was open in his book.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, quickly skimming the words, then glances up at you, “Sorry. I acknowledge that my words, er, word, may have been careless, and I apologize.”

Your expression morphs into one of surprise and barebone confusion. “O-Oh…that’s okay. I guess I was just assuming things.” You glance off towards the left, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’m just pissed off right now.”

“Because of what your ex said?”

“Yes. It’s annoying because now all of our local law enforcement thinks that I’m the one more affected by all of this.”

He watches you pace back and forth again, steam rolling out of your ears, face scrunched up with anger again, looking like you’re about to rip your hair off as you mumble more profanities to yourself.

He looks at you skeptically. “Are you…not?” He knows the second he says it that it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’M NOT!!!” you scream at him defensively.

“Sorry, sorry, I–” He glances down at his book again discreetly, then says rather stiffly, “...I just want you to know that I am here for you.”

You blink at him. “Oh…well, that’s—” You scratch at your elbow gently and then tuck strands of your hair behind your ear, “that’s very sweet of you, thank you.”

Hmmmmmmmm.

He steals another quick glance at the page. “What’s been the hardest part to deal with in this situation?” he asks, crossing his outstretched legs at the ankle and placing his elbow up on the armrest to set his chin down on the knuckles of his fist inquisitively.

You turn to face him again, expression softening pleasantly but there’s still a bit of surprise on your face. “Oh, it–...I don’t know, I think just…it’s a misunderstanding that he’s willingly spreading.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

You let out a hefty exhale, loosely crossing your arms over your chest as you lean back onto the Foyer table. You glance at the floor deep in thought. “Mm…angry. Frustrated. Embarrassed.” You glance up at the high ceiling. “I just hate feeling misunderstood.”

“Mhm…I see,” he nods inquisitively, then glances down at the chart in the book again, “And can you pinpoint when these feelings started?”

You look up at the chandelier, expression curling into one of melancholy. “I think I’ve always just had a hard time expressing myself emotionally, where what I do kind of comes off as different from how I really feel…and so when people take things the wrong way, it just…I don’t know, it makes me upset.”

“I hear you.” He’s running a blank so he haphazardly flips the pages of the book to a whole other chapter and glances down at words that read always gather more information when necessary. Then he looks back up at you. “And what exactly did this guy do to you that’s got you so—” he pauses when you narrow your eyes at him, “…er, that made you,” he watches you nod your head encouragingly as if waiting for him to validate the reality of this situation, “…break up with him.”

You nod, satisfied by his depiction of events, but cross your arms over your chest somewhat stubbornly. When your eyes pass over to him again, your expression softens slightly, as if contemplating something, but then it becomes rigid again.

“It’s…I don’t know. It’s whatever.”

“Did he murder a family member?”

“No.”

“Did he steal money from you?”

“No.”

“Did he cheat on you?”

You avert your gaze towards the kitchen. “…no.”

“Then what?”

You exhale deeply, still avoiding eye contact with him. “The why doesn’t matter. Just know that he failed me and subsequently lost me.”

“Well,” Gojo says, “then he’s an idiot.” And he didn’t need the book to come up with that.

You look back at him with a gentle ease, and your arms drop from their crossed position before you smooth your palms down the fabric of your jeans. You try to maintain eye contact with him but not without blinking your lashes a few more times than usual. “Thanks for, um…letting me vent. I actually feel a lot better after…talking about it.”

“Sure,” he closes the book in his lap, “same time next week?”

“What?”

“—What?”

You squint your eyes at him suspiciously, but then drop it when you let out a hefty sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

He’s not sure if it’s appropriate for a therapist to make a without me? joke in response to one of their clients announcing that they’re going to go take a shower, but he holds back regardless.

He watches you shuffle across the hardwood floors towards the stairs, mumbling a few more remnant profanities as if you still had a couple left in you to spill. And just when he sees you lift one foot up on the first step, he remember that he should probably—

“Oh, uh, sorry, while we’re on the topic of your ex,” he says, “is now a bad time to tell you that I’m going golfing with him on Sunday?”

Your jaw drops.

The argument that ensues after was less of an argument and more you yelling at him for about ten minutes straight while he’s unable to get a single word in and has no choice but to just take it. Which even he’s self aware enough to know he deserves, regardless of whatever scheming good intentions he may seem to have. And when you storm away upstairs, slam the door to your bedroom with a force that would suggest he’ll have to repair it in the morning, he knows that he’s back to square one with you now. And if this was a real marriage, with a couple of kids running around the house, and a lack of spare bedrooms, he knows that he’d have been sleeping on the couch tonight.

One step forward, two steps back.

[end of ch.8, ‘two steps back’]

song(s) of the chapter: woman by harry styles

a/n. hiii loves!! thanks so much for tuning into another chapter of ihm :'') it means a lot to meee. yeah this was the first gojo pov which had me sooooo nervous because like tbh before i wrote this chapter i kinda had no idea who ihm gojo was. because reader's pov chapters are sooo heavily skewed to her pov and she's kind of an unreliable narrator, i never really had to sit down n force myself to confront how ihm gojo feels about things personally. there were lots of times where i was hitting roadblocks in my writing of this chapter because i simply was like "...wait how would he feel about this. i don't even know" hahah idk if that makes sense but yeah i definitely had to search within myself to kinda bring more of his character traits to life and balance his good qualities against his flaws. i hope you enjoyeeddd. once again my classic ihm apology that there's so many random side plots lolol i really am trying to keep the romance at the center of the story but then i get a little carried away xd i promise there will be chapters where there are bigger developments though!! but there may also be some other ones that kinda serve for set-up :''0 i try to make each chapter engaging though at the very least. but speaking of....... i am SOOOOOO excited for chapters 9 & 10 HEHEHEHEHEHEH let's just saaayyyyy we get introduced to a character that many of my readers have been curious about :)))) but yeah chapter 9 is already one of my favorite chapters of ihm so far i've only written like maybe 4.5k words for it and i'm so pumped to finish it and post it!! and then ch10 is...also one of my faves ahhhhh huuuuuuge thank you to my beta reader leni she singlehandedly gave me the confidence to post certain scenes in this chapter that i was planning to cut out but now i'm soooo happy that i kept them in!!! she's a real one fr. and thank you to another one of my beta readers josie who really forced me to think a lot ab ihm gojo's character before i went into writing this chapter lmfaooo she made me realize i didn't know shit about him HAHAH. and ofc thank you to mirl and ayelin too for helping me figure out some of the plot intricacies and providing me w support :'''') i really appreciate it i hope you guys enjoyed!! thank you to everyone who reads and interacts and leaves love for me. i'm so happy to i'm still able to make time for writing and that there are people who look forward to my updates. love you all very much!! hope to see you in the next one <3

➸ take me to chapter nine!

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pbaz7 · 3 months ago

Text

FINDING PEACE IN YOU: PART 5

paige x azzi

word count: 6.1k

A/N: Idek y’all had me stressed with the lil research you did 🙃. Filler chapter but also not really because it’s going to move the story along quite a bit . I stress wrote this btw. Let me know what you think! Also happy game day, enjoy this while we wait 6 more hours for the game

—————————————————————————

Five months into seeing one another, Paige and Azzi had settled into something that felt easy—natural. Azzi had been to a few of Paige’s games, never making a big show of it, just quietly taking a seat with Paige’s family, blending into the crowd. They weren’t hiding their relationship, but they weren’t announcing anything either.

For the most part, the media hadn’t caught on, at least not in a major way. There had been small rumors—wide-eyed fans catching glimpses of Azzi in the background of pictures, a few speculative tweets wondering why she was always around these days. But there was nothing concrete. Nothing they ever had to address.

Tonight though, Azzi was Paige’s plus-one for a charity event in Dallas—one that Paige not only supported but owned half of. It was a high-profile event, filled with notable figures from the city, from athletes to business investors, all gathered in the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel to raise money for Dallas children.

When Paige arrived she was ushered toward the red carpet for pictures. Azzi instinctively started to step to the side, assuming Paige would take them alone. But before she could step away, Paige’s grip on her hand tightened slightly, pulling Azzi back toward her.

Azzi glanced at her in question, and Paige licked her lips before saying, “You wanna be in ‘em with me?”

Azzi blinked. “In what?”

Paige chuckled at her confusion, her eyes flicking between Azzi’s. “Some of the pictures I’m about to take, baby.”

Azzi hesitated for a moment, knowing the implications. “You sure?”

Paige smiled, squeezing her hand. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t for real big head.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was able to hide the small smile forming as Paige led them toward the red carpet. The moment they stepped into the bright lights, Paige wrapped her arm around Azzi’s waist and Azzi leaned into her, resting her hand against Paige’s stomach as the cameras immediately reacted, multiple flashes going off simultaneously.

As they adjusted their stance slightly, shifting with the cues from the photographers as Azzi adjusted her dress, Paige leaned in, her lips brushing just below Azzi’s ear as she whispered, “You good? Is it too much?”

Azzi smiled at Paige, her fingers briefly squeezing Paige’s waist in silent reassurance. “I’m good baby.”

Paige smiled at that, pressing a quick kiss to Azzi’s temple before they turned back to the cameras, taking a few more pictures together. After a few moments, Azzi stepped aside, giving Paige the space to take a few solo pictures while she moved out of frame, watching from the side with quiet admiration.

For most of the night, Paige and Azzi stayed close. Azzi made every effort to keep Paige entertained, knowing that these kinds of events weren’t her scene but Paige had to be present the entire night. The few times they did part ways, it was only briefly—Paige stepping up to deliver a short speech and thanking everyone for coming out or being pulled aside for a quick interview.

It was towards the end of the event and Azzi currently sat at the bar, one leg draped over the other, absentmindedly tracing the rim of her glass with her fingertips. Paige’s suit jacket rested over her shoulders, the fabric still carrying the familiarness of how Paige smelled, sending a subtle tingle through Azzi’s body when she got a whiff of it. The drink in her hand was all but forgotten.

Her eyes had been locked on Paige, who was mid-interview across the room that was now almost empty. Even from a distance, Paige’s presence was magnetic, the soft curve of her lips as she spoke, the way her hand instinctively slipped into her pocket like she was stopping herself from fidgeting.

Paige must have felt the weight of Azzi’s stare because mid-sentence, her gaze flickered up, locking onto Azzi’s across the space. A slow smirk ghosted over Paige’s lips as she tilted her head slightly, her eyes dragging over Azzi like she was committing her to memory.

Azzi lifted her eyebrow in response, lips parting just slightly before she pressed them together. She could see Paige’s eyes dipping down to her chest briefly, tracing the line of her exposed collarbone and her chest beneath the jacket before flickering back up. Paige bit her lip, raising both of her eyebrows at Azzi.

Azzi exhaled through her nose, amusement in her expression as she mouthed, “Behave.”

Paige was still smirking as she shrugged like she was innocent, but the way she was looking at Azzi still said otherwise. Azzi just shook her head, biting back a smile before finally breaking eye contact.

She was about to take another sip of her drink when someone next to her cleared their throat.

She barely acknowledged it at first, assuming it was just another lingering guest ordering a drink, but then a voice she hadn’t heard in years cut through the air.

“Azzi.”

Her body stiffened slightly—subtly, barely noticeable to anyone else, but enough for her to feel it in her muscles. Azzi slowly turned her head, her expression instantly cooling. Her ex stood beside her, wearing a carefully practiced smile, as if the past was something that could be smoothed over with pleasantries. Azzi didn’t offer a greeting; all she could muster was a slow, unimpressed blink.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” her ex said, shifting slightly, one arm resting against the bar.

Azzi’s tone was completely flat. “Makes two of us.”

Her ex let out a small laugh, like she was amused by Azzi’s reaction rather than deterred by it. “You look really good… amazing, actually, beautiful. It’s been a while.”

Azzi hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t offer anything more than that. She truly had no interest in small talk, no desire to even look at her ex. Instead, she lifted her glass and took a long sip, her gaze flickering to find Paige across the room. When she looked over Paige was already watching her. Watching the interaction as she spoke to the young man in front of her.

There was a silent question in the way Paige’s head tilted slightly as she watched Azzi. She wasn’t approaching but Azzi could see the way her jaw tensed, the way her fingers lightly tapped against the glass in her hand.

Her ex spoke again, pulling Azzi’s attention back. “How you been?”

Azzi let out a slow sigh before answering. “I’m great. Is there something I can help you with?”

Her ex shifted slightly, clearly not expecting the bluntness. “I’m just trying to catch up. Talk to you a little.”

Azzi didn’t bother hiding her disinterest. “Really not interested in speaking.” She took another sip of her drink, showing that the conversation was already over in her mind.

But her ex didn’t get the hint. “Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. I know I hurt you.” She paused, trying to gauge Azzi’s reaction before continuing. “I’ve grown a lot since then though. I wasn’t ready to settle down fully back then, and I handled things badly.”

Azzi hummed, swirling the liquid in her glass as she missed with her nails.

Her ex sighed. “I just… I really did love you, you know.”

Azzi finally turned her head to look at her, expression completely unreadable. “Please have the decency to not lie to my face right now.”

Her ex’s lips parted, eyes flickering with something—guilt, maybe—regret. “I swear I did, Azzi.”

Azzi let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “Ok and was that before or after you fucked somebody else and still crawled into my bed every night for two years?”

The words landed between them with the weight of something that was buried some time ago but clearly never forgotten. Her ex didn’t have an immediate response. Just a sigh, one of those woe is me sighs that Azzi had lost patience for at some point towards the end of their relationship.

“Look, maybe we can get coffee or something,” her ex tried again, shifting slightly, like she was testing the waters. “You know, talk. Maybe get on the same page again.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow, lips parting in disbelief before she let out another short incredulous laugh. “Get on the same page again?” She tilted her head. “And what page is that exactly?”

Her ex swallowed, then shrugged, attempting nonchalance but failing. “What we had was perfect and you know I’m ready to settle down now.”

Azzi stared at her for a long beat ready to say something before she exhaled, shaking her head instead as she reached for her drink again. “Good for you.”

Her ex opened her mouth, maybe to protest or push her luck some morw, but whatever thought she had evaporated the second Paige approached.

It was almost comical how quickly her ex’s expression shifted, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the new presence behind Azzi’s seat. Whatever lingering confidence she had was replaced with excitement, her voice a little breathless as she blurted out, “Oh my god, holy shit! I’ve been a huge fan of yours since I was in high school! Swear I’m one of your biggest fans.”

Azzi didn’t bother to hide the way her lips twitched in amusement, swirling the last of her drink in her glass as Paige offered a polite, practiced smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate the support.”

Azzi’s ex, still caught up in her enthusiasm, hesitated for only a second before asking, “Would you mind if we took a picture?”

Azzi chuckled quietly as Paige stepped from behind her chair. Paige adjusted her posture and leaned in just enough for the selfie.

Azzi didn’t say anything, just finished off her drink, her smirk barely hidden behind the rim of the glass.

Azzi’s ex cleared her throat, attempting to keep the conversation going. “The event was great too. It’s really amazing what you’re doing for the Dallas youth.”

Paige, still polite but uninterested in any lingering conversation, gave a small nod. “Yeah, we’re really proud of the work being done. Thanks for coming out to support.”

There was a brief pause, the kind that made it clear there wasn’t much else to say. But Azzi’s ex, grasping for a reason to stay, attempted to sound casual as she asked, “Came over here for a drink?”

Paige nodded as she flagged down the bartender with a simple gesture. “Yeah.”

The bartender approached with a friendly smile. “What can I get you?”

Paige slid her glass onto the bar. “Can you just top me off please?”

As the bartender grabbed the bottle, Paige’s eyes flickered toward Azzi’s glass, noticing it was empty. Paige added, “And another of whatever sugary-ass drink she has.”

Azzi let out a small laugh as she playfully rolled her eyes. “You act like you don’t secretly like them.”

Paige scoffed. “I don't, I just like when you get a spike shirley.”

Azzi smirked, her eyes twinkling as she took another sip of her new drink. “Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

As they bantered, Azzi’s ex, who had been standing off to the side, slowly started to piece things together. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, finally landing on Paige’s slightly unbuttoned shirt and the absence of her jacket. Then her gaze dropped to Azzi, where Paige’s jacket was draped casually, Paige's hand resting on the back of Azzi’s neck. The realization hit her and she frowned, suddenly quiet as she processed the connection.

After a moment, Azzi’s ex decided to speak up, her voice trying to sound casual. “Azzi, you gonna introduce us?”

Paige looked down at Azzi, her smile fading as she noticed the flicker of irritation in Azzi’s expression. Paige stepped closer, positioning herself in front of Azzi as if she was instinctively protecting her from something.

Paige gently tilted Azzi’s head up toward her, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s jaw. “You good, baby?” she asked quietly, her tone soft as she searched Azzi’s brown eyes.

For a brief moment, Azzi’s irritation wavered, tempered by the softness in Paige’s voice, by the steady blue of her gaze. But the tension still lingered in the slight tightness of Azzi’s jaw, the way she exhaled a little too slowly. “Yeah, I’m good,” Azzi muttered, but there was a hesitation there—one Paige would never miss.

Paige’s fingers remained light on Azzi’s jaw. When Azzi’s gaze flickered past Paige, hardening slightly again, Paige gently redirected her attention, using the slightest pressure to tilt her chin back toward her.

She didn’t speak this time, just let the quiet question settle between them. You sure?

Azzi blinked, something flickering behind her eyes before she exhaled again, this time a little steadier. Paige didn’t push—just held her gaze, silently offering her an out.

“Can we go home? I’m tired baby,” Azzi murmured, her voice quieter now.

“Of course beautiful.”

Paige stepped to the side, giving Azzi space to stand, but as soon as she did, Paige shifted, positioning herself between Azzi and the woman still lingering nearby. Paige still didn’t know who she was—just that Azzi didn’t want to be around her and that was enough.

Paige pulled a wad of cash from her pocket, peeling off a few bills and sliding them across the bar. The bartender nodded in thanks, but Paige’s attention was already back to Azzi.

As Azzi moved to step away, her ex shifted—reaching out, fingers barely extending before Paige was already there. Her hand settled on the small of Azzi’s back, a seamless motion that placed herself between them. A silent barrier.

Without sparing a glance back, Paige guided Azzi forward, her grip tightening as she pulled her in. Azzi didn’t resist, letting herself lean into Paige as they made their way through the hall.

…

The drive to Paige’s house was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Azzi didn’t mind the silence—Paige had always been like this, letting her process things without forcing conversation.

Azzi glanced out the window, watching the familiar roads pass by, but her brows furrowed when she noticed Paige taking a different route. She didn’t ask, just let her curiosity simmer until Paige pulled into a Dairy Queen parking lot. A small smile tugged at Azzi’s lips as she turned to look at her.

Paige didn’t say anything, just put the car in park and hopped out, leaving the engine running. Azzi watched through the windshield as Paige walked inside, hands in her pockets, her shoulders relaxed despite everything. A few minutes later, she returned, a small cup of ice cream in each hand.

Sliding back into the driver’s seat, Paige handed Azzi one without saying anything. Azzi took it, her fingers brushing against Paige’s for a second longer than necessary. “Thank you,” she whispered, the quiet sincerity in her voice saying more than just gratitude for the ice cream.

Paige adjusted her seat, leaning it back slightly. She took a bite of her ice cream, letting the spoon linger in her mouth before finally speaking. “You wanna talk about it?”

Azzi sighed, twirling her spoon in the ice cream before answering. “That was my ex.”

Paige nodded, scooping another bite of her ice cream. “Did she say something that upset you?”

Azzi shook her head. “Her presence upsets me,” she muttered. “Which is annoying in itself.”

Paige glanced over at her. “Why?”

Azzi sighed, taking another bite of her ice cream before leaning back slightly. “It’s just…I’ve grown so much since that relationship. I’ve learned a lot about myself, about what I want, what I deserve. And yet, just seeing her still gets under my skin.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It makes me question a lot.”

Paige tilted her head, watching her for a moment before saying, “I think it just means you don’t like her.”

Azzi let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t want to not like her, though. I want to be indifferent.”

Paige gave a small smile, scooping up another bite of ice cream. “It’s okay not to like people, you know that right baby?

Azzi sighed again, rolling her spoon between her fingers. “I don’t even have a reason to not like her anymore.”

“You know that’s not true gorgeous.”

Azzi let out a long breath, her fingers tightening slightly around the spoon in her hand. She looked down, blinking quickly, but Paige caught the way her eyes shimmered. Paige reached over, gently taking the ice cream from her. Azzi let her, not questioning it as Paige rolled down her window and tossed both their cups into the trash can she parked next to.

Azzi huffed out a laugh, sniffling. “Damn. Was it that bad?”

Paige turned back to her, leaning on the center console. “No,” she said softly. “But I figured you needed your hands free.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath, tilting her head back against the seat. “I hate that she still gets to me. I don’t want her to. I don’t even care about her anymore, but—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “She made me feel awful about myself for so long. She made me question everything, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like what I needed was too much. And now, even after all this time, it’s like she’s still in my head.”

Paige reached over, threading their fingers together. “That’s because she changed the way you see things, Az,” Paige said gently. “She messed with the way you view relationships, the way you trust people. That’s not something you just get over overnight.”

Azzi swallowed, squeezing Paige’s hand. “I don’t want to give her that kind of power.”

“You’re not giving her anything,” Paige reassured her. “You’re healing. That takes time.”

“I’ve been healing for a while now. Gets a little old.”

Paige squeezed her hand. “You told me you always tell your clients that healing isn’t linear. Maybe you should take your own advice. Just because yours isn’t physical doesn’t mean it can’t be applied to you.”

Azzi let out a weak laugh, rolling her eyes, but Paige could see the way her jaw tensed, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard and looked up at the roof of the car. Despite that a single tear slipped down Azzi’s cheek, then another, and she huffed in frustration, shaking her head again like she could will them away.

Paige didn’t say anything. She just reached over, brushing the tip of her fingers against Azzi’s cheek, dabbing at the tears instead of wiping them so she wouldn’t smudge her makeup.

Azzi sniffled, a laugh bubbling up through the emotion. “Are you seriously patting my tears away right now?”

Paige smirked. “I know how much effort you put into your makeup tonight. Not about to ruin that just because you got a little in your feelings.”

Azzi swatted at Paige’s hand with a playful nudge before narrowing her eyes. “You’re annoying.”

Paige grinned. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” Azzi mumbled under her breath, trying to suppress the lingering smile forming.

Paige didn’t bother arguing. Instead she threaded their fingers together, lifting Azzi’s hand to her mouth and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was gentle, intimate—two things Azzi was quickly growing accustomed to.

“You good now baby?” Paige asked, like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Paige grinned widely before saying, “Good now gimme a kiss,” she said, tugging Azzi’s hand closer. “For being better than everybody else you been with.”

“Those words never came out of my mouth.”

Paige licked her lips as she leaned in just a little. “Mmm, I think they did.”

Azzi raised her eyebrow. “When?”

Paige tilted her head, eyes flickering to Azzi’s lips before dragging back up. “Few days ago,” she whispered. “You were under me, telling me I was the best you ever had.”

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek, exhaling a quiet laugh as the memory surfaced. She hated how smug Paige looked, how she knew exactly what she was doing—but it wasn’t like she was wrong.

Paige leaned in a little closer, her breath warm against Azzi’s lips. “So like I said, where’s my kiss?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching despite her best efforts. But before Paige could tease her again, Azzi leaned forward, closing the distance between them pressing her lips into Paige’s.

Paige let out a soft hum of satisfaction, her smile growing against Azzi’s mouth as she deepened the kiss just a little, her fingers still laced with Azzi’s.

When they pulled apart, Paige was grinning a little smugly when she saw the dazed look in Azzi’s eyes. “Told you.”

Azzi rolled her eyes again, this time with less resistance. “Shut up,” she mumbled.

Paige pulled out her phone, unlocking it.

Azzi squinted at her suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

Paige opened her Instagram camera, flipping the camera. “Take a picture with me.”

Azzi frowned. “I probably look a mess.”

Paige tilted her head towards Azzi, making a face like she herself was insulted. “You look beautiful,” she said, nudging Azzi’s cheek with her nose. “I patted and didn’t rub, remember?”

Azzi smiles at her before saying a simple, “Okay.”

Paige angled the camera, capturing the two of them in the warm glow of the street lights, the Dairy Queen sign adding a little brightness to the camera. Paige, radiated an easy confidence. The undone buttons of her shirt and the way she leaned into Azzi made her look completely at ease, like she belonged exactly where she was. Azzi, still wrapped in Paige’s jacket, had a quiet intensity to her. The remnants of her earlier tears only added to her allure—her dark eyes, slightly swollen, gave her a smoldering look, framed by the strands of hair that had fallen slightly out of place as she leaned into Paige.

Their positioning was natural, intimate without trying to be—Azzi’s fingers were resting lightly on Paige’s jaw. The contrast between them was striking in the picture—Paige’s sharp features, her pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair against the depth of Azzi’s tan skin, darker eyes and brown hair. Yet, together, they looked effortlessly cohesive, like two halves of a picture that had always been meant to fit.

When Paige snapped the picture Azzi immediately leaned in to inspect it, her eyebrows raising slightly. “You look too good.”

Paige laughed. “You’re the one eye fucking the camera.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, shifting back into her seat as Paige typed out a quick caption. Pretty girl. She posted it without another thought, locking her phone and tossing it onto the center console.

“You’re about to have groupies in my comments.”

Paige scoffed, leaning back into her seat. “I don’t have groupies.”

The second the words left her mouth, her phone buzzed. Then again. And again. Paige barely had to glance down to know exactly what was happening.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a smug smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh? Who's that then?”

“Nothing.”

Azzi snorted, shaking her head. “Mhm. That’s what I thought.” She then picks up Paige’s phone and unlocks it to scroll through the incoming DM’s of people having meltdowns. Azzi was still scrolling through the DM’s laughing at some of them when Paige shifted closer, resting her head against the seat as she draped an arm over Azzi’s lap. “You know,” Paige murmured in a smooth voice, “you’re real cute when you get all serious.”

“Serious?”

“Mhm.” Paige’s fingers trailed lightly over the exposed portion of Azzi’s thigh for the slit in her dress, tracing absent patterns. “You’re pouting a little when you read the ones that aren’t funny.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Paige lifted her head slightly, her breath warm against Azzi’s cheek as she leaned in enough to test the space between them. “I like it though.”

Azzi felt her resolve slip the way it always did when Paige got like this—low-voiced, teasing her, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

Then, Azzi’s phone buzzed against her thigh.

Paige whispered. “Ignore it.”

Azzi hesitated, Paige’s lips a breath away from hers. But then it buzzed again. And again.

Paige let her head drop back against the seat with a groan as Azzi finally glanced down to grab her phone. As soon as the screen lit up, her brows furrowed.

“What?” Paige asked, peeking over.

Azzi turned the phone toward her, showing the rapid stream of Instagram notifications. Follows. Likes. Comments. Her follower count was jumping by the second.

Paige’s lips twitched. “Oh.”

Azzi blinked at the screen. “Did you just make me go viral?”

Paige smirked,shrugging innocently. “I mean…I did caption it ‘pretty girl.’ You were makin eyes at the camera too so that prolly didn’t help.”

Azzi shot her a look. “You’re so—”

“I know.” Paige grinned, looking too pleased with herself as she slid a hand over Azzi’s thigh again. “Now, where were we?”

Azzi pushes her hand off playfully as she attempts to get her instagram to stop glitching so she can manage the notifications. “You were taking me home.”

Paige groans, mumbling about how groupies ruin everything as she puts the car in drive.

…

For the next few weeks the attention Azzi got only grew.

Azzi barely had to unlock her phone anymore before seeing another wave of notifications—more follows, more comments, and, of course, more DMs. It wasn’t just online, either. Random people started recognizing her when she was getting coffee, some even bold enough to ask if she was that girl from Paige’s Instagram post that went viral.

For the most part, she and Paige laughed about it.

“This is actually insane,” Azzi muttered, scrolling through her DMs.

Paige was sprawled across Azzi’s couch, tossing a basketball up and catching it. “What now?”

Azzi smirked, eyes scanning her screen. “Just some dude asking if I need a personal trainer.”

Paige caught the ball midair and sat up. “Blocked.”

Azzi laughed. “I didn’t even open it.”

“Still. Blocked.” Paige reached over, swiping at Azzi’s phone, but Azzi snatched it away, grinning.

“Relax,” Azzi teased.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Show me your DMs.”

Azzi raised a brow. “No.”

“Oh, so there is something in there.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and held out the phone. “Here, go crazy.”

Paige snatched it instantly, scrolling with laser focus. “Mmm… thirst, thirst, weird thirst—” she made a face before tossing the phone back to Azzi. “I take back what I said. Block them all. Matter fact you should make your account private.”

Azzi snorted. “Jealous much?”

Paige didn’t even hesitate. “Obviously.”

Azzi smirked, tilting her head. “Alright, then let me see your DMs.”

Paige just pointed toward her phone, which was sitting on the coffee table. “Go ahead.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes at how unbothered Paige was, but grabbed the phone anyway. She unlocked it—Paige had already told her the passcode a long time ago—and pulled up Instagram. The moment she tapped on the DM requests, her mouth fell open.

“Oh. My. God.”

Paige just grinned, stretching her arms behind her head. “What?”

Azzi turned the phone around. “What?? Paige, this is disgusting. There are at least five people offering to be ‘ready,’ tonight.”

Paige shrugged. “Yeah, that happens. Gotta ignore those.”

Azzi scrolled further, eyes widening at whatever she was looking at.

Paige chuckled saying, “Really hope you didn’t open any pictures.”

Azzi groaned, swiping aggressively. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.” She started blocking accounts left and right.

Paige just laughed. “You really over there working overtime.”

“Someone has to,” Azzi muttered. “This is actually unhinged. Some of them need to be housed.”

Paige laughed, watching Azzi hit ‘block’ on yet another overly persistent DM. “Mmm. What’d you say earlier. Jealous much?”

Azzi glanced up, unimpressed at Paige’s sarcasm. “Obviously.”

Paige grinned, going back to shooting the ball in the air. “Cute.”

…

Paige and Lukas had fallen into an easy routine—picking Azzi up from her clinic whenever Paige was in town or didn’t have a game, their little trio moving like clockwork. Tonight was no different. They had just stepped off the elevator, Paige carrying Azzi’s bag as they made their way toward the exit.

The second Paige pushed open the glass door she tensed.

It wasn’t a crowd, not really. Maybe seven or eight people. But the fact that they were there, waiting outside Azzi’s job, made her stomach tighten.

Her security guard was already standing off to the side, having gotten out of his car to manage the situation but that didn’t stop Paige’s instincts from kicking in. She scooped Lukas up, settling him on her hip as her eyes flickered across the group.

The fans weren’t aggressive. Just excited. Some held their phones up, recording, calling out Paige’s name, asking for pictures, for autographs. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before, but them being here like this didn’t sit right with her.

So, Paige ignored them completely.

She walked ahead of Azzi, opening the back door and setting Lukas down in his seat. “You got it?” she murmured.

Lukas nodded, already reaching for his seatbelt. Paige trusted him to handle it, so she shut the door and turned back to Azzi and opened the passenger door for her.

Azzi didn’t say anything as Paige opened the door. Paige’s jaw tightened slightly before she exhaled, watching Azzi climb into the seat. Once Azzi was settled in, Paige shut the door behind her, then turned back toward the group.

“Yo,” she said, her voice a little aggressive as she addressed them. “This ain’t cool.”

The excitement in the air dimmed quickly. A few people awkwardly shuffled their feet.

Paige shook her head. “I don’t mind seeing everybody at games or events or even out randomly, but not at her job.” Her jaw was tight as she spoke to them. “Don’t do no shit like this again.”

Silence. Some nodded, some looked embarrassed. Paige didn’t wait for a response, she just turned on her heel and headed for the driver’s side. The moment she got in the car and pulled the door shut she exhaled, gripping the wheel for a second before glancing over. “You okay?”

Azzi nodded, not nearly as fazed as Paige. “Yeah.”

Paige’s jaw tightened slightly as she said, “I’m getting you security.”

Azzi frowned. “Paige, I don’t need a security guard.”

“I’m getting you one. End of story.”

Azzi opened her mouth ready to argue, but Paige sent her a look. “Azzi.” Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it was the first time she hadn’t been soft-spoken with Azzi.

Azzi sighed, pressing her lips together, knowing there was no point in pushing back right now. So she just let it go.

…

Later that night, after putting Lukas to sleep in his room, Paige and Azzi were settled into Paige’s bed. Azzi was laying on Paige slightly, her book resting against Paige’s stomach as she read, while Paige leaned back against the headboard, watching film from her last game on her iPad. The room was quiet except for the occasional sound of Paige’s game audio and the rustling of Azzi flipping a page.

After a while, Azzi lowered her book slightly, her gaze shifting up toward Paige. She watched the way Paige’s eyebrow furrowed, her fingers idly tapping against the screen as she analyzed a play. Paige must’ve sensed Azzi looking because she glanced down, catching Azzi staring.

Paige smirked, setting her iPad down and running a hand through Azzi’s curls. “Wassup?”

Azzi smiled at the touch, closing her book and shifting slightly to rest more comfortably against Paige’s chest. “Can we talk about earlier?”

Paige kept running her fingers through Azzi’s curls. “Mhm,” she hummed, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s face.

Azzi adjusted further, tucking herself deeper against Paige’s chest, her fingers starting to idly trace patterns over Paige’s side. The two of them had realized early on that they talked more freely like this—when they were physically connected, their guards down, the closeness making honesty easier.

Paige spoke first. “I’m sorry about my tone, baby. I didn’t mean to talk to you like that or dismiss you.”

Azzi let out a small sigh, shaking her head slightly. “It’s okay. I understand emotions were a little high at the moment.” She paused, then hesitated before admitting, “I get why you want me to have security, but it just… it feels weird. I’m not…I don’t know.”

“You’re not me,” Paige finished for her, her fingers still gently massaging Azzi’s head.

Azzi nodded, relaxing into Paige’s touch. “It feels a little excessive.”

“I know…” Paige murmured. “I just… I’ve seen how fast stuff like that can escalate and get out of control, and I can’t be there all the time.” Her fingers tightened ever so slightly against Azzi’s scalp. “So if I can’t be there, I just need to know you’re safe. That’s all.”

Azzi sighed, her fingers still absentmindedly tracing over Paige’s side. “And I appreciate that, baby, but I don’t need you spending that money. They’re harmless.”

Paige’s hand stilled against Azzi’s curls for a moment before she spoke. “They’re harmless until they aren’t, Az.” She exhaled, her other hand rubbing slow circles into Azzi’s back. “Most of my fans are the nicest people when we meet, but I do have some that are a little…overboard sometimes. And I don’t want you running into someone like that without somebody with you.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away, just pressed her face a little closer against Paige’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. “It just seems like so much.”

Paige gently cupped Azzi’s jaw, her thumb stroking just beneath her cheekbone as she guided her to meet her eyes. “I know and I’m sorry you gotta deal with all of this now,” she murmured, guilt laced in her tone.

Azzi leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to Paige’s lips before whispering, “Don’t apologize for things you can’t control beautiful.”

Paige sighed into the kiss, her hold on Azzi tightening slightly, like she needed to keep her close. “You’re too good to me.”

Azzi smiled widely. “I know.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but the fondness never left her face. She tapped Azzi’s chin lightly before saying, “C’mere.” Azzi shifted so she was fully straddling over Paige, their faces inches apart. Paige ran her hands down Azzi’s sides, reveling in the way Azzi melted into her.

“You tryna butter me up so I forget about this whole security thing?” Azzi teased.

Paige grinned, shrugging slightly. “Is it working?”

Azzi pretended to think for a second before shaking her head. “Definitely not.”

Paige groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “Damn. Guess I gotta try harder.”

Azzi hummed in agreement as she leaned down to press a few kisses along Paige’s neck. A few seconds later they both heard the sound of little feet padding across the floor. They turned their heads to see Lukas standing in the doorway, his pajama shirt slipping off one shoulder, his hair sticking up in random directions.

“Lukas?” Azzi asked gently, already sitting up to slip off of Paige’s lap.

The little boy rubbed his eyes before looking at them, his voice small. “Can I sleep in here?”

Azzi’s heart softened and before she could even say anything, Paige was already sitting up and reaching her arms out. “C’mere, buddy.”

Lukas walked towards the bed climbing onto it and settling between them, snuggling up to Paige’s side as Azzi reached over to smooth his hair down. Paige caught Azzi’s eyes over Lukas’s head, her lips twitching into a smile.

“We’ll finish this later,” Paige whispered, and Azzi just shook her head, her own smile lingering as she pressed a kiss to Paige’s forehead before turning off the lights.

…

The next morning, the three of them were about to leave Paige’s house to take Lukas to play basketball before Paige’s game later. Paige’s keys jingled as they got ready to leave out the door. As soon as she swung the door open, a figure sitting on the stairs caught them all off guard.

The woman stood abruptly, her gaze snapping toward the three of them, like she wasn’t fully prepared to actually see them. Azzi froze, confused, as the woman’s presence seemed to take up the entire space. Paige’s face, however, was another story—every ounce of color draining from her face in an instant.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

442 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

From Eden | Chapter Seven pt.2 (7/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Agoraphobia, social anxiety, minor panic attack in public, Oscar speaking Spanish (brief, but ohmygawd), Christmas celebrations, brief sexual content.

Notes — Thanks for being patient with me for this one. I think I was lowkey procrastinating writing this because I’m going to miss them so much. Chapter 8 is also going to be a 2 parter, btw!

Oscar liked Spain.

He always had. There was something about the rhythm of the place — the slow, golden mornings, the late, laughter-filled dinners, the way the sun clung to his skin like honey, even in December. He’d spent a lot of time there over the past few years. For races, mostly. Training camps, media appearances, test days on sun-bleached tracks. It had always been somewhere he associated with purpose. With movement.

Now, though, it was different.

Now, he couldn’t walk the streets or breathe the air without feeling how it had shifted — how the fact that her parents had chosen to call this place home had altered everything.

(“They moved here after choosing early retirement,” Francesca had explained quietly, hours earlier in bed, when the sky was still indigo and the hotel was cloaked in silence. Her fingers had curled into the hem of his shirt like she was anchoring herself to him. Oscar’s hand had moved slowly through her hair, massaging her scalp the way she liked. Anything to soothe her.

“They emptied their bank accounts,” she went on. “Sold my childhood home.” Her voice cracked — not with tears, but with that quiet kind of ache that lived just under the surface. “We used to live in the countryside in Surrey, you know? I used to buy myself chickens with my pocket money.”

Oscar had smiled gently at that, picturing a younger version of her — tiny and stubborn, stomping around in bright yellow welly boots, giving all of the chickens names and backstories.

“That was five years ago, I think. I was seventeen. They sent me off to uni, helped me move into my dorm, and then a week later told me they’d sold the house. No warning. Just—‘Oh, by the way, we’re moving to Spain.’ Like it was no big deal.”

Oscar’s hand had stilled for a moment in her hair. His jaw ticked.

Seventeen.

She’d been seventeen. Still a teenager. Already struggling, freshly away from home, and they’d pulled up their roots and left the country.

It hit him like a cold slap — not just how abrupt it had been, but how deeply, quietly cruel. How abandoned she would’ve felt, in the aftermath.

Oscar knew what it was to leave home young. He’d gone off to boarding school when he was barely a teenager. Airports and hotels became familiar long before adulthood did. But even then — even in the loneliest, most exhausting moments — he’d still had people checking in. His parents had never disappeared. They’d driven hours to stand at cold karting tracks and sit through painful sponsor meetings. They'd never made him feel like he had to face the world without them.

Francesca, though — she'd been left to do it all on her own. She hadn’t had a team behind her or a goal pulling her forward. She’d just been a kid.

She would’ve needed more. More reassurance. More patience. More love.

And they hadn’t given her any of it.

“My sister didn’t care,” she continued. “She was already living with whatever boyfriend she had at the time — Ian, I think his name was. But it was my home, you know? I thought I’d get to come back to it. I thought—” She stopped. Shrugged. “Anyway. Yeah. That’s how they ended up living here, and I stayed in England.”

Her voice was flat, stripped of emotion, and Oscar hated it.

He didn’t say anything at first. Mostly because if he did, he was pretty sure it would come out too sharp, too cutting — the kind of thing he wouldn’t be able to take back. He could feel the words rising in him anyway, bitter and hot in his throat.

But she didn’t need his anger.

Instead, his fingers slid across the sheets and found hers under the covers, cool and curled and a little tense. He squeezed gently — once, then again. It wasn’t just for comfort.

It was a promise. A quiet vow etched into the space between them.

Never again, baby.

He didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t need to.

She gave the smallest squeeze back.)

—

He kept his hood up as he walked, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, trainers silent on the cobbled pavement. It was early still — the kind of soft morning that made everything feel gentler than it really was — but the streets were beginning to stir. The occasional bark of a dog, a child singing a Christmas carol at the top of their voice, the low murmur of Spanish slipping between couples on their balconies.

Oscar moved quietly through it all, sunglasses tugged low even though the sun hadn’t quite made it over the rooftops yet. He wasn’t trying to draw attention. He never really was. Still, it happened sometimes.

And it did, halfway down the block.

Two teenagers in matching puffer jackets, shoulders hunched and earbuds in, passed him and then doubled back a few seconds later, whispering frantically. He caught the shift in their pace, the cautious glance from one of them as she pulled out her phone and raised it subtly.

He offered a quick smile, nodding once, but didn’t stop. He didn’t really mind — he never had, it was all part of the life he’d chosen — but right now, his mind was too full of Francesca.

Of how small she’d looked yesterday. Of how quiet she’d been all night.

Of how she’d pressed her nails into her palms. How she'd barely touched her food. How her mother’s voice had hovered sharp in the air like static, and her sister’s laugh had stung like vinegar on a paper cut.

Oscar exhaled slowly as he turned the corner, the warm scent of coffee and sugar curling out into the street ahead of him.

He was trying. Trying to give her something soft in the middle of all this hardness. Trying to make up for years that aren’t his to make up for.

He stepped into the café, the bell overhead jingling softly. The woman behind the counter greeted him in rapid Spanish, and he answered with a polite smile and a “Dos cafés con leche, por favor,” his Australian accent thick, but his Spanish passable. Then, pointing to the glass case filled with pastries, he added, “Y... algo dulce. Lo mejor.” Something sweet. The best one.

Because that’s what Francesca deserved.

Something warm. Something kind. Something good.

He balanced the tray carefully as he stepped out of the café, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. Two coffees, one with oat milk — hers, obviously — and a small white paper bag full of whatever pastries the woman behind the counter had insisted were the best. He hadn’t asked questions. Just smiled and handed over a few notes, trusting her judgement more than his own half-asleep cravings.

The air had warmed a little since he left the hotel, sunlight stretching long and golden across the pavement. The buildings threw soft shadows. There were more people out now, the small Spanish town waking up, but still no one paid him much mind.

Again, his hood was up. His head was down.

And his thoughts were full of her.

He took a slow breath.

Australia.

The word itself felt too big to say out loud yet. But it had been circling his brain since the moment he got off the phone with his mum the night before. Since she’d told him, so casually, Book the flight. Bring her home. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he wasn’t dealing with something so fragile, carrying her heart in his hands, trying to protect it from every sharp corner.

But maybe it was the right thing. Maybe it would be good for her. Sunshine. Real family. Space to breathe. Not her parents’ house, but his. His world. The people who already loved her without even really knowing her yet.

Oscar reached the corner and paused, waiting for the light to change. He shifted the tray to one hand, his fingers curling tight around the edge.

He didn’t want to push. That was the biggest thing. Francesca had spent so long being tugged around by people who didn’t listen; didn’t care. He never wanted to be another person adding pressure to her shoulders.

But God, he wanted her there. Wanted her to see what family could feel like. Wanted to fall asleep next to her with the windows open to the summer air and sand still on their legs. Wanted to show her his world — not the racing one, not the public one, but the real one.

He crossed the street, hotel coming into view ahead. They had the rest of the day ahead of them. No more family obligations. Just each other.

Maybe he’d ask her after breakfast.

Or maybe he’d crawl back into bed beside her, tuck the duvet around her shoulders, kiss her temple, and then ask.

Yeah. That sounded good.

—

iMessage — Hattie & Francesca

Hattie

has he asked you yet???? 👀

Francesca

asked me what???

good morning to you too btw

wait what time is it there

oh just checked lol. good afternoon

Hattie

okay so here’s a rly fun idea!!!!!

let’s pretend none of this happened ok

actually i think i have the wrong number!

Francesca

hattie. piastri.

Hattie

NO DON’T BIG SISTER ME OMG

oscar is going to kill me.

—

Francesca was staring at her phone, an amused little frown pulling at her brows, when Oscar came back into the room. He was balancing two coffees and a small paper bag that smelled like sugar and something warm and buttery. Her stomach made an embarrassing sound and she felt her cheeks flush when he smirked at her, clearly having heard it.

“I wasn’t too long?” he asked, then gave her phone a glance. “Everything okay? Is it Katie?”

She shook her head with a soft laugh, her face still a little pink from the noise her stomach had made. “No, not Katie. Your sister, actually. Wanna tell me what’s going on?” She tried to sound casual, but there was a small edge of stress in her voice that made her question if she’d pulled it off.

He frowned, brow furrowing as he took in her words. “What do you mean?”

Francesca held up her phone, her finger pointed at the messages from Hattie. “She’s acting weird. Like, really weird,” she said, her voice laced with curiosity and a bit of concern, watching his expression closely as she waited for his response.

"Right," he muttered under his breath, his voice carrying the weight of frustration and quiet tenderness. He handed her the coffee labeled ‘oat, vanilla’ and placed the small paper bag of pastries down on the bed, his eyes never leaving her. Francesca held the coffee up to her face, breathing in deeply, and Oscar caught the small hum of appreciation that escaped her lips. It made his heart feel a little lighter, as though the world was right, even just for a moment.

But he had to get this out.

“I spoke to my mum last night, once you were asleep,” he said, taking a step back, trying to give her the space to absorb it. He leaned against the edge of the bed, making sure to keep his posture open, inviting her into the conversation but giving her full control. “She wants us to go to Australia.”

Francesca’s fingers curled around the warmth of her coffee cup, her brow furrowing in confusion. Her eyes met his with a quiet surprise, and her lips parted as she tried to process his words. “Wait, what?” Her voice was soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper. “When?”

“Now,” Oscar replied, his voice steady but gentle. “Tomorrow, ideally. Before Christmas, really.” He knew how much the timing mattered. It was already the 18th.

The plan had been to stay in Spain, to spend the holidays with her family. But now… now, things were different.

“I know we were going to stay here with your family,” he continued, shifting slightly as his gaze softened. “But I also know that after… well, after last night…” He let out a small, involuntary breath at the memory. (A hitched breath, her skin pressed against his, her lips against his neck as she said “I don’t want them in my life anymore. I’m done with them, Osc. For good.”) He exhaled slowly, trying to ground himself, his thoughts clear but filled with an ache for her. “I just wanted you to know that it’s an option, yeah?”

Francesca blinked, clearly caught off guard, her eyes flickering downward as she processed his words. The silence stretched just enough for Oscar to notice the subtle shift in her—her shoulders sagged slightly, her brows knitting together as she turned the idea over in her mind. He could almost hear the quiet clamour of her thoughts, a whirlwind of everything she’d been holding inside for so long.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he told her gently, his voice dropping to a soft, soothing tone. He didn’t want to pressure her, not when it came to something so big. “We could go to Australia. We could spend Christmas there, if that’s what you want. Or we could fly back to London, steal Henry back from Katie, and have Christmas at the flat, just the three of us. We could even stay here. Have a hotel Christmas. Order room service turkey sandwiches, get cozy in bed, and binge every single Home Alone movie.” His lips quirked into a small smile at the thought. “Anything, baby.”

"Does your bedroom still look like it did when you were a kid?" she asked softly, breaking the quiet space between them. The question came almost aimlessly.

Oscar made a face. "Yeah. Posters and all. Still got a few of my old racing suits tucked away in the wardrobe, too." His voice was warm, but there was something vulnerable in it too, a hint of nostalgia — the kind of nostalgia that only came from places you’d outgrown, yet could never fully leave behind.

Francesca set her coffee down on the side table. Then, without thinking, she crawled over to him on the bed, her body fluid and natural in the way that only happened when she was with him. Kneeling up close to him, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer with a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh.

"I miss Henry," she confessed quietly, her voice muffled against the side of his neck. It was a small admission, but it carried the weight of everything she hadn’t fully said yet. The empty space where Henry usually curled up on the couch, the quiet moments where her hands itched to brush his fur.

"Me too," Oscar admitted, his voice low, his arms instinctively wrapping around her, pulling her just a little tighter.

She let out a soft breath, resting her cheek against his chest for a beat, before sitting back slightly to look at him. Her eyes were softer now, but the flicker of uncertainty was still there, dancing behind them. "But I do want to see Hattie again. And I want to eat barbecue food on Christmas Day and sunbathe on Boxing Day." Her lips curved up a little at the thought, and for a moment, the heaviness of the conversation seemed to lighten. Still, she stared at him, her gaze more serious now. “It’s a lot, Osc. I prepared myself for Spain. I don’t… I don’t have anything with me. I—” She paused, taking in a shallow breath, like she could already feel the weight of the change pressing down on her. “I can already feel myself starting to get worked up about this.”

He let her speak, his hand coming up to gently brush her hair back from her face, his fingers lingering at the curve of her jaw, grounding her.

“I know,” he murmured softly, his voice full of understanding. “It’s a big thing, and I didn’t want to spring it on you like this, especially after everything with your family. But I just need you to know it’s an option, yeah?”

She nodded, her gaze softening as she took in his words. Then, without warning, she leaned up and kissed him gently, a quiet affirmation that spoke louder than any words could.

“Can we eat now?” She asked quietly, almost shyly, as if the simplicity of the request could bring some semblance of normalcy back.

He let out a small laugh, the tension melting from his shoulders as he cupped her face in his hands. “Of course we can, baby,” he said, his voice low and tender.

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she pulled away and reached for the paper bag of pastries.

—

TWO DAYS LATER

iMessage — Katie & Francesca

Francesca

send me photos of my son pls

Katie

*5 photos of Henry sleeping, belly-up, on Katie’s silk bedsheets*

Aren’t you literally on an international flight right now?

Francesca

osc bought me wifi hehe

so i could reply to the comments on my new vid

he’s the best.

Katie

Millionaire bf buys you airline wifi and you’re impressed….?

Francesca

I’m like 90% sure the only thing ive spent my money on since meeting this man is rent. and he tried to talk me into putting that in his name last week.

Katie

…

I think I’m turned on

Francesca

keep that to urself pls

just send me more pictures of my son

oscar wants to see the baby

Katie

*4 photos of Henry, staring at the camera, unimpressed*

—

The hot evening air kissed Francesca’s skin as she walked barefoot along the shoreline, the soft sand slipping between her toes with each step. The rhythm of the waves crashing against the beach was a calming constant, yet her heart beat erratically in her chest, a mix of adrenaline and something else she couldn’t quite place.

The hum of the airport still lingered in her mind, the whirlwind of the past few days — the multiple flights, the onslaught of newness, the heavy discomfort that had settled in her bones.

She stopped, her feet sinking a little deeper into the sand, and let out a quiet breath, her fingers threading through the loose strands of her hair. “It’s all so... different,” she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the roar of the waves.

Oscar turned to face her, his expression soft but alert. “Different good or different... not so good?”

Francesca smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She looked back out at the dark horizon, the blackness of the sea melding with the sky, the sound of the waves rolling over her thoughts. “I don’t know. I think it’s just... I can’t believe I did this, Osc.”

Oscar hummed softly, the sound rich with understanding, a quiet vibration through his chest as he held her. His hand, warm and steady, reached out, gently guiding her down, not onto the sand but onto his lap, letting her find a place there, nestled against him. She let him guide her without protest, her body naturally folding as she settled, curling into him like she always had, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her head fell to rest on his shoulder, her nose brushing the crook of his neck, where the faint scent of him — wood, salt, and something undeniably him — soothed her in ways she hadn’t realised she needed. The warm night air danced around them, but it didn’t reach the warmth of his skin.

Oscar’s fingers stroked through her hair, not with urgency, but with a calm rhythm. She could feel the subtle tension of his muscles beneath her cheek, his heartbeat steady and solid against her ear.

Francesca’s eyes fluttered shut, her chest rising and falling as she let herself relax into him, allowing the quiet weight of the night to press down on her, to settle the storm that had been brewing ever since she’d turned to him and said, “Okay, let’s go to Australia. I want to spend Christmas with your family.”

Tiny bruises marred the smooth skin of his neck, visible only when she looked up close — tiny marks, fang marks. They weren’t anything particularly dramatic, but to Francesca, they were something else entirely. They were her mark on him.

She liked seeing them there. They made him more real, more hers in a way that the world couldn’t take from her. A part of him that she had a claim to — just like he had a claim to her entire soul.

Her breath evened out, the warmth of his body wrapping around her like a protective shield.

“I can’t believe I actually did it,” she murmured again, her voice barely audible, but the words were a confession she hadn’t known she needed to say aloud. “I— I’m really happy. Overwhelmed. Scared. I wish I had a machine that would send me back to my flat right now, but…” She paused, taking a breath, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “I’m so happy.”

His hand trailed slowly down her back, the motion lazy and comforting, until it rested over her hip, pressing her closer into him. “Love you. Proud of you.” He mumbled.

She kissed his neck. Then she bit him.

Just because she could.

—

Christmas Day was a blur of laughter, food, sunshine, and Oscar. The air was warm, the sun shining down in that way only Australia could, and everything felt like a slow, peaceful escape from reality.

Nicole was already in her Pilates clothes, singing Christmas carols as she cooked breakfast, her voice bright and full of joy. "It's a tradition," she explained, when Francesca raised an eyebrow, confused. "My class does a special Christmas Day session. I can't miss it!”

Hattie had woken them up with a loud, cheery “Santa’s been!” that made Francesca laugh despite herself. She buried herself deeper into the warmth of Oscar’s chest, the weight of him comforting in the best way. They were still tucked up in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by old medals, trophies, and photographs from every year of his racing career. Being there felt intimate in such a specific, beautiful way.

The presents were piled under the tree when they made their way downstairs. Nicole handed out glasses of iced mochas instead of hot chocolate — her own twist on Christmas tradition — and the air was filled with the laughter of Hattie teasing her parents about her presents and Oscar rolling his eyes at her brattiness, but smiling all the while. By midday, they’d all made their way out into the garden, basking in the warmth of the sun.

Chris had, of course, taken charge of the barbecue, declaring himself the “master of meat,” and making it clear that Hattie wasn’t allowed anywhere near the grill. “She’s got a bit of a hairspray addiction. Think it’s just a phase,” Nicole had whispered to Francesca, her tone conspiratorial.

Despite the whirlwind of it all, Francesca quickly found her place in the chaos. It was nothing like the Christmases she’d known—those were quieter, more subdued. This one was louder, brighter, warmer. Every moment felt larger than life.

As for Oscar… she had given him his present at midnight, when they were tucked in bed, the world outside quiet and still. She’d felt a wave of anxiety when she handed him it over, wrapped in cat-print paper. She watched his hands as he unwrapped it.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, his voice low, quiet, and warm.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip, her heart thumping in her chest. She reached over, took the book from him with hands that were slightly unsteady, and flipped to a few pages in — the dedication. All for him.

For you, Osc. Thank you for giving me the kind of love that people write novels about — it made this book possible.

He stared at the words for a long, breathless moment. He held the book carefully, like it was something sacred. Then, slowly, as if in reverence, he placed the proof copy of her debut novel on his bedside table, out of harm’s way.

Without a word, he reached for her, pulling her against him with a force that sent her breath rushing out. And then, with the kind of desperation that only comes when two hearts know exactly what they mean to each other, he kissed her — deep and messy and raw.

—

Now, sitting beside him in the warmth of the sun, a gentle breeze teasing her hair, Francesca found herself thinking that maybe all of the fear had been worth it, just to be here with him.

Her gaze drifted down to her finger, where her new promise ring rested. It fit her perfectly, a delicate band of silver that caught the light and shimmered softly under the sunlight. Nothing flashy or extravagant — just simple, understated beauty.

A quiet, constant reminder of the fact that she was his, and he was hers.

He’d given it to her in the kitchen, the morning still quiet, the rest of the family occupied elsewhere. He’d lifted her up, setting her gently on the counter, and stepped between her legs. Then, from the pocket of his sweatpants, he pulled out the small, velvet box, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it to her.

She’d held the box like it was fragile, as if it might shatter in her hands, until he chuckled softly and said, “It’s not that. Not yet, baby. This is just something to keep your finger warm in the meantime, yeah?”

Her eyes brimmed with emotion as she slowly cracked the box open, her breath catching in her throat. Inside, nestled on a soft velvet bed, was a silver band. When she examined it closer, she saw that it resembled a delicate piece of string, tied in a knot, dipped in silver. The design was youthful, understated — perfect in its simplicity. It was everything and more.

Oscar reached over and took her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles, grounding her back in the moment.

She turned to look at him, eyes soft, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in her irises.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice gentle, careful.

She nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

Without a word, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the promise ring. Slow, intentional — like he was sealing a vow.

Francesca could feel Nicole watching them from across the garden. She didn’t need to look to know—there was a certain warmth in the air, a gentle kind of attention that made her skin prickle in the nicest way. Nicole was probably smiling. She did that often—soft and full of quiet pride, overjoyed in that tender, maternal way only a mother could be when watching her son so clearly in love.

(“Thank you for making him so happy,” she’d said to Francesca a few nights ago, her voice thick with emotion.

Francesca had smiled, heart swelling, and replied just as softly, “Thank you for making him so perfect.”)

—

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, and 76,043 others

bookishgoldie my first christmas in australia 🇦🇺

view all comments

user1 soft launch soft launch soft launch

user21 HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE CALM ABOUT THIS?????

user88 you actually went to australia? oh my god. im so proud of you. ♥ by bookishgoldie

user6 i know we’ve been seeing sm progress from her but this is crazy! GO FRANCESCA 📣

user76 yeah call me crazy for being able to tell from one picture, but that’s oscar piastri’s hand and i know that for a fact 🤡

user61 right like i recognise that vein

user76 GIRL RIGHT!!!!! 😭😭😭

user39 IS THAT A RING???????

bookishgoldie a promise ring 🫶

user76 OH IM FUCKINF JDJDJDNFJ

user39 ohmygodhdhdjf

user50 that is the cutest thing ever. so happy for u francesca ♥ by bookishgoldie

oscarpiastri 🎄🎁☀️

user81 what the fuck does that mean

user95 CAN SOMEONE SMARTER THAN ME DECODE THIS PLEASE

user72 first time he ever actually comments on one of her posts and it’s this??? OSCAR WTF

bookishgoldie 📚🎄🧘‍♀️

user81 oh ffs she’s just as bad as he is

user74 they’re so fucking annoying 😃

—

iMessage — Katie & Francesca

Francesca

*picture of hand wearing ring*

he got me a promise ring

its perfect. i love it so much

Katie

Oh holy shit

I knew he was perfect for you but he keeps proving it

The ring is beautiful, babe. SO perfect for you.

Francesca

merry christmas, i love you and im so glad that ur my best friend

Katie

Merry Christmas, Fran. I love you so much <3333333

—

She had a panic attack in Melbourne airport.

It hit her just past customs. The flicker of fluorescent lights, the overwhelming movement of people weaving in every direction — it all closed in at once. Her chest tightened. The ground beneath her feet felt like it might disappear. Her knees felt weak.

She stopped walking. Her breath hitched. She felt acid rise in her throat, burning and painful and foul.

“Hey, hey,” Oscar murmured, already at her side, already shifting his body to shield her from everyone and everything around them. “You with me, baby?”

She shook her head, eyes wide, blinking fast. Her fingers trembled. She couldn’t breathe — at least, not the way her body was demanding. They came fast and gasping, her lungs burning with the effort.

Oscar’s hands found hers, warm and steady, his grasp on her tight. “Alright. It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said gently, like they had all the time in the world. “Let’s do Dr. Kapoor’s thing, yeah? Just you and me. Nothing else matters right now.”

People were watching. They were staring at her. She could feel them. Hear them talking about her. She whimpered, shaking, trembling, and Oscar cursed under his breath and just… dropped his backpack on the ground between them and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest and resting his chin on her forehead, holding her tight, tight tight.

“Five in,” he said softly, against the top of her ear. “We’re just breathing now. That’s all. Ready? In... one, two, three, four, five.”

She inhaled shakily, trying to match him.

“Hold it for four. That’s it. Just like she showed us. And now — out for seven. Long and slow. You’re doing so good,” Oscar whispered. “You’ve got this, baby. You’ve done this before. You know that it works”

She nodded against his chest, barely, and her breathing eventually began to steady. Her shoulders loosened, and she let herself sink against him rather than standing stiff against him. His grip on her loosened, but he didn’t let her go.

“Almost home,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And you know who’s gonna be waiting for us?”

She managed a weak smile up at him. “Henry.”

“Exactly. Grumpy little man’s is going to be so excited to see us.”

She giggled wetly. “Yeah?”

Oscar hummed, a smile tilting his lips. “Of course he is. So we’ll take him home and we’ll order Thai, put on some terrible movie, and he’ll sit between us and get so much love. You’ll be in your comfies, I’ll make you as much tea as you want. Sound good?”

She looked up at him, eyes still glassy but grounded now. “Yeah,” she whispered. “That sounds really good. Perfect.”

“Alright then,” he smiled, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. He stepped back, graved her hand, pulled it to his lips, and brushed his lips against her ring. “Let’s go home.”

—

iMessage — Nicole & Oscar

Nicole

I love you both so much. Thank you for giving me the best Christmas in years. All of my babies under my roof, happy and healthy. It meant the world, Oscar.

Oscar

Love you mum. Text you when we land x

—

Curled up in her chair on the plane, noise cancelling headphones on, she turned and slid them off of her head when Oscar tapped her wrist with the back of his knuckles.

“Got you WiFi again,” he said, holding up his phone with a small grin. “You can edit your vlog, if you want. Or just scroll TikTok. Whatever you want.”

Francesca laughed quietly, touched in that quiet, full way she always was when he did things like this — small, thoughtful, kind, always without having to be asked. “You didn’t have to. I have, like, six new books to read.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging, “but you get that little crease between your brows when you’re stressed about not having a video ready to post, and it’s cute for about five seconds, and then it starts to stress me out.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was already pulling her laptop from her backpack and handing it to him with a flutter of her eyelashes and a ‘log me in, please?’

As she edited, he shifted beside her, reading through some sim feedback on his iPad but glancing over occasionally, watching the little preview box as clips of Christmas lunch, fairy lights, and soft-focus shots of the Christmas lights they’d driven out of town to see.

About halfway through the flight, with the video mostly stitched together, Francesca hesitated. Her fingers hovered over her trackpad.

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she clicked open a new tab, pulled up Pinterest, and navigated to a board. She stared at it for a second.

“Osc,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, “can I show you something?”

He looked over instantly, setting his iPad down. “Course.”

She turned the screen toward him. Dozens of carefully saved pins filled the board — sun-washed balconies, neutral-toned kitchens, mismatched bookshelves, tiny espresso cups on marble counters, linen curtains blowing in from open windows. All nestled under the board title: Monaco Apartment.

For a beat, he didn’t say anything. Just looked.

“This is beautiful,” he said softly. “Is this…?”

She nodded, cheeks warming. “Just something I’ve been playing with. I don’t know if— I mean… I wanted you to see it. I think… If I can do this.” She gestured around them vaguely. “Then I— I think I can do that. Move. Be with you. By the water.”

Oscar smiled slowly, fully. “‘Cesca,” he murmured, “It’ll happen for us if that’s what you want. I’ll make it happen for us.”

She didn’t say anything at first — just looked at him, eyes a little glassy, the corners of her mouth curved into something soft and full of hope.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He reached over and tapped one of the pins — a small, sunlit reading nook tucked between two windows. “That one’s got your name all over it. We’ll put Henry’s bed right there.”

—

Back in London, the city muffled by rain and fog outside their window, they were tangled beneath the duvet, warm and quiet and exactly where they wanted to be. Henry was curled between their feet under the sheets, a content little loaf of fur radiating sleepy heat. Francesca's head rested on Oscar’s chest, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes over the fabric of his T-shirt.

“It’s only been eight months,” she said quietly, her voice somewhere between awe and disbelief. “Since we started talking. Eight months.”

Oscar shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Best eight months of my life,” he murmured, then paused. “I was gonna message you sooner, you know?”

She looked up at him, brow lifting in surprise. “Really?”

He gave a sheepish little smile, one shoulder twitching against the pillow. “Yeah. Ages ago, actually. You posted something about baking cupcakes and always wearing mismatched socks and I thought, yep, I’m in trouble. But I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to come off weird.”

“You? Weird?” she teased, her voice soft and fond.

“I know,” he said, grinning. “Wild, right?”

They lapsed into comfortable silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Just the hum of the city beyond the window, the soft rise and fall of breath, Henry sighing in his sleep.

She pushed closer to him, nudging her head into his neck. “I want to go to the FIA Gala with you.” She whispered against his skin.

Oscar stilled. It was subtle — just a fraction of a second — but she felt it. The faint pause in his breathing. The slight shift of his hand on her hip. It wasn’t disapproval. It wasn’t doubt in her. It was… fear, maybe. Concern. The protective kind.

But he didn’t verbalise it.

He would never be the one to tell her what she could or couldn’t handle. Never be the one to limit her.

Instead, he reached for his phone on the bedside table, still half buried under the covers, and turned the screen on with a lazy swipe.

“I’ll let Zac know I’ll be bringing a plus one,” he said, then leaned down to kiss her forehead, his lips lingering like he wanted the words to sink straight into her skin. “I love you. You’re incredible, ‘Cesca.”

She smiled against his chest, letting the weight of him, of those words, settle around her. Her heart beat steady and sure, tethered to the sound of his.

“Love you too,” she whispered.

And even with Henry purring softly at their feet, even with the grey London sky pressing against the windows, her mind was already slipping forward — imagining the bright flash of cameras, the hum of a crowd, his hand wrapped tightly around hers. The noise. The nerves. The rush of it all.

She wouldn’t be standing on the outside looking in.

She’d be there — with him. His partner. His biggest fan.

His Francesca.

—

The flat was warm, filled with the soft clatter of pots and pans and the distant sound of premature fireworks echoing somewhere nearby. From the living room, the low hum of the TV drifted into the kitchen, a comforting sort of background noise.

Oscar stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, utterly focused. They were having lasagna and garlic bread — the fancy kind he’d ordered from a private chef instead of just grabbing it from Tesco like they normally would. Francesca sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter in a McLaren hoodie and black leggings, sipping wine and watching him with quiet affection.

No doubt he’d try to sneak a pile of green leaves onto her plate. She’d roll her eyes and grumble, but she’d eat them anyway — just to get him to shut up about it.

Henry sat nearby in his ridiculous little New Year’s bow tie, looking more dressed up than both of them combined. Oscar said he looked like a distinguished gentleman. Francesca said he looked bloody stupid — and painfully cute.

By the time the countdown started on the TV, they were full of carbs and tangled together on the couch, buried beneath a heap of blankets. Henry, having fought a long and noble battle with his bow tie, had finally torn it off and was now snoring in the crook of Francesca’s knees.

As the final seconds ticked down, Oscar reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together.

“This time last year, I didn’t know you,” he said.

She turned to him, eyes soft and shiny. “Osc…” she whispered.

“Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

And when the clock hit midnight, he kissed her — slow and deep, with so much love behind it she felt it pulse through her like a second heartbeat.

Later, he pulled her into bed, and they welcomed the first hour of 2024 in a haze of pleasure. Soft moans. Back arches. Fingers gripping skin. His voice against her neck, low and growled; “Fuck, ‘Cesca.”

Afterward, she lay sprawled across his chest, their skin damp, her fingertips drawing idle lines back and forth across him.

“I think this is going to be a good year for us, Osc,” she murmured.

He tightened his arms around her, pressed a kiss to her hair, and said softly, “Let’s just start with a bath.”

She giggled — tired, happy, a little breathless. Then she let him scoop her up without protest, her arms winding around his neck as he carried her toward the bathroom, their bodies still warm and uncoiled.

For now, the rest could wait. The year could wait. All that mattered was this — soft light, shared warmth, and the quiet, reverent promise of forever.

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren, and 98,413 others

bookishgoldie so much to look forward to in 2024 🎊

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oscarpiastri happy new year🥰 ♥ by bookishgoldie

user87 happy new year!!!! 🥳

user71 HAPPY NEW YEAR

user76 omg the mclaren lego AND the mclaren like ????? AND OSCAR BEING THE FIRST COMMENT LMAO

user14 their hardlaunch is going to be sooooo slay

user30 like we all know they’re together we’re just waiting for them to confirm it atp😭😭

user72 miss girl spent xmas in australia. they’re together together

katiebird happy new year, my lovely best friend!!!! so much excitement for us in 2024 ❤️

bookishgoldie so glad to have you in my life

user65 nobody talking about francesca literally posting (almost) a full face pic🥹🥹🥹 feel like a proud big sister rn

CHAPTER EIGHT

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