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pucksandpower · 13 days ago

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Since Forever

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too

Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays

The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.

And then you walk in.

“Is that-”

“No way.”

“Schumacher?”

You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Christian sees you first.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.

You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”

“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”

“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”

Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”

“Flattering.”

You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.

And then-

“Y/N?”

His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.

He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.

“Max, we’re still-”

“Later.”

He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.

You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.

“Hey yourself,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.

And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.

“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”

“Debatable.”

He grins. “Liar.”

And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.

You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”

That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.

“She called him Uncle Jos.”

“Did she just-”

“Holy shit.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.

“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.

“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.

“You’re your father’s daughter.”

You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”

Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.

“Good to have you back.”

Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.

“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.

“You were already soft,” you reply.

He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.

Because you do.

“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”

“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”

“Close enough,” Max says.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.

You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”

“Max.”

“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”

You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”

“We were always the main act, anyway.”

It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.

And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.

A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”

“Perfect,” you say.

Max doesn’t move.

“Max,” Christian warns.

“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.

You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”

“Try and stop me.”

And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.

And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.

Phones are out. Whispers spiral.

Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.

Max Verstappen is in love.

You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.

“You used to like that about me.”

You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”

And Max?

He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.

***

When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”

He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.

“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.

“You sound like my dad.”

Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”

You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”

“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”

You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“I’ll fix that.”

“You’re not a sleep aid.”

He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”

You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.

“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.

Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”

“In your apartment.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”

You tilt your head. “Do I?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”

You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”

He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”

You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.

“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”

Oh.

The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.

***

You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.

Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.

Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crying,” you snap.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”

Then he takes your hand.

And doesn’t let go.

He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Jos said.

But Michael just smiled.

“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”

***

Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.

“That’s why you left the box?”

He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”

You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.

“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”

“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”

“Next to your helmets?”

He nods. “Next to your letters.”

Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”

Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”

“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”

“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”

You do. God, you do.

***

Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.

You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.

Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.

You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not serious.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”

Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.

“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”

***

Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”

“What?”

“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”

You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.

“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”

You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You were twelve.”

“Still could’ve scared you off.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

***

Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.

Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”

You glance at him. “Who?”

“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”

You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”

“Because I let them see it.”

You frown. “Do you regret that?”

Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”

Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”

You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.

“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”

He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”

You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”

“I want to.”

“You do.”

He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”

You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”

***

You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.

“You’ve always been mine.”

And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.

***

Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.

But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.

Not to Lando, at least.

He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.

“Wait, no fucking way.”

Oscar glances at him. “What?”

Lando squints.

“No way.”

At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.

But then he sees you.

You’re laughing.

Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

And Max-

Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”

Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”

Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.

Lando keeps staring.

“Are they-”

“Looks like.”

“When did-”

Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”

He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.

Max, being gentle.

“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.

Oscar blinks. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”

And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.

***

You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.

“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.

Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”

You look up, grinning. “Hey.”

Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!

“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.

Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’re touching her. In public.”

“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”

Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”

“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.

“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”

Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.

Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”

“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.

“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.

“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.

Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”

Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.

“When did this happen?”

You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”

Lando blinks. “Letters?”

“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.

“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”

“Every week,” you say.

“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.

“And you kept them?”

Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”

Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”

“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”

Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”

A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.

Then-

“Wait. Does Jos know?”

“Of course he knows,” Max says.

Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”

You sip your wine.

“Jos adores her,” Max says.

And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.

Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.

“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

Lando drops his fork.

“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.

“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”

“Perfectly,” Max replies.

Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.

Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.

Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”

***

After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.

“You okay?” He asks.

You glance up. “More than.”

“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”

You smile. “It was kind of funny.”

He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”

His voice is low. Serious.

“Especially that part.”

You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”

“Always have been.”

The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.

And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.

***

It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.

One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.

Jos Verstappen.

Yuki stills.

“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.

But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”

Yuki blinks. A bet?

“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”

Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”

There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”

Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.

“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.

Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.

“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”

There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”

Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.

Ten.

Ten years old.

***

It’s impossible to unhear.

That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.

Except … not.

Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.

And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.

“Give me five.”

The room stills.

The engineer frowns. “You want-”

“Five minutes.”

“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”

Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.

Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.

He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.

“Hey. Did you eat?”

There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.

“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”

“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.

“I’m working.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”

“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”

Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.

Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”

“You are such a-”

“Did. You. Drink.”

You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”

There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”

Yuki practically blacks out.

***

When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.

Except Yuki.

He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.

Then, “So … ring pop?”

Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.

“Where did you hear that?”

Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”

Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.

“She still has it,” he mutters.

“No way.”

“In a box.”

“Oh my God, Max.”

Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”

Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”

Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”

***

Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.

He always does.

“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.

You give him a look. “You checked?”

“I check everything.”

He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.

“I had coffee,” you offer.

“Not food.”

“Coffee is made of beans.”

“Y/N.”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”

Max smirks. “About that …”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He just overheard something.”

“Max.”

He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

“He found out about the ring pop.”

Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”

“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”

“Oh my God.”

Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”

You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.

You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.

“You have kept it.”

He nods, solemn. “Every day.”

***

Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Yuki sidles up next to him.

“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.

Jos glances at him.

“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.

Then he smiles.

Again.

Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”

***

The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.

Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.

He’s not moving.

“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”

GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.

“Talk to me, Max.”

Nothing.

Then-

“I’m fine.”

The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.

“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”

You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.

***

The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.

He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.

And he’s angry.

“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”

“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”

“I said I’m fine-”

“Max.”

Your voice.

Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.

“Schatje.”

You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.

You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.

“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.

“I don’t want-”

“It’s not about what you want right now.”

He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”

He opens his eyes again, searching yours.

“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”

You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”

The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.

Max doesn’t argue again.

GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.

“That was witchcraft.”

You shrug. “It’s just Max.”

“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”

You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”

***

Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.

You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.

He stops just behind you.

“Is he hurt?” He asks.

“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”

Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.

“You got him to agree to scans?”

You nod. “He was being Max.”

“That sounds right.”

GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.

Jos Verstappen. Smiling.

Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You rise. “All clear?”

“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”

Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”

Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”

Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow.”

Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”

Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”

Everyone in the room hears it.

GP actually drops his cup.

Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.

“It’s not tight, is it?”

“No.”

“You’ll tell me if it is?”

“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”

You smile. “True.”

Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”

You nod. “Let them.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You were being impossible.”

“You love it.”

You grin. “I do.”

***

Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.

Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.

And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.

***

Max is late.

Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.

The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.

The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.

You weren’t expecting the letter.

It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.

Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.

But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.

When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.

Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.

And read.

March 5th, 2014

Y/N,

I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.

You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.

I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.

Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.

Your Max

***

By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.

The kind that were never just about the letter.

***

Max finds you like that.

The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.

When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.

And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.

“Hey-”

He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.

“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.

He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.

His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.

You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.

Then he looks back at you.

“You found this?”

You nod. “It was in the book.”

He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“You kept it,” you whisper.

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”

You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.

“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitches.

“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”

You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”

He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”

A pause. Then-

“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”

You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”

He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.

“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”

Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.

“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”

He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”

You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”

“The letter?”

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, unwavering.

“I still mean it.”

You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”

“And I drive like I used to.”

“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”

He grins. “Because you’re here.”

“Because I’m home.”

***

Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.

“I want it close,” he says.

You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”

Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”

You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

***

You don’t notice it right away.

The photo.

You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”

You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.

It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:

So … it’s out.

Your stomach twists.

“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.

You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.

A photo.

Of you.

And Max.

It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.

He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.

It’s not yours anymore.

The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?

Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

You murmur, “Max …“

He doesn’t speak.

You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.

Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.

That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.

His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.

Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?

Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”

Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.

“Max …“

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”

You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”

He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”

***

You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.

But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.

By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”

Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.

You reply. I’m sorry.

His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

You almost cry again.

***

But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.

You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”

“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.

Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.

Max raises a brow. “What about him?”

“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”

You frown, inching closer to see.

The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:

@josverstappen7 About time.

There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.

Then-

Max snorts. Actually snorts.

You blink. “He what?”

“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”

Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.

“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.

You blink. “He’s always liked me.”

“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”

***

The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.

Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.

But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.

***

You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.

The moment.

The question.

The quote that breaks the internet again.

Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.

And then-

A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.

“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”

There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.

Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.

He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.

“She’s not new.”

A pause.

“She’s always been there.”

***

When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.

You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.

The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.

He just tells the truth.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.

He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.

“You saw it?”

You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”

“I meant it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.

“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.

“Let them.”

You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”

“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”

You press your forehead to his.

“They’re going to write stories.”

“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.

***

On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.

Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.

You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “Then be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you every morning.”

You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”

“That’s foreplay.”

You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.

And this time, you don’t care who hears it.

***

The drive is quiet.

Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.

Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.

He probably has.

You definitely have.

You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.

Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.

But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.

You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”

“I remember everything.”

You glance over at him. “Do you?”

Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”

A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.

He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”

You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.”

“Max-”

“He always knew.”

***

The estate hasn’t changed much.

The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.

You hesitate before getting out.

He doesn’t rush you.

Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.

***

Your mother meets you at the door.

She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.

Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.

He hugs back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

Max only nods.

She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”

***

You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)

The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.

And then, you see him.

He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.

His eyes are open. Alert.

Your breath catches.

Max is silent beside you.

You step forward first.

“Hi, Papa.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”

Max takes a slow step closer.

Michael’s gaze moves to him.

There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.

Just … calm recognition.

As if he knew you were coming all along.

“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.

You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.

But his hands are warm.

You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.

“I missed you.”

Max kneels beside you.

He doesn’t say much at first.

Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.

Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”

There’s a pause.

“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”

You let out a breath that trembles.

Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”

Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.

Still no words.

But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.

You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”

You choke on a sob.

Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You don’t resist.

You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”

He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”

“He doesn’t even …“

“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”

You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.

And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:

“I love you.”

Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”

Michael’s hand twitches.

You freeze.

Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.

Max sees it too.

His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”

***

You stay in the garden for hours.

Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.

Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.

You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.

You don’t ask what he said.

Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.

You press a final kiss to his cheek.

Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.

The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.

“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad we came.”

“I am too.”

You pause.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.

“You were all I ever imagined.”

***

Victoria doesn’t knock.

She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”

But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.

It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.

And then stops dead in the hallway.

Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.

She recognizes you instantly.

As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.

The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.

You.

Y/N Schumacher.

And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.

Victoria blinks.

Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.

Because it looks like he’s home.

She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vic.”

You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.

“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”

“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”

“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.

“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.

“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.

You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”

He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”

Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.

Max is … soft.

Not weak. Never that.

But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.

She pulls out a stool at the counter.

“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”

Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”

You blink. “You what?”

Victoria smirks. “You what?”

Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”

“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”

He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”

You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.

Victoria watches with something like awe.

“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”

“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

“You did. Like the noise stopped.”

He doesn’t argue.

You glance at him, puzzled.

Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”

You go quiet.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.

Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”

Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”

“I built you a desk,” Max adds.

Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”

“I made GP help.”

You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”

“They were wrong,” Max mutters.

Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.

“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”

You glance at him.

Max is already looking at you.

“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”

You press your lips together.

He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.

Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Max smiles. “I know.”

But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.

You’ve been through everything.

Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.

But this?

This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.

Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.

You hand her a plate.

“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.

Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”

You look up at him.

So is he.

So is this.

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sunskisser · 6 months ago

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bucky barnes who doesn’t trust unless it comes to you. whose eyes soften at the sight of you, because his heart knows that it’s okay to let his guard down. he believed the world always had its claws out to get him, until he fell straight into your gentle arms. he tells you the word love meant nothing to him until you came along.

bucky barnes who would live for you. the winter soldier would kill for anyone, the white wolf would die for anyone, but bucky would live for you. he’s never believed in fate, but if it wasn't destiny that brought you to him, he doesn’t know what it was. he thinks maybe it was all worth it, the trauma and the scars and the pain, if it all lead up to the moment when you told him i love you.

bucky barnes who searches for you even in nightmares, screams your name till his lungs burn with self-hatred. you’re his safe space, his home. he’s drawn back to wakefulness as soon as he feels your touch, the gentleness of your breath on his skin like an aching balm to his wounds. he’ll never stop apologising for the burden that comes with his affection, yet he won’t ever stop loving you.

bucky barnes who thinks of hurting you as no less than a sin. who believes even pulling out a single strand of your hair is a hundred times worse than every murder committed as the winter soldier. because what’s a few dozen people in comparison to his whole universe?

bucky barnes who wakes up a little earlier in the morning; not to see the sun rise, but to watch the soft rays dapple your face. he thinks you look angelic, the golden hue painting you in so much beauty that he feels blessed; wonders if he ought to start praying to gods he never once believed in.

bucky barnes who tells you he loves you more times than he can count. whose voice is hardened from years of tortured, ragged cries; but the word doll tumbles out of his lips like soft petals when he looks at you. he knows seven different tongues, and is fluent in every single one. he claims that none of them have the words to describe how you make him feel.

bucky barnes who kisses like a hungry dog, like there’s an ache in his soul that can only be filled by the feeling of your lips on his, skin to skin. he believes the sole purpose of his metal arm is to pin you to the wall. roughness is the only form of love he’s ever known.

bucky barnes who buys you everything you talk about in passing, who takes you out wherever your heart yearns to go, who kisses your knuckles with the softest touch of his lips. he inhales when you exhale at night to make space for the rise of your chest. he only ever holds your hand with his non-metal one so as to not hurt you. he traces your features while you sleep. he loves you with the full force of the word, because you’re his girl.

bucky barnes who could never unlove you, would never want to. even if the strings of his soul were tied to another, he would cut them off and run straight to you.

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happy74827 · 10 months ago

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Say Yes to Heaven

[Logan Howlett x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Sometimes all it takes is one look. One gesture. One word. One action. To remind them that not everyone sees them the same, and It's enough to send a person over the edge.

WC: 3690

Category: Fluff, First Kiss, Logan’s POV

Another Grumpy!Logan x Sunshine!Reader because it’s my comfort trope ✨🫶

『••✎••』

He never realized how much he wanted someone to care for.

It was something he didn't know he desired. A year ago, he didn't care for a single thing. He felt nothing. He was so numb. So empty.

He was an angry man. The kind of man people kept their distance from. Wade ruined that; he aggravated him so much that Logan started actually caring about his life. And for as much as he despised his fugly ass, he was internally grateful for him. He started to open up more and more.

Wade had a part in taking him out of rock bottom, as they say, but you… you aggravated him in the most endearing way possible. You were so bright, so happy, and full of life. Logan couldn't understand how someone could be like that, and he hated you for it. He thought it was so ignorant of you.

"I mean, come on, how could she be that happy all the time? It's fucking dumb. She doesn't even know me!"

That's what he said to Wade, but his roommate only laughed. He found his frustration hilarious and made fun of him constantly.

And don’t even get started on the way you spoke. Never once have you raised your voice at anyone. You always talked softly, and even if you were pissed off, you still found a way to make your words sound gentle.

The man couldn’t wrap his mind around the way you acted, you weren’t a mutant, but you damn well could have been with that forever customer service smile you wore every day.

The level of patience and understanding you held for people was insane to him, especially the amount of patience you held with him.

He was constantly telling you to fuck off, and you took no offense; you just returned that stupidly kind smile and told him that if he needed anything, you were there for him.

You had no clue what he’s done, what he's capable of, and yet you treat him with the utmost respect. And being a mutant, respect, and kindness were two things he hadn’t received in a very long time.

It made him realize things—about himself and others. He started noticing you a little more—the way you looked and the way you acted. It started out as simple confusion and disgust… the typical reactions one would have when one sees an overly happy person.

But it evolved slowly into intrigue and curiosity.

Then something else. Something he couldn't describe.

His first instinct was to push it away. To try and convince himself, he was disgusted. He did this with everything he felt, but he couldn’t keep lying to himself.

It wasn't disgust.

He couldn't name it; he wasn't ready to, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Wade had noticed the change in him, the way he looked at you, the way he started being a little less rough with the words he chose to say. He didn’t bring it up, but the shit-eating grin he gave each time Logan walked in and saw you was more than enough proof that he had picked up on it.

Of course, it only resorted to grins because the one time he opened his mouth, Logan didn’t restrain himself. He popped his claws and had to go couch shopping the next day.

Whoops.

So, with Wade keeping his mouth shut after being chewed out by Blind Al and Logan trying his best to push away the foreign feelings, it finally reached a point where he could no longer ignore them.

He didn’t understand why, of all nights, it had to be this one, but it was.

It was 3 am, and his old nightmares had come back to haunt him. He was restless, sweaty, and couldn't take another second of sleep.

It took a rinsing of the bathroom sink and a pitiful glare at his reflection for you to return his gaze.

He froze for a second.

You were wearing a large T-shirt, with a pair of shorts underneath. Your hair was messy, but it looked so soft, and your face was clear of makeup, leaving the imperfections of your skin that made you all the more beautiful.

Always wearing a smile. Always greeting him with a soft voice, sometimes a little raspy if just waking up, butnonetheless soft.

But once he rubbed his eyes and let out a tired yawn, you weren’t there anymore.

Because you were never there, you lived across the street. You were in your apartment, sleeping, with no idea that, at that moment, the man who constantly told you to fuck off realized he couldn't stop thinking about you.

The same man who would grunt, scoff, and throw away every kind gesture now realized he secretly cherished them.

He stood there for a moment, just pondering his thoughts. His eyes were still on the spot he saw you in.

His head turned to the right, seeing the digital clock that rested on the nightstand.

3:02 am.

You were asleep…. most likely asleep. You would be unhappy if he came over and woke you up, wouldn't you?

He looked back at the sink.

You could be upset, but you could also be happy. You could give him that smile. That sweet, warm smile.

It would be worth it, right? Just for that?

3:04 am

He didn’t think about it. Not even for a second. Ironically, it started raining as if to test him, but the man was determined.

He put on a jacket to cover his bare chest, threw on some random shoes, and was out the door before his mind could stop him.

3:13 am

He knocked on your apartment door. He was completely drenched from the rain. His hair was messy, his jacket sticking to his body, and his shoes were so wet that the squelching sound they made was the only thing audible.

He heard shuffling. Soft steps coming closer. He could smell your scent. It shocked him how easy it was for him to recognize it.

You unlocked the door. Your brows furrowed in confusion.

His mental image of you being in sleepwear, messy hair, no makeup, had been confirmed. You were beautiful.

You had a tired look, one of the many looks he wasn’t used to. But it was still a good look, and it still held your signature kindness.

He had a feeling it would.

You didn't look too shocked, just tired and confused.

You spoke. "Logan, is…? Are you okay?"

Your voice was even softer than usual, the raspiness it held only making it more comforting.

You were genuinely worried about him, and it hit him then that he was being an asshole. Making you wake up in the middle of the night, and for what? Just because he wanted to see you?

Just because of that, he should’ve given you a reason. An explanation.

He should've asked. He should have done so many things differently, but he didn’t.

His head was in the clouds, and all he could think about was you.

You. That was all.

But his expression gave away that he was in a daze, and your worry only grew.

"Logan? What's wrong?"

You stepped out into the hallway and reached a hand to him.

His heart jumped a bit when you did so. It was just a gesture—one simple act of compassion.

He wasn't worthy of that, but he couldn't resist. He didn't want to.

Your fingers barely brushed against his upper arm before he moved. He grabbed your wrist.

His grip wasn't hard. His hold was gentle, as he had no intentions of hurting you. You could’ve easily pulled your arm away if you wanted to, but you didn't.

His eyes locked with yours. He wasn't sure what possessed him, but it felt so right, so he followed his instincts.

He tugged at your wrist, causing your body to fall into him. Your chest pressed against his. His arms wrapped around you, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other resting on the small of your back.

The embrace was so sudden, and he knew the situation was far from ideal, but his senses were overflowed by your presence, your scent, your softness.

His chin rested atop your head, and his eyes fluttered closed.

It wasn’t the first time he ever hugged someone, but it was the first time he hugged someone in such a way. He held onto you tightly, his grip possessive but not painful.

He was afraid to let go.

He felt your hands press against his chest. You were probably going to push him away, he thought, and he tried to prepare himself. He told himself he would let you go because it was the right thing to do, yet he didn’t need to.

You hugged him back, and he almost lost his footing.

How long had it been since he last received a hug? Since the last time, someone held him and showed him affection?

Too long.

Your hands went inside his opened jacket and held onto him. Your fingers pressed against his skin, and your soft, warm breaths caressed his neck.

He could stay like this for eternity, and he would never grow tired of it.

Your voice reached his ears.

"Logan, did something happen?"

He had been standing there for quite a while. He wasn’t aware of how long. Time seemed to freeze around you, but he didn’t mind. He wasn't one to believe in such nonsense, but when it came to you, he was ready to accept it.

Your hand rested on his arm, and he knew you were subtly prompting him to move, and so he did.

He pulled away from the hug just enough to look at you.

Your lips were turned upwards. The corners of your eyes creased.

"Logan?"

It was then that his actions registered—how utterly close the two of you were, how intimately you were holding each other. He was already warm just from genetics alone, but now he felt everything around him heat up.

"I-"

He didn't know what to say. It was like he was back in that bar, drinking away every thought. He couldn't think. There was nothing. Nothing but the feel of your body against his.

But what truly sealed the deal was when he felt your thumb gently caress his knuckles. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but it was centered exactly on the scars his claws made.

That little movement made his brain short-circuit. His hands twitched. His grip tightened. He held onto you with his entire body as if scared to let you go.

"What happened?"

You were patient with him. The fact that he hadn’t even answered any of your concerns said enough.

But, eventually, he did find some words to respond with. It wasn’t the answer you were searching for, but it was a response.

"Why are you always being so fucking kind?"

It was such a simple question, and yet the amount of pain it carried was overwhelming. He knew you could hear every word behind it. Every word he couldn't bring himself to say.

He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a good man. He did horrible things, and sure… he made an attempt to make up for it. To be better, but it couldn’t have been enough, could it?

You were still here, looking at him with those soft eyes.

Why couldn't you look at him the way he deserved to be looked at? Like he was a monster.

Why did you have to look at him with those goddamn beautiful eyes?

"You deserve kindness, Logan. We all do."

And then, your voice became even softer and a little shaky. Your hands went back to massaging his knuckles. His scars.

"Just because you see yourself a certain way doesn’t mean the rest of us do. I see the good in you. Always have since we first met."

You spoke so softly, yet your words were heavy with emotion.

"I know it's not easy, but try to have a little more faith in yourself."

You didn’t deserve the harsh words he always threw at you. You didn’t deserve any of his anger. You didn't deserve him.

"Why?" He repeated his question, his voice strained, and you didn't miss the way his jaw clenched. "Why should I?"

His arms loosened their hold around you; his hands moved down your sides, and his touch feathered light. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t quite let go just yet.

You paid it no mind. Only staring back into his eyes with the same kindness he was so used to, the one he had grown to treasure.

"You have a right to feel the way you do, Logan. And I can't claim to understand what you've been through. I can't begin to imagine. But you are a good man. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but you’ve shown me time and time again that you're trying."

A smile crept its way onto your face, and a soft giggle escaped past your lips.

Now, to be fair, he was used to hearing your laughter. With your… odd sense of humor, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. But, this would be one of the firsts to add to his collection.

The one reserved for him and him only.

Your laughter wasn’t loud, or annoying, or anything like Wade's. It was soft, sweet, and oh-so pleasant.

You were looking at him. Staring up at him with such love and warmth. You didn't even realize it, but he did.

"Besides, who wouldn't be a little grouchy waking up to that handsome face every morning?"

And, now, he was repulsed by the unwelcome vision of a certain masked man making his way into his head. He was so disgusted by the thought he didn’t bother responding. He didn't want to.

So, instead, he moved.

He had a habit of moving on his own and not thinking about it. It went from his hands going to your sides, and now, his hands reaching out to press against the door behind you.

You were pinned against the door, and the way you looked at him didn’t change. Of course, it didn't. Your eyes were always kind. They always were.

You were leaning against the door. Looking at him, waiting.

And he stared back.

He was so close, and he was tempted to pull away. To take a step back and leave. It would be the best for both of you; at least, he thinks so.

He couldn't give you anything.

He had nothing.

There was only himself. His body. His mind. His past.

His claws, too, if that counted for anything.

But, besides those, there was nothing.

He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn't good either. Not like you were. He couldn’t possibly begin to match you, not even if he tried.

Which is why he had no intention of trying.

Yet, even as he thought that, his body moved even closer. The dog tags he had never taken off since he was given them hung loosely, dangling in front of your face.

One of your hands was on his chest, the other gripping onto the material of his shirt.

"Logan."

You spoke his name so softly. Almost a whisper, and yet, the sound of it was all his senses were focused on.

Your gaze shifted between his eyes and lips, and the hand that had been holding onto his shirt moved, reaching up to his shoulder.

The touch was light, as if hesitant, and it caused him to lean even closer.

It was so close. You were so close. You had been before, but never like this. Never in the way he wanted.

He wanted you so badly.

And you were right there. Looking at him with those eyes, with a soft, tender smile, and with an expression he didn't recognize.

He knew that was an invitation. You were always an open book, and your body language was no different.

And it wasn't the first time you did so.

There were many times when you looked at him. Your eyes trailing over his face. Your gaze went downwards, lingering before you snapped out of it and looked away.

He always saw it, always knew it was there, but he just chose to ignore it. He wasn’t in the right mind, then. He was just another broken man, struggling to get by, trying his best.

Trying to find some meaning in his life.

But, even now, he was still hesitant. Even after coming all the way here and making his intentions clear, he struggled with it.

"Are you sure?"

Because you were so much better than him.

Because he could still remember the day the two of you met. How much of an asshole he was, how rude, how angry.

It wasn’t until the seventh time you approached him that he realized that he had met someone who genuinely, wholeheartedly cared.

It wasn't until the twentieth time you approached him that he finally accepted it.

He could never forget the way you smiled and spoke to him, even though he had given you no reason to.

"Hi, Logan!"

You would say.

"Good morning!"

You would wave.

"Have a nice day, Logan."

You would nod, even though the man himself chose to ignore you. Goddamn it. You were so much better than him.

Much purer. Much more innocent.

You had a heart of gold, and a soul as white as snow. You were so good, so kind, and the thought of soiling you, of ruining your light with his darkness, it scared him.

It was the sole reason he didn't give in, even now, with you offering yourself to him.

He didn't want to ruin you.

"Yes."

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Your eyes were so kind. So full of love, and the same emotion reflected back in his own.

But, even with the clear sign of assurance, he still felt the need to create one last line of defense.

With the hand against the door, he peeled it back enough to have your eyes catch sight of the fist it made.

In a millisecond, he unleashed his claws and slammed his fist against the door, the sharp adamantium easily slicing through the wood, causing the door to crack.

And, yet, no reaction. Not a single flinch, not a wince, not even a hitch of breath.

You weren't afraid. Not at all. Even as the claws were mere inches from your face, you weren't scared.

The corners of your mouth twitched. Upwards, and it soon bloomed into a bright smile.

He retracted his claws, and gave you another once-over, just to be sure, and you responded by lifting your hand, grasping the metal chain hanging from his neck.

Your fingers grazed against the cool metal, and your smile softened before turning into a small grin.

"For a man who states he isn’t scared of anything, you sure have a lot of defense mechanisms, Logan."

Teasing. That was a new one for you.

He liked it.

"Say it again." Now, finally, you showed a different expression. Confusion mixed with curiosity. You were wondering what he meant. "My name."

"Logan."

For you, his actions were mere seconds. You had no time to process the feeling of his breath against your lips. The feeling of his stubble tickling your skin. The feeling of his warm, dry lips pressed against yours.

But, for him, it was a slow, steady motion. He took his time. He pulled you closer, his hands moving from the door and cupping the back of your head and your waist.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. Nothing rushed.

He held you like you were fragile. Like you were made of porcelain and could break at any moment. He could, theoretically, but he would rather go through Cassandra’s entire repertoire of torture than hurt you.

He lifted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your arms around his neck, his own pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your skin.

You tasted exactly how you were. Pure. Sweet.

Like heaven.

He was sure he was leaving that of the bitter alcohol he had downed on your lips, but you didn't seem fussy about it.

Not that he could focus on anything else, anyway.

He was too distracted by the way his tongue danced with yours.

Too focused on the taste of your mouth.

Too distracted by the way your hands made themselves a home in his wet hair. They would tug every once in a while, releasing a groan he hadn’t known was there.

He was too distracted to care.

He was too lost in your scent. Wade always called him that character from that shity vampire movie due to his nose.

He always disagreed until you happened to mention the resemblance. Then, and only then, did he see the logic.

And you saw the logic here, too—the logic of how good you melted together. Experiencing it now made him question his decision to stay away.

If it was always going to be this good, this intoxicating, he should’ve done it a long time ago.

He should've taken the chance.

It would've saved the two of you a lot of frustration, and a lot of headaches.

But it didn't matter. He was here now.

And, as his foot broke into the door, mouth still latched onto yours, with him figuring his way about your apartment, he thought:

It doesn't matter.

As long as I’m here.

As long as you’re in my arms.

It doesn't matter.

Fortunately, that meant he didn’t have to wake up to that toupee-stapled face every morning, as he had so dreadfully imagined.

Unfortunately, it also meant that the next time he saw Wade, he would have to deal with him talking his ears off about what had transpired.

But, for now, he could live with that.

He was more focused on the fact on making sure you weren’t regretting your choice.

Because he sure as fuck didn’t.

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cowboybeepboop · 1 month ago

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Sweetness

"I care about you, more than I probably should."

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd

Genre: Smut

Word count: 3.3k

Summary: You finally find out the real reason behind Bob’s protective side.

a/n: I saw Thunderbolts* yesterday, and I’m craving more of Lewis Pullman 😛😩

This team gets on your nerves, whether it’s Hangman’s cocky asshole attitude or Roosters constant issues with Mav. Somehow you’re always getting in the middle of something and you’re tired of these damn pushups.

Bob is your weapons systems officer. He’s sweet and nothing but kind when it comes to you. It’s frustrating, though, because you know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but you don’t need him to stick up for you.

It feels like he pities you, he challenges hangman when he says asshole things, he defends your choices when Mav questions you. He just doesn’t understand that you can speak for yourself.

These dog-fights with Maverick have almost been the death of you. Maybe you’re an overachiever, but you’ve never needed to keep redoing and redoing exercises. It’s never been an issue for you to work in a team, but Hangman refuses to.

“Fuck!” you slam your hand against the dash of the plane, tears building in your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you sigh away the anger, letting your head fall back against the seat. Bob tenses in the seat behind you as you land the plane.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” his voice rings out, bringing you back into reality.

“Yep. Let’s just get this over with.” Your tone is more firm than usual, irritation filling your veins as you exit the vehicle.

Hangman begins spewing his usual bullshit, cockiness radiating off him even though you just lost. Bob argues with Hangman in the background as you ignore them, getting ready to get those damn pushups out of the way.

The only thing you need right now is an ice-cold shower and whiskey on the rocks. You’re pulling your uniform off your shoulders while walking toward the bar, Bob is hot on your heels, along with Rooster and FanBoy.

“How’s it goin’?” Bradley wraps an arm around your shoulder, the familiarity of his touch doing little to ease your annoyance. You shift out of his embrace, not wanting to talk to anyone.

Bob and Rooster make eye contact, shrugging as they notice your strange mood. “You got this one, Bob?” he nods in response, following after you once again.

“Y/N?” he settles down next to you at the bar, shifting his weight as you stare down at the counter. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You ignore him, taking down your drink in one gulp.

“I’m alright, Bob, just.. Annoyed.” you sigh, glancing at him slightly. He nods in response, fingers fumbling with his beer bottle.

“Did-” he begins before you cut him off.

“We were so close, Bob!” your tone is laced with irritation, “We almost got him and then you got, distracted.” You roll your eyes, sliding the glass to the side.

“I know.. I know and I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that, you shouldn’t have needed to do all those pushups because of my-” you glare at him, everything he does just annoys you, he’s so nice even when you don’t deserve it.

“Why do you take the blame for every little thing?” Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you’re hot, irritated, and red hot. “Leave it alone, Bob.” You storm out, admittedly a little childish, but you need the fresh air.

Sitting down on the porch, you breathe in the scent of sea water, the wood creaks under a pair of boots next to you.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I didn’t mean to do anything to frustrate you.” his tone is the same soft and gentle one per usual. “If I can do anything, say anything, get you anything, please just let me know. I wanna help, we’re a pair, Y/N,” he says, settling down next to you cautiously.

“Bob, you’re annoying me.” You groan, hating the butterflies in your stomach, and his heart drops as he straightens up. Your words sting him a little more than intended, and you see it in his demeanor.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that..” you trail off chewing on your lip while watching him fumble with his hands.” I didn’t mean to, you dont deserve that, it’s just frustrating to have you constantly siding with me, being so nice, and sticking up for me.” you groan.

“I know you mean well, but I can fight my own battles Bob.” you sigh, shifting uncomfortably as you look him over.

Bob looks down at his hands, the sound of his fingers cracking fills the air as he processes your words. He hates your irritation being directed at him, but he knows you’re right. He’s been a little overprotective lately, and you’re feeling chafed by his kindness. It’s not what he wanted.

“It’s just…” Bob pauses, his mind struggling to find the right words. “It’s not about thinking you can’t fight your own battles. I mean, I know you can.” Bob leans back, resting his head against a pole.

“I know we’re a team, but we haven’t worked together like this before, not on a mission this important.” you sigh, resting your face in your hands. "I just wish you wouldn't make me look so weak in front of everyone, just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I need pity, Bob." You shut your eyes, taking steadying breaths.

Bob's eyes widen slightly, finally being able to grasp what is going on. He's been treating you like you're fragile, and you're getting fed up. It hits him like a truck, and the guilt instantly seeps into his bones.

"I know... I know, you're strong," he says, the shame evident in his voice. "I don't think you're weak, and I *don't* pity you." Bob's fingers twist together, frustration with himself bubbling up within him.

Bob rubs his face, he’s always had a crush on you, ever since he laid eyes on you. For Bob, you’re not just a talented pilot and a teammate, you’re smart, strong-willed, independent, and absolutely gorgeous.

His protective nature stems from the fact that he cares about you, a little more than he should. He’s scared of losing you, of getting you hurt, and it shows in his overprotectiveness and constant apologizing.

“I’m sorry, Bob, I shouldn’t have held this against you. Hangman is the one who left us to fend for our own. It’s not your fault.” You lean closer to him, brushing your shoulder against his.

Bob's shoulders tense up for a moment, caught off guard by your sudden apology. Your touch, even as simple as your shoulder against his, has his heart beating faster. He relaxes a little, feeling relieved that you're not as irritated with him anymore.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice soft as he relaxes his tense shoulders, he takes a deep breath. "But I still want to apologize for being so overprotective."

“I guess I just don’t understand why you’re so protective when it comes to *me*,” you scan his face, eyes wandering his features. “I know we’re friends outside of work, but.. I just don’t get it.”

Bob's heart leaps into his throat, his mind racing with nerves. This is the moment, the one he’s been scared of for the past few months. He’s always liked you, but he’s kept it to himself because of his shy nature, and he was afraid of ruining your friendship.

He takes a shaky breath, his fingers trembling as he fidgets with them."I…uhh" Bob struggles to find the right words, the truth on the tip of his tongue.

"Yeah?" you question, scooting closer to him, basking in the gentle heat of his body.

Bob's heart pounds in his chest, his cheeks heating up from your close proximity. He can smell your perfume, and the closeness makes his knees weak.

"I… I care about you a lot," he manages, his voice shaky, eyes refusing to meet yours. Bob's hands twitch with the nervous energy that courses through him, his fingers clenching into fists and unclenching rhythmically.

"A lot?" Your cheeks turn a slight pink. "In what way, Bob?"

Bob's words get stuck in his throat, his breath hitches as he looks up at you, your eyes burning into his soul. He swallows hard, unable to hold your gaze, but at the same time craving it.

"In every way imaginable," he breathes out, his heart pounding against his ribcage, "I care about you, more than I probably should." This is it, all or nothing, he can't back out now.

You take in a shaky breath, eyes focusing on everything but him as his words echo in your mind.

Bob watches your face, his heart in his throat as he waits for your response. The silence between you both is loud, making him almost sick to his stomach as he waits for your reaction. He’s so desperate to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, but your expression is unreadable.

"Please say something," he mutters softly, his hand twitching to reach out and touch you, but his fear stops him.

You clear your throat, standing up and stretching, and your heart is racing in your chest. Being with Bob, it's what you want, but what if it changes things or makes both of you unable to go on the mission? Your mind is reeling, and you begin to pace.

Bob follows your movements with his gaze, your nervous behavior making his heart ache. He knows he messed up, he should have kept his stupid feelings to himself. Now he's just made everything awkward.

With you moving around so much, unable to sit still, he stands up as well, worry etched across his face. "Y/N, I'm sorry, I didn't-" his voice is trembling as he tries to apologize, but you simply start pacing.

You shake your head, "You don't need to apologize, Bob." Turning back to him, you take a few steps until you're right in front of him again.

Bob stands still, his heart practically beating out of his chest, as you walk closer to him. Your proximity takes his breath away, and he can’t tear his eyes off your face. All he can focus on is your every move, the way your lips are slightly parted, and how your cheeks are tinged pink.

He has to fight the urge to pull you into his arms and hold you close, but the nervousness in his veins keeps him rooted to the spot. "Y/N..” he breathes out, his voice low and unsteady.

"Bob," you whisper, "Please.." Your words, your simple plea, are all it takes for Bob to snap. His brain short-circuits as every thought about consequences and missions leaves his mind, replaced with one sole desire. *You.*

In the blink of an eye, his hands find your waist, and in another, he's pulling you flush against him. His lips crash into yours with a desperate need, as every pent-up feeling, every piece of suppressed desire is unleashed.

Your hands reach up to his face, gripping his face as you pull him closer, desperate for more.

Bob is completely lost in the moment, his hands exploring your waist, your back, your face, trying to touch every inch of you. Your touch ignites something within him, and his kiss deepens as he presses his body against yours.

He pushes you backward until your back hits a wall, his hands gripping your hips as he cages you against the surface, his kiss still feverish, hungry, desperate.

You pull away reluctantly, gasping in a few breaths before speaking. "Bob, we need to go.. I *need* you," you whisper, kissing his face and neck. Bob lets out a soft groan at your words, the feeling of your kisses sending tremors through him, the need in your voice making his knees weak.

"Go... where?" he breathes out, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you closer, afraid that if he lets go of you, you'll disappear. He wants you badly, the mission forgotten in a haze of desire.

"I have a place," you practically moan, enjoying the desperation in his touch. All coherent thoughts leave Bob's mind as your moan is like music to his ears. He practically whimpers against your touch, the need for you nearly overwhelming.

"Lead the way," he mutters, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your neck before reluctantly releasing his grip. Even though he's letting go of you, his hand takes yours, unwilling to lose physical contact.

With your hand in his, Bob follows you to the secluded spot you've chosen, his heart racing in anticipation. The gentle squeeze of your hand reassures him that this is what you want, too. Once you're both inside, the door clicks shut, and the tension in the room thickens.

You turn to face him, the hunger in your eyes matching his own. His hands trace the curve of your waist, pulling you closer as your mouths find each other again in a passionate kiss that leaves you both breathless.

With no more words needed, you both stumble over to the bed, the need for each other overwhelming. Bob gently lays you down, his eyes never leaving yours as he starts to unbutton your shirt. His touch is reverent, his every move filled with a passion that has been building for so long.

You help him, pulling his shirt off over his head, feeling the warmth of his bare skin against yours. As the fabric of your clothes falls away, Bob’s eyes roam over your bare skin, tracing every curve and dip with a hunger that’s been building.

His hands rough yet gentle, his kisses leaving a trail of fire down your neck as he unclasps your bra. The coolness of the air meets your heated skin, sending shivers down your spine. He worships your body, his hands exploring every inch with a passion that leaves you trembling with anticipation.

The feel of his bare chest against yours is electric, his skin smooth and warm as he kisses his way down to your stomach. You gasp as his fingers find their way under the band of your pants, unbuttoning them with trembling hands. The touch of his skin against yours sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making you arch into his touch.

His eyes meet yours, questioning, and when you nod, he pulls your pants down, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His eyes widen with awe, his breath hitching as he takes in the sight of you, fully exposed and desiring him.

His thumb brushes against your inner thigh, sending a rush of heat to your core, making you whimper. His touch is soft yet demanding as he explores you, his eyes never leaving yours, drinking in every reaction you give him.

You're both lost in the moment, the only sound in the room being the ragged breaths and soft moans that escape your lips. Bob leans in, his mouth replacing his fingers, and your world explodes into a symphony of pleasure.

His name becomes a chant on your lips as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, your legs wrapping around his head as you pull him deeper into your warmth. The intensity of the moment reaches its peak as Bob's tongue meets your center, his strokes firm and precise.

You moan deeply, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the pleasure builds. He's relentless, his every move calculated to push you closer to the edge. His hands are everywhere, caressing your breasts, teasing your nipples until they're peaked and sensitive.

The sound of your breathy pleas and the wetness of your desire driving him wild. He can't get enough of you, can't get close enough. You're soaking wet for him, and the scent of your arousal fills the air, making him crave you even more. His mouth is a masterpiece of pleasure, teasing and sucking, swirling and flicking, until you're panting his name and your body is tightening around his tongue.

You're close, so close, and just when you think you can't handle it anymore, he slides a finger inside you, the pressure inside you building until it snaps. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.

You scream out his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.

Bob pulls away, his face flushed and his eyes dark with lust, as he watches the aftershocks of your climax ripple through your body. He quickly removes his pants, his cock standing at full attention. The sight of him sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making you ache for him.

He positions himself over you, and with one swift thrust, he's inside, filling you completely. Your legs wrap around him as he begins to move, his hips pumping in a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart.

The feeling is indescribable, a mix of pleasure and pain, of need and satisfaction, as he stretches and fills you over and over again. Your eyes lock onto his, and it's as if you're seeing him for the first time, really seeing the depth of his feelings for you, the desire and love that he's been hiding.

The friction is perfect, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body with every movement. You rock your hips up to meet his, desperate to get even closer. His hands are everywhere, holding you down, caressing you, making sure you feel every inch of him.

Your bodies move in a dance that's been choreographed by months of tension and unspoken desires. Each stroke is a promise, each touch a declaration of his feelings.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another deep kiss, your tongues tangling as your bodies move together in perfect sync. The sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room, mixing with the desperate moans and gasps that escape both of your mouths. Bob's pace quickens, driven by the passion that fuels him, and you can feel him getting closer to his release.

You're so lost in the sensation that you don't even notice when the second orgasm starts to build, creeping up on you like a thief in the night. It takes you by surprise, stealing your breath away as it crashes over you, making your body tighten around him. Bob groans into your mouth, his release following closely behind, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his warmth.

You collapse onto the bed, your bodies still entwined, hearts racing, and skin slick with sweat. The room is silent except for the sound of your panting breaths, both of you trying to come down from the high of finally giving in to the passion that's been burning between you. The weight of his body on top of yours is comforting, grounding, as you bask in the afterglow of your shared ecstasy.

Bob pulls out gently, collapsing beside you, and you roll over to face him, your eyes searching his for any signs of regret. But all you see is love and satisfaction, mirroring your own emotions. You reach out, brushing the hair out of his eyes, and he smiles at you, the tension of the day forgotten as you both drift into a contented silence, the kind that comes from knowing you've found something real in a world full of danger and uncertainty.

Bob's mind is spinning as he shifts to lie there next to you, completely stunned by the intensity of what just happened. His fingers gently trace patterns on your skin, a soft smile playing on his lips as he takes in the blissful expression on your face. Every nerve ending in his body is buzzing, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through him.

"That was..." he finally manages to breathe out, his voice thick with emotion, "That was amazing." Bob's heart still races, his head reeling from the intensity of the connection between you both.

You nod breathlessly, resting your face on his chest, cuddling close against him.

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3hobbitsinatrenchcoat · 2 months ago

Text

Non-writers also free to weigh in.

There is a correct answer here by the way. I am a drabble purist but I want to know what other people think about this beloved format.

#poll #this post is technically a drabble #fanfiction #writing #fandom #please share I crave data #fanfic #fic writers

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zephyrchama · 5 months ago

Text

Demon brothers weaponizing their incompetence in the human world to get your attention. Your realm is sooo different to the Devildom, they need you to help them. These ancient and powerful beings are stumped by the incredible inventions of human ingenuity.

Or maybe they're taking advantage of you to monopolize your time.

---

Beelzebub, who had been using a fork just fine all day, suddenly forgets what it's for when you walk into the room. He fiddles with it in his hand and asks, "How does this human fork work?

You respond, confused, "It's the same as any fork? Literally the same as the Devildom, you just... stab the food and put it in your mouth."

"Belphie said human forks are different. You might have to feed me."

---

Asmodeus comes to you in a bath robe, which he managed to put on just fine by himself. "I don't know how human baths work, you'll have to take one with me!"

Belphegor's request is simple. He's already laying down, half asleep, when he grabs your wrist and demands, "Show me how the bed works."

---

"Lucifer, your brothers are driving me crazy again," you complain, having fled to the eldest's room for a moment of reprieve.

Red eyes peer at you from over the rim of his glasses. There's the faint curl of a smile on his lips. "Are they, now? Stay in here as long as you need."

#mammon wants to go for a drive but his license expired 65 years ago #i wanna write more but there's no time aaaa no proofreading no thoughts only post while i can #obey me fandom #obey me #obey me!#omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me scenarios #obey me x mc #obey me headcanon #obey me x reader #obey me fanfic #obey me brothers #obey me drabble #obey me ideas #obey me writing #obey me swd #obey me x you

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moonstruckme · 4 months ago

Note

remus one shot where he can’t stop blushing around the reader because he has a huge crush on her and sirius and james are like dude please ask her out already?? 🙈

cw: the trials and tribulations of a restaurant job, semi-confident reader (or at least she can withstand Sirius' flirting, which I couldn't), James and Sirius' shameless wingmanning

shy!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

The cafe is crammed. You’ve almost tripped over two kids already whose parents let them run loose, you did let a glass slip from your tray when a customer stuck his leg out into the walkway without looking, and you’ve quickly reached the conclusion that today was definitely the wrong day to break in your new work shoes. You’re on your last straw at only ten in the morning, but your pasted-on smile becomes twice as genuine when you see a table of your favorite regulars.

“Hi,” you say warmly, clicking your pen and readying it above your pad. “How are we doing today?”

You’re greeted with two dazzling grins from one side of the booth and a shyer smile from the other.

“Y/n,” says Sirius, in his suave, flirtatious way (you’ve learned not to take it personally), “you’re looking stunning.”

You know your hair is suffering from the weather outside and there’s orange juice down the front of your apron, but you smile at him anyway. “Thank you, so are you.”

“How’s your morning going?” James asks. These boys are never ones to skip over pleasantries to get to their meal, and while with other tables you might try to hurry them along, you never mind in this case. Today especially, you welcome the break.

“Oh, it’s going,” you try to joke, looking pointedly down at your orange juice stain. “Could be worse.”

He makes a face. “Yikes.”

“It’s fine,” you say breezily. “What can I get you?”

You look to James, because really he’s the only one you ever need to ask. The other two are fairly consistent, but James seems inclined to try something new every time he comes in.

He doesn’t disappoint now, locking eyes with you seriously over the top of his menu. “How is your butterfly lemonade? No—actually, what is your butterfly lemonade?”

“It’s…” You bite your lip, thinking. Sirius snickers, and when you look he seems to be sharing in some joke with Remus’, whose cheeks have gone a tad pink. “I’m not sure, honestly, but it’s sweet. I think you’d like it.”

“That, then.” James slaps down his menu decisively.

“Right.” You write it down. “And then, a caramel latte and a tea?” You look to Sirius and Remus for confirmation.

The former shoots you a grin you take as a yes, while the latter nods and says quietly, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” You soften your smile for Remus. You adore all of these boys, but you have a bit of a tender spot for him. Remus is by far the quietest of his friends, though really just as friendly when he does talk. It’s terribly endearing.

You click your pen again. “Okay, back soon!”

The boys’ table remains a bright spot in your morning for as long as they’re there. Their antics you’re rather used to—the flirting, and the pranks, and the teasing way both James and Sirius poke at Remus while his blush worsens and worsens—but it surprises a laugh out of you when you joke that you’ll have to spit in Remus’ food if he orders the brioche (which infamously holds up the kitchen every time) and Sirius snorts doubt he’d mind before yelping and jumping in his seat. By the time you’re bringing them their ticket, the cafe has reached its late morning lull and your day is remarkably brighter than it started off.

You seem to be interrupting some sort of debate when you approach their table, Remus leaning forward to whisper across the booth before he catches sight of you and sits back. The tops of his cheekbones are tinged pink. Sirius, on the other hand, is grinning wickedly, whereas James looks mostly exasperated.

“Thank you,” James says kindly, taking the ticket from you. Remus starts rifling through his pockets for cash, but Sirius only looks at you as though sizing you up.

“Y/n,” he starts to say, ignoring how Remus’ eyes narrow in his direction, “are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

You feel your eyebrows lift. “Not currently, no.”

“But why not?” He affects a look of puzzled contemplation, propping his chin on his hand. “You’re a pretty girl. Are you not looking to date?”

You shrug, fighting the urge to cross your arms defensively. It’s not that you’ve never gotten these sorts of personal questions from customers before, but you weren’t expecting them from this table; you thought you knew better than to take Sirius’ flirting seriously. “Nothing has come up lately, I guess.”

“Do you fancy men?”

“Sirius,” Remus hisses. “Leave her alone.”

“What?” Sirius spreads his hands, guileless. “None of us would care if you didn’t, lovely—well, some might care, but no one would hold it against you—” He yelps for the second time today, this time shooting a glare at his friend across the booth. “Anyway, you don’t have to say if you aren’t comfortable.”

You’re laughing a bit now, half nervously. “No, that’s okay. I do, yeah.”

“Interesting.” James sets down the ticket. It seems you have his full attention now. “And what do you think of our Remus?”

Remus makes a horrified sputtering sound, and you turn to find him looking at James in betrayal. He’s pink to the tips of his ears.

You can’t help a small smile as you catch on. “I think he seems very sweet.”

“Mm, well spotted.” James nods, tenting his hands like a man at a business meeting.

“Yes, very good taste,” Sirius agrees.

“He’s a dateable bloke, no?” James asks you. He jolts in his seat a little, but doesn’t yelp like Sirius had. Remus appears caught between wanting to hide his face in his hands and wanting to burn his friends to cinders with his gaze. He’ll be lucky, you think amusedly, if he doesn’t burn himself up first. The hue of his blush is only getting deeper.

“He is,” you agree. You look at Remus again. This time, he meets your eyes, his look softening.

“I’m so sorry,” he says miserably.

Your grin spreads. “No, don’t be.”

“So would you like to date him?” James furthers.

Remus does put his head in his hands now, letting out a muffled groan. “James.”

“What? Clearly you aren’t going to do it yourself, and I am sick of trying to eat my breakfast whilst you moon over—” He jumps in his seat again, and goes quiet, reaching down to rub at his leg. You tuck your lips in to hide a smile.

“I’m just going to take this,” you say, reaching for the customer copy of their receipt. You bend over, scrawling your number down on the signature line. “And if anyone has more questions for me later, they can give me a ring. Okay?”

You look at Remus. He looks nauseous and stop-sign red, but he manages to give you a small smile. “Alright,” he says, tentatively.

“Perfect. Bye, boys.” You shoot them a wave as you go to your next table. You hope Remus sees how your smile is really only for him.

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the-universal-sun · 6 months ago

Note

fiddleford being gentle with little stan when he first finds him after ford goes through the portal? maybe he comes to yell at ford and finds stan with a burned shoulder trying to work through being little to get his brother back? ❤️

Hey guys and the anon who requested this, I’m so sorry it’s so late, life got away from me, has been hectic, and I wanted to really put my focus into writing this request. If there are any missing “I” in a word, deeply apologies, my keyboard “i” cover broke halfway through writing this. There are some mentions of infections and medical treatment for Stan’s burn, just to warn you if any of that skeeves you out! If this seems way better than my previous work, it’s because I took about a week to write it! I really hope you enjoy this piece, and I hope the anon who requested it is still here! Please let me know if I've captured your vision!!!

As always, I’m open for helpful advice on my writing/execution!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ford! Stanford Pines you come out here right now! I demand we talk!” Fiddleford H. McGucket was mad. Fuming. Pissed beyond all belief. He had just remembered some snippets of the portal incident and he knows his old partner (and little) was still working on it for that devil! He needs to make that man see some sense. Thankfully, Stanford hadn’t changed his locks or the passcode to the basement, so he’s able to stop down three flights of stairs to the bottom floor of the lab to confront him.

“Stanford! I know you can hear me! Come out here right-now?” He stops short at the sight before him. The portal is broken down, machinery and wiring everywhere, broken and sparking. That’s not what makes him stop, no, it’s the figure in front of the control center. He looks…he looks ragged, haggard, even. His hair long and greasy, his skin looks dirty and sweaty, and he looks almost exactly like Stanford. Except gruffer. It hasn’t been that long since Fiddleford has seen his old partner, has it? He can’t have changed this much in just a few months. It’s when he gets a glimpse at the hands that it clicks in his mind. That’s not Stanford. He tries to think rationally before he freaks out and starts attacking the stranger, he’s gotten arrested for that a couple times already. He looks like Stanford, just rounder and greasier and with five fingers instead of six…He vaguely remembers a discussion him and Stanford had back in college, they were celebrating finishing their first set of finals with some well earned and homemade Hooch courtesy of you-know-who when the man had started muttering and was on the verge of sobbing about a “Lee”, and when FIddleford asked who that was, all Stanford could manage to get out before passing out was “M’ Twin”. And they never spoke of that incident again, Fiddleford putting that memory on a backburner until now.

So this must be that Lee fella, Stanford’s twin. Something must have happened if he’s here in that state and Stanford is nowhere to be seen. Something bad. This fills him with panic instead of anger, worry for his Bookworm his friend overpowering his negative emotions towards him. He walks quickly towards Lee, his steps slowing down as he gets the full view of this man, his ears picking up his intelligible muttering. He looks more than greasy and unwashed, he looks sick. He can see gauze on his shoulder, stained with pink and a different color, one he can’t quite make out in the poor lighting of the lab, but it twists his stomach nonetheless.

“H-hey, Lee? Um-what happ-are you okay? Is F-Ford-” Fiddleford doesn’t quite know what to say to this man, who looks both so much like Ford but so different. Who looks sick. He makes the mistake of putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, flinching back as he turns around violently with a fist raised promising a world of pain. Fiddleford shrinks into himself with a small and terrified squeal. Lee stumbles back, though, eyes glossy and distant, the defensive act just muscle memory at this point. He seems like he’s about to slide against the console and fall, soFiddleford reaches out to help steady him, thankful for all the pig wrangling and calf birthing he’s had to do in his life back on the farm, Lee is heavier than Ford was is. He gets a better look at Lee’s face and feels his own pale, blood rapidly draining and leaving him feeling cold. Whatever injury he has on his shoulder has to be inflected, the man is burning up and sweating something fierce, low and intelligible mumbles spilling from his mouth, his bangs sticking to his forehead, the slight smell of sickness wafting over him. They’re both lucky Ford was able to synthesize and stock high grade antibiotics in case they ever needed them, because he needs them, that or a hospital, and he doesn’t know anything about Ford’s twin, not even enough to explain what had happened to him.

Propping Lee up against the console and making sure he wouldn’t fall, he quickly managed to run to a storage room to the right, temperature controlled to keep cool. He finds the medical supplies very diminished, but most of the antibiotics were there. Both worrying and relieving him. Ford had gotten injured so much to deplete their medical supplies this much? They were essentially prepared for an apocalypse. But the relief is that Ford never needed these hospital grade antibiotics, only to be used for serious infection. He collects the medicine, bandages, and any other thing he can think of, putting them in an empty first aid bag and slinging it around his shoulder, making his way back to Lee as fast as he could manage. Fiddleford hauls him up and leans him against his side, stumbling his way to the elevator that he could never bring himself to trust. He has to now, he can’t carry this man up all the flights of stairs that lead into the house.

Fiddleford breathes in deeply, glancing over at Lee from the corner of his eye, releasing his breath when he sees he’d hardly even registered change in surroundings or the fact that he had moved, his eyes gazing distantly down onto the floor. Fiddleford resolutely moves him into the open elevator, propping him against the wall and quickly pressing the buttons needed to bring them back up to the main part of the house. Lee stumbles as the elevator moves, an almost frightened whimper escaping him as the elevator creaks and groans, chugging slowly along, his hands finally moving on their own to grasp onto Fiddleford in a move that puts the skinny man almost in front of him. Something deep inside him tightened at the sight; Lee looked more like a lost child than a grown man. "Stay with me, Lee," Fiddleford murmured, his voice steadier than he felt. "We’re gonna get you sorted out. Just hang in there, okay?" A low whimper escaped Lee's lips, eliciting a rush of empathy from Fiddleford. It was clear that Stanford's twin had been through an ordeal far beyond what he could comprehend. The least he could do was ensure that Lee would be safe for the time being.

As the elevator doors dinged open, Fiddleford slowly moved with Lee out into the dark room, just registering how cold it was-is the heating even on? Was the bill paid or was all the power just directed to that damn portal room? Fiddleford glanced around, his mind racing. “I need to get you to a bathroom and a bed,” he decided. He gently helped Lee step out of the elevator, the man leaning heavily against him. He maneuvered him toward the stairs, taking them one step at a time and going very slowly, Fiddleford may be tall but Lee was bulkier than he was, he didn’t want to risk Lee toppling over and falling down the stairs, injuring both himself further and the one currently helping him walk. They stumble their way upstairs, Fiddleford having to haul Lee up again when he started to slump too closely to the side, and towards the extra bathroom on the second floor-Fiddleford remembers this one having better lighting and not being as cramped as the downstairs bathroom. He gently deposits Lee on the toilet, worrying about his lack of response to the movements and light being turned on-at least the power still works up here-ever present. Setting the first aid bag on the coffee table, he knelt beside Lee, anxiety gnawing at him. “Okay… let’s see what we’re dealin’ with here.” Fiddleford pulled back the gauze on Lee’s shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat. The shoulder was inflamed, swollen with an angry red hue, the bandaging far too stained for comfort. He can’t even tell what was burned into his shoulder from how bad it was. Lee’s eyes fluttered open slightly, revealing a hint of recognition.

“Wha—who…” Lee’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and he couldn’t manage to say full words. Fiddleford didn’t know how much he knew about Ford’s work, meaning he doesn’t know if Lee even knows about him, but, with how out of it he is he figures some small trickery shouldn’t be too bad, people tend to respond better to help by people they know, or well, are told they know.

“It’s just me, Lee, your good ol’ pal, Fidds. You remember, right? We’re great friends, you n’ I.” He holds his breath as Lee just nods along, the fever and infection ravaging his body obviously making it difficult to properly think back on his words.

“For…” Lee trails off, his word soft and incomplete, but Fiddleford knows what he was trying to say and felt a pang of heartbreak at the mention of Stanford.

“He’s… he’s not here right now. But I’m gonna take care of you, alright? Just focus on me.” He carefully began cleaning the wound, glancing up to gauge Lee’s reaction. Lee sniffled, biting his lip, but didn’t pull away, his eyes still hazy and glazed over. Fiddleford doesn’t think he’ll be lucid for a while now. Each moment that passed seemed to drag on, filled with Lee’s fragile breaths and the quiet sounds of their surroundings. What was supposed to be a simple act of care felt monumental. Fiddleford bandaged the injury carefully, relying on the knowledge they had accumulated over the years. “You’re gonna be alright, Lee. Just gotta get the antibiotics into ya, and you’ll start feeling better in no time.” He goes and pulls out the bottles of antibiotics, some IV fluids to help with Lee’s obvious dehydration, and the collapsible IV pole that he’d made-maybe a bit overkill for the time but it was perfect for now. He rounds Lee, finding his eyes already on him. “Heya, Lee, can I see your arm? I need ta’ give ya’ some antibiotics to help with your infection.” But the man made no movement or noise indicating he understood what Fiddleford was saying. He took his arm in gentle hands, swabbing and cleaning the inner elbow before inserting the butterfly needle-hushing Lee when he made strangled whimpering noises, seeing a glimmer of tears come to his eyes. He pats Lee’s head, unconsciously cooing to him as he leans his head into Fiddleford’s touches, a soft sigh and hum passing through his lips.

“Let’s getcha up now, need to get you in some clothes, though m’ afraid no shirts for a little while, you need as little as possible on that burn o’ yours.” Fiddleford stood up, stumbling in surprise as Lee’s hand grasped his, standing up with him and still staring, more clarity in his eyes, but still nothing indicative of being fully present. Fiddleford took a steadying breath, trying to calm the rising tide of worry threatening to overwhelm him. As they shuffled into the small, dimly lit hallway, Lee's gaze began to clear a bit, though it still flickered with confusion and fear. Fiddleford was grateful for the flicker of awareness and desperately hoped that Lee would be able to grasp even a thread of comfort in this chaos. “C’mon, Lee. Let’s get you settled, alright?” he murmured. The soft squeeze of Lee’s hand around his reassured him that the man could understand him to an extent, enough for his body to respond, at the very least. He makes his way to an open door, peering inside to see if it was acceptable enough for Lee to sleep in. It seems that this was the room he was staying in, though, if the clothes thrown about and rustled blankets on a small bed were of any indication. Steadily, they hobble into the room, Fiddleford holding Lee’s hand and steadying him as they walk, keeping an eye on the IV to make sure it doesn’t get snagged or trip over anything. He sets Lee down on the edge of the bed, making sure he won’t fall over, before searching around the room for some soft and hopefully clean pants, only finding some faded sweats. They didn’t seem too filthy, so Fiddleford deemed them as okay for now and turned around before stopping dead center, eyes assessing the scene before him. Lee had, from somewhere, grabbed a teddy bear-one with a remarkable similarity to Stanford-and was grasping it tightly, his body hunching over to bury his face in the soft cloth. He could see the slight trembling in Lee’s shoulders as he held the toy, hiding behind its plush form. An epiphany struck Fiddleford…it’s possible that Ford and Lee were more similar than just in looks.

“Hey, buddy,” Fiddleford spoke softly, moving closer, careful not to startle Lee. “That’s a nice bear you’ve got there…” as he came closer, he saw a blanket strewn on the bed behind Lee, a large quilt with what looked to be some crudely sewn Teddy Bears on it. Fiddleford’s heart ached at the sight of Lee clutching the teddy bear, drawn into its warmth and softness as he huddled over it, the blanket behind him just solidifying his thoughts. The plush creature and quilt seemed to offer a sense of security amid all this chaos and confusion. He knelt beside the bed, keeping his voice soft and calm. “Hey there, Lee. Let’s get ya’ some pants, alright? Just something comfortable for now.” Lee remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the bear. Fiddleford moved quickly to the small dresser, pulling out the faded sweats he had spotted earlier. He returned to Lee, who hadn't shifted from his position, burying his face against the bear's plush fur. “Hang tight, ‘right?” Fiddleford said, moving in front of Lee. He carefully helped him remove the old, dirty pants, mindful of Lee’s discomfort. With each movement, he offered gentle reassurances, softening the air with his presence. “We’re almost done.” He knows the other man can’t understand him, not fully, but Fiddleford knows from experience that talking to a kid or someone in this mindset can help keep them calm, and calm is what Lee needs right now.

“How’s about we lay back down now, okay? Rest yer’ head on that pillow and just breathe in, ‘kay? Some quiet time.” Lee absentmindedly nodded, his grip on the bear tightening momentarily before loosening again. He leaned back, still looking dazed and feverish, but more comfortable now that he was semi-clean and dressed with fluid running into him. Fiddleford decided to remain quiet for a little while, too, letting the soft sounds of the house settle around them. The air was a little chilly, but Fiddleford figured they could tackle that issue soon enough. He slowly brings his hand towards Lee’s head, watching for any signs of flinching or cowering before he lowers it and softly begins to stroke his hair, cooing softly as Lee’s eye fluttered closed, his head leaning into the hand gently caressing him, soft murmurs escaping his lips. Fiddleford, with one practiced hand, pulls the blankets over Lee, the thinner ones first, the thicker comforter that was piled on the floor, and finally, Lee’s well-loved quilt, tucking them around the gentle creature before him, keeping his IV arms out of most of the layers besides to top quilt.

Fiddleford's heart warmed at the sight of Lee nestled under the blankets, the calming rhythm of his breathing creating a peaceful atmosphere in the room, he felt a swell of protective instinct for the man beside him. “Just like that, Lee. Nice n’ comfy n’ cozy,” he murmured softly, continuing to thread his fingers through Lee’s hair, taking care to avoid any tug on the IV line. Lee seemed to lean further into Fiddleford’s touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he began to relax into the layers of warmth wrapped around him. As Fiddleford settled into a rhythm, the gentle motion of his hand seemed to draw Lee deeper into a state of comfort-deeper into his headspace if Lee’s soft chewing of the bear’s ear before Fiddleford removed it was anything to go by. The world around them faded into the background, the cold chill of the air outside kept at bay by the cocoon of blankets. The sound of breathing filled the room—the steady rise and fall of Lee’s chest mixed with Fiddleford’s quieter, more measured breaths.

“Y’know, I used to do this for your brother, too,” Fiddleford’s voice cut through the silence, “When he felt younger-smaller-the world feeling too big for him. I was there to help him and take care of him. I wouldn’t mind being that person for you, neither. I don’t know what happened with our Ford, but I hope you’ll tell me.” Fiddleford breathes into the silence, just staring at Lee, who’s dozing off surrounded by his teddy and warmth of the blankets. “I want to take care of you, I’ve missed takin’ care of someone, actually. N’ I have more than enough room in my heart to add another person.” Lee made a soft, indistinct noise, his eyes still closed, as if he somehow understood the intent behind Fiddleford's words. Fiddleford smiled softly, hoping that the weight of his sincerity could reach Lee’s subconscious, anchoring him in a sea of uncertainty.

Closing his eyes for just a moment, Fiddleford let the sounds of the house mingle with Lee's breathing, the gentle cadences a soft lullaby. He found his own fatigue creeping in, but he fought it off for the sake of his friend. Lee needed someone to hold firm and steady in this chaotic world, and he was more than willing to take on that role. After some time, Fiddleford felt the room grow quieter—Lee's breathing became more even, deeper. He risked glancing at Lee's face, noticing the way his features had relaxed under the quilt, the tension that had gripped him slowly dissipating as he found solace in sleep. There was something reassuring about seeing him at peace like this, a small flicker of hope sparking in Fiddleford’s heart.

“Just keep resting,” Fiddleford whispered, pulling gently at the edges of the blankets around Lee, tucking him in a bit more snugly. “I’ll be here.” The rest of the night was full of soft snuffles and easy sighs, this little corner-their little corner-of the world tucked away for a few hours, peace falling around them

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tokoyamisstuff · 3 months ago

Note

Random thought how good do you think each invincible variant would be at eating 😺 is there any of them who would be an actual munch

18+ explicit content

Sis, don't- it's not worth it...

Other variants under the cut!

Omnivincible is more skilled than most of them. I just feel like he's got a mature approach and wouldn't just mindlessly delve in like some horny teenager.

He'd take his sweet time, enjoying himself without necessarily wanting something in return. In general he takes great pride in causing you pleasure. Is also pretty creative. After all his strenght allows him to eat you out in positions you didn't even know were possible.

Thought you can only come once at a time? He'll prove you otherwise.

Movincihawk constantly brags about his 'superior technique' but at the bottom line he's not all that good at it, sorry.

It's not like he isn't skilled, but he's pretty selfish and impatient. Any kind of foreplay is not a priority for him in general, he likes to go straight to the point.

Fucks pretty well to make up for it though.

Sinister Mark acts like he's doing you a favor, but with how eager he buries himself between your legs it's evident to say he enjoys this as much - if not even more than - you.

This man pins your thighs apart and eats you out like a man starving. Your taste drives him fucking crazy, so yes it could happen that he bites down harder than he intended to.

Likes to eat you out on your period. No I will not elaborate.

Striped/Target Invincible is super vocal during the whole thing. His grunts and groans vibrate against your folds, he doesn't even notice the effect you have on him.

Hope you're ready for the whole range of dirty talk, mostly degrading but occasionally throwing in words of acknowledgement. Tells you how this is your place - beneath him, completely at his mercy.

Uses his fingers better than his tongue, but is fairly good at both. The combination will send you straight to heaven.

No Goggles Invincible is probably the biggest tease on the entire planet.

This man will push you to your absolute limits, reducing you to a whining, moaning, begging puddle of lust. But he's got no mercy, prolonging your sweet torture for as long as he can - you're only allowed to cum if he says you're done.

With him the thin line between pain and pleasure is blurred into a mixture of pure overstimulation, but goddamn it's worth it.

Viltrumite Mark isn't familiar with earth's customs of intimacy. In their culture, canonically, they solely have sex for procreation. Though we never saw Debbie complaining about Nolan either, so I'm confident he can learn.

Gets the hang of it pretty fast, and quickly grows insateable with this new form of closeness he never got to experience before. He's an absolute mess, almost breaking the bedframe as he pathetically humps the mattress, wanting more more more of you.

Needs lots of cuddles and to be told he did a good job afterwards, pretty please.

Prisoner Mark was in solitary confinement for over a year - prepare to be destroyed. R.I.P.

He'll dive in between your legs and won't leave this place until he's got his fill of you, which could take him a while so get cozy.

Not an inch of your body is left untouched, as if he intents to memorize every detail, just in case you'd slip from his grasp once again.

Be prepared to cum until your body gives up. Man's got to make up for the time he spent away from you.

Unmasked Mark is very gentle, almost cautious in his efforts as if you were a fragile flower one needed to properly care for or it'd wither. He still can't fully believe you're here with him, so he's extra anxious about doing something wrong.

You'll slowly and sensually be guided towards your orgasm, his eyes never leaving yours as he reverently observes your every reaction.

Expect some premium aftercare!

Fully Masked Invincible knows you inside and out, has memorized all the weak spots that make you sing for him. He is completely and utterly devoted to your pleasure, maybe even a little too eager in his efforts since he tends to forget himself in the process.

To him your body is a temple meant for worship, so you'd relentlessly get showered in praise and compliments while he explores your body.

Will initiate at every given opportunity, but never pushes it. He just wants to make you happy, really!

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letmegrabyourcuteass · 5 days ago

Text

Imagine Chimney going through Bobby's desk in his office. Having to clear personal things out. It breaks his heart, but also warms him because the captain was sentimental.

Then he comes across a small blue book labeled simply "Buck." Curious, he opens and flips through it.

Kid has eating problems. Will forget to eat when stressed. Feed him, and encourage him to cook, because he likes to taste-test a lot.

Chimney remembers that. Buck mentioning getting so hungry the starving pains go away. He does remember during the shitty times when Buck lost so much weight.

-Loves carbs

-Hates Okra

-Probably allergic to shellfish and mangos. Encourage him to get an allergy test

-Allergic to Naproxen

-Allergic to heavy fragrance laundry detergents. Use gentle.

-Remind him he's doing a great job. Use positive reinforcement.

-If he's depressed, as Maddie says, hand him a child. May and Harry work too.

-He's finally gaining weight! :)

-The Buckley parents are banned. Do not ask why. Firehouse is his safe area.

-He fidgets when he's stressed. Have him chop some vegetables or prepare them for you. He loves being helpful.

-He loves his clipboard. Have him organize important events. Give him gold stars. Do not let Hen and Chimney hide it. He gets sad.

-Remind him not to read too close or in the dark. He's gonna need glasses at this point. (If he does, don't let others tease him. Tell him he looks great)

-He doesn't admit it, but his leg still bothers him. Heating blankets are in the closet in the office. Have Eddie massage his leg or send him home early if he's obviously struggling.

Chim laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and starts to cry. Of all things, he did not expect to find a "How to Take Care of Your Buck" guide hidden away in Bobby's desk.

#911 abc #911 fanfic #911 fandom #911 drabble #bobby nash #evan buckley #evan buck buckely #chimney han #bobby nash is buck's dad

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pucksandpower · 10 days ago

Text

The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard

The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.

You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.

You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.

You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.

And you are not going to mess this up.

The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.

You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.

Hard.

Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.

You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.

Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.

Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”

Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”

Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.

“She’s what?”

“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”

Max doesn’t respond right away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.

Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”

“And she works here now? Like … full time?”

“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”

Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.

He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.

“You are.”

“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”

Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”

Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.

You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.

You’re also annoyed.

Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.

You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.

Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.

“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”

You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.

Charles grins. “He never does.”

You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.

Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”

You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.

But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.

Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”

You follow him, head held high.

You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.

And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.

He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.

***

The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.

You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.

You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.

“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.

You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.

“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.

Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.

You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.

“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”

“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.

Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.

He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”

You sign, So are you.

He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.

You’re not expecting it.

For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”

You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.

They all fall silent.

You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.

Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”

Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”

And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.

“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”

You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”

“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.

Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”

You don’t get to protect me from my own future.

He flinches.

Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”

You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.

Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.

A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!

Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”

Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”

Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”

“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, ��you ran into her.”

Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”

Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”

“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”

Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”

“She didn’t hear you.”

“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”

***

Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.

Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.

***

The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.

Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.

One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.

Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.

It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.

They’re starting to see you.

Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.

You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.

You turn.

It’s him.

Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.

You raise an eyebrow.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.

H … E … L … L … O.

Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.

You stare at him.

It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.

And whatever Max just spelled?

It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.

You blink.

He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.

You burst out laughing.

Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.

Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.

You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”

You shake your head, still grinning.

He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.

Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”

You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.

Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.

Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.

Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”

You nod. Always.

He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”

You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”

You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.

Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”

He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.

Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”

You give him a look.

His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.

Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”

Charles stares at you across the garage.

You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”

***

That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.

The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.

Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.

The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.

You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.

Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.

He shrugs. Maybe.

You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?

He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.

10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.

He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.

Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.

Your brows rise.

Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”

Not many ask what you do.

You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.

I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.

You pass the napkin over.

Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.

You grin. Correct.

He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?

You nod. Probably.

He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.

He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.

You stare at the napkin.

He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”

You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.

No one asks about your code.

No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.

Except him.

You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”

You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”

You nod. I get that.

You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.

Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.

You turn to him.

“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”

You blink. You researched it?

He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.

You hesitate.

When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.

You push it across.

He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.

Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.

Your throat tightens.

You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?

He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.

He types something on his phone, then holds it up.

Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

But not before you look back.

***

The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.

Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.

But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.

You fold your arms.

Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”

You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.

That’s not your choice.

Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.

“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”

You sign faster now, sharper.

What, and you think I can’t handle it?

“That’s not-”

You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.

His jaw tightens.

You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.

“That’s not fair-”

No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stare at him.

Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.

You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.

You hate that your hands shook.

You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.

You hate that people still don’t listen.

You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.

Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.

Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.

Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.

You keep writing.

You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.

He stares at the words. Then at you.

When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.

***

Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.

Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.

Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.

To her left sits the interpreter.

You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.

Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.

You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?

“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”

You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.

I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”

You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.

You’ve survived harder things.

But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.

Gone with a headline.

Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.

A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”

Max cuts in. Instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”

The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.

“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.

And nothing else.

***

You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”

You stare at him.

He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”

You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.

They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”

You don’t move.

“You make me want to be better,” he says.

You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.

Not for a long time.

***

The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.

The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.

Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.

He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”

Which would leave you starting fourth.

He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.

Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.

He turns to face you fully.

Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.

People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”

You blink. Why?

“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.

The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.

You don’t.

His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.

When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.

You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.

He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.

***

The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.

The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.

Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.

Charles approaches with purpose.

Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.

For a beat, it’s just them.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.

Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”

“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”

Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.

“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”

“I know what she’s been through.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”

Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”

“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”

“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”

Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”

He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.

“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”

Silence hangs thick between them.

“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”

***

While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.

The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”

You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.

Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.

“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”

Optics?

He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”

You don’t flinch.

Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.

Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.

A beat.

I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.

Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.

If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.

Until later.

You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”

You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.

Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”

You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”

You pause.

Why did you?

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.

***

Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:

He trusts me now.

Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”

You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.

You walk through the paddock with Max.

You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”

You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.

You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.

A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.

He stops.

Looks down.

And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.

Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.

But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.

You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.

He signs back, My name is Michel.

Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.

The mother covers her mouth.

You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.

Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?

Michel nods enthusiastically.

Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.

The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.

The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.

But the quiet between you two lingers.

He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.

Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.

You don’t kiss him.

Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.

But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.

And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.

3K notes · View notes

sunskisser · 5 months ago

Text

balm | bucky barnes

bucky barnes x reader — ★ — wc 1k

summary: bucky finds out that you got a (minor) bruise and didn’t tell him about it

tw: fluff, hurt/comfort, mention of accident and bruise, reader gets a little guilty, bucky gets a little upset

“Hey,” you feel Bucky’s hands on your hips, the soft touch of his lips to your cheek. “Hey, doll. Did you get lovelier over the weekend?”

You try to ignore the stinging sensation where his hand rests against your waist. You turn around to face him, abandoning your task of chopping the vegetables.

“Bucky,” you smile softly, arms going around his neck. He grins and kisses you again. “Hi. I missed you.”

“So did I, pretty girl,” he murmurs, thumbing at the skin underneath the edge of your shirt. He’s gentle as always, but the pain is almost unbearable. You try not to squirm. “There were so many times I almost called. But of course, Sam wouldn’t let me. You know, strictly classified location and all that.”

Bucky had gone on a mission over the weekend, and had just gotten back a couple hours ago. You let yourself into his apartment as soon as you got a text from him.

He’d mentioned craving pasta, so you started making some. The only thing you were trying to think about right now was making him feel loved after what must have been an exhausting few days.

You hum understandingly, turning back towards the kitchen platform and picking up the knife. Your shoulders almost sag with relief when Bucky lets go of your hips and stands beside you.

He eases the knife out of your hands, ignoring your protests. “Seriously, doll, it’s okay. I can do this. Why don’t you get started on the pasta?”

“Fine,” you sigh, moving to make way for your boyfriend to use the chopping board.

Bucky chuckles at your stubbornness. He glances over as you stand on your tiptoes to reach the cupboard above the stove.

One moment, you’re rummaging through the shelf to find pasta, and the next, you feel his strong hands curving around your stomach and pulling you back down.

“Bucky —“

“What —“ Bucky interrupts, spinning you around. His hands find your shirt. “— is that?” He lifts it up, lightly brushing his fingertips over the dark purple lying just above your waistline. You try not to flinch. He notices, his frown deepening.

“It’s a… um… a bruise.”

“I know it’s a bruise, doll,” Bucky sighs. He crouches to get a better look at it, and you feel your muscles tensing up. From the stress or the pain, you’re not sure. “I mean, how did you — when did you get this? How did this happen?”

You swallow. His concern makes your heart squeeze in awful ways. “I, um… I got it today.”

“Today?” his gaze flicks up to yours worriedly as he stands up straight. “How?”

“Well, so you see,” you suck in a breath, “there was this other car which crashed into mine from behind —“

“What?!”

“No! Wait,” you grab his hands desperately, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’s not as bad as you think it is, really. Just let me finish.”

You could’ve sworn he was glaring at you, but he kept his mouth shut.

“So, nothing major happened —“ you gulp at his deadpan look, “— really! I just got jerked a little from the impact, and the steering wheel hit me.”

“This hard?”

You confirm it with a nod.

Bucky exhales, fingers finding the rough patch again as he slips his fingers under your shirt. He presses it gently. You wince. “Did you at least get it cleaned up?”

The guilty expression on your face tells him enough. But you still confirm it with a feeble, “no.”

His eyebrows bunch together. “That can’t be good,” he mutters to himself, tugging on the waistband of your shorts to get a better look. “Can you please come to the toilet with me? I think we should disinfect it.”

You’re too overwhelmed with shame to do anything but agree. You let Bucky pull you to the washroom, manoeuvre you with his kind hands to sit on the closed toilet seat. He sits below, first aid kit in his lap.

You know he’s upset, even if he doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t show in the gentle way he wipes a washcloth over the area; the way he rests his chin on your knee as he works.

But it does show when he starts to apply the antiseptic cream. You hiss between clenched teeth, and he seems to have been reminded of the fact that you’re in pain, that you were in pain and you didn’t bother telling him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You don’t reply, opting instead to bite down on your lip. Bucky is quick to reach for your face, gently pulling it free from your assail.

He asks again, softer, like he wasn’t kind enough the first time. It makes you feel like a bitch.

“You just got back, you know,” you mumble. “You’re probably exhausted, and — and sick of me, and…”

“Sick of you?” he interrupts quietly, something akin to confusion on his features. He sounds hurt. “I could never be sick of you, doll. And… and I missed you. You know I missed you.”

Once again, you don’t know what to say. He doesn’t need you to.

“Listen,” he murmurs, tugging your shirt back down, “It’s my job to worry about you, okay? I don’t want you worrying about me worrying about you. Because I want to.”

“Are you sure —“

“I’m sure, lovely girl,” he says, getting up on his knees to kiss you. You bend forwards, feeling his affection soothe over you like a balm.

Bucky pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. “Promise not to hide things like these from me again, okay? I want to care about you.”

“You want to care about me.”

“I do,” he murmurs, smiling slightly at the awe in your tone. “I do, doll. I love you.” He presses a kiss to your nose. “I love you.”

Bucky revels in the beauty of your smile when you say it back, the first real one he got from you all evening. He was glad to be home.

4K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 17 days ago

Text

It's a Match!

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Lydia Colbert (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc decides his brooding brother Charles needs a love life, he does the obvious: he makes him a secret dating profile. With their mother’s help and absolutely no permission, Arthur impersonates Charles on Raya—and Chaos ensues. Until one suspiciously perfect woman (with a dachshund) changes everything.

Warnings and Notes:

Catfishing is obviously bad, even when it's played for laughs in this story. Thanks to the internet for helping me come up with some unhinged online dating stories.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lorenzo stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine and watching Arthur scroll through his phone at alarming speed.

“So,” Lorenzo said slowly, “he’s not coming to dinner?”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Nope. Texted me twenty minutes ago to say he was ‘in a complicated emotional place’ and ‘needed to listen to piano alone.’”

Lorenzo exhaled. “Jesus.”

“He also said he thinks he might be ‘unlovable at a molecular level.’”

“Did he actually say that?”

“Verbatim,” Arthur said, flipping screens. “Followed by a photo of Leo looking like a tired therapist on his day off. and the crying emoji. Twice.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face. “It’s been three months since Sophie.”

“Technically, two months, twenty-one days,” Arthur said, glancing at the clock. “But who’s counting.”

Lorenzo sighed. “He needs help.”

“He needs therapy,” Arthur said with a snort.

And then Arthur’s eyes lit up like a cartoon character with a plan. “He needs a girlfriend.”

Lorenzo froze. “Arthur.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

Arthur put his phone down slowly, deliberately. “I’m making a Raya profile.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You’re what?”

“Not for me. For him. I’m going to fix it. The spiral. The sad playlists. All of it.”

“You want to impersonate Charles on a dating app.”

“I want to rescue him. Emotionally. Romantically. Digitally.”

Lorenzo stared at him. “Arthur. That is identity theft.”

“That is love,” Arthur replied. “I’m Cupid with a Wi-Fi connection.”

“You’re Cupid with a death wish. You’re going to catfish people as our brother?”

“Not catfish. Curate. Like a gallery. Of his best self. It’s not lying. It’s… repackaging.” Arthur stood and began pacing. “Charles is clearly not going to do this himself. He’s too busy posting moody black-and-white stories of Leo looking out windows with captions like ‘we all leave eventually.’ I mean—what are we even doing?”

“You’re being insane.”

“It’s matchmaking!” Arthur said, pointing at Lorenzo like a man unveiling a conspiracy theory. “He’s clearly not going to do it himself. He’s still following his ex on Instagram, liking her stories at 2 a.m., and writing playlist titles like 'slow laps and slower heartbreak.' He needs help. I’m being a hero. Do you remember what he said last week? That he was thinking of deleting Instagram and starting over under a new name in the Alps? That’s not healing. That’s the first act of a French drama where he falls in love with his housekeeper’s goat.”

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you think putting him on a dating app is the answer?”

“With me controlling it? Yes.”

“You’re barely qualified to manage your own love life!”

Arthur ignored that. “It’s foolproof. I’ll use good photos—Ferrari gala, that one boat pic, something with Leo so women know he has a soul. And I’ll write the bio. Sexy but a little tragic. Like if James Bond cried at Chopin.”

“This is criminal.”

“This is charitable.”

“You’re going to end up matching him with someone who thinks astrology is a political stance!”

“Then I’ll filter for that! Lorenzo, trust me. I’ve seen what’s out there. These women are feral—but one of them might just be perfect.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Just don’t use that photo from Mykonos.”

Arthur looked offended. “The shirtless boat one? That’s the opener.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Arthur: hey bestie question do u have any good pics of charles

Joris: Of course I do?? What for?

Arthur: nothing shady promise

Joris: Arthur. What are you doing.

Arthur: do u want him to die alone and spend the rest of his life crying into his dog

Joris: What???

Arthur: do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever

Joris: Arthur WHAT are you doing

Arthur: just send me the Monaco yacht one and the one from Singapore last year you know the one. the good hair day.

Joris: Arthur. Are you making a dating profile for him

Arthur: no. (not legally)

Joris: You’re insane. He’s going to kill you.

Arthur: worth it he’s brooding to “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” again i’m desperate

Joris: …check your inbox and delete this chat before he finds it I’m not going down with you

Arthur: ur an accomplice now welcome to the operation code name: Raya Redemption

Joris: God help us all

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Lorenzo. We have a situation. A serious one.

Lorenzo: If this is about Charles lying on the floor again, I’ve already poured myself a drink.

Joris: No, this is worse. Arthur is making him a Raya profile.

Lorenzo: ...I know.

Joris: YOU KNOW???

Lorenzo: He told me over dinner while Charles was listening to Debussy in the dark and crying into Leo.

Joris: He just asked me for high-resolution thirst traps. High-resolution, Lorenzo.

i just sent him photos. under duress.

Lorenzo: why would you send him photos???

Joris: BECAUSE HE SAID CHARLES WAS BROODING TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND I PANICKED.

Lorenzo: that… tracks. Let me guess. Monaco yacht and Singapore hair day?

Joris: Yes. And he used the phrase “do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever” like this was a national crisis.

Lorenzo: That does sound like Arthur. You’re an accomplice now. Welcome to the pit.

Joris: He named the operation Raya Redemption.

Lorenzo: Of course he did.

Joris: Should we… tell Charles?

Lorenzo: Not until Arthur gets at least one date out of it. I want to see where this goes.

Joris: Your family is unwell.

Lorenzo: That’s the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.

***

Arthur Leclerc cracked his knuckles, opened the Raya app, and began typing with the enthusiasm of a man who once made a Tinder bio for Pierre Gasly that had just said “French. Fast. Flexible.”

He had Spotify’s Ultimate Seduction playlist in the background, two open tabs of Charles’ most photogenic Instagram photos, and the moral compass of a raccoon in a jewelry store.

“Let’s make some magic, baby.”

He hit “Create New Profile.”

Name: Charles Age: 27 Location: Monaco (obviously) Profession: Formula 1 Driver. Winner of your heart. Photos:

Shirtless boat pic from Mykonos (for the people)

Shirtless post-workout mirror selfie, beads of sweat on his chest

Shirtless with Leo in his arms

Shirtless from the beach in Sardinia, wet curls, gaze angled to the sun like a Renaissance oil painting with commitment issues

BONUS: A picture of just his hands, veins out, no explanation

Bio :

Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso.

Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.

Arthur read it back and grinned.

“Perfect. Bit mysterious. Bit unhinged. Bit sexy. Very me—I mean, Charles.”

Then came the matching filters.

Looking for: Women Age range: 21–35 Distance: Global Interests: Dancing, cooking, racing, danger, chaos, espresso martinis Turn-ons (optional): Confidence. High heels. Deep playlists. Women who look like they could ruin my life in Italian.

Arthur sat back, admiring his masterpiece.

“This,” he muttered, sipping Coke from a wineglass, “is how you get Charles off the floor and into someone’s arms.”

He hit publish.

Fifteen minutes later, the first like came in from someone named Hot4Horsepower.

Arthur grinned. “And so it begins.”

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur Leclerc with a mission)

@/Hot4Horsepower: hey charles ;)) i love fast cars and slow burns what’s your lap time in bed?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. First question: Have you ever watched an actual Grand Prix or do you just like the racesuits?

@/Hot4Horsepower: i like the tight suits and the adrenaline also i once watched drive to survive season 3

@/charles_leclerc: So no actual race experience. Strike one. Next: How do you feel about dogs with emotional trauma?

@/Hot4Horsepower: uh what are you okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m not the one who used “lap time in bed” as an opener.

***

@/LenaOffline: sooo… if we date, can i come to Monza in your suitcase?

@/charles_leclerc: Can you fit in a suitcase?

@/LenaOffline: ...maybe??

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up: Do you have a criminal record?

@/LenaOffline: not convicted

@/charles_leclerc: Next question: how many cardboard cutouts of me do you own?

@/LenaOffline: just the one! and one of Carlos for symmetry!

***

@/JulesUnfiltered: charles i already have our wedding vision board saved. do you want a spring ceremony or winter elopement?

@/charles_leclerc: Let’s backtrack.

Have we met?

Do you own a scrapbook labeled “Operation Husband”?

Be honest.

@/JulesUnfiltered: only the digital kind!!! also i emailed your management about matching tattoos

***

@/Lola.LateAgain: would u date someone who only dates for clout asking for a friend

@/charles_leclerc: That friend sounds suspiciously like you.

@/Lola.LateAgain: rude. anyway, how famous are you really?

@/charles_leclerc: Famous enough to Google. Not famous enough to be having this conversation willingly.

***

@/RoxieWithIssues: hey charles you ever been to ibiza?? bc i’ve got a villa and handcuffs jk unless?

***

@/JoWithAView: charlessssssss if we dated u could crash into me any time xx also do u still talk to seb? bc i had a dream abt u both

@/charles_leclerc: What kind of dream?

@/JoWithAView: the kind i can't describe here but i made a Pinterest board

***

@/MilfInSector1: hi baby u like older women? i make a mean carbonara and bad decisions

@/charles_leclerc: Define “older.” Define “mean.” Define “bad.”

@/MilfInSector1: 55 Spicy 2008 tattoo of Alonso’s face on my thigh

@/charles_leclerc: …This was a mistake.

***

@/AlinaUnbothered: omg ur real??? like i thought this was a bot. or worse. pierre.

@/charles_leclerc: Define “worse.”

@/AlinaUnbothered: someone not emotionally devastated. r u?

@/charles_leclerc: I once wept to a Debussy piano solo while making risotto. Does that count?

@/AlinaUnbothered: ur perfect. i collect tiny ceramic frogs. is that a dealbreaker?

@/charles_leclerc: Only if they’re haunted.

@/AlinaUnbothered: some of them are

***

@/ToeSucker88: u have beautiful feet pls send pics i have a collage due

***

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Hey cutie. Do you like handcuffs?

@/charles_leclerc: Depends. Are we talking F1 steering wheel tethers or prison time?

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Whichever gets you sweating. Also, I once dated two brothers at the same time. You have any siblings?

@/charles_leclerc:…

***

@/FreyaLikesFire: Hi Charles. I don’t actually watch F1 but I think you’re the guy who plays the piano in that viral TikTok, right?

@/charles_leclerc: …Yes. And I also occasionally drive very expensive cars. Do you know what DRS is?

@/FreyaLikesFire: Isn’t that the drug that makes hamsters fight?

@/charles_leclerc: That’s not even close.

***

@/SashaWanders: If I was your Ferrari, would you drive me fast or slow?

@/charles_leclerc: You would probably overheat and break down before we made it out of Q2.

@/SashaWanders: Kinky.

***

@/IsabelButSpicier: I don’t really care what you do as long as you’re hot and sad.

@/charles_leclerc: You just described every Ferrari strategy debrief. But okay, go off.

***

@/ClaraAfterDark: Let’s cut to the chase. I don’t cook, I don’t clean, but I will emotionally destroy you in under ten minutes. Interested? You look like you cry after sex. I find that hot.

***

@/NinaKnowsBest: Hi future baby daddy How do you feel about naming our first child ‘Ferrari?’ Girl or boy doesn’t matter x

@/charles_leclerc: That child will be bullied from kindergarten to Monaco GP.

@/NinaKnowsBest: Not if they’re hot.

***

@/EmTheEnigma: Let’s play a game: if you had to choose between your dog and me, which one would you kiss goodnight?

@/charles_leclerc: Leo. No hesitation. ***

@/EvaInParis: Hey babe. Do you come with the Ferrari or do I have to steal one?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. Have you ever been convicted of grand theft auto?

@/EvaInParis: LOL I plead the fifth.

@/charles_leclerc: This is Monaco. We don’t have the fifth. Goodbye.

***

@/SofiaOnSet: What’s your star sign? Asking to check if our birth charts align. I will not date another Virgo. I’ve had four. They all cried.

@/charles_leclerc:

I’m a Libra.

Are you planning on picking our wedding date using astrology?

Be honest—have you hexed an ex?

@/SofiaOnSet: That’s private.

@/charles_leclerc: So that’s a yes.

***

@/MayaWearsBlack: Can we skip the small talk? I only date drivers and DJs. You’re lucky you’re both hot and famous.

@/charles_leclerc:

Would you love me if I worked at a bakery?

How many drivers have you “dated”? Please round to the nearest dozen.

Do you know how to spell “empathy”? No autocorrect.

@/MayaWearsBlack: Who needs empathy when you’ve got a paddock pass?

@/charles_leclerc: Your honesty is terrifying. Goodbye.

***

@/TatianaFromIbiza: Let’s get married in Mykonos. I’ll bring the champagne, you bring the tux.

@/charles_leclerc: How do you feel about prenups?

@/TatianaFromIbiza: I’m an experience, not an investment.

@/charles_leclerc: You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.

***

@/BiancaWithIntentions: soooo if i date u, do i get paddock passes? asking for my sister (and me, obviously)

@/charles_leclerc: That depends. Would you say your intentions are: A) Romantic B) Opportunistic C) “Saw Drive to Survive and decided to try my luck”

@/BiancaWithIntentions: D) All of the above lol

***

@/VeraUnfiltered: I think you’re the one. I already told my therapist about you. She says I’m too impulsive but what does she know?

@/charles_leclerc: How long ago did you swipe right?

@/VeraUnfiltered: Twelve minutes. But I can feel things.

@/charles_leclerc: Like restraining orders approaching in the distance?

***

@/RomyInRed: Would you date someone who has been banned from Ibiza?

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up questions:

What did you do in Ibiza?

Was it arson?

Are you legally allowed to leave the country?

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: bro

Arthur: we have a situation

Lorenzo: what did you do

Arthur: it’s not what I did it’s what the women of Raya have done to me

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I opened the messages for Charles and I’m genuinely afraid

Lorenzo: Afraid of what??

Arthur: of toe pics witchcraft and one woman who casually mentioned she has a tattoo of Alonso on her thigh like. full face. 2008 Renault colors.

Lorenzo: I’m going to be sick.

Arthur: they’re all insane one of them collects haunted ceramic frogs another said she wants Charles to crash into her

Lorenzo: You created this account You brought this on yourself This is karma. This is divine justice.

Arthur: I was trying to help Charles find love but apparently Charles’ vibe attracts women who have cursed amulets and open warrants

Lorenzo: Delete it.

Arthur: No. I can fix this. I just need filters. And maybe an exorcism.

***

Pascale was in the kitchen, folding linen napkins with the serene efficiency of a woman who had raised three sons, lived through Charles’ La La Land phase, and once confiscated a bottle of cologne that smelled like “heartbreak and leather.”

Arthur hovered in the doorway like a raccoon with a secret.

“Maman?”

“Yes?”

“…I need to confess something.”

She looked up, suspicious. “Did you crash another scooter?”

“No. Worse.”

She put the napkins down slowly. “Go on.”

“I made Charles a Raya profile.”

A beat of silence.

“And I’ve been pretending to be him. Vetting the women. And—please don’t yell—but I think I might’ve… accidentally turned him into a sex symbol with commitment issues.”

Pascale blinked once. Then reached for her wine glass. “What exactly does that mean?”

Arthur swallowed. “One woman sent a voice memo that was just her breathing heavily. Another wrote an essay about his collarbones. And someone named ‘MILFInSector1’ offered to show him her Alonso tattoo. On her thigh, Maman.”

She closed her eyes. “Show me the profile.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m disappointed. In your taste.”

Arthur handed over the phone like it was radioactive.

She scrolled through in silence.

First: shirtless boat pic. Then: shirtless workout mirror selfie. Then: Charles shirtless on a beach, looking like he was about to write a tragic sonnet about the sea.

“Arthur,” she said slowly. “Is he wearing a shirt in any of these?”

“Technically… no.”

She tapped the screen. “This one looks like he just seduced a widow on the Italian coast and then vanished before sunrise.”

“That was the vibe!”

She gave him a look. “And this one? With Leo? Shirtless again?”

“It’s the dog dad bait. Women love a soft side.”

“He looks like a cover model for Brooding Bachelor: Mediterranean Edition.”

Arthur grinned. “Exactly.”

Pascale sighed like she’d aged ten years in five minutes. “Read me the bio.”

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso. Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.”

Pascale stared. Then sipped her wine with great purpose.

“You wrote this like he’s a walking cologne commercial with a god complex.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment. We’re fixing it. Sit down.”

They sat down at the table. Pascale adjusted her glasses like she was about to perform surgery.

“First, we’re removing at least three of the shirtless photos. Leave one. Two max. Any more and he looks like he’s trying to sell protein powder and regrets.”

“Can we keep the Leo one?”

“He’s shirtless and holding the dog. That’s double bait. You’re not stacking emotional manipulation with abs.”

Arthur sulked. “The steering wheel hands?”

“That one can stay. It’s tasteful. Mysterious. Almost… cinematic.”

Arthur perked up. “Knew you’d get it.”

“Now,” she said, rewriting the bio, “‘Swipe right if you can keep up’ makes him sound like he’s running from Interpol. We’re dialing it back.”

They replaced it with:

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Quiet mornings, loud engines. Looking for someone kind—with a sense of humor and a stronger tolerance for espresso than me.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s… actually kind of good.”

“I raised you,” she said simply.

She also added a hard filter: “No users with the words ‘feral,’ ‘MILF,’ or ‘toe’ in their usernames.”

Arthur blinked again. “How do you know this much about dating apps?”

Pascale sipped her wine and smiled. “Darling. I may be a widow. I’m not dead.”

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (still illegally operated by Arthur)

@/AnaSaysMaybe: So… are you actually looking for something serious or just another Italian summer situationship?

@/charles_leclerc: Ideally something meaningful. No drama. No performative sadness.

@/AnaSaysMaybe: But you're a Ferrari driver.

@/charles_leclerc: Touché.

***

@/SimoneAtSunset: Okay but real talk: Is the “piano at night” thing a metaphor for vulnerability, or are you actually playing piano?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m actually playing piano.

@/SimoneAtSunset: That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard or the most manipulative.

***

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Your profile is giving tragic espresso husband. I love it.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s… oddly flattering. Thank you.

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Just a heads up though—I don’t reply to texts between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 p.m. And I ghost people when Mercury’s in retrograde.

@/charles_leclerc: So you ghost people… for sixteen hours a day?

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Self-care x

***

@/AstridOnFire: You had me at “piano at night.” I melt for emotionally repressed men with a flair for the dramatic.

@/charles_leclerc: I’m… not sure that’s the healthiest criteria, but alright.

@/AstridOnFire: It’s okay, I fix people.

@/charles_leclerc: That is the least reassuring sentence I’ve ever read.

***

@/CamilleOnCamera: Are you actually looking for a relationship? Or are you just here to cry to Chopin and pretend you're okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m open to something real. Why?

@/CamilleOnCamera: Because I don’t do emotions, but I do look great in photos. So if you want a beautiful mutual breakdown, I’m your girl.

***

@/JulietteFromNowhere: You seem genuinely lovely, but just so you know—I bring a lot of intensity to relationships. Like, “sent my ex a Spotify playlist titled ‘Haunt Me Forever’” energy.

@/charles_leclerc: …Out of curiosity, how long after the breakup?

@/JulietteFromNowhere:Six months. But I made the playlist during the relationship. Just in case.

***

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Do you believe in soulmates or is that too cringe?

@/charles_leclerc: I think it depends. Soulmates, maybe. Destiny, yes.

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Good answer. Anyway, my tarot reader says I’m going to marry someone with intense eyebrows. I’m pretty sure it’s you.

***

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: What’s your opinion on monogamy?

@/charles_leclerc: Essential, if I’m being honest.

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: Shame. I’m more of a… rotating-cast-of-men kind of girl. But I thought maybe I’d make an exception if you were taller.

***

@/NaomiNotNice: You look like you feel things. I like that in a man.

@/charles_leclerc: …Thank you?

@/NaomiNotNice: Do you mind if I name our first child Enzo?

@/charles_leclerc: We haven’t even met yet.

@/NaomiNotNice: Manifesting.

***

@/MilaInMotion: What’s your relationship with your mother like?

@/charles_leclerc: Close. She helps with most of my major life decisions.

@/MilaInMotion: Oh. Yeah. That’s going to be a problem for me. I’m allergic to mother-in-laws.

***

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Your dog is adorable. I trust men more when they’re dog people.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo is the most stable relationship I’ve had.

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Same. My ex stole my cat in the breakup, but I got the espresso machine. Also, I burned his passport.

@/charles_leclerc: Wait what

***

@/EvaAfterMidnight: Hi. If we go out, please don’t talk to me about F1. I’ll pretend to care, but it’s mostly for the photos.

@/charles_leclerc: …Charming.

***

@/LucieOffGrid: Hi. You have a dog, a soul, and a tragic vibe. I’m intrigued. I live on a boat most of the year. No Wi-Fi. I churn my own butter.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s incredibly niche. How do you… date people?

@/LucieOffGrid: I don’t. I just appear in their lives, ruin them, and disappear again. Like fog. Or ex-girlfriends.

@/charles_leclerc: Oh dear God.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: progress report

Lorenzo: this can’t be good

Arthur: we are still getting weirdos…but they are technically better weirdos?

Lorenzo: Define “technically”

Arthur: no toe pics no thigh tattoos no one’s tried to hex him with moon water yet

Lorenzo: So… less weird?

Arthur: less weird but not normal

Arthur: example: one girl churns her own butter and lives on her boat another just sent him her cat’s star chart

Lorenzo: I don’t know if this is evolution or a new form of crisis

Arthur: they’re soft weirdos now like chaotic but moisturized

Lorenzo: and you haven’t found anyone normal?

Arthur: define “normal” because one girl said she’s emotionally allergic to mothers another made a Spotify playlist titled ‘haunt me forever’ for her ex boyfriend

Lorenzo: You deserve this

Arthur: excuse me I’ve filtered out the truly cursed ones

Lorenzo: That’s like bragging about evacuating only some of the haunted dolls

Arthur: baby steps we’re moving in the right direction

***

Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie up, blue light permanently etched into his retinas. His thumb moved on instinct now, scrolling through Raya like a war veteran—twitching every time he saw the words “feral,” “open relationship,” or “wanna crash into me?”

He was ready to give up.

And then.

@/lydiacolbert

Her profile popped up like a glitch in the system. A miracle in neutral tones.

Photos:

Lydia petting a small cream dachshund on a sunny terrace.

Lydia on a bike, holding her face in the sun.

Lydia laughing in Mykonos. Natural. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Lydia holding a flower pot like it’s an award she just earned.

Lydia’s dog—in a sweater. A blue sweater and a pink collar. Judging the camera.

Bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Arthur sat up straight.

He reread it.

Then again.

“Charles,” he whispered to no one. “This is her. This is the one Leo won’t bark at.”

He clicked into the profile, skimmed her answers.

Interests: Cooking. Books. Dogs. Art museums. Sarcasm. Mild chaos. Turn-ons: Honesty. Calm confidence. Emotionally intelligent introverts.

Arthur blinked. “Oh my god, she’s hot and sane.”

He hit match faster than Charles on a quali lap in Monaco.

Seconds later: MATCHED.

Arthur stood, fists in the air. “YES. YES. FINALLY.”

Leo—who was asleep on a pillow in the corner—lifted his head in alarm. Arthur turned to him, grinning.

“Buddy,” he said breathlessly, “you’re getting a sister.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I FOUND HER WE’RE SAVED

Lorenzo: You matched with a therapist?

Arthur: Better. Model. Dachshund. Judgmental. Possibly magic. Mild chaos. No witchcraft.

Lorenzo: …What’s the catch?

Arthur: There is no catch.

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (operated by Arthur Leclerc, matchmaking menace)

@/lydiacolbert has matched with you. ✅

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

Arthur stared at the screen.

Then sat bolt upright.

“She’s perfect.”

Leo looked up from the corner, unimpressed.

Arthur cracked his knuckles and whispered, “Do not ruin this.”

He typed back—cautiously, like approaching a feral cat that might also own a book deal.

@/charles_leclerc: Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

Arthur blinked. Whispered, “Marry her.”

He texted Lorenzo immediately.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: She messaged FIRST.

Lorenzo: Who??

Arthur: LYDIA. Dog girl. Sanity girl. Flower-pot-on-a-bike girl.

Lorenzo: And?

Arthur: She’s funny. She’s dry. Her dog’s name is Désirée. She likes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I think Leo just wagged his tail at the screen.

Lorenzo: …You’re not qualified to handle this.

Arthur: I KNOW. I need backup. Should I respond with poetry or just ask her what her dog’s birth chart is?

Lorenzo: Respond like a normal person. And don’t mention astrology.

***

Back in the app, Arthur took a breath. And for once, he typed like Charles would.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

Arthur choked on his Coke Zero.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “She’s real. She’s emotionally literate. And she cooks.”

He took a beat. Typed.

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Arthur stared at the message. Then slowly turned to Leo.

“Buddy,” he whispered. “We might’ve found her.”

***

Group Chat: Raya Redemption HQ 💘🐾

Members: Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Joris

Arthur: EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT THIS WOMAN

Arthur: screenshot of Lydia’s profile ✨Model. Dachshund. Wears linen. Reads books. Owns plants. Emotionally stable.✨ WE ARE NO LONGER IN CRISIS

Lorenzo: Did she send you toe pics?

Arthur: NO. She sent a message about her dog judging her for messaging men. It was dry. It was flirty. It was sane. She makes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I’m in love for Charles.

Joris: So… we’re not deleting the app after all?

Arthur: No. We’re framing this match and hanging it above the fireplace.

Pascale: Arthur, I swear to God, if you are still pretending to be your brother, this woman deserves better than whatever Cirque du Soleil act you’re pulling.

Arthur: Maman, relax. I’m being tasteful. No shirtless photos, no espresso metaphors. We even discussed dogs before pasta.

Lorenzo: That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve read today.

Arthur: I’M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT. Even Leo approved. He wagged his tail. Once.

Pascale: You bribed him with ham, didn’t you?

Arthur: That’s beside the point.

Joris: Okay, but real talk—what’s the plan here? Are you going to tell Charles at some point, or is he just going to find out he’s dating someone from an app he never downloaded?

Arthur: We’ll ease him into it. Like exposure therapy. Step 1: Let him spiral less. Step 2: Keep messaging Lydia until she’s emotionally invested. Step 3: Gently reveal the deception. Step 4: Wedding.

Lorenzo: You skipped “tell the truth” and “deal with the emotional fallout” in your little master plan.

Pascale: I raised criminals.

Arthur: You raised innovators.

Pascale: When Charles finds out, I’m making all of you explain it to him. In person. While I film it.

Arthur: You’ll thank me when he’s married to the elegant Parisian woman with a judgmental dachshund and a normal relationship with emotional intimacy.

Lorenzo: Or he’ll drown you in the Monaco marina.

Arthur: That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

***

Charles took a sip of his espresso and opened Twitter with the innocent hope of seeing race predictions or maybe a meme about Pierre’s new sunglasses.

Instead, the first thing he saw was a tweet with his face and the words:

@/paddocktea:okay but WHO is running charles leclerc’s raya account(s) bc i just found TWO and they are… spiritually different??? exhibit a: “Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives and women who don’t ask too many questions.” vs “Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Looking for someone kind and espresso-tolerant.” one of these was written by a shirtless man with cologne in his eyes and the other by someone’s extremely French mother

[2 screenshots attached]

Charles blinked.

Scrolled.

Opened the replies.

@/feralgirlsf1: first version: "I will ruin you in Lake Como" second version: "I will feed you carbonara and never leave" who is writing this man’s character arc

@/drive_me_delirious: I KNOW ARTHUR MADE THE FIRST ONE. I KNOW IT IN MY BONES. but who made the sad poet rebrand? because I want to thank her

@/alonsohater420: Pascale Leclerc. That’s my theory. That woman raised sons and keeps receipts.

@/feralforferrari: “Winner of your heart” STOP WHO LET HIM TYPE THAT???

@/leoclubfanpage: not me cross-referencing shirtless beach pics with his Instagram to determine authenticity 💀

@/wifedashboard: someone said the new bio sounds like his maman made it and honestly?? not wrong

Charles put down his espresso with surgical care.

Then clicked on the screenshots.

First one:

Shirtless. Mykonos.

Shirtless. Beach.

Shirtless. Leo.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights.”

He audibly choked.

Second one:

Sweater. Steering wheel.

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays.”

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc and Lorenzo Leclerc

Charles: WHAT IS THIS

Lorenzo: …Good morning?

Charles: WHY AM I TRENDING FOR A RAYA PROFILE I’VE NEVER MADE??? WHY ARE THERE TWO OF THEM??

Lorenzo: Define “trending.”

Charles: Lorenzo. There are slideshows. There are threads.

Charles: There are comparative analyses of which version of my fictional dating self is hotter.

Charles: Someone said the first one was “sex on a Vespa” and the second one was “grief with a good red.”

Lorenzo: ...Okay but that’s honestly fair.

Charles: WHO. DID. THIS.

Lorenzo: I think now’s a good time to ask if you are in the country…

Charles: LORENZO.

Lorenzo: Okay. Fine. The first one was Arthur. The second one was… a joint operation.

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: Arthur made the original profile without your knowledge. You were spiraling. He panicked. Then he asked Maman for help and she helped him rebrand you into someone… softer.

Charles: YOU LET MAMAN EDIT MY FAKE DATING PROFILE??

Lorenzo: She cut out the shirtless pics. You should be grateful.

Charles: I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale

Charles: ARE YOU ALL OUT OF YOUR MINDS???

Charles: I woke up to find out I apparently have not one, but TWO dating profiles.

Charles: TWO. ON RAYA. WITH BIOS.

Charles: AND PHOTOS. OF MY BODY. WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Arthur: hi love would you like a chamomile tea and a therapist or should I start running

Charles: YOU PUT “WINNER OF YOUR HEART” IN THE BIO.

Pascale: I removed it. The first one made you sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries. The second one is tasteful. Sophisticated. A man with depth and a signature pasta.

Charles: YOU REBRANDED ME AS A TRAGIC HUSBAND?!?

Arthur: you’re welcome

Charles: WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO DO THIS

Arthur: you said “I’m emotionally unlovable at a molecular level” while listening to Debussy

Arthur: you were spiraling I intervened with vibes and wi-fi

Lorenzo: Arthur called it “Operation Raya Redemption” We even had a shared folder

Charles: A FOLDER???

Arthur: look bro we were just trying to get you off the floor and into the emotional arms of someone whose dog wears sweaters

Charles: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Lorenzo: …Arthur. Now is a good time.

Arthur: right okay so

Arthur: you got a match

Charles: NO.

Arthur: YES.

Pascale: She messaged first. That’s a good sign. Confident. Emotionally balanced.

Charles: NO ONE IS EMOTIONALLY BALANCED IN THIS FAMILY

Arthur: her name is Lydia she’s a model she lives in Paris and she has a dachshund named Désirée who wears sweaters and hates most men so obviously, she’s perfect

Lorenzo: She likes sarcasm, risotto, and espresso. She messaged to say your dog looks like hers when judging her for dating. You flirted about risotto for like six messages.

Charles: I DID WHAT??

Arthur: technically I flirted but I was channeling your tragic poet energy so it was spiritually accurate

Pascale: She’s very elegant. Also, she uses punctuation in her messages. We vetted her.

Charles: YOU VETTED HER??

Arthur: Maman and I read her Instagram captions. She passed. No star sign rants. No frog collections. Her bookshelf had actual books.

Charles: I’m going to lie down and scream into a pillow.

Arthur: you’re welcome.

Lorenzo: You should at least meet Lydia.

Pascale: She has excellent hair. You owe it to Leo.

Charles: …what does Leo have to do with this

Arthur: he wagged his tail when he saw her dog’s photo it was a sign

Pascale: I really think she’s a good match, Charles. She didn’t even bring up racing. Just said your dog looked adorable.

Charles: I AM DELETING THIS APP I AM DELETING THIS FAMILY CHAT I AM DELETING MYSELF

***

Charles was sitting on the floor. Because of course he was.

His phone sat on the couch above him, like a bomb. Still open to the group chat where his family casually confessed to identity theft and matchmaking in one breath.

He sighed.

Then, like a man opening a cursed scroll, he opened the Raya app. Logged in with the password Arthur had supplied: Pinsàroulettes16 (Arthur was not subtle.Charles should probably consider himself lucky that nobody had hacked it yet.)

New Matches: 1 @/lydiacolbert ✅

He blinked at the name.

Then the profile.

Paris.

Model.

Cream-colored dachshund in a blue sweater.

Laughing in Mykonos.

Holding a flower pot like it told her a secret.

Judgmental but kind eyes.

Her bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Charles stared.

Then scrolled to the messages.

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

@/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur): Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Charles sat very still.

Then read it again.

He felt something ridiculous tug at the corner of his mouth.

Leo stretched next to him and sighed—like even he was judging him a little less now.

Charles hesitated.

Then, for the first time, typed something himself.

@/charles_leclerc: Would Désirée tolerate a walk with Leo sometime next week? I promise not to suggest pineapple on anything.

He hit send.

Then set the phone down.

And muttered to Leo, “If I marry her, you’re getting a tux.”

Leo rolled over, unimpressed.

***

Charles arrived early. Like, way early. Like, sat-down-twenty-minutes-before-the-reservation-straightening-the-salt-shakers early.

Leo was wearing his least-offensive harness—the navy one Pascale called “respectable.” Charles had asked his mother to steam his shirt because he would have burned it. And he’d spent ten minutes standing in front of his cologne collection with the expression of a man selecting a weapon for emotional battle.

He went with the subtle one. The one that didn’t smell like haunted heartbreak on the Riviera.

Now he was trying not to pass out.

He kept checking his phone—not for messages, but to reread hers. Like they were prayers. Or sheet music. Something steady. Predictable. Beautiful.

He was on the fourth reread when he heard a soft “Hi.”

And he looked up.

And that was it.

Time? Paused. Brain? Empty. Soul? Gone. Sold. Stolen.

Because yes, Lydia looked like her pictures. The soft light, the clean lines, the effortless grace. But in real life, she looked like sunlight through linen curtains. Like the kind of quiet joy you don’t realize you’ve been missing until it’s there, in front of you, wearing ankle boots and a knowing smile.

And behind her, trotting like a tiny fashion editor late for brunch, was Désirée—new sweater, same disapproval.

Charles stood too fast. Knocked his knee on the table.

“Hi. Bonjour. Sorry. I’m—hi.”

Lydia tilted her head, smiling like someone who wasn’t startled by awkward men but delighted by them.

“That’s a lot of hellos.”

“I panicked,” he confessed, trying to smile but probably just grimacing.

“Well,” she said, settling across from him, “panic suits you.”

They sat. Leo gave Désirée a slow blink. Désirée gave Leo a look that said You are lucky I’m in a tolerant mood. Neither barked. It was, Charles decided, a miracle.

They ordered drinks. A croissant for him. An oat milk cappuccino for her. Two biscuits for the dogs. And the conversation just... happened.

They talked about risotto (“Saffron?” “Obviously.”) About books. About espresso machines (“Manual or capsule?” “Is that even a question?”). About why Désirée once growled at a barista for adding whipped cream. (“It was a crime against coffee,” Lydia said, without irony.)

And with every laugh, every dry observation, every easy silence, something in Charles started to settle. Like maybe he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just… waiting.

Until the warmth in his chest got too dangerous.

And he blurted it out.

“I need to confess something.”

Lydia paused, cappuccino halfway to her mouth. “Okay. I’m listening. Should I be concerned?”

Charles exhaled. “Maybe.”

She leaned in slightly. “Did you lie about being able to make risotto? Because honestly, I’d survive.”

“No. I can make risotto.”

“Then what is it?”

Charles swallowed. “This profile. On Raya. It wasn’t me. Not at first. It was my brother. Arthur. He made it without telling me.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And then,” Charles continued grimly, “my maman got involved. She edited it. There were… filters. There was a group chat. I only found out after it went viral on Twitter.”

Lydia blinked.

Then leaned back. Processing.

Then she squinted.

“Wait—both versions of your profile were real?”

Charles groaned. “Yes. One was Arthur’s masterpiece. All shirtless photos and chaos. The other was… Arthur’s chaos, edited by a woman who once made me redo a thank-you note because it wasn’t emotionally sincere.”

And then—

She laughed.

Not a polite giggle. Not a smirk.

A full, head-back, eyes-crinkled, joyful laugh.

“You’re telling me,” she gasped, “your mother edited your Raya profile?”

Charles nodded miserably. “She cut the shirtless photos. Said I was ‘the first one made me sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries.’ Her words. Not mine.”

“I love your family already,” Lydia said, still wheezing. Désirée sneezed under the table, as if in agreement.

Charles looked at her sideways. “So… you’re not running?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I am making fun of you for this forever.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that surprised him. The kind that had been stuck behind his ribs since Sophie. The kind he didn’t know he missed until this exact moment.

Then Lydia, still grinning, reached across the table and stole half his croissant with zero shame.

Charles blinked at her, stunned.

“So… am I meeting your mum on the second date or the third?” He nearly choked on his espresso.

She leaned closer and said, very softly, “I’m really glad you showed up—even if it took your brother, your mother, and a deeply haunted dating app to make it happen,”

And Charles, soft, stunned, grinning like a fool, thought:

I’m screwed. She’s it. Leo’s going to need a tux.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Charles: I met her.

Arthur: WHO LYDIA??

Charles: Yes.

Arthur: IS SHE REAL OR WAS THAT PROFILE A TRAP LAID BY A SUPERNATURAL ENTITY??

Charles: She’s real. And not a ghost. Unless ghosts can steal your croissant and your soul in the same hour.

Lorenzo: Define “steal your soul.”

Charles: She laughed at my confession. Not at me. With me. Said she’s making fun of me forever and then ate half my pastry like it was her birthright.

Lorenzo: ...I think you’re in love.

Arthur: WAIT. BACK UP. YOU TOLD HER???

Charles: I panicked. She asked what my risotto confession was and it just— came out.

Pascale: And what did she say?

Charles: She laughed. Like, full-body, eyes-crinkled, gorgeous laugh. Then said she loved my family already.

Pascale: She has taste.

Arthur: I AM A GENIUS.

Lorenzo: You’re a liability.

Arthur: A romantic visionary. I BROUGHT THIS WOMAN INTO OUR LIVES.

Charles: You catfished her.

Arthur: Tomato, tomahto.

Pascale: Invite her to Sunday lunch.