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potatipejr · 2 days ago

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I Would Ruin The Bit

Spencer Agnew x Reader

Summary: You and Spencer go on Courtney’s new podcast URL separately, but you might just end up together…

Word count: 4.1k words

A/N: I’m officially back. First official request!! Hope you enjoy it xx

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Spencer’s episode aired on Tuesday.

You weren’t supposed to watch it right away. You’d told yourself you’d wait— just catch the highlights later, maybe skim it while doing the dishes or folding the laundry. But three minutes in, you were curled up on your couch with your knees to your chest, fully invested, drink going cold beside you.

Courtney had that effect on you. Warm and nosy in the best way, like your favorite older sibling who never let you off the hook when you tried to hide behind sarcasm.

“So,” she said, leaning forward with a knowing look, “tell me about your movie night traditions. I've heard you’re a nightmare seatmate during Lord of the Rings.”

Spencer huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I make one comment about how Boromir deserves better, and suddenly I’m the problem.”

“Oh, just one?”

“Okay, maybe five. Tops.”

Courtney grinned, eyes glinting with mischievous excitement. “And are you usually alone when you do these dramatic monologues?”

His smile faltered for just a second, then softened. “No. I'm usually with… a friend. Equally annoying. Maybe even worse, honestly.”

“Name names,” Courtney sang, like she already knew the answer.

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, and then he said your name.

You paused the video.

Your heart did that soft and traitorous thing, like it was trying to climb out of your chest and run straight to him.

You knew you and Spencer were close— everyone did. It was obvious. You’d been orbiting each other for months, best friends with just enough chemistry to keep people guessing. But hearing him say your name like that? All soft and a little shy? That did things to your heart you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge.

You pressed play again.

“She— uh,” he said, trying to sound casual, “she does this thing during movies where she rewrites the entire script in real time. Like, full-on voice impressions and everything. During Pride and Prejudice, she gave Mr. Darcy a Bronx accent.”

He laughed, a little helpless. “I haven’t been the same since.”

Courtney leaned into the camera with the most theatrical eyebrow raise imaginable, delighted and devious. “That sounds suspiciously like the behavior of a man in love.”

Spencer choked on air.

“She’s just funny!” he sputtered, instantly red-faced, waving a hand as if that could clear the smoke of implication now thick in the room. “It’s not like— I mean, we’re not— friends can be funny. You’re funny, and uh, you’re married so…”

Courtney was practically vibrating with glee. “Uh-huh,” she said slowly, dragging the syllables out like sticky taffy. “Just funny. Right.”

He squirmed in his seat, looking anywhere but the camera. “We’ve just… known each other a long time. We’re comfortable.”

Courtney turned to the camera again, voice dropping into mock seriousness. “You hear that, people? He said comfortable. That’s practically a proposal in Spencer lingo.”

The audience (and by “audience” we mean the off-camera crew who were clearly in on the bit) let out a wave of “oooohs” and “aaahs”. Spencer buried his face in his hands, groaning. The camera shaking, indicating Brennan being very amused by the man’s squirming.

“Can we go back to talking about Sonic the Hedgehog or whatever nerdy game I used to obsess about?”

“Nope,” Courtney said brightly, “because our lovely team over there,” she gestured off-camera with a Cheshire grin “may or may not have fallen down a rabbit hole last night. And may or may not have found some excellent fan compilations of the two of you.”

Spencer looked up sharply. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she said, and with a dramatic flourish, whipped around a tablet.

The screen lit up.

And there it was: the edit. One of those edits.

First clip: a Smosh sketch— Spencer catching you mid-fall, arms around your waist, your surprised laugh echoing as you looked up at him. His face in the clip was so stupidly fond.

Then: a behind-the-scenes tiktok: grainy footage of you stealing fries from his plate while he tried to look annoyed, but ended up just smiling at you like you had given him the moon. The music in the background was the type of lo-fi beat that was tragically romantic. Text in sparkly font floated across the screen: “they’re the blueprint”.

Spencer groaned again.

“You’ve doomed me.”

“Oh come on,” Courtney grinned. “You’re the internet’s slow burn king. The people are rooting for you two like it’s the season finale of their favorite show. You can’t fake that kind of chemistry.”

He peeked out from between his fingers, still pink. “She’s going to kill me.”

Courtney leaned back, smug. “Or thank you.”

She paused for a second.

Then, more gently, she asked, “Be honest, though. As your friend… have you really never considered it?”

That was when it happened.

That tiny, barely perceptible pause.

The crack in his usual rhythm.

Spencer reached for his bottle, fingers tapping nervously against the metal. Then he gave a shrug that tried to be casual but wasn’t. “…Maybe.”

Courtney’s jaw dropped.

“I think about them more than I probably should,” he admitted, quieter now. “It’s stupid. Every time I say something dumb, I wonder if they hear it. And every time they laugh at something I say, I feel like I just won the lifetime achievement award for funniest man alive.”

The room quieted slightly. Just enough to make the moment feel real.

“And I don’t know,” Spencer continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “The thing is, I’ve built this whole bit, right? Like, the funny guy. And it works. People like it. I like it.”

He paused.

You could see his leg bouncing now.

“But if it ever came down to it,” he said, finally meeting the camera’s gaze — and unknowingly, yours — “I’d ruin the whole bit if it meant I got to call them mine.”

Silence. For a full beat.

Then Courtney said, “Jesus Christ, that was actually romantic.”

Spencer flushed scarlet. “Shut up, dude.”

He said it with that same melodic lilt he used when cracking a joke like he was still playing the part, still keeping it all within the bit. But there was something in his eyes when he said it… something that didn’t quite match the act. “I’d ruin the whole bit if it meant I got to call them mine.”

And you felt it. Not like a flutter. Not like butterflies. It was like a landslide.

Because suddenly you couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t think properly. Because you knew. You knew he meant you. You knew it down to your bones.

And the worst part was, you wanted it. Wanted him. You wanted to be his.

And that was the part that really sent you spiraling.

Because what did it mean, to be Spencer’s? He wasn’t just some guy making a joke on a podcast. He was Spencer. The person who always knew how to make you laugh so hard your ribs ached, then stayed up with you on the phone when the laughter gave way to silence and doubt. The one who always stood a little too close, like his gravity pulled toward yours and neither of you knew how to stop it anymore.

You couldn’t stop replaying it in your head.

I’d ruin the whole bit.

He would break the thing that kept him safe, the version of himself the world loved, just to be honest. For you.

You’d tried not to hope. You’d been careful, cautious, convinced this was just something unspoken that lived in the spaces between jokes and glances. But now? Now he’d dragged it into the light.

And your heart hadn’t stopped racing since.

You didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or climb through your phone screen and grab him by the collar and say, “Say it again. Say it to my face. I dare you.” Instead, you just sat there, head in your hands, heart doing backflips, while the rest of the world kept spinning like it didn’t even notice your entire universe had shifted one inch to the left: towards him.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until that one word left his mouth.

Maybe.

It wasn’t much. Just one word. Quiet. Barely there.

But it wrecked you.

Because you knew that voice. That exact tone. You’d heard it before— when he was walking the tightrope between what he felt and what he dared to show. That wasn’t a joke, or a bit, or even a placeholder answer. That was the first crack in the dam.

You were frozen on your couch, hand halfway to your mouth,

You had watched him spin a thousand stories out of thin air, turn silence into punchlines and chaos into comfort. But this wasn’t that. This wasn't a performance.

This was Spencer… unraveling.

You waited for the denial, the backpedaling, the casual joke to brush it all off. It never came.

The rest of the world fell away— the cold tea sweating beside you on the table, the stupid blanket balled uselessly in your lap as the video played. None of it mattered.

You felt something twist and settle in your chest. Heavy and warm and terrifying all at once.

Because maybe had always been the unspoken thing between you. The long looks. The almosts. The what-ifs.

And now, it wasn’t unspoken anymore.

Now, it was right there— broadcasted, undeniable.

Now, it was real.

You watched the whole episode again.

Because frankly, the whole thing irritated you and itched at the base of your skull like a mosquito bite you couldn’t quite scratch. There’d been moments, so many moments, where it would’ve been easy to say something. To have a real conversation with him about the ‘unspoken.’ But easy didn’t mean safe. Not when the whole internet was already writing your love story for you.

But maybe the finale was coming sooner than anyone thought.

Your episode was filmed exactly one week after Spencer’s.

The producers emailed you the invite with many smiley faces for comfort, calling it a “highly requested guest slot” in bold pink font like you hadn’t already seen the way Twitter lost its mind after Spencer’s.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what this was. The entire internet had gone full tinfoil-hat detective over his episode. Comment sections flooded with timestamps and overanalyzed glances. TikTok was wall-to-wall fan edits and “They’re definitely in love” breakdowns.

Still… you said yes.

Partly because you genuinely liked Courtney. She was fun, quick-witted, and asked the kind of questions that felt like peeling back a sticker slowly, layer by layer, until the truth stuck. But more than that, you agreed because if Spencer could sit there with that shy smile and those brave confessions then maybe it was your turn to show up too.

Besides, there had been some truths under your skin for months now— itching, pressing, begging to be let out. You hadn’t stopped to untangle the knot in your stomach, or to second-guess the impulse rushing through you like spring water.

The set was warm and casual, the URL couch familiar from every episode you’d binged before. You sipped on the fancy sparkling water someone handed you and tried not to fidget while they adjusted your mic.

Courtney sat down across from you, cross-legged, grinning like a cat with a secret.

“So,” she started, dragging out the word, “before we begin… do you know how many people tagged us in posts demanding your episode after Spencer’s aired?”

You laughed, maybe a little too nervously. “I’m terrified to know the number.”

“Let’s just say your ship name is trending.”

Your stomach flipped. You smiled it off.

The interview began innocently enough— standard questions, playful jabs, a lot of mutual giggling. But around the thirty-minute mark, things shifted. Courtney had a way of pulling people in like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d started spiraling until the words were already pouring out of you.

“He’s just… comfortable,” you said, trying to explain the impossible-to-name thing that Spencer was. Your hands gestured helplessly, like they could catch the right phrase out of the air. “He has this way of making people feel seen. Not in a performative way. Just safe. Like you can breathe deeper when he’s around.”

Courtney leaned forward slightly, her tone softening. “You talk like you know him really well.”

You smiled. The kind of smile you made when you were holding something close to your chest and maybe, just maybe, thinking about letting it go. “I do.”

““And is he…” Courtney tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Just your coworker?”

Your heart skipped, just once.

You’d been bracing for it—of course she’d ask. The internet had been dissecting every glance and laugh between you two since his episode aired. Still, something about hearing it out loud made your breath catch. It felt… more real.

You looked down, thumb brushing absently along the edge of your sleeve.

Then, carefully:

“He is my favorite person to see across a room.”

Courtney made a wounded sound, clutching her chest like she’d been struck. “Oh my God. If that man doesn’t kiss you by next week, I swear—”

You laughed softly, like the words on your tongue were fragile things you didn’t want to mishandle. “He’s already said more than enough.”

The tension in your shoulders had just started to ease— until the screen across from you flickered to life.

Your eyes widened. “No. No, what are you doing?”

Across the table, the producer was already handing Courtney the now-infamous Fan Edit Tablet of Doom.

Courtney’s grin was wicked. “Oh, come on. You had to know this was coming.”

You let out a groan, sinking slightly in your seat. “God, I was really hoping it wouldn’t.”

She tapped play.

Cue soft lighting. Slow-motion clips of Spencer brushing a hair from your face during a shoot. Him laughing at something you said off-camera, eyes crinkled, body leaning subtly toward yours. One edit showed you falling asleep during a travel vlog shoot, your head tilted to the side— and Spencer draping his hoodie over you like it was second nature.

The music was embarrassingly romantic—some indie acoustic track with lyrics like “I didn’t mean to fall for you” playing just loud enough to be mortifying.

The final clip was a zoom-in of Spencer’s face during one of those chaotic group sketches. You were in the background, talking to someone else. He was in the foreground, not even the focus of the shot. But he was looking at you. Soft, focused, like the whole world had blurred except for you.

Your hands flew up to your face.

“Oh my God, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Courtney snorted. “It’s worse.”

You peeked at her through your fingers, face burning. “How long has everyone been seeing this except for us?”

She leaned toward you, teasing but sincere. “You two are basically a rom-com waiting to happen. The slow burn? The banter? The pining? Come on. We all have eyes.”

You let out a weak laugh.

The last clip was the killer: Spencer, blurry in the background of a group sketch, not even the focus. But he was just looking at you and the camera had caught it. The kind of look that didn’t lie.

When the video ended, you were quiet for a beat too long.

Courtney didn’t push. She just waited.

Finally, you said, “I didn’t watch his episode all the way through at first.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“I told myself I’d just catch the highlights. But three minutes in, I was curled up on the couch, drink untouched, just… watching him.”

She smiled. Soft this time. “And?”

You shrugged a little. “He said some things I didn’t expect to hear out loud. Things I wasn’t sure he’d ever actually say.”

“Did it change anything?”

A pause, quiet with something sacred

“Not really,” you said. “I think it just… confirmed things I already knew. Things I’d been ignoring because it was easier.”

Courtney tilted her head, curious. “And now?”

You met her eyes. Your voice was steady.

“Now I think maybe we owe it to ourselves to stop pretending it’s not real.”

The words hung there, delicate and heavy all at once..

“Maybe I’m not ready to say it loud yet,” you admitted. “But I’m ready to say it… gently. Like leaving the door open and hoping he walks through it.”

Courtney placed a hand to her chest, mock-swooning with real feeling beneath it. “Girl. That’s not gentle. That’s poetry.”

You shrugged, but the smile stayed, full of something that had waited long enough to be spoken.

Courtney didn’t say anything for a second— just nodded, slow and proud, like she was witnessing something shifting.

Then she grinned, sharp again. “So when’s the wedding?”

You burst out laughing, covering your face. “Courtney, oh my God.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, giggling. “We’ll save that for your next visit.”

The clips made the rounds.

Actually, “made the rounds” didn’t quite cover it. They detonated.

Within hours of your URL episode going live, the internet did what it did best: spiraled. Screenshots were everywhere. Fans paired your smile with his softest glances, your flustered laugh with his shy confessions. A five-second snippet of you adjusting Spencer’s mic got over a million views, captioned “spouse behavior.”

Twitter exploded.

They weren’t subtle about it. The fan edits got louder, more dramatic; montages set to love songs, slow-motion glances, captions like “soulmates in denial.” Someone even made a spreadsheet tracking every “charged moment,” complete with timestamps and emotional intensity ratings.

It stopped being commentary and started feeling like a countdown. People weren’t just watching you two anymore—they were rooting for you. Betting on you.

So by the time you both returned to set for another sketch shoot, it wasn’t just awkward—it was loudly awkward.

Chaos was probably the right word.

Someone had plastered screenshots of fan tweets all over the table. One of them read, “If they don’t kiss by the next sketch, I’m throwing my phone in the ocean.” It was right next to the fruit tray. You considered throwing that instead.

Alex handed you a sticker that said “Spencer’s Favorite Person” in Comic Sans, his expression mournful, like he was delivering a medal of valour in a war you didn’t sign up for.

“Wear it with pride,” he said solemnly.

And Ian? Ian had taken to walking past you humming the wedding march anytime you and Spencer were in the same room. No words. No eye contact. Just the tune. Loud, deliberate and frequently. It was totally unhinged behaviour… which, unfortunately, tracked perfectly for your boss.

You laughed it off, of course. So did Spencer.

Every time someone teased him, he’d give that sheepish smile, the one that tugged at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t decide between amused and flustered. You’d meet each other’s gaze across the green room and grin like idiots, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

But eventually, you caught him in the kitchen. Everyone else had gone off to review footage. It was just the two of you, and your heart knew it.

“So,” you said, aiming for nonchalant and missing slightly. “I watched your episode.”

He turned quickly, already flushing. “Yeah?”

You nodded, biting back a smile. “Twice. Maybe thrice..”

That got a small, nervous, breathy laugh out of him. “Wow. Planning revenge?”

You shook your head, stepping just close enough that your shoulders brushed as he leaned against the counter.

“Just wondering,” you said, quieter now, “if you meant what you said.”

The shift in energy was immediate. His posture stiffened slightly, cup halfway to his lips. When he looked at you this time, it wasn’t with teasing eyes. That boyish glint in his eyes had disappeared in an instant and was instead replaced with something you could only describe as soft adoration.

He didn’t smile.

Just nodded, earnest and unflinching.

“I did.”

You could feel the pulse in your throat. Your brain scrambled for something clever, something casual— but all you could do was watch him. His expression. The nervous set of his jaw. The hope wasn't even pretending to hide now.

Your tongue felt too heavy, your breath caught somewhere in your chest. Spencer was just standing there. He wasn't moving or filling the silence with some deflecting joke, just waiting.

Waiting for you.

He’d said yes.

No hesitation. No backpedaling. No joke to soften the edges.

He meant it.

You blinked once, then said, quieter than you intended, “You know that kind of ruined me, right?”

He tilted his head. “The episode?”

“The things you said.”

Your voice was steadier now, but barely. “I don’t think you realize how much of me you just… put out there. Without even knowing it.”

Spencer swallowed. “I didn’t do it to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

You stepped forward again, enough that he had to straighten up, enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him like sunlight through a window. “It just caught me off guard. Hearing it. Watching you say it.”

His eyes searched yours. “What part?”

You paused.

“The part where you said you think about me more than you should,” you said, breath hitching. “And the part where you said-”

You hesitated.

His eyes held no defenses now, and somehow, that quiet openness was enough to steady you.

“The part where you said you’d ruin your whole ‘bit’ if it meant you’d get to have me.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

So you stepped in closer.

The room felt impossibly still.

You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I wanted to,” he said. “But it always felt like if I said it out loud, I’d ruin it.”

“It’s already ruined,” you said, almost laughing, eyes stinging a little. “You did say it. On camera. In front of the entire internet.”

He gave a breathless smile. “Yeah. I didn’t really think that part through.”

You stared at him, lips parted, throat tight with a thousand unsaid things.

Because that wasn’t a crush. That wasn’t flirtation.

That was Spencer.

Choosing you, out loud. Without blinking.

You didn’t speak. Not yet.

Spencer didn’t hesitate. He had to take his chance.

The air between you was charged, crackling with everything unspoken, everything denied. He took a deliberate step forward, and before you could speak his name, his hand was at the back of your head, fingers touching your hair with a startling and forceful certainty.

You gasped softly, your hands flying to his chest, not to push him away— but to pull him closer. Your body arching toward his as the kiss deepened— urgent, consuming.

His other hand found your waist, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you'd disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough. There was nothing practiced or perfect about it. It was messy and desperate. But it was real.

Then came the shift; a gentle unraveling of urgency. His lips slowed, moving with purpose, as if he were learning you by heart. Every sigh you gave, every tremble beneath his hands, felt like something he didn’t want to forget. As if this moment, right here, was something sacred; something he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

When he finally pulled back, Spencer exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. He didn’t say anything at first.

The silence between you stretched.

He spoke again. It was soft, low, and trembling with something that sounded too much like devotion.

“I want you to be mine. Not just in edits. Not just in jokes. Mine.”

You froze, heart rattling against your ribs.

“I’d ruin myself for you,” he continued, voice thick now, almost hoarse. “Ruin the bit. The version of me that’s easy to laugh at. I’d set it all on fire if it meant I got to call you mine.”

There was no teasing left in him. No armour to hide behind.

He took a deep breath. “And don’t think for one second I don’t understand what that means. What you mean. You’re not just a crush. You’re not just funny or talented or smart– you’re you.”

He let out a desperate laugh.

“And God I have been wanting achingly to kiss you.”

You stared at him, lips parted, throat tight with a thousand unsaid things. His kiss had undone something inside you, something fragile and long-held— but his words, low and overly possessive, hit you deeper than anything else ever had.

Spencer gave a half-smile, eyes still locked on yours.

“So,” he said, voice lightening just enough to make room for hope, “you wanna go ahead and make some fan edits true?”

Your laugh came out soft, stunned. “Are you asking me out?”

“Depends,” he said, still holding the back of your head. “Are you saying yes?”

You nodded.

“Yeah. I’m saying yes.”

He leaned forward, forehead brushing yours. “Been waiting to hear you say that.”

“Yeah,” you whispered back, smiling. “Me too.”

And somewhere, in another part of the building, Ian’s wedding march started up again.

#spencer agnew fanfiction #spencer agnew #spencer agnew x reader #smosh fanfiction #smosh spencer

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lillilybells · 19 hours ago

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Maybe it’s me, but I think I would’ve loved in family dinner chapter IV Stephanie and Barbara reaction finding out basically they broke Damian and reader up in the alt ending, whether it goes back to them back together like angst to happy ending or stays as angst with their reaction and guilt. Idk maybe it’s me but it’s like they got no consequence ya know??? Either way LOVE YOUR CHAPTERS!!!

thank you!! And so many people have asked for this lmao😭 but you just gave me like such a good idea for how I wanted them to makeup and I wasn’t planning for like this ‘alt ending’ to go anywhere but I wanted to give yall some closure💔

this is not officially a part of the ‘family dinner’ series!!

Alternate ending II:

Damian stood in the cave with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, jaw locked, eyes burning with a sting he refused to acknowledge. He blinked hard, furiously wiping at his face before storming up the stairs toward the manor.

Tim spotted him first. “Hey, Damian—your girlfriend just stormed outta here like she was ready to take on Bane.”

Damian didn’t respond. His jaw clenched tighter.

“Did something happen?” Jason asked casually, raising a brow. “Did you guys get into it?”

“She didn’t seem like the type to argue,” Stephanie added offhandedly, twirling her bo staff. “Quiet. Sweet. Honestly kinda surprised she even raised her voice.”

Barbara nodded. “Yeah… she didn’t strike me as someone with a temper.”

Damian froze mid-stride. Slowly, he turned to face them, and when he did, his eyes were practically glowing with fury.

Dick stood from the couch, sensing something was off. “Are you guys okay?”

“No, Richard. We are not okay,” Damian snapped, striding toward Stephanie and Barbara with sharp, clipped steps. “We had a fight. A bad one. And guess what? You two lit the fuse.”

The girls exchanged a look, suddenly very aware of the shift in energy.

“Wait, us?” Stephanie blinked. “Damian, we didn’t even know she was your girlfriend at first.”

“You interrogated her. You knocked her out. You tied her to a chair—then you made her cry, then you told her she wasn’t my type. You told her she was normal.” Damian’s voice cracked slightly. “Why would you even say that?”

Barbara held up her hands. “Damian. We honestly didn’t know who she was. She showed up alone in the cave in pajamas—”

“And what, that makes it okay to insult her?” he shot back. “She was already scared. Then you humiliated her. You made her feel like she didn’t belong—and now we might be done.”

He stormed past them, heading straight for the manor’s upper floors. “So thanks for that.”

Jason whistled low. “Damn.”

“Wait—break up?” Tim echoed, standing abruptly.

“You two made them break up!?” Duke turned to glare at the girls. “What the hell did you even say to her?”

Barbara winced. “You don’t want to know.”

Stephanie crossed her arms. “Okay, it wasn’t that bad—”

Dick stepped forward, his voice sharp. “No. You need to fix this. Now. Damian’s barely socializes on a good day, and this girl’s the one thing that actually makes him act like a person.”

Stephanie and Barbara exchanged a nervous look.

By the time you got home, your face was a mess of tear tracks and red splotches. You barely mumbled a word to your concerned parents before disappearing into your room. You flung yourself onto the bed, clutching the stuffed animal Damian had given you, and pulled the blankets over your head.

You didn’t expect the Batcave interrogators to show up again so soon.

“(name)?” Stephanie’s voice cut through the quiet as you peeked out from under the blanket to see her and Barbara standing awkwardly at the foot of your bed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you croaked, voice hoarse from crying, though there was no real venom in your tone.

“Just hear us out,” Stephanie said gently, walking over and lightly resting a hand on your shoulder. She guided you to sit up between her and Barbara, both perched on the bed now.

Barbara started, voice softer than you’d expected. “We’re really sorry. Truly. Don’t take what we said earlier out on Damian—he doesn’t deserve that.”

You sniffled, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “But… you were right. I’m just some normal girl. I don’t fight. I don’t come from some League of Assassins bloodline. I haven’t died and come back to life— I’m not like the rest of you.”

Stephanie opened her mouth to object, but Barbara beat her to it. “That’s not what we meant. We were wrong to say it.”

“We didn’t know who you were,” Steph added. “And yeah, we went a little... overboard on the whole ‘interrogation’ thing.”

“You think?” you mumbled, voice wobbly.

Barbara offered a sad smile. “We’ve seen Damian closed off for years. But with you? He lights up. We were just... caught off guard, but we were also being jerks.”

“Yeah. Seriously,” Steph nodded. “Flatline was cool and all, but she also, like, literally killed him once. I’d take you over her any day.”

You let out a surprised snort through your tears, eyes darting down to your phone as the screen lit up—a picture of you and Damian, arms linked, his face pressed into your hair.

You stared at it for a long second. Then sniffled. “I should probably call him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Barbara said softly. “You really should.”

#lillilybells #batfamily #batfam x reader #alternate ending #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #angst

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enchantedlov3r · 3 days ago

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~ bang bang bang~

A Christopher “BangChan” Bahng drabble

summary: you and chan were in a stable and healthy relationship. the communication was there, the love was reciprocated, and he was overall good to you, so you spend your time with him lovingly.

pairing: bangchan x girlfriend!puppyreader

word count: 985

warnings: none really just fluffly cuteness

a/n: lowercase intended. proofread to the best of my ability. the saying "if he ain't asian, i ain't chasing" has been stuck on me ;)

you and chan were very close. you were best friends that then soon turned into best friends with benefits, and before you even knew it, you were dating the hottest idol you knew.

he was your everything. he was the moon to you. his sweet chocolate eyes staring into yours as he confessed his feelings for you.

his cheeky smile and contagious laugh. his sexy aussie accent as he spoke to you softly. bangchan was a dream come true to you. he was all you ever needed in life.

"hi my beautiful girl, whatcha doing?" he asked as you walked around holding albums in your hand.

"i'm gonna go put these up somewhere in my room." you reply leading a tired felix along with you carrying more albums.

'huh, weird? what does she need albums for' he thought. "babe?!" he calls out to you from the kitchen.

"yes channie!?" you reply back. he furrows his eyebrows at you coming back out with the albums still in your hand only less now.

"what- actually who's albums are those?" he asks curiously.

"it's you guy's albums. ATE, 5-star, Rockstar, you know the whole shebang." you reply with a smile on your face.

he chuckles and shakes his head before kissing your head and takes the albums out of your hand.

"why don't we let felix rest huh? I'll help you." he says with a smile on your face.

when you both return to your room, felix his fast asleep on your bed as from being jet lagged and tired.

you and bangchan chuckled as you looked at felix's sleeping figure. "aw the poor baby." you whisper as you tuck him in your blankets before laying a sweet and loving peck on his cheek.

chan watches you and grabs your hand leading you to his bedroom instead. you, felix and chan were the only ones in the apartment. the rest of the group went out for food.

"so, how are you feeling? being part of our adventure?" he asks with the biggest smile on his face.

"oh gee channie, I love it! being able to help you all write songs and watch you guys in your element is amazing." you say excitedly.

he sits down on his bed, you standing between his legs as he chuckles. "oh yeah?" he asks with that low hum in his voice.

"yeah." you reply back with a smile as your hands run through his hair.

he hums and grabs your waist pulling you down into his lap. "hey channie?" you ask.

he looks up at you with a smile and hums, "yea?" he asks.

"since your hair is longer, can i style it?" that earns you a chuckle. you smile at him and touch his hair shuffling it around.

"is that a yea?" you ask. he smiles and shakes his head, "yea, its a yea." he responds.

you giggle and run to the bathroom to get hair supplies which is a couple of colorful rubber bands and some butterfly clips.

"oh don't tell me your going for a fairy inspo are you?" he asks already regretting saying yes.

"maybeeee?" you say with a smirk on your face and he throws his head back and groans before accepting his fate.

"hey, you said yes, so you brought this on yourself." you reply.

"yea yea just do it quickly before the boys come back. or worse, felix wakes up and sees me. I'll never hear the end of it i tell ya." he complains.

you giggle and place your materials down. "i would kill to see that." you respond causing him to tickle you.

you laugh out squirming on his lap as he attacks. you try your best to defend yourself but it's no use.

the corruption of his tickles got to you and now your screaming for him to stop.

he relents as not wanting to wak up felix but he whispers in your ear, "i'll get you later."

you shiver as goosebumps arise on your neck.

you playfully it him and he yelps out- "ow!" and then starts laughing.

you grab his head, "stay still channie, your like a puppy." he nips at your wrist and you shake your head. he finally sits still and you start sectioning his hair and adding the rubber bands.

he has two pigtails and and tiny braids that surround the rest of his head.

you add the butterfly clips into a few braids and then smile at your hard work.

"you look beautiful, you think hyungin would paint you?" you ask as he laughs.

"yea yea maybe, if he gets to see-"

all of a sudden, *click*

you've taken a photo of him.

you stand there with the biggest smirk on your face and then theres a sound, *whoosh*.

you've now sent the photo to the whole group chat. you hear rustling down the hall and all of a sudden a burst of laughter.

"looks like felix saw it." you say slowly.

*bang*, "oh my god! I HAD to see it for myself, is that you!? you did this to him!? oh! that's hilarious, truly." felix's deep voice booms in the room as he erupts into laughter.

you get up from chan's lap knowing exactly whats coming next.

he was going to kill you.

you smirk as he stands up staring at you, "oh your so dead for this." he replies with a smile on his face.

"now listen channie, it was for a good cause okay? n-no need for violence right? right felix?" you ask hoping felix can save you in the situation.

"oh your dead, uhm bye!" felix quickly rushes out of the room and you follow quickly behind as chan starts advancing towards you.

the house is filled with screams and giggles as you and felix run away from chan.

this was the life you could get used to, the life of fun.

LIKES, COMMENTS, AND REBLOGS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED!

Taglist: whoever would like to be added! I write for Felix as well!

#bang chan #stray kids #skz channie #stray kids channie #bangchan x reader #bangchan x you #bangchan x female reader #bangchan x y/n #enchanted’s writes✍️#skz #christopher bang #straykids #bangchan fluff

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cherryskyies · 2 days ago

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Forgive me, Love me.

Just a little something from the full fic I am working on.. sometimes I forget how much I love twilight. Everyone's consenting adults in this. Reader is in her second year of college.

Warnings: Alcohol, unspecified age gap (reader is 19), fem reader

Summary: In which you're Bella's best friend and in a very complicated romance with a vampire much older than you.

masterlist || navigation || ao3

You don’t even know how you ended up on the front steps of someone’s house party, knees drawn up, mascara smudged, waiting for something you aren’t sure will come. You’re sure it had something to do with Jacob, who you haven’t seen in an hour now — he dragged you here and disappeared, likely upstairs with that girl from his stats class.

Your phone is dead, shoes off and lost somewhere – at least they were cheap, you think. Bella’s text back was the last notification you received before your phone died twenty minutes ago, ‘I called someone, don’t be mad’ she wrote, making your stomach flip with anxiety.

It would take an hour to get home on foot, likely two with how drunk you are and your lack of shoes, but the longer you sat the more you debated it until headlights cut through the trees, an all too familiar silver Volvo coming up the drive. “Oh,” you say aloud, making a mental note to curse Bella out for sending him of all people.

Carlisle Cullen stepped out like he’d materialized from a dream you’d been avoiding. Black coat, dark sweater, jaw tighter than you'd ever seen it. It is the first time in three weeks that you have seen each other and he’s angry — ‘maybe if I just go back inside he’ll forget what he came here for,’ you think, drunk mind fighting logic. The wooden step creaks under you as you stand, the movement feeling awfully quick for how slow it must’ve looked.

Unfortunately for you, Carlisle is much faster, already standing at the bottom of the steps, stopped in front of you. “Don’t,” he says, tone strict as if he knows your plan. “Get in the car.” you both stand in a tense silence, him waiting and you debating — you can’t outrun him, but you could deny him. As you go to speak, Carlisle shakes his head, features irritated. “No, get in the car, (y/n).”

You should’ve known it was a losing game to argue with him, he’s always been two steps ahead where you're concerned. “Okay,” you agree, taking an unsteady step towards him; his hands are ready to catch you, but thankfully you make it to the car unscathed with wet feet from the grass. He opens the door for you, helping you inside and buckling you in.

When he slides into the driver’s seat, the car is silent. His hands are white knuckle gripping the wheel and his jaw is tense. You peek at him from the corner of your eye every few minutes, waiting — hoping he’ll say something.

He won’t even look at you, but when he finally speaks its soft and gentle tone betrays his facial expression. “Three weeks,” he starts, voice quiet. “That’s how long I’ve gone without seeing you.” and you nod, biting back a sarcastic response. ‘No shit, captain obvious,’ you think, but you’d never verbalize that, especially now. “And this is what I come back to?” he adds, voice low and taking on a sharp edge. “You, drunk. Dressed like this. Sitting outside someone’s house like you don’t even know what could happen to you?”

You shrink back into the leather seat, not used to this side of him. “Bella called you. Not me. I asked her for a ride.” you say as if that makes the situation any better. “She wouldn’t have been mad if you said no.”

“She was drunk too,” he snapped, though his voice never rose. “I don’t care what Bella thinks either — your safety is my responsibility, how could I leave you, knowing you’re like this?” he asks, but it’s more of a statement than a real question.

You swallowed, throat dry. “I didn’t know she would—”

“Of course you didn’t.” His tone was clipped as he cut you off and you flinch slightly. “You weren’t thinking.” His head tilts to the side as if he said the most obvious thing in the world. His jaw is still tense, but his fingers have relaxed their grip.

“You haven’t answered my texts,” you murmur, wanting to change the topic to take the spotlight off your drunken antics. “Left me on open even,” you add, a slight smile ghosting your lips. “That’s crazy, you know?” It’s moments like these when your young age slips through, vocabulary less sophisticated than his own.

His head turned to you slowly. Eyes cold, golden, and unreadable. Your attempt to lighten the mood was lost on him.

“No,” he says. “I haven’t.”

His face scrunches in deep thought as he weighs the pros and cons of his next move before ultimately caving — the car slows to a stop, pulling over on the side of the road. He looks at you again, pausing before he speaks. “Do you think it’s easy?” he asks, voice just above a whisper. “Staying away from you?”

You shiver at the sudden proximity, eyes darting to his lips for a split second before reaching his eyes. “Carlisle…” you mutter, suddenly shy as you look down to your lap.

“Three weeks,” he repeats, cold hand grabbing your chin firmly, guiding your face back to him and forcing eye contact. “And this is how it goes? You in a dress that barely covers you and liquor on your breath?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

His hand releases your chin, finding its way to your bare thigh in a gentle touch. You freeze, not daring to look away or move, focusing on his scent instead; cedar wood, pine trees, and a hint of sterile hospital.

“I’m angry,” he says softly, fingers sliding up just slightly. “But not because I had to pick you up.” he clarifies, not wanting you to think of yourself as a burden. “I’m angry because you’ve put yourself in a risky situation and then tried to deny me.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, mind swirling with confusion at the situation. “I didn’t know you still cared,” you whisper, looking away in embarrassment.

He scoffs, just barely as he sits back into his seat. “You think me not seeing you for three weeks means I stopped?” He asks, hand squeezing your thigh just enough to make you tense. You nod slowly and he runs his free hand through his hair. ”Silly girl, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to,” he says. “And that's the problem.”

His eyes meet yours once again and he takes his hand off your thigh to brush a stray piece of hair out of your face. “You don’t even understand what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Sitting there, all soft and drunk. Looking at me like you want me to fix it.”

‘Yes, please fix it — fix me,’ you think, eyes flicking down to his lips. “You know you want to,” you tell him, voice a soft whisper, nearly a plea. Your mind is a mess, thinking of all the ways he could have you if he wanted to, but Carlisle is a man of restraint; even when it’s cracking.

He leans in, face inches from your own. “Of course I do,” he says. “But I shouldn’t have to clean up your mess just to hold you again,” he adds, referring to your drunk decisions you forgot about — the whole reason you’re even in this situation to begin with.

You look down, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” you say honestly, his hand finding its way back to your thigh, his thumb moving in a circular pattern — it’s soothing, forgiveness.

A few moments pass, the silence comforting. “But I will,” he finally says, offering you a small smile as your eyes dart up to him. Your heart flutters and he begins to drive again, keeping his hand on your thigh the whole time. “I’ll take you home,” he says, much quieter now. “Put you to bed. Make sure you’re safe because no one else is going to.” and he’s right, no one will ever care for you like Carlisle.

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mapsthewanderer · 2 days ago

Text

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Details: 6500 words. A story about toxic love, pain worshipped as devotion, and the kind of ache that never ends—only changes shape. This is the angstiest shit I’ve ever written, and it’s been grinding in my head ever since the combo of Sleep Token and Caleb embedded itself in my spine. This is my personal interpretation of some of their lyrics… and unfortunately, Caleb is the one taking the hit. Anyway. I love ST. I love Caleb. And I loved writing this story.

Features: Ugh, where do I even start. This is darkdarkdaaaark angst and absolutely not for anyone with triggers. Okay, deep breath… We’ve got: you (fem!reader) x Caleb. Emotional manipulation, female violence, lucid dreams, toxic love, codependency, self-destructive devotion, mental health unraveling (s*icidal tendencies), hospital walls, grief disguised as romance, death and aftermath, rotting love, yearning that chokes, philosophy but make it unhinged, red flags and whispered I love yous, notinoti, substance (ab)use, sweet poison kisses, and the kind of love that leaves scars you can’t even see. So yea. Hell. Definitely 18+. If you’re a minor and you’re still here: godspeed—may you never know peace again.

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Doomed love |

The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you’ll never have.

- Søren Kierkegaard

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

This is the story of the universe where you ruined me.

Where I ruined myself for you.

Where I let it happen.

Where I wanted it.

Where I chased the high every time, knowing the fall would be worse.

Where we were… unstoppable. Untouchable. Unhinged.

Where it felt like love. Maybe it was.

This is the story of the universe where we had a toxic relationship.

And I wouldn’t take a single second of it back.

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

You, the highway

The sun’s bleeding gold across the dashboard. The kind of light that makes the world look beautiful even when it’s ugly. You’re going 135 in an 80 zone, knuckles white on the wheel, and Caleb’s voice is already halfway to a shout.

“Jesus, slow down—!”

You ignore him. You press the gas harder, like you’re daring the engine to give out before your temper does.

Fingers slam hard against the dashboard as the car veers past a sedan, missing the mirror by a breath. “You wanna kill us both?” he spits, voice sharp with panic. “That it? Gonna drive straight into hell and keep me in the passenger seat while you do it?”

A glance toward him, finally—brief, burning. Breath ragged. Eyes wild—split between fury and fear, unmistakably him. And even now, even like this, his lips twitch into that goddamn half-smirk you hate almost as much as you love.

“You always look at me like that when you’re mad,” he says, voice low. “Like you’re about to bite my throat or kiss me.”

Your fingers tighten on the wheel. “You think this is a game?”

Another car comes toward you. You swerve. Too late. You clip the shoulder, sparks fly, Caleb shouts your name.

“EYES ON THE FUCKING ROAD!”

You laugh. It’s sharp. Mean. You like the way he flinches when you do it.

��Scaaared?” you say.

His voice drops to a growl. “I’m not scared of you.”

But he is. And he’s not. And he fucking lives for it. You know he does. Thrives on it—the fear, the fire, the chaos you bring like a storm with no name. And then, even lower this time—gritted through his teeth like it clawed its way out of him without consent:

“I should’ve locked you up a long time ago.”

Your eyes flick toward him. Dangerous. Amused. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t look away. “I mean it. Should’ve chained you to the fucking radiator. Tied you to the bed. Something.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

A pause.

“You’re mine,” he mutters. “I should’ve kept you like you were mine.”

And for a moment, neither of you speaks. The car eats the road. And Caleb watches you—like he already knows he’s going to lose you.

Or maybe like he already has.

There’s blood spilling across the horizon, smeared thick and low like the sky itself is bleeding out. Or maybe it’s just the sun—drowning behind the hills in that violent, golden way it does when the world’s about to end. Hard to say. The drugs dull the edges of everything. Colors blur. Time stretches. You blink, and it feels like blinking through syrup.

You can’t tell what’s real anymore—just that it’s beautiful. And that you’re going way too fast.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the highway

“Seriously,” Caleb says, voice tight, watching the speedometer climb past one-forty, “you’re doing almost one-fifty.”

No response—just that slow, wicked smile stretching wider, pupils blown wide like you’re high on speed, or danger, or both. Wind lashes through the open window, tossing your hair—dancing for him. Sunlight carves golden streaks across your face, catching in your lashes, your cheekbones. You look divine.

Music crashes through the speakers—something fast, all bass and chaos. The kind of song that makes blood boil and skin spark. You’re lit up by it, wired and wild, and Caleb can’t stand how fucking good you look like this—untamed, electric, a universe away from the girl who once curled into his lap and read poetry like it meant something.

“Hey,” he says again, sharper now. “Are you even listening to me?”

You yank the wheel to swerve past an SUV. Tires scream. Caleb slaps the dash, heart in his throat. You laugh—high and wild and merciless.

“Relaaaax,” you say. “Live a little.”

“I am trying to live,” he snaps. “Preferably past tonight.”

You glance at him, glittering and unhinged. “Thought you said you’d die for me.”

“I didn’t mean tonight,” he mutters. “You really are high, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“You drank too.”

A shrug—careless, cold. Like none of it touches you. Like the line between thrill and death is just scenery. Caleb exhales hard through his teeth, jaw tight. “You’re fucking insane.” And it’s not even an insult anymore. It’s almost awe.

You lean in, just enough to make him go still.

“Not insane,” you whisper. “Just in love.”

A slow turn of his head, eyes narrowing, anger flickering just beneath the fear. “That supposed to be romantic?” he spits, voice low and frayed. “’Cause it sounds a hell of a lot like a fucking eulogy.”

And for a split second—your grin fades.

The engine snarls. You slam the gas. Trees become blurs. The weight of the car shifts, tires lift, everything tips.

“FUCK!! Eyes on the goddamn road!”

But you don’t look.

Instead you stare at him like he’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“Say you love me,” you say.

“What—”

“Say it.”

His jaw locks. His heart beats too loud.

“You know I do.”

You turn back.

Too late.

Headlights. A horn. A truck.

Too close. Too fast.

All he can do is reach for you—

And watch the world explode.

——————————————————————————

You, the crash

You don’t even see the truck.

Just a wall of chrome and rust. A horn that comes too late. And Caleb’s voice, screaming your name.

Then everything goes sideways.

Metal screams. Glass erupts into glittering shards. The smell of burning rubber and blood and something sharp and chemical fills your lungs. The airbag punches you square in the chest. Caleb’s body jerks. His hand slips from your sight.

And then—

Silence.

No music.

No yelling.

No more screeching tires.

Only the ringing in your ears and the slow, brutal beat of your heart.

Smoke thickens. Your mouth tastes like copper. The steering wheel is bent sideways. Your hands tremble. You can’t feel your legs. You’re not sure if you care.

Then—

A groan.

“…fuck…”

You turn your head. It takes effort. His hair is soaked with blood. One eye swollen shut. His hand reaches out, blindly.

“You’re… insane,” he slurs.

Then, softer. A breath. A prayer.

“I—I love… you.”

And then—

The ringing drowns out everything else.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, somewhere

The light is soft here. Honey-warm. The kind that only exists in the spaces between memory and longing. It spills across a garden he doesn’t remember owning, but swears he’s been to before. The grass is cool beneath him. The air smells like apples and late summer and you.

You’re humming, legs stretched out on a blanket, your fingers threading slowly through his hair. His head rests in your lap. Everything is still.

You’re sober. He’s clean. The world is quiet for once—no alarms, no screaming metal, no blood. No fights. No slammed doors. No bruised egos or broken glass. No cruel words spit just to see who flinches first.

Just breath.

Just light.

Just you.

This is peace.

This is you, untouched.

Birds chirp in the distance—bright and obnoxious, as if everything here is allowed to be a little too much. You read aloud from something soft and yellowed with time. Poetry, maybe. Or some obscure philosopher you’d found in a discount bin and fallen in love with. The words don’t matter—only the sound of your voice.

He watches your mouth move. Memorizing… or maybe… remembering… the shape of every syllable. He isn’t sure anymore. If this happened once, or only ever in his head..

But God—your mouth. The curve of it, soft and smug, moving like it knows it’s being watched. Like it’s always known what it does to him.

And that shirt. His favorite. Slipped off your shoulder without trying, just loose enough to tempt, to invite. Your skin catches the light in a way he remembers too well—warm, golden.The kind of glow he used to follow with his fingertips, terrified it might vanish the second he looked away.

And your fingers…

They never stop moving through his hair. Steady. Thoughtless. As if loving him had always been this easy—as if you’d never once made it hurt.

Everything in him goes still.

For a moment, he lets himself believe it’s real.

But then—he blinks.

Once.

Twice.

His chest tugs.

His breath catches.

And something clicks into place.

He’s been here before.

Not just once. Many times.

The garden. Your lap. That shirt. The birds. The smell. The exact way you never look up.

A smile touches his lips. Broken. Knowing.

“This is a dream,” he whispers. “Or a memory. Or… something like that.”

You don’t react. Don’t flinch.

“I—I know this one,” he says quietly. “This is the one where we’re happy before it all goes to shit.”

Still, you don’t answer.

He reaches up. Fingers trembling. Aimed at your face—the one he’s chased through highs and nightmares and rooms that don’t smell like you.

He almost touches your cheek.

And that’s when it starts to slip.

A flicker in his shoulder.

A twinge in his chest.

A phantom tug in the broken part of him that doesn’t exist here.

Pain rolls through him slowmotion, a wave crashing in molasses. His right arm twitches, wrong and heavy. Heat burns along the nerve like someone lit a fuse under his skin.

His lungs seize.

Ribs tighten.

The blanket dissolves beneath him.

“No—wait—wait—” he gasps. “Not yet—I was—I was just—why can’t I stay?”

But your fingers keep moving. Turning the page.

Unbothered.

Unmoved.

The sky overhead begins to dim.

The grass goes dull.

The warmth drains from his skin.

And he’s not sure if you vanish—

Or if he’s just being pulled away.

“We’ve got movement. Vitals spiking.”

Voices. Too close. Too cold.

“Get that IV ready.”

Hands on his arm. Holding him down. Fluorescent lights pierce his vision. Footsteps. Machines screaming louder.

beep-beep-beep-beep—

“Sir—Caleb—can you hear me? Try to stay still. You were in an accident. You’re safe. You’re in a hospital.”

No I’m not.

He tries to say it. Nothing comes.

A mask. Blue gloves. A needle.

Sterile. Final.

“He’s in distress. Prep to sedate.”

No—no—where is she?

Where is she? Where is sh—

Then darkness again.

And your face, for just a second, smiling at him.

Like nothing ever broke.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the hospital

The lights above him are dim, but everything still feels too bright. His body is heavy, poured into concrete. His mouth is dry. His skin itches under the bandages and wires and the weight of his own pain.

Voices move around him, muffled and echoing. The words float in and out, like static through water.

“—open fracture, brachial artery compromised—”

“—he’s stable, but the damage—”

“—won’t be functional again, even after reconstruction—”

Caleb blinks slowly. Or maybe he just thinks he does. It’s hard to tell. Everything’s soft around the edges—muted, distant. A low ringing threads through his ears, constant and thin, like someone struck a tuning fork inside his skull. The world feels dipped in milk glass—frosted, blurred, the colors all wrong.

He tries to lift his arm. The right one. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t hurt either.

He hears the voice again. Closer this time.

“—Sir… do you understand what we’re telling you…?”

He doesn’t respond.

Because in his head, he’s not in the hospital bed.

He’s in your bed.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, your bedroom

The light is different there. The kind that slips through curtains at 6am, wrapping itself around limbs just tangled in sin.

You’re both still half-angry. You always are when it’s like this. Fingers dig into his shoulders as you straddle him, your bodies already sweat-slick and aching. The fight still lingers in your mouths—sharp breaths, bruised kisses, the echoes of fuck you and you don’t mean that still buried in your bones.

His hands are rough on your hips, thumbs pressing deep, holding you in place like he thinks you might vanish mid-thrust. Like he’s still mad. Still scared. Still entirely yours.

“You gonna run again?” Caleb breathes, eyes locked on yours, glowing under the early sun.

You roll your hips, slow and cruel. “You gonna let me?”

His head falls back. His throat works with a swallow. “You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

You lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. “You love it.”

He moans into your lips, the sound low and filthy. And then—everything spirals. Your pace quickens. His nails rake down your spine. Your name leaves his mouth like a curse and a prayer. His voice is rough, wrecked.

“Just like that… nnn… —fuck—look at me.”

You do. Eyes locked.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

You don’t. You clench around him instead. He gasps. He fucks up into you harder now, deeper, his hands everywhere, his mouth desperate. “Say it.”

“You make me crazy,” you whisper, panting, chasing that edge. “You ruin me.”

“I love you.”

“I hate you,” you breathe.

And you both know that means I love you. Your body tightens, and he feels it. Sees it in your eyes. His thumb slides between you, lazy and confident. The last push.

You fall apart on top of him, gasping, head thrown back, a choked cry ripping from your throat. He follows with a groan, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips jerking, hands gripping your waist. You collapse onto his chest, both of you wrecked and shaking, your breath hot against his collarbone.

——————————————————————————

You, your bedroom

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. You light a cigarette with shaky fingers, the smoke curling around your messy hair. Naked, spent, still buzzing.

Caleb watches you like you’re something rare, something fragile. Trying to decide if you’re really there—or just another twisted obsession playing tricks on him. His violet eyes burn in the low light—so calm now. Too calm.

As if he didn’t just fuck you until your legs gave out. As if those words, the ones that split you open, weren’t spoken in the same voice he uses to say your name.

“You know you’re gonna catch the bed on fire one day,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, low. There’s a curl of amusement at the edge of it. A dare, buried in velvet.

You grin, smug, and blow a slow huff of smoke straight into his face. “You’d still fuck me while the bed burned, admit it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “You’re probably right.”

There it is. That tone. That softness he uses when he’s winning. Like he’s already got your leash in his hand. Like the heat between your legs means you’ve forgiven him again. Like he didn’t call you difficult hours ago. Like he didn’t say “you need me more than I need you.”

You reach for his necklace—his silver chain. The one you always grab when you want to remind him he’s yours too. You pull it gently. Then let it fall.

“You’re mine too, y’know,” you whisper.

It’s half a threat. Half a question. All of it desperate. He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. He just pulls you close, tucks you under his chin, pretending he’s keeping you safe when really, he’s just keeping you still. Fingers trace lazy circles on your thigh. He could have been soothing a child.

Your chest aches.

You should go. You meant to go.

But then he’d win again. With his silence. With his waiting. With that look like “go ahead, run. I’ll still be here. You’ll come crawling back when it burns too cold without me.”

And god, you hate him for being right.

He’s still thinking about the fight. You can feel it in his breath. The smugness just under the softness.

You’re still thinking about how you hit him.

How you meant it.

How it was the only time he shut up.

And neither of you says anything.

Because this?

This is how it always ends nowadays.

Not in healing. Not in promises.

But in sweat,

smoke,

silence.

And the fire still smoldering beneath your skin.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the hospital

“—he’s not responding. We might need to go in again—”

“Caleb,” someone says, louder. “Caleb, do you understand? We have to operate on your arm. Again. Soon.”

He stirs. The drugs are heavy, but they’re not strong enough to keep the memories out.

He blinks.

You’re not there.

Only the ring of medical light.

Only his broken body.

Only the silence.

And something else.

Something wrong.

He can’t quite see their faces. Can’t make out the letters on the clipboard. The world is blurry. Blurred too far. More than sedation.

And his mind… is elsewhere again.

——————————————————————————

You, the library

It smells like paper and old wood and rain drifting in through the cracked windows. You’re curled into a corner of the university library, knees tucked up, a battered copy of Fear and Trembling in your lap.

You’re not just reading it. You’re swallowing it. Eyes wide. Heart racing. It’s the kind of book that digs into your chest and doesn’t let go.

There’s movement just past the shelf—him. He leans against the other side, tall and casually slouched, like the shelves were built to hold him there. One foot crossed over the other, arms folded. Watching you.

“You know he was depressed and horny, right?” Caleb says, voice low, amused.

You glance up, trying to be annoyed but not quite pulling it off. “You just described every philosopher ever.”

“Yeah,” he says, that maddening half-smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “But Kierkegaard did it in style.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re such a nerd.”

He shrugs, smug. “Mhm, and you’re sharing your oxygen with said nerd.”

You shake your head, mark your page, and close the book. “Say something smart, then. Nerd.”

He steps in between the shelves. The way he moves—it always gets you. Like he knows he’s being watched. Like he likes it.

“In Either/Or,” he says, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle, “Kierkegaard writes that romantic love is only real when it’s doomed. Because then it demands sacrifice. Because then it costs.”

Your breath catches. You don’t want it to. But it does.

You look at him fully now.

“… Do you think we’re doomed?” you ask. Softer.

He tilts his head. “I think I’d sacrifice everything if it meant you’d look at me like that again.”

The space between you hums. You don’t know what to say. He crouches down beside you, and his fingers brush yours. Light. Curious. His thumb traces the edge of your palm, slow and thoughtful—reading something there.

Your hand curls toward his. Automatically.

Impossible violet eyes, locked on yours.

It doesn’t happen fast. It happens the way dusk settles—quiet, slow, sure. Not a rush. Not a firestorm. Just inevitability.

A lean.

A shared breath.

And then—

The kiss.

Soft at first. Careful. A secret passed between mouths. Like you’re something breakable. Like he’s afraid touching you too hard will wake him up from whatever this is.

But you don’t break easily.

You fist a hand in the front of his hoodie and kiss him again, deeper. He tastes like coffee and heat, his tongue teasing yours, his breath catching in a way that makes you feel powerful.

“Someone’s gonna see,” you whisper into his mouth, giggling against him.

He smiles against your lips. “Let them.”

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the library

You grab his hand with a look that says don’t even think about resisting, and pull him behind one of the taller shelves—deep in the back, somewhere forgotten, somewhere quiet. His back hits the wall. Your body follows. The spines of theology books press into his shoulder, titles about doubt and despair and God’s silence.

But all he can hear is you.

You crowd into him, stealing the air from his lungs, claiming space that was always yours.

He doesn’t fight it. He can’t.

His hands find your waist, then slip under your sweater, fingertips skimming the warmth of your ribs. He feels your breath stutter. Feels you melt into his touch.

You bite your lip. Look at him like that.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

It’s not a request.

He does—without question, without pause. His hand moves slowly. Tracing lines across your skin. Every inch of you, a psalm. Every sound you make, a sermon. You gasp and he watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your control slip.

God, you’re beautiful like this. Quiet and trembling. Desperate but trying not to be.

He leans in, kisses your temple, barely breathing as he whispers:

“You’re so fucking dangerous.”

You giggle against his neck, sinful and warm. “You like it.”

“I crave it,” he murmurs.

And he does. Not just your body. Not just the way you taste or move or moan. He craves this—your fire, your fury, the chaos you wrap around him like a storm he asked to drown in.

You’re laughing into his mouth now, hips moving against his, breath catching between teeth and lips and want.

And for a moment—just one—

He thinks maybe you’ll stay.

Maybe this version of you, soft and wild and wrapped in him, will be the one that lasts.

But even as he thinks it, he knows better.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the hospital

His breath shakes.

You’re still not there.

Just white walls. The scent of antiseptic.

Just his broken body.

His failing vision.

And a memory of your smile, pressed between two shelves. Like a curse he’s still carrying.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the hospital

It’s been a few days. Maybe more. Caleb doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

They wheel him outside around late afternoon, when the sun’s low and the air still smells like antiseptic even out here. He’s wearing one of those paper-thin hospital gowns that doesn’t cover anything properly, breeze sneaking in at his back, and his body’s a battlefield of sutures and glass scars. Lines across his arms. His chest. His neck. A pattern that doesn’t belong to him.

His right arm lies useless in his lap, splinted and swollen, bandaged to hell. It doesn’t move. It barely even throbs anymore. It’s just there. Ruined.

The nurse pushing him—Caleb can’t remember his name. Something with a D maybe. Dan? Dev? It doesn’t matter. He’s alright. They don’t talk much. Caleb prefers it that way.

They roll to a stop under a tree. Caleb doesn’t see it clearly. Not the leaves, not the shape of it. Not the nurse’s face either. Everything’s a blur these days—the world’s been smudged around the edges and no one’s noticed but him.

But he smells it when the nurse lights a cigarette. Tobacco, smoke, the warm grit of it in the air. It hits something deep in Caleb’s chest.

“You got another one?” he asks, voice rough from disuse.

The nurse pauses. “It’ll mess with your healing. Your wounds,” he adds, more bluntly. “Could slow it all down.”

Caleb turns his head slightly. His one working eye squints against the light.

“Do I look like a guy who gives a shit right now?”

The nurse sighs. Shrugs. Lights a second one. Brings it to Caleb’s mouth.

Caleb leans in and takes a slow, dragging pull. It burns perfect. Sharp and dry and familiar. He exhales. Watches the smoke curl into the air—or maybe just pretends to.

He hates it. Hates the taste. Hates the smell.

Always did. But it’s you.

It’s part of your scent. Your mouth. Your bedsheets. The way your fingers smelled when they played with his necklace. The way you laughed through the haze, lips stained with fire.

And you’re not here. Not now. Not ever again.

So he takes another drag. Lets it poison him a little. Just to remember.

“So,” he says quietly. “She’s gone, huh.”

There’s a pause. The nurse looks down at his shoes. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah… I’m sorry, man.”

Another pause. Caleb hears the nurse take a drag.

“Journal says she died on impact. Ambulance tried but… nothing they could do. She was already gone.”

Caleb says nothing. His jaw flexes. He’s quiet for a long time. Then, finally: “She was never mine to keep anyway,” he murmurs. “Would’ve fought the whole world to hold onto her. But she was like… like smoke. Like trying to cage fire.”

The nurse looks over at him. “You should… probably go to therapy. When this is over. There’s a program here.”

Caleb snorts, bitter. “Right.”

The nurse shrugs again. Doesn’t push it. Just smokes in silence beside him.

Caleb’s head tilts back against the chair. Smoke still on his tongue. The wind soft on his broken skin.

And then—

His mind drifts again.

Back to the last fight you ever had.

——————————————————————————

You, Caleb’s place

You don’t even remember what started it.

Something stupid. Something small. Maybe he looked at someone too long. Maybe he didn’t answer your texts. Maybe you just needed to fight.

But now it’s flames.

“Fuck you, Caleb!” you scream, chest heaving, pacing like a feral thing.

He stands there, calm like always. Like he doesn’t care. Like he knows you’ll come apart for him eventually. Violet eyes burn, even in the low light. That ridiculous color, that impossible softness—lit with something sharp now. Cold fire behind the quiet.

Arms are crossed. Leaning against the doorframe. He’s about to say something clever. Something cruel. You know it.

You hit him. Not hard. But not soft either.

A slap to the chest. Open-palmed. Stupid. Sharp. Your fingers sting after.

He barely reacts.

“Rich,” he mutters, dry. “You wanna talk it out now?”

“Don’t fucking quote me.”

“Okay, sure.” He leans in. Doesn’t touch you—but his voice wraps around your spine. “Should I beg instead? Would that get through to you?” A beat. “If I dropped to my knees? Kissed your feet?”

That smile flickers. Barely there. But it cuts. Your throat tightens. You want to scream. Cry. Break something.

Break him.

Your hand moves before you think. Another slap to his chest—not hard, not soft. Sharp. Real.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just watches you.

“Feel better?” he murmurs.

And god, you hate that he says it like he means it. You hate that your hands tremble. That he hasn’t touched you once and still somehow owns the room.

You want to destroy him. You want to love him. You want him to beg for real.

Instead, you shove him. Your hands press against his chest, hard this time. His body rocks back a little—but he stays steady. Like he’s letting you.

Because he is.

You hate him. You hate how much he’s letting you get away with. You hate how calm he is. How in control he seems.

“You’re not innocent,” you spit.

“Never said I was,” he murmurs. His eyes flash, flickering like stormlight. His voice is soft now. Dangerous.

“I let you hit me because you want to feel something.”

You blink. Heat rushes to your face.

“I let you hit me because it makes you feel like you’re the one holding the leash.”

He steps forward now, just one step. You don’t move. “But I’m the one you’ll come back to when you’re done clawing at the walls,” he whispers. “Because you need me more than you hate me.

Silence.

Your hands fall.

You want to cry. Or kiss him. Or both.

But instead—you say nothing. Just stare at him. Chest rising and falling—a storm still trapped inside you. Caleb tilts his head, watching you. Studying. And then—just barely, so subtle you almost miss it:

“…Are you high?”

Your chest tightens.

“Answer me.”

You break. Storm past him. Grab your bag. Keys. Rage. Throw the door open. The hallway blurs. Your feet carry you faster than your thoughts can catch.

Behind you—his voice.

“Where do you think you’re going, huh?”

You don’t answer. You’re already outside. Already unlocking the door. Already sinking into the driver’s seat, fingers trembling, adrenaline burning under your skin.

And then—he follows.

Steps down from the building. Quiet. Watching. Like he knows what’s coming. Daring you to do it anyway.

“Don’t fucking get in if you’re gonna lecture me,” you snap, window halfway down.

He stands still for a second.

Then opens the door.

Slides in.

Doesn’t say a word.

Just buckles his seatbelt.

And waits.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, the hospital

The smoke’s gone cold between his fingers.

Caleb blinks once. Twice. The memory slides out of him like blood—warm, heavy, unstoppable. The echo of your voice still rings in his skull, the burn of your hands still clinging to his chest.

He sits there, barely breathing. Eyes unfocused. Mouth dry.

Click.

The sound of his seatbelt fastening slices through the silence. Yours never follows.

“I need more dru—sedative,” he mutters, jaw tightening.

The nurse beside him—Dan or Devin, he still doesn’t know—flicks ash from the end of his cigarette and says quietly, “You’re already maxed out.”

Caleb’s lips twitch. Not a smile. Something smaller. Bitter. Rotten.

“She shouldn’t have died,” he says. Voice soft. Detached.

The nurse doesn’t respond.

“…We both should’ve lived,” Caleb adds, quieter.

But the rest of it—and if one of us really had to die, it should’ve been me—doesn’t come out. It stays stuck somewhere inside him, clawing against the back of his throat.

His fingers curl around the armrest of the wheelchair. Useless. The splint is stiff, wrapped tight around the wreckage of what used to be his arm. His legs ache. His face is bandaged. His side still weeps through the gauze.

He looks down at himself. He doesn’t just feel broken. He feels foul. Twisted. Unholy. A body that should’ve stayed in the fire of the crash.

He hates this skin. He hated it even before—when it burned for you, bent for you, ached to be under your hands, inside your mouth.

You made him love it and hate it all at once.

But now?

Now it’s useless. Cold.

The wanting is gone.

Even that’s been taken from him.

So what the fuck is left?

Nothing moves in him. No grief. No sobbing. Just… stillness. That quiet kind of madness.

He shuts down.

Eyes half-lidded.

Jaw slack.

Barely there.

And all he wants, in that moment, is your voice. Your breath in his ear. Your cruelty. Your warmth. Anything. Anything but this.

But all he has is a broken body.

And a dead name still ringing in his head.

——————————————————————————

The discharge papers are in his lap.

His name is printed at the top. His real name. Not the one you called him when you were trying to be soft. Not the one you moaned when you were on top of him. Just Caleb, black ink on white paper, like that’s all he is now.

“Caleb?” the nurse says gently. “You with us?”

He nods once. Doesn’t lift his eyes. The doctor talks about rehab. About timelines. Healing. Physical therapy. Check-ins. Mental health support. Appointments. Prescriptions.

“…a long road ahead, but if you stay consistent—”

But Caleb isn’t listening. Not to them.

He’s talking to you.

You’d hate this chair, wouldn’t you? You’d make fun of the color, tell me I look like I’ve been institutionalized. You’d rip the hospital bracelet off my wrist with your teeth, kiss the bruise where the IV went.

His fingers twitch.

“Let us know if anything feels off,” someone says.

Everything feels off, he thinks.

They wheel him out. The sun stabs through his half-blurred vision. It’s too bright. The breeze is wrong. He smells car exhaust and summertime and something rotten inside him that won’t ever leave.

And then—

You’re there.

Not really. But really.

Standing by the sidewalk. Just out of reach.

Hair tangled. Eyes dark. Arms crossed. That smirk. That you.

He stops breathing.

“Wait,” he says softly. “Don’t—don’t go. Please.”

You turn your back to him.

He panics. “I’m here now,” he whispers. “Look—I’m out. I’m getting better, aren’t I? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t move. Not really. The chair creaks beneath him, still locked in place. The nurse mutters something, distracted by a clipboard.

But in his mind?

He runs.

He stands. Legs that barely work suddenly sprinting. Lungs burning, ribs screaming, but he runs. For you.

“Wait!”

You keep walking.

“Call my name,” he pleads. “Just once. Like you used to.”

Still—nothing.

Tears hit his face before he feels them. His whole body shakes.

You don’t answer.

You just walk into the light.

Slow. Certain. Final.

Not even a glance back.

Like dust.

And Caleb breaks.

Not outwardly—no crash, no scream.

But inside?

He crumbles.

He shatters.

Quiet. Violent.

Down to the marrow.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “Please—just—please.”

His voice is wrecked. Wet. Raw.

“I can beg. I will beg. If that’s what it takes. If that’ll make you turn. Make you look at me. Say my name—say anything—”

But the air stays still.

The light swallows you whole.

And he stays in the chair. Motionless. Lips parted. Eyes burning.

Only the nurse behind him remains.

Asking gently, “Caleb? You good?”

He blinks.

You’re gone.

He nods.

But inside—

He’s still running.

Still chasing you.

Still begging you to look back.

——————————————————————————

Caleb, his place

The apartment is too quiet.

Caleb hasn’t turned the lights on. The late afternoon bleeds through half-drawn curtains, casting everything in grey. His body aches. His arm is still useless. His scars itch. His vision flickers.

There are unopened bottles on the table. Some are pills. Some are whiskey. He hasn’t decided which kind of numb he wants yet.

A necklace you once left during a fight is looped around his wrist. He’d found it dangling from the coat rack when he walked in—silver catching the light, another ghost refusing to leave. He doesn’t remember winding it around his wrist. But there it is. Tight. Clinging.

He sinks to the floor, spine against the wall. Drags your old journal into his lap. It still smells like you—vanilla, smoke, that cheap perfume you hated but he loved.

Or maybe that’s just memory.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The pen feels heavier than it should.

He flips to a blank page. Stares at it for a long time. Then, with his left hand—shaky, unfamiliar, wrong—he scrawls:

“I don’t know if I want to get better without you.”

The handwriting is crooked. Slanted. Ugly. It looks like it hurt to write.

And maybe it did.

You’d laugh at that, wouldn’t you? You’d call it pathetic. Romantic. Weak. You’d roll your eyes and say, “Since when did you ever want to get better at all?”

The pen slips from his fingers. Hits the floor. Rolls somewhere out of sight.

He doesn’t move.

You were the worst thing that ever happened to him.

And the best.

You made his body feel like a war. Every nerve drawn to you like gravity. Every breath caught in your mouth. You didn’t fix him. You fractured him. Left marks he’ll never stop touching. And he loved you for it.

Maybe this—this ache—is just the final shape you carved into him.

Maybe that’s all that’s left.

He looks at the pills. The bottles. His fucked up body that still smells like antiseptic.

Kierkegaard said—the truest love is doomed love. Because only doomed love can prove itself. Because only something that’s meant to end is ever asked to suffer just to stay.

But even doomed love needs two people.

And you’re gone.

Not just physically. Not just buried. Gone from this story. Gone from the chaos. Gone from the reason he ever clawed through a single day.

There’s no sacrifice left to make.

No fight to lose.

No poetry in the pain anymore.

Only silence.

He presses the pill to his tongue. Swallows it dry..

His head tips back. Eyes close.

And he just hopes—for sleep.

For mercy.

For a lucid dream that might last longer this time.

But he doesn’t dream.

He just remembers.

You. Bathed in light. Flawed and feral and fucking holy. Holding his sins in your mouth like you meant to swallow them. Your own just beneath your tongue—sweet and venomous, daring him to kiss them out. He remembers the lies. The bruises. The apologies laced in moans. The way you both mistook pain for passion, rage for devotion.

He remembers the fights he started. The way he touched you when he meant to apologize.

He remembers you saying it was already too late for apologizing.

So he’ll cough up every rotten word, every broken plea, every time he let you crawl back into his bones like you belonged there.

And choke on the wreckage of who he was with you and call it love.

And when there’s nothing left to choke on—

He picks up the pen.

Flips to a blank page. And writes:

This is the story of the universe where you ruined me.

Where I ruined myself for you.

Where I let it happen.

Where I wanted it.

Where I chased the high every time—knowing the fall would be worse.

Where we were… unstoppable. Untouchable. Unhinged.

Where it felt like love. Maybe it was.

This is the story of the universe where we had a toxic relationship.

And I wouldn’t take a single second of it back.

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

And somewhere

Somewhere, the atoms stopped fusing

I'm still your favourite regret

You're still my weapon of choosing

And out there

Stuck in a quantum pattern

Tangled with what I never said

You say it doesn't matter

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Writer’s note: Aaaa it’s been a long time since I’ve posted angst. I’ve always wondered… what would Caleb do in a truly toxic relationship? What would he do if he lost you—and somehow… he was partly to blame? This story became my answer to that. And to marry it all together, Sleep Token was my muse. Their music carved out the emotional architecture of this entire piece (and trauma lolol). The main songs that carried me through writing were: Granite, Aqua Regia, Higher, Give, The Apparition, Gods, Take Aim, and Blood Sport (yea that order… I think… sundowning girl forever yeee). Each one poured into a different part of this ruin. Each one helped me build Caleb the way I see him here: obsessive, romantic, possessive, broken. Still breaking. Thank you for reading. I hope, somehow, it gave something to someone besides me, myself, and I. (And yes—it’s an endless loop. I love that about ST lyrics… the way Vessel cries SOBS at the end of blood sport… fuckin wrecks me every time. I relate. Way too much.) Anyway, have a good weekend. Take care of yourselves 🫶🏻

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

Art credit: No clue. Google reverse search failed me, and Pinterest is a lawless land with no tags. If you know the artist, please lmk so I can credit properly!

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟

#angsty af #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #you x caleb #reader x caleb #fanfic love and deepspace #love and deepspace angst #Spotify #caleb fanfic #caleb angst

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strawberriesandhotmen · 3 days ago

Text

All Night: Part 2

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n: Hey lovies!! I’m back with part 2 of my first Mikey fic. I’m really loving the dynamic between these two, and I wouldn’t be opposed to doing continuations if that’s something y’all would like to see. As always, I love to hear your thoughts, and let me know if you want to be a part of my taglist 😘 stay safe out there babies.

pairing: bestfriend!Mikey Berzatto x fem!reader

CW +18 SMUT: swearing, 🚨naked Mikey🚨, more than one orgasm (for both), unprotected piv (wrap it up), oral (f and m receiving), lowk rushed the ending mb y’all (you’re gonna read it and you’re gonna enjoy it)

word count: 3k

“Oh, baby, I could go all night if you let me.”

Mikey’s words echoed through your head as he drove you to his apartment, his hand resting comfortingly on your thigh all the way. You placed your hand over his, a soft smile on your face as the wind blew your hair every which-way.

You were happy.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Mikey’s gravelly voice snapped you out of your daydream, and your smile widened at his own.

“I’ve just never been so…content.” You admitted, letting your head rest back on the seat. “This feels so right and it’s…well, it’s feeling too good to be true.” You let out a clipped laugh, shifting in your seat as the words hung in silence. For a moment, you worried you had said too much, blurted out something he hadn’t needed to hear. And then, as usual, Mikey surprised you.

“You’re right, it does feel that way.” He turned his head towards you for a moment before re-focusing on the road. “Even if that’s true, I don’t give a shit. You’re my now.” You might’ve laughed at his definitiveness if it hadn’t struck such a cord with you.

You’re my now.

He was committed, all-in for something that was risking so much. Your entire friendship was hanging in the balance because of what you were about to do with him, and you had never wanted to do anything more. Neither had he.

“You can’t just go saying shit like that.” You muttered, biting your cheek to hide the smile that was threatening your lips. And dammit, you’d never tried so hard not to blush. He chuckled at your sudden shyness, giving your thigh a squeeze in comfort.

“Get used to it, baby. You’re gonna be hearing a lot of ‘shit like that’ from now on.” You let the smile spread over your face, looking out the window as you let his words sink in.

You let yourself feel his hand on your thigh, your hand on his, God, his mere presence with you in the car.

Yeah, you could get used to this.

───── ⟡ 𖥸𖥸𖥸 ⟡ ─────

Neither of you lasted a second after his apartment door closed behind you. Well, rather, slammed behind you. Yeah, patience was not a virtue either of you possessed.

“God, I need you.” Mikey panted, his voice gruff as he pinned you to the wall. His hands found your hips immediately, fingers slipping just under the hem of your shirt. You raised your arms without hesitation, unasked, and allowed him to slip the offending piece of fabric up and over your head. You worried for a moment about the bra you had worn, not one of your best, but your concerns swiftly dissolved at the look on Mikey’s face.

His lips parted with a sharp inhale, his eyes locked on the smooth swell of your breasts and the peak of your nipples through the thin padding. One calloused hand came up to cup your breast, the tenderness in which he swiped his thumb over your clothed nipple making you weak in the knees.

Mikey always made you weak in the knees.

“You can take it off, you know.” You remind softly, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips at Mikey’s awestruck demeanor. His eyes snapped up to yours, almost like he forgot he wasn’t just staring at a picture, and that you were really there with him. He let out a shaky breath as his hands slid around to your back, sparking a trail of goosebumps along your spine. With a gentleness you hadn’t known he possessed, Mikey unhooked your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders to fall on the floor.

If you thought he looked shocked before, that was nothing compared to what he looked like now.

“Fuck, your perfect.” He breathed, and you could tell that he meant it. You didn’t argue, didn’t push for more or less. You just smiled up at him, allowing him to process what he was seeing until he decided to go further. His lips pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck as both of his hands now cupped your bare breasts. His thumbs ghosted over your pink nipples, and your breath caught when a callous delivered the perfect amount of friction.

God, he was the perfect one.

“Mikey.” You whispered breathlessly, one of your hands coming up to wrap around his wrist. “You’re teasing.” It was a complaint, but it didn’t sound like one. At least not to Mikey. He merely grunted against your neck, the only response he provided being trailing his lips further down your body.

Soon enough, his lips were wrapped around one nipple as he sucked, kneading your other breast with his bare hand.

“Prettiest fuckin’ tits I’ve ever seen.” He muttered against your skin, the air against the wetness left by his tongue making your nipples impossibly harder. “Can’t believe I waited this long to see ‘em.” You mewled at the vibrations from his voice that rolled through your body, arching into him just enough to draw a groan from his lips.

Regretfully shifting his head away from you by a hand cupping his face, you gripped the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Your breath was knocked out of you at the sight of him; you’d seen Mikey shirtless before, of course you had. He was your best friend after all. But now? Under these circumstances? He was even more beautiful than you thought before, because now, you let yourself see him.

Letting out a loaded breath, your kisses started at the corner of his lips, moving down his body in a methodical fashion. His breathing grew more ragged as your kisses trailed lower, ghosting over his muscular torso until you landed on your knees before him.

“Fuck, baby.” You smiled to yourself at his breathless curse, thoroughly enjoying the effect you so clearly had on him. Your nails dragged up and down his thighs through the fabric of his sweatpants, causing a shiver to wrack through his body at your teasing touch. He looked so wrecked just from your gaze, from the mere possibility of what you could do to him on your knees. He was wrecked just from imagining all the ways he wanted to ruin you.

All day.

All night.

As you continued to admire Mikey’s physique from your new point of view, your eyes caught on the growing bulge just below the waistband of his sweatpants. And God, if he was just getting hard now, you could scarcely imagine the true size of him.

It was going to be a tight fit.

Good.

Sitting up a bit higher on your heels, you pressed the ghost of a kiss over his bulge, relishing in the way his cock twitched at the stimulation. Your small hand pressed against him, your lips parted as you took in the way he looked at you.

Breath heavy, hair mussed, eyes darkened with a desire that had been building for years. He looked almost dangerous in the most delicious way possible; you knew how much he was holding back from the slight tremble of his hands, from the way he forced himself to take deep breaths at inconsistent intervals.

Your teasing was killing him.

You hooked your fingers under the elastic of his sweats, tugging them down just slow enough to be agonizing. He looked even larger when contained by only the flimsy material of his boxers, and you tucked your bottom lip under your teeth at the sight. This was going to be fun.

When his boxers finally hit the floor and pooled around his ankles, your breath caught in your throat. The length of him was nothing short of intimidating, standing tall against his stomach with an angry red tip. The vein on the underside of his cock could’ve been throbbing, if you didn’t think your eyes were deceiving you. A bead of precum was already leaking down his shaft, catching on the neatly trimmed hair that curled above his heavy balls.

Jesus, you didn’t think you’d ever seen anyone that hard.

“Baby, if you stare at me like that any longer, I think I might come right now.” You let out a breathless laugh at his admission, the desperation in his voice so clear it went straight to your core. He cupped your face tenderly, his thumb drawing little circles against your cheek as he smiled down at you.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty on your knees for me, you know that?” A blush spread across your complexion at that, and you tilted your head just slightly to the side.

“Just for that, maybe I’ll stop teasin’ and actually touch you now.” His smile widened, his hand dropping back to his side.

“I like the sound of that.” Not wanting to make him wait any longer, you sat up on your knees a bit more, taking his throbbing length in your hand and stroking him a couple of times. You brought your hand to your mouth, letting some spit dribble onto your palm before giving him another few strokes. Just when he was about to plead, say he couldn’t take it anymore, you gave him what he needed.

Leaning forward so that your breath fanned over him, you pressed kisses around his tip, sucking lightly and kitten licking here and there. His head tipped back with a low groan, his hand tangling in your hair. Not to pull, although you wouldn’t be opposed, but just to hold. He thought he might collapse when you finally took him in your mouth, moaning as your pretty lips wrapped around his cock and hollowed your cheeks.

“Shit–yeah, that’s it, pretty girl. Takin’ me so well.” You moaned around him softly, the vibrations making his cock twitch. “Mouth is so fuckin’ tight. Feels so good.” You locked eyes with him as strings of endless praise flowed from his lips, moving your head up and down and taking him a little deeper each time.

When you felt his tip touch the back of your throat, you swallowed around him, drawing a feral sound from his throat that pulled a pool of arousal from between your thighs.

Yeah, your panties were useless at this point.

Mikey readjusted his hand in your hair so that he was holding it in a makeshift ponytail, guiding your movements more firmly now. The wet sounds of him thrusting in and out of your mouth echoed off the walls, your chest tightening with the arousal that grew each second. You felt him twitch more noticeably in your mouth, and you knew he was close.

“Shit, baby, m’comin’. Can I-” You cut him off with a moan, nodding as best you could. You wanted all of him. After a few more thrusts, his hips stuttered, his hand in your hair tightening as he came with a loud moan. You swallowed what you could, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and licking off whatever didn’t make it down your throat.

Mikey looked so blissed out, sweat beading on his forehead as he panted and released your hair.

“C’mere, sweetheart. So beautiful like this.” He muttered, almost more to himself than anything. You rose to your feet, inhaling deeply as your foreheads rested against one another. The ache between your thighs was still so apparent, but you let him have this moment. You let yourself have this moment. To just be with each other.

His lips met yours in a languid dance, tongues licking together without the urgency that was there before. It was slower now, deeper, and Mikey had to swallow a whimper at the pure intimacy of tasting himself on your tongue, on your perfect and swollen lips. He finally pulled back, all too soon, in your opinion, and nuzzled his nose with yours.

“My turn.” You barely registered the smirk that had spread across his face before he scooped you up in his arms, whisking you away to the bedroom at the back of his apartment as you squealed in delight. He tossed you on the bed unceremoniously, tugging off your shorts and panties in one fluid motion.

You could’ve laughed at the look on his face when he saw you completely bare if not for your mind-numbing arousal that currently overshadowed every other thought. His lips were parted as he sucked in a gasp, his eyes widened as they took in the sight before him.

There you were, sprawled out on his messy bed with your hair in a halo around your head. His gaze raked over the swell of your breasts, catching on the heaven between your thighs. Your pretty pussy was pink, swollen, already dripping onto the sheets like he’d fucked you into next week. All that, and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

You watched as he crawled onto the bed, settling himself in front of you and hooking your legs over his broad shoulders. Fuck; in the midst of it all, you hadn’t even considered him wanting to taste you. No man had ever shown such a strong, not to mention immediate, interest before Mikey. Extra points for him.

He moaned loudly as he dove in, lapping up your excessive arousal like it was his last meal. And he’d be content, he thought to himself, if it was. His tongue dipped into your entrance just enough to tease before his lips wrapped around your pulsing clit, drawing a string of whines out of you as you dug your heels into his back. You clawed at the wrinkled duvet beneath you, knowing that if your hands found Mikey’s hair, you could not be held responsible for how hard you ended up pulling.

Poor thing. You liked his hair too much to risk yanking it out.

“Taste like heaven, baby.” He mumbled against your sensitive flesh, your body jolting as he sucked particularly hard on that little nub. “Could stay here for fuckin’ years.” You believed that he would, too, with the way he was making out with you sweet cunt like it was a matter of life and death.

You thought it couldn’t possibly feel any better until he slipped a finger inside, tickling your g-spot to perfection and groaning as the lewd sounds of his actions filled the room. You were getting close, you could feel it, and he could too with the way you clenched around his finger like a vice. But you didn’t want to come yet, not like this. You needed him inside you, desperately.

You finally allowed yourself to take hold of his hair, practically tearing his face from your pussy. The words you were going to say momentarily left you at the sight of him: eyes black, chin slick, lips swollen as he blinked himself back to reality.

“Need you. Inside.” It was all you could manage with the way his finger had stilled inside of you, the look he was giving you making you want to moan. But he didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask for further clarification. His finger slipped out of you with a squelch as he made his way up your body, palms skimming over your tits before landing on your face.

“I-” You shook your head, silencing him with a finger to his lips.

“Fucking now, talking later.” He moaned, actually moaned, at the way you ordered him around so casually. Oh, you would have fun exploring that little avenue at a later date. For now, you would let him have his time. He quickly positioned himself at your entrance, his cock still impossibly hard like he was getting off just from tasting you. His eyes met yours one more time, making sure you still wanted this like the gentleman he was, and with your nod of permission he snapped.

He thrusted into you balls deep, your cries mixing together as the pleasure overwhelmed you both. He was everywhere all at once, his arms around you, himself inside you, his lips on yours. He was everything.

“God, Mikey, so big.” It was all you could think to say with the way he was stretching you out, splitting you open on his length as he pounded into you mercilessly. The bedframe creaked like it was a hundred years old, the headboard banging into the wall with every snap of Mikey’s hips. The experience was almost surreal.

“So fuckin’ tight, baby. Shit, gonna squeeze me dry.” You moaned at his filthy words, your nails digging crescent shapes into his back as his pace miraculously increased. “Tell me who’s makin’ you feel like this, sweetheart. Is it that asshat from the - fuck - grocery store?” He growled, fisting the bedsheets beside your head.

“N-no, Mikey.” You gasped out, arching into him at the overwhelming sensations. “S’you, Mikey, you’re makin’ me feel so good, feels s’full.” Your head lolled and your eyes rolled back as you felt yourself growing closer to that release you so desperately craved, Mikey’s pace faltering for a split second at the way you clenched around him.

You would’ve guessed you blacked out in that moment if not for the most vivid memory you had of Mikey’s face when the two of you finally came, his brows pulled tightly together as his lips parted in ecstasy. Truthfully, as cliche as it was, you had never even imagined you could feel that good.

Mikey collapsed on top of you at the final stutter of his hips, rolling to the side and pulling you against his sweat-slicked chest. His lips pressed to your temple, the both of you still panting quite heavily at the intensity of it all.

“So good for me, baby. Did so good for me.” You keened at the praise, a light blush spreading across your cheeks as you curled into him further. A grin pulled at his lips as you entangled yourself with him, and your expression soon matched his as the soothing thump of his heartbeat reached your ear.

“That was perfect, Mikey. You’re perfect.” He huffed out a breath of amusement at your declaration, grunting lowly from his chest.

“Far from it, sweetheart. But if I’m good enough for you, I’m happy.” You were happy too. You thought you had never been more happy than in this moment, wrapped up in Mikey’s arms like you were the only thing in his world that mattered. And to him, you were.

───── ⟡ 𖥸𖥸𖥸 ⟡ ─────

tags: @dungeons-bat, @ur-candy-gurl

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epihlogue · 6 hours ago

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Arthur had watched some, if not most of the clips that Shaan had shared with him. And his heart had broken for Henry, having had dealt with this all for so long on his own. Mary, manipulating his son while he had been ill had no been okay at all. One thing was for sure, he would be there for him and encourage him despite it all.

"I figured as much. Bea is more stubborn than I am, isn't she? Gets that from Cat, it's alright though. He was bound to find out eventually." At least he hadn't found out the truth from the likes of Mary. "I'll go talk to him. Thanks again, Shaan. For everything. I know all of this had been hard on you too." He squeezed his friend on the arm and told him he could go talk to Catherine if he wanted, or relax while he could. They were safe here, so far no one had left the premises so no one even knew they were there. For the best really, all things considered.

Hearing Henry's voice, he unfolded his arms and pushed off the wall, going to go sit down with the two. Beatrice gave him a soft, sad sort of smile before slipping off away into the kitchen, likely to make everyone some tea like Catherine had been distracting herself by doing too.

"Hey there, kiddo," Arthur spoke gently as he wrapped an arm around Henry and pulled him in close. "I'm so sorry about what she released, that wasn't for her to do. I told her it's on your terms, not the crowns." He pressed kiss to the top of Henry's head, hoping he was going to end up okay despite all of this.

"Look, you deserve to know the truth. I doubt you've seen the video, but Shaan, your mother, me and some people we know compiled all of the information we needed to bring Mary's downfall. There's not been any word from the palace since it released and they're calling for her removal. Honestly, I would not be surprised if she ends up sent away somewhere. I know what she did to you was wrong, to all of us, but I want you to know it wasn't you fault: okay? It was Mary's. She's your grandmother and she ... you did not deserve to be betrayed by her like she has been doing all these years. But she won't be a bother to you anymore, I promise you, Henry."

Then, Arthur added, "You're safe now. I know it doesn't feel like it with everything going on and everything that's been released, but they're on your side. Us, the public. I think you'd be surprised how much they adore you."

#manuscriypted #⁺✦◞ // a martini. shaken not stirred ♡ arthur 𝘧𝘰𝘹 #⁺✦◞ // thread ♡ arthur 𝘧𝘰𝘹 #⁺✦◞ // thread #no worries!

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turtleplushi · 5 months ago

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I need to stop drawing them my god

#im kind of posting a lot today but its my BIRTHDAY TOMORROW (said extremely subtlety) and i need to hype myself up #im gonna show some friends slay the princess later. its going to be normal. i wont be weird about it if i draw everyone out tonight #<- lying #we're also gonna do some pottery. it'll be sick #anyways um stuff about the art now #i love paranoid soo much #i got the ending where you get thrown into the void by nightmare and it was extremely cool #poor hero is just trying his best #cold's introduction in razor is also really awesome. its very simple but neat #johnathan sims when i get you johnathan sims #contrarian is also so insecure can we talk about that #there should be more fics about this. “but thats the worst part of us.. thats *me*” no do go on please elaborate on that #i cant find a clip of him saying that but i remember seeing it somewhere. i might have to replay stranger's ending hehe #i dont know if this game is really a good party game honestly #being a visual novel and all #as long as all of the endings they get are cool but not super romantic it'll be fineee #voice of the paranoid #voice of the cold #voice of the contrarian #narrator stp #turtle's art hoard #everything* not everyone #minor spelling mistake spotted!! send her to the construct boys #these arent super polished by the way obviously #the first two took about half an hour each #but the third took over an hour because i couldnt figure out the stupid colors #which is dumb because they're literally achromatic #ok bye for realsies #slay the princess

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

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Um i have a request that can go either dr jack or dr robby, its up to you and the people🙌

Him figuring out you're pregnant before you even notice? Like he's so in tune with your body that when he's in you or when he feels you up he notices the subtlest change 👀 and when you wonder why your period is late its the final 1% for him 🤭 now he's 100% sure before you even suspect it

Absolutely, here’s the Jack Abbot version—grounded, intimate, and very Jack-coded.

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

content/warning : pregnancy symptoms, emotional overwhelm, soft marriage vibes, denial, reader in her "i’m fine" era, jack in his "no you're not" era, smut (married, emotionally grounded), pregnancy, food/scent aversion, mild mention of nausea

words : 3,144

You’ve been married to Jack Abbot for thirteen months and a week—but the two of you have been together for four years.

And somehow, you’re still learning him.

Still adjusting to the way he folds his t-shirts into perfect thirds. Still moving his boots away from the front door, even though he always leaves them there. Still catching the way he’ll wait until the lights are off, the blankets pulled up, and then remember one more thing he has to tell you.

You know his rhythms. His moods. The way he kisses you a little differently when he’s worried but won’t say it out loud.

What you sometimes forget is that Jack’s job never really ends—he never really clocks out.

He’s an ER doctor. Which means he’s always watching. Always reading. Always two steps ahead of a problem you haven’t realized is there.

MONDAY – The Morning Slips

The light’s already different when you open your eyes.

Softer. Higher.

You blink at the ceiling, then at the clock.

7:08.

Your breath catches. “Jack?”

You sit up in a rush—sweats and a worn old shirt clinging from sleep—and nearly trip getting out of bed. He’s not next to you. Your alarm isn’t ringing. Your phone is somehow still on Do Not Disturb.

“Jack?”

“Kitchen,” he calls back, voice calm.

You shuffle into the hallway, hair barely brushed, already calculating how fast you can get dressed and be out the door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Jack looks up from the coffee pot. He’s already dressed—scrubs on, ID clipped, stethoscope tucked in his jacket pocket.

“You didn’t even flinch when your alarm went off. I turned it off after the third round.”

You stare at him. “You let me oversleep?”

“You never sleep through your alarm,” he says, stepping toward you with a travel mug in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. “So I figured something was up.”

You groan. “I’ve got Q1 projections due today.”

“I emailed Rhonda. Told her you were running late.”

You blink. “You emailed my boss?”

“She sent back a thumbs up emoji.’”

Your laugh comes out surprised. “She would do that.”

“I made your coffee. It’s in the mug with the chip you like.” He hands it to you. “No cream. You’ve been skipping it lately.”

You frown. “Have I?”

Jack just nods. “You said it tasted too sweet last week.”

You take a sip. Still feels off—but you smile at him anyway.

“Thanks.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Go shower. I laid out your dark gray sweater—the one you like for presentation days. Pants are on the chair.”

You freeze. “You picked out my clothes?”

“Only because I figured you’d be half-asleep and half-angry. I’m avoiding both.”

“You’re a menace,” you say, but it’s soft.

“You married me anyway.”

He brushes your hair back, fingers lingering a second too long at your temple.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Me? I’m great.”

“You’re looking at me weird.”

He shrugs. “I think I’m just impressed.”

“With what?”

“How well I know you.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re smug before 8 a.m.”

“I’ve earned it,” he says, nudging you toward the bedroom. “Go get ready. Your spreadsheet empire awaits.”

Thirty minutes later, as you’re rushing out the door with your laptop bag and still-wet hair, you find a granola bar tucked into your coat pocket.

The one you always forget you like until you’re starving at 10 a.m.

You don’t remember saying anything about needing one.

But Jack knows.

Of course he knows.

TUESDAY – Heels and Sore Feet

When you come through the door, Jack’s already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s been home a little while—but not long enough to fully settle.

You kick off your work shoes in the entryway, wincing slightly as you press your toes into the hardwood. “Remind me again why I thought real leather heels were a good investment.”

Jack leans back from the sink and tilts his head toward you. “Because they were on clearance and you were feeling powerful.”

“Right.” You flex your feet. “Power comes at a cost.”

“Come here.”

You shuffle toward him, dropping your tote bag by the counter. He doesn’t kiss you yet—just takes your hand and guides you to sit at one of the stools. Then he crouches, gently lifting your foot into his lap.

“Jack,” you laugh, “you do not need to—”

He starts massaging your arch with his thumb, firm and slow. “You’ve been on these all day. Let me.”

You lean back with a sigh. “This is how you trap me. You pretend to do the dishes, then you pamper me into silence.”

He smiles but doesn’t look up. “Worked yesterday.”

You wiggle your toes and close your eyes. “Feels so good it’s kind of criminal.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

He glances up just once—and clocks the light puffiness in your ankles.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just moves to your other foot.

After dinner—simple roasted veggies and couscous, eaten off the same two mismatched plates you’ve had since your first apartment—he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your waist while you’re rinsing your glass.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says into your shoulder.

“Just thinking about that ridiculous Excel model I have to finish.”

He kisses your hair. “Take tomorrow slow if you can.”

You nod, but your hand rests gently over his where it sits across your middle.

You don’t notice it.

Jack does.

He says nothing.

WEDNESDAY – The Bloat Debate

You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, poking at your stomach with the kind of exaggerated annoyance only someone married can safely get away with.

Jack walks by on his way to the bedroom, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pausing when he sees your face in the reflection.

“You good?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You sigh dramatically. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

Jack walks up behind you, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “A small one, maybe. Like a decorative beach ball.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Jack.”

He holds up both hands. “Hey. You brought it up.”

“I said I feel bloated. I didn’t ask for live commentary.”

He smiles and wraps his arms loosely around your waist, hands resting over the area you were just inspecting. “You’re the one poking yourself like a Pillsbury commercial.”

You snort. “I’m serious. None of my pants fit right this week. I sat down today and my waistband tried to fight me.”

“You’ve been eating the same stuff. Drinking water?”

“Barely. Work’s been insane.”

He kisses your temple. “Could be stress. Could be timing. Or maybe your body’s still sorting through Monday night’s gourmet masterpiece.”

You squint at him. “What masterpiece?”

“The one where you ate dill pickles, white cheddar popcorn, and two spoonfuls of peanut butter. In that order.”

You pause. “…It hit the spot.”

Jack grins. “Sure it did. My stomach was scared just watching.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I was afraid to interfere.”

You smirk. “You should be.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You shake your head, laughing, then rest your hands over his. “You sure it doesn’t look like anything?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Because it does.

Not in a dramatic way. But he knows your shape. Your weight. The way your body settles against his at night. And lately, something’s… shifted.

Still, he kisses your shoulder and says simply, “You’re still the best thing I’ve ever looked at.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back into him. “Suck-up.”

He hugs you tighter. “Only for you.”

THURSDAY – The Blanket Negotiation

You’re on the couch by the time Jack gets home—already in pajamas, legs tucked under you, remote in hand, a bag of sour candy opened beside a half-finished cup of tea.

He walks in, shrugs out of his coat, and takes in the scene like a man walking into a painting he’s seen every day for four years and still isn’t over.

“You started without me,” he says.

“You’re twenty minutes late. Statute of limitations has passed.”

Jack walks over, leans down to kiss you, and pauses.

He looks at the bag of sour candy. Then the tea. Then back at you.

“That combo feels… bold.”

You shrug. “It’s balance. My body wanted chaos and comfort.”

He slides onto the couch beside you. “Didn’t you say your grilled cheese was ‘too much’ at lunch?

You sigh. “It was aggressive. The cheese had opinions.”

Jack laughs softly. “And now you're chasing it with citrus acid and sleepytime tea.”

You offer him a sour gummy. “Don’t question the system. Just participate.”

He takes one. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jack tries to nudge the blanket to him. You hold your edge tighter. “I got cold first.”

“I just walked in from outside.”

“You’ve got more body heat.”

He squints. “You’re hoarding it.”

“You’re late and you didn’t text. I get blanket privileges and first pick on snacks.”

He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “I can’t argue with that logic.”

You smirk and finally shift, letting him under the blanket.

Once settled, he rests his hand on your leg—his thumb absently drawing circles near your knee while your attention returns to the screen.

You’re focused on the show.

Jack’s focused on you.

The blanket drapes across your midsection, and he notices the slight pressure you’ve been keeping there all week—how your hand keeps resting just under your ribs like your body’s trying to say something your brain hasn’t caught yet.

He doesn’t bring it up.

Instead, he leans a little closer.

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just tired. I’ve been tired all week.”

He nods. “You’ve been going hard.”

“I haven’t touched laundry all week. I’m down to mismatched socks and silent prayers.”

Jack smiles softly. “Want me to run a load?”

“You did the last one.”

“I’m on a streak.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “I married well.”

“You did.”

FRIDAY – The Way You Feel Tonight

It starts when you straddle his hips.

Jack’s back is against the headboard, pillows kicked aside, and you’re already skin-on-skin—his t-shirt discarded on the floor, yours halfway up your ribs. You’re in nothing but underwear, palms on his chest, nails dragging lightly across the sparse hair there.

He watches you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory.

“You sure you’re not too sore from the gym yesterday?” you tease, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Positive,” he says. “Although if I die right now, I want it on record this was worth it.”

You grin. “Noted.”

His hands slide up your thighs slowly, thumbs pressing into the backs like he’s reading your muscles through the skin. Then his touch goes gentle. Palming. Bracing.

But when they move up to your waist, they stop.

His fingers settle across your lower belly, just under your navel. Familiar territory. But it doesn’t feel quite the same.

The curve is a little firmer. Rounder. Not bloated—different.

You keep moving over him, unaware. His eyes never leave your face.

“You okay?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

Jack refocuses. “Yeah. Just... distracted.”

“You can stare later,” you say, lifting your hips to tug your underwear down. “Hands now. Mouth soon.”

“God, I love you,” he mutters.

“Then prove it.”

He flips you onto your back, mouth already at your collarbone, breath warm, kisses slow. He trails one hand between your legs and groans when he finds you wet and ready, slicker than usual.

You pull him down with a hand behind his neck. “Come on.”

But he’s still slow.

Like he’s measuring.

Like he’s trying to feel every millimeter of you, confirm what he already suspects.

You’re tighter. Not tense. Just changed.

You gasp as he eases inside. “Jesus—”

It’s good. So good. His hips rock into you slow, steady, deep. One of your legs hooks over his back, heel pressed to his side, chasing friction.

Every time he hits just right, your hand fists in the sheets. Your moans are breathless, open-mouthed, involuntary.

Jack watches your face like it holds answers. His pace stays smooth, even as you start to beg.

“Jack,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “Harder.”

He gives you what you want. A little more pressure. A little less space between his body and yours.

You feel full. Stretched. But not uncomfortable.

You feel held.

And when you come—hard, back arching, fingers digging into his shoulder—he follows seconds after, groaning your name into your skin like he’s never said anything truer.

He brushes your hair back, fingertips trailing your temple.

“You’ve been looking at me weird all night,” you murmur.

Jack smiles. “No, I haven’t.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You were studying me.”

“I was watching you.”

“Same thing.”

He doesn’t respond.

He just presses his hand to your stomach again—light, thoughtful, like he’s grounding himself more than anything.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

Jack just smiles.

“I’m already in deep,” he says quietly.

You kiss him once, quick. “Weirdo.”

SATURDAY – The Vendor You Walked Away From

It’s just after noon when you stop by the market. Something normal. Familiar. Something you and Jack do when there’s nowhere else you need to be.

You loop through the vendors casually, fingers brushing the edge of a produce crate, checking for ripeness. Jack keeps pace beside you, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He’s just watching the way you move.

You’ve always been precise. Sharp, even in small motions.

But today, there’s hesitation.

You reach for a bunch of mint, fingers brushing the stems—then pause.

Jack notices before you say anything.

You pull your hand back, subtle, and move on to the next table without a word.

At the bakery stall, you order for both of you. Jack takes a bite of the rosemary bread. You don’t touch yours.

He watches you stare at it for a few seconds too long.

“I’ll eat it later,” you say finally, tucking the paper bag into the tote. “Not in the mood right now.”

He doesn’t press. Just nods, and walks with you.

Fifteen minutes later, you pass a vendor handing out samples of honey and cheese—something you’d normally stop for. Your eyes flick over the setup, then move away quickly. Not forced. But intentional.

You keep walking.

Jack stays silent until you’re halfway to the car.

“Did that smell bother you?”

You glance at him. “What?”

“The cheese. You looked at it like it turned your stomach.”

You shake your head. “No. I just didn’t want it.”

He nods once. Doesn’t push.

You unlock the car. He loads the bag in the backseat. You slide into the passenger side and adjust the seatbelt low.

He notices that too.

On the way home, the radio’s low. You’re watching traffic, thumb tapping absently against the console.

Jack glances at your profile once. Then again.

“You’ve been different this week,” he says.

You don’t look at him. “So have you.”

There’s no bite in it. Just quiet truth.

He exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.”

You turn your head finally. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

Jack watches the road. His hands stay steady on the wheel.

“No,” he says after a pause. “You’ll say it first.”

SUNDAY – Three Weeks Late

It’s just after 11. The laundry’s done. The dishwasher’s running. You’ve wiped down the counters twice.

You’re standing at the fridge, pinning up a receipt, when your eyes catch the calendar.

Your stomach dips.

You count the days with your finger—slowly, carefully, like you don’t quite trust yourself.

One. Two. Three—

Three weeks late.

Not five days. Not “I think I skipped one.” Three.

You turn your head toward the living room. Jack’s on the couch, half-sunken into the cushions, phone in hand, scrolling through the news without really reading it. His coffee sits untouched on the table. One leg stretched out, the other—his prosthetic—resting beside him like it always is when he’s home and grounded, the kind of settled comfort only the two of you know by feel.

You don’t mean to say it yet.

But it’s out before you can take it back.

“Jack?”

He looks up instantly. “Yeah?”

You stay by the fridge, fingertips grazing the door like it’s anchoring you.

“I’m... three weeks late.”

There’s a long pause.

Jack doesn’t move right away. Just watches you—quiet, focused, already reading every inch of your face.

Then, calmly, he leans forward.

His movements are familiar: practiced, unfussy. He shifts to the edge of the couch, pulls the prosthetic toward him, and straps it on like he’s done a thousand times—smooth, sure, muscle memory in every motion.

You don’t speak. Just watch him move through it with the same quiet purpose he’s carried through every hard season of your life together.

When he stands, it’s quiet—just the familiar click of the prosthetic locking in and the muted slide of his socked foot across the hardwood.

He crosses to you without hurry.

When he stops in front of you, his voice is low. Certain.

“Do you want to take a test?”

You nod.

“I don’t have one.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”

You blink.

“Top drawer,” he says simply. “I bought one Monday.”

You stare at him. “You—what?”

Jack shrugs. “I figured you’d see it when you were ready.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not even a little surprised?”

He steps closer, voice low, steady. “You’ve been different. Not in a bad way—just… off your rhythm. You’ve been switching between hoodies in the middle of the day like none of them fit right. You keep standing at the fridge and forgetting what you opened it for. And your leftover curry—the one you swore was better the second day? You didn’t even take a bite.”

You stare at him. “You kept track of all of that?”

“I love you. I notice you.”

You go quiet.

Then reach for his hand.

“Come with me?”

“Of course.”

You sit on the bathroom counter while the test processes. Jack stands beside you, leaning against the sink. Neither of you talk. There’s nothing left to say.

You both look down at the result at the same time.

Positive.

You exhale like it’s the first full breath you’ve taken all week.

Jack rests his hand gently on the counter behind you—not pushing, just there.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“We’re really doing this.”

Jack nods. “We already are.”

You smile—small, but it stays.

And Jack leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

#the pitt #jack abbot #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025 #anon request #pregnancy

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fromdove · 3 months ago

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THINGS YOU DO THAT THE BATBOYS FIND ATTRACTIVE ! batboys x reader

“God, you’re impossible. And I’m so screwed, because I think I’d let you ruin me.”

— fem!reader, suggestive thoughts in jasons & bruces part (maybe dick too??)

∿　　 . `💭` ㆍ

JASON TODD

the way you hold eye contact when you're angry

It started as a slow simmer—your voice, low and clipped, each word deliberate, sharp enough to slice through the heavy Gotham air. Jason wasn’t even sure what the hell you were mad about anymore. The way your eyes were locked on his, unwavering, lit from within by something electric—it drowned out everything else.

You stood across the room, spine straight, chest rising with each measured breath. Not yelling. Not crying. Just...burning. And looking at him.

There was something about that. The way you didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Like you could take every jagged, bloodstained part of him and still meet him dead-on, like you’d never blink first. It made his heart twist in his chest, something old and animal uncoiling inside him. He’d faced down murderers, monsters, lowlife scumbags—but the fury in your gaze made his throat go dry. Not because he feared it. Because he wanted to touch it. touch you.

You took a step forward, the kind that didn’t echo but reverberated, and that subtle movement—how your hands stayed relaxed at your sides, how your mouth didn’t tremble when you spoke—undid him.

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Jason.”

There was a beat. One taut, blistering moment where the only thing louder than your breath was the pounding in his ears.

And then he laughed. Just a breath of it, almost involuntary. The kind of laugh you get when something hurts and turns you on at the same time. He didn’t even mean to. It just escaped him.

You frowned, and that only made it worse. He wanted to bite your lip just to see if your mouth would still taste like fire when it was pressed against his. He wanted to grab your face and kiss you so hard it left bruises.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful when you’re pissed,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, almost reverent.

You blinked at that—but didn’t back down. And the way your stare softened just a fraction, that flicker of confusion folding into resolve again... yeah. That did it. That almost ended him right then and there.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a lit fuse. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to pull, to anchor.

“You gonna hit me?” he asked, tone dark and dangerous and barely hanging on.

You tilted your chin up. “Wouldn’t waste the energy.”

God. That. That right there. The grit in your voice. He could live off that kind of defiance. He wanted to.

Jason had never been good at softness. He didn’t know what to do with people who crumbled. But you—? You held his gaze like a storm, like a girl who could kill him with her silence, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was beg for a second chance to make you smile again.

Not because he deserved it. Because he’d die trying to.

DICK GRAYSON

the way you reach for him in your sleep

It starts small. Always does. You shift once, twice—barely there. Then your hand moves, unthinking. Across sheets warm with your shared heat, it searches.

You don’t know you're doing it. That’s what makes it criminal. You’re not asking to be loved in that moment. You’re assuming it. Trusting the world to place him where he belongs: next to you.

And Dick—poor, cursed Dick—is already awake.

He lies still, pretending. Letting you find him. Every nerve is alight, tuned to the sound of your breath, the whisper of cotton as your wrist brushes the inside of his arm. Then—finally—your hand finds his chest, right over the scar where a blade once tried to make him quiet forever.

Your fingers twitch. Then still. Then curl.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

He’s not thinking about villains or masks or the weight of his last name. He’s not worried about who’s watching, or whether he’s enough. He’s just a man now.

A man undone by the way you, unconscious and vulnerable, reach for him like he’s home. Like your body knows him, wants him, chooses him—without performance, without pride.

And it’s just so fucking sweet. The sweetness that life had never thought him deserving of—never bothered to offer, as if the universe had forgotten him in some quiet corner—was suddenly there, in you. And only then did he realize what he had been starved of.

There’s something maddening about your vulnerability—how you press against him in sleep, skin warm and scent-heavy, mouth parted just slightly. Innocent, yes. But not harmless.

Not to him.

He could write an entire religion based on the way your breath hitches when his hand covers yours. He could burn entire cities if someone tried to pull you away while you sleep.

Because this—this secret, sacred moment where you choose him without knowing— is the kind of thing he’s never let himself want.

But now that he’s had it, he knows.

He’ll want it forever.

BRUCE WAYNE

the way you tilt your chin when you're defiant

It is the tiniest gesture—a tilt of the chin, so slight it might pass for nothing at all. But to him? It is semaphore, a flare in the dusk, a gauntlet tossed with exquisite subtlety.

You do it when you disagree. Not with loud words or theatrics. No. You just raise your chin. Barely. As if your body is saying, “I’m not afraid of you.”“I’ll meet you there, if you push.”

And God help him, he wants to push.

You do this thing where your jaw tightens just slightly, where your eyes go sharp and patient at the same time—like you’ve already calculated the cost of standing your ground and decided to pay it anyway.

You look… royal. As though Gotham’s grime never dared graze your skin. Like tragedy tried and failed. Like you’d walk into fire if it meant protecting what’s yours.

And that infuriates him.

Because Bruce—Bruce—knows what defiance costs. He’s worn it like armor. Bled for it. Buried people because of it.

But when you do it?

It doesn’t look like self-destruction. It looks like purpose. Power. Something beautiful he was never allowed to have.

He wants to touch your face when you tilt your chin like that. Wants to grab your wrist and pull you into him—not to overpower, but to understand. To memorize the blueprint of that defiance. To feel it against his mouth.

You make silence feel like war. And he’s losing.

Because there is something deeply, dangerously erotic about a woman who doesn’t flinch when she should. Who doesn’t soften to make him comfortable. Who looks at the darkest thing in him—and doesn’t look away.

He’s not used to being watched like that. He’s not used to wanting to be watched like that.

And every time you lift that chin, he’s reminded of exactly how easy it would be to give up the act, the mask, the fiction of the untouchable man—

—all for one person who sees him and doesn't look away.

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mangooes · 4 months ago

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Broken Coffee Machine, Upset Wife

Part 2

Sylus sat at the head of a long obsidian table, his expression bored as the business meeting droned on. High-ranking figures from various factions in N109 sat stiffly, waiting for his verdict on an alliance deal.

Then—his phone rang.

The moment he saw the caller ID flashing “Wifey” on the screen, he smirked.

"Excuse me," he muttered, standing up and walking a few steps away from the table, ignoring the way everyone tensed. When Sylus Qin interrupted a meeting, it was usually for something—or someone—far more important.

He answered smoothly. "Sweetie, miss me already?"

"Sylus."

His smirk faltered. Her tone was clipped. She never called him with his name. Its usually 'Sysy' or 'Husband' but never his name.

His crimson eyes narrowed slightly. "What’s wrong?"

"Oh, so you do remember you have a wife?" (Name)’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose, already bracing himself. "Kitten, you’re going to have to give me a little more context—"

"Your men broke my coffee machine."

Sylus blinked. "…What?"

"MY. COFFEE. MACHINE." she enunciated. "Luke and Kieran said they were ‘helping’ and now it's DEAD, Sysy. Gone. Murdered in cold blood."

Sylus let out a slow exhale. "…I see."

"Oh, but don’t worry." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I’ll just go the rest of my life without my morning coffee. I’ll be fine. It’s not like I need caffeine to function or anything—"

Sylus chuckled. "You’re being dramatic, sweetie."

"Fix it, or I’m not talking to you for the next day."

His amusement immediately disappeared.

"Kitten." His tone dropped, serious now. "You wouldn’t dare."

"Watch me."

Then—she hung up.

For a moment, Sylus just stared at his phone.

Luke and Kieran, sitting at the other end of the meeting room, shared a glance.

“…So, uh. About the coffee machine…” Kieran started.

Sylus shot them a slow, chilling look.

They froze.

Then, without another word, he turned to the gathered businessmen and waved a hand dismissively. "Meeting's over."

One of the men, still confused, stammered, "But—Sir, the deal—"

"I have more important matters to handle." Sylus didn’t even look back as he strode out.

Luke and Kieran shared a glance before quickly scrambling after him.

"Boss, wait! Where are we going?"

"To buy the most expensive coffee machine in the city."

Luke blinked. "…Right, boss has his priorities straight huh?"

Sylus turned his crimson gaze toward them, dead serious.

"She said she wouldn’t talk to me for a day."

Kieran sighed. "Ah. Of course. This is a national emergency.”

This was inspired from my broken coffee machine LMAOO (MY POOR BEST FRIEND IM-) I cant function without coffee and i feel like everyone also shares the same sentiment. And Sylus as always would always spoils his beloved no?

#lnds #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #qin che #sylus #lads sylus

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harrysfolklore · 4 months ago

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but daddy i love him, part one - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc: 17k. PART TWO

folkie radio: HERE. IT. IS. FINALLY !!!!!!!! as i've stated before i'm absolutely terrified of posting this, this is my longest fic ever and different from what i've done before. i know it's a long read but i'm really proud of it and i think it's worth it. IN THIS FIC MORE THAN ANY OTHER. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO LEAVE FEEDBACK.

DISCLAIMER: as stated in the title THIS IS PART ONE!!! part two is ready in my drafts and will be posted shortly (in a week tops). i'll stop talking now. BUCKLE UP AND ENJOY (and please leave feedback okay)

Melbourne, 2015

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour - that strange liminal space between late night and early morning when most reasonable people are asleep. But you've never been great at reasonable, and jet lag has your body clock completely scrambled.

That's how you end up in the hotel's deserted coffee shop at 1 AM, nursing a hot chocolate and trying to calm your nerves about tomorrow.

You're so lost in thought you don't notice someone else enter until they speak.

"They're still open?"

You look up and your heart skips. Of course you recognize him immediately - Max Verstappen, the 17-year-old prodigy your father hasn't stopped talking about for months. "The next big thing," Papa had said, watching testing footage. "He's going to shake up the whole paddock, just watch."

"Sort of," you gesture to your drink, trying to keep your voice casual. "The barista took pity on me. Said she'd make one last drink before closing."

He glances at the now-dark counter and sighs. Up close, he looks even younger than in the photos you've seen, but there's something in his eyes - a fierce determination that makes you understand why everyone's been talking about him.

"Here," you push your barely-touched hot chocolate towards him. "I'm not really drinking it anyway."

He hesitates. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Probably shouldn't have caffeine at this hour anyway."

He sits across from you, taking a careful sip. "Thanks. I'm Max."

I know, you think. Everyone knows. The youngest F1 driver in history, Jos Verstappen's son, the rookie everyone's watching.

"You're not from around here," you note his accent, playing along with the pretense that you don't know exactly who he is.

"Neither are you," he grins, and something warm flutters in your stomach. His smile transforms his whole face, makes him look his age.

"Fair point. Here for the Grand Prix?"

"You could say that." He studies you, and you wonder if he can hear your heart racing. "You?"

"Something like that." You're enjoying this little game more than you probably should.

"Cryptic."

You laugh. "Says the equally cryptic stranger."

"Okay, okay." He takes another sip. "I'm one of the new drivers. Toro Rosso."

You try to hide your smile. You've watched every clip of his testing sessions, heard every conversation your father has had about his potential. "Ah. The youngest F1 driver in history. That must be a lot of pressure."

He shrugs, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of expectations already heavy on him. You know that weight - you've carried your own version of it your whole life.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Scared?"

"No," he answers too quickly, then sighs. "Maybe a little. You won't tell anyone I said that, right?"

There's something vulnerable in his admission that makes your heart ache. Behind all the hype and headlines, he's just a boy on the verge of something enormous.

"Your secret's safe with me." You lean back. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do great."

"You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me."

If only he knew how many hours you'd spent watching his karting videos. How many times you'd heard your father say "That Verstappen boy is going to change everything."

"Let's call it intuition."

He laughs - a genuine, unguarded sound that makes your pulse quicken. "You're different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Just… different." He finishes the hot chocolate. "Most people, when they find out who I am, they either get weird about it or start asking about Jos."

"Your father?"

He nods, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes - the same shadow you sometimes get when people mention Toto.

"Well, I know a thing or two about father-related pressure, so…"

"Yeah?" He looks interested. "What does your father do?"

You check your watch, knowing it's time to end this little charade. "Oh wow, is that the time? I should probably head up."

"Wait," he stands as you do. "I didn't catch your name."

You pause at the door, turning back with a small smile, savoring what you know will be his reaction. "I'm YN Wolff."

His eyes widen. "Wolff? As in…"

"See you in the paddock, Max Verstappen."

You leave him standing there, but not before catching his surprised laugh. Your heart is racing as you walk away - from the deception, from his smile, from the way his eyes had lit up when he laughed.

The next morning, you spot him in the paddock. He does a double-take when he sees you with the Mercedes team, then grins and shakes his head. You're wearing your team kit now, no more pretending to be just another girl in a hotel coffee shop.

"Cryptic stranger," he mouths at you as he passes.

You just smile, trying to ignore how your stomach flips when he winks at you.

Neither of you could have known then - in that quiet hotel coffee shop at 1 AM - that this was the beginning of something that would change your lives.

Singapore, 2015

The paddock is eerily quiet now, the usual chaos of race day reduced to a whisper of distant maintenance and soft lighting. You're sitting on one of the team benches, the night air cool against your skin. Max is close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the line between friendship and something more feels increasingly blurred.

It wasn't a sudden thing, this connection with Max. It had been a slow burn, a gradual unraveling that began that night in the hotel coffee shop and grew through stolen moments between races, brief conversations in crowded paddocks, and late-night messages that became increasingly frequent.

At first, it was simple curiosity. You'd catch each other's eye across the paddock, exchange a knowing smile. Then came the texts - random observations about races, inside jokes about team dynamics, comments that walked the line between friendly and flirtatious. Max had a way of making you laugh like no one else could, his wit sharp and unexpected.

He nudges you playfully. "So, daughter of the most powerful team principal in Formula 1. Must be interesting."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "Not as glamorous as you might think."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."

You pause, considering. The weight of your father's reputation is something you've carried your entire life - a constant backdrop to every interaction, every moment.

"Imagine," you say slowly, "having every conversation potentially recorded, every interaction analyzed. One wrong move and it's not just about you, but about your family's reputation."

Max's expression shifts. There's understanding there - he knows something about familial expectations, about the pressure of carrying a name.

"My father," he says quietly, "Jos Verstappen. Not exactly a walk in the park."

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. These moments have become more frequent - brief windows where the polished racing personas fall away, revealing something raw and real.

"Tell me," you prompt softly.

He takes a deep breath. "Constant pressure. Every race, every test, every moment - it's like I'm living not just for myself, but for some expectation he's created. Sound familiar?"

You laugh, but it's a sound tinged with something harder. Sadness. Recognition. "Absolutely."

Your conversations have been like this lately - layers peeling back, revealing something raw and real beneath the polished exterior of Formula 1.

"Sometimes," Max continues, "I wonder if I'm racing for myself or for the legacy everyone else wants me to create."

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the night. "Little Wolff?"

Lewis approaches, his team kit still impeccable despite the late hour. His eyes narrow when he sees Max, taking in your proximity.

Lewis had been a constant in your life long before Max entered the picture. Since joining Mercedes, he'd taken on a role that was part mentor, part protective older brother. It wasn't an official designation, but in the Mercedes family, it might as well have been law.

Lewis knew everything about you - your hopes, your fears and everything in between. He was more than just your father's driver. He was family.

"Oh," Lewis says, a mix of surprise and something else - protection, wariness. "Verstappen."

Max stands immediately. "I was just leaving," he says quickly, a touch of nervousness breaking through his usual confidence. "See you around."

As Max walks away, Lewis turns to you, his protective big brother persona fully activated. "What," he says slowly, "was that about?"

You start walking together, the paddock lights casting long shadows. Lewis' stride is purposeful, matching yours.

"Nothing," you say, but the word sounds unconvincing even to your own ears, "He's my friend."

"Friend," he says, uncertainty in his voice, "Just be careful, okay? Things are never that simple in this paddock" he'd said, and you knew he meant more than just about Max.

You said nothing. But you heard him. You always did.

Barcelona, 2016

The champagne sparkles in the late afternoon sun as you watch from a secluded corner of the paddock. You smile as you watch Max on that podium - the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. Your smile is wide, uncontrolled, and you're grateful for the relative privacy of your spot. If anyone noticed that your eyes never left Max, that your smile was meant only for him, they didn't say.

You remember the first time you saw him race, really race - not just in videos or testing. The raw talent, the fearlessness that made your breath catch. Over the past year, you'd watched him grow from that confident teenager in the Melbourne coffee shop into someone who commanded respect on track. And somewhere along the way, between stolen moments in the paddock and late-night conversations, he'd become so much more than just another driver.

The past year had been a dance of almost-moments and careful distances. Shared glances across crowded rooms, text messages that made you smile at 3 AM, touches that lingered just a second too long. You'd both known the complications, the impossibility of it all - the Mercedes team principal's daughter and Red Bull's rising star. It was like a modern Romeo and Juliet, except instead of warring families, it was competing Formula 1 teams.

Later that evening, you stand in your father's office doorway, heart hammering but determined. Toto is absorbed in post-race papers, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the formidable team principal even hours after the race.

"Papa?"

He looks up, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Yes, Schatz?"

"I'm going out," you say, trying to keep your voice casual while mentally rehearsing your prepared explanation.

Toto's eyebrows rise slightly. "Out?"

"With some friends," you elaborate, grateful for years of practice at maintaining your composure under his scrutiny. "To celebrate the race."

He sets his papers down, removing his glasses. "Friends from the team?"

Your heart skips. "Just… friends from the paddock," you say carefully. "Daniel invited me."

"Ricciardo?" His tone sharpens slightly.

"He's always been nice to me," you reason, which isn't a lie. Daniel has been a friend since his early days, always treating you like a friend rather than just the boss' daughter.

Toto studies you for a long moment, and you force yourself to meet his gaze steadily, even as your pulse races. You've always been close to your father - he's been your hero, your guide, your biggest supporter. The weight of potentially disappointing him sits heavy in your chest.

"Be careful," he finally says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. "You know how complicated things can be in this world."

"I know, Papa," you say softly. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Getting into the Red Bull celebration is easier than expected, thanks to Daniel's help. He meets you at a side entrance, his trademark grin wider than usual.

"Looking good, Wolff," he winks, pulling you into a quick hug. "Though I'm pretty sure your dad would kill me if he knew I was helping you sneak in."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," you say, trying to ignore the guilt that accompanies the words.

"Just…" Daniel's expression turns serious for a moment. "Be careful, yeah? With Max. He's my teammate and you're like my sister, and I don't want either of you getting hurt."

You're saved from responding by the noise of the party as he leads you inside. The atmosphere is electric - the joy of Max's first win filling the air along with music and laughter.

When Max spots you, his eyes widen, champagne glass freezing halfway to his lips. The surprise on his face quickly melts into something softer, more private. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over, that familiar smirk playing on his lips - the one that never fails to make your heart skip.

"Should I be worried about Mercedes spies in our midst?" he teases, but his eyes are soft, drinking you in.

"You know me," you counter, matching his playful tone while trying to ignore how good he looks in his race winner's shirt, "I live for trouble."

"That you do, Wolff." He steps closer, just slightly, but enough to make your breath catch. "I didn't think you'd come."

"And miss your first win celebration? Never." You mean it to sound light, teasing, but your voice comes out softer, more sincere than intended.

"Still can't believe it," he says, shaking his head with a boyish grin that makes him look his age for once. "My first win."

"I can," you reply, taking a sip of champagne. "I've seen how you drive. It was only a matter of time."

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. "You've been watching me drive, then?"

"Someone has to keep an eye on the competition," you tease, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Is that what I am? Competition?" He moves closer, and suddenly the music seems far away.

"Among other things." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

The conversation flows easily between you, as it always has. You talk about the race, about his incredible overtakes, about the moment he realized he was going to win. His eyes light up when he describes the feeling of crossing the finish line, and you find yourself caught between admiring his passion and getting lost in the way his hands move as he talks.

As the night progresses, the party gets louder, more crowded. Max notices you glancing around at the growing crowd.

"Want to get some air?" he asks, nodding toward a door that leads to a quieter area.

You follow him to a private terrace overlooking the city. The music is muffled here, and the night air is cool on your skin. You lean against the railing, city lights twinkling below.

"Better?" he asks, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Much." You turn to face him, drawn in by the way the lights play across his features. "Though I have to say, you throw quite a party for a rookie winner."

He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Rookie? I've been racing since before I could walk."

"Oh right, I forgot - Max Verstappen, born in a go-kart," you tease, making him smile wider.

"You're impossible, you know that?" He shakes his head, but his eyes are fond.

"Part of my charm," you counter, feeling bold in the privacy of the moment.

"Is that what you call it?" He's even closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Would you rather I was predictable?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging.

"Never." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down your spine. "Predictable is boring. And you, YN Wolff, are anything but boring."

The tension between you is electric, years of carefully maintained distance crumbling in this quiet moment. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

"Well," you say, stepping into his space until there's barely a breath between you, "I think the winner deserves a reward."

Before you can second-guess yourself, you're kissing him. It's everything and nothing like you imagined - soft at first, tentative, like you're both afraid of breaking something precious. Then his hand comes up to cup your face, and the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. You can taste champagne on his lips, feel the solid warmth of him against you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world spins around you.

It's a perfect moment, suspended in time, until he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

"You're trouble, Wolff," he murmurs against your lips, but he's smiling that smile that makes your heart flip. "Beautiful trouble."

"Scared?" you challenge softly, echoing your first conversation in Melbourne.

"Terrified," he admits, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "But in a good way."

You stay at the party longer than you should, caught in Max's orbit. Every smile, every touch, every shared look feels charged with possibility. But reality crashes back hours later when you return.

Your dad is waiting, his expression thunderous in a way you've rarely seen directed at you. Your stomach drops as soon as you see him, the lingering warmth from Max's kisses turning to ice in your veins.

"Would you like to explain," he says slowly, each word precise and controlled, "why did I receive a call informing me that my daughter was at a Red Bull celebration?"

"Papa, I-" you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture.

"Don't." His voice is hard. "Don't try to fool me. I've seen you with Max Verstappen."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. You want to defend yourself, explain that Max isn't just the Red Bull driver he sees, that there's more to him.

"Do you have any idea," he continues, "what position this puts me in? Puts the team in?"

"It's not about the teams," you say quietly, finding your voice. "It's just-"

"Just what?" he challenges. "Just you and him? Nothing is ever just anything in Formula 1, YN. Every action has consequences. Every relationship has implications."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "This sport isn't about fair. It's about winning. About loyalty. About trust." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "How can I trust you to put the team first when you're sneaking around with our biggest rival?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I would never betray the team," you whisper, hurt that he could even think that.

"Maybe not intentionally," he says, his voice softening slightly. "But this… whatever this is with Max Verstappen… it can't continue. I won't tell you again. Stay away from him."

You want to argue more, to make him understand. But you recognize the finality in your father's tone, the immovable force that has made him such a successful team principal. In this world of racing and rivalry, some lines aren't meant to be crossed.

As you leave, you touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of Max's kiss. Your phone buzzes - a message from Max: "Worth the trouble?"

You stare at the screen, tears threatening to fall. Sometimes the biggest crashes in Formula 1 aren't on the track at all. Sometimes they're in the space between what your heart wants and what the sport demands.

Germany, 2016

The German summer air is thick with tension. You can feel it crackling through the paddock like electricity before a storm. Nico and Lewis' rivalry has turned the Mercedes garage into a pressure cooker, and your father's stress is palpable. Being around him feels like walking on eggshells, which makes your secret meetings with Max even more dangerous.

You've gotten good at this dance over the past few months - stolen moments between practice sessions, hidden corners of the paddock, coded messages about "casual meetings" that are anything but casual. Every stolen kiss feels like a victory and a risk all at once.

The sun is setting over Hockenheim when you slip behind the Red Bull motorhome, your heart racing with the familiar mix of excitement and fear. Max is already there, leaning against the wall with that cocky smile that still makes your stomach flip.

"Cutting it close, Wolff," he murmurs as you approach. "Your father's been prowling the paddock all day."

"Worried?" you tease, even as you glance around to ensure you're alone.

His answer is to pull you against him, one hand sliding to your waist while the other cups your face. "About your father? Always. About this? Never."

The kiss is heated from the start - months of practice have taught you both exactly how to make each other breathless. His thumb traces your jawline as he deepens the kiss, and you press closer, fingers curling into his team shirt. You love how solid he feels against you, how his breath catches when you bite gently at his lower lip.

"You're going to get me in trouble," he whispers against your mouth, but his smile suggests he doesn't mind at all.

"You love trouble," you remind him, trailing kisses along his jaw.

His hands tighten on your waist. "I love-" he starts, but cuts himself off, choosing instead to capture your lips again in a kiss that makes you forget everything else.

You lose track of time, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. It's dangerous and perfect and everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.

A sound makes you both freeze. You pull apart quickly, straightening your clothes, but it's too late.

Jos Verstappen stands at the corner of the motorhome, his expression dark and unreadable. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him.

"I… I should go," you manage, your voice shaky. Max's hand brushes yours briefly - a small comfort - before you hurry past his father, avoiding his stern gaze.

Behind you, you can hear Jos' voice, low and harsh in Dutch, but you don't stop to listen. Your heart is pounding as you make your way back to the paddock, wondering if this is the moment everything falls apart.

Max stands his ground as his father's disapproval fills the space between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jos demands in Dutch, his voice controlled but sharp. "The Wolff girl? Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not what you think-" Max starts, but Jos cuts him off.

"It's exactly what I think. You're letting yourself get distracted. By a Mercedes girl, no less. Toto Wolff's daughter?" Jos steps closer, his presence intimidating despite Max now being taller than him. "You're just starting to prove yourself in Formula 1. This is when you need to focus more than ever."

"I am focused," Max argues. "My results prove that."

"For now." Jos' voice turns cold. "But girls like that, from families like that - they're nothing but distractions. She'll get in your head, make you soft. And then what? You think Toto Wolff wants his daughter with a Red Bull driver? You think this ends well?"

Max clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to defend you, to explain that you're different, that you understand the sport as well as he does. But he knows his father won't listen.

"Stay away from her," Jos says finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Focus on what matters. On winning and being champion. That's what we've worked for all these years. Don't throw it away for some girl."

The words hit harder than Max wants to admit, echoing his own doubts, his own fears about what this thing with you means. But he can't forget the way you look at him like you see past the racer, past the name, to who he really is.

Jos leaves him there in the growing darkness, with only the weight of expectations and the lingering taste of your kiss on his lips.

Monaco, May 2017

Another year, another dance of stolen moments and secret smiles. If anything, the warnings and opposition have only made whatever this is between you and Max more intense. Like a forbidden drug, each stolen moment leaves you craving more, even as the risks grow higher.

"This is a terrible idea," Max whispers as you pull him through your back door, "Your dad is literally upstairs."

"He's dead asleep," you assure him, carefully closing the door. "He took sleeping pills for his flight tomorrow. Besides, he sleeps like the dead anyway."

Max still looks like he's ready to bolt at any second. "YN, if he catches me here-"

"He won't." You tug him closer by his shirt. "Unless you keep talking so loud."

He glances nervously at the stairs. "Your room is up there? Past his?"

"Scared, Verstappen?"

"Terrified, actually." But he follows you anyway, both of you carefully avoiding the creaky third step you'd mapped out years ago during teenage sneaking attempts.

You're almost at your door when Max freezes. "Was that-"

"Just the house settling," you whisper, but your heart is racing too. "Come on, we're almost-"

A door opens down the hall.

Max actually whimpers. You shove him into your room just as Toto's voice calls out, "YN? Is that you?"

"Just getting water, Papa!" you call back, praying your voice sounds normal. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine! Those pills should be kicking in, right?"

A yawn. "Ja, starting to feel them. Goodnight, Schatz."

"Night, Papa!"

You wait until you hear his door close before slipping into your room. You find Max standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor, looking absolutely terrified.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he announces in a whisper. "I'm actually having a heart attack. I can see the headlines now: 'F1 Driver Dies of Fear in Team Principal's House.'"

You try not to laugh. "You're being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" His voice rises slightly before he catches himself. "YN, your father was ten feet away from me. Ten feet! Do you know what he would do to me if he found me here?"

"Well, first he'd probably have a heart attack himself-"

"Not helping!"

"Then probably murder you-"

"Still not helping!"

"And Lewis would hide the body-"

"Why did I agree to this?" He runs his hands through his hair. "I'm a professional athlete. I have championships to win. I can't die in Toto Wolff's house because his daughter is too pretty to say no to."

You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're trying to kill me." But his hands settle on your waist automatically. "If your father walks in right now-"

"He won't."

"But if he does-"

"Max." You kiss him softly. "Stop talking about my father when you're in my bedroom."

"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. "Watching you in the paddock all day, not being able to touch you…"

You smile against his lips. "Poor baby. Must be so hard being professional."

He responds by lifting you up, making you laugh as he carries you toward your bed. "You have no idea."

Hours later, you're tangled in your sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. The city's lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older than his twenty years.

"We should sleep," you say, even as you press closer to him. "You have meetings tomorrow."

"Meetings are overrated," he mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Says the guy who's already breaking records." Your fingers trail down his chest. "Future world champion can't skip meetings."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Future world champion can do whatever he wants."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But morning comes too soon, sunlight streaming through your windows and your alarm blaring way too early.

Max groans, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," you remind him, even as you run your fingers through his hair. "You're already going to be late, and my father is still next room, remember?"

He lifts his head, giving you that boyish grin that still makes your heart skip. "Worth it."

But reality can't be held at bay forever. Max rushes to get dressed, stealing kisses between looking for his scattered clothes. You watch from your bed, sheet wrapped around you, trying to memorize how he looks in the morning light.

"Tonight?" he asks, pausing at your bedroom door.

"Text me," you say, and he gives you one last smile before he's gone.

Max is still smiling when he arrives at the Red Bull office, nearly an hour late for his morning meeting. The smile dies on his lips when he sees his father waiting outside, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

"You were with that girl weren't you? Nothing's changed" Jos demands without preamble, switching to Dutch.

"I was just-"

"Don't lie to me." Jos' voice is low, dangerous. "Are you trying to destroy everything we've worked for?"

"I'm not destroying anything," Max argues, frustration creeping into his voice. "My results-"

"Your results could be better," Jos cuts him off. "You could be focused on becoming champion instead of sneaking around with Toto Wolff's daughter. Do you think this is a game?"

"It's not a game-"

"Then what is it?" Jos steps closer, his presence still intimidating despite Max being taller now. "Love?" He spits the word like it's poison. "You think love wins championships? You think that girl is worth throwing away everything we've sacrificed for?"

Max clenches his jaw, the weight of years of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "I can handle both-"

"No." Jos' voice is final, absolute. "You can't. And you won't. This ends now. Cut her off."

"Or what?" The words slip out before Max can stop them, a rare challenge to his father's authority.

Jos' eyes turn cold. "Or I'll make sure Toto knows exactly what his precious daughter has been up to. How do you think that ends for her? For her relationship with her father? For her position in the paddock?"

The threat hangs in the air between them. Max feels his stomach turn to ice, knowing his father well enough to know this isn't an empty threat.

"Your choice, Max," Jos says, already turning away. "But make it soon. This distraction ends now, or there will be consequences. For everyone."

Max stands there long after his father leaves, the taste of your kisses still on his lips, now bitter with the weight of choices.

Monza, 2017

The Italian late summer heat feels suffocating as you finally corner Max behind the Ferrari motorhome - neutral territory. He's been dodging you since Hungary, responding to texts with one-word answers before stopping altogether. You've seen that look in his eyes when he spots you in the paddock - the way he quickly turns away, finds somewhere else to be.

"Hey stranger," you say, aiming for casual despite your racing heart. "Been a while."

He looks everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "YN…" There's a warning in his voice that you choose to ignore.

"I've missed you," you continue, taking a step closer. "We haven't talked since-"

"We can't do this anymore." His words cut through the air like a knife.

You freeze, the practiced speech you'd prepared dying in your throat. "What?"

"This." He gestures vaguely between you, still not meeting your eyes. "Whatever this is. It has to stop."

"Just like that?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "After everything?"

"I need to focus on racing." He sounds like he's reciting a rehearsed speech. "Just racing. No distractions."

The word 'distraction' hits you like a physical blow. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

Finally, he looks at you, and for a moment you see something crack in his carefully constructed facade - pain, regret, something more. But then it's gone, replaced by a coldness you've never seen directed at you before.

"This was never going to work," he says flatly. "We both knew that. It'll only cause trouble - for you, for me, for our families. It's better to end it now."

You think about all the stolen moments, the late-night conversations, the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. All reduced to 'trouble'.

"Fine." You straighten your spine, channeling every ounce of Wolff pride you possess. "See you around, Max Verstappen."

You turn and walk away before he can respond, each step measured and controlled despite feeling like your world is crumbling. You make it all the way to the Mercedes motorhome before the tears start to fall.

You duck into what you think is an empty corner, trying to get yourself under control, when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Little Wolff?"

Lewis stands there, concern etched across his features. He's known you since you were a kid, has watched you grow up in the paddock. In many ways, he's your brother.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping at your eyes. "Just… allergies."

"Right," he says softly, not believing you for a second. "Because Monza is famous for its allergies."

A sob escapes before you can stop it, and suddenly Lewis is pulling you into a hug. You break down against his chest, all your carefully maintained composure crumbling.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing your back. "What happened? Who do I need to beat up?"

You laugh wetly against his shoulder. "Nobody. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"You're one of the smartest people I know," he counters. "So whatever it is, it's not stupid."

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. "I just… I thought…" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."

Understanding dawns in Lewis's eyes. He's not blind - he's probably noticed more than most about your relationship with Max, even if he's never mentioned it.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people make choices out of fear rather than what they really want. Especially in this world."

"He said I was a distraction," you whisper, the words still burning.

Lewis's expression hardens slightly. "He's young. And scared. And probably being pulled in a hundred different directions." He pauses. "Doesn't make it hurt any less though, does it?"

You shake your head, fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Come here." He pulls you into another hug. "For what it's worth, I think he's an idiot. But maybe this is for the best, he's not good for you."

You stay there for a while, letting Lewis comfort you, grateful for his presence and his wisdom. But you can't shake the image of Max's face, that moment when his mask slipped, and you'd seen the pain in his eyes. You wonder if Lewis is right - if this is really about fear rather than feeling.

But in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. A choice is still a choice, even if it's made for the wrong reasons.

Monaco, Summer 2018

The bass thrums through your body as you down another shot, Lando cheering beside you. The club is packed - all of Monaco's elite young crowd mixed with racing's next generation. Your father would have an aneurysm if he saw you here, but that's half the fun.

"Another!" Lando shouts over the music, already signaling the bartender. He's technically too young to be here, but money and fame open most doors in Monaco.

"You're a bad influence, Norris," you laugh, but you don't stop him.

"Me?" He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel. You're the one corrupting the youth."

"You're literally younger than me."

"Details, details." He hands you another shot. "To being young and irresponsible!"

You clink glasses with him, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down. This is what you needed - no paddock politics, no disappointed looks from your father, no thoughts of…

"Oh shit," Lando says suddenly, following your gaze. "We can move to another section if you want."

Max has just walked in with a group of friends. He looks good - he always looks good - in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Your stomach does that familiar flip before you forcefully squash it down.

"Why should we move?" you say, perhaps a bit too loudly. "We were here first."

Lando gives you that knowing look he's perfected over the past year of friendship. "YN…"

"Don't start," you warn him. "I'm fine. It's fine. Ancient history."

"Right," he drawls. "That's why you drunk-called me crying about him last month."

"I did not!"

"'Lando,'" he mimics in a high voice, "'why doesn't he want meeeee?'"

You shove him playfully. "I hate you."

"You love me." He grins. "I'm your favorite driver now."

"You're not even in F1 yet."

"Yet!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Next year though. Then I'll be beating your ex's ass on track."

"He's not my ex," you mutter. "We were never actually together, remember?"

"Right, just sneaking around making out for like a year and a half. Totally casual."

You're about to retort when movement catches your eye. Max is at the bar now, and there's a girl with him. Tall, blonde, model-beautiful. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's leaning in close to hear her over the music.

"YN…" Lando's voice has that warning tone.

"I need another drink," you announce, turning back to the bar.

Three shots later, you're on the dance floor with Lando, trying to forget the scene playing out at the bar. But your eyes keep drifting over, watching as Max gets closer to the blonde, his hand now on her waist.

"Stop torturing yourself," Lando says in your ear.

"I'm not-" you start, but the words die in your throat as you watch Max lean down and kiss the girl.

Something inside you snaps. You scan the crowd, spotting a guy who's been eyeing you all night. He's good-looking enough - dark hair, nice smile, probably a trust fund kid like half the people here.

"YN," Lando tries to grab your arm, but you're already moving.

You approach the guy with purpose, channeling every ounce of confidence the alcohol has given you. "Want to dance?"

He looks surprised but pleased. "Absolutely."

You let him pull you close, perhaps closer than necessary. You can feel eyes on you - Lando's concerned ones, and maybe, just maybe, someone else's too.

The guy - you think he said his name was Alex or Alec - is a good dancer. His hands are respectful but firm on your hips as you move to the music. When he leans down to kiss you, you let him.

It's not a bad kiss. He knows what he's doing. But he doesn't taste right, doesn't feel right. His hands aren't calloused from racing. He doesn't smell like motor oil and expensive cologne. He's not… him

But you kiss him anyway. When you finally pull back from the kiss, Lando is at your elbow.

"I think we should head out," he says, glancing meaningfully at your nearly empty glass.

"I'm having fun," you protest, even as the room spins slightly. Alex-or-Alec's hands are still on your waist.

"YN." Lando's voice is firmer now. "Come on."

You turn back to Alex-or-Alec, pulling him down for another kiss. It's messy and desperate and you can taste the expensive whiskey on his breath. You're proving something, you think, though you're not sure what or to whom anymore.

Through the haze of alcohol and bass-heavy music, you hear a familiar voice.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Max is standing there, his face tight with anger. The blonde from earlier is nowhere to be seen, but there's another girl hovering behind him - brunette this time.

"Having fun," you say sweetly, pressing closer to Alex-or-Alec. "You should try it. Oh wait, you already are."

"You don't even know this guy," Max snaps.

"His name is Alex." You pause. "Or Alec."

"It's Adrian," the guy supplies helpfully.

"Whatever." Max steps forward. "You're drunk. You need to go home."

"And you need to mind your own business." You turn to Adrian with an exaggerated smile. "Want to get out of here?"

"YN," Lando pleads. "Don't."

"Sure," Adrian grins, clearly oblivious to the tension. "My place isn't far."

Max moves so fast you barely register it, suddenly between you and Adrian. "She's not going anywhere with you."

"Excuse me?" You push at his chest. "You don't get to decide that. You lost that right when you-" You cut yourself off, aware you're saying too much.

"When I what?" Max challenges, his eyes dark. "When I did exactly what you're doing right now?"

"No," you laugh, but it comes out bitter. "When you decided that sneaking around was fine until it wasn't. When you started showing up to every event with a new girl on your arm. When you-"

"YN," Lando tugs at your arm. "Not here."

You shake him off. "Go back to your girlfriend, Max. Or girlfriends. I lost count tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"And you're being a hypocrite." You grab Adrian's hand. "Let's go."

Max's hand closes around your wrist. "You're not leaving with him."

"Get your hands off me." Your voice is ice cold. "You don't get to play protective boyfriend when it suits you. Go find another model to add to your collection."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt maybe, or anger. "Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway."

"Exactly. I do what I want." You turn to Adrian. "Sorry, but I've changed my mind. Turns out I have standards."

You shake off Max's grip and push past him, heading for the exit. Lando hurries after you, already calling for a car.

"YN, wait-" Max calls after you.

"Go to hell, Verstappen."

Outside, the Monaco air is cool against your flushed skin. Lando wraps his jacket around your shoulders as tears start to fall.

"I hate him," you whisper.

"No, you don't." Lando pulls you into a hug. "That's the problem."

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows feels like actual daggers in your skull. You're nursing your third cup of coffee, wearing sunglasses indoors like the walking cliché you are, when your father's voice cuts through your hangover haze.

"Would you care to explain these?"

Toto slides his phone across the breakfast table. Your stomach drops as you see the photos - you dancing with Adrian, Max confronting you, your tearful exit with Lando. The Monaco nightlife paparazzi are relentless, and you were too drunk to notice them.

"Papa, I-"

"No." His voice is quiet but firm. That's worse than yelling. "This stops now, YN. This... rebellion phase of yours. It stops."

Lewis and Valtteri are suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. Susie, your stepmother, places a gentle hand on your father's arm, but doesn't contradict him.

"It wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?" Toto's accent gets thicker when he's angry. "Wasn't you, drunk in a club, making headlines again? Wasn't you creating another PR nightmare for the team?"

Your head throbs. "I'm not part of the team."

"No? Then why does every tabloid headline read 'Mercedes Boss's Daughter in Club Drama with Red Bull Star'?"

You wince. Both at his words and at the volume.

"The drinking, the parties, the public scenes - it needs to stop." He leans forward. "You're not just any teenager, liebling. Everything you do reflects on this family, on this team."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." He softens slightly. "I know this past year has been... difficult."

You feel Lewis shift beside you. He knows - of course he knows. He's probably the only one at this table who knows the full story of you and Max.

"But this self-destructive behavior cannot continue." Your father's voice is final. "You're grounded."

"I'm twenty one!"

"And living on my yacht, in my house, representing my name." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer to go back to boarding school?"

The threat lands. You sink lower in your chair.

"No, sir."

"Good." He turns to his own coffee. "No more clubs. No more parties. And for God's sake, no more scenes with Max Verstappen."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know without looking it's probably Lando checking on you. Or worse, Max.

"YN." Your father's voice draws your attention back. "I mean it. Whatever is going on between you two... it ends now."

"Nothing is going on," you mutter.

"Then it should be easy to maintain distance."

Susie finally speaks up. "Why don't you come work with me for a while? Help with the She Moves Forward initiative?"

You know it's a peace offering - a way to keep you busy and out of trouble. But the thought of structured days and responsible tasks makes your hangover worse.

"Fine," you concede, if only to end this conversation.

Lewis nudges you under the table - a small gesture of solidarity. Valtteri offers a sympathetic smile.

"Good." Your father stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to handle."

After he leaves, Lewis slides a bottle of Advil towards you. "Here. You look like death."

"Thanks," you grumble, dry-swallowing two pills.

"He's right, you know," Lewis says quietly. "About Max."

"Not you too."

"YN." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The drinking, the acting out - it's not going to make it hurt less."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He stands, squeezing your shoulder. "Just... think about what you're really angry at. Because I don't think it's your father, or the team, or even Max."

"I'm going back to bed," you announce to no one in particular.

"Honey," Susie calls after you. "This doesn't have to be a punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity."

You pause at the door. "For what?"

"To figure out who you are without all the drama. Without..." she hesitates. "Without defining yourself by who you're trying to hurt."

You think about Max's face last night, about the girls he was with, about how none of it made you feel better.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "Maybe."

The air feels thick and oppressive as you stumble out of another club, the world spinning slightly. You're not entirely sure how you ended up here - after the disastrous night a few weeks ago, you'd promised yourself (and your father) that you were done with the party scene. But one text from Lando about needing to "get out" had quickly spiraled.

Except Lando had bailed last minute with food poisoning, and you'd gone anyway. Because you're nothing if not stubborn.

The familiar figure of Charles Leclerc materializes beside you. "YN? Are you okay?"

"Charles!" You throw your arms around him, nearly losing your balance. "My favorite Ferrari boy!"

He steadies you with practiced ease. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Lost count," you admit cheerfully. "But it's fine. Everything's fine."

Charles sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Lewis."

"No!" You grab for his phone but miss entirely. "Not Lewis. He'll tell Papa."

"Good. Maybe he should."

You slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's so disappointed in me."

Charles' expression softens as he puts the phone to his ear. "We're worried, not disappointed."

Twenty minutes later, you hear the distinctive rumble of Lewis's car. He jumps out, concern etched on his face.

"YN? What were you thinking?"

"That alcohol makes feelings go away?" you offer weakly.

Lewis turns to Charles. "Thanks for calling me."

"Of course. Take care of her."

The ride home is quiet until Lewis finally speaks. "This has to stop."

"I know," you whisper.

"No, I mean it really has to stop. You're hurting yourself, and for what? To prove something to Max?"

"It's not about Max."

"Isn't it?"

You stare out the window, tears forming. "I need to get away from here."

"What do you mean?"

"The paddock, the drama, all of it." You turn to him. "I can't keep doing this. Being the Mercedes princess, the ex-whatever of Max Verstappen. I need… space."

Lewis is quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea. Take some time, figure out who you are away from all this."

"Will you help me convince Papa?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'll help. But you have to promise me - no more nights like this."

You nod, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. "I promise."

As Lewis helps you out of the car, you freeze. Toto is standing in the doorway, still in his sleeping clothes. Your stomach drops and fresh tears spring to your eyes - this is it, the final disappointment.

But instead of the anger you expect, your father simply opens his arms.

You practically fall into them, suddenly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he soothes, holding you tight like he did when you were little. "You're alright, liebling. You're alright."

"I can't-" you hiccup against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here."

"Out of where?"

"Monaco. The paddock. All of it." You pull back slightly to look at him. "I need space. To figure out who I am without… without all of this."

Toto exchanges a look with Lewis over your head. "I know," he says softly, surprising you. "I've seen it coming."

"You have?"

He cups your face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're my daughter. Of course I have. I just needed you to realize it yourself."

"I'm tired, Papa," you whisper. "Of being the Mercedes princess, of the gossip, of seeing…" You trail off, but they all know what you mean. Who you mean.

"Then go," he says simply. "Find yourself. The paddock will still be here when you're ready."

"You're not mad?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, we'll discuss tonight's adventure when you're less drunk. But no, liebling. I'm not mad. Sometimes we need to step away to see things clearly."

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We've got your back, little Wolff. Whatever you need."

Fresh tears fall as you're overwhelmed by their support. "I love you both so much."

"And we love you," Toto kisses your forehead. "Now, let's get you to bed. We can make plans tomorrow."

As they help you inside, you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't an ending, but a beginning. A chance to become someone new - or maybe to find who you've been all along, underneath the labels and expectations.

Austria, 2020

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel hits you as you step into the Mercedes garage for the first time in almost two years, your heart doing a little flip at being back after so long. Everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow different - or maybe you're the one who's different now.

"Little Wolff!" Lewis' voice booms across the garage before you're engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off your feet. "Finally back where you belong!"

You laugh, squeezing him back just as tight. "You literally saw me at Christmas, Lewis!"

"That's not the same and you know it," he sets you down but keeps his hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "Christmas is family time. This," he gestures around the garage, "this is home."

Looking at him now, you can see the genuine joy in his eyes. Lewis has always been your second father, and these past two years, he's been your biggest cheerleader from afar, always sending encouraging messages when you were climbing mountains in Nepal or teaching English in Thailand.

"She's hardly been here five minutes and you're already monopolizing her, Lewis?" Your father's voice carries that familiar warmth that makes your chest tight with happiness. Your relationship with him has transformed during your time away - all those long phone calls and video chats where you really talked, not just about racing but about life, dreams, fears. Distance made you both realize what you'd been missing.

"Papa," you smile, walking into his open arms. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Welcome home, liebling," he murmurs. "The garage hasn't been the same without you."

"I missed you too," you say, then pull back with a grin. "But I need to go see someone else before he thinks I've forgotten him entirely."

Toto laughs. "Go on then. Lando's been asking about you non-stop since he heard you were coming back."

You practically skip your way to the McLaren garage, your heart light. The past two years have given you perspective, helped you understand yourself better. You're not the angry, lost girl who fled Monaco anymore. You're stronger now, more sure of who you are outside of being "Toto Wolff's daughter" or "Max Verstappen's conquest."

"YN!" Lando's screech of delight echoes through the garage as he launches himself at you. "You're back, you're finally back!"

"I missed you so much, you idiot," you ruffle his hair, noting how he's grown even more into himself. He's not the shy rookie anymore - he's coming into his own as a driver.

"Group hug!" Carlos appears, wrapping his long arms around both of you. "Welcome back, pequeña. It's been too quiet without you here to keep this one in line."

"Oi!" Lando protests, but he's beaming.

You're in the middle of telling them about your adventures in Japan when movement catches your eye. Your words trail off as you see him - Max, walking past the garage with Christian. He's filled out more, shoulders broader, face more mature. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step it always did around him.

Two years haven't completely erased the memory of his hands on your skin, his laugh against your neck, the way he used to look at you like you were his entire world. First loves leave permanent marks, and Max Verstappen had branded himself onto your heart when you were both too young to understand the weight of it all.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There's something there - recognition, remembrance, maybe even regret. You see him swallow hard, his step faltering just slightly. But neither of you moves to bridge the gap.

You turn back to Lando and Carlos, forcing a smile, but your mind is still with that brief moment of eye contact. You're not that lovesick teenager anymore, but part of you wonders if you'll ever fully get over Max Verstappen. If anyone ever really gets over their first love, or if they just learn to live with the echo of what could have been.

"YN?" Lando's voice brings you back to the present. "You okay?"

You look at your friend's concerned face and give him a genuine smile this time. "Yeah, I am. Just… remembering."

Carlos squeezes your shoulder knowingly. "The past is the past, si? You're here now, that's what matters."

You nod, grateful for their understanding. You're not the same person who left two years ago, running from heartbreak and confusion. You're stronger now, wiser. Ready to write a new chapter.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, you still feel the ghost of an old love story tugging at your heart.

Barcelona, 2020

The Barcelona night is warm and heavy with memories as you sit at the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Daniel's telling some ridiculous story about a kangaroo, but your attention keeps drifting to the other end of the table where Max sits, deliberately positioned as far from you as possible.

Five years ago, you'd kissed him for the first time just a few streets from here. After his first win, giddy with freedom and teenage rebellion.

"So how was Bali?" Charles asks making your come back to your senses,"The surfing photos were insane."

"Almost died about twelve times," you laugh. "But worth it."

"She's exaggerating," Max comments casually, surprising everyone at the table. It's the first time he's directly addressed anything about your travels. "I saw the videos. Your form wasn't that bad."

You catch his eye across the table. "Been keeping tabs on me, Verstappen?"

He shrugs, a hint of that old smirk playing at his lips. "Hard not to when you're all over everyone's Instagram stories."

The tension at the table shifts slightly - not gone, but different. Lando kicks your foot under the table, raising an eyebrow when you look at him. You ignore him.

The conversation flows easier after that, stories and laughter bouncing around the table. You find yourself watching Max when he's not looking - the way he's grown into his features, how his laugh is deeper now, how he still runs his hand through his hair when he's trying not to smile.

As the night winds down, you end up being the last two waiting for cars. The others had filtered out gradually - Daniel dragging Charles off to some club, Lando claiming early training, Carlos heading home with his father.

"So," Max breaks the silence first, hands in his pockets. "Two years."

"Two years," you echo, leaning against the wall. "Feels longer sometimes."

"And shorter," he adds, then glances at you. "You look good. Happy."

"I am. Mostly." You study his profile in the streetlights. "You've changed too."

He laughs softly. "Had to grow up sometime, right? Can't be the paddock's problem child forever."

"No more sneaking around in garages?" The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes darken slightly at the memory. "Bit harder to get away with that these days. Plus, there hasn't been anyone worth the risk."

The weight of unspoken things hangs between you. All those stolen moments - behind motorhomes, in empty conference rooms, dark corners of victory parties. Never official, never acknowledged, but burning so bright it scared you both.

"Want to come up to my place?" he asks suddenly. "Just to talk. Properly. Without…" he gestures vaguely at the paddock world around you.

You should say no. But two years of distance have made you forget how magnetic he is, or maybe just made you brave enough to pretend you can resist it. "Okay."

The penthouse is exactly what you'd expect - sleek and modern, with a view that makes you catch your breath. You walk to the windows, Barcelona sprawling below like a constellation.

"Remember that night after your first win?" you ask softly. "When we snuck onto the roof?"

"Papa Wolff nearly had a heart attack," Max comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms almost touch. "Worth it though."

"Was it?" You turn to look at him. "All of it? The sneaking around, the fights with our families, the constant hiding?"

"You know it was." His voice drops lower. "At least, it was for me."

"Max…"

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "Not just… not just the physical stuff. I missed talking to you. Making you laugh. The way you'd roll your eyes every time I said something stupid in press conferences."

"I still do that," you smile despite yourself. "Some things don't change."

"Maybe they shouldn't." He steps closer, and suddenly you're eighteen again, heart racing at his proximity. "Maybe some things are worth holding onto."

When he kisses you, it feels like muscle memory. Your body remembers this dance - the way his hands find your waist, how he tastes like wine and possibilities. It's softer than the desperate kisses you used to share in dark corners, but somehow more dangerous for it.

You pull back first, breathing hard. "We can't."

"Why not?" His thumb traces your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. Who cares what anyone thinks?"

"I do," you step away, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I left to get away from this, Max. From sneaking around, from being the paddock scandal waiting to happen. I built a life where I'm not defined by who I'm secretly sleeping with or whose daughter I am."

"It wouldn't be like before-"

"Wouldn't it? The politics haven't changed. Our families still wouldn't approve."

"I don't care about any of that," he reaches for you but you step back.

"That's the problem," your voice cracks. "I had to live with all of it. The whispers, the judgment, watching my father's face every time there was another rumor about us. I can't go back to that."

"YN, please-"

"I should go." You grab your phone from the counter. "This was a mistake."

At the elevator, you turn back one last time. He's still by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. "For what it's worth," you say softly, "you were my first love. Maybe that's why we have to let it stay in the past."

The elevator doors close on his response, and you lean against the wall, heart pounding. Some part of you will probably always want Max Verstappen. But you've worked too hard to become your own person to let that want destroy everything again.

Even if walking away feels like leaving part of yourself behind.

Monaco, 2020

The yacht party is winding down, the late hour thinning out the crowd until somehow you find yourself alone on the upper deck. The Mediterranean breeze carries fragments of music and laughter from below, but up here it's quiet enough to hear your own thoughts - dangerous, when they all seem to revolve around him.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. You don't need to turn around to know it's Max - your body has always been attuned to his presence, like a compass finding north.

"Hiding?" His voice is soft as he comes to stand beside you at the railing.

"Just needed some air." It's not entirely a lie. "Shouldn't you be downstairs? This is your best friend's party."

"Daniel can handle it on his own," he shrugs, looking out at the harbor lights. "Needed some air too."

The silence that follows should be uncomfortable, but it isn't. That's the problem with Max - everything still feels as natural as breathing. Two years away hasn't changed how your body relaxes in his presence, how the air seems to crackle with possibility when he's near.

"Remember that party in Singapore?" he asks suddenly.

You smile despite yourself. "When we hid from Lewis for half of the night?"

"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, and something in his voice makes your heart skip. "I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

"Max…"

"I still can't," he admits quietly. "Even now. Even when I'm supposed to be focusing on other things, my eyes just… find you."

You grip the railing tighter. "We can't do this again."

"Can't we?" He turns to face you now. "Because ever since Barcelona, since that kiss…"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?" He steps closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like coming home."

The words hit you right in the chest, because he's right. That's exactly what it felt like - like every cell in your body recognizing where it belonged.

"Nothing's changed," you say, but your voice wavers. "The politics, our families, the media…"

"Everything's changed," he counters. "We're not those kids anymore, sneaking around without putting a label on it because we didn't know better. I know exactly what I want now. Who I want."

"Max, please-"

"Two years, YN. Two years of watching you live your life through Instagram stories and paddock glimpses. Two years of trying to convince myself I was over you." His hand finds yours on the railing. "But the truth is, a part of me has belonged to you since that first night in Melbourne, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

You should pull your hand away. Instead, you turn it over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. "I tried so hard to become someone new," you whisper. "Traveled the world, built this whole independent life. But the moment I saw you again…"

"I know." His other hand comes up to cup your face, and you lean into the touch instinctively. "Because I felt it too."

"It scares me," you admit. "How easy it is to fall back into this. How right it feels when it should feel wrong."

"Maybe that's exactly why it isn't wrong." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Maybe some things are just meant to be, despite everything else."

When he kisses you this time, it's different from Barcelona. That kiss had been hesitant, testing. This one feels like surrender, like finally stopping a fight you were always meant to lose. Your hands find his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispers. "You're the first girl I ever loved, and I think maybe you'll be the last. I know it's complicated, I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't, but I don't care about any of them. I just want you."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the truth in his words, by how perfectly they mirror your own feelings. "I never stopped loving you," you confess. "I tried. God, I tried so hard. But it's like… it's like a part of me just belongs to you, and no amount of distance can change that."

"Then be with me," he pleads softly. "For real this time. No more running."

"How?" But you're already melting into him as he pulls you closer. "Nothing's changed, Max. My father would still lose it, Christian would still disapprove, the media would have a field day…"

"So we don't tell them." His hands slide to your waist. "We keep it between us. No sneaking around in garages this time, no risky moments in the paddock. Just us, in private, doing this properly."

You should say no. You know all the reasons why this can't work. But as his lips find yours again, you realize you're tired of fighting this magnetic pull between you.

"If anyone finds out…" you start.

"They won't," he promises. "We'll be careful. We're not those reckless kids anymore."

And maybe that's the key difference - you're not acting on impulse anymore, not diving in blindly. You're choosing this, fully aware of the consequences, of what you both stand to lose.

"Okay," you whisper against his mouth. "Okay."

When he kisses you again, it feels like every kiss you've ever shared and completely new all at once. Like coming home and starting an adventure. Like an ending and a beginning wrapped into one.

Later, you'll figure out the logistics, the careful dance of secrecy. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment.

Some things, you realize, are worth keeping secret. Some loves are worth protecting, even if it means hiding them from the world.

Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max's apartment, painting everything in soft gold. You're awake before him, taking in the familiar weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. It feels surreal - like stepping back in time, but with the sharp edge of awareness that comes with being older.

You feel him stir, his arm tightening slightly around you. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbles against your shoulder.

"Sorry," you turn to face him, finding his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Hard not to."

He props himself up on an elbow, studying your face. The morning light makes everything feel more raw, more real. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," you say honestly. "Just… thinking about how we make this work."

"We managed before."

"And look how that ended." You trace a pattern on his chest absently. "We were reckless then. Every stolen moment was a near-miss."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "So we're smarter this time. No more risky moments in the paddock. No sneaking around where anyone could see us."

"It's not just that." You sit up, pulling the sheet with you. "Max, if this gets out… it's not just about our families being angry. It could affect your career, the team dynamics. And my father-"

"Would probably try to have me assassinated," he finishes with a half-smile, but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of it."

"And you still want this?"

He sits up too, cupping your face in his hands. "More than anything. The question is, do you?"

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. "You know I do. That's what scares me. How much I want this, despite everything."

"Then we figure it out." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. We know how to be discreet. Your place, my place, private locations only. No public appearances together unless we're with the whole group. No suspicious social media activity."

"No telling anyone," you add. "Not even Lando or Charles."

"Especially not them," he agrees. "The fewer people who know, the safer it is."

You open your eyes to find him watching you with that intense focus he usually reserves for racing. "It's going to be hard," you warn. "Pretending there's nothing between us in public. Watching you from a distance at races."

"We've had years of practice at that," he reminds you softly. "At least now I get to hold you afterward."

The simple statement makes your heart clench. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "When did you get so good with words?"

"Must be all those media training sessions," he smirks, but then turns serious. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. Whatever we have to do to make this work, I'm in."

"I love you too," you whisper back. "God, I really do."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he's trying to memorize the moment. When you pull back, you're both breathing harder.

The morning light is brighter now, reality creeping in with the rising sun. Soon, you'll have to leave separately, go back to pretending there's nothing between you. But for now, you let yourself sink into his embrace, memorizing the feeling of being here, being his.

"This is crazy, isn't it?" you murmur against his chest.

"Probably," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But some of the best things in life are a little crazy."

You know there will be challenges ahead - difficult moments, close calls, the constant strain of secrecy. But as Max pulls you back down onto the pillows, his lips finding yours with familiar hunger, you think maybe he's right.

Some things are worth the risk. Some loves are worth keeping secret.

The key card clicks softly as you slip into Max's Monaco apartment late on September 30th. You'd made your excuses to your friends early - a headache, an important call - knowing they wouldn't question it too much since they'd already planned Max's official celebration for tomorrow.

But tonight is just for the two of you.

You find him in the kitchen, already changed into sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, pulling something from the oven. The domestic scene makes your heart flutter.

"Is Max Verstappen actually baking?" you tease, dropping your bag.

He turns with that smile that's become exclusively yours - soft, unguarded, real. "It's just heating up the cake Victoria made. I'm not completely useless."

You cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "Happy birthday, baby."

He turns in your embrace, backing you against the counter. "This is already better than last year's birthday."

"Mm, because last year you weren't secretly dating your rival team principal's daughter?"

"Because last year I couldn't do this," he murmurs, before kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The timer dings, making you both jump and then laugh.

"The cake can wait," he starts, but you push him back gently.

"Let's do this properly. Cake first, then presents, then…" you trail off suggestively.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes are sparkling. "But I'm holding you to that 'then'."

You sit cross-legged on his massive couch, sharing pieces of Victoria's chocolate cake straight from the tin. It's comfortable in a way that still surprises you sometimes - how easily you've fallen into these private moments, these glimpses of normalcy in your decidedly abnormal situation.

"Got you something," you say, reaching for your bag.

He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were my present?"

"Cheesy," you throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Here."

He unwraps the small package carefully. Inside is a simple leather bracelet, dark brown with a subtle pattern worked into it. "Turn it over," you say softly.

On the inside, barely visible unless you know to look, are your initials and the date from Monaco - the night everything changed.

"YN…" his voice is rough as he runs his thumb over the engraving.

"I know we can't do obvious things," you explain. "But I wanted you to have something… something that's just ours. Something you can wear without anyone knowing what it means."

He pulls you into his lap, kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin. "I love it," he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper back, heart full with how natural those words feel now. "Even if you are getting old."

He retaliates by tickling your sides until you're both breathless with laughter, ending up horizontal on the couch with you pinned beneath him.

"Twenty-three isn't old," he protests, pressing kisses down your neck.

"Ancient," you tease, but it turns into a gasp as he finds that sensitive spot below your ear. "Max…"

"Mm?"

"The cake…"

"Can wait," he finishes, hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. "Right now, I want to unwrap my other present."

Later, much later, you're tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. The city lights twinkle through the windows, creating patterns on the ceiling.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"For what?"

"For this. For making my birthday special even though we have to hide. For loving me despite everything."

You prop yourself up to look at him, trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "Thank you for making it worth it."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sometimes I wish we could just tell everyone. Walk into the paddock holding your hand, take you on real dates, post about you on Instagram like a normal couple."

"I know," you sigh, settling back against his chest. "Me too. But…"

"But it would cause chaos," he finishes. "I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though."

You lift your head again, kissing him softly. "Maybe someday. But for now, I'm happy just having you like this. These moments are ours, just ours."

His arms tighten around you. "I love you," he says again, like he can't help himself. "More than racing, more than winning, more than-"

"Don't," you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't say more than racing. We both know that's a lie."

He grins, rolling you under him again. "Maybe it's a tie?"

"I can live with that," you smile up at him, pulling him down for another kiss.

The world outside keeps turning - tomorrow there will be the official party, the public celebrations, the careful distance you'll have to maintain. But tonight, in this space that's become your sanctuary, you can just be Max and YN, two people in love, celebrating another year together.

Even if the rest of the world doesn't know it yet.

Monaco, 2021

You're curled into Max's side on your couch, some Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm while you scroll through your phone, both enjoying the calm before tomorrow's storm - the start of a new season, new expectations, new pressure.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head to look at him.

He shrugs, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders. "Not nervous. Just… ready. The car feels good, testing went well."

"Mm," you press a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe this is your year."

"Maybe," but his smile is confident as he turns to capture your lips properly. "Though right now I'm more interested in-"

Your phone buzzes loudly, Lando's name flashing on the screen. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey Lan-"

"I'm outside your place!" his cheerful voice cuts through. "Charles and I brought wine and that awful reality show you love. Open up!"

Your heart stops. "What?"

"Come on, it's freezing out here! I can see your lights on."

You sit up straight, panic flooding your system. "Lando, I-"

"Don't even try to say you're busy. It's the night before the first race, I know you're just sitting there overthinking everything."

Max is already moving, gathering his shoes and jacket silently. Your eyes meet across the room, both knowing how catastrophic it would be if Lando found him here.

"Give me five minutes," you say into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm… I need to put clothes on."

"Gross, too much information," Lando laughs. "Five minutes!"

You hang up, heart racing. "Shit, shit, shit."

"It's fine," Max is surprisingly calm as he pulls on his shoes. "I'll go out through the back stairs."

"What if they see you?" You're already scanning the room for any evidence of him - his Red Bull cap on the coffee table, his phone charger by the couch.

"They won't." He grabs his things efficiently, muscle memory from two years of sneaking around kicking in. "I'll text you when I'm clear."

Another knock at the door makes you both freeze. "YN!" Charles's voice this time. "We can hear you moving around!"

Max pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss. "I love you. Don't worry."

"Be careful," you whisper against his lips.

He flashes that cocky grin you love. "Always am."

You watch him disappear through your bedroom toward the back stairwell, then take a deep breath, running your hands through your hair to mess it up slightly - making your "just got out of bed" excuse more believable.

When you open the door, Lando immediately pushes past you with wine bottles clinking. "Finally! What were you really doing?"

"Told you, getting dressed." You accept Charles' hello kiss on the cheek, praying your face isn't as flushed as it feels.

"Your shirt's inside out," Charles points out, smirking.

You look down - shit, he's right. You'd thrown it on hastily after… earlier activities. "I was sleeping," you say quickly. "You guys interrupted my pre-race nap routine."

"At 9 PM?" Lando's already making himself at home on your couch - right where Max was sitting minutes ago. "Sure, sure."

Your phone buzzes with a text: "All clear. They didn't see me. Missing you already x"

Relief floods through you as Charles pours wine and Lando queues up the show. You settle into the evening, letting their familiar banter wash over you, trying to act normal even as your skin still tingles from Max's touch.

"You seem different lately," Charles observes suddenly, studying your face. "Happier."

"Just excited for the new season," you deflect smoothly, a skill you've perfected over the past year.

"Mm," he doesn't look entirely convinced. "No secret boyfriend we should know about?"

You laugh, the sound only slightly strained. "Right, because that worked out so well last time."

"Last time was Max," Lando points out. "Thank god you're both over that whole thing."

If only they knew. But you just smile and take a sip of wine, letting them move on to discussing tomorrow's race.

As the evening progresses, the wine flows and the reality show plays in the background. You're carefully avoiding any topics that might make Charles or Lando suspicious, laughing a bit too loudly at their jokes.

Lando, ever restless, decides to raid your kitchen for snacks. "Where do you keep the good stuff?" he calls out, opening cupboards.

Your heart immediately races. You know exactly what might be lurking in those cupboards - Max's favorite energy drink, a Red Bull can he'd left behind last time he was here. You stand up quickly, "I'll get it for you-"

But Lando's already moving, pulling open the refrigerator door. "Found it!" he announces, then pauses. His hand emerges holding a Red Bull can, but something else catches his eye. A water bottle with a distinctive Red Bull Racing team logo sits next to it.

"Huh," Charles looks over. "Isn't this Max's water bottle?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. "Oh, um-" Your mind races, searching for an explanation. "I... must have picked it up from somewhere. You know how these things get mixed up."

Lando turns, one eyebrow raised. The playful smile slowly morphs into something more knowing. "Mixed up, huh?"

Charles is watching you now, that sharp observant look that made him such a good racing driver now focused entirely on you.

"Yeah, I must've picked it up by accident, didn't even realize."

Lando shrugs and cracks open a packet of chips, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. But Charles continues to study you with that piercing gaze that makes you want to squirm.

Keeping this a secret is becoming harder and harder.

Silverstone, 2021

The English countryside blurs past your window as Max takes another curve, maybe a bit faster than necessary. It's nearly midnight, and you should both be resting before tomorrow's race, but these night drives have become your thing - the only time you can be truly alone during race weekends, truly free.

"You're showing off," you accuse, but you're smiling.

"Me? Never." He takes his eyes off the road for a second to grin at you, his hand finding yours across the console.

The radio plays softly in the background, some British pop song you don't know. The summer air rushing through the open windows carries the scent of grass and freedom. It feels perfect. Until it isn't.

It happens so fast - a deer appears out of nowhere, Max swerves to avoid it, but the road is narrow and dark. The tires lose grip on loose gravel, and suddenly you're spinning, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of shadows and panic.

The impact when it comes is brutal. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and everything goes still.

"YN?" Max's voice is tight with fear. "Baby, are you okay?"

You do a quick mental check. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. "I'm okay. You?"

"Fine." He's already trying to open his door, but it's jammed. The front of the car is wrapped around a tree, steam hissing from the hood. "Fuck. Fuck!"

Your phone is somewhere on the floor. When you retrieve it, the screen is cracked but working. "We need help."

"We can't call emergency services," Max says immediately. "It'll be all over the news in minutes."

He's right. You can already see the headlines: "Verstappen in Late Night Crash with Mercedes Boss's Daughter."

"Christian?" you suggest.

"He'll kill me. We have a race tomorrow." Max runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We need someone who can be discreet, who has the resources to handle this quietly, who-"

You both realize it at the same time.

"No," Max says.

"He's the only one who can help us without this becoming a scandal."

"YN, he's the last person-"

"Max." You reach for his hand. "We don't have a choice."

He knows you're right. With a resigned sigh, he nods.

Your hands shake slightly as you dial Lewis's number. It rings three times before he answers, voice groggy with sleep.

"Little Wolff? It's midnight, what-"

"Lewis, I need your help. And I need you to not ask questions."

There's a pause, then rustling as he presumably sits up. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but… we're stuck. Had an accident on the back roads near Silverstone. We need help getting the car towed without anyone finding out."

There's a pause. "We?"

You close your eyes. "I'm with Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. "Send me your location. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to his word, headlights appear eighteen minutes later. Lewis steps out of his car, taking in the scene - the wrecked vehicle, you and Max standing by the roadside, the unspoken truth of why you were together at this hour.

"Are you both alright?" He asks first, concern overriding any other emotions.

"Just bruised," you answer. "The car took the worst of it."

He nods, already on his phone. "Angela's on her way with a tow truck. She'll be discreet."

Max steps forward. "Lewis, I-"

"Don't." Lewis holds up a hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." He looks at you, something sad in his expression. "How long?"

"Since last year."

He lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains a few things."

The wait for Angela is tense. Lewis keeps his distance, occasionally speaking quietly into his phone. Max doesn't let go of your hand, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

When Angela arrives with the tow truck, she doesn't bat an eye at the situation. The car is loaded efficiently, and arrangements are made to have it repaired at a private garage Lewis trusts.

"I'll drive YN home," Lewis says, and it's not really a question.

Max tenses beside you, but you squeeze his hand. "It's safer this way," you whisper. "Less suspicious if anyone sees us."

He knows you're right, again. "Text me when you're home?"

"Promise."

The drive with Lewis is quiet at first. Then the storm pours down.

"Of all the stupid, reckless things," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "A year? You've been sneaking around with him for a year? Again?"

"Lewis-"

"No." He turns to face you, anger and worry warring in his expression. "Do you have any idea what could happen if this gets out? What your father would-"

"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, making your head throb. "I don't care what anyone thinks anymore."

"Well, you should!" Lewis's voice rises to match yours. "This isn't some game, YN. This is your life, your career, your family-"

"You think I don't know that?" You bite back. "You think we haven't spent the last year terrified of exactly that? Hiding everything, sneaking around, lying to everyone we care about?"

"Then why?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Why risk everything for him?"

"Because I love him!" The words echo in the car. You lower your voice, tears threatening to fall. "I love him, Lewis. And he loves me. Isn't that enough?"

Lewis' expression softens slightly, but the worry remains. "Love isn't always enough, YN. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake."

"It has to be," you whisper. "Because I can't do this anymore - pretending I don't feel what I feel, acting like my heart doesn't race every time he walks into a room. I'm tired of hiding."

"He's not good for you," Lewis says quietly. "You remember how broken you were after-"

"He was nineteen," you cut him off. "We were both kids, both scared. Things are different now."

"Are they?" his voice is gentle but firm. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still sneaking around in the middle of the night, still hiding from everyone. That doesn't sound different to me."

You sink back into your seat, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not asking for your approval, Lewis. I'm just asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Because getting into a car accident at 2 AM doesn't exactly scream good decision-making."

"That wasn't-" you start to defend, but he holds up a hand.

"You shouldn't have been out there in the first place. These secret meetings, these late-night drives… it's not sustainable, YN."

"I know," you admit quietly. "We know. We've been talking about telling people, about doing this properly."

Lewis studies your face for a long moment. "And what happens when the media finds out? When your father finds out? When the pressure becomes too much and he runs again?"

"He won't." Your voice is firm despite your injuries. "He's not that scared kid anymore, Lewis. He knows what he wants now."

"And what is that?"

"Me." You meet Lewis's gaze steadily. "He wants me. All of me, no matter what it costs. And I want him."

Lewis sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I can't support this, YN. I've watched him hurt you too many times."

"I know," you say softly. "And I love you for wanting to protect me. But I'm not asking for your support. I'm just asking you not to make this harder than it already is, I know you're worried. But please… please don't tell anyone. Not yet. Let us do this our way."

He doesn't respond, just pulls up the car outside your hotel and unlocks it so you can get out.

Silverstone, 2021. Race day

Your hands are still shaking slightly as you make your way through the paddock. Last night's crash left more than just physical bruises - the tension with Lewis, the close call, the reality of how fragile your secret is, it all weighs heavily.

The Mercedes garage is already buzzing with pre-race energy when you spot Lewis by his car, going through data with Peter. You wait until he's alone before approaching.

"Lewis," you say softly. "Can we talk?"

He glances around before responding, voice low. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Please. What you did last night-"

"Was a mistake," he cuts you off, finally turning to face you. "I should have called emergency services, protocol be damned."

"You know why we couldn't-"

"No, YN. You couldn't because you're sneaking around like teenagers. Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that tree had been a few inches to the left-"

"But it wasn't," you interrupt. "We're fine."

"Fine?" He scoffs. "You're both bruised, his car is wrecked, and I'm now complicit in your little romance."

"It's not a little romance-"

"Then what is it?" His voice rises slightly before he checks himself. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern as before. You, him, secrets, lies."

"I told you last night - I love him."

"Love?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Love doesn't hide, YN. Love doesn't put people in dangerous situations. Love doesn't-"

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't pretend you understand what we're dealing with."

"Oh, I understand perfectly. You're playing girlfriend with my biggest rival while there's a championship at stake. You're risking everything - your reputation, your father's position, the team's integrity-"

"This isn't a game to me!" The words come out sharper than intended. A few mechanics glance your way, and you lower your voice. "This isn't about the championship or the team. This is about me and him."

"Nothing in this paddock is ever just about two people," Lewis says coldly. "You of all people should know that."

Before you can respond, Bono approaches. "Lewis, strategy meeting."

"I need to focus," Lewis tells you, his expression hardening. "I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie before someone gets really hurt."

He walks away, leaving you standing there with a hollow feeling in your chest. Angela catches your eye, her expression sympathetic, and you wonder how much she knows.

The pre-race preparations pass in a blur. You go through the motions, smile when appropriate, but your mind keeps drifting to Max. You haven't seen him since Lewis dropped you off last night - you both agreed it was safer to stay apart until the race.

Then you're in the garage, watching the formation lap. Your father stands beside you, discussing something with the engineers, but their words sound distant.

Lap one. Copse Corner.

The contact happens so fast - Lewis's Mercedes alongside Max's Red Bull. The touch of wheels. Then Max's car is airborne, spinning, crashing into the barriers with devastating force.

The garage erupts in chaos. Screens show the replay from every angle. Your father is immediately in discussion with the stewards.

You can't breathe. Can't move. Your eyes are fixed on the smoking wreck of Max's car, willing him to move, to get out, to be okay.

"Racing incident," Toto argues. "Lewis had the line-"

Their voices fade to background noise as you watch the medical team reach the car. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, but you can't check it - not here, not with everyone watching.

"YN," Angela touches your arm gently. "You look pale. Maybe some water?"

You follow her away from the garage, grateful for the excuse. As soon as you're out of sight, your composure breaks.

"I don't know if he's okay," you whisper, hands shaking. "I can't- I can't check my phone, I can't ask anyone, I can't-"

"Breathe," Angela steadies you. "Just breathe."

"I should be there. I should be with him. After last night, after everything-"

"I won't say anything," she promises quickly. "But YN... this is bigger than just keeping a secret now."

"I know," you admit. "God, I know. But I can't- I can't even ask if he's okay without raising suspicions."

The race continues. Lewis gets a ten-second penalty but fights back to win. The garage celebrates, and you have to join in, have to smile and cheer while your heart is somewhere else entirely.

Hours pass with no news. Social media is full of speculation, but nothing concrete. You catch snippets of conversation - "hospital for checks" and "conscious but shaken" - but nothing official.

It's torture, pretending everything is normal. Pretending you're just concerned in a general, professional way. Pretending last night never happened, that you don't still have bruises from a different crash, that your world isn't falling apart all over again.

Finally, after what feels like years, you manage to slip away to the Red Bull motorhome.

The motorhome is quiet when you enter. GP looks up from his laptop, surprise crossing his features.

"YN? You shouldn't-"

"Please," your voice breaks. "Please, I need to see him."

GP studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "Last door on the right. But be careful - he's pretty beaten up."

You find Max lying on the small bed, eyes closed but breathing steady. The room smells of medical cream and defeat.

"Max?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes open immediately, finding yours in the dim light. Despite everything, his lips curve into a small smile.

"Two crashes in twenty-four hours," he mumbles. "Must be some kind of record."

"Don't," tears spill over finally. "Don't joke. Not now."

"Come here," he tries to move over but winces.

"Careful," you rush to his side, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"

"Everything hurts," he admits. "But nothing's broken. Well, except my championship lead."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks. "When I saw the crash, and then I couldn't- I couldn't even ask if you were okay. I had to stand there and pretend like I wasn't terrified."

"Hey," he reaches for your hand, wincing at the movement. "I'm okay. Well, relatively speaking."

"This is my fault," you whisper. "If I hadn't called Lewis last night-"

"Stop," he squeezes your hand. "This had nothing to do with last night."

"Didn't it? He was so angry this morning, about us, about having to help us-"

"Lewis and I race hard regardless of personal feelings," Max says firmly. "What happened today was racing. Stupid, dangerous racing, but still racing."

You study his face in the dim light, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain he's trying to hide, "Max, don't you think it's time?"

"Time?"

"To tell people. About us." The words rush out now that you've started. "I can't keep doing this - watching you race and pretending I don't care, hiding how I feel, lying to everyone we know. Today made me realize… if something had happened to you, really happened…"

He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing patterns on your hand. "What about your father?"

"I don't care anymore. Well, I do care, but… not more than I care about you. About us." You meet his eyes. "When the season's over. Before next year starts. We tell everyone."

"You're sure?"

"Are you?"

He pulls you closer, carefully, until you're lying beside him. "I'm sure if you are."

"Even with the championship? The media circus it'll cause?"

"Especially then." He kisses your forehead. "Today… when I hit that barrier, all I could think about was you. Not the championship, not the points, just… you. And how much time we've wasted hiding."

You curl into his side, mindful of his bruises. "So we're agreed? After Abu Dhabi, whatever happens with the championship…"

"We tell everyone." He lifts your chin to kiss you properly. "No more hiding."

"Promise?" You need to hear him say it.

"Promise," he pulls you closer, careful of both your injuries. "Besides, after last night's adventure and today's crash, I think we've filled our drama quota for a while."

You stay there, tangled together in the quiet darkness, both battered from different crashes but somehow still whole.

"I should go," you whisper eventually. "Before someone comes looking."

"One of the last times we'll have to say that," he reminds you.

"Promise me something else?"

"Anything."

"No more late-night drives for a while?"

He laughs, then grimaces in pain. "Deal. Although technically, both crashes were Lewis' fault."

"Max..."

"Kidding," he kisses your forehead softly. "Kind of."

You stand carefully, already missing his warmth. "Text me when you're feeling better?"

"Text me when you're home safe," he counters.

At the door, you turn back one last time. He's watching you with those eyes that made you fall in love twice - once when you were too young to know better, and again when you were old enough to know exactly what you were risking.

"Max?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. Even when I have to pretend I don't."

His smile, despite the pain, lights up the dark room. "I love you too. Even when Lewis Hamilton tries to kill me. Twice in twenty-four hours."

You shake your head, but you're smiling as you slip out into the night. A few more months of hiding, of pretending, of careful distances and secret meetings. Then everything changes.

You just hope you're both ready for whatever comes next.

Abu Dhabi, 2021

The final showdown. Equal points, one race to decide it all.

The morning of the race, you slip into the Red Bull garage before sunrise. Max is already there, going through his pre-race routine, but his face softens when he sees you.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, pulling you into his arms.

"Not really," you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Too much going on in my head."

"Talk to me."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "I'm nervous. For you, for the race, for what comes after…"

"Hey," he cups your face gently. "Whatever happens today, we're in this together. Remember?"

"I know," you try to smile. "It's just… everything's going to change after today."

"Good changes," he kisses your forehead. "No more hiding, remember?"

You've had this conversation countless times over the past months, planning how you'll handle the revelation of your relationship. Your father still doesn't know, though you suspect he's noticed something's different.

"I brought you something," you reach into your pocket and pull out a small charm - a tiny silver racing car. "For luck."

Max takes it, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile. "You're my luck."

"That was incredibly cheesy," you laugh, but your heart swells.

"You love it," he pulls you closer, kissing you properly this time. "And you love me."

"I do," you whisper against his lips. "So much it scares me sometimes."

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before reality intrudes again.

"I should go," you sigh. "There's something else I need to do before the race."

Max knows without asking. "Lewis?"

"Yeah," you bite your lip. "I can't let things end like this between us."

"Go," he squeezes your hand. "Just come back to me after?"

"Always."

Finding Lewis proves harder. He's been avoiding you since Silverstone, your relationship reduced to professional nods and carefully maintained distance. But you finally spot him in the Mercedes garage, alone with his thoughts.

"Lewis?" your voice is hesitant.

He tenses but doesn't turn around. "YN."

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me-"

"Then why are you here?"

You take a deep breath. "Because you're my brother, Lewis. Not by blood, but by choice. And I can't stand how things are between us."

He finally turns, and the pain in his eyes matches your own. "You chose him."

"I chose love," you step closer. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about you."

"You could have told me," his voice cracks slightly. "Before Silverstone, before any of it. I thought we told each other everything."

"I was scared," you admit. "Scared of exactly this - losing you, losing my family, losing everything I've known."

"So instead you just lied? Snuck around?"

"I know it was wrong," tears prick at your eyes. "And I'm so sorry, Lewis. Not for loving him, but for hurting you. For breaking your trust."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face. "Does he make you happy? Really happy?"

"Yes," you whisper. "More than I ever thought possible."

Lewis sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Come here, little sister."

You practically fall into his arms, tears flowing freely now. He holds you tight, like when you were kids and he would protect you from everything.

"I'm still mad at you," he mumbles into your hair.

"I know."

"And I still think you're crazy."

"Probably."

"But," he pulls back to look at you, "I love you. And I miss you. And if he ever hurts you, I'll end his career so fast-"

You laugh through your tears. "There's my overprotective brother."

"Someone has to look out for you," he wipes your cheeks gently. "Even if you make it incredibly difficult."

"I'm sorry," you say again. "For everything."

"I know," he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure it out. After today."

"About that…" you hesitate. "We're planning to go public. After the race."

Lewis nods slowly. "I figured something like that was coming. The way you look at each other isn't exactly subtle."

"You noticed?"

"YN, everyone with eyes has noticed. They're just too scared of your father to mention it."

You both laugh, and for a moment it feels like before - easy, comfortable, safe.

"Lewis?" you grab his hand. "Whatever happens today… I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be."

He squeezes your hand. "Right back at you, little Wolff. Even if you have terrible taste in men."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying, there are other drivers-"

"Goodbye, Lewis," you start walking away, but you're smiling.

"YN?" he calls after you. "For what it's worth… he better know how lucky he is."

An hour later, you're standing in the Mercedes garage, heart in your throat, watching the screens as though your life depends on it. In a way, it does. Six years of loving Max in secret, two years of running away from it all, and now here you are - watching the man you love fight your father's driver for the championship in the most intense finale you've ever witnessed.

When Nicholas Latifi crashes, everything changes. The safety car comes out, and suddenly the garage erupts with activity. Your father's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative as he argues with race control. You've never seen him like this - the usual composed Toto Wolff replaced by someone desperately fighting against what feels like destiny shifting.

"No, no, no, Michael, that is so not right!" Your father's voice booms through the garage as the lapped cars are allowed through. You flinch at the fury in his tone, at the way he slams his headset down.

The final lap is unbearable. You watch Lewis getting hunted down by Max on fresh tires. Your nails dig into your palms, torn between family loyalty and the love you've kept hidden for so long.

When Max makes the pass, when he crosses the line as World Champion, the Mercedes garage falls silent. The contrast between the Red Bull celebrations on screen and the devastation around you is stark.

Your father looks destroyed, a mixture of anger and disbelief on his face. But it's Lewis who breaks your heart - the way he sits in his car, processing what just happened, the dignity with which he eventually emerges to congratulate Max.

You find Lewis in the drivers room a few hours later, away from the cameras. His eyes are red, his shoulders slumped in a way you've never seen before.

"Lew," your voice breaks.

He looks up, and suddenly you're both crying. You wrap your arms around him as he breaks down.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he whispers.

"I know," you hold him tighter. "I know."

You stay with him, through the protests, through the appeals, through the obligatory congratulations he has to give. You stay because he's family, because he needs you, because some things are more important than celebration.

Through it all, you catch glimpses of Max - being crowned champion, celebrating with his team, searching the crowd with eyes that keep finding you. But you stay where you're needed most.

Hours pass before you make it to Max's hotel. The celebrations are still going on somewhere, but he's in his room when you arrive, pacing like a caged animal.

"Where were you?" he demands as soon as you enter.

"I was with Lewis."

His face darkens. "Of course you were. Consoling the Mercedes garage while I won my first championship."

"Max, don't."

"Don't what? Don't be upset that my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me? That she was too busy comforting the opposition?"

"That 'opposition' is my family!" Your voice rises to match his. "Lewis is like my brother, my father is devastated-"

"Your father?" He laughs bitterly. "The same father you've been lying to for years? The one we're supposedly telling about us after this race?"

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"When else am I supposed to do it? When you're ready? Because I've been waiting for you to be ready since 2015!"

The words hit like physical blows. "That's not fair. You know why I left in 2018, the way you cut me off like I was nothing, it tore me apart."

"Yeah, because it got too hard. Because loving me was too complicated." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And now here we are again. I just won the World Championship, and where were you? With them."

"They're my family!"

"And what am I?" He steps closer, eyes intense. "What are we, YN? Because right now it feels like I'm still your dirty little secret."

"That's not-"

"Then prove it. Let's go tell Toto right now. Let's end this charade."

"Today? After everything that happened? Are you insane?"

"Why not today? When will it be convenient enough for you? When will loving me not conflict with your perfect Mercedes family?"

Tears are falling freely now. "You're being cruel."

"No, I'm being honest. Finally." He sits heavily on the bed. "I love you. I've loved you through everything - through you leaving, through you coming back, through all the hiding and sneaking around. But I can't do this anymore."

Your heart stops. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want all of you. Not just the parts that are convenient, not just the stolen moments between races. I want to celebrate with you when I win, hold you when I crash, build a life with you in the open." He looks at you, and you see the tears in his eyes too. "But I don't think you want that. Not really. Not enough to risk everything else."

"Max…"

"Go home, YN. Go console your father. Go be the perfect Mercedes daughter." His voice breaks slightly. "Just… don't come back unless you're ready to choose me. All of me. The rival, the champion, everything."

You stand there, frozen, both of you crying. Everything you've built, every secret moment, every whispered promise, feels like it's crumbling around you.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I know." He doesn't look at you. "That's never been our problem."

As you stand in the doorway of Max's hotel room, the weight of seven years of love, secrets, and choices bears down on your shoulders. The championship trophy gleams on the table behind him, a symbol of everything he's achieved and everything that's torn you apart.

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