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hellooldshame · 10 days ago

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Empirical Analysis

Mark Grayson x Reader smut 🔞

Synopsis: You're absolutely fascinated by how fast Mark Grayson heals. Mark is more than happy to indulge you in your science experiment. AKA You both get horny while realizing you might have some sadomasochistic tendencies.

Word count: 2.8k words

CW: MDNI 🔞 NSFW, barely any porn to warrant all that plot, biting, (attempted) marking, scratching, bottom!-ish Mark that is technically more switchy, Reader on top, lots of grinding now that I think about it, outercourse, masochist!Mark, y/n's awakening sadism. Not beta read, never beta read.

Idea taken from @clairewritesfanfics and their smart atoms talk. I think I got carried away.

A/N: This made me rewatch Invincible so I can write bouncing on him

Bullets, bombs, and most explosives barely leave scuff marks. A knife gets bent and most weapons break on impact. Punches work though. Bludgeoning damage makes him bleed out his mouth or break his nose. Which absolutely baffles you to no end. Granted, the people hitting him were strong. Like, really really strong, but it wasn't like he was hurt when a reinforced boot smacked him square on the jaw.

Mark Grayson and the limits of his invulnerability were an enigma to you. As one of the many many scientists working in the GDA, you were tasked with understanding Viltrumite physiology. How they heal, what could hurt them, if they could be hurt at all. Admittedly, the job was fun when Cecil wasn't hounding you for the reports that you barely did.

Despite your job, you didn't like exploiting the poor guy. This was purely... curiosity to be honest. A very morbid part of yourself would have loved to dissect that pretty face and see how he ticked. The reasonable part of you reminded yourself how a scalpel would sooner turn to dust before it pierced his skin.

Once, you had slapped him across the face—the moment was heated and sometimes he just said things that would really piss you off. Regardless, his shoulders had jerked and his face turned in the direction your hand swung. Despite his parted lips from the shock and the stinging on your palm, there was barely any warmth on his cheek. Of course, regular human strength could only do so much to a guy who was safe from a stabbing. But the look on his face and the rising heat on his cheek only after the moment had registered made you want to test things further.

For Science! You had claimed all too enthusiastically when you tried to persuade him. Emphasizing even that everything would be "off the record" and "never to be used against him." You meant that promise too. And maybe Mark believed the conviction in your voice because he seemed just as excited when he agreed. For the sake of science.

Now, the scientific method would tell you that empirical evidence was important. Which is why you had to take a very hands-on approach in this experiment. Yes, science never said anything about taking Mark to your bed and straddling him—a notebook by his head and your butt pressed comfortably on his pelvis—while you collected data but this was necessary!

Firstly, you needed a private place so it was off-record. Ergo, why you did this at your place. Second, it was only polite to have your test subject comfortable as you measured his pain tolerance. Obviously, the most comfortable place that would fit him lying down would be your bed. And lastly, you were straddled because you needed to observe every detail and walking around a queen sized bed took too much time.

It was all very rational.

And besides, Mark was way too pretty for you to not at least get a bit of a good look at him. You had the best seat in the house. Mark Grayson, under you, body sunken slightly into your plush sheets, chest rising and falling nervously in an uneven stutter. Inhaling deep to even his breath, the release too quick and shuddering to calm himself down. It was understandable that he was nervous, being scrutinized so intently.

Big brown eyes stared up at you through his lashes and the light from your window hit his eyes just right to see the pattern of his iris. The swirls and webbing that made up the varying shades of mahogany and maple. If you stared long enough, you could see the tremble of it, how his pupils dilate. You might have stared at it for a moment too long.

"Uhm- I'm ready," a shaky voice spoke up, those same eyes blinking, unsure now if this was a good idea. Granted, he had his own ulterior motives, but the long silence had him thinking too hard. His initial motivations clouded by doubt and worry. What if you lied about keeping this a secret? Was he sure you weren't planning to dissect him? What if you realized he also had intentions beyond helping in your experiment? That maybe he wanted to feel the way your hands snap against his skin aga-

"Alright," you nodded, reaching down. You could've sworn Mark held his breath when your hand hovered near his face to grab the notebook. Pages flutter across until you settled on an empty sheet, scribbling the time and date of the experiment. "You sure I'm not too heavy? I can adjust."

The question was more out of courtesy than concern, knowing he could bench entire icebergs. A part of you also hoped to stay seated, the warmth beneath you quite cozy. The quick nod and mumbled 'mhm mhm' was all you needed before beginning your experiment.

"Mind if you," you gestured to his shirt, wanting to have as much skin to work with.

Mark looks down, eyes wide as if he was surprised he wasn't already undressed. "Oh- yeah, hold on," hands that were unconsciously gripping the sheets moved to tug his shirt off in one motion. Hurried movements turn clumsy and a rip is heard before you see the hole between the collar and the rest of his shirt. His head was still trapped, indents on his face pressed on the fabric as he fumbled to get free. "Shit, wait just-"

Your hands were quick and careful in helping him take off his shirt. It was hard to bite back a laugh and you were certain you were making a face when you tried to hold back the smirk and snicker. A quick tug , the shirt was off, and your hands felt warm against his chest. You had always been heavy handed and even now you exerted more than the necessary effort to push him back to lie down. As expected, there was resistance when you pressed down but he had fallen back so quickly someone would have thought you knocked him down.

"Try to relax," you whisper, trying to come off as soothing but the husk in your voice makes it sound sultry. Not that you noticed. Mark did though, felt his stomach flip and his muscles did the opposite of what you instructed. "I won't be using tools since the running theory right now is that physical contact seems to work better."

The lump in his throat bobbed when your hand touched his chest and fingers spread to try and get a feel. Trying to decide where to start. Your hands were cold compared to how warm he felt. And they would not stop roaming. The tips of your fingers pressed and prodded, pushing down as hard as you can and leaving the faintest red mark as blood rushes to where you'd applied pressure. So it wasn't like his skin was hard steel. You pinch the skin at his sides and he flinches.

"Ow- hey," the yelp came out automatically, the feeling reminiscent of being tickled or poked at the side. He figured he should let you know lest you mistake that for damage dealt. "That tickled more than hurt."

A nod and quick "noted" was your only response before continuing. The process was slow but you needed to cover all your bases. One hand moved to write notes, your body leaning forward and closer to him. The view was nice and the boy in him couldn't help but glance, ogle really, at the gap between your shirt pulled by gravity and the torso hiding underneath. Nice.

Your other hand began dragging nails across his bare chest and that brought his attention back to you. Normally, for some people at least, scratching just hard enough would leave white or raised lines. You definitely feel skin dragging against your nails but see no indication that you'd done anything. Somehow, you don't notice how his diaphragm contracts and stays there when he holds his breath. Eyes too trained on the contact between your nails and his skin to see his lips trembling. You inform him that you were going to apply more pressure.

Nothing hurt, not right now at least. But the sensation of your cold hands on his skin felt refreshing. Especially against his warm skin. Then your nails scratched his skin just right that he'd nearly hummed in satisfaction. He started wondering if you could break skin when he felt you dig into him. He could almost convince himself that you were strong enough to do it.

There was just something so disarming about you on top of him. Watching him with such fascination that he felt completely exposed. Like he had no choice but to surrender under you. Your eyes wide with curiosity, your nails dragging against him heavily. Sharp, steady, trying so hard to cut-

A stuttered gasp choked in his throat, breaking his thoughts as the stinging registered in his mind. You looked equally surprised to see the scratch on his pec, like red dotted lines outlined in white. A thumb tentatively pressed on the slash and Mark couldn't stop his lips from parting for the broken whine to escape.

Now, you were never one to bask in other people's pain, so you decided to blame his squirming hip jerks. The way the firm bulge in his pants rubbed up between your legs, the pleasure it shot straight up your spine coupled with that little cry was almost pavlovian. A professional would have gotten up and saved him the discomfort of having something so sensitive be put under pressure. A certain someone doing this out of the lab had decided it felt really nice when you sat yourself down firmly.

Mark was strong, you wouldn't be able to hold him down on your weight alone and by that breathless whimper, it seemed like he was okay with the way you readjusted and slid yourself against the hill on his pelvis. It was especially nice when he'd squirm underneath you, clumsy friction rubbing between you as your finger pressed harder on the wound. Your eyes nearly rolled back as you got lost in the slow carousel ride before he sighed out and finally relaxed.

Close. So close. Beneath your thumb was smooth skin, pristine and unblemished. Wide eyes stared at the newly formed skin and he swore he saw your gaze twinkle. He had healed. So fast, yet you couldn't help but miss the choked whines as he struggled to cope with the pain. You had expected him to have better tolerance than that but perhaps having tiny cuts compared to gashes and bruises felt different.

Mark inhaled lightly, breath finally steady as the stinging pain subsided and he wasn't forced to focus between his chest and the rubbing on his erection. "A-ah..." his voice cracked as you dug your nails in again and left three pretty scratches in your wake. Your eye twitched as you struggled to keep your gaze trained on him when his hips bucked again. Seeing the red flesh peek out had you holding back from leaning down and dragging your tongue over it. You needed to see it yourself.

A part of you was impatient, needing to observe every detail of his healing abilities. The other part was impatient for other things as you fidgeted. Hips rocking slowly only to incite tight-lipped grunts when you pressed on the open wound again. You don't know when his hands made their way to your sides, just that you were now pressed firmly enough that you couldn't lift up.

Then his hands grip and direct your lower half, moving you back and forth in his pace. You feel that ticklish sensation between your legs again as you watch skin merge back together, too fast to leave even a scab. Lips that had curled into an enthralled grin trembled when your eyes fluttered and the body below you lifted up slightly, pushing up as you were pressed down.

You looked good. Like, really good when you were watching him. Something almost manic in your eyes when you saw his body heal in real time. It made him go crazy thinking about what you probably wanted to do to him. The ill intent in your gaze as the corner of your lips twitched upwards in morbid interest, showing your teeth. It looked just as good when your eyes lost focus as he had you hump him, mouth hanging open to let out a surprisingly pleased moan.

The pleasure seemed to cloud any logic or reasoning left in you because you had forgotten to explain the next steps. No, you wanted to get straight to it apparently as you leaned down. Wordlessly, your chest pressed against his and if he wasn't holding onto you, you might have slipped off. Lips inched closer to his neck and your warm breath wafted against his already heated skin.

His eyes fluttered closed, expecting lips or a tongue to touch his neck. Instead, he felt pointed canines before you took a hard bite. His hips stuttered mid grind, once again caught off guard by your actions. His groans matched yours as you found yourself enjoying the sounds and sensations of grinding your teeth against his collarbone. You knew he was sturdy and the fact he got off on your teeth rather than recoil only spurred you to clamp down harder.

Nails dug into his shoulders as you held onto him. Hips gyrated and bucked against each other, your clothed sexes edging closer and closer to what you both needed. Mark couldn't take much more as he sat up, dipping you onto your mattress as he held onto your thighs and had you wrap your legs around him.

You didn't seem to relent either as your jaw refused to unclench. Not that it mattered to him. Moans muffled behind your teeth, hot air hitting his neck in quick puffs from your breathing. That and the faint ache on his skin had him rutting harder against you.

Strong hands moved up, stopping at your waist as a careful yet firm grip held you in place. Then he thrusted forward again, the movement quick and desperate and needy. He needed it, really really bad. Wanted it as much as you, whose attention was being taken away by the growing intensity of the body dry humping you. Jaw and abdomen equally as tight.

A stuttering slam against your pelvis has you seeing stars and you finally unclench your jaw to cry out. The crash of pleasure has you bucking back up into him and if that didn't do him in, the long scratches down his back and your legs locking him sungly into you does.

Mark collapses on top of you, spent and breathless and you both have most likely needed a change of clothes. Vision hazy, you try to crane your neck and see the damage you should have dealt on his collarbone. The disappointment on your face could be seen a mile away.

Despite your best efforts and rattling you'd felt in your teeth, all you had to show for it was indents from your canines. Already raising back up as if it had never happened.

"I nearly lost a tooth for nothing," you mutter, saving the fact you wanted to leave a mark at all to unpack for another day. A breathy laugh came from beside your head, feeling the vibrations against your chest. His hair tickled your cheek as her turned to look at you, eyes twinkling in the afterglow of climax.

"I mean, it's not bullshit that I'm called-"

A/N: yeah ofc I'd make that fuckass joke.

I haven't written in a good 2 years or so and have drafts before the pandemic for other fics (they're on Wattpad do you understand what type of person I am now). I didn't mean to make reader a lil biology freak but that was fun.

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daylighted · 2 months ago

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all i can think about is frat boy dean whos dating his nerdy little girlfriend and comes over to her dorm when shes studying and shes like struggling but dean tries to help her study even though he doesnt know shit😭 and then hes like “yeah i have no idea what im even saying” while hes trying to explain random crap

anyways ur theme is so cute!!

all of the classes dean was in, she was in the advanced placements for, pretty much an entire year above him. she was so damn smart that dean sometimes felt like she was humbling herself being around him and choosing him, especially in instances like this, where she'd asked him to study with her, and he realized quickly he does not know how to study properly.

"well, see," he's half leaned over her shoulder, chin resting in the little notch between her neck and arm, "the data's gotta have the answer. wouldn't be part of the question if it didn't."

dean did not have a clue what he was looking at. a table chart with so many numbers. a paragraph above it explaining the numbers and adding additional data. the practice question wasn't even multiple choice; who did that?

her smile is slow, and dean knows that again, he's said the wrong thing. but if there's one thing dean does know how to do, is dig his own grave. "like, math, right?" it was science. chemistry. whatever. "take all the numbers, add 'em up, get the average..."

well, now her eye was twitching, like a parent barely refraining from taking the pen and doing the problem themselves. dean's starting to stutter over his explanation. technically, she did ask for this, asking him for assistance, so... "then multiply the average by the number of sections on the chart. with all those steps, it's gotta be the way, baby, trust."

his beautiful, intelligent, quiet girlfriend did not say a word to argue. instead, she did something worse, and took her pretty pen out of his hand and moved the paper in front of her again. the silence was overbearing. now dean had completely abandoned his books and wanted to see this damn problem through, just out of his own disbelief. they made questions like this? without multiple choice? and all these numbers?

he, in fact, does not shut up, even as she's writing numbers and scribbling them out and repeating. "yeah, babe, to be honest? don't know what the fuck i'm saying."

"i know." two words, and she'd managed to dismantle the fragile confidence he had in chemistry-related things. "but thank you for trying to help in your own way."

she might as well have just stabbed him. "just doin' my job, pretty lady," dean saluted her, tipping his baseball cap at her before plucking it off his head and spinning it around. front facing meant business, backwards meant party. he deserved a party after the couple of braincells in his head had sparked and fizzled out. "hey, how 'bout this," the mischief in his smile is absolutely diabolical considering he was really just starting to hinder you more than anything, "every question either of us get right, we take somethin' off?"

her eyebrows raise. "you're gonna be fully clothed and i'm gonna be naked if we do that."

dean leans in to steal a kiss, that devilish grin still on his mouth. "that's precisely the point. get t'solvin', pretty lady."

she wasn't going to argue. especially not when he used precisely right in a sentence.

#to ☆ anon #stanford!dean #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #ALSO THANK U ABT THE THEME<3 LOVE U

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wickedhawtwexler · 1 year ago

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y'all the data scientist job market is so bleak. like 75% of companies are just looking for people to write chat bots 😭

#i'm gonna learn how so i can get a fucking job but idk. i might need to consider a career change in the near future lmao #i'm considering a pivot to software engineering. i'll build a fucking website or something. idk #that was my first Serious Career Plan™ at age 16 so i'm gonna laugh so hard if i end up being a software engineer after all #i've applied to a few jobs that are kinda in between data science and software engineering so we'll see about that lol #m.txt

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roanofarcc · 11 months ago

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A MISJUDGMENT

pairing. tyler owens x fem!reader

summary. when kate drags you back to the home for a one-week stint to help out one of her old friends, you meet tyler owens. the uncouth cowboy and his reckless actions when dealing with something as dangerous as tornados almost instantly prick your nerves until you realize maybe there's more to the cowboy than meets the eye.

warnings. description of tornados, a curse word or two, slightly inaccurate meteorological info, reader is from the midwest.

word count. 2k || masterlist

a.n. did not expect my other fic to get so much love!! sending kisses to everyone who sent me such nice words <3 and I am having a ball with all of the wonderful requests I'm getting!!

The difference between the Oklahoma and New York was more jarring than you remembered. The wide-open skies and fields that stretched for miles were a distantly familiar sight as you stepped out of the truck. You had grown up in the Midwest, smack dab in the middle of tornado alley, which meant your youth was spent listening to your cautious mother warn you every tornado season of the dangers the storms posed so you’d always be prepared when worst came to worst. You’d hunkered down more time than you could count in your storm cellar, listening to doors rattling and the radio speak. Your father was less cautious; he enjoyed watching the storms roll in on the front porch as he listened to the distant hum of sirens.

You’d never been a fan of storms, not like your father. They made you nervous; the unpredictably and devastating destruction wasn’t something you found fascinating enough to chase.

Moving to New York was a culture shock but you were lucky enough to score to a job working in tandem with someone who also grew up in tornado alley. You and Kate quickly became friends, bonding over your upbringing and knowledge of the weather. She had opened up to you about her storm-chasing days, all ending with the tragedy that took the lives of three people she loved. Her story only cemented your opinion of storm chasing; it was too risky. But she had suckered you in with your love for the science behind weather, and the next thing you know you were in Oklahoma with Kate and a friend of hers on a one-week mission.

You stuck back with the team in charge of reading the data the chasers collected. Your apprehension wasn’t thwarted by Kate’s reassurance, but you’d always known her to be smart and she knew those storms better than anyone. Your distaste for storm chasers was not because of those there for the science of it all, but rather those who did it for the thrill.

Tyler Owens was exactly the kind of person you expected to drive into tornados with no regard for the danger. What he was doing, from what you gathered from Javi’s brief explanation, was for entertainment and the excitement of facing down peril, laughing in the face of it.

You stretched in the nighttime air as Kate closed the truck door behind her and turned to you with the same unsure smile she’d been carrying around since you arrived in Oklahoma. You could tell her feelings were mixed about being back there, but you also saw the spark of enjoyment she was slowly relighting.

“I’ll go check us in,” Kate said, gesturing to the front office of the motel before she took off. You leaned against the side of Javi’s truck, yawning and taking in the scene of more storm chasers lounging around the motel’s lot, enjoying each other’s company as you all waited for another storm to pop up amidst the outbreak.

The sound of boots under gravel approached you, belonging to none other than Tyler Owens himself. “How ‘ya holding up, city girl?” he said.

He introduced himself to you and Kate when you first arrived with Javi, meeting his team and the other groups of chasers who were all gunning after the same storm. She had told him the two of you were in from New York for the week, and he assumed that meant you both were born and raised there. Maybe you had lost your Midwest twang during your stay, but no matter how far you moved away, a piece of you would always remain there.

“Just fine, thank you,” you replied. His team had set up not far from where you two stood; they all seemed busy working on their equipment, but their work was often cut by howls of laughter. They seemed to be enjoying themselves more than Javi’s team was. They’d all split up into separate rooms for the night, so they’d be ready to leave first thing in the morning.

He rested his arm against the bed of the truck, making himself comfortable as he too looked out across the lot at the people. “I’ve always wanted to visit New York City,” he said, surprising you. That seemed like the last place someone like him wanted to go. “What’s it like?”

You shrugged. “A lot different than this.” You looked upwards at the sky, seeing stars blinking back at you. The skies were never that dark in New York City, but the towering buildings made for a cool scene too. “I haven’t lived there too long, though. I’m still figuring it out.” You were still trying to gauge if you liked it more than home. You liked the hustle and bustle most of the time, but being back under starry skies and open plains, you had to admit you missed it a little.

“Really?” he furrowed his brows. “Where’d you move from?”

“Kansas.”

He smiled in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned. City girl’s not actually a city girl after all.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m seein’ that.” Tyler was quiet for a moment before he asked, “Do you miss it?”

You weren’t sure why he asked or why he seemed to care, but you answered regardless. “Sometimes. Not so much the storms though.”

He laughed. “Yet, you’re out here storm chasing anyway?”

“I’m just here to help my friend; their business is to help people. That kind of storm chasing I can get behind, I guess. Yours on the other hand…” You trailed off, and he scoffed in mock offense.

“My kind of business is to face my fears.”

It was your turn to scoff. “By putting yourself and your friends in danger for…what, exactly? Your internet audience? I know plenty of people like you from back home. You’re reckless and irresponsible.” You saw Kate waving you down by the stairs of the motel, flashing a set of room keys in the air. You said nothing more to Tyler, didn’t even give him a chance to defend himself, before you walked off and into your room for the night

You’d seen devastation before following a tornado, but it was still a harrowing sight. Homes flattened, family belongings flung miles away, and people left hurt in the ruins of their town. You, Kate, and all of Javi’s team arrived just as the storm subsided and the damage was fresh as wounds many of the townspeople bared. You wasted no time going around to help people; Kate did the same.

An old woman sat in her front yard, carefully cradling windchimes in her arms. “Are you all right?” you asked, kneeling down in the wet grass in front of her. She looked up slightly startled but smiled kindly as she shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m just fine, dear, thank you.”

“Here you go, Ms. Riley,” a familiar voice sounded from behind you. You turned your head just as Tyler appeared, holding a small box in one hand and a little kitten in the other. The woman, Ms. Riley, gasped and sat her windchimes back on the grass. She took the kitten, teary-eyed, as it purred. “There’s food there too. Make sure you eat, and if you need more my team’s got a table set up just down the road, all right?”

“Thank you,” she said.

Tyler said nothing to you as he began to walk away, but you followed him, not catching up with him until he was at a little table surrounded by his team. They had a stack of brown boxes they were handing out, filled with sandwiches one of the members was making quickly. They also handed out bottles of water to the line of people who had just been affected by the storm.

One of his team members smiled at you, holding out a box of food. “You hungry?” they asked, but you shook your head.

“No. These people need it, but thanks.”

You weren’t sure for a moment that Tyler was going to say a word to you. You hadn’t left your last conversation on the nicest note, only to find him and his team working hard to help the ravaged neighborhood.

But he turned toward you for a moment, looking a little conflicted. “At least take a water,” he said before looking at another member of his team. “Lily, can you take some boxes up the road? There’re some people who can make it all the way down here.” She nodded, filling her arms with the boxes before she took off.

You were quiet for a moment, staring at Tyler as he and his team came up with a plan to help and feed as many people as they could before night fell. You felt a complicated set of feelings topple over you. And as Tyler started to walk away, you surged forward and grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn around.

“What can I do to help?”

Together, you and Tyler spent the rest of the afternoon helping members of the neighborhood find their lost belongings and connected anyone with injuries to the EMTs working overtime. It wasn’t until the sun started to set that you took a break, finding a blown-away lawn chair that was still usable to sit on. All day you had eaten your judgment and first impression of Tyler and his team. Maybe they all were reckless and a little irresponsible in their storm-chasing, but they were doing just as Kate was, helping people, just differently. He and his team apparently did that often and were some of the first responders to the damage the tornados they chased caused. You had overheard Lily tell Kate they used the money from their t-shirt sales to buy food for victims of the storm.

“Hey,” Tyler greeted, approaching you with two boxes of food. “Here.” He handed onto to you before he found a seat and pulled it up beside you.

You thanked him before the two of you ate in silence for a little while. Some of the debris had been picked up, but the wrecked houses haunted the street. You’d been lucky enough to never lose your home turning a storm, but you knew too many people who had. It was terrible. That was why you had gotten a metrology degree. You had witnessed the devastation storms brought and even though you were trapped behind a computer most days, your goal was to help improve warning systems for all kinds of disasters and ensure that people knew the best way to prepare for them, but it wasn’t foolproof. Sometimes all there was to do was help pick up the pieces in the wake.

“I think I misjudged you,” you said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah?” He smiled slightly, his face warmly illuminated by the ironically beautiful sunset. “Are you taking back the reckless and irresponsible comment?”

“No.” You smiled too. “But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. You guys did a good thing here, helping these people.”

Maybe there was more to him than you had originally believed.

“It’s all a part of the job,” he said, a bit too casually for all of the work they actually did to help; one could say he was humble about it, which confused you even more. From the second he climbed out of his truck the first time you saw him, you were so sure you knew exactly the kind of guy he was.

“You aren’t exactly how I expected you to do,” you said, honestly.

He seemed to take that in stride, smirking at you bright enough to bring heat to your face. “Well, if you stick around, you might even get to like me.”

You laughed. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy.” But you had a feeling he right be right. The week wasn’t over yet; you still had time to figure out exactly who Tyler Owens was.

#twisters 2024 #twisters #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #daisy edgar jones #twisters fanfic #glen powell #kate carter

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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Yandere! Android x Reader (I)

It is the future and you have been tasked to solve a mysterious murder that could jeopardize political ties. Your assigned partner is the newest android model meant to assimilate human customs. You must keep his identity a secret and teach him the ways of earthlings, although his curiosity seems to be reaching inappropriate extents.

Yes, this is based on Asimov’s “Caves of Steel” because Daneel Olivaw was my first ever robot crush. I also wanted a protagonist that embraces technology. :)

Content: female reader, AI yandere, 50's futurism

[Part 2] | [More original works]

You follow after the little assistant robot, a rudimentary machine invested with basic dialogue and spatial navigation. It had caused quite the ruckus when first introduced. One intern - well liked despite being somewhat clumsy at his job - was sadly let go as a result. Not even the Police is safe from the threat of AI, is what they chanted outside the premises.

"The Commissioner has summoned you, (Y/N)."

That's how it greeted you earlier, clacking its appendage against the open door in an attempt to simulate a knock.

"Do you know why my presence is needed?" You inquire and wait for the miniature AI to scan the audio message.

"I am not allowed to mention anything right now." It finally responds after agonizing seconds.

It's an alright performance. You might've been more impressed by it, had you not witnessed first hand the Spacer technology that could put any modern invention here on Earth to shame. Sadly the people down here are very much against artificial intelligence. There have been multiple protests recently, like the one in front of your building, condemning the latest government suggestion regarding automation. People fear for their jobs and safety and you don't necessarily blame them for having self preservation. On the other hand, you've always been a supporter of progress. As a child you devoured any science fiction book you could get your hands on, and now, as a high ranked police detective you still manage to sneak away and scan over articles and news involving the race for a most efficient computer.

You close the door behind you and the Commissioner puts his fat cigarette out, twisting the remains into the ashtray with monotonous movements as if searching for the right words.

"There's been a murder." Is all he settles on saying, throwing a heavy folder in your direction. A hologram or tablet might've been easier to catch, but the man, like many of his coworkers, shares a deep nostalgia for the old days.

You flip through the pages and eventually furrow your eyebrows.

"This would be a disaster if it made it to the news." You mumble and look up at the older man. "Shouldn't this go to someone more experienced?"

He twiddles with his grey mustache and glances out the fake window.

"It's a sensitive case. The Spacers are sending their own agent to collaborate with us. What stands out to you?"

You narrow your eyes and focus on the personnel sheet. What's there to cause such controversy? Right before giving up, departing from the page, you finally notice it: next to the Spacer officer's name, printed clearly in black ink, is a little "R." which is a commonly used abbreviation to indicate something is a robot. The chief must've noticed your startled reaction and continues, satisfied:

"You understand, yes? They're sending an android. Supposedly it replicates a human perfectly in terms of appearance, but it does not possess enough observational data. Their request is that whoever partners up with him will also house him and let him follow along for the entirety of the mission. You're the only one here openly supporting those tin boxes. I can't possibly ask one of your higher ups, men with wives and children, to...you know...bring that thing in their house."

You're still not sure whether to be offended by the fact that your comfort seems to be of less priority compared to other officers. Regardless of the semantics, you're presently standing at the border between Earth and the Spacer colony, awaiting your case partner. A man emerges from behind a security gate. He's tall, with handsome features and an elegant walk. He approaches you and you reach for a handshake.

"Is the android with you?" You ask, a little confused.

"Is this your first time seeing a Spacer model?" He responds, relaxed. "I am the agent in your care. There is no one else."

You take a moment to process the information, similar to the primitive machine back at your office. Could it be? You've always known that Spacer technology is years ahead, but this surpasses your wildest dreams. There is not a single detail hinting at his mechanical fundament. The movement is fluid, the speech is natural, the design is impenetrable. He lifts the warm hand he'd used for the handshake and gently presses a finger against your chin in an upwards motion. You find yourself involuntarily blushing.

"Your mouth was open. I assumed you'd want it discreetly corrected." He states, factually, with a faint smile on his lips. Is he amused? Is such a feeling even possible? You try your best to regain some composure, adjusting the collar of your shirt and clearing your throat.

"Thank you and please excuse my rudeness. I was not expecting such a flawless replica. Our assistants are...easily recognizable as AI."

"So I've been told." His smile widens and he checks his watch. You follow his gesture, still mesmerized, trying to find a single indicator that the man standing before you is indeed a machine, a synthetic product.

Nothing.

"Shall we?" He eyes the exit path and you quickly lead him outside and towards public transport.

He patiently waits for your fingerprint scan to be complete. You almost turn around and apologize for the old, lagging device. As a senior detective, you have the privilege of living in the more spacious, secured quarters of the city. And, since you don't have a family, the apartment intended for multiple people looks more like a luxury adobe. Still, compared to the advanced way of the Spacers, this must feel like poverty to the android.

At last, the scanner beeps and the door unlocks.

"Heh...It's a finicky model." You mumble and invite him in.

"Yes, I'm familiar with these systems." He agrees with you and steps inside, unbuttoning his coat.

"Oh, you've seen this before?"

"In history books."

You scratch your cheek and laugh awkwardly, wondering how much of his knowledge about the current life on Earth is presented as a museum exhibit when compared to Spacer society.

"I'm going to need a coffee. I guess you don't...?" Your words trail as you await confirmation.

"I would enjoy one as well, if it is not too much to ask. I've been told it's a social custom to 'get coffee' as a way to have small talk." The synthetic straightens his shirt and looks at you expectantly.

"Of course. I somehow assumed you can't drink, but if you're meant to blend in with humans...it does make sense you'd have all the obvious requirements built in."

He drags a chair out and sits at the small table, legs crossed.

"Indeed. I have been constructed to have all the functions of a human, down to every detail."

You chuckle lightly. Well, not like you can verify it firsthand. The engineers back at the Spacer colony most likely didn't prepare him for matters considered unnecessary.

"I do mean every detail." He adds, as if reading your mind. "You are free to see for yourself."

You nearly drop the cup in your flustered state. You hurry to wipe the coffee that spilled onto the counter and glance back at the android, noticing a smirk on his face. What the hell? Are they playing a prank on you and this is actually a regular guy? Some sort of social experiment?

"I can see they included a sense of humor." You manage to blurt out, glaring at him suspiciously.

"I apologize if I offended you in any way. I'm still adjusting to different contexts." The android concludes, a hint of mischief remaining on his face. "Aren't rowdy jokes common in your field of work?"

"Uh huh. Spot on." You hesitantly place the hot drink before him.

Robots on Earth have always been built for the purpose of efficiency. Whether or not a computer passes the Turing Test is irrelevant as long as it performs its task in the most optimal, rational way. There have been attempts, naturally, to create something indistinguishable from a human, but utility has always taken precedence. It seems that Spacers think differently. Or perhaps they have reached their desired level of performance a long time ago, and all that was left was fiddling with aesthetics. Whatever the case is, you're struggling not to gawk in amazement at the man sitting in your kitchen, stirring his coffee with a bored expression.

"I always thought - if you don't mind my honesty - that human emotions would be something to avoid when building AI. Hard to implement, even harder to control and it doesn't bring much use."

"I can understand your concerns. However, let me reassure you, I have a strict code of ethics installed in my neural networks and thus my emotions will never lead to any destructive behavior. All safety concerns have been taken into consideration.

As for why...How familiar are you with our colony?" The android takes a sip of his coffee and nods, expressing his satisfaction. "Perhaps you might be aware, Spacers have a declining population. Automated assistants have been part of our society for a long time now. What's lacking is humans. If the issue isn't fixed, artificial humans will have to do."

You scoff.

"What, us Earth men aren't good enough to fix the birth rates? They need robots?"

You suddenly remember the recipient of your complaint and mutter an apology.

"Well, I'm sure you'd make a fine contender. Sadly I can't speak for everyone else on Earth." The man smiles in amusement upon seeing the pale red that's now dusting your cheeks, then continues: "But the issue lies somewhere else. Spacers have left Earth a long time ago and lived in isolation until now. Once an organism has lost its immune responses to otherwise common pathogens, it cannot be reintegrated."

True. Very few Earth citizens are allowed to enter the colony, and only do so after thorough disinfection stages, proving they are disease free as to not endanger the fragile health of the Spacers living in a sterile environment. You can only imagine the disastrous outcome if the two species were to abruptly mingle. In that case, equally sterile machinery might be their only hope.

Your mind wanders to the idea. Dating a robot...How's that? You sheepishly gaze at the android and study his features. His neatly combed copper hair, the washed out blue eyes, the pale skin. Probably meant to resemble the Spacers. You shake your head.

"A-anyways, I'll go and gather all the case files I have. Then we can discuss our first steps. Do feel at home."

You rush out and head for your office. Focus, you tell yourself mildly annoyed.

While you search for the required paperwork - what a funny thing to say in this day and age - he will certainly take up on your generous offer to make himself comfortable. The redhaired man enters the living room, scanning everything with curious eyes. He stops in front of a digital frame and slides through the photos. Ah, this must be your Police Academy graduation. The year matches with the data he's received on you. Data files he might've read one too many times in his unexplained enthusiasm. This should be you and the Commissioner; Doesn't match the description of your father, and he seems too old to be a spouse or boyfriend. Additionally, the android distinctly recalls the empty 'Relationship' field.

"Old photos are always a tad embarrassing. I suppose you skipped that stage."

He jolts almost imperceptibly and faces you. You have returned with a thin stack of papers and a hologram projector.

"I've digitalized most files I received, so you don't have to shuffle a bunch of paper around." You explain.

"That is very useful, thank you." He gently retrieves the small device from your hand, but takes a moment before removing his fingers from yours. "I predict this will be a successful partnership."

You flash him a friendly smile and gesture towards the seating area.

"Let's get to work, then. Unless you want to go through more boring albums." You joke as you lower yourself onto the plush sofa.

The synthetic human joins you at an unexpectedly close proximity. You wonder if proper distance differs among Spacers or if he has received slightly erroneous information about what makes a comfortable rapport.

"Nothing boring about it. In fact, I'd say you and I are very similar from this point of view." He tells you, placing the projector on the table.

"Oh?"

"Your interest in technology and artificial intelligence is rather easy to infer." The man continues, pointing vaguely towards the opposing library. "Aside from the briefing I've already received about you, that is."

"And that is similar to...the interest in humans you've been programmed to have?" You interject, unsure where this conversation is meant to lead.

"Almost."

His head turns fully towards you and you stare back into his eyes. From this distance you can finally discern the first hints of his nature: the thin disks shading the iris - possibly CCD sensors - are moving in a jagged, mechanical manner. Actively analyzing and processing the environment.

"I wouldn't go as far as to generalize it to all humans.

Just you."

#yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere male #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere robot #yandere android #robot x human #android x reader #robot x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere original character #yandere imagine #yandere fic

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damneddamsy · 2 months ago

Text

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xii)

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that “not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin’ it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. “It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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thewinastudyblog · 17 days ago

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some advice i have for future computer science students

as soon as you learn data structures & complexity, run, don’t just walk, RUN to leetcode while the knowledge is still fresh in your mind. your entire career and whether you’ll get a well-paying job vs an average paying job depends on how good you are at leetcode.

build as many projects as you can, and i’m not talking tutorial projects that take a few hours, i’m talking big projects. working on a project for a month or two will get you really far.

if you don’t have an internship, do not waste your summers, learn new technologies, languages, concepts and build projects you can put in your cv.

try to participate in hackathons and coding competitions. it’s okay if you fail, but you’ll learn a lot.

learn how to read documentation. most tutorials don’t even cover a quarter of what a language, framework or software has to offer. the sooner you make reading documentation a habit, the better it is. and yes i know, documentation is long and hard to read. my advice is only read the sections that are relevant to you in the moment. something i also personally do is look at the code examples at the same time as i am reading the paragraphs, it really helps easily absorb the information.

try not to use chatgpt. and if you do, then at least use it for stuff you know you can do yourself and will be able to correct if the bot gets it wrong. using chatgpt is a very slippery slope and the more you use it the less you learn.

the math is important. math teaches you how to reason and how to develop better logical thinking. just because you don’t see yourself using the xyz theorem you’ve learnt anytime in the future doesn’t mean the math is useless.

be prepared to get comfortable with erros, issues, bugs and just problems in general. you’ll be coding 30% of the time and debugging 70% of the time (i’m exaggerating but sometimes it feels like this is the case lol), and that’s okay, it’s how we learn and the sooner you embrace it the better. if you’re someone who easily gets frustrated, then this is a heads up.

learn as you go. there is no such thing as waiting until you know everything before you start on a project. the only way and the best way to learn in this field is practice, so build, build, and build.

these are all the ones i could think of for now. feel free to comment your thoughts and questions <3

#studyinspo #studyblr #stem studyblr #girls in stem #study motivation #computer science #software engineering #study blog #studyspo #study aesthetic #studying #study inspiration #women in stem #stem student #pics are not mine

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elegantlyeva · 10 months ago

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Stupid Girl (fondly)

not really sure what this is, but the scott rot was real after watching twisters

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: Scotts an asshole but he secretly cares (?)

Scott was irritated, although that wasn’t saying much, considering he usually was. The heat and lack of data they’d collected due to Javi following Kate around had him more on edge than usual. It didn’t help that you had been ignoring him.

There’s no way he would ever admit to the fact, but he missed you. He knew he’d messed up earlier, and you were usually more forgiving of his moods, but the heat seemed to have you on edge too.

Thinking about it now, you’re surprised the two of you hadn’t gotten into such a fight before this, considering the difference in your jobs. Scott profited off the tornado victims, and you offered your services for free.

During the calmer seasons, you worked as a nurse in a nearby clinic, and during tornado season, you normally frequented the towns with the most wreckage and helped the victims in any way you could.

Scott and you had met in a similar way, actually. He had been in one of the town’s aftermaths to help his uncle with marketing for Storm Par when he saw you. You were treating a small scrape on a kid no older than 10. Scott had rolled his eyes when he saw the kid’s tears. It was a scrape, and here you were doting on him like it was a gash. Once the kid had run off to find his mother, Scott approached you. Once he got closer, he noted you were… pretty. Not that he cared, obviously.

“He was fine,” Scott scoffed, almost annoyed.

You had been confused at first, mumbling, “Sorry?” as you stood to brush yourself off from where you had been crouching next to the boy.

“He’s gonna complain about a paper cut if he gets coddled like that,” he smacked his gum.

“He’s a kid. Plus, paper cuts hurt,” you countered, raising your head to look at him.

And not to be dramatic, but he was gorgeous. Maybe that’s why you ignored the obvious asshole demeanor he had.

Scott rolled his eyes. “He’s a wuss,” and he fought a smile at the offended look you had at his words.

You glared at him and almost argued, but decided he wasn’t worth your time. No matter how gorgeous.

Scott, unfortunately for him, could not say the same.

“I’m Scott,” he said, even reaching out his hand. Not because he wanted to feel your hand or anything; he was doing it to be polite. At least, that’s what he told himself.

You rolled your eyes, but it was more lighthearted than anything, and told him your name, reaching out your own hand to shake his.

He was disturbed with himself for feeling so shocked at the contact. Your hand was so soft, and it made him want to pull you closer.

An intrusive thought. A vile intrusive thought that he blamed you for internally. You were trying to distract him with your pretty looks and soft hands. Well, Scott was stronger than that, so he vowed to himself he wouldn’t speak to you again.

That vow lasted about a week.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. You had been at almost every single one of the tornado aftermaths, and he had been dragged by Javi to two of them and by his uncle to one. And every single time, he found himself gravitating toward you to start a conversation.

You’d been less interested when he first approached you, wondering why you were in the town at all, especially since you weren’t getting paid.

He shut up soon after realizing how repulsed you seemed to be by the question.

By the second time, he knew to steer clear of certain topics and asked you more friendly questions, like where you grew up and why you were a nurse in the first place.

He figured out many things about you by the fourth time he’d seen you, and by the fifth, you had warmed up to him.

You learned he was smart. And not just in science and tornados. He was actually pretty well-rounded, just maybe not in social situations.

You learned he was cocky about almost everything: his education, wealth, success, and looks. Though, after having met his uncle, it made sense. The trait ran in the family, apparently.

You learned Scott was more fun than you originally thought. Maybe fun was an exaggeration, but he was certainly more.

Now, it’s been three weeks since you first met, and you’ve been ignoring him due to an impassive comment he made. How could you blame him? Nothing had been going according to plan, and Storm Par had hardly collected enough evidence since Kate and the YouTubers were in town.

So maybe telling you he found your job pointless wasn’t the smartest thing to do. What he had been trying to say was you should just stay at your clinic to help people from there. He thought it was pointless that you weren’t benefiting from helping them right at the scene.

You hadn’t liked that at all and called him an asshole right before retreating back to your medical tent that was set up.

Scott rolled his eyes, figuring you’d be over it in ten minutes, but then it became twenty, and thirty, and after an hour, Scott had to leave with Javi to follow up a storm. Hopefully getting there before Tyler and Kate.

It was all fine until Javi wanted to go follow Kate to the town the tornado was headed towards. Scott was upset. Of course, Javi wanted to go help them. It made his eye twitch; they needed the data.

He says the words of not caring about the victims before he can stop himself. He winces internally, and Javi looks at him horrified. However, Scott hadn’t planned on taking it back until,

“Your girlfriend is out there,” Javi pointed out, desperate to get through to him.

You were not his girlfriend. But Scott knew what he meant and fought the urge to hit the dashboard in frustration.

He cursed under his breath. “Well? Are you waiting for a green light? Fucking drive,” he grumbled, but the worry swelling in his chest was real.

The rest happened ten times as fast. The movie theater had been split in half, a couple dozen people taken by it, and Kate was somewhere in Tyler’s truck on a suicide mission, at least that’s what he heard later. He wasn’t there. No, after the tornado had stopped, even before it did, really, Scott was a frantic mess looking for you between the crowds.

You weren’t at the theater, nor at the gas station, and hadn’t been in any of the nearby stores. Scott’s heart sunk, and he was almost going to face the possibility that you might be dead. Almost.

As he was jogging up a block in search of you, he saw a small, crushed little shed. He was surprised the majority of it was still there, even though it had fully collapsed. That’s when he saw a hand. Not just any hand—your hand. He knew from staring at it long enough.

He rushed over in a panicky breath and called your name a few times before lifting some of the wood off you.

You groaned when you felt the weight being taken off you and felt dried blood near your temple.

“Scott?” you mumbled warily.

He let out a breath of relief. “Yeah. S’me.” Then, more firmly, “The fuck were you thinking, huh? You know better than to stay in a little shack. You’re damn lucky you didn’t get swept up.”

You smiled softly at his scolding. “I was helping a dog.” As if on cue, the puppy that was curled in your chest during the storm barked.

Scott glared, unamused. “You could’ve died,” he said bluntly, grabbing you by the arms softly, whispering apologies at your whimpers. He got you out of the destroyed shed (the dog too) and pulled you in for a hug. More for him than you. “I thought you died,” he stressed, quieter this time.

“You’d miss me,” you teased in a light voice, though the laughing made your ribs hurt.

He rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, holding you closer. “Stupid girl,” but the fondness in his voice wasn’t something he could hide.

#scott miller #scott twisters #scott x reader #scott miller x reader #twisters fic #twisters scott #David Corenswet #twisters 2024 #twisters movie #twisters #tyler owens #kate carter #scott miller x you #kate x tyler #twisters fanfic #twisters x reader #twisters spoilers #All photos from Pintrest

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reasonsforhope · 1 year ago

Text

Hazel Chandler was at home taking care of her son when she began flipping through a document that detailed how burning fossil fuels would soon jeopardize the planet.

She can’t quite remember who gave her the report — this was in 1969 — but the moment stands out to her vividly: After reading a list of extreme climate events that would materialize in the coming decades, she looked down at the baby she was nursing, filled with dread.

“‘Oh my God, I’ve got to do something,’” she remembered thinking...

It was one of several such moments throughout Chandler’s life that propelled her into activist spaces — against the Vietnam War, for civil rights and women’s rights, and in support of environmental causes.

She participated in letter-writing campaigns and helped gather others to write to legislators about vital pieces of environmental legislation including the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act, passed in 1970 and 1972, respectively. At the child care center she worked at, she helped plan celebrations around the first Earth Day in 1970.

Now at 78, after working in child care and health care for most of her life, she’s more engaged than ever. In 2015, she began volunteering with Elder Climate Action, which focuses on activating older people to fight for the environment. She then took a job as a consultant for the Union for Concerned Scientists, a nonprofit science advocacy organization.

More recently, her activism has revolved around her role as the Arizona field coordinator of Moms Clean Air Force, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group. Chandler helps rally volunteers to take action on climate and environmental justice issues, recruiting residents to testify and meet with lawmakers.

Pictured: Hazel Chandler tables at Environment Day at Wesley Bolin Plaza in front of the Arizona State Capitol in Phoenix, Arizona, in January 2024.

Her motivation now is the same as it was decades ago.

“When I look my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren, my children, in the eye, I have to be able to say, ‘I did everything I could to protect you,’” Chandler said. “I have to be able to tell them that I’ve done everything possible within my ability to help move us forward.”

Chandler is part of a largely unrecognized contingent of the climate movement in the United States: the climate grannies.

The most prominent example perhaps, is the actor Jane Fonda. The octogenarian grandmother has been arrested during climate protests a number of times and has her own PAC that funds the campaigns of “climate champions” in local and state elections.

Climate grannies come equipped with decades of activism experience and aim to pressure the government and corporations to curb fossil fuel emissions. As a result they, alongside women of every age group, are turning out in bigger numbers, both at protests and the polls. All of the climate grandmothers The 19th interviewed for this piece noted one unifying theme: concern for their grandchildren’s futures.

According to research conducted by Dana R. Fisher, director for the Center of Environment, Community and Equity at American University, while the mainstream environmental movement has typically been dominated by men, women make up 61 percent of climate activists today. The average age of climate activists was 52 with 24 percent being 69 and older...

A similar trend holds true at the ballot box, according to data collected by the Environmental Voter Project, a nonpartisan organization focused on turning out climate voters in elections.

A report released by the Environmental Voter Project in December that looked at the patterns of registered voters in 18 different states found that after the Gen Z vote, people 65 and older represent the next largest climate voter group, with older women far exceeding older men in their propensity to list climate as their No. 1 reason for voting. The organization defines climate voters as those who are most likely to list climate change, the environment, or clean air and water as their top political priority.

“Grandmothers are now at the vanguard of today’s climate movement,” said Nathaniel Stinnett, founder of the Environmental Voter Project.

“Older people are three times as likely to list climate as a top priority than middle-aged people. On top of that, women in all age groups are more likely to care about climate than men,” he said. “So you put those two things together … and you can safely say that grandma is much more likely to be a climate voter than your middle-aged man.”

In Arizona, where Chandler lives, older climate voters make up 231,000 registered voters in the state. The presidential election in the crucial swing state was decided by just 11,000 votes, Stinnett noted.

“Older climate voters can really throw their weight around in Arizona if they organize and if they make sure that everybody goes to the polls,” he said.

Pictured: Hazel Chandler’s recent activism revolves around her role as the Arizona field coordinator of Moms Clean Air Force, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group.

In some cases, their identities as grandmothers have become an organizing force.

In California, 1000 Grandmothers for Future Generations formed in 2016, after older women from the Bay Area traveled to be in solidarity with Indigenous grandmothers protesting the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline at the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation.

“When they came back, they decided to form an organization that would continue to mobilize women on behalf of the climate justice movement,” said Nancy Hollander, a member of the group.

1000 Grandmothers — in this case, the term encompasses all older women, not just the literal grandmothers — is rooted at the intersection of social justice and the climate crisis, supporting people of color and Indigenous-led causes in the Bay Area. The organization is divided into various working groups, each with a different focus: elections, bank divestments from fossil fuels, legislative work, nonviolent direct actions, among others...

“There are women in the nonviolent direct action part of the organization who really do feel that elder women — it’s their time to stand up and be counted and to get arrested,” Hollander said. “They consider it a historical responsibility and put themselves out there to protect the more vulnerable.”

But 1000 Grandmothers credits another grandmother activist, Pennie Opal Plant, for helping train their members in nonviolent direct action and for inspiring them to take the lead of Indigenous women in the fight.

Plant, 66 — an enrolled member of the Yaqui of Southern California tribe, and of undocumented Choctaw and Cherokee ancestry — has started various organizations over the years, including Idle No More SF Bay, which she co-founded with a group of Indigenous grandmothers in 2013, first in solidarity with a group formed by First Nations women in Canada to defend treaty rights and to protect the environment from exploitation.

Pictured: Pennie Opal Plant has started various organizations over the years, including Idle No More SF Bay, which she founded in 2013 alongside Indigenous grandmothers.

In 2016, Plant gathered with others in front of Wells Fargo Corporate offices in San Francisco, blocking the road in protest of the Dakota Access Pipeline, when she realized the advantages she had as an older woman in the fight.

As a police liaison — or a person who aims to defuse tension with law enforcement — she went to speak to an officer who was trying to interrupt the action. When she saw him maneuvering his car over a sidewalk, she stood in front of it, her gray hair flowing. “I opened my arms really wide and was like, are you going to run over a grandmother?”

A new idea was born: The Society of Fearless Grandmothers. Once an in-person training — it now mostly exists online as a Facebook page — it helped teach other grandmothers how to protect the youth at protests.

For Plant, the role of grandmothers in the fight to protect the planet is about a simple Indigenous principle: ensuring the future for the next seven generations.

“What we’re seeing is a shift starting with Indigenous women, that is lifting up the good things that mothers have to share, the good things that women that love children can share, that will help bring back balance in the world,” Plant said...

[Kathleen] Sullivan is one of approximately 70,000 people over the age of 60 who’ve joined Third Act, a group specifically formed to engage people 60 and older to mobilize for climate action across the country.

“This is an act of moral responsibility. It’s an act of care. And It’s an act of reciprocity to the way in which we are cared for by the planet,” Sullivan said. “It’s an act of interconnection to your peers, because there can be great joy and great sense of solidarity with other people around this.”

-via The 19th, January 31, 2024

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coco-loco-nut · 6 months ago

Text

Chasing Desire

pairing: charles x reader

summary: you never meant to fall in love, but you didn’t plan on being in a love triangle with your best friend and his older brother either

a/n: i’ve been writing a lot of charles recently, sorry, but he’s been a part of my rare inspiration lately... also apologies for the novel

masterlist requests open

——————————

“Are you sure you’re the professional driver?” you ask, pulling off your helmet. The smell of gasoline a familiar comfort on the race track.

“I let you win,” Arthur lies.

“And you, Charles?” you look to your best friend’s brother, who is either staring at you or something behind you.

“Um, same thing. You know, being an F1 driver and all,” Charles stutters, snapping out of wherever his mind is.

“Sure, you just can’t admit you lost to a retired driver,” you laugh, letting the race suit drop to your hips.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Arthur slings an arm around your shoulder and you feel a sort of butterflies in your chest, the ones that you push away every time.

There is no way you can be crushing on Arthur, your best friend since he returned to karting. You’ve been almost inseparable ever since. You’ve both seen each through hardships. He was there when Prema dropped you when you ran out of funding in F3 last season and no driver academy wanted you. You were there when he was struggling in F2.

“Get away, Thur, you reek,” you gag for added effect.

“I want ice cream. Let’s go get some,” Charles interrupts, causing you to almost jump away.

You clear your throat, looking back at the track. “Yeah, that sounds good,” you agree, almost wanting to disappear back into the locker room.

In the locker room you stare at yourself in the mirror.

“Quit it, that’s Arthur, your best friend,” you tell yourself. Ollie always joked that you followed Arthur like a lost puppy, but you never believed him. Well, until now.

“Everything okay?” Charles asks. opening the door to his car for you.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” your brows furrow as you take a seat on the cool Italian leather.

“You just seem off,” Charles shrugs, brushing it off when you don’t reply. He looks up into the rearview mirror, silently asking Arthur if he has an idea. A simple shrug from Arthur confirms that he doesn’t know either. Maybe you have an exam coming up? They just don’t know. “So, how’s school?” Charles tries again, getting success when you look up from your phone.

“It’s fine. I’m on track to graduate early, but the job search isn’t great,” you frown, a little hesitant to talk about the last part.

“How? You were an incredible driver, surely that looks good on your resume?” Arthur asks, jumping in before Charles can offer you a job.

“Well, you’d be surprised to know that driving apparently does not really provide direct experience in data science,” you huff, turning your phone off as you cross your arms. It’s hard enough since you started university late.

“Oh! Ferrari is-“

“No,” you and Arthur reply at the same time. The butterflies start to return as you glance out the window.

“It’s called using your resources and network, it’s not like I’m directly getting you a job,” Charles tries to reason.

“As soon as I write your name, they will hire me. I want to be hired on my own merit,”

“But,”

“No buts,” you don’t dare to speak out loud what you want to add. It would crush Charles.

He tried so hard when Arthur revealed you didn’t have funding to get a team to pick you up. He talked to other drives, team principals, engineers, anyone. He had no luck, and when you found out it crushed you. Not only were you not good enough, any offer you would even receive would be because of Charles. From that moment you vowed that every single accomplishment going forward would be of your own merit.

“Ooo, we are here,” Charles cuts the tension, putting the car in park. You’ve never met anyone who loves ice cream more, even when it’s a bit chilly.

“Are you excited to go to Greece?” Arthur asks and you nod, practically feeling the sun on your skin.

“I cannot wait for finals to end and fly out,”

“Where exactly are you going?”

“Mykonos,”

“I’m so jealous,” Arthur groans, thinking about how much nicer it would be.

“I bet, certainly nicer than racing,” you chuckle.

“What is?” Charles turns towards you in the line.

“Greece,” Arthur answers for you. You simply nod, thinking about the white sand beaches.

“Oh, when are you going?” Charles asks. You are a bit thrown off at his prying today, but shrug it off as him not having seen you in a while.

“Before Austria. I’ll fly from Mykonos to Spielberg,” you answer before placing your order.

Charles watches as you chat with Arthur. The bright lights illuminate your smile, a crinkle in the corners of you eyes, and how you look like Arthur holds the world in his hands. You lean into Arthur as he tells you something that must be funny, because your laugh floats through the air. It’s one of those moments where Pascale or Lorenzo would make a comment. One that Charles wishes deep down was about him and how the two of you belong together.

Arthur attends your graduation, sending plenty of pictures to the family group chat and even making a sweet post on Instagram about it. And then you are in Greece, a couple of your girlfriends accompanying you for the first week.

“Hey, how’s day three going?” Arthur asks as soon as you pick up.

“Good, I’m exploring the town right now. What’s up?” you ask. Arthur called earlier in the day then planned, worrying you a little.

“I couldn’t wait to tell you. I got a girlfriend,” Arthur says excitedly. You feel your heart drop to your stomach. “Y/n?” Arthur’s voice snaps you out of your trance.

“Sorry, I was looking at a pastry. That’s great news, I’m so happy for you,” you say, even though you don’t feel like it. Your mind drifts as Arthur tells you about her and something in you shatters a little.

“I’m so sorry,” you pull your phone away from your ear as you bump into someone. “I gotta go, Thur. Call you later,” you quickly hang up, staring into a beautiful pair of brown eyes.

“I’m not,” the man smiles back as you feel your cheeks flush. He stands out against the white buildings that surround you.

“You aren’t?” you brush a stray hair back behind your ear.

“No, not if I get to meet a beautiful woman such as yourself,” he replies smoothly. Your heart doesn’t know what to feel, it went from zero to one hundred very quick.

“I’m Y/n, nice to meet you,” you extend your hand. The man takes it and kisses the back.

“Achileas, but my friends call me Achi. You look familiar, do I know you from somewhere?” he asks.

“Not unless you live in Monaco,” you shake your head, suddenly aware that you are standing in the middle of the street. Achileas notices as well and subtly ushers you towards a cafe.

“Hm, you are a race car driver, no?”

“I was, not anymore. How did you know?” you are shocked, it is rare someone would recognize you.

“Of course I remember the pretty girl who won the sprint race in Monaco. The fans were so excited, it was the first time I paid attention to a non F1 race,” he says, making you feel important. Monaco, your final win in F3, and a home win nonetheless.

“I don’t know what to say, I’m honestly so flattered,” you tilt your head down, trying to hide the blush.

“Can I ask why you don’t race anymore?” he asks after both of you order at a table.

“I, um, ran out of funding. Couldn’t put myself through university and race at the same time. No team wanted to sign me to their driver academy and that was that,” you tell him. It still stings to admit, but you are proud of how far you got.

“I’m sorry. You seemed like a great driver,” Achileas says, putting his hand over yours.

“I still watch my friends race, it’s enough for me. What do you do?”

“I act in the United States,” he smiles, gladly letting you turn the attention to him.

“That’s so cool, what brings you here then?” you follow, curious about the Greek man in front of you.

“Ah, well there’s no point in hiding it. I’m a Prince of Greece. Purely symbolic, my family holds no power, just a title,” he reveals to you, catching you off guard. You expected something simple, like a vacation, not being royal.

“Oh, wow. And you made being a failed driver sound cool,” you quickly recover from your shock. You try to act like you do around Charles, like there is nothing that makes them different from you.

“Hey, it is cool. You probably know a lot of great drivers, including yourself,”

“I mean, yeah. I’m best friends with Arthur Leclerc and I do know Charles pretty well. But that’s no where near the same level as being an actual prince.”

“Let’s agree that they are both equally cool. Can’t be fighting on our first date, no?” His suave smile disarms you, sending your head spinning.

“No,” you agree.

One date slowly turns into dinner the next evening, and breakfast the morning after, to a spending the whole day together.

Charles watches your socials just for a glimpse of you. You post stories of your outings, or you laying on the beach, but Charles assumes that your friends are taking the photos, until the second week.

Arthur’s phone rings shortly after hanging up with you. He begrudgingly answers, not in the mood to speak anymore. “What’s up, Charles?”

“Did you see Y/n’s Instagram post?” Charles asks, trying to sound calm, but it just comes out rushed.

“Yeah, what about it? She’s having a great time,” Arthur sighs. He knows how Charles looks at you protectively, but didn’t realize it was anything other than in a little sister way.

“She’s cuddled up to some guy on the beach. And that guy is a prince. She’s with a prince, Arthur. An actual prince, not in a figurative way like me!”

“Yeah, that’s her boyfriend. They met last week,”

“How do you even compete with that?” Charles exasperates.

“I thought you didn’t like her like that?” Arthur asks, a foreign irritated feeling lacing his voice.

“I lied,” Charles frowns, plotting his next move.

“Just… don’t fuck it up for her. She seems really happy,” Arthur sighs before hanging up.

The sand is soft underneath you as you lay on top of your beach towel. Achi lays beside you, watching you flip the pages of your book. He has a small smile on his face, amused at your facial expressions and how you seem to read faster. He leans in, brushing away a stray hair that you keep trying to blow away, only to startle you out of your trance.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” his voice is soft, watching you mark the page you are on.

“No, it’s okay. I want to spend time with you,” you smile, turning your attention to him. You leave far too soon for your liking, you’d happily stay here.

“Well, I would hope so,” he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you as you shift close to him. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, content in the moment with you.

“I don’t want to leave,”

“Then stay the summer here with me. Or until you decide what you are doing next,”

“I have to go to Austria, but I could be convinced to return,” a playful smile makes its way to your face as Achileas flips you underneath him, arms on both sides of you.

“Is this convincing enough?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” you giggle, tilting your chin up as he leans down to kiss you. It starts slow, teasing yet sincere, turning into a passion that urges you to stay. “Okay,” you whisper as your lips part. You watch his eyes light up, excited that you agreed to stay.

“I can’t wait,” he grins, moving from on top of you.

“I will miss you while I’m away,” you frown slightly. You’ve fallen into a comfort that you never expected. For the first time ever, you haven’t found yourself thinking about Arthur or the crush that has been haunting you.

“I think you will survive, but I could always join you,” you perk up a little. Why hadn’t you thought of that?

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. I can watch with a professional, and I’m sure I could acquire a pass,” Achileas smiles, mentally planning it all.

“I’d love for you to join me,” you don’t even hesitate.

“Why don’t we head out?” he suggests, standing up and offering you a hand. You take it and quickly pack up. You walk hand in hand through the town, before a sound makes you pause.

“Did you hear that?” you ask, turning towards a small alley.

“It sounded like a meow,” Achi says, letting you search. You find a vibrant orange kitten in distress.

“You poor baby,” your voice is soft as the kitten approaches you. You look up at Achi, eyes asking what to do.

“The kitten seems to need help and it’s all alone. I don’t see an issue with helping it,” he shrugs. You carefully pick the kitten up and hold it to your chest.

“Do you think I could keep it?”

“We can do some research. Let’s get some food for it,”

“It’s a boy,” you smile as you quickly check the kitten’s gender. “I’m going to name you Leo,” Achi is amused and in awe at how tenderly you are caring for the kitten. It’s the greenest possible flag.

You wait outside the store as Achi buys some food for the kitten. As you wait, you send a picture to the group chat you have with Arthur and Charles, telling them that you are trying to adopt the kitten.

The last couple days of your trip is spent planning arraignments for your return and for Achileas to attend the race with you. Leo is staying at the vet, receiving treatment then getting neutered so you can officially adopt him.

“Arthur!” you wave, practically dragging your boyfriend through the paddock in search of the Leclercs. You find them talking to Pierre near the Alpine garage.

“Y/n! You look great, the sun treated you well,” Arthur hugs you tight.

“The sun isn’t the only thing that treated me well. This is Achileas, my boyfriend. Achileas, this is my best friend, Arthur,” you introduce them.

“You really need to cool it on the death glare,” Pierre tells Charles who is looking between you and the tall Greek man behind you. The sun-kissed glow of your skin makes Charles fall harder, and your closeness to Achileas makes him want to puke.

“What death glare? I’m not jealous,” Charles says defensively.

“You are literally in love with your brothers best friend. You hate her boyfriend without ever having met him. You adopted a dog two days ago and named it after her kitten that she rescued the day before. But you aren’t jealous?” Pierre raises an eyebrow.

“Well, when you put it that way,” Charles trails off, looking at the way you lean into Achileas’ touch, his arm securely around your waist as if it was meant to be there.

“It’s funny, she always followed Arthur around like a lost puppy. I always assumed they would get together once they figured out they liked eachother, but now they are dating different people,” Pierre continues, not being a help to Charles’ mental health.

“That’s not true, he doesn’t like her like that,”

“That you know of. Just like how he didn’t know you like his best friend until recently,” Pierre continues.

“Charles, come say hi to your guest,” Arthur calls his brother over.

“I missed you,” Charles wraps his arms around you, holding the hug for a second longer than normal. You are thrown off by it all. Charles has never said something like that before, and what gives him the right to hug you that long.

“Yeah,” you pat his back awkwardly as he lets go. “Meet my boyfriend, Achileas,” you step back so they can shake hands.

“Charles Leclerc, I race for Ferrari,” Charles puffs his chest slightly, trying to intimidate but he just comes off like an asshole. Pierre and Arthur do their best to avoid rolling their eyes.

“I’m going to go say hi to Pierre,” you are clearly thrown off a little by Charles, but allow them to interrogate your boyfriend while you speak to the Frenchman.

“Alright, what’s going on?”

“No idea. Probably just trying to get a read on your Greek warrior,” Pierre shrugs, keeping Charles secrets even if he would normally gossip with you.

“He is isn’t he?” you look dreamily at your boyfriend, who seems to need saving.

“Sure. I’ll see you later,” Pierre leaves, having a job to do.

“Should I be worried?” Achileas asks as soon as the two of you are out of earshot, well you think you are.

“About who?”

“Charles,”

“Not at all, I don’t get what girls see in him, but maybe that’s from growing up with him.” You shrug. Your mind briefly drifts to how weird Charles was acting. Does he not want to be your friend anymore? Why was he so standoffish to Achileas. Meanwhile, Charles feels a stab in his heart at your words. Maybe he never did stand a chance.

“Sorry to cut in, but I need to do my best friend duties. You can meet us back at Ferrari,” Arthur says, pulling your boyfriend away from you. You are left with Charles and Pierre, who just stare back at you.

“Well, I have a team meeting and this feels awkward, so I’m gonna go,” Pierre disappears into the garage. You stand in the awkward silence for a minute before turning to walk back to Ferrari hospitality.

“Y/n, wait,” you feel a gentle tug as your arm as Charles catches up with you. “Is there something wrong?” he asks, brows furrowed as you barely meet his eyes.

“I get this feeling that you don’t like my boyfriend. Why?” you ask, watching Charles fumble for his words. “If you can’t be happy for me like Arthur is, and like I am for Arthur, I don’t know if we can be friends.”

“No, no, I am happy for you. I just didn’t expect to see him here,” Charles lies, not wanting to ruin anything. He feels like he’s barely hanging on to your relationship.

“Well you certainly aren’t acting like it,” you frown. Charles reaches out, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You jerk, quickly stepping out of the small embrace. “What are you doing?”

“I- well, I, um,“ Charles stutters, confused at your coldness. “I was going to give you a hug and apologize,” he watches your eyes narrow before there is a shift of resolve.

“Just, don’t be weird,” you shake your head. The walk back is silent. Charles looks at you oddly, a mix of concern and confusion.

He keeps a bit of distance the rest of the weekend, watching you explain different aspects of racing. Arthur expressed his approval, making things somehow worse for Charles.

“Cha,” you call him over to you on his way to the garage before the race.

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah, just wanted to say good luck. I hope you win,” your smile brings a sense of normalcy, like the two of you haven’t spend the weekend carefully avoiding each other. The concern on Charles’ face melts into something softer.

“Thank you, ma chérie,” he opens his arms slightly, subtly inviting you to hug him. You lean in, wrapping your arms around him. He notes how perfectly you fit in his arms. Charles resists the urge to happily sigh, relieved that the standoff is over.

It’s just what he needs to win the race, but before he can invite you to the after party, you are gone. Back to Greece with your lover, the Prince who stole you away before Charles had the nerve to say something.

Charles doesn’t see you again until just before Monza. He knocks on your and Arthur’s apartment door, delivering some frozen meals from Pasquale for Arthur. You open the door, hair slightly disheveled, messy mascara, tanned skin from the Greek sun, and a pullover that barely covers your shorts. You’ve never looked so perfect.

Charles opens his mouth to speak, but the tears start flowing. He steps inside behind you, following you to the living room after making a quick detour to shove the food in your freezer. You haven’t been back for long based on the lack of food in the fridge and the lack of your decoration.

Charles sits beside you on the couch, conscious of his actions. Your cat, Leo, sits on the other side of you. He looks around the living room, a framed photo of you and Arthur on a podium hanging beside other individual pictures or pictures of the two of you. Some of your trophies are mixed with Arthur’s, showcasing your achievements.

“Cherie, what happened?” Charles gentle voice cuts through the silence.

“He left. He’s going back to America,” you hold back sobs, the more you speak it, the more real it becomes. You had numbly backed your bags and flew back to Monaco, ignoring the apologies from the man who broke your heart. “I should’ve known he’d drop me as soon as the summer ended,” you tilt your head back in an effort to stop your tears. You never want to cry over a man again.

“I’m so sorry,” Charles whispers, unsure of what to say. You feel anger bubbling up, slowly replacing your sadness.

“God, I paused my whole life for him. I should be starting a job right now, learning how to adult. Instead I wasted my whole summer on white sand beaches and false promises,” your words are venomous, rather than sorrowful. It scares Charles a little bit, he’s seen you angry before, but not like this. Your eyes meet his, betraying your words. He sees the deep hurt and sorrow that they hold and wants nothing more to heal it.

“How long have you been home?” Charles asks, not noticing you subconsciously shifting closer.

“A few days,” your tone shifts, as you take a shaky breath in an attempt to level yourself.

“Y/n, I’m home, dinner is in the kitchen if you want anything,” Arthur calls out as he enters the apartment. He stops abruptly when he notices you on the couch. “You’re alive, and Charles is here.”

“I am here, Maman sent me with meals for you,” Charles says, taking the attention off of you.

“Are you okay? I haven’t seen you leave your room since you got home?” Arthur stares at you, analyzing any move you make.

“I’m okay,” your voice is hoarser than you intended, a small crack cuts through your words.

“I gotta shower, but we are talking later,” Arthur nods, disappearing into his room.

“You haven’t left your room?” Charles turns back to you.

“I think you know that answer,” you bring your knees to your chest, hugging them tightly.

“If I offered to help, would you take it?” Charles’ mouth is moving faster than his brain as he thinks of ways to help you.

“Maybe,”

“I need some help with the data. There’s a chance for the team to win the constructors championship and for me to take second in the drivers is everything works out right,” Charles trails off a little, gauging your reaction.

“I don’t want a job because you feel sorry for me,” your voice is firm causing Charles to panic a little.

“It isn’t, I promise. Why don’t you come to Monza and do a test run? See if you like it and if you do I will hire you,” Charles offers, watching the wheels turn in your brain. “I know you feel like you wasted your summer, so I’ll give you a good bonus if I win one race,” his words seal the deal for you. It goes against everything you have said before regarding jobs, but you can’t lie and say that the job won’t be beneficial.

“One test run, then I will give you my answer,” you confirm, watching Charles light up a little.

“Great, I’ll talk to Ferrari and work everything out. We leave for Monza tomorrow.”

Charles picks you and Arthur up early the next morning, bringing with him a Ferrari team polo and folder.

“All the essential data for you to get familiar with, according to the team at least. We will get your Paddock Pass in Monza,” Charles explains. You get to work in the car, looking over the data and using your computer to analyze it further.

“This is Emilia, she will be showing you around and telling you about the data team while I do media,” Charles hands you off to the girl who isn’t much older than you.

“You are a very strong racer,” she says at the end of your tour and training, catching you off guard. “Of course I looked you up when Charles insisted that he has his own data analyst, Ferrari kept tabs on you,” her comment is enough to make you stop.

“They did?”

“Yes, your data is impressive. I can show you the file,” she offers. All it takes is a head nod and you are being shown a file you never thought existed. You read the comments, doing your best to keep a neutral face in the dim room. Fast driver, high ceiling, not enough sponsors. The three phrases that sustained and killed your career accompany the numbers. It almost hurts knowing that teams did see your potential, but didn’t choose you because of money.

“Wow,” you whisper, scanning the page over and over again. You had looked at your racing data for various school projects, but it is different with the team commentary.

“Time for a track walk,” Charles pops his head in, breaking you out of your trance. You whisper a quick thanks before running out after Charles.

You stay busy all weekend, working out different strategies and areas for Charles to improve. It does pay off as you watch Charles bring home the win. Arthur insists you join at the parc ferme to celebrate. Charles hugs Arthur first before turning to you.

“I think this is a strong start to your career,” he quickly hugs you before moving down the line. You can see your new resume line now: assisted Formula One driver in winning during first weekend on team. So you do take the job, you would be crazy not to.

Ferrari hires you through the end of the season. Charles is thrilled. He likes the idea of being your white knight, mending your broken heart one race at a time. He watches you open up more and your relationship strengthens.

You do your best Elvis impression as you enter the paddock on race day with Charles. “Viva Las Vegas,” you sing with an exaggerated vibrato. Charles tries to contain his laughter as Max approaches.

“They had no need to hire Elvis impersonators this year, Ferrari has one on staff already,” he teases. You bonded over your cats, and cat Leo and dog Leo have had play dates with Jimmy and Sassy.

“Shut up,” you laugh. This is the version of you the Charles has been waiting to see again. “Oh shit,” your demeanor changes as you try to hide behind Max and Charles. Charles follows your line of sight to the man talking to someone across the paddock. Max looks confused, but notes how Charles wraps an arm protectively around you.

“I can get someone to kick him out,”

“That’s a bit extreme,”

“I have no idea who you are talking about, but I’ll do it,” Max offers, earning a slight smile from you before it deepens to a frown again.

“Getting broken up with is hardly a reason to kick him out unless he is actually bothering me,” you shrink slightly into Charles, who quickens his pace a little.

“That’s Leo’s dad? Let me at him,” Max is jumping at the chance to punch someone, a lot of pent up energy from conflicts this season. Max may be a sweetheart most of the time when he isn’t racing, but he was raised by Jos.

“Can we just go to hospitality? There’s nothing that an espresso and showing security his picture can’t fix,” you suggest. Max pouts, knowing you are right. Charles gives Max a look, one that tells Max to shut up before he hurts the situation.

“Well, I gotta go. Future World Champion stuff,” Max says, walking away. He does end up confronting Achileas, but he doesn’t say anything out it, and Achileas is too scared to reveal what was said.

“Are you okay?” Charles asks as you sip your espresso.

“Surprisingly, yes. I freaked out a bit at first, but he’s in my space. He’s the one who should be insecure,” you state, making Charles proud at how far you’ve come in two months.

“I’m proud of you. I know that whatever you do after the season you are going to excel,” the words are reassuring and you feel a warmth in your heart. The same kind that you used to feel for Arthur. It’s like you are seeing Charles in a different light than you had before. Charles silently watches you stare at him, stuck in your own head, before you look away at whatever is on the TV behind him.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, thank you for bringing me on,” you thank him. The mood is heavy, keeping both of you silent, not wanting to break the odd silence. “I’m going to grab some food, I’ll need it if we go to Max’s after party,” you abruptly say, standing up and leaving. Your phone and coffee remain on the table, so Charles doesn’t bother getting up. You return with two plates, setting one down in front of him. “I got your meal, you need to eat now so you have energy for the race. The window is closing,” you motion to the food with your fork.

“Thanks. You’ve been a great support too, by the way. I don’t think I would’ve done as well without you,” Charles smiles over his glass of water.

After the meal you disappear to find Emilia and work on data. You don’t see each other until your quick meeting on your findings and final race suggestions.

“Have you thought about joining the team full time?” Emilia asks as the race starts. There is a flicker of hope in your chest. Maybe Charles was right, the job can further your career. “There’s an opening working with the driver academy team. I’ll put in a recommendation for you if you want it,” she explains.

“Yeah, I’d love that,” you are a bit speechless, excited about the opportunity.

“Great, I’ll send you the application information,” she says before turning back to her work. You refocus on the live data, making notes of where Charles can improve to send to his race engineer.

Charles barely misses the podium so you go back to the team hotel with Emilia, waiting on the text from Charles saying that he’s leaving for the club. Max already sent you the invite, but you don’t want to show up alone. You do end up showing up alone though, having made it to the club before Charles did. You beeline to the bar, needing to take a shot before you even touch the dance floor.

“A shot without me? Come on we are doing another round,” Max approaches you, scaring you a bit as you set down the empty shot glass. Two shots are quickly placed in front of you.

“To the four time champion of the world,” you toast.

“To being cat parents,” he toasts back before you quickly down the shot.

“It’s rude to exclude friends from the round,” Charles cuts in. His slightly unbuttoned top shows a daring amount of skin and for once his pants have a normal fit. You head spins and you aren’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or Charles. You quickly look away and back at the bartender who was beaconed by Max.

“Three more,” you yell over the music.

“I don’t have a toast for this,” Max says as he picks the shot up, both of you looking to Charles.

“If the ocean was beer and I was a duck, I’d swim to the bottom and drink my way up. But the ocean isn’t beer and I’m not a duck, so let’s take these shots and get fucked up,” Charles says proudly. You take the shot before giggling at the silliness of the toast.

“Where did you learn that?” you ask, feeling the alcohol punch you.

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles smiles and you head spins again. You nod and wander to the dance floor, needing to separate yourself from him for a moment.

“Is she okay?” Max asks, watching you get lost in deep thought.

“I’m not sure. I think she’s finally had a chance to heal from the summer,” Charles pauses, unsure of how much to say. “She’s had a crush on Arthur for years, then he started dating his girlfriend, and she met her ex soon after. She’s finally returned to a healed state and now something is off again,” Charles tells Max a bit of what he’s observed from you. Max looks at how Charles is watching you, a mix of concern and admiration.

“She deserves to let loose,” Max says before going to meet other guests. Charles orders two more drinks, taking one to you.

“For me?” you gasp, eagerly taking a cup from his hands.

“Of course,” Charles notices how your navy dress clings to your body, dangerously revealing.

“Let’s dance,” your words slur as you grab onto Charles’ hand.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Charles starts, feeling like he should draw a boundary before things get messy.

“Please, Charlie,” you pout, it’s enough for Charles to give in. Your dancing remains relatively PG, that is until Carlos delivers two more drinks. Turns out that what Charles assumed was you texting Arthur, was you asking Carlos to be your delivery man. Halfway through your drink, you body drifts closer to Charles. There is a look in your eyes, one that used to be reserved for Arthur, one that was never given to Achileas.

“Y/n,” he says softly, trying to see if this is really what you want to be doing. If you told the Charles from a year ago that this was happening, he wouldn’t believe you. You brush against him, body swaying to the beat. Charles wraps an arm around you, done fighting it.

Lost in an alcohol haze, time seems nonexistent as the lights flash around you. Your drinks are long finished, taken away by a bouncer a few songs ago. There’s something natural about it, but it makes you feel guilty. You always assumed you and Arthur were meant to be, you never even thought of Charles in anyway but Arthur’s older brother. When did it change?

You look up to find Charles looking back at you. Your lips are slightly parted as your mind scrambles to find the words, the music spinning you further. Charles takes a risk, pulling you slightly closer. Your head tilts up slightly and he takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss you. Your body seems to freeze and melt at the same time, giving in to what’s happening. It’s everything Charles has waited for and more. The years of waiting were worth every moment.

“Charles,” your voice sounds like a whisper as your lips part, a desperation in his name.

“Just say no and I won’t kiss you again,” his voice is low in your ear, but you can’t find it in you to say no. Your hands travel up to his neck, pulling him back to you. Something clicks, everything in the past few months has worked towards this moment. He was there for you at your lowest, and Charles helped you be yourself again.

“I’m going to get us another round,” Charles says against your lips, leaving you in a daze.

“Y/n,” a voice says from behind you, catching your attention.

“Back already, Cha- what are you doing here?” your mood is immediately soured.

“Celebrating, just like you. I was invited,” the greek man hasn’t changed since he made you leave.

“Were you? How do you know Max?” you are skeptical, rightfully so. His only connection to Formula One was you.

“My friend works with the team. I thought I wasn’t supposed to worry about him,” Achileas nods his head back to the bar, causing your cheeks to flush at the thought of the older Monegasque.

“I thought you actually liked me. It seems we were both wrong,” you shake your head slightly, clearing Charles from your mind. Any drunkenness feels like it’s been washed away with a sharp splash of cold water.

“Come on, don’t be like that. You know you miss me,” he steps closer, trapping you in the crowd of strangers. Your eyes dart around the dance floor, looking for Carlos or Max, anyone who you know really.

“I don’t. You never even asked about our cat. Why would you care about me?” your eyes narrow, trying to mask your nerves with a false bravado.

“I know you and your body so well. Come back with me to my hotel and let me remind you,” he steps closer, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. You freeze, not wanting to cause a scene but needing to escape.

“That fucker, I told him to stay away from her,” Max growls, noticing before Charles does since he is chatting with the bartender.

“Who?”

“Y/n’s ex, that greek guy,” Max makes a move to confront him, but Charles is already pushing towards you. Max hands back, waiting for the drinks. Who would he be to let alcohol go to waster if Charles has it handled.

“Back away from her before I make you,” Charles inserts himself between the two of you, shielding you behind him.

“What is your problem? You just had to get with her as soon as we took a break?” Achileas’ words only make you and Charles more mad.

“I respected your relationship the whole time, and when you broke her heart I helped her fix it. You have no right to be here and to make Y/n uncomfortable,” Charles says, knowing that you are one comment away from snapping.

“So you jumped on the opportunity to get with her? Just so you know, she really likes it when you-“

“I am an adult and can make my own choices. Charles has been a good friend for years and showed me his true colors since I returned to Monaco. You showed me your true colors when you dropped me like I was nothing and now you think you can waltz back in,” you step around Charles, who gently pulls you back into his chest before you get physical. Max approaches, accompanied by a bouncer.

“I warned you to stay away. It’s been fun watching you absolutely fail, but I think it’s time you leave. I don’t even know you,” Max lets the bouncer grab Achileas, the three of you watch as he is thrown out onto the street. “Good riddance,” Max huffs, handing you the second drink. It’s a miracle that no one else around you was paying attention.

“Thank you,” you look at max who looks both concerned and angry.

“What an asshole,” Charles shakes his head, free arm lightly holding you against him.

“I thought princes were supposed to be white knights,” Max says amused at his own thought.

“He’s not a real prince anyway,” your laugh is bitter, annoyed that you wasted your time on a pretty smile who wanted free devotion without returning it.

“I am though,” Charles smiles proudly.

“Sure you are. Prince of Monaco and King of Monza,” Max does his best interpretation of F1 commentary and their nicknames for the Monegasque. You feel the exhaustion of the night and its excitement hit you like a ton of bricks.

“I think I’m going to head out, the Ferrari flight leaves early tomorrow and I don’t think I’m in much of a celebration mood anymore. Congrats again, Max,” you step out of Charles’ embrace to give a quick hug to the Dutchman.

“I’ll go with you, just in case he’s waiting,” Charles says quickly, knowing he will just be worried if he lets you go alone. Arthur would kill him too. Arthur. That’s a discussion the two of you need to have.

“Thank you for being here. There is a seat on my jet for you if you oversleep or don’t sleep at all,” Max winks, leaving you and Charles.

“Want to order room service? I think we have some things to talk about,” Charles asks, guiding you towards his hotel.

“I could eat,” you nod.

As soon as you sit on his bed, another wave of exhaustion hits you. Charles digs through his suitcase, searching for something.

“Here, I doubt you want to stay in that dress,” Charles tries not to think about taking the dress off of you as he hands you a shirt and basketball shorts.

“Thanks,” you disappear into the bathroom to change and remove the bit of makeup you had time to do.

“What do you want to order?”

“We need to walk about what this is,” you answer, food pushed to the back of your mind as you sit on the bed. Charles sets the menu down, leaning against the headboard on top of the crisp white sheets. The city is visible outside the windows, but the curtains are drawn to block out the lights.

“I don’t want to force you into anything. I’ve liked you for a long time and that won’t change,” Charles states plainly, laying it out there.

“I want to take it slow. The last time I jumped into something it didn’t end well. As evidenced by tonight,” you pause, mulling over your next words. “What do we tell Arthur?” you frown, thinking of your best friend as Charles pulls you close.

“The truth. Something sparked tonight and we are taking it slow. If we hide it he may never forgive us.”

“You know, I always thought I would end up with Arthur,” you chuckle.

“Everyone did. I am glad that has changed now, I hated the thought of you two together and the way you used to look at him. I always wanted you to look at me that way, and you did tonight,” Charles says, his head dipping lower as he speaks, wanting to capture your lips in a kiss.

When he pulls away to turn off the bedside lamp, you get cozy in bed, quickly falling asleep. Charles doesn’t dare disturb you, instead he plugs your phone into a spare charger and texts Emilia to coordinate picking up your luggage in the morning before going to sleep as well.

You wake up to the early morning sun streaming through the window, panic coursing through you as you realize it isn’t your hotel room. You barely register that Charles is beside you as you look around for your phone. You do a double take once it registers in your mind, bits and pieces of the night before coming back to you.

“Morning,” Charles groans slightly, reaching out to pull you in for a cuddle.

“I missed the flight, how am I going to get my things,” you panic, not understanding how Charles is being so calm about it.

“I picked it up this morning, you are flying with Max and I to Qatar,” Charles murmurs sleepily into your shoulder, messy brown hair falling onto your skin.

“I’m so confused,” you settle a bit, letting yourself relax into the bed and Charles’ arms again. “Oh my god, we didn’t?”

“No, you were asleep quickly and I wouldn’t do that when drunk,” Charles says softly, just wanting to go back to sleep. He pulls you closer, like he’s been waiting his whole life to wake up next to you, savoring the moment.

“Thanks,” you whisper, exhaustion hitting you again.

Charles doesn’t reply, gently nuzzling against your neck as his breathing evens out. You take it as a sign and close your eyes.

You wake up a couple hours later to Charles’ alarm going off. You turn your body to face him, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

“Good morning,” you whisper, voice slightly raspy. Charles hums, wrapping an arm around you after turning off the alarm.

“Did you sleep well?” Charles asks eventually.

“It’s much better than the hotel rooms I normally stay in with the team,” you reply, not mentioning the added bonus of sleeping next to him.

“I could get used to sleeping beside you, waking up to this every morning,” the room falls into a comfortable silence, just the sound of your breathing filling the space before you decide to address the elephant in the room.

“When are we telling Arthur?” you ask, massing to mentally prepare yourself.

“He will probably call me in an hour. We should tell him then, but we should also talk about last night,” Charles sits up a little.

“I don’t regret any of it. I feel like I stumbled into the opportunity, but it feels right,” you reply quickly, not wanting to leave room for any doubts.

“I’m glad, because I’ve liked you for a long time,” your heart flutters at his smile. You feel like a school girl who will blush at the slightest glance your way.

“I, um, need to shower,” you quickly disappear to the bathroom with your suitcase.

“Fuck,” Charles says under his breath, resting his head on the headboard. There’s no way he fucked it up already. With the water running softly in the background, he orders breakfast to be delivered.

You step out of the bathroom twenty minutes later wearing an oversized shirt you stole from Charles a couple races ago and shorts. Charles has his back you to you, messing with a tray.

“Cherie, breakfast is here,” Charles gently calls out, not realizing you are behind him.

“What did you get?” you peek around him, looking at the modest spread. Some breakfast pastries and two mugs of coffee are resting on the desk. Charles jumps slightly, not expecting you so quickly.

“Your hair is soaked,” Charles laughs as the ends tickles his neck, dampening the collar of his cotton shirt.

“I wonder why,” you tease, tentatively pressing a kiss to his cheek as you reach around him, taking a cup of coffee. Charles turns toward you, pulling you closer for a proper kiss.

Your phone buzzes on the table beside the bed, making you pull away. You carefully rush to grab it, coffee splashing on to your hand a bit despite your efforts.

“It’s Arthur,” you turn to Charles, setting down the coffee before pulling your phone off the charger. Sitting on the plush white bed, you swipe, accepting the video call.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be at the airport,” Arthur asks, his phone shaking as he finds a spot to sit down.

“I am flying Air Max,” you smile, leaning against the headboard. You catch Charles trying to silently stand up from the table and walk towards the bathroom so you could have privacy.

“Fuck,” Charles whisper-yells, accidentally kicking the table leg.

“Is that Charles?” Charles’ eyes widen as he stares at your phone.

“Yeah, I crashed here after Max’s party. Some stuff went down and I didn’t want to be alone,” you want to trauma dump, but now isn’t the right time. Charles sits beside you out of the frame, gently rubbing circles into your leg.

“What happened?” You sneak a look at Charles, silently asking for confirmation that he was ok with you telling Arthur everything.

“I was getting closer with Charles, who says hello by the way,” Charles pinches your thigh, making you try not to smack his hand away. “We, um, kissed, then out of no where Achileas showed up. I had it handled but Max and Charles helped put him in his place,” You power through the mental blocks that tell you that Arthur doesn’t need to know everything. He will find out eventually, why lie now?

“I saw a video and thought it was you two, thank you for being honest,” Arther swallows any bit of hurt. He has a girlfriend, why is he borderline jealous of his brother. Years ago you told a friend that if you couldn’t have Arthur, you wouldn’t date a Leclerc at all. Arthur doesn’t know what made it change or why he found comfort in it.

“You aren’t mad?” Charles appears in the camera frame, looking happier and more relaxed than normal.

“No, of course not. If you guys are happy, then I am too,” Arthur isn’t looking at the screen anymore. “I always knew you’d be a Leclerc,” Arthur watches your smile widen, your head tilted toward Charles almost resting on his shoulder.

“We are taking things slow, so don’t get ahead of yourself,” your light laugh is music to both boys ears. Arthur’s stomach twists as he plasters a fake smile.

“Well, I need to go get groceries. I’ll talk to both of you after your flight. Bye,” Arthur quickly hangs up. You set your phone down on the bed, breathing a sigh of relief at how well the call went.

“So can I officially call you mine?” Charles asks, needing to put a label on it even if you are taking it slow in other areas of the relationship.

“I usually make a guy take me on a date first, but I think I’ll make an exception,”

“Good,”

“Even if it’s for a guy who named his dog after my cat.”

#f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #charles leclerc #max verstappen #arthur leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader

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