#i phone data recovery

[saoodoffice4]

I-PHONE REPAIRING COURSE | I-PHONE REPAIRING COURSE IN TILAK NAGAR DELHI

Are You Searching for an iPhone Repairing Career? Multitech Institute Can Provide One! At our comprehensive I Phone Repairing Course in Tilak Nagar Delhi, our highly experienced instructors will teach everything that's required of a successful technician.

Our course covers every aspect of iPhone repair from basic troubleshooting to more in-depth component level repairs, with hands-on training using real iPhone devices so that you can gain experience while learning by doing.

As part of your training for iPhone repair, we also teach the business aspects. This includes setting up your own repair shop, marketing your services effectively and dealing with customers effectively.

As soon as our course concludes, you will become an iPhone repair technician ready to launch their own business or work for a repair shop.

Why choose Multitech Institute for iPhone Repairing Training?

Multitech Institute stands out as an ideal destination for iPhone repairing training for many reasons, such as:

At our iPhone Repair Training Institute in Delhi, our highly qualified faculty specialize in iPhone repair. To provide top quality instruction to students of all skill levels. Likewise, our training lab utilizes state-of-the-art facilities. Finally, our comprehensive course covers every aspect of iPhone repair.

At our training centre, we specialize in offering hands-on iPhone device training sessions.

Multitech Institute offers several benefits of taking an iPhone repair course:

Learn the latest techniques and technologies for repairing iPhones at Multitech Institute's training institute in Delhi, with hands-on experience repairing real iPhones under supervision from experienced instructors. In return for these certifications from Multitech Institute you may qualify for jobs within this growing iPhone repair sector or start your own iPhone repair business!

Are You Curious about Our iPhone Repair Course? Visit Our Website or Reach Out Today We look forward to helping you realize your career ambitions! We welcome the chance to help!

Multitech Institute offers career support after students complete our courses, making Multitech Institute the ideal destination to begin your iPhone Repairing career!

Enroll now in I Phone Repairing Course in Tilak Nagar Delhi and begin the road toward being an outstanding iPhone repair technician!

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

mhyk staff save me... save me mhyk staff...

[wizardyke]

HIIIII GUYS my phone busted in the first week of a 3 weeks holiday abroad im blogging from my nans laptop rn. amen

[pucksandpower]

Malfunction

Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader

Summary: Franco’s concussion has come and gone, but his desire to see the angel of a physician who likely saved his life has only gotten stronger … it’s just a shame that he tends to lose any semblance of composure when you’re around

Note: this is the much requested second part to Malpractice … but even better than the first part if I do say so myself 🫣

The Las Vegas Grand Prix is a distant blur in Franco’s memory. The crash. The pain. The disorientation.

But there’s something else that lingers, too. Something soft that refuses to leave him alone.

It’s the image of you, kneeling in front of him, your hands steady even as his world spun. Your voice cutting through the haze, your gaze sharp and intense, demanding his attention. The way you pushed him to stay alert, to pay attention, to focus on something other than the chaos in his head.

Franco knows he owes his sanity, maybe even his life, to you.

It’s been a week since the crash, and he’s been cleared by the medical team to race again in Qatar, despite a lingering headache that’s been stubbornly hanging on. But it’s not the headache that’s bothering him. It’s the fact that you’re not here. You’re not at the track. Not in the garage. Not hovering over him like some kind of guardian angel.

He wants to see you again. Needs to.

He’s sitting in the Williams debrief room, surrounded by engineers who are talking a mile a minute about tire wear and lap times. But Franco is barely listening. He keeps checking his phone, hoping for some sort of miracle: a text, a call, anything that might tell him you’re here. That you’ve returned to the paddock.

But the screen stays empty.

“Franco, are you with us?” James Vowles’ voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

“Yeah, sorry,” Franco mutters, rubbing his eyes. “What were you saying about tire strategy?”

James raises an eyebrow. “It’s fine. Focus on your recovery. We’re just going over the data from today’s practice. You’ve got time. But-” He looks around, making sure no one else is listening, “-don’t be distracted during qualifying tomorrow. We need every bit of performance we can get from you this weekend.”

“Right.” Franco nods, but his mind drifts again, his gaze slipping back to his phone. It’s like the rhythm of the weekend has been broken without you here, without the sharpness of your voice telling him he’s being an idiot, without your soft, steady presence making everything feel a little more manageable.

A soft knock sounds at the door, and Alex steps in, his casual smile immediately making the room feel a little lighter. His eyes flicker over to Franco. “How’s it going, mate?”

Franco immediately perks up. “Alex! You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He straightens up in his chair, suddenly interested in the conversation.

Alex raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that because you’ve missed me, or because I bring good news?”

“Both,” Franco grins. “But seriously, I’ve been thinking about something, and I need your help.”

Alex folds his arms, giving Franco a knowing look. “Uh oh. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

“It’s about Y/N,” Franco says, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t seem too surprised. He sighs, already knowing where this is headed. “Ah, I should’ve known.”

“No, listen,” Franco presses, his voice a little more serious. “I need her to come to Abu Dhabi. She has to be there. I-” He pauses, trying to put his feelings into words. “I’ve been thinking about her all week. I just … I need to see her again.”

Alex raises both hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. You want me to convince her to come to a race just so you can see her again?”

Franco shrugs, looking entirely unapologetic. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Alex shakes his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “You really have it bad, don’t you?”

Franco hesitates, his smile faltering just slightly, then nods. “I do.” His expression softens. “She helped me when I didn’t even know what was happening. I’ve never had someone take care of me like that.”

Alex takes a moment, studying Franco’s face, then lets out a long breath. “Look, I can’t make any promises. Y/N’s a resident physician. Her schedule is insane. She barely has time to breathe, let alone fly out to the Middle East for a race. But-” He hesitates, as if weighing his next words carefully. “But I’ll ask her. I’ll see what I can do. But no promises, okay?”

“Just ask,” Franco says urgently. “I don’t care if it’s a long shot. I need her there.”

Alex chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I’ll ask. But you owe me a beer if this works.”

“You got it,” Franco grins, already feeling the relief of having put his request into motion. “Thanks.”

***

It’s late by the time you’re wrapping up your shift at the hospital. The weight of your scrubs feels heavier than usual tonight, your body aching after hours of rounds and consultations. You’ve barely slept all week, the demands of your residency taking up every last ounce of energy. All you want to do now is crash into bed and forget about the world for a few hours.

But then your phone buzzes in your pocket, and the familiar name on the screen makes you stop in your tracks.

Alex.

You sigh, glancing around the empty hallway before answering. “Hey, Alex. What’s up?”

“Hey,” Alex greets you, his tone casual but there’s a hint of something else in his voice. “How’s it going?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “You know, same old. Patients, paperwork, more patients. I swear, I’m starting to see people’s illnesses in my dreams at this point. What’s up?”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” Alex says with a chuckle, “because I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask.”

You brace yourself. “What now?”

“I need you to come to Abu Dhabi.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What? No. I can’t just drop everything and fly to Abu Dhabi. You know how insane my schedule is right now.”

“I know, I know,” Alex says quickly. “But listen, it’s not for me. It’s for Franco.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “Franco? What does he have to do with this?”

“He, uh, well, he’s been asking about you. He really wants you to come. He … he kind of needs you there, Y/N.”

You frown. “Needs me? What, like for a medical emergency?”

“No, no,” Alex quickly reassures you. “It’s not like that. He’s just — he’s been a bit, you know, off since the crash. He keeps talking about how much you helped him, how much he needs to see you again. He’s … kinda, well, taken with you.”

You pause, processing the unexpected request. “Wait. You want me to go to Abu Dhabi just to … see Franco?”

Alex sighs. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I totally get it if you can’t make it. I just thought I’d put it out there, because he’s really … well, he’s really worried about seeing you again.”

You take a deep breath, staring at the floor. There’s a tug at your chest. Franco’s crash. The way he looked when he stumbled into the garage, his eyes unfocused, his voice thick with concussion. And how you couldn’t help but care, couldn’t help but feel something stir in your chest as you took care of him.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “I don’t know if I can get time off. I’ve got a million things to do.”

“Please,” Alex pleads, his tone sincere. “Just think about it. I’ll take care of the rest. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just — just come for the weekend. For him.”

You hesitate for a long moment. Your exhaustion is overwhelming, but so is the pull to be there for Franco, to check in on him after everything that happened.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice quiet but firm. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Alex lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to him.”

“I’ll talk to my supervisor tomorrow and see if I can get a couple of days off. I’ll let you know.”

“Great. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks again, really.”

As the call ends, you press the phone to your ear, staring at the blank hospital hallway. Something in your chest stirs, a mix of curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get involved with any of these drivers. But Franco … there’s something about him. Something you can’t shake.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Abu Dhabi. But you know one thing for sure: you’re going to see him again.

***

Franco is buzzing with energy as he walks away from the Williams garage after FP2. The track is alive with its usual Friday hum: team radios squawking, mechanics wheeling equipment, fans pressing against barricades for a glimpse of the action. Normally, this is his favorite part of the weekend — the calm between sessions when he can breathe and think through what’s next.

But today, his thoughts are miles away.

You.

Alex told him you’d agreed to come. He’s spent all week mentally preparing for this moment, imagining what he’ll say when he sees you again. He’d told himself he’d play it cool. That he wouldn’t come off as desperate or weird. That he’d be charming and effortless.

And now, as he walks toward the Williams motorhome, he’s running through those lines in his head like a script. But then, through the glass doors of the motorhome, he spots you.

You’re sitting at a table with Lily, wine glasses between you. You’re mid-laugh, one hand lightly gesturing, the other wrapped around the stem of your glass. The sound of your laugh doesn’t reach him, but your expression — warm and animated — is enough to stop him in his tracks.

Franco stares, frozen. For a second, he’s not a professional driver or a smooth-talking twenty-one-year-old. He’s just a guy, floored by the sight of someone he’s been thinking about far too much.

And then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he walks straight into the glass door.

The sound is embarrassingly loud — a deep, resonant thud that draws the attention of a couple of mechanics nearby. Franco stumbles back, clutching his forehead as the door wobbles slightly on its hinges.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters under his breath, blinking rapidly to clear the stars dancing in his vision.

Inside, Lily gasps, already half out of her chair. But you — you just press a hand to your mouth, visibly trying to suppress a laugh.

Franco pushes the door open this time (successfully, thank God) and steps into the motorhome, trying to salvage whatever remains of his dignity.

“Didn’t know the motorhome was defending itself today,” he says, flashing a crooked grin as he rubs his forehead.

You’re still smiling, but there’s a glint in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “I see you’re still finding creative ways to injure yourself.”

Lily, standing now, gives him a once-over. “Are you okay? That sounded bad.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Franco says quickly, though he’s still holding his head. “Just testing the structural integrity of the door. Very solid. Great engineering.”

Lily rolls her eyes, muttering something about grabbing an ice pack before disappearing into the kitchen.

You lean back in your chair, tilting your head as you look at him. “You know, you really don’t have to keep hurting yourself just to get my attention. There are easier ways.”

Franco blinks, momentarily thrown off by the teasing edge in your voice. But then he recovers, his grin widening. “Oh, so you noticed me, huh? Mission accomplished.”

You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hard not to notice when someone face-plants into a door.”

“Ouch,” Franco says, clutching his chest dramatically. “First my head, now my ego. You’re ruthless.”

You laugh, setting your glass down. “I’m a doctor. I call it like I see it.”

“And what do you see?” He asks, leaning casually against the doorframe (or at least trying to — he slightly misjudges the angle and has to correct himself, which makes him look anything but casual).

“I see someone who might need another concussion test if they keep this up,” you say dryly, though there’s a hint of amusement in your tone.

Franco seizes the opening. “Oh, you’ll give me a test? What, right here? Should I sit down? Or maybe lie down? Whatever you need, angel, I’m ready.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “I’m off-duty, thank you very much. And stop calling me angel.”

“Why? It suits you,” Franco says without missing a beat. He steps closer, his grin turning just a bit sheepish. “You did save me, after all.”

“From driving with a concussion,” you reply, crossing your arms.

“Still counts,” he says, shrugging. “So … you’re really here. Thought maybe Alex was messing with me.”

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, for fun? He likes to mess with me,” Franco says, his grin turning rueful. “But I’m glad he wasn’t. It’s … it’s good to see you.”

Your expression softens, and you glance down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “It’s good to see you too.”

For a moment, there’s a silence between you. Not awkward, but charged. Franco shifts his weight, scratching the back of his neck. He’s been preparing for this moment all week, but now that you’re standing in front of him, he’s at a loss.

Lily reappears then, an ice pack in hand. She tosses it to Franco, who catches it against his chest. “Here,” she says. “For the door-shaped bruise you’re probably going to have.”

“Thanks,” Franco says, pressing the pack to his forehead. He winces slightly but keeps his gaze on you.

Lily looks between the two of you, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Well, I’ll leave you two to … whatever this is,” she says, grabbing her glass and retreating toward the other end of the motorhome.

Franco watches her go, then looks back at you, his smile softening. “So … you’re here for the whole weekend?”

You nod. “Lily convinced me to stay. Said I needed a break.”

“You do,” Franco says quickly. “Definitely. Big time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because …” Franco hesitates, then decides to go for it. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Vegas.”

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “Franco-”

“I’m serious,” he interrupts, stepping closer. “I know I’m probably coming off like a total idiot right now, but I don’t care. You-” He gestures vaguely, as if struggling to find the right words. “You’re different. You’re not like anyone else here.”

“That’s because I’m not supposed to be here,” you say, your tone light but your eyes searching his. “I’m a doctor, Franco. Not meant for … whatever this world is.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “You could be anything, and I’d still want to know you. You’re …” He trails off, then laughs at himself. “God, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh too, finally relaxing. “A little, yeah.”

“But I’m trying,” he says, his expression earnest now. “And I’ll keep trying, even if it means walking into more doors. Or walls. Or whatever else gets in my way.”

You shake your head, exasperated but undeniably charmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you,” Franco counters, grinning.

You groan, but your smile betrays you. “Stop. That was awful.”

“Was it?” Hr teases, leaning just slightly closer.

“Yes,” you say firmly, though there’s a hint of laughter in your voice. “And I’m not letting you use your injuries as an excuse to flirt with me.”

“Then what excuse should I use?” He asks, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. “How about none? Just be normal.”

“Normal,” Franco repeats, as if testing the word. “Okay. I can do that. Probably.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” you say, but your tone is lighter now, your guard lowering just a fraction.

Franco grins, sensing the shift. He might not be smooth, but he’s persistent. And right now, that feels like enough.

***

The hospital hums with its usual rhythm: the sharp beeps of monitors, the steady shuffle of footsteps, and the occasional murmur of voices echoing down sterile hallways. You’re halfway through your shift, mentally cataloging a growing to-do list, when one of the nurses finds you near the break room.

She looks far too amused for your liking, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Hey, Doc,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “You’ve got a patient in Room 43. Interesting case. File’s by the door.”

You glance up from your notes, immediately suspicious. “Interesting how?”

“Let’s just say … not your usual trauma,” she replies, her grin widening. “Go see for yourself.”

With a sigh, you grab your tablet and head down the hallway. You’re too tired to entertain the nurse’s cryptic humor, but curiosity tugs at you anyway. When you reach Room 43, you spot the chart hanging by the door. You pick it up and start skimming, your brain automatically processing the medical shorthand.

And then your eyes land on the complaint: penile fracture.

You freeze. Your brain short-circuits for a good five seconds.

Penile fracture. Seriously? You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to laugh or groan. It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare enough to make your day a little more … colorful.

Squaring your shoulders, you prepare yourself for what’s undoubtedly going to be an awkward encounter. Professionalism, you remind yourself. You’ve handled weirder cases.

But all of that resolve shatters the second you open the door and step into the room.

Because the patient isn’t some anonymous stranger.

It’s Franco.

Franco, lounging on the exam table like he doesn’t have a care in the world, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. Franco, the same man you’ve been dating for months, who absolutely should not be in this hospital room right now.

Your mouth opens, ready to deliver your standard introduction, but no words come out.

Franco looks up at the sound of the door, his face breaking into that familiar, devilish grin. “Hey, angel.”

“What the-” You stop yourself, gripping the edge of the clipboard like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. “Franco, what are you doing here?”

He sets his phone down, looking at you with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m a patient. Clearly.”

You take a deep breath, setting the clipboard aside. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” He leans back slightly, gesturing toward himself with both hands. “Broken dick. You saw the file.”

Your jaw tightens as you step closer, lowering your voice. “Franco, this is a hospital. You can’t just-”

“I didn’t just anything,” he cuts in, feigning indignation. “I’m here because you abandoned me this morning. And now I’m suffering.”

You blink at him, completely thrown. “Suffering?”

“Yes!” He says, sitting up straighter, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays any attempt at seriousness. “You left me. Alone. In bed. With …” He lowers his voice dramatically. “An issue.”

Your brain scrambles to keep up. “An issue?”

Franco sighs, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Blue balls. A raging, unresolved situation. You’re a doctor — you know how dangerous that can be.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice rises slightly before you catch yourself. “Franco, I left because I had to come to work. Like a normal person.”

“Right, but normal people don’t leave their boyfriends high and dry,” he argues, his tone edging into the realm of petulant. “Do you know how much it hurts? It’s practically a medical emergency.”

You close your eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You’re here because you have blue balls. And instead of — oh, I don’t know — handling it with your hand and some lotion like a grown adult, you decided to come to my workplace and waste everyone’s time?”

“I don’t see it as wasting time,” Franco says, crossing his arms. “I see it as seeking expert care. From a very qualified, very beautiful doctor.”

“Franco,” you say warningly, but he’s already grinning.

“Besides,” he continues, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt, “don’t you think it’s romantic? I’m literally willing to suffer for you.”

“Oh my God.” You press a hand to your forehead, feeling a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You are not suffering. And this is not romantic — it’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously sweet,” Franco counters, clearly enjoying himself.

You stare at him, torn between wanting to strangle him and laugh. “You know I could get in trouble for this, right? What if someone finds out I’m treating my boyfriend? Or worse, that you’re faking a medical emergency?”

“I’m not faking,” he says quickly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “The pain in my cock is very real.”

“Franco.” Your voice is flat, and you fix him with your best no-nonsense look.

He hesitates for a beat, then leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess something scandalous. “Okay, maybe it isn’t a fracture. But it is painful!”

You throw your hands up, resisting the urge to laugh despite yourself. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”

Franco pouts, his lower lip sticking out in an exaggerated fashion. “Come on, angel. Don’t be mad. I just wanted to see you.”

“You couldn’t have waited until my shift was over?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m impatient. And in my defense, you looked very cute leaving this morning.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” he says, his grin widening.

“Don’t push your luck,” you warn, though there’s no real bite in your tone.

Franco leans back on the exam table, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just disrupted your workday. “So … are you gonna examine me or what?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do you want me to call security? Because that’s where this is headed.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, his confidence unwavering.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Franco holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. No exam. But only because I value our relationship.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, not even trying to hide your sarcasm.

He grins again, the kind of grin that’s always been your undoing. “You can’t stay mad at me, angel. Admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts. “Franco, you’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, you’d be on your way out of here in handcuffs.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks. “Kinky.”

“Oh, for the love of-” You don’t bother finishing the sentence, turning toward the door instead.

“Wait, wait!” Franco calls after you, sliding off the exam table. “I’m kidding! Don’t go!”

You pause, looking back at him. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, his expression softer now. “Seriously,” he says. “I just … I missed you. And I thought maybe this would make you laugh. Or at least roll your eyes. Which it did, so … mission accomplished?”

You sigh, feeling your resolve waver. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s looking at you like that — like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

“Franco,” you say, your voice quieter now. “You can’t just show up like this. I have a job to do.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “And I promise I won’t make a habit of it. But … can I take you to dinner after your shift? As an apology?”

You study him for a moment, weighing your options. Finally, you let out a small sigh. “Fine. But only if you promise to behave.”

“I promise,” he says quickly, holding a hand over his heart.

“And no more faking injuries,” you add, pointing a finger at him.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, though the mischievous glint in his eye suggests otherwise.

You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says, grinning.

“For now,” you say, opening the door. “Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franco says, saluting playfully as he follows you into the hallway.

As he walks away, you can’t help but smile to yourself. Ridiculous as he is, there’s no denying that life with Franco is never boring.

[xelinielx]

Even Broken, I Still Love You

The ending of book 7 has just WRECKED me and I wrote some hurt/comfort because I have feelings about my dragon boy. I put a link to the AO3 post as well. I usually never post writing on here but this piece doesn't fit in on my other blog so here it is.

SPOILERS FOR THE END OF BOOK 7

Header by MagicPaint. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63793984

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

Malleus’ voice was uncharacteristically quiet, tone so low that you had to strain to hear him. The question hung heavy in the air.

He still hadn’t turned to face you, staring out of the small window of the bedroom that he slept in during his stay at S.T.Y.X. There wasn’t much of a view out of the windows besides dark, moving water, so it was clear that Malleus was using the window as an excuse not to look at you.

It was clear just by looking that the overblot had taken an immense toll on him. He looked completely different from his usual self. Not only had his usual dark robes been changed to the S.T.Y.X-themed clothing that test subjects wore, but there was something about the way he held himself that was fundamentally different from before.

The noble dragon fae usually held his head high in a regal posture that was hard for anyone else to replicate, authority and power exuding from his very stance. It was a far cry to the way he was posed currently, hunched over as if trying to make himself seem smaller, trembling fingers clutching onto the windowsill. 

There was also a different aura surrounding him that was different from how his emotions could manipulate the weather around him. It wasn’t the feeling of crackling electric anger, or even the heavy, suffocating pressure drop as rain clouds formed. It was a deep, exhausted sorrow that seemed to weigh the entire room down. 

As Malleus had a collar to monitor his magic usage, the aura was, for once, not physical, yet it somehow felt more tangible than any emotional outburst you had seen from him. More real despite not actually being there.

A few days had passed since the final battle that had marked the end of Malleus’ overblot. When he had been reassured that Lilia was alright, Malleus had been taken by the Ferrymen as well as both Idia and Ortho to S.T.Y.X for monitoring and data-collection. No one had wanted to take the risk of leaving him in a state where he risked a second overblot, so once he had stabilized enough, the Director allowed him to request visitors. 

It had not seemed like a wise decision to keep Malleus cut off from the rest of the world as was S.T.Y.X’s norm since almost losing Lilia was what had brought on the overblot in the first place. Leaving Malleus not knowing how the people he cared about were doing was too high of a risk.

The first visitor that Idia had (begrudgingly) been tasked with delivering to the Isle of Woe was Lilia - to the surprise of no one. Both the Director and Idia had been hesitant to risk putting the strain of travel on Lilia so soon after everything that had happened, but Lilia had been uncaring of the worries and insisted that he had to go. 

Silver and Sebek were still in recovery - where Lilia was also supposed to be - and while Malleus had wished to see both his retainers as well, the Director had put his foot down. It was too dangerous to bring all three over already, so after negotiating, Malleus had agreed to let Sebek and Silver heal for a while longer before he got to see them. 

Lilia had also threatened the director, saying that if he refused to pick him up to go see his ward, Lilia would jump into the water surrounding Sage’s Island and swim until he managed to find the Isle of Woe. 

Besides researchers checking cameras and vitals to make sure both fae were alright, the two of them had been given space to speak alone. Whatever they spoke about was kept between them and S.T.Y.X, but it had involved lots of hugging and tears.

Two days after Lilia’s visit, Ortho had contacted you through your phone, telling you that Malleus had requested your presence at the Isle of Woe, which is where you currently were, staring at his trembling form for the first time since he had been taken in for monitoring. 

Normally, you’d have cracked a smile seeing the fae-prince surrounded by this much technology that he had no idea how to use, but the items in the room were the furthest things away from your mind.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, you walked over to Malleus’ shaking form. With a gentleness that Malleus wasn’t used to feeling, you placed your hand softly atop his. It felt a bit strange at first, feeling his cold skin instead of the gloves he tended to wear, but the feeling of strangeness quickly disappeared. 

A pair of wide, emerald-green eyes stared down at where your hand rested on top of his, filled with an unspoken question.

Why?

For a moment, the two of you stood still in silence as you searched for the right words. Eventually, you took a calming breath and spoke up, voice soft and calming.

“Mal,” you began, using an affectionate nickname to hopefully help him relax.

His breath hitched for a moment, surprise evident. 

“I understand why you used your ultimate magic. Why the circumstances caused you to overblot. You wanted to protect the people that were precious to you and keep them from harm, protecting both them and yourself from getting hurt.”

A single tear ran down Malleus’ cheek as he finally turned to fully face you, leaving a wet track across his porcelain skin. He still refused to meet your eyes, scared of what he would see reflected in them.

“You had good intentions. There is nothing evil about wanting to keep your loved ones safe. If I had been in your position, I think that I would have overblotted too,” you admitted quietly, giving Malleus a small, weak smile. “So there is no way that I can possibly blame you for making the same choices I would have if I were you.”

In a silent plea, Malleus turned his hand around to face palm-up. You responded by lacing your fingers together with his, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Please look at me?” you asked in a small, yet hopeful voice.

Slowly, Malleus’ green eyes moved from your intertwined hands up your arm, then neck, where they paused briefly before finally meeting yours. 

The hate and anger he had expected to see was nowhere to be seen. He could see his reflection, and was unable to determine whether the sadness he saw came from you or himself.   

You lifted your free hand to his face, letting it gently rest against his cheek. Your thumb moved to brush another tear away. 

“Malleus Draconia,” you said, staring deep into his eyes.

“You are not a monster.”

Those words seemed to snap whatever makeshift dam he had constructed to keep his emotions at bay, shattering it completely. 

Malleus began to cry. Tears flowed down his cheeks and sobs tore their way out of his heaving chest as he finally let go of control and allowed his emotions to run free. 

Unable to stand up anymore, Malleus fell to his knees on the floor, burying his face against your stomach as he cried. His arms wrapped around you tightly as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. He held you like he would collapse if there was even as much as a millimetre of space between the two of you.

His devastating sobs and the desperate way he clung to you broke your heart. You wasted no time sinking down to kneel in front of the dragon fae so that you could properly return his full embrace. 

Tears soaked your shirt as Malleus clung to you so desperately that it felt like you would bruise or your clothes would tear from his strength at any moment. That didn’t matter, though. Bruises didn’t matter. Clothes didn’t matter. S.T.Y.X didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered in that moment but the sobbing fae in your arms.

Malleus sobbed out apologies in between cries, and you did your best to calm him, whispering reassurances as you alternated between rubbing his back and petting his head gingerly, being extra mindful of his horns.

At some point, you ran out of new things to say, defaulting to a reassuring ‘it’s okay’ as you held him. Hopefully, he would feel better after letting it all out. You weren’t going anywhere.

It could have been anything from mere minutes to several hours, but eventually, Malleus’ sobs began to die down to sniffles.

He lifted his head from where he had buried it against your shoulder, glancing up to meet your eyes with his red-rimmed, puffy ones.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “For everything. All the people I hurt. The things I-” 

Fresh tears spilled past his lash line, and you didn’t hesitate to cup his face in your hands, brushing them away as they fell. Malleus leaned into the warmth of your palms, seeking the reassurance your touch held. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Mal,” you whispered, smiling at him. “Not to me. Never to me.” 

Leaning forward, you pressed a featherlight kiss against the scale on his forehead which peeked out from between tousled locks of hair. 

“There was nothing unforgivable about what you did. The people who were hurt are recovering, the school is being rebuilt, and everyone is safe.” 

Malleus’ breath hitched. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes and across his long lashes like tiny diamonds. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, voice still quiet and trembling. The ‘of me’ was left unsaid, but you knew it was there. 

Your immediate smile was all the reassurance Malleus needed, but you still decided to verbally reassure him as well.

“I could never be afraid of you, Mal.”

The relief Malleus felt was palpable as he finally relaxed, shoulders dropping from their tense position as he leaned his weight into you. 

His head shifted to press a pointed ear against your chest, listening to the steady and even thumps of your heartbeat.

To better support the body weight of the dragon fae, you shifted your sitting position so that you could lean your back against the wall. You refused to let Malleus get up so you could move, holding him close and carding your fingers through his hair with soft, comforting motions. 

“But I saw…” Malleus’ voice cracked. “When my horn broke, I saw the look in your eyes. You looked terrified.” The last part of the sentence was a mere whisper, but the close proximity between the two of you made you able to pick it up. 

“I was scared, yes,” you began, feeling something in your chest ache as you felt the powerful mage in your arms flinch. “But not of you.”

Malleus tilted his head to meet your eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. 

You let out an airy laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I was afraid for you. Afraid that you would have to be killed to stop your overblot. Afraid that I would never get to hold you like this again.”

You could feel tears brimming in your own eyes as you poured your heart out. “Mal, I love you. Nothing you have done or will do could ever change that.” 

Cold lips pressed against yours with a soft reverence. The kiss was slow, unhurried as the two of you conveyed a thousand words between each other in a silent, intimate moment. 

When you pulled apart, Malleus rested his forehead against yours, the cold of his forehead scale comforting. “You wish to stay by my side still?” he asked, knowing the answer deep down, yet still fearful he would be mistaken.

“Always.”

“Even if I look like this now?” he urged, leaning away far enough to do a sweeping motion towards his face and now uneven, damaged horns. “Even if-”

You cut him off with another kiss, this time more demanding than the prior. You tried pouring all your love into the kiss, trying to clear the insecure thoughts from Malleus’ mind. Taking the opportunity provided by Malleus as he had leaned away before, you climb into his lap, making yourself comfortable. 

Pulling away from the kiss, you cradled his face gently but firmly in both hands, making sure he couldn’t look away from you.

“Malleus, if you think something as insignificant as you looking different is enough to take me away from your side, you are far from correct.” You let your left hand travel up his face until it was gently tracing the base of his broken horn. 

“You could have four horns, eight and a half horns, or no horns at all, and it would still have no impact at all on my feelings for you.” 

Carefully, you gently ran the pads of your fingers over the broken part of the horn where it had snapped off. Malleus shuddered beneath you as your touch danced across his exposed, extra sensitive nerves.

“I love you because you are you. Not because you’re a Draconia, or a powerful fae. None of that matters.” Your hand returned to cradling his face once more. 

“Of course, having a strong, handsome partner is a bonus,” you added with a giggle, delighting in the small, pale blush that crept across Malleus’ cheeks.

“But I’m not with you because of those things. I’m with you because of all the things that make you you. The care that you show for me and those you care about, how fireflies follow you at night and circle our clasped hands. The cute way you pout when Sebek mixes up gargoyles and grotesques, itching to correct him. The childlike wonder you show to every new thing you learn…”

You take a breath, wishing in vain for your voice to stay strong, but failing miserably.

“- the way that all you’ve ever wanted is for people to see you for who you are, and be able to be yourself, unburdened by expectations and prejudices.”

Tears were flowing down your cheeks now, making you feel embarrassed. Right now, you needed to be the strong one supporting Malleus - not the other way around. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you placed your hand against his chest, right above his heart.

“I see you.” 

A relieved, genuine smile - the first one you’d seen since the overblot - stretched across Malleus’ lips. He leaned into the touch of your palm, eyes shining with both residual tears and adoration. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked.

You immediately shook your head in outrage. “What do you mean deserve? You silly, silly dragon. You didn’t have to do anything at all but exist.” 

Letting out a sound that was something halfway between a laugh and a sob, you continued as Malleus’ arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close. 

“If anything, I’m the one undeserving of you.” 

His mouth fell open in shock, about to cut you off, but you forced yourself to continue, undeterred.

“You’re the prince of Briar Valley. Not only do you have magic, but you’re one of the most powerful mages in the whole world! And the most ethereal, gorgeous person I have ever seen. I’m a nobody compared to you. A magicless human from another world with nothing really special about me. My life is so much shorter than yours, and I-”

This time, Malleus refused to let you continue and cut you off. A slender finger pressed against your lips as he let out a dry laugh. “My love, do you hear yourself? You are bringing up all the things you said didn’t keep you from loving me to put yourself down. Just as these things don’t matter to you, it is the same way for me. I did not fall in love with you because you’re a human or because it would benefit Briar Valley. I would renounce my claim on the throne in a heartbeat for you.”

Malleus cupped your cheek, mirroring your own earlier actions. 

“I fell in love with the first person outside of my country who truly saw me for myself, was undeterred by how awkwardly I engage in conversation, and extended invitations to me - being the first person to see me as a choice, someone they wanted to be around. You have never looked upon me with the fearful gaze of a subject kneeling before me, and have never made me feel excluded in any way due to being a prince.” 

He let out a laugh, gazing fondly up at you. “Any and every day with you is an adventure. No matter where you take me, what we do together, or what people around us whisper about, it’s the fact that I’m doing it with you that makes it special.”

“Even though I laughed at you when you were startled and jerked back when they were popping popcorn at a market stall and me and Silver had to fight to keep Sebek from drawing his sword at the poor owner of the stall?” 

Malleus let out a loud burst of laughter. “Moments like those are my favorite. Spending time with people I care about, and learning new things while not a single thought about my royal lineage crosses my mind.” 

Falling quiet for a moment, Malleus seemed to ponder something. With a resolute nod to himself, he resumes speaking. 

“Like you said, I am aware that the differing length of our respective lifespans is a source of conflict and worry. I do not wish to ever lose you. You saw what happened when I was afraid I would lose Lilia…” he trailed off for a moment, but quickly collected himself.

“Even though that is a fear I harbor, I do not wish to give up on loving you. If you are willing to stay with me despite all that I’ve done, we have many years to find a solution… and…” Malleus took a deep breath, meeting your gaze again, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. 

“...and should we not find a solution, then so be it. I would much rather have lived a life with you in it and then lose you than never having had you in my life at all.” 

Terrified of loss and sadness, and knowing the potential consequences of that, he still wanted nothing more than to spend as many years as possible at your side. A century is a short time for a fae, yet even if that is all the time with you that he gets, he is certain that it will be the most memorable and most valuable hundred years he ever lives.

“You ass,” you choked out with a laugh, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your shirt. “I’m the one supposed to be sappy and reassure you - not the other way around.” There was no mirth or anger in your eyes, and the remark was playful, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Malleus let out a chuckle, chest rumbling. “Who is to say that I am not supposed to be the so-called ‘sappy’ one?” he asked, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “You are truly precious to me, and I cannot in any amount of words in any language properly convey just how much you mean to me.” 

He fell silent once more, peeking up at you through his lashes. “Are you truly certain that you wish to be with me after all this?” 

There was no need to pause and think. You already knew your answer and had known it for a long time now.

“There is no place I would rather be.” 

Eventually, the pair of you fell asleep cuddled together on the floor, clutching each other tightly as if fearing that the other would disappear otherwise. Your head rested on Malleus’ chest, lulled to sleep by the soft, rumbling purrs he let out as he slept curled around you like a dragon guarding its hoard.

And for the first time since the overblot, neither of you worried about what you would find in your dreams, content to exist in the perfect reality that could only be found in the other’s arms.

[ayeforscotland]

What is Dataflow?

This post is inspired by another post about the Crowd Strike IT disaster and a bunch of people being interested in what I mean by Dataflow. Dataflow is my absolute jam and I'm happy to answer as many questions as you like on it. I even put referential pictures in like I'm writing an article, what fun!

I'll probably split this into multiple parts because it'll be a huge post otherwise but here we go!

A Brief History

Our world is dependent on the flow of data. It exists in almost every aspect of our lives and has done so arguably for hundreds if not thousands of years.

At the end of the day, the flow of data is the flow of knowledge and information. Normally most of us refer to data in the context of computing technology (our phones, PCs, tablets etc) but, if we want to get historical about it, the invention of writing and the invention of the Printing Press were great leaps forward in how we increased the flow of information.

Modern Day IT exists for one reason - To support the flow of data.

Whether it's buying something at a shop, sitting staring at an excel sheet at work, or watching Netflix - All of the technology you interact with is to support the flow of data.

Understanding and managing the flow of data is as important to getting us to where we are right now as when we first learned to control and manage water to provide irrigation for early farming and settlement.

Engineering Rigor

When the majority of us turn on the tap to have a drink or take a shower, we expect water to come out. We trust that the water is clean, and we trust that our homes can receive a steady supply of water.

Most of us trust our central heating (insert boiler joke here) and the plugs/sockets in our homes to provide gas and electricity. The reason we trust all of these flows is because there's been rigorous engineering standards built up over decades and centuries.

For example, Scottish Water will understand every component part that makes up their water pipelines. Those pipes, valves, fitting etc will comply with a national, or in some cases international, standard. These companies have diagrams that clearly map all of this out, mostly because they have to legally but also because it also vital for disaster recovery and other compliance issues.

Modern IT

And this is where modern day IT has problems. I'm not saying that modern day tech is a pile of shit. We all have great phones, our PCs can play good games, but it's one thing to craft well-designed products and another thing entirely to think about they all work together.

Because that is what's happened over the past few decades of IT. Organisations have piled on the latest plug-and-play technology (Software or Hardware) and they've built up complex legacy systems that no one really knows how they all work together. They've lost track of how data flows across their organisation which makes the work of cybersecurity, disaster recovery, compliance and general business transformation teams a nightmare.

Some of these systems are entirely dependent on other systems to operate. But that dependency isn't documented. The vast majority of digital transformation projects fail because they get halfway through and realise they hadn't factored in a system that they thought was nothing but was vital to the organisation running.

And this isn't just for-profit organisations, this is the health services, this is national infrastructure, it's everyone.

There's not yet a single standard that says "This is how organisations should control, manage and govern their flows of data."

Why is that relevant to the companies that were affected by Crowd Strike? Would it have stopped it?

Maybe, maybe not. But considering the global impact, it doesn't look like many organisations were prepared for the possibility of a huge chunk of their IT infrastructure going down.

Understanding dataflows help with the preparation for events like this, so organisations can move to mitigate them, and also the recovery side when they do happen. Organisations need to understand which systems are a priority to get back operational and which can be left.

The problem I'm seeing from a lot of organisations at the moment is that they don't know which systems to recover first, and are losing money and reputation while they fight to get things back online. A lot of them are just winging it.

Conclusion of Part 1

Next time I can totally go into diagramming if any of you are interested in that.

How can any organisation actually map their dataflow and what things need to be considered to do so. It'll come across like common sense, but that's why an actual standard is so desperately needed!

[hamilton-here]

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓈

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Here’s another one-shot. Enjoy. I made changes to race dates to make it a bit different. Also after the performance by Ferrari at Imola…I need therapy. Lots of love xx

Summary: A slow-burn romance blossoms between Lewis Hamilton and new grounded physiotherapist during F1, where healing touches turn into something far more intimate.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Barcelona – Day Eleven of Testing

The silence in the motorhome was deafening.

Not the kind laced with comfort or familiarity, the kind that wraps around two people like a warm blanket when words aren’t needed. No. This silence was different. It was sharp. Uneasy. The kind that settled between two people who didn’t quite know what to do with each other yet. It didn’t hum it throbbed. Uncomfortable and persistent, like static in the air that refused to clear.

You stood near the counter, clipboard clutched loosely in one hand, pretending to check his hydration schedule for what had to be the fourth time. You weren't fooling anyone not even yourself. You weren’t reading. The rows of data blurred into meaningless numbers, just a distraction from the heavy energy taking up space in the room.

Across from you, Lewis sat hunched over at the edge of the massage table, elbows resting on his knees, phone in hand. He scrolled lazily, without purpose, and didn’t look up once when you entered. No greeting. No eye contact. Just the blue-white glow of the screen reflected in his unreadable eyes.

You had gotten used to the silence over the past few weeks, or at least you told yourself you had. But today, it hit differently. Sharper. Heavier. It filled every corner of the motorhome, settling into your bones, and for the first time since you joined the team, it made your hands tremble.

The way he was sitting tense and folded into himself told you everything. Shoulders drawn up, jaw tight, neck stiff from more than just physical strain. He hadn’t relaxed once since stepping inside. Not even in his own space. That said something. That screamed something.

You cleared your throat quietly. “Okay. Ten minutes on the Normatecs, then we’ll work through active recovery for your hamstrings. That sound alright?”

Nothing. Not a word. Not even a nod.

You moved automatically, rolling out the compression sleeves, checking the connections, setting the timer. The machine hummed to life with a low, rhythmic buzz just one more noise filling the space he refused to break.

He didn’t help. He never did. Since the first day, he’d made it clear you were to do your job while he did his best to pretend you didn’t exist. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just absent. Disconnected in a way that left you wondering whether your presence irritated him, or if he just truly didn’t care.

You crouched beside him, guiding the first sleeve gently over his leg, careful not to let your fingers linger longer than necessary. You were allowed to touch him hell, that was your job but every movement still felt like a negotiation. Like the wrong brush of skin would shatter whatever fragile boundary existed between professional and personal.

Still nothing.

“Hydration levels are low again,” you said, your voice quieter now. Less clinical. Less sure. “I left a new blend in your bottle. Less sodium, more potassium. Should help with the cramping you mentioned yesterday.”

That made him glance up.

Just a flicker.

His eyes deep, dark, and exhausted met yours for half a second. Flat. Impenetrable. Then they dropped again, back to the safety of his phone screen.

You looked away too, suddenly feeling exposed.

You had to remind yourself again that this wasn’t personal. That you were simply the replacement. The new name in the system. The girl brought in to fill the void left by someone else.

You weren’t Angela.

You hadn’t known what brand of tea calmed him before a race. You didn’t understand his routines down to the minute. You hadn’t sat beside him in private jets or walked beside him through years of highs and heartbreaks. You didn’t know him like she did.

You weren’t his best friend. You weren’t even welcome.

You were the stranger occupying a sacred space.

And the worst part? You got it.

You weren’t trying to replace her. You respected what she meant to him how could you not? Her absence was still carved into the walls of his life, her name lingering in the silence he so carefully maintained. You were just trying to do your job. To help him heal, recover, push forward.

But lately, it had started to wear on you. The quiet. The resistance. The constant ache of walking on eggshells around someone you were trying your best not to disappoint.

You sat across from him now, folding your hands in your lap as the Normatecs began their slow, pulsing work. The rhythmic tightening and release of the sleeves was the only consistent sound in the room, aside from the occasional chime of a text notification on his phone.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been.

Three weeks of showing up every morning with a quiet resolve, hoping for a nod, a word, something. Three weeks of swallowing your pride and doing your job with a kind of quiet grace that no one applauded. Three weeks of watching him build walls and wondering if you’d ever be allowed to climb over them.

You’d heard the whispers in the paddock.

“She’s temporary.”

“He’ll bring someone else in by mid-season.”

“He hasn’t said two words to her.”

You weren’t there for gossip. You weren’t there to be liked.

Still, some small part of you a part that refused to go numb ached to prove them wrong. Not for your ego. But because, beneath the silence and distance, you felt something in him. Something raw. Something bruised. Something still soft underneath the hardness of it all.

You didn’t want anything from him. Not glory. Not attention. Not even friendship, if he didn’t have it to give.

You just wanted to help him carry the weight. Even for a minute.

But you were starting to wonder if he’d ever let you.

"Angela was his person. Anyone else was always going to be second best."

"I give it a month before she hands in her notice."

You weren’t planning to walk away.

Not after everything it had taken to get here.

Too many years spent in lecture halls, your head down over textbooks filled with muscle diagrams and case studies. Too many late nights in university labs testing recovery theories on willing volunteers. Too many unpaid internships, too many times you’d had to fight for a seat at the table while people with half your qualifications were handed the room. But you earned this. You built your reputation working with Olympic athletes who pushed their bodies to the limit, MotoGP riders stitched together with pins and sheer will and Premier League players who treated pain like a background hum.

You were damn good at your job.

But this?

This was something else.

This wasn’t just about stretching out hamstrings and correcting muscular imbalances. This was about surviving the unrelenting emotional chill of one of the most intense men in motorsport. And somehow, today felt colder than ever.

Lewis sat across the room, the only sound in the motorhome the soft hiss of the air conditioning and the intermittent tap of his thumb against his phone screen. His expression was unreadable. But it always was. That was part of the game if it even was one. The unreadability. The distance. The quiet disdain that radiated off him like static.

He hadn’t looked at you once since you walked in.

You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, steady. “Anything feel tight?”

No response. Not even a blink.

You glanced down at your clipboard, scanning over yesterday’s notes just to fill the silence. “I noticed some stiffness in your right calf during cooldown. You were compensating on your push-off stride.”

Still nothing.

Your heart beat just a little faster, but you didn’t let it show. You shifted your weight, pen tapping softly against the clipboard.

“I can adjust the therapy plan if—”

The sound of his phone clacking against the bench made your sentence die in your throat.

Your eyes snapped up.

He was staring at you now finally but not with interest. Not with curiosity. With irritation. Cold and sharp, like he was already regretting the effort it took to acknowledge your existence.

“You don’t have to talk so much.”

You froze.

Not in fear.

In shock.

It was the first full sentence he’d spoken to you since the first day you met. And it was spoken like a command, not a comment. Flat. Dismissive. Almost bored.

Your lips parted slightly, the instinct to defend yourself flaring, but no words came out. You inhaled slowly through your nose, grounding yourself in professionalism, not emotion.

“I’m trying to help,” you said quietly. Controlled. Precise.

He looked at you again, slower this time, his eyes narrowing. His silence stretched long enough that you started to wonder if he was going to speak at all. And then, with a sigh that sounded far too tired for the hour of the day, he said, “I didn’t ask for help. I asked for silence.”

It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even particularly harsh.

But it sliced through the air like a scalpel.

You stood there, clipboard still in hand, spine straightening almost involuntarily. You weren’t one for confrontations not in your professional setting. But something about the way he said it, the complete and casual dismissal of you as a person, made the words rise in your throat before you could stop them.

“Well,” you said, tone clipped, tight but not disrespectful, “if you want to avoid tearing your muscles or aggravating your already overworked hip flexors before the weekend, you’ll need more than silence.”

That got his attention.

He blinked, then tilted his head just slightly, as if genuinely surprised you’d spoken back. Like he’d expected you to nod, apologise, and go mute. His lips didn’t move, but the silence shifted. It felt heavier. Denser. As if something in the room had changed.

You didn’t flinch.

You met his gaze, held it, even when his expression darkened by a fraction. You didn’t back down. You’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let one man no matter how many trophies he had make you feel small.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned back against the bench, arms folding across his chest with slow, practiced ease. Like he was done with the conversation. Like you were a fly buzzing in his ear, not worth the swat.

Fine.

You returned to your notes without another word, pretending to study the page even as a lump formed slowly at the base of your throat.

You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not for him.

You’d learned a long time ago that in high-performance sport, the ice wasn’t always in the therapy rooms. Sometimes, it wore racing suits and sat across from you like you were the one out of place.

The rest of the session was mechanical. You asked questions basic ones, required for your notes. He ignored most of them. Gave one-word answers when silence no longer sufficed. When you gently adjusted the Normatec sleeves on his calves, he shifted away like your touch was something unwelcome, a necessary evil he had to endure.

You thought maybe the first week had been the worst, when he’d barely acknowledged you, when his eyes would scan the room and deliberately skip over where you stood.

But this was worse.

Now he saw you and still treated you like nothing.

The session ended with no goodbye. No eye contact. Just the quiet sound of a zipper as he pulled his hoodie over his head, grabbed his phone, and walked out like you hadn’t just been in the same room for forty-five minutes.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were for a moment, standing in the middle of the room, arms limp at your sides. Then, slowly, you knelt down, packed away the Normatecs, disinfected the table he’d barely touched, and made quick, efficient notes in his recovery log.

He was gone five minutes before the debrief even ended. You didn’t need to ask why. You’d stopped asking questions you knew he wouldn’t answer.

The ache in your chest was familiar now. Low-grade and dull, like an old bruise still tender if pressed too hard.

But you didn’t press it.

You stood, squared your shoulders, and rolled your tension out of your neck like you’d instructed a thousand others to do.

You weren’t here to make friends. You weren’t here to be liked.

You were here to do your job. And whether Lewis Hamilton wanted to acknowledge it or not, you were damn good at it.

“Hey.”

The voice startled you from your concentration, slicing cleanly through the silence. You looked up from your tablet, where notes about hydration levels and muscle fatigue blinked softly on the screen. Marc, one of the performance engineers, was leaning through the side door of the motorhome, his expression somewhere between teasing and concerned.

“He, uh…didn’t throw anything at you today, right?” he asked, one brow raised.

You gave a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No flying water bottles. Just the usual soul-crushing silence.”

Marc stepped in fully, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. He tossed you a protein bar, and you caught it out of reflex. “You holding up?”

You nodded; the smile you gave him automatic but grateful. “Trying,” you admitted.

He studied you for a moment, then sat down on the edge of the massage table, the one Lewis hadn’t touched today. Or yesterday. Or, if you were being honest, much at all this week.

You’d gotten used to this people stopping by to check on you when they thought no one else was watching. Little signs of solidarity. A spare espresso left on your station with no name attached. A folded towel you hadn’t placed there. A toolbox casually moved closer to block Lewis’s line of sight whenever his glares got particularly cutting.

Even Toto had surprised you once during a track walk. He’d murmured a soft “Hang in there” as he passed by, the weight of his hand on your shoulder more grounding than you expected. It wasn’t pity not exactly. It was more like shared understanding. Everyone here had felt the sting of Lewis’s coldness at one point or another. The difference was that you were now expected to survive it day after day, from a front-row seat.

Marc unwrapped his protein bar, chewing thoughtfully as he leaned forward. “You coming to the team dinner tonight?”

You shook your head. “Still have to finish reports. Adjust the physio plan for Saturday.”

He gave you a pointed look. “You know he’s probably not reading those, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “They’re still my responsibility.”

Marc exhaled slowly through his nose, then nodded like that answer was better than anything he could’ve come up with. “If you change your mind, we’ll save you a seat.”

You offered him a small smile, then returned to your notes. He left without another word, the silence resettling around you like a heavy curtain.

Hours passed. The paddock emptied in waves, the once-busy energy fading until all that was left was the occasional creak of a door, the buzz of a security golf cart outside. You stayed. Of course you did.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, a resistance band looped around your feet as you stretched absently, reviewing your schedule on your tablet. The only light came from the hallway, casting a soft golden glow across the otherwise darkened room. There was a stillness now that felt sacred this was the time you usually got the most done, when you didn’t have to brace yourself for the way Lewis would walk past you like you didn’t exist.

Until the door opened.

You startled. Just slightly. Enough that your body tensed before you even looked up.

Lewis.

He stepped inside slowly, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his pockets. His eyes landed on you immediately. You couldn’t read the expression in them only that he hadn’t expected you to be here. Then again, you hadn’t expected him either.

“I thought you left,” you said, voice cautious but neutral.

His gaze moved over you quickly - your posture, the tablet on your lap, the stack of charts on the bench. Then back to your face.

“Could say the same to you,” he replied, flatly.

You started to rise, more out of instinct than necessity, but he waved a hand. Not rude. Just dismissive. Like he couldn’t be bothered with the formalities.

“You don’t have to. I’m just grabbing something.”

He disappeared into the side room. You heard a few soft zippers, the rustle of gear bags. Silence again. Then, unexpectedly, his voice drifted back.

“You shouldn’t work so late.”

You froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was how he said them.

Not sharp. Not cold. Just quiet. Measured. Almost human.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. “Neither should you,” you said finally, your voice steady but soft.

He emerged a moment later with a folded hoodie and a half-eaten protein bar in hand. He paused in the doorway, eyes on you again.

“You do all this for every athlete you work with?” he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head, unsure if this was sarcasm or something else. “All what?”

He gestured vaguely to the clipboard, the notes, the tracking charts on the wall, the pre-race hydration metrics outlined in neat, colour-coded blocks.

“This level of detail.”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re not just any athlete.”

That made him blink. And for a second just a second something flickered behind his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But a shift. A flicker of recognition.

You stood then, brushing off your track pants, already moving to pack up. “Anyway. I’ll be out of your space in a minute.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you. Not with the disinterest you were used to. This was different. His gaze wasn’t ice. It was flint. Something waiting to be struck.

“You’re not trying to replace her.”

The words came low. Blunt.

You looked up, startled. “Angela?”

He nodded once.

“I’m not,” you said honestly. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t try to. I’m just trying to do the job I was hired to do.”

There was a long pause. A breath caught somewhere between you.

“I didn’t want anyone new,” he murmured. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even angry. It was tired. Honest.

“I know,” you replied gently.

Your words seemed to land. His jaw flexed once, like he was working through the effort of keeping the rest inside. He looked down at the floor. Then back at you.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said again, but softer this time. Almost like he was giving you a way out.

“If this isn’t worth it.”

You stared at him. Really stared.

“I don’t quit,” you said quietly.

For a beat, nothing. Then barely his lips twitched. Not a smile. But a suggestion of one. A ghost of something real.

He nodded, once. Then turned and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood alone in the dim light, pulse thudding in your ears, the silence he left behind now somehow louder than it had been before.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel so empty.

It felt like the beginning of something shifting.

Maybe not warmth.

But something.

Something real. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix, Saturday

Rain slicked the paddock, soaking into every crevice of the asphalt and turning the air into a clinging, grey fog. It wasn’t heavy rain more of a misty drizzle that fell steadily, like the world itself was holding its breath. The sky hung low, dull and oppressive, as if weighed down by tension. You tugged the hood of your team-issued rain jacket tighter around your face, fingers curled into the sleeves as you kept your eyes down and feet quick. The occasional spray from a passing cart splattered against your ankles, and you grimaced, but didn’t stop.

Qualifying had ended just fifteen minutes ago.

P8.

Not terrible. But not what anyone wanted. Not what he wanted.

The Mercedes garage had been a storm of movement by engineers huddled in muttering groups, mechanics shaking their heads as they toweled off tools, data feeds blinking with too many red sectors. You hadn’t spoken to Lewis afterward. You hadn’t needed to. The way he stalked out of the car, jaw clenched so tight you were certain it would crack, had been loud enough.

Still, you moved through the paddock as you always did quiet, efficient, invisible when needed, but never far. You knew where he’d be: in debrief. And you knew where you needed to be after that.

Inside the Mercedes motorhome, the air was warmer, drier, but no less tense. The murmur of voices in the meeting room filtered faintly through the wall, but you stayed where you always did just outside the door. Clipboard in hand. Post-qualifying protocol ready. Notes committed to memory. You weren’t officially inside those briefings yet. You hadn’t earned that access. But you were close enough to be called on at a moment’s notice. Close enough to hear when the tone of the voices shifted. Close enough to feel the emotional fallout before it even hit.

He hadn’t spoken to you since that night.

The one in the motorhome. The strange, silent exchange lit only by hallway light and unfinished sentences. He hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t brought it up but you noticed the difference. Subtle, almost imperceptible. His silences had softened. He no longer recoiled from touch. When you adjusted the tightness of the wraps around his wrist, he didn’t pull back. When you altered his hydration balance by a percentage point, he drank it anyway. He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t resist anymore.

It was something.

The door to the meeting room swung open twenty minutes later.

He walked out first fast, purposeful, shoulders squared. His race suit hung open around his waist, the fireproofs beneath it clinging to his damp skin. His face was a careful mask, lips pressed in a firm line, eyes like stone. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You simply fell into step beside him, matching his stride, clipboard held to your chest.

He didn’t tell you to come with him.

But he didn’t tell you to leave, either.

He led you to the private treatment room near the back of the motorhome, the one reserved for cooldowns, muscle work, or the kind of days where nothing else helped. You closed the door gently behind you as he dropped down onto the padded bench, exhaling hard through his nose.

He didn’t speak, so you did.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said softly, knowing how little comfort that kind of truth offered on days like this.

He laughed, short and sharp, but there was no humour in it. “Tell that to the car.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you let the silence stretch for a few seconds enough to let him breathe, to let the frustration settle without feeding it.

“Take your shirt off,” you said finally, voice calm, clinical.

His head turned, just slightly. Eyes flicked to you. It wasn’t defiant more surprised. As if for the first time, he actually heard you. Not the instruction. The voice beneath it.

But he didn’t argue. He pulled the damp black shirt over his head in one swift motion and tossed it onto the chair beside him. You moved to your station, pulling a small bottle of oil and a warm compress from the drawer, laying out towels with quiet efficiency.

You didn’t let your eyes linger. Not on the ink that curved over the strong line of his shoulders. Not on the flex of muscle across his back or the faint trail of moisture that ran along the side of his neck. You’d worked with world-class athletes for years. You’d seen better physiques. Probably. Maybe.

But it had never felt like this before.

You pressed your thumb into his left shoulder blade, slowly working the knot you already knew would be there. He tensed at first habitual but gradually relaxed into the pressure.

“Tight,” you murmured under your breath. “You’re overcompensating on the left side again.”

“Didn’t feel it on the sim.”

“It’s not the sim,” you replied, matter of fact.

His lips quirked faintly not quite a smile, more like reluctant agreement.

You worked in silence. Long, slow strokes. Careful attention. He wasn’t the kind of man who responded to chatter in moments like this. You could feel his breathing begin to slow as your thumb moved in deliberate circles beneath his shoulder blade, coaxing the strain away.

After a while, he exhaled low, unguarded.

“That bad?” you asked quietly.

“I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too exposed.

And yet…he didn’t pull away.

He stilled. Then, slowly, his voice found you again. “You take this job very seriously.”

You paused, letting your hands still against his skin. “I take you seriously.”

There was a silence then. A heavier one. Not uncomfortable just charged. His head turned slightly, and you felt his gaze settle on you over his shoulder.

“Why?” he asked. Soft. Sincere. Not a challenge. Just a question from a man who’d stopped expecting genuine answers.

You stepped back, wiping your hands on a towel, heart thudding once in your chest like a warning. You didn’t dodge the question.

“Because you don’t need someone to worship you, Lewis. You need someone to take care of you. And I’m good at that. Whether or not you ever thank me for it.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His jaw twitched unreadable expression flickering across his face like static. Something passed between you in that second. An understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

The silence stretched again.

Then his radio pinged from the corner of the room. A notification. Reality calling him back.

And just like that, the walls came up again.

He moved quickly, standing and reaching for his shirt. You saw the armour slip back into place: the focus, the distance, the self-protection he wore like second skin.

“Race is tomorrow,” he said, voice low, already slipping back into routine.

You nodded. “You’ll need the TENS on your calf tonight. Ten minutes. I’ll set it up in your suite.”

He paused, then nodded. Just once. Small. But real.

And as he left the room, you didn’t follow right away. You stood still for a moment, hands still damp, heart still racing.

Something was shifting.

And this time, it felt like he’d noticed it too. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix — Saturday Night

The storm rolled in harder.

By the time you stepped out of the hospitality suite, the mist from earlier had turned into a proper downpour. Cold sheets of rain danced across the emptying paddock, bouncing off slick asphalt, bouncing off puddles that had swelled in uneven places. Lightning flashed somewhere beyond the hills, illuminating the track for a heartbeat before the world slipped back into wet, colourless grey.

You pulled your rain jacket tighter and tucked your clipboard under your arm, head down, boots splashing as you made your way back toward the team’s garage annex. The air felt heavier now—not just with weather, but with something more personal, more charged.

You hadn’t been able to shake the moment from earlier. The way Lewis had looked at you, voice stripped bare when he asked why you cared. The way he’d listened really listened when you told him the truth.

You were halfway across the compound when your earpiece crackled.

Static, then your name. Then, “Lewis had a fall. It’s minor. Nothing broken. But…he slipped on the paddock stairs. We need you.”

You didn’t ask questions. Just turned on your heel and started moving faster.

The compound near the entrance was quieter now, most media cleared out, crews huddled indoors. A few security guards stood at the perimeter; shoulders hunched against the storm. You moved past them quickly, ducking into the treatment wing Mercedes shared with a few other teams for emergencies.

Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and rain-soaked fabric. Dim lights flickered overhead. And there he was.

Lewis sat on the edge of the physio bench, one elbow on his thigh, head tilted forward, rain still dripping from the ends of his braids. His fireproofs clung to his legs, soaked and rumpled. One leg was slightly bent at the knee just enough for you to notice the stiffness in how he held it.

His expression was neutral. Blank, almost. But you saw it the tension in his jaw, the clench of his hands.

Not pain.

Pride.

Someone had seen him fall. That was worse.

You didn’t ask if he was okay. He would’ve lied. Instead, you moved forward and crouched in front of him, rainwater still beading on your sleeves.

“Let me see,” you said, your voice calm, careful.

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away either.

Gently, you rolled up the bottom of his compression leggings, slow enough not to jostle the muscle. The lighting wasn’t great, but you could already see it a faint swell above the knee, the beginnings of a bruise blooming violet and red along the outside of the joint. Not terrible. But enough.

You palpated the area with trained fingers, watching his face more than his leg. He flinched only once.

“No major swelling. No tear,” you murmured. “But it’s a strain. Keep pushing and it’ll get worse.”

He exhaled through his nose, silent again.

“I can tape it,” you offered, reaching for your kit behind you.

He hesitated. You could feel it a flicker of resistance, not to you, but to the idea of needing help. Of being seen needing help.

“Lewis.” You met his eyes this time, tone soft but insistent. “If you limp during the cooldown lap tomorrow, every camera on the track will catch it. Every headline will be about that, not your race. Let me help.”

A pause. The kind that hung in the air like a balancing scale.

Then, finally he nodded. Just once. But it was enough.

You set to work quickly, hands skilled and precise. The room fell into silence, filled only with the sound of rain thudding against the windows and the soft rip of kinesiology tape. Your fingers moved over the muscle with practiced ease, wrapping the joint just snug enough to offer support without restricting motion.

The air between you felt different now.

Not charged with discomfort or avoidance.

Open.

Tentative, real.

He wasn’t resisting. He wasn’t pulling away. And for someone like him, who held his world so close to his chest, that was massive.

When you finished, you smoothed the last strip into place and sat back on your heels.

“All done,” you said gently, wiping your hands on a towel. “Try standing.”

He did, slowly testing the leg, shifting his weight. His face stayed composed, but you could tell he was impressed. Or maybe relieved.

Then he looked at you. Really looked at you. For a long moment, he just stood there, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the edges of whatever it was, he’d started to feel earlier.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said at last, voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift from silence to honesty.

“In a good way?” you asked, not teasing more cautious.

He gave a half smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt more real than anything you’d seen from him in days.

“I don’t know yet,” he said softly.

You returned the smile, just faintly. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause. He turned as if to grab his hoodie from the bench, but then he stopped. The weight of something unsaid pulled him back.

“I’m signing with Ferrari next year,” he said, suddenly, like he needed to get it out before the moment passed.

You froze.

Not just at what he said but at the way he said it. Quiet. Intimate. Like a confession. You hadn’t heard it from the media. No one had. And he was telling you.

Your voice caught in your throat.

“Will you be with me at Ferrari?” he asked, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at him, blinking once. Twice.

“You haven’t told anyone else,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

“No.” He said it like a promise. “Not yet.”

You swallowed. Your hands felt strangely cold. “Am I…am I even allowed to be?”

He hesitated then stepped closer. Not much. Just an inch. But it felt like a mile.

“I want you there.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to say at first. The weight of that sentence landed somewhere deeper than you were prepared for. You’d spent so long trying to do this job perfectly, quietly, without asking for anything back. And now he was offering something you hadn’t dared hope for.

He wanted you.

Not just for a treatment. Not just for race prep. He wanted you.

You nodded slowly. The words stuck behind your teeth, thick with emotion. “Okay,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll be there.”

His eyes softened. Just slightly. But enough.

And outside, the storm kept raging. But in here in this tiny room filled with rain light and tape and unsaid things a different kind of thunder passed between you.

One that felt like the beginning of something. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Last race of the season Miami Grand Prix – Sunday Night. Mercedes Motorhome – Final Debrief

The clinking of champagne flutes echoed in the corridor, muffled behind closed doors. Monaco glittered outside yachts bobbing gently in the harbour, floodlights painting gold across wet pavement. But inside the Mercedes motorhome, everything felt like it was standing still.

You stood next to Lewis, just outside the debrief room, watching him quietly as the team finished their final post-race rundown. He hadn’t said much since crossing the line today - P5 after a long, bruising race. Not the send-off he’d wanted. But still, there was a calm in him. A quiet acceptance.

He glanced over at you now, his lips twitching into something soft. “Feels weird,” he said.

You nodded. “End of an era.”

“Twelve years,” he murmured, running a hand over his jaw. “Twelve years in silver and black.”

You looked at the logo on his race suit black now, but the silver star still prominent on his chest.

“Still suits you,” you said gently.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for much longer.”

And as if on cue, the buzz started.

Your phone lit up in your pocket. Then his. Then Toto’s voice called from inside the room—“It’s out.”

The press embargo had lifted. The announcement was live.

Lewis Hamilton to join Scuderia Ferrari in 2025.

Through the glass wall, you could already see the team scrolling through their phones, a few shoulders stiffening, some murmuring in surprise even though most of them had known. Still, seeing it official made it real.

Lewis exhaled. Not nervous. Just…letting go.

You stepped a little closer. Close enough that he could feel your presence behind him, even if you didn’t touch.

“They’re going to spin it,” he said, quietly. “They always do.”

“Let them,” you said. “You know why you’re doing this. And you’re not doing it alone.”

He turned to you then, fully, eyes meeting yours with something that felt like gratitude and something else something heavier.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

The motorhome around you was moving now people preparing for the inevitable media storm, public statements, clipped interviews. But for a second, in the eye of it all, it was just the two of you.

“You ready to wear red?” he asked.

You gave a small smile, heartbeat steady. “Only if you are.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2025 Preseason – Maranello, Italy

Three weeks until the first race

The first thing you noticed about Maranello was the quiet.

Not silence, exactly there were always distant echoes of movement, clipped Italian voices passing through corridors, the whir of machines in wind tunnels deeper within the complex. But compared to Brackley, this place felt almost reverent. The air was still, like it was listening. Watching. Remembering.

There was history in the walls here. Decades of it. You felt it in the smooth tiles under your boots, in the red banners lining the hallways, in the framed photos of champions and legends — Lauda, Schumacher, Ascari all staring out with the kind of intensity that made you unconsciously square your shoulders as you passed. You weren’t just working for a team anymore. You were stepping into a legacy.

You checked your new badge again, still not quite used to the prancing horse printed in gold beside your name.

Ferrari – Physiotherapist.

It still felt like something out of someone else’s story. But the weight of the lanyard was real around your neck, and so were your footsteps as you turned the corner into the gym.

Lewis was already there.

He stood alone in the centre of the room, red Ferrari training gear clinging to his frame, his back glistening faintly with sweat under the overhead lights. His braids were tied back tight, focused entirely on the punching bag in front of him. Left. Right. Right again. Controlled, powerful strikes. Not angry precise. Calculated. A rhythm more than a release.

He didn’t turn when you stepped in, but his voice met you anyway.

“About time.”

You let out a small, amused breath. “They made me sign five NDAs just to walk past reception.”

That got the barest twitch of his mouth not quite a smile, but not nothing. “Welcome to Ferrari.”

You moved a little closer, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. Everything gleamed. The weights, the equipment, even the water bottles looked engineered to impress.

“I still feel like I’ve broken into a museum,” you murmured.

He stepped back from the bag and reached for a towel. “It’s sacred ground.”

“And you’re the new priest?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

He threw a look over his shoulder, equal parts dry and self-aware. “I’m the experiment.”

You set your bag down near the bench, catching the shift in his posture not defensive, just watchful. There was no mistaking the difference in him since last season. He still moved like a fighter, still carried himself like someone who had nothing to prove and everything to protect. But there was a stillness in him now. A quietness that hadn’t been there before.

“So then,” you said, tone light but firm, “let’s make sure you don’t combust under the microscope.”

This time, when he sat, he didn’t hesitate as you stepped in front of him, hands already moving through your practiced checks. His eyes found yours not guarded, but deliberate. As if he wanted you to see the weight he was carrying. Not just from the physical training, but from everything else. The pressure. The shift. The risk.

“You stayed,” he said simply, voice low.

You blinked. “You asked me to.”

“That doesn’t mean much in this business.”

You guided his arm through the first shoulder stretch, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, where his pulse beat steady and strong. “I’m not in this for the business.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Neither am I. Not anymore.”

There was something in his voice not bitterness. More like exhaustion. The kind that sinks into your bones after years of chasing ghosts through podiums, through airports, through interview rooms where every word gets picked apart by strangers who think they know you.

“You still love it, though,” you asked, quiet. “Don’t you?”

He hesitated, lips parting just slightly. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to remember.”

Your hands stilled on his forearm, eyes meeting his. There wasn’t anything performative in the moment no drama, no weighty declarations. Just honesty. Rare and raw.

Outside the gym window, you could see the edge of the track. Empty now, slick from a light drizzle, but waiting. In just under three weeks, it would roar to life again new season, new car, new team colours. And Lewis would be at the centre of it all. The man in red.

You reached into your kit and pulled out a new mobility band, looping it over your wrist as you refocused.

“We’ll start light today. Test your range of motion, no overload.”

He nodded once. “Lead the way.”

And for the first time since you’d met him all those months ago, back when he barely looked you in the eye unless it was necessary - he followed without hesitation. Without resistance.

He trusted you now.

And as you moved through the stretches, his breath syncing with yours, you felt it. The calm before the storm. The last few quiet moments before everything began again.

Only this time, you were starting together.

A week later

Training in Maranello had settled into its own steady rhythm, a pulse that beat differently from anything you’d known before.

Mornings were for the gym the smell of leather mats, the clinking of weights, the sharp sound of gloves hitting punching bags. Lewis moved through it all with a deliberate intensity, every motion precise and measured, like a man conducting a private ritual. You learned quickly that he didn’t want to be hovered over. Space was his currency. Too close, and he’d shrink inside himself; too far, and he might drift away. The balance was delicate.

Afternoons were spent in the simulator room. The hum of the machines, the glow of screens filled the space. You often sat quietly nearby, not interrupting, letting him immerse himself in every turn, every braking point, every split second that might mean the difference between victory and defeat. When he spoke, it was sparse, clipped a nod, a brief answer. But sometimes, just sometimes, he would glance your way, and you’d catch a fleeting flicker of something like camaraderie.

Evenings belonged to the review sessions. Lights dimmed, the team gathered around monitors replaying laps and telemetry. You watched how Lewis absorbed it all, the tight line of his jaw, the narrowed eyes a fighter learning his battlefield. Your job felt secondary to the mechanics and engineers, but it was no less vital. You knew that without his body, none of the data mattered.

Over the days, you became attuned to the small, unspoken things that grounded him.

The way he liked his towels folded - folded just so, edges crisp and corners sharp. You found yourself arriving before he did, smoothing and folding in silence, a quiet offering to the ritual of his preparation.

The post-ride drink a coconut water blend laced with just the right balance of electrolytes and minerals. It was subtle, but you learned it didn’t upset his stomach the way some recovery drinks did. He never asked for it, but it was always waiting for him, chilled and ready.

You discovered that the TENS unit helped him sleep better when you ran it on his lower back instead of his shoulders, even though he never mentioned it aloud. You just knew the way he shifted, the almost imperceptible sigh as the muscles loosened under the gentle pulses.

He never thanked you. There was no need. His world was built on results, on strength, on silent determination. But you saw it anyway in the smallest cracks of his armour. The way his eyes softened when you handed him the coconut water without a word. The almost imperceptible relaxation in his posture when you massaged the tight knot beneath his shoulder blade. The briefest exhale of relief after a long day.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

His guard fell, inch by inch, day by day. Quiet acceptance. Unspoken trust. The kind of trust that isn’t declared but felt, deep beneath the surface.

Then came the night that changed everything again.

It started like any other evening the team wrapping up in the conference room, Lewis retreating to his suite to prepare for tomorrow’s early start. You lingered nearby, tidying the physio room, when a message buzzed on your phone. Lewis needed you.

The details were vague just that he wanted you to come up. Now.

When you entered the room, you found him seated on the edge of the bed, the harsh white overhead light softened by the low glow of the bedside lamp. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and raw tired but resolute.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.

No more pretence. No more walls.

Just the two of you, suspended in the quiet aftermath of a long day, on the cusp of something neither of you could yet name.

That night, something shifted subtle, fragile, but undeniable.

And you knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t be standing on opposite sides of the glass anymore. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Maranello – Friday Night

It was nearly ten in the evening when you finally finished logging Lewis’s data. The spacious physiotherapy facility was nearly empty, the hum of machines long gone, and the lights dimmed low enough to feel like the day was finally winding down. Your shoulders ached from the constant motion, from holding muscles in place and coaxing bodies back from the edge of exhaustion. You were folding up your clipboard and stacking your tools, the quiet settling in like a gentle shroud.

Just as you were about to grab your bag, a soft, hesitant tapping broke through the stillness tap tap, sharp against the glass of the physio room’s window. You turned and found him there. Lewis. Not the blazing star on the track, not the man chased by lenses and headlines. Just Lewis, wrapped in a loose grey hoodie and worn-in joggers, the edges of his face softened by the dim light. His usual fierce intensity was replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.

“I owe you dinner.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness, by the low, almost shy tone. “Sorry?”

“That night in Imola last year ,” he said, stepping in just enough to lean against the doorframe. “You stayed late. Taped me up. No complaints.”

You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was doing my job.”

“But I didn’t say it then. I should have.”

You studied him carefully. The protective wall of armour of steel he’d worn for so long was still there, but thinner now. More fragile. More...transparent, like glass instead of iron.

“Are you actually going to feed me or is this your version of small talk?” you teased, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

That coaxed a real smile from him a rare, easy curve of his mouth that lit up the space between you. “I found a place down the road. No cameras. No chaos.”

You hesitated, weighing the sudden invitation against the exhaustion pooling in your limbs. But only for a second. “Let me grab my jacket.”

Outside, the night air was cool and still, the streets around the Ferrari headquarters quiet under the amber streetlights. The walk to the restaurant was short, the sounds of the town muted except for distant laughter and the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

The restaurant was small and intimate, with wooden tables polished smooth and walls lined with faded photographs and old racing memorabilia. The low lighting cast warm shadows, and the rich smells of basil, garlic, and slow-cooked tomato sauce wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

Lewis didn’t put on a show. He didn’t act like Lewis Hamilton, global icon. He simply pulled out your chair with a quiet dignity, sat with a relaxed posture that surprised you, and asked what you liked without pretence or celebrity.

You ordered pasta, something simple but full of flavour, and a glass of red wine that stained the rim of your glass a deep garnet. He laughed once, low and genuine, when your fork clinked awkwardly against the wine glass as you tried to pour a delicate sip with too much enthusiasm.

Halfway through the meal, as the conversation meandered from mundane topics favourite movies, childhood memories to more personal territory, you looked at him. Really looked. The glare of competition and the weight of expectations had faded from his eyes. What remained was something rare and unguarded.

“You’re different here,” you said softly, voice barely above the hum of conversation around you.

He tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Good different?”

“Honest.”

Lewis rested his forearms on the table, his fingers idly brushing the curve of his glass as if anchoring himself to the moment. “It’s easier when I’m not being chased.”

“You’re still being watched,” you reminded him gently.

He gave a small shrug, almost imperceptible. “Not by you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you a quiet understanding that needed no words.

“You want someone to see you,” you said after a moment, “not just watch you.”

His jaw tensed, the muscles tightening like a breath held too long. But he didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked at you really looked like he was trying to figure out how he hadn’t noticed you sooner. Like you were the missing piece in a puzzle he thought he had solved long ago.

And maybe, just maybe, he was. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Late Winter, Barcelona Test Week

The Ferrari motorhome buzzed quietly with the calm energy of a team preparing for battle. Warm light spilled from overhead panels, soft conversations murmured around the hospitality area, and the occasional clink of cutlery echoed faintly through the air. Outside, the cool Catalan breeze whispered against the glass walls, but inside, the atmosphere was insulated — a cocoon of focus and quiet determination.

You were tucked away in the corner of the physio room, methodically organising a fresh batch of resistance bands. The subtle scent of leather and antiseptic mingled in the air, familiar and oddly comforting. Your hands worked with practiced ease, but your attention was partially drawn to Lewis, sprawled on the treatment table like it was a throne rather than a place of rehab.

He looked subdued today not withdrawn or tense, just internal, like the world was weighing heavily behind those calm eyes. He scrolled through telemetry data on his iPad, his fingers flicking through stats and lap times, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“Shoulders tight again?” you asked softly, without looking up.

“Mmh,” he hummed in response, a low sound of distraction. “Didn’t sleep.”

You glanced over your shoulder, curiosity mingling with concern. “The new mattress not working?”

He shrugged, eyes flickering to the ceiling as if searching for answers there. “My brain’s loud.”

Crossing the room with your clipboard in hand, you stopped beside him. The warmth of the motorhome wrapped around you both, the faint hum of the air conditioning mingling with distant voices. “Want me to run the TENS unit?” you offered gently.

There was a long pause. No answer came at first, just the soft flicker of the screen and his shallow breaths. Then, quietly, almost like a request you hadn’t expected, he said, “Only if you’ll stay while it runs.”

Your heart caught. Lewis never asked for anything like that. Usually, he tolerated you, allowed your presence as a necessary part of his routine. But this was different. This was an invitation.

You set the clipboard down carefully, your fingers brushing the surface as you leaned in. “Of course.”

You attached the electrodes to his upper back with practiced precision. As soon as the current hummed to life, Lewis exhaled not a dramatic release, but a subtle loosening of tension that you hadn’t realised was coiled so tightly beneath his skin. Your fingers adjusted the settings, the touch gentle and sure, moving over his skin without the flinch or pull of resistance you’d seen in the early weeks. This was progress.

“Tell me what your brain’s saying,” you murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for him.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes half-lidded, soft and searching. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

There was silence, but it wasn’t shutting you out. It was a pause, a moment spent gathering the right words from a place that rarely opened so fully.

“I’m starting over,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady. “Again. Thirty-nine years old, in red. Everyone expects me to prove I didn’t make a mistake.”

You could feel the weight in his words not just the physical strain, but the mental and emotional pressure that came with changing teams, starting fresh under the unforgiving gaze of the racing world.

“I know I can still do this,” he added, voice tightening just slightly. “But I don’t know if they’ll let me.”

You looked at him, steady and certain. “You’re not here to ask permission.” Your tone was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re here to win. They’ll catch up or they’ll fall behind.”

His gaze met yours again not fragile anymore, but tender. Vulnerable, but grounded.

“You always say the right thing,” he said, lips twitching into something like a smile.

“I say what I mean,” you replied, matching his quiet sincerity.

Lewis’s smile grew a little, the first true curve of warmth you’d seen in days. You didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear: since the move to Ferrari, it wasn’t just his muscles that had softened under your care. It was the walls he’d built around himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see you not as a replacement, but as someone who genuinely cared.

The next afternoon, the physio room was quiet except for the soft hum of equipment and distant footsteps outside. You were focused on your clipboard, ticking off items from your checklist when Lewis appeared in the doorway.

He held out a coffee cup to you your name scrawled messily on the side. Almond milk, one sugar, and a light dusting of cinnamon crowned the foam exactly as you liked it.

You blinked, caught off guard. This was the first time he’d ever brought you anything like this.

He just shook his head, a small shrug that said, no need to make a fuss, without saying a word.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, tried not to smile. But the warmth in your chest betrayed you, and the corners of your mouth lifted before you could stop them.

Over the next few days, this simple gesture became a quiet ritual. Lewis began showing up without being asked, sometimes with your favourite coffee or a carefully brewed tea in hand. He seemed to know exactly when you needed a pick-me-up before exhaustion could settle in or frustration rise.

You started finding small notes tucked between your equipment or slipped inside your notebook. Some were sweet and sincere, little messages of gratitude written in his usual messy, hurried handwriting - “Thanks for having my back” or “Can’t do this without you.” Others were playful, teasing words that made you laugh softly, the kind of laughter that lingered long after he’d left the room - “Try not to burn down the physio room today, yeah?”

Bit by bit, Lewis peeled back the layers he usually kept so well hidden. You saw flashes of the man behind the driver the quiet humour, the subtle kindness, the moments of doubt and vulnerability he rarely let anyone witness.

And in the spaces between those gestures and glances, something began to grow.

It was slow and subtle, almost imperceptible at first, like the first hint of spring stirring beneath winter’s grip.

Something unspoken, fragile a connection weaving itself quietly between two people learning to trust. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Barcelona – Final Day of Testing

The paddock outside was a chaotic symphony of noise engineers darting between trailers with purposeful urgency, mechanics shouting instructions over the relentless hum of engines winding down, camera crews scrambling to catch their last moments of the week. The air buzzed with adrenaline and exhaustion, punctuated by the sharp scent of burnt rubber and fuel.

But the moment you stepped into Lewis’s private motorhome, the world outside seemed to dissolve completely. The warm, muted light inside wrapped around you like a soft blanket, contrasting the frenetic energy just beyond the door. The faint scent of eucalyptus from the diffuser mingled with the lingering musk of sweat and leather, grounding the space in an intimate, familiar cocoon.

You pressed your hands gently along his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingertips tense and then slowly begin to loosen under your touch. The warmth radiating from his skin was steady, steady enough to calm the knot of adrenaline still pulsing through your own veins.

There was an unspoken understanding in the air between you no need for words. He wasn’t Lewis Hamilton here, the untouchable, celebrated champion. He was simply Lewis, the man who had, bit by bit, allowed you into his carefully guarded world, even if only a little.

When you finished, you took a step back, wiping your hands on the towel. You glanced up at him, silently waiting for a response. But instead of breaking the quiet with words, he rose slowly, moving toward you with a deliberate calmness that made your heart beat a little faster.

The space between you shrank in an instant, the distance closing until you could feel the warmth of his breath brush against your skin. You looked up at him, your breath catching somewhere between surprise and anticipation. His eyes locked onto yours dark, unreadable pools that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken emotions.

Almost instinctively, his hand rose, fingers trembling just slightly as they tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was feather-light, the soft brush of his skin against your cheek sending a quiet thrill through you.

You stood frozen, heart racing, as his fingers lingered warm and gentle softer than anything you’d expected from the fiercely driven man you knew. Time seemed to slow, compressing the world around you into a small, fragile bubble where nothing else existed but the two of you.

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher every hidden feeling you hadn’t dared voice. His breath was steady but measured, betraying a subtle tension beneath the surface like he was waging an internal battle, the same storm you both seemed to be navigating in your own ways.

The distant drone of engines and chatter outside faded into white noise, replaced by the soft rhythm of your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Thank you” His voice was a low whisper, heavy with meaning, thick with vulnerability that made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.

His gaze softened further, shedding the public persona like a worn coat. This was the part of him few ever glimpsed—the Lewis behind the driver’s helmet the man who had slowly quietly let you in.

He took a hesitant step closer, the warmth of his body nearly merging with yours. You could feel the magnetic pull, but this time, the air between you wasn’t charged with tension or uncertainty. It was calm, peaceful, and filled with something unspoken but deeply understood a quiet connection forged through trust.

“I’m not always this...asshole of a person,” he admitted, voice rough with self-awareness. “I’m sorry I pushed you away when you were just trying to do your job.”

He paused, searching your face as if weighing how much of himself he could afford to reveal. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You shook your head gently, stepping just enough closer to close the gap between uncertainty and possibility.

“You don’t have to know,” you said softly, your hand rising to rest over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’m here. As your physiotherapist. And, if you want, something more.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered with an emotion you couldn’t quite name a complex mix of gratitude, longing, and something like fear.

Then, without hesitation, he closed the space between you.

His lips met yours in a tentative kiss, soft and questioning at first, as if he was testing the reality of the moment, unsure if it was something he deserved or even wanted to believe in.

But when you leaned in, matching his pace, the kiss deepened an intimate exchange that left you breathless. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours, grounding you in the here and now.

His lips were tender, deliberate, as though every brush and press was trying to say what words could not. You felt it in the gentle tracing of his fingers along your back, in the way his entire being seemed to magnetically draw yours nearer.

When you finally pulled away, breath shallow and heart pounding, a quiet smile curved his lips—soft, genuine, far from the bravado he wore like a second skin.

His eyes, usually guarded and inscrutable, held something raw and real something he’d been hiding for too long.

“Does that feel real enough?” he teased, voice low but laced with warmth, the familiar glint of humour returning to his gaze.

You smiled back, fingertips still brushing lightly over the collar of his shirt, anchoring yourself in this moment of fragile clarity.

“More real than anything,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, shared space inside his motorhome, surrounded by the fading sounds of a racing world, you both knew this was only the beginning -

Of something neither of you could yet name, but both were ready to face.

Because you weren’t just his physiotherapist anymore.

And he wasn’t just the superstar you worked for.

You were something new. Something uncertain, but fiercely alive.

And somehow, in that moment, it already felt like home.

[dunadaan]

good news: paying for icloud came in clutch bc all my photos (all 71,000 of them fuck me) and notes are saved so....there's that at least

my stupid ass for some reason has completely forgotten my iphone password. i know the first four digits but for some reason i cant remember the last two. im now locked out for an hour and if i keep failing its going to make me erase all my data and reset my phone...ive literally never forgotten my phone password in my life

[tragicallycrispygirl]

Watched the battle balance trailer - WHAT THE FUCK. ABSOLUTELY AND UTTERLY HORRIFYING.

Faust, Bedman, Axl, Happy Chaos, Ky, Giovanna, I-no, Millia, Jack-o, Aba, and Asuka look mostly the same I really don't know what was going on in there - I wonder if those are going to be frame data improvements? If you know better please tell me

Slayer's 6K feint is now, like, an actual move instead of just a joke due to being very fast. Fuck you.

Ramlethal has midscreen sword stick - it also looks like her flip is an overhead now maybe? (Genuinely I saw midscreen sword stick and fucking dropped my phone lmao I was shaken to my core) Also, she can cancel into sword slam (214H) now, which I think is a change that makes sense. I don't think it'll really affect anything combo routing wise as I don't think it recovers quickly enough to combo into itself or calvados on wall stick, but I might be wrong. Also it's -24 so who cares lol it'll be a yolo frametrap. It seems like they're trying to buff her midscreen presence though. Being able to end any combo with 214H gives pretty good Oki anywhere (look I might be wrong it's been ages since I played any ram)

Johnny has his mist finer projectile clash back like he did in XRD (did he have that before?)

Testament stain pop on throw is very very scary, and it also looks like crow now has basically no blockstun and can be used for interesting PRC strike/throw setups for full combos

Baiken now gets better reward off S Kabari and has a... Weird looking parry? I almost wonder if they're giving her another version of it that just inflicts the guard crush and doesn't do the full throw but is safer but idk that seems insane

Sin gets raw gazelle step, and also seems to be able to combo naturally off of his follow-up specials? Could he do that before? All I've ever seen was corner tyrant barrel kara cancels

Pot can now flick Asuka cubes (thank fucking god that matchup is hellish) and gets ARMORED POTEMKIN BUSTER FUCKING HOLY SHIT

Anji can now cancel Fujin into Fujin into maybe another Fujin? It's hard to tell. Looks like you can throw between fujins maybe, to make it not completely obnoxious?

Goldlewis almost made me start crying, as he can now cancel Behemoth Typhoons into each other (so he can just fucking explode you with very little effort, natural BT-BT-BT combos will do fucking crazy damage even just from the affect it has on combo decay alone) and it also looks like maybe the gravity scaling is affected? HOWEVER: it costs one half of the security gauge to cancel a BT into a BT. I like that actually, it'll make for more mindful security gauge usage and not relegate it to "I win neutral now." Also, 426H seems to have some kind of vacuum hitbox now? Either it's going to have some sweet spot stuff for wallbounce combos or the cancelled version will have different properties

Sol can combo into HMC. I wouldn't be surprised if they nerf the damage, or maybe it'll just be like HPB? ALSO: HE CAN CANCEL INTO FAFNIR. EITHER THAT OR 6S HAS REDUCED RECOVERY. That's fucking insane. Just completely insane. I'm hoping they give it a different version that can be cancelled into that does less damage or something but that seems REALLY strong. And Fafnir wallbounces now (if I'm wrong and he could already do these things let me know but I'm not all-to familiar with Sol)

Chipp... Tightrope combos and mix... Looks cool? It looks like he just gets good corner carry (I do not play this character or really know how he works at all)

Zato command grab refills eddy very good very nice

Nagoriyuki also looked fucking insane, he can now naturally combo off of blood rage. It looks like the point of it is going to be for after a wallstick, but mark my words there will be routes that go into it before that to get big damage. Overall it doesn't look like it'll do anything other than making Shizu loops better but importantly - his blood rage super now seems to INSTANTLY APPLY the 50% health decrease. I feel like there's more behind the scenes that will be unveiled once the patch drops. The only effect I see currently is that Nago will rob the fuck out of you more often (for example, he has a CH Shizu loop that kills Ky at 57% with 0 RISC, I imagine this change will just push that somewhere into 60% but guts is weird so I'm not sure)

May is different somehow idk sorry I barely see her and could never play her

Elphelt can now combo into her grab super (this patch is just make all the grab supers unblockable hitgrabs huh) which will mean that: people actually use it and it isn't just a waste of meter lol

The new song is VERY good

Overall it looks fun and I'm excited to test stuff when the patch comes out. The thing I like about it is that they seem to be leaning into the XRD feel of "everyone gets fucked up bullshit, so it works out to some sort of balance à la when everyone's super no-one will be." Very cool.

[saoodoffice4]

I-PHONE REPAIRING COURSE | I-PHONE REPAIRING COURSE IN TILAK NAGAR DELHI

Learn how to repair iPhones and become a certified iPhone repair technician with Multitech Institute's iPhone Repairing Course in Tilak Nagar, Delhi. Our course covers everything you need to know to fix common iPhone problems, from screen replacements to software issues. We also provide you with hands-on training in our state-of-the-art lab, so you can practice your skills on real iPhones.

The course covers various topics such as: Mobile device hardware and software troubleshooting; phone disassembly/assembly and assembly; LCD repair or touch screen replacement, battery replacements and software, flashing, Mobile phone data recovery etc. This course is for both beginners & professionals. If you are interested in learning than don't miss the chance to enroll into our Multitech iPhone Repairing Course in Tilak Nagar, Delhi. I hope this will be the best option for you where you get best high quality education which is provided to you by Professionals trainers who have years of experience in teaching. Here we also provide online learning options so anyone can learn from anywhere at anytime in the world. So kickstart your career & get enter into in the fastest growing technical field in the world.

[arcanistsanctum]

Gone for maybe a few days/weeks.

I'll be assisting with my grandfather's treatment at the hospital, hence I'll be away for this reason. He's been sick of old age for a while, but this is more of an emergency situation because his fever is high. Will be swapping with my aunt tomorrow. Not sure when I will be back. But yeah, during that time span, I will not be able to archive here for a while. I will schedule the story CGs and sprites at least cause y'all will need those more. Will not be able to timely archive the SNS media posts.

I will only bring my phone with me and it doesn't have Tumblr, so I likely would still be online in Discord if ya wanna reach me. If I am not online for a while, my data died.

Thank you for understanding! Peace, love and happiness.

Extra reading for those who are concerned. My grandfather is in his 70s. He's not under any other life-threatening illness besides the high fever. We have nurses, yes. But my grandfather is the type of person who will sulk if you leave him on his own. It's just how old folks are. Because of his age, we still can't be certain if he'll get better. So it's better to have a family by his side at all costs.

I appreciate all the concern. I will be fine. No need to worry about me. I'm emotionally and mentally resilient when it comes to these things. That being said, we all remain hopeful for his recovery. Your kindness means a lot during this period. So once again, thank you for understanding. <3

[kitkatt0430]

Free software recommendations for various things:

LibreOffice - A full home office suite comparable to Microsoft Office. Easy to use and you can choose the UI layout from several types; it can handle docx and other Microsoft Office document formats; it still does not include AI unless you specifically add that extension on purpose, so unlike other office suites it's not shoving AI down your throat.

Calibre - Ebook manager bundled with an ebook editor and ereader software. It can follow news feeds, downloading them into epub format. Convert ebooks from one format into (many) others. Run a server to make access your books from different computers/phones/tablets easier. And so much more... without even touching on the additional functionality that plugins can add. With plugins it can be used for DRM stripping (which can still remove DRM from even Kindle ebooks, if you have a kindle that you can download the ebook to and use to transfer to your computer). It can also handle downloading fanfics and their metadata using the FanFicFare plugin. (Which I've written tutorials about.) There are officially supported plugins (like FanFicFare) that are easy to install and unofficial plugins (like the DRM stripper) that take more work, so it's extremely customizable.

Syncthing - Want to host your own local file backup system? Have an old laptop that you can reformat with a linux distro? And maybe a spare hard drive? Perfect, you have what you need to set up a home file backup system. Reformat the computer with the new operating system, install syncthing on that computer and on the computer you want to back up files for and the two installations of the software can sync over your home network. Put it on your phone and back up your photos. The software is open source, encrypted, and you can turn it off so that your computer (or phone) is only running it on a trusted network. You control where the synced data lives, which computers on your network those synced folders are shared with (allowing for sharing between multiple computers) and even what type of file backups happen if data is, say, accidentally deleted. (File recovery!!!)

Plex or Emby - Both are free to install on any computer, point at any movie/tv show/audiobook/music files you've got sitting around, and bam you've got a home media streaming server. Both have paid tiers for more features (including tv tuner integration to act as a DVR), but what they can do for free is already impressive and well handled. Both have easy to use UI and it largely comes down to personal preference as to one is better than the other.

Notepad++ - A notepad type program that can also serve as a decent lightweight code editor. I use it for noodling around with code scripts and snippets, writing lists, and various other small tasks. It's not something I'd use for my professional code writing but it's great for just messing around with something on my own time.

[darkdesangue]

Random rant time!

I updated all my fandom-related account emails to Proton mail, discarded the old Gmail account I had. You know why? Because I tried to login to this gmail account after perhaps years, and I remembered the password, I remembered my stupid recovery email which I had created a decade ago, and I remembered the password to my recovery email also. But noooooo that's not enough for Google to verify me, No Sir.

Bloody site had the audacity to ask me for my fucking phone number. I don't fucking want to associate my phone number with that account, or any account for that matter. Is that so fucking difficult to understand, Google?

I am so done with this shit. These data grabbers who have no fucking concept of basic privacy and decency. Bastards, all of them.

So, my new privacy focused Trinity beckons - Protonmail for emails, Tor for browsing and Protectedtext.com for writing.

Fuck. You. Google.

Okay, rant over 😐😠

[pucksandpower]

okeyyyy!

but we need a Grid Kids that maybe y/n and seb were in an car accidente (and y/n took the worst of it) and now the roles are reversed, now they are gonna take care of them

Loving this series so much

Grid Kids: UNO Reverse Card

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: the roles are reversed when disaster strikes and your grid kids make it their duty to take care of you

Series Masterlist

The rain is pouring down and the paddock is filled with the usual organized chaos accompanying a wet race. The garages are lively with the sounds of mechanics tuning engines, engineers going over data, and drivers preparing for the race.

Suddenly, a deafening silence descends as a member of the Aston Martin team rushes in, face pale and voice shaking, “There’s been an accident. It’s Sebastian and Y/N.”

The news spreads like wildfire. The paddock, usually filled with the roars of engines and excited chatter, is now eerily quiet. Your grid kids, upon hearing the news, rush to find out more details, their faces masks of concern.

A shaky video from a fan’s phone plays on loop on their screens, showing the aftermath of a devastating collision. Your car is almost unrecognizable, crushed, with the driver’s side visibly less damaged.

George, having seen the video, collapses onto a nearby chair, tears streaming down his face. “This can’t be happening,” he whispers.

Lando, usually the life of the party, stands frozen, disbelief evident in his eyes. Mick, face ashen, tries to make calls to get more information while Lance rushes to find his father to find out if the team has heard anything more.

***

Soon, details emerge that you bore the brunt of the impact and your condition is critical while Sebastian, though injured, is stable. The helicopter is already airlifting you to the nearest hospital.

As the severity of the situation sinks in, your grid kids, in an unprecedented move, gather together for an emergency meeting. The weight of the decision is clear in their eyes.

After what feels like an eternity, Charles stands up, his voice firm yet choked with emotion, “We’re pulling out. We can’t race knowing Y/N is fighting for her life. We need to be there for her, just like she’s always been there for us.”

The decision is unanimous. One by one, they all agree. Telling their teams and the FIA descends the paddock into even more chaos.

***

The hospital waiting room is filled with a mix of team colors. Red from Ferrari, orange from McLaren, deep blue from Red Bull, green from Aston Martin, white from Haas, and black from Mercedes. The fierce rivalry that usually defines race weekends is nowhere to be seen. Instead, they’re united in their concern for you.

Sebastian, despite his injuries, is by your bedside, holding your hand, praying silently for a miracle.

As the hours drag on, the grid kids take turns sitting by your side, sharing stories, hoping their voices provide some comfort, even in your unconscious state.

Mick, teary-eyed, recalls, “Remember when I missed my dad? You were there for me.”

Lando adds, “And when I just wanted milk? You welcomed me like family.”

Charles, voice filled with emotion, says, “We’re here now, for you, just like you’ve always been for us.”

***

As night turns into dawn, there’s a shift. Your vitals start stabilizing and the worst seems to be over. The relief is palpable as the somber mood hanging over your family fades away.

Sebastian, tears of gratitude in his eyes, thanks each one of them. “She’s strong, and with all of you here, I knew she’d find a way to fight through.”

***

A week has passed since the accident and you’re now firmly in the recovery phase. The room is overflowing with flowers, cards, and quirky gifts — each one a symbol of just how much you mean to the racing community.

As you slowly regain consciousness, groggy from the medication, the first thing you spot is a balloon, bobbing near the ceiling, with the words “Speedy Recovery!” It has a little caricature of you in a race car with your cat (in a tiny sweater) on your shoulder. Another one reads, “Get back on track soon!”

Mick enters the room with a tray, “Look who’s awake! I made you my special recovery smoothie. Okay, it’s mostly chocolate ... but it’s the thought that counts.”

Charles follows, holding a peculiar-looking teddy bear dressed in a racing suit. “Meet Racy. He’s going to keep you company. We tried to smuggle Speedy in under our hoodies but got caught so this is the next best thing.”

Lando waltzes in, proudly holding up a t-shirt with “I survived a car crash and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” printed on it.

Max pops his head around the door, holding a full-sized F1 helmet, “You better wear this the next time you get in a car.”

George, with his trademark smile, presents a plush safety car. “To keep you safe and sound, always.”

Lance, trying to contain his grin, brings in a steering wheel cushion. “For those moments when you feel the need to take control of your recovery.”

You can’t help but chuckle at their antics. “You guys ... always know how to lighten the mood.”

Sebastian, holding your hand, grins, “They’ve been brainstorming ways to cheer you up nonstop for days now.”

***

Determined to keep things positive, your grid kids rally together for a surprise. As the evening descends, they transform your room into a mini-movie theater. They even managed to sneak in a projector.

The movie choice? “Cars” of course.

Lance, armed with a bucket of popcorn, declares, “I mean, if we can’t race real cars today, might as well watch animated ones!”

Mick dims the lights and George hits play. As the familiar sounds of the movie fill the room, everyone settles in ready for a night of laughter.

***

It doesn’t take long for the grid kids to turn the movie night into their own commentary session.

As Lightning McQueen races across the screen, Max quips, “I think I could’ve taken that turn better.”

Lando, laughing, chimes in, “And Mater reminds me of Charles after a few too many energy drinks.”

Charles feigns outrage, “That’s unfair! I’m at least 10 percent more sophisticated than Mater.”

You, through bouts of laughter, shake your head, “Honestly, I can’t decide what's better, the movie or your commentary? You guys might have a future on a broadcast somewhere if this whole racing thing doesn’t work out.”

As the credits roll, Sebastian whispers, “This is exactly the medicine you needed.”

Your grid kids truly make the day memorable, proving that through thick and thin, family — in whatever form it may take — is everything.

***

The sun is high and the paddock is buzzing with energy as preparations for the upcoming race are in full swing. As you and Sebastian approach, there’s a sudden almost comedic halt in activity. It’s as if someone hit the pause button on a remote. Everyone turns to face you, jaws dropped.

Lance feigns fainting, “Is it a mirage? Or has our beloved Y/N truly graced us with her presence?”

Max approaches with an exaggerated limp, mimicking you, “Thought I’d get into the spirit of things,” he says with a smirk.

George emerges from the crowd holding a makeshift red carpet (it’s just a red towel he stole from Ferrari), rolling it out in front of you. “For our returning queen,” he declares with a bow.

Charles and Lando appear, each holding one end of a “Welcome Back” banner. You try to turn your head to read it … they accidentally held it upside down.

You’re trying hard to hold back tears of laughter. “You guys are impossible,” you manage to say between your chuckles.

Mick, with a gentle smile, approaches holding a small framed photo. It’s of you surrounded by all your grid kids, taken during a race earlier in the season, with the inscription “Family, Always.”

Touched by the gesture, you softly say, “Thank you so much, Mick. This means a lot.”

“You’ve always been there for us,” he replies. “It’s only right that we’re here for you.”

Sebastian, wrapping an arm around you, adds with a grin, “I think they missed you.”

You really loved your grid kids.

[kde-plasma-official]

whats the status of like. using linux on a phone. it feels like there are two parallel universes, one that kde lives in where people use linux on phones, and one where if you google linux phones you discover theyre almost usable but they can barely make phone calls or send texts and they only run on like 4 models of phone

don't have much experience with linux on phone so anyone please correct me if i'm wrong but

one of the problems with phones is that every vendor and manufacturer adds their own proprietary driver blob to it and these have to be extracted and integrated into the kernel in order for the hardware to function.

as companies don't like to share their magic of "how does plastic slab make light", reverse engineering all your hardware is quite a difficult task. Sometimes there just isn't a driver for the camera of a phone model yet because no one was able to make it work.

So naturally, this takes a lot of time and tech is evolving fast so by the time a phone is completely compatible, next generations are already out and your new model obsolete.

Also important to note: most of this work is made by volunteers, people with a love for programming who put a lot of their own time into these things, most of them after their daytime jobs as a hobby.

Of course, there are companies and associations out there who build linux phones for a living. But the consumer hardware providers, like Pinephone, Fairphone and others out there aren't as big and don't have this much of a lobby behind them so they can't get their prices cheap. Also the manufacturers are actively working against our right to repair so we need more activism.

To make the phones still affordable (and because of said above driver issues) they have to use older hardware, sometimes even used phones from other manufacturers that they have to fix up, so you can't really expect a modern experience. At least you can revive some older phones. As everything Linux.

Then there's the software providers who many of are non-profits. KDE has Plasma Mobile, Canonical works on Ubuntu Touch, Debian has the Mobian Project and among some others there's also the Arch Linux ARM Project.

That's right baby, ARM. We're not talking about your fancy PC or ThinkPad with their sometimes even up to 64-bit processors. No no no, this is the future, fucking chrome jellyfishes and everything.

This is the stuff Apple just started building their fancy line of over-priced and over-engineered Fisher-Price laptop-desktops on and Microsoft started (Windows 10X), discontinued and beat into the smush of ChatGPT Nano Bing Open AI chips in all your new surface hp dell asus laptops.

What I was trying to say is, that program support even for the market dominating monopoles out there is still limited and.... (from my own experience from the workplace) buggy. Which, in these times of enshittification is a bad news. And the good projects you gotta emulate afterwards anyways so yay extra steps!

Speaking of extra steps: In order to turn their phone into a true freedom phone, users need to free themselves off their phones warranty, lose their shackles of not gaining root access, installing a custom recovery onto their phone (like TWRP for example), and also have more technical know-how as the typical user, which doesn't quite sounds commercial-ready to me.

So is there no hope at all?

Fret not, my friend!

If we can't put the Linux into the phone, why don't we put the phone around the Linux? You know... Like a container?

Thanks to EU regulations-

(US consumers, please buy the European versions of your phones! They are sometimes a bit more expensive, but used models of the same generation or one below usually still have warranty, are around the same price as over there in Freedom Valley, and (another side tangent incoming - because of better European consumer protection laws) sometimes have other advantages, such as faster charging and data transfer (USB-C vs lightning ports) or less bloated systems)

- it is made easier now to virtualize Linux on your phone.

You can download a terminal emulator, create a headless Linux VM and get A VNC client running. This comes with a performance limit though, as a app with standard user permissions is containerized inside of Android itself so it can't use the whole hardware.

If you have root access on your phone, you can assign more RAM and CPU to your VM.

Also things like SDL just released a new version so emulation is getting better.

And didn't you hear the news? You can run other things inside a VM on an iPhone now! Yup, and I got Debian with Xfce running on my Xiaomi phone. Didn't do much with it tho. Also Windows XP and playing Sims 1 on mobile. Was fun, but battery draining. Maybe something more for tablets for now.

Things will get interesting now that Google officially is a monopoly. It funds a lot of that stuff.

I really want a Steam Deck.

Steam phones would be cool.

[tgmsunmontue]

You need to learn how to fall 9/10

Hangster (and IceMav) - Bradley is too tall to be a naval aviator and instead becomes a sky diver, specialising in spin recovery. He is a civilian contractor to the military to teach pilots how to survive parachute spins from ejections. A more in-depth version of this post.

PROLOGUE 2003-2006 2007-2010 2011-2015 2016+ ~2019 ~2019 (contd 1) ~2019 (contd 2)

                Jake leaves early, kissing him goodbye and telling him he has a day of training ahead of him but he’ll be back. He lets him go, knows he will definitely see him later. But he wants to talk to Ice. Needs to talk to him and he doesn’t linger in bed, already has a jump planned so he can’t lie about.

                “So, this mission… that Mav and Jake are undertaking,” he starts, and he doesn’t know for certain, but he's able to make conclusions from the data provided to him.

                “Yes. It’s… dangerous.”

                “How dangerous?” Bradley presses, because everything they do has an element of danger.

                “It’ll require a couple of miracles. Mav’s words.”

                “Jesus fuck…” Bradley mutters, because Mav doesn’t call them that lightly. “So it’s a suicide mission?”

                “Not if he gets his way. And you know him, he usually gets his way.”

                Bradley huffs at the weak joke, but his heart is frozen at the idea that he might not have Mav around anymore, or Jake… worst case scenario, neither of them. He’s already had the gut churning fear of thinking he may have lost Mav too recently, one of the reasons why he’s no longer holding back at all with Jake…

                Fuck.

                “No other options huh?”

                “No other option,” Ice says, and Bradley gives him a tight hug.

…             …             …

                Jake stares at his phone, worried that he hasn’t had a reply from Bradley about his invitation and startles a little when Maverick sidles up to him, coffee cup in hand although he’s pretty sure it’s not coffee Maverick is drinking, but something more like a herbal tea.

                “You alright Lieutenant?”

                “Of course sir.”

                “He landed safely from his second jump fifteen minutes ago, won’t be checking his phone for about another half hour, but I have confirmation that he’s safe.”

                “Oh,” something inside uncurls, and he realizes it’s a bigger part that he’s not being deliberately ignored. He never doubted that Bradley was safe. His own phone is normally in his locker, untouched, but it’s their lunch break and he’d made an uncharacteristic check; unused to silence from Bradley and of course it all makes sense now.

                “He doesn’t let anything distract him when he’s jumping. Phone stays in the chase vehicle. He’ll answer you as soon as he can.”

                “Thanks Mav.”

                “Anytime.”

                “You seem pretty… invested in him.”

                “Did you know it took him nearly three years before he even agreed to have a drink with me?”

                Mav laughs, shakes his head and Jake doesn’t ask him what’s funny.

                “So I’ll take my three nights with him, and every scrap of every minute in between.”

                “And after?”

                Jake shrugs, it feels too soon, too cheesy and corny to say forever, or a lifetime even if that’s what his gut-instinct was to simply blurt out. Mav slaps him on the arm, nods his head like he understands and then simply walks away and Jake wonders what the hell he saw in Jake’s face.

                “What were you and Maverick talking about? Looked serious.”

                “Yeah, I guess It was.”

…             …             …

                “You’re looking awfully happy. Hot date?”

                “The hottest. I’m finally in North Island, and Bradley Bradshaw is finally in North Island…”

                “Did he finally agree to a date?” Phoenix asks, because they’d all known Jake had asked Bradley out when he’d been their instructor at Top Gun.

                “More than that. He’s meeting me here right… about… now…” Jake says, watching as Bradley pushes the door open and catches his eye. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bradley in anything other than a suit or pajamas. And naked of course. Now he’s walking toward Jake and the jeans make his legs look endless, scoop necked tank revealing the start of his chest hair and an odd Hawaiian button-down shirt in muted colors. He looks so fucking good and Jake can’t wait to go home with him, tomorrow dedicated to resting before they flyout.

                “Jesus Bagman, try and be a little subtle, he’s going to think you’re only after him for one thing.”

                “He knows I’m not.”

                “Bradshaw, as I live and breathe…”

                “Jake. You look… good.”

                “Only good? Must be slipping…”

                Then he leans forward into Bradley’s space and they’re kissing, gentle-soft and he knows they’re getting looks, draws back, and turns to the watching crowd.

                “Everyone, you remember Dr Bradshaw.”

                “Bradley. Please, call me Bradley.”

                Despite the numerous sideways looks he gets Bradley slots right into the Daggers, hustles them all, including Jake, with his pool playing skills. Tells them off for underestimating someone who has a doctorate in physics and understanding the effect of spin on objects. He then turns to Jake, smile almost splitting his face;

                “You especially should know not to underestimate me, you know who raised me and likely taught me how to play…”

                “Of course he did…” Jake mutters, because one thing he’s learnt these last couple of weeks is to never underestimate Maverick Mitchell. And mentioning him like this means it’s obviously okay to mention their relationship to one another.

                “What’s he talking about?”

                “Maverick raised me, I think you’re familiar with him?” Bradley asks, tongue between his teeth and Jake doesn’t resist the urge to just lean forward and kiss him. He’s clearly enjoying being a bit of a dick and Jake is so here for it. As if they have one mind all the Dagger Squad swing to look at him.

                “What?” Javy asks, clearly the silently nominated speaker, and Javy has known about him messaging Bradley for the last few months, has been encouraging of it, happy for him.

                “Bradley here is the godson of our esteemed leader, Maverick.”

                There’s a couple of sideways looks and Jake licks his lips, realizes that some of them might be jumping to certain incorrect conclusions. Javy’s eyebrows are up in disbelief.

                “Tell them when I found out about that,” Jake says, because he’d been named wingman on Friday, which is only yesterday but also feels likes weeks ago, and it wasn’t because of this new relationship he has with Bradley.

                “Last night. Uh. Jake and Maverick were at my place at the same time… I hadn’t really told them about each other. Was a surprise all round.”

                “Ooohhh… that explains that talk you guys were having this morning. Was it a shovel talk?” Phoenix asked, and she looks hopeful.

                “Mav talked to you?” Bradley asks, looking concerned.

                “It wasn’t a shovel talk! But yes, he did talk to me, but it wasn’t a shovel talk. More like the opposite if anything…”

                “So… it’s just been this whole big coincidence?” Javy says, and he’s starting to grin now and Jake’s stomach sinks, because his best friend is about to throw him somewhere, under a bus or into a canyon… “Did Jake tell you about the time he and I picked Mav up and threw him out of here?”

                “Out of here? The Hard Deck?”

                “Yep,” Javy says, grinning, and the others are starting to grin too and Jake groans. Bradley looks delighted though, and he should have known.

                “When was this?”

                “A couple of weeks ago…”

                “Oh my god… that was you. I…” he cuts off abruptly and Jake realizes he was probably about to say Ice. “I heard about that. Not from Mav though. Someone else told me,” Bradley finishes, and Jake takes that as confirmation that it was definitely Iceman that had told him.

                Fucking hell.

                He freezes then, sudden realization dawning.

                He threw the husband of the COMPACFLT out of the Hard Deck onto his ass… And he’s alive and breathing.

                Okay.

                Maybe he doesn’t have to worry too much about breaking Bradley’s heart if he can do that to Maverick and suffer no consequence. At least none that he knows about anyway.

                Oh god, he cannot wait until Javy gets to have this same realization. He has to see that.

                “Yeah, didn’t do much for his post-ejection injuries apparently.”

                “Wait, what?”

                Bradley looks between them, purses his lips and then bites them, and Jake wonders if this is another thing that Bradley’s maybe not meant to mention. Fucking hell, no wonder Maverick wasn’t meant to be flying lead.

                “Nothing, it’s fine. Oh! Hey Aunt Penny…”

                “Bradley!” She greets, giving him a one-armed hug as she gathers empties. “Long time since you’ve been around here. What are you doing with this bunch of reprobates?”

                Almost as one the Daggers voice their displeasure, already distracted and Jake grins at her, expects a grin back, is instead given the coldest look he’s ever received and he straightens, wonders what he’s done to earn her displeasure because she’s been nothing but friendly before.

                “Do his parents know about you?” She asks, voice low enough Jake has to struggle to hear her.

                “Uh… I met them last night. So yes?”

                “Really?”

                “Maverick and, uh, the other one,” Jake offers, because he’d said he wouldn’t mention what he’d learnt, which is a little hard to do when Penny Benjamin is staring him down. Except she’s back to smiling at him, nodding her head.

                “Welcome to the family kid, look forward to seeing more of you.”

                Fuck he hopes so.

…             …             …

                They spend most of Sunday resting, and like on Friday night they don’t seem to want to stop touching one another. He’s okay with that, lets Jake press into him and hold himself as close he can in Bradley’s space. They do shower and dress for lunch with Mav and Ice. Then Jake takes a phone call with his family and Bradley sits with Mav, insists on a game of five-hundred to keep his mind off the hours ticking down to their departure. Ice has disappeared into his study and they both know it’s his own way of coping, keeping himself busy with work. He doesn’t need to say anything, he knows he can’t say anything. What he can do is spend time, so that’s what he does. With both the man he’s known his entire life, and the man he’s only recently let into his life. When Jake is off the phone they coax Ice out of his study and end up playing four-player five-hundred before deciding that Ice and Mav cannot be partners, their table talk far to subtle to be caught and Bradley is sick of them winning.

                At three in the morning he hears Jake‘s alarm go off, and he hopes Jake at least got more sleep than he did. He watches in silence as Jake slides out of bed and heads to the shower, comes out fully dressed and he sees Bradley watching him in the dimmed half-light.

                “I look forward to my welcome home, okay?”

                “You take care out there, you hear me?”

                “Always darlin’.”

                “That’s all I can ask.”

                The kiss Jake gives him is softly sweet.

                They don’t say goodbye.

PART TEN