#isack hadjar fluff

[lvrclerc]

JOB REQUIREMENTS

summary: when you signed up to become f1's new rising star isack hadjar's personal assistant, you didn't realize that taking care of his three-year old daughter was going to be part of the job requirements.

F1 MASTERLIST | IH6 MASTERLIST

pairing: young single dad!isack hadjar x pa!reader wordcount: 2.2K content: alternative universe - single dad, toddler behavior, fluff, use of y/n note: wrote this in one sitting who am i. this is more of a pairing exploration than an actual fic, the idea just attacked me. lmk if you want to see more of them!

EVENT MANAGEMENT THRIVED on a few core elements, but in the high-octane world of motorsports, less was always more: organization, determination, and adaptability. These three qualities were preached like holy gospel to every employee, an anthem you recited with choir-like devotion.

You adored it.

You prospered in the rhythm of conscientious planning, relishing the sight of your carefully color-coded folders transforming into seamless hospitality experiences for the Racing Bulls team. A rainbow gradient arranged each of them following their respective topics, and your notes were written in neat 1.5-line spacing with a smooth gliding blue pen. 

What started as a side hustle to earn additional money had become the heartbeat of your life, so much that your college degree in marketing had shifted to online classes so you could commit yourself fully. After all, a student’s timetable was rarely vacant, and availability was another salient currency when you dabbled in a world as tumultuous as Formula One. Combining event management with its adrenaline was a gamble, one you’d taken with hungry hands, much to your parents’ overly vocal dismay.

Your work ethic would have eventually led to a promotion; you were sure of it. Although you hadn’t quite expected that promotion to be a spot as Isack Hadjar’s personal assistant.

The reason for the switch had been told through hurried whispers, something about his PA quitting right before the season opener, leaving his calendar messy and unattended. The team scrambled to find a replacement. A day in, and your name had apparently come up, your expertly organized folders had spoken for themselves, and next thing you knew, you were managing Racing Bulls’ up-and-coming talent.

You didn’t speak much to him during the first few weeks. Mostly, they were about cleaning up the mess his last assistant had left behind: you wondered how they’d managed to get anything done with the thousands of stray, half-written notes left around on crumpled paper, each one threatening you with an aneurysm. Still, amidst the handful of emails you exchanged and the scattered conversations you had, you managed to gather a few keywords that could classify what kind of man Isack Hadjar was.

Easygoing. He never fussed about the social media obligations you threw his way and partook in them with blinding enthusiasm. He happily interacted with the crowd, would quickly fire off replies to your emails about an upcoming event, and always ended them with an unprofessional (but oddly charming) smiley face. Shy, awkward. As confident as he appeared in his car or around the team, Isack often stumbled over his words in more intimate settings: the few times you were by his side to run through his daily schedule, he’d give you half-answers with cheeks flushed pink, followed by an horrid attempt at a joke, and inevitably a water bottle knocked somewhere. Young. At twenty-one, the same age as you, he often hovered between friend and boss, hesitant to treat you like a subordinate or even as a colleague.

It was part of the reason you were so astonished upon learning he had a whole daughter. See, Dad was not a keyword you’d planned to add to your mental files.

“I’m very sorry to ask this, really,” Isack had apologized on media day during the Bahrain race weekend, his eyes earnest and rimmed with exhaustion. “But I couldn’t find a daycare that would take her in, and no family member could babysit.”

You blinked at him. The request replayed in your mind like a broken record. “I’m not a babysitter, Isack. I’m your assistant,” you said, but your mind was halfway there.

He offered a sheepish grin. “Technically, you’re already babysitting me.”

“You’re a grown adult,” you deadpanned, deeply unamused. “You don’t need me to change your diaper, unless you forgot to tell me about a pharmacy run for incontinence medicine.”

“She’s three,” Isack said, his brows knitting together, and he looked more offended at your accusation toward his daughter than your jab at him. “She doesn’t need diapers anymore. She’s very capable. I just— I need my assistant’s assistance to take care of her. For one weekend, just one.”

Assia Hadjar was a beautiful girl, truly. With thick brown curls, wide hazel eyes that reminded you of a startled deer, and freckled tan skin, she was the spitting image of her father. She’d looked so shy the first time Isack first introduced you, hiding behind his legs and shifting nervously in her sparkling blue shoes. It had fooled you into thinking that, even though your gift didn’t lie in childcare, you could manage it for a single race weekend. You heard Isack’s weak “Oh putain, merci” when you nodded.

What naivety.

You’d expected that one weekend with Assia would be the longest forty-eight hours of your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer mayhem that ensued.

First, there was the meltdown over the blue cup. You’d given her the green one: same shape, same cartoon princess (Tiana, if you’re interested in any precision), but somehow the wrong color. Cue tears, snot, and decibels you imagined an opera singer could reach, not a three-year-old. You’d tried to explain that all the cups were the same, even offered to swap them, which was deeply ironic coming from someone who wouldn’t write on anything other than squared paper, but by then, she’d upgraded to the “lying on the floor and wailing” stage.

Then came the pasta incident. Who knew a girl no more than three apples tall could have such strong opinions on pasta shapes? Again, coming from the one person bossing the entire staff team around. Apparently, penne was a direct insult to her pride, and only the twirly ones were acceptable. When you’d asked her to demonstrate “twirly ones” with a picture, she’d drawn what looked like a worm on the back of your neatly printed itinerary.

By the end of one weekend, you’d found pasta shapes you never knew existed—and probably didn’t—, learned that the Pokemon theme song on repeat will break your sanity, and discovered that the N-A-P word was a threat to national security. You were certain you’d done a horrible job because, at some point, you’d shamefully texted Isack an emergency SOS about a crying tantrum when you’d forbidden her to adopt a random spider from the paddock.

But when Isack came to pick her up, Assia had run to him grinning, eyes bright, babbling about how “Y/N was the best ever” and you “made the pasta worms taste sooooo good”. You’d braced yourself for mockery, but instead, he’d looked at you with a relieved gratitude that made your chest ache.

The following day had entailed your full initiation to toddlerhood, which included watching Disney’s Mulan on repeat for the hundredth time. You wondered how she didn’t get tired of hearing the same song, with the same lines, over and over again (yes, you were still reluctantly humming along. It’s Mulan.)

Halfway through the hundred and first time, Assia had fallen asleep curled into your side, half-lying on the floor and back against the feet of your hotel room couch. Her sparkly blue shoe had been abandoned in a pile of her belongings, including an Umbreon plushie, next to your bed. You’d meant to get up and tackle your emails, maybe catch up on the sponsorship decks that were piling up, but somewhere between a shirtless Li Shang and the beginning notes of A Girl Worth Fighting For, your eyelids had grown impossibly heavy.

You woke up as the credits rolled quietly in front of you, a crick in your neck and a crayon in your hair. Looking around, eyes bleary and slightly dazed, you noticed Isack leaning against the doorframe of your room. His arms were crossed on the Racing Bulls compression shirt he was wearing, hugging his biceps tightly, and you found yourself staring a beat too long in the dim light of the room. A fond smile thinned his lips.

“Rough night?” he asks, and he must have taken your stare for confusion because he stumbled upon an explanation. “You— you gave me a duplicate of your key for the room. So I could pick her up after the interviews.”

“I remember, I remember, I just— Ugh,” you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and not speaking too loud so as to not wake Assia. “I fell asleep during a children’s movie. I think that’s a new low.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Isack laughed. His gaze drifted to the almost empty blue cup. “At least you figured out she liked the blue cup, this time.”

You glared at him, but reached for the water bottle on the table. “Contrary to popular beliefs, and by popular I mean mine, she likes a lot of things,” you grumbled, unscrewing the cap. “Except naps. Or any vegetables with funny textures. Or fizzy sodas. Or—”

You paused, catching the way his smile softened as he watched you. It occurred to you that you’d never had Isack like this in your presence: relaxed, not fumbling over himself. “What?”

“Nothing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just… I think you’re better at this than you think.”

“Right.” A snort escaped you, and Assia’s asleep form shifted against your side. It was late, Isack could still carry her to bed without waking her up, so you smoothed her hair with a featherlight touch, hoping to soothe her back to sleep. She frowned, small fingers clutching the crisp fabric of your carefully ironed shirt, and buried her face deeper against your ribs. “She’s so stubborn,” you murmured absentmindedly. You couldn’t help but add, “just like her dad.” The few months you’d worked for him had taught you the family resemblance was striking in that regard.

Isack arched a brow. A surprised chuckle fell out of his lips. “That’s rich coming from you.” He padded over quietly, sneakers muffled on the carpet, and settled himself next to Assia. Slowly, with a carefulness that constricted your chest, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “She’s never that… open. With strangers, I mean. She likes you.”

Your eyes darted from the small girl to her father in amusement. “Does she, now? The tears and screams could have fooled me.”

“She does, she couldn’t shut up about you,” he insisted, huffing out a laugh. “She, uh— she takes after her dad for that too.”

That time, your carefully maintained professional front cracked, a tiny fissure in the businesslike ice wall you so meticulously built over time. Your eyes widened, heat tightened your cheeks and crept up your neck, and your hand froze on Assia’s hair—right next to Isack’s. He wasn’t doing any better. The admission seemed to have robbed him of his usual confidence, leaving him unable to meet your gaze for longer than a second.

“I— I mean, I’m, I’m glad that—” You never stammered. You were composed, efficient— your voice carried, and your words were deliberate, measured. Now, you weren’t sure you even remembered how the English language worked.

Isack smiled to himself as the title screen to Mulan rolled on again. You wanted to throw a pillow at him. Yet, with Assia curled up and fast asleep between the two of you, you still sat through another hour of songs about fighting and honor.

You thought it would be the end of it. One ambiguous weekend, and you’d slip back to your usual schedule, rearranging Isack’s meetings and leaving his daughter to his capable family or caretaker. You could ignore anything ever happened that night, and pretend the glances you stole when you thought the other wasn’t looking was a figment of boredom during bland days.

But the next race weekend, Assia refused to go to daycare as a whole.

“She said she wants to be with you,” Isack said, looking ridiculously apologetic. Jesus, that little girl really had him wrapped around her finger.

You, on the other end, had been stunned to silence. “Me? She wants to be… with me?”

“She’s been asking for you all week,” he admitted, eyes darting to the side. “And I—” He hesitated. “She’s… she’s happier with you than she’s ever been at daycare.”

You stared at him. You had a sneaky feeling that the universe had played a cosmic joke at your expense. “But— Isack— I’m not even good at this,” you protested. “My entire process was based on Google, a spreadsheet she doodled on, and a prayer.”

His laugh sounded awkward. “Like I said, she likes you,” he said simply. The softness in his voice was foreign to you, but not entirely unwelcome. What he said that night in your hotel room came back full force, and your cheeks darkened a few shades. “That should be enough, right?”

You wanted to tell him that, no, it wasn’t enough. You were in over your head, it wasn’t what you signed up for, and your messy color-coded folders cried out for a well-needed weekly organization. Instead, you found yourself nodding, because somehow—despite your many, many failures—you’d become the one person this tiny human trusted more than anyone else.

That was how your weekends became a strange blend of racing schedules, sponsor meetings, and toddler tantrums and giggles. And for reasons you couldn’t quite comprehend, you found you didn’t mind it at all. At first, you thought it was the job requirements. The obligations, as usual.

But maybe it was Assia and her loud determination. Maybe it was Isack and the way he stared when he thought you didn’t notice. 

Maybe it was a bit of both.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[astonmartinii]

work wife | isack hadjar social media au

pairing: isack hadjar x fem rb social media admin reader

is it the pressure of wanting to make an impression that makes him do all of those stupid tiktoks or is it the one holding the camera?

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

isackhadjar

liked by yourusername, liamlawson30 and 109,392 others

isackhadjar: another weekend of kicking ass, lighting up tiktok and supplying the pastries

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user1: that’s MY tiktok star

user2: the kardashians are gonna have to sue for identity fraud real soon

user3: he’s got the ass to match as well

yourusername: real

isackhadjar: is this not workplace harassment

yourusername: please don’t sue me, i’m broke enough as it is

isackhadjar: lawyer up babe

yourusername: i thought i was allowed to comment on your peach as your work wife

isackhadjar: i’ll check with HR

yourusername: chat am i cooked?

user4: who is this girl

user5: bro she’s the RB social admin

user6: she calls his ass fat and forces him to do those tiktoks… we might have to send her to the electric chair

yourusername: FORCE?

isackhadjar: okay… only i can slander my work wife, those tiktoks are completely consensual

user7: oh i know those two are a nightmare to work with

user8: what’s worse: having to film those videos or having to third wheel

liamlawson30: if i speak i am in big trouble

yourusername: LIAM?

liamlawson30: turns out i am in trouble regardless

yourusername: anyway… thank you for the croissants… and the points i guess

isackhadjar: just making your live tweet job a little easier

yourusername: you’re just so generous

isackhadjar: for you? of course

user9: are we interrupting

yukitsunoda0511: just leave them be, they’ll be ignoring us anyway

yourusername

liked by liamlawson30, isackhadjar and 3,029 others

yourusername: a weekend posting f1 reels from the pool

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user12: wait who was going to tell me that admin was this cute

user13: yall are late i’ve been camped here for months

user14: are we flexing how long we’ve been stalking the admin of an f1 page?

user13: yes

isackhadjar: so it’s true… you really don’t care about me once you’ve left the paddock

yourusername: what? no!!!!!

isackhadjar: well are the postal services on strike? where was my invite?

yourusername: you’re mr money bags in this relationship, you could’ve flown yourself

yourusername: i’ve been saving for this trip for TIME

isackhadjar: i didn’t know that was an option…

olliebearman: omg just say you wanted her to invite you personally

isackhadjar: ??????? what are you doing here

olliebearman: this is a public comment section and you’re embarrassing yourself

yourusername: woah careful how you’re speaking on my work husband

olliebearman: how about you make him your real husband so he stops making it our problem

isackhadjar: i did not make it your problem

kimiantonelli: your diary did

isackhadjar: YOU READ MY DIARY

isackhadjar: i mean JOURNAL

yourusername: no bullying my man in my comment section

yourusername: make it in RB’s comment section please

isackhadjar: Y/N?

yourusername: i need the engagement to pay my salary !

isackhadjar: okay i guess…

user14: is this a bit or is he actually so down bad that he’ll let people cyber bully him?

user15: i mean look at the material… i’d be doing worse for a woman like that

user16: we need her in front of the camera more often

yourusername: aren’t you all smooth talkers…

isackhadjar: this post is now formally my suicide note

yourusername: stop being so dramatic, you know you’re my favourite

isackhadjar: of all time or just in the paddock

yourusername: okay babe let’s stop fishing now

liamlawson30

liked by maxverstappen1, alexalbon and 178,309 others

tagged: yourusername & isackhadjar

liamlawson30: formula one driver or professional third wheel - everyone’s favourite gameshow

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user17: who is providing more y/nisack propaganda: isack or liam

user18: isack is flexing it but liam is posting it at gunpoint

user19: who is holding the gun

user20: isack

isackhadjar: yes, it is that deep

isackhadjar: who said that?

gabrielbortoleto: my condolences liam

yourusername: excuse you?

isackhadjar: you can be mean to me but i draw the line at being mean to y/n

gabrielbortoleto: i’ll be mean to both of you because the five (5) minutes i spent around you two earlier was unbearable

yourusername: isack literally bought you a coffee?

gabrielbortoleto: first of all, it was the RB hospitality so he did not have to pay. second of all, i couldn’t stomach my coffee over all of the tension. seriously how do you people get anything done?

yourusername: are you doubting my professionalism?

yourusername: god forbid a girl jokes with her friends at work

isackhadjar: isack hadjar found dead at 20 in his paris apartment

user21: this is getting a wee bit sad

user22: i think girlypop is trying not to get a one way trip to the HR office

user23: for real… i’ve seen the tension through the screen

liamlawson30: she wants that cookie bad

yourusername: LIAM???

maxverstappen1: i found isack and y/n’s dynamic quite charming actually

liamlawson30: that’s just because y/n is an OG max stan so she doesn’t make you do any of the dumb challenges

yourusername: guilty

maxverstappen1: as she should be

isackhadjar: i thought you were an isack stan

yourusername: i am! but why would i miss out on seeing your face in front of my camera

isackhadjar: hehhehehehehehehehe

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, olliebearman and 38,904 others

tagged: isackhadjar

yourusername: all the isack photos on admin’s phone that she can’t post on main

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user27: HOLY MOLY

user28: is this safe for work

user29: goodbye to the best RB admin in the world there’s no way you have a job after this post

user30: i will personally fight RB if they force her to leave

isackhadjar: well this is not what he discussed

yourusername: chat is it illegal to flex your handsome boyf

isackhadjar: i thought maybe our super romantic picture at the eiffel tower would be a cute inclusion

yourusername: sorry i got excited …

isackhadjar: i’d do the same but unfortunately that’s for my eyes only

yourusername: there’s more where they came from

isackhadjar: YIPEE!!

liamlawson30: how is this guy in a relationship?

isackhadjar: it’s called being a nice, handsome guy who WILL practice his lipsyncing in the mirror

yourusername: emphasis on handsome

yourusername: omg i can’t believe that’s my man

yourusername: hashtag winner

user31: what has happened to my beautiful sport

yourusername: awwwwww is someone mad i get to kiss the man and you don’t

user32: omg she’s on smoke

user33: HR be damned

yourusername: HR were the first people to know i fear

yourusername: i can’t believe i was ready to lose my dream job for a MAN

isackhadjar: am i not… worth it?

yourusername: oh 100% but my parents would’ve killed me and then you

isackhadjar: but you still had a job so they love me, right?

isackhadjar: THEY LOVE ME, RIGHT?

yourusername: of course!

isackhadjar: good because my parents love you more than they love me at this point

kimiantonelli: WHY DID YOU THINK WE NEEDED TO SEE THIS?

yourusername: so people know i have GAME

olliebearman: first we had to suffer through your weird phase and now this whoring

yourusername: hey! only i can call isack a whore 😞

isackhadjar: amongst other things

liamlawson30: LEAVE US OUT OF THIS SMUT

user34: no please keep going

yourusername: don’t think of my boyfriend like that

isackhadjar: don’t think of my girlfriend like that

isackhadjar

liked by liamlawson30, lewishamilton and 409,208 others

tagged: yourusername

isackhadjar: upgraded my work wife to girlfriend (wife coming soon)

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user35: warning: do not try this at home you will actually lose your job

user36: i hope they still make him do all the dumb tiktoks

liamlawson30: believe me, they will. it’s like some weird foreplay for them

yourusername: are you actually trying to get me fired?

liamlawson30: no but you two are little freaks

isackhadjar: that’s a compliment to me

lewishamilton: congratulations to the new couple in the paddock

isackhadjar: OH MY FUCKING GOD

yourusername: being shown up in my own relationship already, you hate to see it

lewishamilton: ???

isackhadjar: thank you lewis! you’ll have to come visit us in paris some time!

yourusername: will i be demoted to the couch that weekend?

isackhadjar: no?

lewishamilton: i don’t really know what’s going on here, just happy that you guys are happy

yourusername: thanks lewis!

yourusername: but a threesome is not completely out of the question right?

lewishamilton: i could be your father, both of you. no.

yourusername: worth a try

pepemarti: can’t believe you forgot about me

isackhadjar: just because i have a girlfriend doesn’t mean i can’t have my husband

yourusername: right.

isackhadjar: no I DIDN’T MEAN THAT

pepemarti: i see 😞

isackhadjar: what is going on

yourusername: nonsense in this comment section aside, i love you baby!!!

isackhadjar: i love you too cherie xx

yourusername: if you get points again this weekend you can choose what nonsense i make you do next

isackhadjar: wow what a prize

yourusername: well i can promise other things, but we really should keep it professional in public

kimiantonelli: you just proposed a threesome to lewis

yourusername: GET OUT OF OUR BUSINESS

isackhadjar: i’ll take the deal for both

yourusername: get to racing then pretty boy

fin.

note: i love me some isack hadjar and i can't believe this is the first time i've written for him !!!

[azulpitlane]

crush l ih6

summary: in which comments isack made on lewis hamilton’s daughter’s old instagram posts resurface

masterlist

yourusername march 2020 montauk, ny

liked by lewishamilton, isackhadjar and 8,739 others

yourusername officially licensed and two weeks off of school...life is good

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user imagine being lewis hamiltons daughter and being able to just drive around the hamptons for fun😔😔😔😔

user omg we got off school too!!

yourbff shoutout to covid🙏

yourusername fr!! i lowkey didnt study for that math test we were supposed to have on thursday

lewishamilton be careful driving!! especially in downtown

yourusername yes father, you only told me a million times already

user i want her life so bad

isackhadjar are you doing anything fun in these two weeks?

user please tell me im not the only one stalking her account after that twitter thread showing isacks comments on her old posts went viral

user YES!! i thought it was fake but hes really here😭😭

user omg i am too and im getting second hand embarrassment… this boy has NO game

yourusername march 2021 new york, new york

liked by lewishamilton, nicorosberg, and 8,128 others

yourusername quarantined birthday this year

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user nico still likes her pics💔💔💔

user im pretty sure he's her godfather so it makes sense

user the twilight cake is so real

isackhadjar happy birthday!! hopefully you still had fun even at home

user this is giving lando tweeting at carlos back in 2012

user he was crushing soo bad😭

user bro took being team lh too seriously and was literally trying to be a part of the family

user LMFAO his comments are so sweet and innocent though🥲 its kinda cute

yourusername december 2021 abu dhabi, uae

liked isackhadjar, lewishamilton and 10,739 others

yourusername its okay guys, hes still the father of two of the coolest kids so hes a winner forever

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yourbff are you implying roscoe is your brother?

yourusername well yes my dad birthed him

yourbff im-

user its still fuck the fia and verstappen though liked by author

lewishamilton true❤️ liked by author

user she was probably in attendance to see her dad win😭😭😭 this race was so rigged and unfair!!

yourusername straightened my hair for it and everything💔💔💔 (still very proud of my dad tho)

isackhadjar the final few laps were insane! can't imagine what it was like to be there

user LMFAOOO

user another one, thank you

user im gonna let these slide cause he was only like 17 when he wrote these

yourusername september 2022 new york, new york

liked by sebastianvettel, lewishamilton, and 19,402 others

yourusername proud to admit that my dad chose my outfit

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user using her nepotism to get into ny fashion week...honestly i respect it

user omg she's slowly becoming a fashion icon like lewis, name a more iconic duo!!!

user imagine being styled by THEE lewis hamilton

user the way the older drivers are always in her likes is so cute! i know they don't play about her

isackhadjar amazing🤩

user this might be the worst one...he wanted the effin cookie so bad...

user its also the last comment he made😞 he got tired of the no response LOL

user he still likes all of her photos to this day though!

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isackhadjar

liked by liamlawson, yourusername and 153,425 others

isackhadjar miami weekend🇺🇸

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liamlawson was the first picture taken before or after you face planted?

isackhadjar can we please move on from that? PLEASE

user liam should not be making me laugh this hard😔 im a fake lawson hater i fear

user thanks for falling🙏 its now one of the most iconic f1 moments on history

user HADJOINTS!! I THINK IT WAS BECAUSE OF THE GREAT FALL OF 2025

user Y/N IS IN THE LIKES

user SHE FOLLOWED HIM BACK TOO

yourusername amazing🤩

user OH MY GOD IS SHE QUOTING ONE OF HIS OLD COMMENTS FROM HER POSTS LMFAO

user SHES SEEN THE THREAD😭

user this is hilarious, i know he's probably freaking out

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yourusername

liked by isackhadjar, danielricciardo and 382,492 others

yourusername miami weekend

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user i was so happy to see you back in a race😭 we missed u

user the caption is the same as isacks ajskhasjd is she soft launching or just fucking with him ?!?

user need the wag detectives to find out if thats isack on the last slide NOW

user does she know team lh and hadjar fans have come together on twitter to investigate if they're possibly together?

lewishamilton 🖤 liked by author

user okay drama aside, where the hell have you been and why is this your first race appearance in almost three years?

yourusername babes i have a job now🥲

user so you're capable of responding to this comment but not the other ones🤨

yourusername 🤐

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isackhadjar

liked by yourusername, yukitsunoda and 292,038 others

isackhadjar thanks twitter for exposing me twice in a row. it really paid off.

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yukitsunoda there's no way.

user I WANNA KNOW WHAT LEWIS' REACTION WAS

user he actually did it...he has joined the hamilton family...

user this is inspirational af. never give up on the girl of your dreams guys😭😭

user youre telling me she saw him fall flat on his face and thought yeah thats my man🩷

user this actually frying me cause what if they get in a fight then he has to race against her DAD

user are you going to take her last name when you get married?

user when their kids ask how they met they're gonna have to say through instagram comments😊

yukitsunoda how???

liamlawson bro im asking myself the same thing. it might be ai...

isackhadjar ITS NOT ?!? @:yourusername BACK ME UP

yukitsunoda its been thirty minutes and she hasn't responded...mate this isn't looking good for you

isackhadjar SHES LITERALLY RIGHT NEXT TO ME

user the way she liked the photo too but is ignoring his cries for help in the comments😭

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yourusername

liked isackhadjar, pepemarti, and 937,184 others

yourusername his boba eyes and obsession with me have captured me

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user THE LAST PHOTO LMFAO

user hello isack and miss hamilton, i am coming forward to say that i was the one that posted that twitter thread😀 i personally would like an invitation to the wedding

yourusername noted📝

user OMG

user wow she actually makes him look tall

user obsession is definitely the right choice of words

user WAIT I LOVE THIS SM

user he's a lot bolder than i thought, dating his idol's daughter is crazy

user no cause how did he manage to do that😭

isackhadjar @:yukitsunoda @:liamlawson

yukitsunoda it took you five years, don't try to flex right now🙄

user IM DEAD HE CLOCKED HIM

isackhadjar i told you to delete the last photo😣

yourusername YOU LOOK SO CUTE THO

nicorosberg when's he coming over for dinner?

yourusername next weekend??

danielricciardo im coming too

sebastianvettel ill bring the wine

yukitsunoda can i come too and bring liam?

lewishamilton yes! we'll all be there saturday night!

yourusername YAY IM SO EXCITED

isackhadjar hah...me too...

user OH MY GOD ISACK IS PROBABLY SHITTING HIMSELF RN

user y/n and isack being the reason for a brocedes reunion is sending me

user oh to be a fly on the wall for that dinner😔

-

[goldsainz]

# IH6 — ENGLISH LOVE AFFAIR !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ ollie berman’s twin is secretly in love with a fellow f1 driver, except it’s a not well kept secret.

002. NOTE !

✯ it’s been so long since i posted, that this is centred around the australian gp which was agesss ago. but anyways i hope you’ll like this and that this is a good enough “comeback” 🫶prepare to see more isack fics because he’s slowly but surely making his way up my fav drivers

yourusername updated their instagram stories!

olliebearman responded to your story!

olliebearman “baby brother” YOU’RE THREE MINUTES OLDER??? olliebearman also p17 is mean😔

yourusername you’re right, p15 is more accurate

olliebearman i’m telling dad

isackhadjar responded to your story!

isackhadjar Can’t wait to see you later!

yourusername me too😚 yourusername i just need to get past my family

isackhadjar We always have the motorhome…

yourusername with all the media hovering that should be a last resort

isackhadjar A few minutes won’t raise suspicion

yourusername hmm we’ll see

liked by isackfan1, ynfan1 and 72,946

f1gossip It seems that the Australian GP was not so bad for Isack Hadjar after all. Multiple sources have said that after the driver’s crash, Ollie Bearman’s sister swiftly made her way to his garage. Though there is no concrete proof, we verified with the sources about them being at the GP, and it seems there could be some truth to this rumour!

view all 1,094 comments

ynfan2 I’M SORRY WHATTT

ynfan3 i need to know if ollie is okay

⤷ olliefan1 that man is about to set vcarb on fire

isackfan2 HOW DID HE MANAGE TO PULL HER😭😭😭

ynfan4 careful with the way y’all are speaking about my client

ynfan5 i’m not believing this for a sec

isackfan3 someone put isack in witness protection against ollie

⤷ olliefan2 girl that man wouldn’t hurt a fly

⤷ ynfan6 he doesn’t play about yn tho

liked by isackhadjar, flavy.barla and 276,438 others

yourusername hideaway in mayfair 🩵

view all 4,147 comments

olliebearman excuse me?

⤷ pepemartiofficial Excuse moi*

⤷ olliebearman 😐

isackfan21 THAT IS SO ISACK OMGG

ynfan21 so we’re just ignoring the elephant in the room ok…

⤷ ynfan22 do you not see the man on the second slide????? nothing is being ignored i fear

olliefan21 i’m sorry ollie but they are sooo cute

ynfan23 why is no one calling out the obvious “english love affair” reference

isackfan22 isack liked🥹🥹🥹

ynfan24 idc i love this couple

olliefan22 if this gets ollie to crash out and score points i welcome it

isackfan23 dare i say this is the best thing about the f1 season so far

⤷ isackfan24 don’t let them silence you!!!!!

liked by pierregasly, visacashapprb and 601,847 others

isackhadjar Dieu, I love the English

view all 9,028 comments

yourusername i love you so so much

⤷ isackhadjar T’aime plus

yourusername also you chose cute pics 🤌

⤷ isackhadjar See, you could trust me

⤷ yourusername hmm still up for debate

ynfan31 my queen has found her king

ynfan32 YOU KNOW I LOVE A LONDON *GIRL*

isackfan31 who knew our chronically online driver could make a cute hard launch post

olliebearman NUH UH

⤷ yourusername girl get over it

⤷ olliebearman over my f1 car

ynfan33 liked by pierregasly is backkkk

isackfan32 cannot wait to see her at the vcarb garage

ynfan34 MAMÁ Y PAPÁ

olliefan31 i’m sorry ollie but this is toooo iconic

⤷ ynfan35 after he gets over his tantrum he’ll see it too dw

isackfan33 i don’t know who im more jealous of

[jungwnies]

bf moments | isack hadjar

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!isack x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : compilation of fluffy boyfriend isack moments

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : miami race weekend y'all...the ferrari livery was uhm.. yeah but racing bulls is so cute >.<

boyfriend!isack who playfully tries to out-sass you but forgets who he’s talking to when you raise an eyebrow like, “you sure about that?”

boyfriend!isack who makes dumb little voice memos instead of texting because he loves knowing you’ll laugh at his accent or his weird commentary on life.

boyfriend!isack who gets genuinely offended when your phone autocorrects his name. “what do you mean HADJAR isn’t a real word. i’m a real boy.”

boyfriend!isack who calls you “mon ange” when he’s feeling clingy, but also “brat” when you tease him too well and he can’t think of a comeback.

boyfriend!isack who pretends not to care about matching outfits but 100% changes into a hoodie that matches your vibe the second you’re not looking.

boyfriend!isack who gives you his hat when your hair’s in your face — then immediately takes a thousand pictures of you wearing it.

boyfriend!isack who is the most annoying passenger princess, fiddling with your playlist, turning the AC on and off, and dramatically narrating your every turn like you’re in a rally car.

boyfriend!isack who acts so smug in public but clings to your hoodie sleeves when you're alone. “no i'm not needy. i’m cold. you just happen to be warm and soft. shut up.”

boyfriend!isack who makes you laugh mid-fight on purpose because he cannot stand when you’re mad at him, even if he kinda deserves it.

boyfriend!isack who literally stops mid-moment, forehead pressed against yours, just to mumble “you know i’m obsessed with you, right?” like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[clara-a7]

F1 GRID || 𝙇𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙇𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙜𝙚

彡CONTAINS ; kimi antonelli, charles leclerc, franco colapinto, isack hadjar, gabriel bortoleto

彡WARNINGS ; fluff

彡REQUESTED? ; No~ (requests are open!)

彡WORDS ; 1,1k

彡DISCLAIMER ; Everything written here is FICTITIOUS.

彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; sorry if here are any mistakes, english isn't my first language!

⤷Kimi Antonelli

Kimi tries to help you with your Italian.

One night, you’re making pasta together when you try to say something you think sounds right. “Posso aiutarti a… spaghettiare?”

Kimi looks up, trying not to laugh. “That’s not a real word,” he says, shaking his head. “But it's a good start”

He’s actually patient when you ask questions or want help. He doesn’t get frustrated if you mess up. He just explains it quietly or repeats it until you get it. But if you mess up something super simple like "ciao" he won’t let you live it down. You’ll hear him say it back to you ten times a day, always with a small grin.

He really likes it when you try to say sweet things in Italian. When you tell him “sei bellissimo,” he doesn’t say much just smiles and looks at you a little longer than usual. That’s how you know it matters to him.

Sometimes he teaches you with music. He’ll play old Italian love songs while you’re in the kitchen, and he’ll explain the lyrics one line at a time calm. It’s how he shares things with you.

With Kimi, learning Italian isn’t perfect, and it’s not fast. But it’s real. It’s about small moments, shared laughs, and learning by just being together.

⤷Charles Leclerc

Charles tries to help you with your French.

He doesn’t correct you right away when you say something wrong. He lets you finish, then gently repeats it the right way. Never to make fun just to help you hear it.

One morning, you try to ask him if he wants coffee in French. “Tu vouloir… cafer-rr?” He laughs under his breath, walks over, and kisses your forehead. “Nice try. But no, it’s tu veux du café?”

He’s patient. He doesn’t rush you. If you forget a word, he’ll wait until you find it, or quietly give you a hint. And when you get something right, even something small, he gives you this soft, proud smile like he really means it.

He loves hearing you try. Especially when you use words like 'mon cœur' or 'tu me manques'. Even if your accent’s a little off, he never makes fun of it. He just watches you, quietly happy, like it means more than he says.

Sometimes he teaches you while you're doing regular things grocery shopping, walking through the city, cooking dinner. He’ll point to something and say the word in French, then wait for you to repeat it. No pressure. Just small moments, here and there.

With Charles, learning French feels natural. Not like homework more like being let into his world.

⤷Franco Colapinto

Franco helps you with your Spanish.

Sometimes when you’re out, he’ll stop and point to something: “That says ‘helado’ It means ice cream.” Then he nudges you and asks, “How do you say it?” When you say it a little wrong, he gasps. “No ice cream for you until you get it right.” (You get it right fast.)

He teaches you words at random times, when you’re brushing your teeth, walking home, or making dinner. Some words are useful. Some are just slang. “Che, boludo” he says, shaking his head. “It means like… dude. But don’t say it in front of my grandma.” (You do. Once. He still laughs about it.)

When you try full sentences, he never interrupts. He lets you finish, even if you make a lot of mistakes. Then he’ll fix one thing just one and say, “You’re getting better. Really.” And you believe him, because he only says it when it’s true.

In the mornings, he sends you voice notes sometimes with new words, sometimes just him saying, “Buenos días, mi amorrr” dragging the “r” to make you smile.

With Franco, learning Spanish feels fun. It’s full of little jokes, small wins, and real moments. You don’t even notice how much you’ve learned until one day he says something fast in Spanish, and you understand all of it.

⤷Isack Hadjar

Isack tries to help you with your French.

One afternoon, you call him 'frère' just for fun, and he smiles softly. “Frère?” he teases, his eyes lighting up. “Bro? Who taught you that?” You laugh, shrugging. “From you,” you say, making him smile.

It’s the small moments like this that make him happy knowing you’re paying attention, even when you don’t fully understand him.

He’s patient when you mess up, never rushing you or making you feel bad. He’ll softly repeat words, letting you take your time. But when it comes to bad words, he can’t help himself. He teaches you a few, like 'merde' or 'putain' and the two of you share quiet laughs when you get them wrong. “Just don’t say it around my mom,” he says, giving you a playful wink.

There’s something about the way he teaches that makes it feel less like a lesson and more like something you’re sharing together. He gently corrects you, his smile growing softer when you try, and that proud look in his eyes when you finally get it right.

With Isack, learning French is full of warmth, laughter, and easy moments of connection. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being close, sharing something special, and enjoying each step of the journey together.

⤷Gabriel Bortoleto

Gabriel tries to help you with your Portuguese.

One night, during a late FaceTime, he’s clearly half-asleep but still insists on giving you a word of the day. “Hoje… the word is saudade.” You pause, trying to figure it out. “That’s a hard one.” He smiles, his voice soft. “It means ‘I miss you.’ A lot.” You repeat the word, and it feels like something deeper, something just for the two of you.

He enjoys teaching you words that carry weight, like 'cafuné' (the act of running fingers through someone’s hair). When you trip over the pronunciation, he gently corrects you, never rushing you. “Try again, meu bem.” And when you finally say it right, he grins, looking proud.

Sometimes, he sends you playlists filled with Brazilian songs and quizzes you on the lyrics. When you get one right, he rewards you with a sweet kiss on the forehead. “You're getting better,” he says with a smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

He calls you 'meu bem' so often, and before long, you start saying it back to him. Every time, it melts his heart just a little more. “You said it just right,” he whispers, his voice full of warmth and affection.

With Gabriel, learning Portuguese isn’t about perfection, it’s about sharing little moments, laughing together, and making memories that go beyond the words themselves.

✿彡did you enjoy this? comments, likes, and reblogs are immensely appreciatedミ✿

© clara-a7 - all rights reserved.

[bear-yawns]

　𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗗.　isack hadjar · #6

　　　you crocheted a bucket hat for your boyfriend, and he is obsessed with showing it off.

genres : fluff ... a bit more headcanony than the regular fic ... isack hadjar x fem!reader.　request : anon!!　word count : 431.　warnings : none　 note : the way i ran to write this immediately it's SO CUTE UGHHHH. very short but i wasn't sure i could add much more to the idea skdks.　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

Isack is the type of boyfriend to be your biggest supporter in whatever it is you’re doing. Whether it’s your hobbies or hating on that one bitch from your high school years, your boyfriend is always right next to you. When you picked up crochet seriously and started making the cutest little stuffed animals, tops, and hats, Isack was in awe of how you could create such cute and functional pieces within hours with just 1 hook. It wasn't too long before you had perfected making bucket hats and surprised your boyfriend with one of his own.

It was a bit bigger than the one you had, but the designs were matching, and he quickly noted how you’d crocheted the letter 6 into one of the squares instead of the regular daisy. His heart melted right then and there. 

You didn’t think it was such a big deal, as the hat only took a few days to make, and you enjoyed every second of it, knowing how adorable you both would look in the matching hats. But to Isack? The little bucket hat is now worth more to him than all the designer clothes in the world. And he could never leave the house without it. At first you’re a little embarrassed when he’s insistent on wearing it to the paddock, but there’s also no chance you would be able to convince him otherwise, so you’re forced to go along with it. 

Every person attending the Miami grand prix who notes the different hat he’s wearing, compliments it, or even glances in the general direction of it is quickly hearing the same words fall out of his mouth. 

“Isn’t it so adorable? My girlfriend made it for me. Isn’t she so talented?” 

The fans, of course, are just as in love with it as he is, especially when the instagram posts come in. He takes a million pictures, the hat perfectly matching the bright pink VCARB gear special for Miami. It’s all over the team instagram, and his personal one too. He sneaks in a few couple pictures too— the need to show off the matching hats too strong. 

Of course all the fans are screaming and crying over the photos; especially the one on the final slide of his personal post, where he's kissing your cheek mid smile. Out of all the drivers on the grid, Isack is one of the louder ones about his girlfriend. He doesn’t miss a chance to bring you up or boast about you, especially when he has the hat you made on his head.

isack taglist: @lxvemaze

[hello-car-fandom]

do it scared I IH6

pairing: bf! isack hadjar x reader word count: 1.2k tags: hurt and comfort, fluff, tiny tiny angst due to mc's insecurities, isack being the best boyfriend that he is in my head, badly translated french and mandarin, etc a/n: dedicated to @tsunodaradio. it seemed fitting that my first isack fic would be for you. hadjoints makes me happy but you make me happier <3

Isack was as dramatic as any Parisian could be. He would tell you every time that not every French was as over the top as you always say they were. The actual word is ‘expressive’. Thank you very much.

That's why you are shocked to the core when you said you wanted to break up and Shakespeare forgot to possess him like he always does. Isack froze for a second and then wanted to know where this came from.

“Was it anything I did, ma chérie ? Did I neglect you?”

He was patient and looked like he would wait until the Côte d'Albâtre was eroded away by the Atlantic Ocean. You didn't think you could bear to disappoint him by saying that it was because he is too cute. He felt too good to be true. So you mumble that it's a tiktok trend and walk away. 

………

The second time you told him that you wanted to break up was when you guys had the perfect day, the perfect date, and the perfect weather. You are laying down on his arm. his pulsing heart a companion to the blazing heat radiating from him. You snuggle into him as the cold wind nips at your neck even though there was no space between the two of you. Isack was mumbling like he always does and the cadence of his voice was getting lower with each passing sentence. It was the worst time to blurt out,

“I don't think this is working.”

Isack didn't even open his eyes to reply. “Ma moitié, I already told you I would request someone to fix our heating tomorrow. Do you want me to bring another blanket for us? C'est impossible to endure?”

There was a suspicious lump in your throat when you whispered, “I meant that I want to break up.”

He shifted until he had his arm across you and rubbed your arms. A puff of “We can talk about this tomorrow.” and he was out like a light. This conversation didn’t continue tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after next. Or in the next six months.

………

It picked up when you celebrated your second anniversary with a nice trip out to Shenzhen, China. You always wanted to walk the vibrant streets of Dafan Oil Painting Village. Isack always wants to give you anything your heart longed for.

Between inhaling your body weight in dimsum, giggling as you dared each other to try yā xīn, and the famous seafood dishes, you fell in love again with food and with Isack. This can't go on, you thought. How do I keep falling in love with him again and again? 

Final day of the trip was gently passing away with you glued to a painter mixing the most horrendous shade of blue and ending it with a finished painting that would have made Monet sell all his valuables to have it in his collection. Fortunately for him and unfortunately for you, you were able to get it for 465 yuan. Hoisting your new favourite piece of art under your arm with one hand, you pattered off to where Isack was losing badly to a game of chess. The grandpa playing against him was looking at him with such adoration that anyone would think your boyfriend saved him from certain death and was not just getting his arse kicked by an 80 year old man.

“Okay, I thought it over. I want to break up for real.” You declared as you came to a stop.

Both Isack and the grandpa looked up in unison. In a blink you found your hand stuffed with a 10 yuan. The older man was pointing at the board and said, “Měinǚ jiějiě, qù hē zhenzou nǎichá bā. Wǒ hái xiǎng zài wán yī jú. Méi xiǎngdào quán shìjiè dōu méi rén bǐ wǒ wán dé chà.”

Mandarin was not a language that any of you picked up. But food is a universal language and you knew ‘zhenzou nǎichá’ was boba milk tea. You figured that he wanted to play another round with the money being a bribe for you to let your boyfriend play. 

You look at Isack and he shrugged his shoulders in a way that only he does. “We are not breaking up and can you get me one with sugar.” 

Giving up was the best choice since you already accepted the bribe and Isack’s bullheadedness. “Fine. But you are only getting the basic one. Someone's favourite brown sugar one is for ex-boyfriends.”

You sashayed away thinking that you had the last word but a distant “I think current boyfriends deserve a grass jelly boba” shout had you walking a tad bit faster.

You got him his grass jelly drink. Full ice too because that boy had you wrapped around his finger and the both of you knew it.

………

“Enough.” Isack grumbled. “I will try to be a bad boyfriend.”

“Hm?” You look up from your cards. It was game night and both of you were sitting on the floor with elbows being pressed into the kotatsu you insisted was a necessary addition to the household. Isack had his arms across the chest. His eyes were boring into you. “I know what you are gonna say now. Mon chou, I want to break up. Our relationship is not working. No more of this. Please.” His tone got smaller until it fizzled out in the end.

Your brain short-circuited. “How did you know?”

“You always do this. We are having fun. The cheese pizza hit the spot AND you were winning all the games. It is the perfect vibe so I knew that you would try to run away. I am not letting you go without an actual reason. Spill. Why do you hate me the most when I show you the most love?” Isack's chest was heaving by the time he was done. It broke your heart to see him in distress. “I could never hate you.”

His breath hitched. You could see him relaxing his stance as a tension left his body. “What did I do wrong? Please tell me.”

You finally had to admit to him you were scared that this was the best memory you guys would ever have. That something this perfect couldn't be true. “Mon cœur, I think you are too good to be true too. And I can't help but scratch the itch of wanting to tear out the lies.”

Isack runs his hand through his hair as he starts pacing. “So you always want to give up on me without letting me have a chance to show you that this is real. Our love is real and it's here to stay.” He continues in a tight voice, “Do you not trust me?”

“You know I do. With my whole life.”

“But not with our relationship.”

“I-”

“Sorry.” Isack cuts you off. “That was cruel of me. Can you just promise to trust me a bit more when you are happy? Trust me to make you happier?”

After this, whenever you wanted to pack up and leave because this boy was making you experience another heart-wrenching, high-inducing level of contentment you never thought you would reach, you would simply press a kiss to his hair. Isack knew what it meant. He would hold you a bit tighter and that was enough.

Love was scary. Trusting someone to love you was scarier. But you would live life to the full while being frightened. For him.

[enjoythebutterflies33]

✮ FACETIME | Isack Hadjar ✮ 

Summary: little drabble where Isack gets his girlfriend to travel with him to races word count: 591

⋆˙⟡♡ masterlist

It’s late. Way too late for you to still be awake, but here you are anyway, laid in bed with your laptop resting next to you, on facetime to Isack in Canada. 

You already know you’re going to regret the lack of sleep while you’re at work in a few hours, but he’s been gone for 5 days already and you’ve barely gotten 10 uninterrupted minutes alone. 

“I hate this” You blurt out, without really thinking about what you’re saying.

“Uh.. Oh.. I-I” Isack stutters, completely taken aback and misunderstanding what you actually meant by that. 

“Oh god no!” You cut in quickly. “I didn’t mean this, not us, not you. It’s just we’ve been together for four months and you’re gone all the time”

“I know bébé, I’m sorry” Isack looks disappointed, and a wave of guilt washes over you. You’re regretting saying anything about it now, but you significantly lack a filter when it’s late and you’re so tired.

“No baby, I'm sorry, please don’t apologise. I just wish we could stay in our little bubble all the time”

“We could” Isack said so matter of factly. 

You briefly frown, not out of anger, but confusion, because how could you stay in your bubble while he travels at least once a month. Before you get a chance to ask what he means, Isacks speaks up again with a cheeky grin on his face. “Travel with me, you can work on planes and in cars and in the paddock”

“You’re forgetting about time zone differences, I’d be working in the middle of the night, in like half the places you go” You sighed. “Plus, I can’t just follow you around like some lost puppy, I couldn’t afford flights every week or two, I can’t just leave everything behind and we’d be living in hotel rooms, an-”

Isack's laughter stops you in your tracks, he can’t help but think you’re completely adorable, even when you’re in an overthinking ramble. “Bébé” Isack mutters, while shaking his head. “Half of that isn’t even an issue. First of all, I’d love you to follow me around like a lost puppy” 

You roll your eyes playfully and mutter out “Of course you would”

“Listen to me bébé” Isack tells you gently. “The only thing you need to worry about is packing your bags and talking to your manager about working remotely”

“But” You squeak, taken aback at how simple this all seems to Isack.

“No, no buts, no what ifs” Isack tells you seriously. “If this is what you want, I won't force you, but if this is what you want, I will have it sorted by 9am”

You finally take a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, and then suddenly a fit of giggles slip past your lips. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Isack’s grinning giddily and nodding through your computer screen. “I’ve wanted you to come with me since I left for testing”

“We’d only been official for like three weeks!” You gasped, covering your mouth. 

“We’d been spending time together for two months already! I just didn’t want to come on too strong and beg you to follow me everywhere” Isack admits as a crimson blush cascades over his cheeks. “Like a lost puppy” Isack added in quickly with a playful smirk.

“You liked meeee” You teased in a sing-song voice, causing Isack to rub his hands over his face with a groan. “God, we’re grossly in love” Isack nodded along happily. “Tellement dégoûtant d’amour bébé” so disgustingly in love baby

[multicohn]

summary: being promoted to f1? awesome! being teammates with your girlfriends insanely overprotective older brother who doesn't know your dating? not awesome.

warnings: yuki being overly protective, cursing

pairing: tsunoda! reader x isack hadjar

genre: smau, established relationship, secret relationship ( at the start )

face claim: naoi rei

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

youruser

liked by isackhadjar and others

youruser: gave me roses and a nice dinner because buying the world is too expensive nowadays 🙄 men…

view all comments

danielricciardo: *gasp* little tsunoda????

| user: little tsunoda aint so little anymore

user: ARE YIU SEEIOUS

user: WHAT TBE H

user: LITTLE TSUNODA HAS A BF???

pierregasly: oh!

yukitsunoda0511: WHAT THE FUCK

| youruser: um i think that’s against the guidelines

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT THE FUCK

user: not y/n pulling someone before her brother LMAO

user: aw baby’s growing up 💖

| yukitsunoda0511: NO SHES NOT ALLOWED TOO

yukitsunoda0511: TELL ME WHO IS IT

| youruser: no.

| yukitsunoda0511: ILL TELL MUM

| youruser: oh!

| youruser: she already knows 😜

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT

user: men these days are too cheap 😒 like wdym you can’t give me world????

| youruser: i knew someone would understand

user: yuki is going through it lol 😭

isackhadjar: apple juice?

| youruser: 👀

| isackhadjar: 😅

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

youruser

liked by isackharjar and others

youruser: ☀️🌊🏖🐚

view all comments

yukitsunoda0511: turn your location on. now

| youruser: no

| yukitsunoda0511: what if you get kidnapped? or he sells you?

| youruser: please trust me

| yukitsunoda0511: all men are wolves. i know i am one

| youruser: that’s not a good look for you…

user: oh i know a diva when i see her

francisca.cgomes: gorgeous

| youruser: me or the view???

| francisca.cgomes: both 😘

| youruser: 🫣

user: youre unbelievable

alexandrasaintmleux: text us if you need anything

| francisca.cgomes: and we mean… anything 👀

| yukitsunoda0511: traitors. the both of you’s

user: good genes really run in the family

| youruser: no they passed him

| user: like a true little sister

user: location?

| youruser: beach.

| user: girl 💀

isackhadjar: nice 👍

| youruser: thanks 👍

| user: help why is he so dry

| user: what do you want him to say 😭 most of the grid doesn’t even follow her cause yuki threatened them

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

youruser

liked by isackhadjar and others

youruser: *sees 3rd pic* write that down 📝 📝WRITE THAT DOWN ✍️✍️✍️

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yukitsunoda0511: FRENCH

yukitsunoda0511: HES FRENCH

| youruser: we finally have something in common 🫶

| pierregasly: keep me out of this

| youruser: i didn’t say that i was talking about you…

| pierregasly: ⁉️

| youruser: sigh. i’ll give you a hint

| youruser: he’s not actually french but he lives here <3

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT

| youruser: have fun

| yukitsunoda0511: GET BACK HERE I NEED MORE

| yukitsunoda0511: Y/N TSUNODA I SWEAR

user: at least he knows how to take pictures

| youruser: he didn’t. but i taught him

alex_albon: 👀

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT DO YOU KNOW

| alex_albon: do you want me to be honest?

| yukitsunoda0511: YES

| alex_albon: absolutely nothing lol

| yukitsunoda0511: keep one eye open 🔪

user: i would buy you everything

user: she’s so pookie coded

isackhadjar: disney!

| youruser: disney!

| user: aw they’re getting along

| user: bet it’s cause he’s french too

| user: french you say 👀

| user: girl theyve like just met dont even 💀 plus isack isn’t french he was just raised in france

| user: 👀

| user: ❌

user: yuki crashing out that she’s dating was not on my bingo card but here we are

kellypiquet: p can not stop obsessing over those ears you’re sending

| youruser: anything for her <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

viscashapprb and isackhadjar

liked by formula2 and others

visacashapprb: winter break diaries 📖 ( isack’s version ) #f1 #vcarb

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user: hey hot stuff 😏

user: aw the 2nd pic

user: im sorry king i was unaware of your game last year 🙏

user: is he single?

| user: as far as we know

pepemartiofficial: looking fresh

| pepemartiofficial: wonder who for 👀

| user: oh nvm

| user: SPILL PEPE WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user: THE LAST PICTURE????

| user: what about it?

| user: DOES THE BEACH NOT LOOK THE SAME AS THE ONE ON YUKIS SISTERS???

| user: idk every beach looks the same to me?

| user: could be a coincidence. she showed that she was staying somewhere towards the bottom

| user: how are we so sure that it was her room though?

isackhadjar: I forget to properly look through the photos i sent

| youruser: youre a dumbass i cant believe the official team account did your soft launch

| isackhadjar: you love me

| youruser: guilty

| user: HWAT

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

isackhadjar

liked by youruser and others

isackhadjar: i have been given hard launch duties. here is my girlfriend 😊💙

( tagged: youruser )

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pepemartiofficial: finally

| yukitsunoda0511: YOU KNEW

| pepemartiofficial: 🧍‍♂️

olliebearman: rip isack. you’ll always be remembered for crashing in monza 🙏

| kimi.antonelli: i will sing at the funeral

| gabrielbortoleto_: i will prepare a speech

| jackdoohan: i’ll arrange a casket

| liamlawson30: i’ll get the location

| fernandoalo_oficial: and i will do flowers 👍

yukitsunoda0511: YOU

yukitsunoda0511: DIE

yukitsunoda0511: NOW

pierregasly: there he is

| danielricciardo: never even got a chance to meet him 😔

| pierregasly: it was better this way 🕊

youruser: not yuki beating me when im literally right next to you…

| youruser: this is embarrassing i need to step up my game

| yukitsunoda0511: YOURE WHERE WITH WHO

| youruser: in paris with my boyfriend 😁

youruser: WHY DID YOU PICK THOSE PICTURES

| isackhadjar: cause i like them

| youruser: omg really

| isackhadjar: yes. i like everything about you :)

| youruser: let’s get married

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT NO

yukitsunoda0511: you’re going to regret ever being in f1

| youruser: yuki seriously chill. i’m not a kid

| yukitsunoda0511: idc YOURE MOT ALLOWED TO DATE ESPECIALLY A DRIVER

| youruser: too bad plus mum loves him

| yukitsunoda0511: WHAT

youruser: i love you

| isackhadjar: I love you more

yukitsunoda0511: ill see you in australia.

| isackhadjar: i feel like this is a threat

| yukitsunoda0511: it is.

| isackhadjar: oh!

| youruser: 🤦‍♀️

[pastryfication]

on the red carpet — isack hadjar

just felt like isack looked a bit lonely there…

The crisp grey carpet beneath your feet almost feels too fancy to be stepped upon. You cleaned your favourite heels before coming, but you still feel like you’re ruining it with every step you take along the path.

Isack sends you a grimaced look over his shoulder when you once again squeeze his hand a bit too tight, and he slows down his pace.

“I’m not letting go, I promise.” He grins.

“I don’t trust you.” Your tone is teasing, but he finds some sincerity in there as well, and his gaze softens in the way it so often does when he’s looking at you.

“I’ll have to take some pictures later, but apart from that, I won’t leave your side. I’m here with you.” He uses your intertwined hands to pull you closer, leaning down to press a kiss against your glossed lips.

You nod, your grip loosening slightly on his hand. 

“Besides, who would want to let you go when you look like that.” His smile is wide now, jokingly looking up and down your dress clad body, and you push his shoulder with a light glare.

He’s trying to ease your mind, making you think of something different than the hundreds of people looking at the two of you, snapping pictures with blitz and shouting his name and it’s working.

You hadn’t originally wanted to come. Isack enjoyed all these new glamorous things he got invited to, but you were more held back. Glittery dresses and thick layers of makeup weren’t exactly your favourite things, but when your boyfriend looked at you those big brown eyes, practically begging you, it was impossible to say no.

And even though you want to puke, standing in your tight dress and tall heels, the look on Isack’s face makes it all worth it.

He’s absolutely shining, eyes bright with a wonder that’s almost childlike, as if he truly can’t believe that he’s standing here, amongst his idols, with fans clawing to get a look at him, and that he’s doing it all with you. You, who were so far out of his league that he was completely stunned when you agreed to go out with him for the first time. You, who held him through good and bad and went completely out of your comfort zone just to see him smile. 

There was no doubt he was the luckiest man alive. Not when he had you on his arm, looking so incredibly gorgeous, and Lewis Hamilton comradely clapping his back as he walks past.

[piastriprincess]

somethin' stupid  ⸻  isack  hadjar  x  reader  .

featuring  isack  hadjar  ,  friends  to  lovers  ,  university  au  ,  isack  being  a  down  bad  simp  ,  very  rusty  french  and  google  translated  italian  <3 word  count  9.5k author’s  note  literally  no  one  asked  for  this  but  i’ve  been  obsessed  with  isack  lately  and  this  is  the  result  !  loosely  based  off  a  poem  i  read  a  million  years  ago  on  this  website  called '8 ways to say i love you' .  unfortunately  you  truly  never  escape  what  you  thought  was  romantic  at  age  13  !  dedicating  this  one  to  @spiderbeam —  eve  ,  thank  you  for  getting  me  into  this  man  in  the  first  place  .  i  fear  you  have  my  heart  and  all  my  isack  fics  <3  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  it  helps  me  so  much  to  get  feedback  from  you  all  about  what  you  like  and  don’t  like  !  title  is  from  somethin’  stupid  by  frank  sinatra  .

one: spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot of whiskey you downed for courage. feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Isack is forgetting something. He has to be. Because even through a hangover that feels like a jackhammer pounding directly into his skull, there is still an awful tugging in the back of his mind, like his brain is trying to remind him about something vitally important. 

He rolls over, squinting at the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds, to discover he never made it to bed. No, his face is pressed against the scratchy cushions of the living room couch, mouth dry and tasting vaguely like rum and regret. 

Rum. He blinks hard, a memory swimming up through the haze in his head — Pepe returning from his first class of syllabus week last night with a brown paper bag in hand and a devilish smile on his face. He’d claimed one of his fellow comms majors had told him if you mixed Rum Chata with Fireball, it tasted exactly like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Isack didn’t even like sweet drinks, but that was your favorite cereal, so of course he had to try it, if only so he could tell you about it the next day. 

He groans and pushes himself upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as the room spins around him. There’s a concerning stain on the worn carpet that wasn’t there the night before, and Ollie’s shoes are swinging lazily by their laces from the ceiling fan. The thought of you is stirring something in his brain, too. You hadn’t been there the night before — despite the fact that it was the first week of class, your thermodynamics professor had assigned you a particularly vicious problem set due at midnight — but you’d wormed your way into his drunken mind anyway. It happens more often than not, he supposes. Gabi’s put together a slideshow montage of all his intoxicated rambles declaring you the most perfect girl in the world that he’s started threatening to play for you if Isack doesn’t make a move before graduation. 

He’s still thinking about you when his phone buzzes from somewhere below him. He has to dig through the couch cushions, shoving aside loose change and a half-eaten sleeve of Triscuits before his fingers close around it. The screen has a thin, jagged crack across it that wasn’t there the night before, but he can still make out the notification from you on his lockscreen:

daily grind at 10:15? senior year deserves an extra special treat, i’m buying :~)

That must be what he had forgotten. Your coffee tradition. Rain or shine, hungover or sober, you always met at the Daily Grind for complicated sugary drinks before your first class of the semester. It was one of the few things in your friendship that was undeniably sacred. 

He glances up at the time. 10:13. Merde. He’s already dialing your number, rehearsing an apology in his head and a promise to be there as soon as he can, but the phone stops ringing and he gets your voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Obviously I don’t have my phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you! Or you can just text me like a normal person.”

Oh. Oh no. No no no no no.

Hearing your voicemail message — now that is familiar in the worst way. A sick wave rolls through his stomach, part hangover and part nauseous realization that drunk Isack might have done something really, really stupid. He winces, pulling up his call history, already half-knowing what he’ll find. 

Sure enough, there’s one outgoing call to you at 1:54 AM, and the memory clicks into place like the final piece of last night’s twisted puzzle. 

“Hiii,” he’d slurred into the phone, head lolling against the sofa. “C’est Isack. I — you know that, obviously. Your phone probably told you that! I’m — I’m drunk. And I wish you were here tonight. Wish you were here every night, en fait, but especially tonight. Pepe made Cinnamon Toast Crunch but, like, drinks. I know it’s your favorite and — you would have loved everything about it! As much as I love everything about you. I love your laugh, I love your face, I looooove you. Putain. I am going to regret this tomorrow.” With that he’d hung up the phone, immensely pleased with himself, and fallen asleep. 

Well, drunk Isack had been right about one thing, at least. Sober Isack is definitely regretting it. He’s been trying to figure out how to tell you that he likes you basically since he met you, and now he’s gone and done it in the most ridiculous way possible. 

His stomach twists, and it’s definitely not the hangover this time. It’s too late to cancel. You’re probably already there, sitting at your usual table by the window and ordering him something disgustingly sweet. He has no other option but to show up.

His mind fills with increasing dread as he gets ready. He considers faking his own death, but that seems like it might raise more questions than it answers. Plus, his friends would probably find a way to resurrect him just to kill him again for being such a total coward.

“You look like shit, Hadjar,” you say cheerfully as he stumbles into the seat across from you fifteen minutes after you’d agreed to meet. His hair is still damp from the world’s fastest shower, dark sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. 

He smiles shakily back at you as you slide a coffee that looks like diabetes waiting to happen across the table to him. You’re acting surprisingly normal for someone whose best friend crooned a love confession into their voicemail in the middle of the night. Maybe you hadn’t even listened to it. Maybe you thought it was a butt-dial and deleted the entire thing. “Blame Pepe. He got me hammered last night.”

“I’ll excuse the lateness just this once,” you reply, face breaking into the smile that’s been ruining his life since freshman year. “Was it worth it?” 

“Jury’s still out,” he says, taking a cautious sip of his drink. As he predicted, it’s absolutely revolting, a sugar rush in a cup. “Mon dieu, this is disgusting,” he groans. “What the hell is it?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch latte,” you say, biting your lip, and Isack spits coffee all over the table between you. 

He’s still spluttering when you start talking again, eyes fixed on the table between you. “Look, I know you were drunk when you left that message,” you say, twisting a strand of hair around your finger, “and I know drunk people say stupid things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, heart sinking into his stomach. He had meant it, he thinks, but he’ll let you draw the incorrect conclusion if it makes you happier. If it means he gets to keep being your friend, to keep you in his life in whatever way you’ll allow. 

“So I’m not going to hold the whole ‘I love you’ thing against you. But if you really love my face, you should probably ask it out on a date, or something.” 

His head snaps up, almost too afraid to believe he heard you right. “Vraiment?”

“Vraiment,” you confirm, flicking a gaze up at him. Your eyes are bright, hopeful. “Do you want to take my face out, or what?”

You take a sip of your coffee like you’re trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but you’re drumming your fingers against the cup the way you always do when you’re in your own head. You’re nervous, Isack realizes. You want this as much as he does.

“I really want to take your face out,” he says, voice hoarse, and you just smile. 

You both finish your coffee, and afterwards he walks you to the engineering building for your class. Since it seems to be a good day for getting what he wants, he holds your hand as you go. He’s only hoping to brush against your palm, to feel the electric buzz of your skin against his, but instead you weave your fingers into his, squeeze his hand tight. 

When he looks down at your hand, intertwined with his, he’s already thinking about how he can say it to you again without fucking it all up. 

two: sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy. 

“Okay, seriously, if you laugh at me, I’m gonna break up with you,” you say, voice muffled behind the bathroom door, and the butterflies erupt in Isack’s chest all over again.

The first date had gone well. Better than well. It had gone kind of flawlessly, actually. So Isack took you on a second. Then a third. It’s wonderful — he keeps expecting you to say no, to say you’ve made a huge mistake and you’re better off as friends, but it’s been nearly two months now and you just keep matching his level of enthusiasm.

Your first Halloween together is no different. Halloweekend has always been a blur of mixers and parties spent side-by-side with you, so Isack wasn’t expecting anything new now that you were officially together. But you’d asked him one night a few weeks ago during a study session, ankle twisting around his under the kitchen table, what couples costume the two of you would be wearing this year. Isack had been so thrilled by the idea that you would publicly identify yourself as his girl that every single cheesy couples costume he’d ever seen over the years had flown out of his mind completely. He’d locked eyes with the vintage Mercedes poster he’d hung on their living room wall, and to his absolute horror, blurted “Brocedes,” which even to his lovesick mind sounded like the stupidest thing he’d ever said.

To his unending delight, however, you’d agreed without a second thought. Which is how he finds himself dressed as Lewis Hamilton in a Mercedes race suit and a Pirelli cap, waiting for his Nico to work up the courage to make her way out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to laugh,” he assures you, teal sneakers squeaking against the floor as he wipes his palms on the suit. “Come on, mon coeur. Let me see.”

The door creaks open hesitantly, and there you are, the fluorescent bathroom light framing you from behind. Your hair is slicked back, tousled just so. The white suit hugs your body, and you have it unzipped just low enough to show off the soft line of your collarbones and the swell of your chest. 

Isack’s eyes drag down your body, unable to tear his gaze away from you. You’re unreal. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s pretty much the only word he remembers at this point. 

You lean against the door frame, glossed lips curling into a soft smile. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think we’re going to be late to this party,” Isack says, voice rough around the edges. 

He crosses the room in two strides, pulling you into him by your hips. You loop your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, it feels like his world is exploding into a million pieces.

He still hasn’t figured out a better way to tell you how he feels about you. It’s strange, in a way; before you started dating, the situation felt wildly romantic in his head, like something straight out of those chick flicks you watch religiously and he pretends not to like. Two friends, madly in love with each other without having the nerve to admit it. Your relationship, though it was practically perfect in every other way, had complicated things. Isack wants to be the guy who sweeps you off your feet, not the creep who tells you he loves you after a month and a half. 

But now, with his teeth scraping impatiently against your collarbone and you breathing his name into his ear like it’s a prayer, he can’t imagine not saying something. It escalates quickly, as it always does with the two of you: he’s hauled you up onto the edge of the sink, and your legs wrap around his waist as he drags his mouth back up your neck to meet your lips. You taste like your strawberry lip gloss, and when you slot your tongue into his mouth it makes his head spin.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth. It’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, just a sound you could mistake for pleasure if you weren’t listening closely. You don’t react, just kiss him again so deeply he feels he might drown in it. A small noise escapes the back of your throat, one he wants to make you replicate over and over again, and he’s sure then that you didn’t hear him.

It’s probably for the best. He wants to be sure that when he does work up the courage, you’ll know, and there will be nothing to keep you from believing him. Not alcohol, not desperation, not the heat of a perfect, stolen moment. So he presses the words into the column of your neck, murmurs them into the cut of your collarbone. He traces hard little hearts into your hips with his thumbs. Your suit begins to slip off your shoulders, exposing the teal strap of your bra, and Isack thinks he might have legitimately died and gone to heaven.

That is, until the door swings open behind him with a dramatic bang. 

“Che schifo,” Kimi yelps, scandalized, covering his eyes with his hands. “Isack, your room is right there.”

You pull back from Isack, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you hike your costume back up your shoulder. Your gloss is smudged, cheeks flushed pink, and Isack thinks he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even if he does want to melt into the floor tiles right about now. 

“Sorry, Kimi,” you chirp, not even having the decency to look flustered. “Isack got so turned on by the thought of Brocedes that he just had to have me.”

“I did not,” Isack protests, cheeks scarlet. “Kimi, we were just —”

“This is a communal bathroom, Isack,” his roommate interrupts, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I am happy you two finally figured it out, but… we wash our hands in that sink.”

“You’re a menace,” Isack hisses under his breath to you, and you giggle, smoothing your hair.

“We’re late anyway,” you grin, hopping off the sink. “Don’t worry, Kimi, won’t happen again.”

He lets you pull him out of the bathroom, watching as Kimi closes the door behind you. “We can pick that back up later somewhere with a little more privacy,” you whisper into his ear, and he stumbles over his own feet. It’s embarrassing the way he can tell his eyes are lighting up at your words. He sends a small thank you to the universe that the fabric of the costume is thick. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he watches you walk to the door, hips swaying. “I’m definitely holding you to that.”

three: whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. maybe you were just sleep whispering.

The bed feels far too narrow to fit the both of you, the old-fashioned radiator in your room is clanking so loudly he’s worried it might explode, Isack’s arm is going numb where it’s trapped under your head, and there is absolutely no place he’d rather be.

He’d picked you up at the airport earlier that day — your flight was meant to land in the afternoon, but he’d shown up nearly forty minutes early, pacing excitedly around baggage claim until you descended down the escalator. You were wearing the hoodie you’d stolen from him before winter break and your biggest smile, and you’d jumped into his arms with such force that he’d dropped the homemade welcome sign he’d made, poster board fluttering to the floor. 

Since then, he’s been pretending personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. Hand on your thigh in the car, an arm around your waist as he carries your suitcase into your apartment, fingers tracing through your hair as you lay in bed curled into his chest. He can’t keep his hands off you. It’s as if the two of you were separated for three years, not three weeks.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you observe, one leg thrown lazily over his waist as you scroll through TikTok. 

“Just thinking,” he shrugs, flicking his eyes over your screen. You’re watching one of those kitchen restock videos you like, the light of your screen illuminating your face in the dark room.  

“Dangerous activity for you,” you tease, eyes bright. He grabs your waist and pulls you in, blowing a raspberry into your neck and laughing as you squeal and squirm away from him. “What’s on your mind, Hadjar?”

What’s really on his mind is how warm and comfortable he feels with you, how the sharp, persistent ache in his chest that he’d been feeling since winter break started has finally subsided now that he’s back in your presence. “How I survived three weeks without you hogging all the blankets,” he says instead. 

You gasp and narrow your eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “I do not hog the blankets,” you protest, pulling more of the comforter towards you.

“Sure,” he counters, pulling it back. “And I don’t have the shin bruises to prove that you’re also a sleep-kicker.”

“Those could be from anything,” you say primly. He gives you a look of pure disbelief, and you both dissolve into giggles, foreheads pressing against each other. 

Before leaving for winter break, he’d thought that everything would feel the same way it did when you were just friends. Despite the different time zones, the two of you had managed to talk every day — texts about everything from the prize he won in a Christmas cracker to the dog at your New Year’s party wearing a sparkly hat to his mom’s endless questions about when his copine would visit Paris. It was nice. He was happy, but it wasn’t enough. Not like it used to be. 

When you were friends, even in the years that he’d harbored his frankly all-encompassing crush on you, missing you had been manageable, a dull ache he could soothe with a voice memo or a quick call. But this had been different. Deeper. More essential to his being, somehow.

Every time he slid into his childhood bed, he’d glance over at the empty pillow and be struck with the visceral feeling that you should be there. He’d caught himself saving up stories to tell you, photographing random things because he knew they'd make you laugh, declining invitations from his lycée friends because he'd rather spend the evening talking to you than going out. You’d fallen asleep twice during your marathon daily FaceTimes, and both times Isack had stayed on the line just to listen to you breathe, feeling foolish and smitten and wondering when exactly you’d managed to make yourself feel like home to him. 

Suddenly worried that he won’t be able to keep himself from saying exactly that, Isack breaks the laughter with a clearly fake, very loud snore. 

“Baby,” you giggle, poking him in the side as the radiator clangs particularly violently. “Stop. I’m trying to sleep.” 

There’s some level of truth to that; it’s nearly 2 AM, and the two of you have been curled up in your bed since the early evening. But clearly, neither of you have been trying very hard to actually rest, too excited to be with each other again to let your eyes close. 

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he huffs, pressing a kiss into your temple. “You’ve been talking for, like, hours.”

“Fine,” you reply haughtily, wrinkling your nose up at him. “Look at me, totally asleep.” With that, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, and go silent. 

He listens to the slow rhythm of your breathing, feels the way your chest rises and falls against him. He wants to follow you into sleep, but it’s evading him. There’s something playing on his mind — the thought that with every day he spends with you, he’s falling deeper into something he only thought he understood before. He’d been so sure he loved you back then, but this is something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the darkness, or the feeling of you in his arms again, but he’s feeling bold. “Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair. And then you sigh, snuggling closer into his hoodie with a soft, instinctive movement. 

Isack freezes, heart hammering against his ribs, and slams his eyes shut like he can pretend he’s sleep-whispering. Counts the seconds between your exhales until he’s convinced your movement was a coincidence, and he can bide his time some more.  

When he says it for real, you’ll be so blown away by how suave and gorgeous and charming he is that you won’t hesitate to say it back.

four: buy her flowers. buy her chocolate. buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Isack has a plan. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. He made a reservation in advance at Maison de Lumière, the only restaurant near campus that required anything more than jeans and a sweatshirt. It had taken three calls and a small bribe to one of the hostesses, but he’d finally managed to secure a table. He didn’t have a suit, so he’d had to borrow Gabi’s. It’s miles too big and hangs loosely off his frame, making him look a little bit like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet. He bought flowers — not from the grocery store, but real long-stem red roses wrapped in pink tissue paper that cost more than his weekly laundry budget. He’d even picked up a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the campus bookstore, at the last minute throwing a little stuffed bear into his cart that he almost immediately regretted. 

None of it is his vibe, really. He’s not used to grand romantic gestures. But you deserve everything he’s planned and more, even if it does make him feel a little ridiculous and out of place. And maybe, if everything goes absolutely perfectly, tonight can be the night that Isack finally tells you he loves you.

That is, until you get to the restaurant, and he realizes this is going to be a total disaster. 

You look so beautiful that Isack trips over his feet multiple times trying to open the door for you. Then you’re seated at a table by the window, which should feel romantic but really feels like the two of you are on display. There are several sets of silverware on the table for some reason, and the glasses are heavy crystal that Isack is afraid to touch. The bear sits on the windowsill like a fuzzy chaperone, its glassy eyes staring at you.

The waiter drops off menus in thick leather folders, giving you a ten-minute explanation of the special holiday prix fixe menu. Isack orders the cheapest wine on the list, and the waiter scoffs but obliges. When he finally leaves the two of you alone, silence weighs on the table like an uncomfortably heavy blanket. 

“So,” you say, drumming your fingers against the stem of your water glass. 

“So,” he agrees, trailing off. 

Then the two of you speak at the same time:

“This place is —”

“You look really —”

You laugh, but it’s not your laugh, the familiar sound that makes Isack’s heart flip. It’s stilted, forced. “Sorry, I was just going to say this place is… nice.”

“Thanks,” he says politely, straightening his tie for the fifteenth time, but he can’t keep the frown off his face. Nice. It’s careful. It’s a word designed to be meaningless, to hide how uncomfortable you are, and Isack can feel his perfectly planned night slipping through his fingers. 

It’s torture. Actual, literal torture. In three years of friendship and seven months of dating, you’ve never run out of things to say to each other. You talk constantly about classes and professors and the weird guy in your freshman dorm who collected vintage lunch boxes and whether aliens existed and what you’d do if you won the lottery. You flirt ridiculously and tease each other relentlessly. You send each other stupid memes at 2 AM and argue about linear algebra with the kind of intensity that comes from finding your mental match in another person. 

But tonight, surrounded by white linen and overpriced menu items and the soft classical music whispering from hidden speakers, Isack has nothing. He takes a sip of the wine, immediately wincing at the taste. 

“Isack,” you say gently, touching his wrist across the table as he forces a swallow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… this sucks, right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“This,” you say, waving your hand through the air at the restaurant, the pristine tablecloth, the overly perfumed candle flickering between you. “All of this. We both hate this. This isn’t us.”

For the first time all night, Isack feels like he can actually breathe. “Yes. Mon dieu, yes. This is horrible. The wine is horrible. I thought I was the only one.”

“No,” you laugh, and it finally sounds real. “You’re definitely not the only one. The waiter keeps looking at me like I’m going to smuggle the silverware out in my purse.”

He snorts, pulling at his tie until it loosens around his neck. “I’m so sorry, mon coeur. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to give you the Valentine’s Day you deserve, something fancy and romantic and —”

“Awkward and uncomfortable and completely wrong for us?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

“I love that you wanted to do something special,” you say, and Isack’s brain short-circuits somewhere around hearing the second word of your sentence. “But I don’t deserve all this. I deserve you. The real you, not whatever tie-wearing, wine-drinking version of you that you think is going to impress me.”

You love that he wanted to do something special. Love. It’s the perfect opening. Three simple words that had been circling in his head for months, waiting for the right moment to be dropped. 

He opens his mouth to speak, finally working up the courage to say exactly what the entire night is for, but you beat him to the punch. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

A half hour later, the two of you are pressed shoulder to shoulder on the hood of Isack’s beat-up Honda with a twenty piece nugget box and two Slurpees between you. Your dress is hiked up around your thighs, bare leg pressed against his, the stuffed bear sitting in your lap.

You lean your head against his shoulder, taking a long sip of your Slurpee. “Next year, maybe let’s skip the fancy restaurant.”

“No complaints on that,” he allows, taking a bite of a nugget. “That bottle of wine basically wiped out our date budget for the rest of the semester, by the way.”

You laugh as the cool February wind picks up, and without thinking Isack takes off Gabi’s jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile up at him, makeup smudged slightly at the corners of your eyes. “Now that’s romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

Isack sighs happily, wrapping his arm around you. He’d spent so long planning what he thought was the perfect night. The flowers, the chocolates, the overpriced dinner, the teddy bear, all because that’s what movies and romance novels and r/Relationship_Advice said you were supposed to do when you loved someone.

But now, with chicken nugget crumbs on his fingers and the taste of blue raspberry in his mouth and your laugh still echoing in the crisp air of the parking lot, he thinks maybe it’s this.

five: blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. when time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.

There aren’t many rules Isack has for your relationship. Why bother, when everything is perfect without them? It’s not like you need a set date night, since you hang out with each other all the time anyway. He likes PDA. He would rather die than tell you who you could or couldn’t talk to, and he thinks you’d probably laugh in his face if he tried. Your relationship has always been one guided by what feels right in the moment, and Isack feels awfully right pretty much every time you’re around him. 

There is only one rule set in stone: the Infinite Playlist. A certain list of songs, subject to additions but never subtractions, that the two of you are forever required to dance to. It had started before you were dating, back when Isack would have taken any excuse to watch you smile, to have a private moment with you. Your relationship only solidified the tradition. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. The first few notes of a song would play, and the two of you would drop everything to dance to it. 

“What Makes You Beautiful” comes on in the grocery store aisle? Ditch the cart, because the two of you are finding an area open enough to perform your fully choreographed routine. “Alors On Danse” plays at a frat party? Hopefully you aren’t talking to anyone important, because that conversation is coming to a swift end. 

Normally, Isack loves the Infinite Playlist. Today, he wishes Lando had played anything else.

It’s a classic, unseasonably warm day, the first one of the spring semester. It feels like everyone on campus is outside, textbooks open to pages they won’t read and Frisbees cutting lazy arcs through the air. Your friends are sprawled on picnic blankets on the lawns, idly chatting. Maya and Chloe are passing around a thermos of jungle juice. Ollie has his laptop out, allegedly to work on his thesis, but he’s mostly just scrolling through his Spotify queue.

You’re sitting under a gnarled old oak tree, back stiff against the rough bark and knees pulled into your chest. Isack settles on the grass about ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with you, but you are very deliberately avoiding his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in your multivariable notes. The air between you is charged with all the things you’d said to each other three days ago, heavy with all the silence that had settled between you since.

The argument hadn’t been anyone’s fault, really — just a silly miscommunication, something that should have ended fast and early. But you almost never fought, and you weren’t used to it, both too stubborn to back down and admit it was stupid so you could move on. Halfway through the argument, Isack had said something careless, something that stung, and you’d stormed out of his house with flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Now, everything is tense and uncertain between the two of you, too quiet and too sharp. 

You’re still pointedly ignoring him when Lando pushes Ollie away from the laptop, proclaiming loudly that he absolutely needs to hear a certain song before the sun sets. Seconds later, the telltale bassline of “Get Low” starts blasting through the speakers, and Isack’s stomach drops. You may have been in a fight, but unfortunately, the Infinite Playlist hadn’t gotten the memo.

His gaze snaps to you, instinct winning out over pride. When you slowly lift your eyes from the papers in your hands, he feels a little surge of hope in his chest. After a second of uncertainty, he stands, finding an empty strip of grass, and motions you over. 

He wants to make you laugh. He wants to be over the top, or ridiculously bad, or anything that will break through the stoniness in your face. 

Slowly, almost too slowly, you warm up. When he tries the Sprinkler, you barely look at him, just tapping your toe against the grass. He Dougies, and you move a little bit closer. By the time he resorts to the Shopping Cart, you’ve loosened up enough to give him a snort of laughter. He reaches his hand out, and you take it, letting him twirl you straight into his arms.

“Je suis désolé,” he mumbles into your ear, holding you against him.  

There’s a pause, where you don’t say a word. “‘M sorry, too,” you sigh, and the relief that rolls through him is overwhelming. “That was so stupid.”

“So stupid,” he agrees, dipping you just because he can, because you’re talking to him and the world feels right again. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

You giggle as he drops you, pulls you up again. “Me neither. Let’s not do it again, yeah?”

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, as you grin like the last three days of cold shoulder could melt away just from the sheer force of your smile. “Deal.”

You rest your hands lazily on his shoulders, moving your body against his, and he presses a kiss to your neck. “Missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, hoping you know he doesn’t just mean the dancing. 

“Missed you,” you retort, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the sun, eyes bright, and his chest feels very tight suddenly. 

“I love you,” he blurts, and the relief he’s feeling shifts immediately to horror when you falter, feet slipping in the grass as you look up at him, something awestruck in your eyes. Before you have the chance to respond, he pulls you in by your hips, flush to his body.  “—r sweet moves,” he finishes lamely, heart pounding in his chest. “I love them. Very classy, mon coeur.”

You laugh brightly, squirming against him. “Classier when you aren’t trying to grind on me, Hadjar.” 

You don’t say that you love him, not then. The moment had passed. His cowardice had made sure of that. But he feels your eyes on him still, warm and hopeful, and he knows that another song, another moment will come soon enough.

six: write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival mr. darcy’s. debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? in her coat pocket? throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. let her wonder if you meant it.

By the third morning of spring break, Isack starts thinking about forever. 

The beach rental is chaotic, to say the least — eight twenty-somethings in three bedrooms with one working bathroom, Maya and Gabi holding backflip contests off the porch into the deep end of the pool, an ever-growing pile of sandy towels that no one wants to take to the laundry. 

It’s also kind of perfect, though, mostly because Isack gets to wake up every morning in a room with you. The sheets are mismatched and smell a little like the sea, and the bed is practically child-sized, barely big enough for the two of you to fit. But none of that matters as much as the fact that every time he wakes up, your legs are tangled into his, face mashed into his chest, hogging the entire comforter with your hand curled over his waist like you’d reached for him in the middle of the night and refused to let go. 

It feels like playing house, at first. But then Isack starts letting himself imagine a world beyond the crappy Airbnb, a future where he never has to start his mornings any other way, and the domesticity of it all is doing something frankly dangerous to his heart.

So he writes.

It’s not supposed to be anything serious, at first. Just a way to get all the feelings out, scrawled into the back of his physics notebook and kept to himself. But the words keep coming, looping over themselves as he tries to put shape to the feeling in his chest. 

Mon coeur,

We’ve been together for almost eight months now, and I keep thinking I should have said this already. I’ve been trying to find the perfect moment, the perfect words, practically since we started dating. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no perfect way to tell your girlfriend that she’s the most important thing in your life. 

There’s this thing in physics I’ve been thinking about a lot called quantum entanglement. You probably know the concept, but in case you don’t, subatomic particles can get magically tied together, and when they do, each particle’s quantum state can’t ever be described again without the other. The particles’ fates get inextricably linked together, no matter how far away they are from each other.

I think I’m entangled with you, mon coeur, because I can’t see a future without you in it anymore. I want to wake up with you every morning, no matter how many times you kick me in the shins while you sleep. I want our toothbrushes to keep sitting next to each other on the counter. I want to keep dancing in the kitchen with you to the Infinite Playlist. I want to keep hearing you try to speak French to me. I want to keep making fun of your terrible French. I want to keep thinking about forever with you in a way that should scare me, but doesn’t at all. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is I love you. Je t’aime. In English, in French, in whatever language you want to hear it in. 

He reads it over three times, stomach churning. It sounds pathetic, desperate, like something from a lovesick teenager and not a very mature twenty-year-old who really should have figured out how to express this to you by now. 

But it’s also true. Every word of it. 

“Baby, get down here!” your voice floats up the stairs, and Isack rips the paper out of the notebook and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts frantically, like somehow you’ll be able to see it from a floor below him. He heads downstairs, where chaos is already in full swing. Pepe is chopping up what feels like a thousand oranges for mimosas, and for some reason, there’s batter on the ceiling. 

“Thank god, our resident Parisian is awake,” you say, reaching for him as soon as he enters the kitchen. “Do you know how to make French toast? Because Chloe’s vision is not translating into reality.”

The letter feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket all day. He keeps looking for the right moment — nearly gives it to you on the beach while you’re reading, before Kimi interrupts to show you the shells he’d collected. He thinks about sliding it over the dashboard as he watches you drive into the town center for groceries, singing along to Fleetwood Mac with the windows rolled down so you can smell the salt air. Maybe he can leave it somewhere you’d find it by accident, like a secret saved just for you.

On the other hand, the thought of you actually reading it kind of makes him want to throw up. 

When he tries to get rid of it, though, he can’t quite do that either. It feels like he’s crumpling up your relationship, all the things he knows he loves about you. So in the end, he settles for leaving it in the kitchen trash, neatly folded on top of an empty twelve-pack box and stained popsicle sticks, content in the knowledge that he has more time to figure out how to say everything he feels. 

You’re all on the porch outside when shit goes sideways. The sun is beating down, your legs draped lazily over Isack’s lap as you play Uno with the boys. Gabi’s just won, and he’s being unbearably annoying about the whole thing.

“Alright, I should take out the trash before we make dinner,” you say absentmindedly, putting down your cards and unfolding yourself out of your chair, sauntering inside. 

Isack doesn’t quite register the danger at first. Then it hits him. The trash. His letter. Your name on the front, scrawled unmistakably in Isack’s handwriting. He jolts upright so fast his chair tips over behind him.

“Merde,” he mutters, already scrambling across the deck, splinters digging into his feet. He shoulders past Ollie in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears so loud in nearly drowns out the chorus of confused voices behind him.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon, you’ve already found it. You’re holding the letter gingerly between two fingers, like you’ve picked it off the top of the trash, and Isack is so unbelievably fucked. 

“Did you mean to throw this away?” you say, voice unsteady.

“I —” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair roughly. “It’s, um, nothing. Just trash. Yeah.”

After he finishes stammering through the world’s worst explanation, you look at him for a long moment. Then at the letter. Then back at him. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, and drop the letter in the trash without unfolding it. You tie the bag off, pulling it out of the can, and walk out the side door without a backward glance. Isack stands in the kitchen, listening to the door creak shut behind you with the sinking feeling he’s just made a big mistake.

Dinner, predictably, is loud, full of overlapping conversations and splinters off the old patio furniture. Isack barely hears any of it. You’re sitting beside him, laughing at the story Gabi is telling about the guy next door and his snorkel mask, but there’s a tightness to your smile that hasn’t gone away.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t act weird. You still steal bites of pizza off his plate and brush your fingers over his knee when you reach for your Coke bottle. But he’s known you long enough to know you’re still thinking about it, to know he hasn’t gotten off the hook just yet. 

“Just tell me one thing,” you say later in bed, voice soft and a little hesitant, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Was it something bad? About me?”

Isack stiffens, rolling over to look at you with wide, panicked eyes. “No, mon coeur,” he says gently. “No, never. Je te le promets.”

You nod slowly, biting your lip. “Okay. I trust you, I just — sorry, I just keep thinking about it. What would you write and then throw away?”

You’re looking up at him like you know what the letter said, or maybe like you hope you know, and the air between you turns sharp with potential. He wants to tell you. The words are right there, crowding at the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.

He’s scared. Scared that if you don’t feel the same, it’ll all fall apart. Scared that if you do, it’ll make everything real.

“It was nothing important,” he lies, and pretends not to notice the way your face falls just a little.

seven: wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. tell her with your hands shaking.

“Latte for Isack?”

The Daily Grind churns with the desperate energy of finals week, the scent of stress nearly overpowering the espresso aroma, but Isack keeps pushing his way through the college-age customers hunched over their laptops with dark circles under their eyes. Your robotics exam started just about three hours ago, which means you’ll be stumbling out of the engineering building any minute now. With any luck, Isack will be there with a coffee for you, ready to hear all about it. He’s planning his Best Boyfriend Ever acceptance speech in his head already. 

He picks up the cup from the barista, at the last minute buys one of those lavender honey scones you always stare at through the display counter but never purchase because “twelve dollars for a pastry is capitalism at its worst, Isack, even if it does taste like it’s made by a baby angel.” He doesn’t have the money for it, not really, but imagining the excitement on your face when you see the bag is enough to have him forking over his credit card. His bank account is crying, but some things are worth being broke for. 

He’s just across the street from the engineering building when students begin streaming out like survivors escaping a shipwreck. He scans the crowd until he spots you, hair piled on top of your head messily and shoulders slumped. Still beautiful, even after an hours-long grueling exam. He holds up the bag, knowing you’ll see it before you see him, and your entire face lights up, exhaustion melting into relief. 

“Baby, what are you doing here?” you laugh, hands cupped around your mouth so he can hear you across the street. You’re half-jogging towards him in your eagerness, entirely focused on him and the promise of comfort he represents. So focused, in fact, that Isack sees the cab before you do, the yellow blur cutting through the intersection headed directly for you.

Isack freezes. He tries to scream, to warn you, anything, but the sound dies in his throat. In the entire universe, the only thing that matters is the ear-achingly loud honk of the horn and the startled look on your face. 

You, thankfully, don’t freeze like him. You jump back, cab just kissing the edge of your shin, backpack swinging through the air and clattering back against your side. 

The car doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow down. The whole thing is over in a second. But to Isack, the second stretches forever, and in it he can see everything that could have happened, the way his life could have split open in a single, terrible instant.

You stare after the car, dazed, and Isack is moving before his brain can catch up with his body. Not to you, not at first — he’s running halfway up the street, screaming obscenities after the car’s receding tail lights in rapid French about the driver’s ugly mother, the size of his dick, and how terrible he is at pleasuring his partner. 

“Hey. Hey, Isack, it’s okay.” You catch up to him, place a hand on his arm, gently, and all the rage inside of him snaps. 

“Ce n’est pas bien!” His hands are trembling, something hot pricking at the back of his eyes. “He could have killed you.”

“It was my fault,” you say softly. 

Isack pulls you into a tight, desperate hug. He can’t stop seeing it every time he blinks: the cab’s tires squealing on the street, your sneakers jumping back, the bumper brushing against your leg.

He buries a hand in your hair, no doubt filling it with snarls and tangles, and breathes in the familiar, warm scent of your shampoo. His cheeks feel wet, for some reason. “He should have been more careful. Il aurait pu te tuer. You could have died.”

“I didn’t die,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and soothingly stroking his shoulders. “I’m okay, Isack.”

“You could have died. I could have lost you,” he repeats, and the words come out horribly strangled thinking about the prospect of a world without you in it. No more forcing him to taste-test your seasonal lattes. No more watching stupid Netflix romcoms because they make you laugh. No more slow dancing in his kitchen, swallowing your laughter with kisses when he steps on your toes. It wouldn’t be a life worth having.

“I love you,” he sobs into your hair. “Je t’aime, et tu aurais pu mourir. I love you.”

You run your hands through his hair, holding him as tightly as he’s holding you. “Isack, babe, you have to breathe. It’s fine. I’m right here, mon coeur.” Your accent is as terrible as ever, but you’re solid and breathing and alive against him, and he lets out a rattling gasp. “See? I’m right here. I’m okay.” 

“Right,” he croaks, voice hoarse as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you confirm. “Everything is okay. I know you’re panicking, but I’m fine. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he breathes after a moment, pulling back and slowly disentangling himself from you, even as every molecule in his body protests at the distance.

You wipe your thumb gently over his cheekbones, brushing away the tears, and he presses his face against your hand like a cat. Desperately seeking your affection, your touch, any reminder that you’re still here with him. You smile at him, wobbly but real. “What’s in the bag?”

“Scone,” he manages to choke out. He’d nearly forgotten he had the bag at all. It’s ridiculously crumpled, fuchsia paper crushed between white knuckles. His fingers ache when he unclenches them. 

“Really?” you ask. “The one from Daily Grind? Baby, you didn’t. That’s so sweet! You know I love those. Can we go back to my room and split it?” Even though he can tell you’re rambling, trying to distract him, your smile is enough to make him forget a little bit. So he sniffles and lets you lead him across campus, rubbing soothing circles into his palm the entire way home. 

It’s not until later in your room, watching Star Wars and eating his half of the scone as you comb your fingers through his hair, that Isack realizes you didn’t tell him you love him too. You assumed he was panicking, which was true, but it didn’t make the feelings any less real.

He loves you, and you don’t believe him.

eight: say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. do not adorn it with extra words like “i think” or “i might.” do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “i love you too.”

The air smells like champagne and summer. Graduation day is a blur — sweaty hugs on the lawn, too-bright flash photos where at least one of you is sure to be mid-blink, parents crying as they watch their kids grow up. 

Isack cheers, stomping his feet wildly, as you cross the stage to receive your diploma, tassels blowing in the breeze and smiling into the crowd megawatt-bright. After the ceremony, Ollie pops a mini bottle of champagne and nearly takes out his macroeconomics professor with the cork. Kimi runs a lap around the quad, Doriane screaming bloody murder on his shoulders. Pepe cries twice, once because the dean mispronounced his name during the ceremony and again when Isack presents him with a photo of the two of them from freshman year move-in day, all gawky limbs and awkward smiles.

The party starts as soon as your caps hit the ground. Isack’s house is spilling over with friends who don’t want to say goodbye just yet, dancing barefoot on the patchy backyard grass with beers sweating in their hands. There’s music pulsing through an overamped speaker, loud laughter echoing between the trees. You sit on his lap on the leaning porch steps, sipping from a Solo cup and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek when Chloe takes a Polaroid of the two of you. It comes out a little blurry, but Isack slips it into his phone case anyway. 

By the time afternoon bleeds into evening, the two of you slip away from the party, too full of sentimentality to be around anyone except each other. For once, Isack doesn’t have a plan in mind, too content with your hand in his as you walk one last slow loop around campus. The brick paths you’ve worn down over four long years. The benches you’d studied on outside the dining hall, trading smuggled cookies with your head in his lap. The hill you’d sledded down together freshman year, when Isack took one look at your flushed cheeks and pretty smile and realized what he was feeling wasn’t just friendship.

“Oh, the fountain!” you cry delightedly, tugging his hand hard towards the stately stone fixture as you near the main quad. It’s a campus tradition, passed down through generations of sleep-deprived undergrads. Legend has it if you jump into the fountain with your sweetheart, you’ll always find your way back to each other. “Isack, we have to do it, come on.”

You set off across the quad, barefoot and heels swinging from your fingertips, but Isack stays, because every single place on this campus is a memory that leads back to you, and he starts to have the feeling that this very moment is what it’s all been building to all along. 

“Mon coeur?” he calls out from behind you, hands shaking in his pockets. When you turn back to look at him, the setting sun is painting your skin golden, the sleeves of your gown billowing in the wind, and it takes all the breath out of his body. Four years of friendship, nearly a year of dating, and you still have the ability to make time stop for him. 

“Yeah?” you ask, tilting your head with a curious expression, and he knows. 

“I love you.” 

He doesn’t say it drunk, or panicking, or praying for you not to really hear it, or with the desperation of someone trying to stop the clock. He says it with the quiet certainty of someone who’s been waiting way too long.

“I know,” you say, eyes sparkling. He waits for you to continue, heart in his throat, but you just grin smugly at him. 

“Non,” he shakes his head as he walks towards you, smiling despite himself. “Not fair. You cannot pull a Han Solo unless your life is at stake. Actually, you cannot pull a Han Solo at all —”

You swallow his outrage with a kiss, pulling him in by the tie and knocking his cap askew. “I love you too,” you say against his lips, as his hands come to rest on your hips. “Really.”

“I know,” Isack breathes out, dizzy with it, as he tugs you towards the fountain. “Really.”

The fountain isn’t deep, water only reaching to mid-calf. But it’s shockingly cold for a June day, the spray raising goosebumps on Isack’s arms. You shriek with laughter as you follow him in. “Oh god. Not one of my best ideas,” you gasp at the sudden chill, the hem of your gown trailing in the water around you. 

“What do you mean?” he grins, pulling you so close he can see the water droplets on your lashes. “It was a perfect idea. Now we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pressing up on your toes and kissing the corner of his mouth. “That would imply I’m planning on losing you in the first place,” you say, and Isack is hit with a wave of affection so strong it nearly makes his knees buckle.

“I love you,” he breathes out again, spinning you in a slow circle. “I’ve been wanting to say it for so long.”

You crinkle your nose at him, grinning ridiculously. “I love you too. But why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to plan out the right moment,” he admits.

And then, almost shyly:

“Turns out any moment with you is the right one.”

[nottivagos]

an: hihi everyone!! sorry this isn't smut for tonight, i was just feeling the isack hadjar blues and decided to write some fluff for him <3 that being said, you can now request isack hadjar fics if you'd like!!

“isack hadjar is out of the australian grand prix!”

those words loomed over the racing bulls paddock as your wide, shocked eyes fixated on the screen in front of you, broadcasting isack’s crash as a replay. the vision of the vcarb hitting the wall after spinning due to the wet conditions on track haunting you as a pit formed in your stomach, tight knots of uncertainty of his safety following.

your heart shattered. isack’s mechanics groaned out of sympathy, heads in their hands at the horror that your boyfriend had suffered on his debut in formula one's formation lap. he'd been so strong all weekend, really proving himself and pushing himself to his limits to qualify just out of the points zone, keeping himself optimistic and level headed all weekend.

as you watched him jump out of the wreck, hand covering his eyes when he lifted his visor, you felt powerless. how you yearned to hold him in his arms, ever so tightly, just to try and console him after his terrible blunder. you knew how much today meant to isack, the golden chance he had to make a mark in the chaotic world of formula one, maybe even shine above the other 5 debuting rookies on this rainy sunday in melbourne, just to have it taken away by something out of his control.

the aftermath of the crash hung heavy over the paddock, some of the mechanics muttering about how isack’s crash must've “really took a knock out of his confidence” as you watched isack embrace anthony hamilton on his way to the media den. you couldn't help but smile at the sight, not only did he get the selfie he'd always dreamed of getting with the sir lewis hamilton, but now he was being consoled by the man's father.

his head hung low, probably out of embarrassment and upset as his sombre interview became background noise as you placed your headset back on its stand, making your way over to his driver room for after his interviews. you inhaled a shaky breath, clutching your bag slightly tighter on your shoulder as your eyes slightly welled up with tears.

a lump of sadness formed in your throat, the sight of your disheartened boyfriend burnt into your mind as the moment haunted your every step. what if the accident was worse? what if he'd gotten injured before he was even able to prove himself in the car? what if his career had ended in those moments before he'd even fully begun? the ‘what ifs’ plagued your mind, as you carried on down the path.

the muffled voices of isack and his engineer could be heard as you finally made it to his driver's room. gulping back your growing sorrows, a slightly shaky fist came to knock onto the door, with an abrupt silence following.

“who's there?” his engineer called out from the closed door.

you quickly introduced yourself, hoping that you'd be able to see your partner, hoping to hold him in your arms and shower him in much needed kisses. to your relief, a mumbled “let her in,” came from isack, and the door opened.

your eyes lit up as his engineer let you have this moment with him, closing the door on both of you.

“hey honey,” your voice was soft, as gentle as it could be as you took a seat next to him on the edge of the bed. his head hung low, eyes not bothering to look at you as you wrapped an arm around his shoulder, your thumb brushing soothingly against his white fireproofs.

“i thought this was my moment, ma beauté,” a strangled sob escaped isack’s lips, his hand coming to cover his eyes as if he tried to hide his overwhelming sadness and humiliation away from you. “i've let everyone down," he continued as you sighed, sliding off of the bed, removing your arm from his shoulder to stand in front of him.

“oh, mon cher,” you whispered, hand coming to cup his stinging cheek, “look at me. please.”

isack’s head turned upwards, meeting your soft eyes with his own sorrowful expression. “it's okay,” you spoke with a loving smile, “just let me kiss you,” you hummed, lips moving to pepper his face in light kisses.

isack smiled slightly, cheeks turning slightly pink at the unexpected affection from you. his hands found your hips, grabbing them gently as you continued to kiss him all over, giggling sweetly as you felt his heart flutter and his mood change slightly.

“what's this for, hm?” he asked, moving his face away slightly, tilting his head upwards to meet your eyes. “i didn't think you would've wanted to kiss a failure.”

“isack.” your voice became sterner for a second, “you're not a failure at all. this is merely just a little slip up. there's plenty more chances to show everyone just how amazing you are,” you mumbled, arms wrapping around him in a warm, loving embrace.

he chuckled slightly, arms wrapping around you as your bodies fitted beautifully perfectly together. he then sighed, “but what if i don't get any more chances? what if i’m more unlucky. what then?”

“isack, amour, you're overthinking,” you mumbled into his ear with a saddened sigh, pressing a soft kiss on his temple in response.

“i suppose i might be,” he responded, letting you nuzzle into his neck for a moment before you let go from his embrace.

“i almost forgot,” you chuckled, rummaging into your bag before pulling out a tupperware box full of your signature freshly baked croissants. “i wanted to share these with you after the race,” you continued, presenting the box of his favourite baked goods in front of him, “but maybe you'd appreciate them now? it might turn that frown upside down.”

you chuckled softly as isack quickly took the tupperware from you eagerly. “these,” he spoke, eyes glimmering with happiness as he set them down on the bed to his side before standing up, “have just made my whole weekend.”

he added, hands coming to cup your cheeks ever so tenderly, love shining in his eyes as he flashed his signature cheesy smiles. “thank you. for everything, ma chérie,” isack mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“you're welcome, isack,” you giggled lovingly, nose grazing his own, “anything for you.” <3

[theonottsbxtch]

A CROWN LEFT BEHIND | IH6

an: i was feeling nostalgic and was missing home again so i wrote an isack aladdin au! i made this exta special because i used arabic darija in this fic (obvs with translation) i hope you guys enjoy this baby i wrote

wc: 13.5k

summary: a street thief with nothing but a dog and a smile. a princess trapped behind gold and glass, longing for freedom. one quiet escape into the night changes both their fates. secrets whispered in alleyways, promises carried on the wind. in the end, the streets remember what the palace chooses to forget.

ALGIERS NEVER TRULY SLEPT.

Even in the dusk between call to prayer and moonrise, when the shadows stretched long like fingers across whitewashed walls, the medina whispered. The breeze carried the scent of cumin and orange blossom, the air warm like honey clinging to the skin.

Somewhere, the sound of a flute curled upward from a rooftop. Laughter, sharp, drunken, echoed in the alleyways below.

And Isack ran.

Barefoot, nimble, heart thudding like a darbuka drum in his chest, he darted through the tight alleys of the Kasbah. His curls stuck to his brow, a sliver of stolen gold tucked into his sash. He had the grin of someone used to running, used to getting away.

“Waqef! Waqef ya l’kleb!” Stop! Stop, you dog!

He didn’t stop.

Instead, he vaulted over a market cart, snatched a fig from a vendor’s stall mid-air, and winked at the shouting man behind him. It was a dance, the only one he knew. The guards were slow. He was fast. And the streets were his.

By the time he climbed the back wall of a half-collapsed riad and collapsed onto the tiled rooftop, the sky had turned gold. He bit into the fig, sweet and overripe, and let the juice run down his chin.

Below, the city pulsed. Blue doors, stray cats, distant call to prayer. A woman’s laughter from an open window. Laundry snapping in the wind.

He loved this place. It was cruel, yes. Hungry. But it was his.

He leaned back, golden-brown eyes flicking upward toward the first stars emerging in the indigo sky. The city’s noise became a hum, and for a moment, he felt almost like a king.

And elsewhere, behind tall palace walls, she watched the city from her window, veiled and silent.

Below her, chaos, life, fire. A city she was not allowed to touch. A city that belonged to her only in name.

They called her princess, l’amira, daughter of the land, of bloodlines older than the red earth itself. She had her mother’s cheekbones, her father’s eyes. But her soul? That was her own.

She pressed a hand to the cold lattice, eyes following a small boy climbing a wall far in the distance. Free. Barefoot. Laughing.

She envied him.

Her maid’s voice broke the silence.

“L’amira, your father, he says there’s a suitor. Another one.”

Another one. Another man with polished words and ancient rings, sent to ask for a piece of her like she was a jewel in the souk.

She didn’t answer. Only watched the horizon, where the rooftops met the sky. Somewhere beyond it, the stars were starting to blink awake.

She wished one would fall.

The palace walls were smooth sandstone, gold-dusted and cruel.

They caught the sun at every hour, gleaming like something divine, but she knew better. Inside them, everything was hushed and heavy. Voices behind curtains, steps softened on marble. Nothing real ever made it past the gates.

She sat now on a silken cushion, spine straight, wrists wrapped in gauze-thin silk, and tried not to scream.

Across from her, the suitor spoke in a voice as smooth as almond oil, his words polished to a shine. He was a noble from Constantine,  or maybe Tlemcen, she couldn’t remember, and he wore his robes like armor. Perfect posture. Perfect manners. Perfect boredom.

He was talking about the scent of jasmine in his summer home.

She nodded politely.

Her tea had gone cold.

Behind him, just past the carved archway that opened onto the courtyard, the muezzin’s call rose into the air, haunting, beautiful. The day was sinking into twilight, and the world outside was moving.

She turned her head slightly, not enough to be scolded, and looked past him.

The gates beyond the garden had been opened for the breeze, and through them, beyond the veil of palm leaves, she saw the street.

Children ran barefoot toward the mosque, drawn by the call to prayer. She saw a boy with wild black curls tugging his younger sister along, both of them laughing, racing the call. Their djellabas fluttered behind them like wings. One of the guards smiled as they passed.

A knot tightened in her throat.

That life, so ordinary, so loud, so free, would never be hers. She had never run in the street. She had never laughed outside the palace walls. She had never once stood beside strangers and bowed her head in prayer as an equal. Even her worship was private, sterile, behind curtains and gold incense burners.

She looked back at the prince.

He had stopped speaking.

He was watching her with a soft frown, like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. “Forgive me,” he said gently, setting his cup down. “I don’t think I interest you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. There was no real way to explain it.

“You’re not unkind,” she managed, at last. “You’re just not real.”

He blinked. “Not real?”

She offered the smallest of smiles. “Not enough.”

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She shed her jewels. Let her hair fall unbound down her back. The moonlight caught the copper strands threaded through it, a family trait, they said. Her birthright. Her burden.

The palace was quiet. Too quiet. Like a tomb that smelled of oud and rosewater.

She walked barefoot through the colonnade, cool tile beneath her feet, heart fluttering like a trapped swallow in her chest.

From her window, the city glowed, a thousand flickering oil lamps, rooftops like mosaic pieces laid out for the stars.

She didn’t know exactly where the thought came from. Only that it arrived fully formed.

She was leaving.

Not tomorrow. Not with guards. Not with permission.

Tonight.

She turned from the window and began to move, silent, deliberate, pulling on a plain linen tunic left behind by one of the maids, wrapping her hair in a faded scarf. She looked nothing like a princess now. And maybe for once, that was the point.

Her pulse sang.

Outside, the world waited. Wild, sharp-edged, and beautiful.

And the palace slept.

She moved like a shadow past the guards, heart hammering in her ribs, the scarf around her head slipping ever so slightly in the breeze. No one looked at her twice, not like this. Not dressed in rough linen, no kohl on her eyes, no scent of amber trailing her steps.

For the first time in her life, she was invisible.

And it thrilled her.

Once beyond the palace gates, the city opened up like a book she’d never been allowed to read.

The air at night was cooler, threaded with the scent of charcoal smoke and distant mint tea. Lanterns swung gently from the iron hooks above doorways, casting dappled patterns across cobbled streets. Stray cats watched her from rooftops. Someone played a flute off-key in the dark. The call to Isha’a had passed, but the buzz of night lingered.

She wandered deeper into the medina, past shuttered stalls and old men playing dominoes beneath a flickering bulb. Nobody recognised her. Nobody bowed. No one whispered l’amira like a ghost.

She felt giddy. Lightheaded with it. Free.

She didn’t even notice the man at first.

He’d been sitting on a step, smoking. When she passed, he straightened. Followed.

It wasn’t until the footsteps quickened behind her that her stomach turned.

She kept walking. Turned into a narrower street.

Too narrow.

She should have gone back. She should have kept to the open, where there were people. But her legs moved faster than her thoughts. And then he was there, in front of her now, as if he’d appeared from the shadows themselves.

He was older. Unshaven. Smelt like cheap wine and sweat. A smirk played at his lips as he stepped into her path.

“Labas ‘lik, zine?” What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone at this hour?

She tried to step aside, but he mirrored her.

“I don’t— I don’t want trouble.”

“Oh, I’m not trouble,” he said, teeth flashing. “Not unless you make me be.”

He reached for her wrist. She pulled back, fast, panic blooming in her throat. Her breath caught.

And then—

A low growl sliced through the quiet.

The man froze.

From the darkness of the alley, a shape emerged, all silhouette and shadow. First the dog: big, bone-coloured, eyes sharp like molten gold. Then the boy. Barefoot. Loose shirt open at the throat, curls wild, a crooked grin stitched across his face like sin.

He took one look at the man and smiled, slow and lazy.

“Khoya,” Brother he said, voice like honey over blades. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to girls who don’t want to talk to you?”

The man sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Isack tilted his head. “Lah ybarek, I think it does.” God Bless

He clicked his tongue once.

The dog lunged.

The man screamed, stumbling back, barely dodging a snap of teeth. “Wah! Get it off—!”

Isack gave a soft whistle. The dog stopped, but only just. Still growling, still close enough to bite.

“Mazal barki,” Too early, Isack said calmly. “He’s just playing. If he were serious, you’d already be on the floor.”

The man spat on the ground. “You’ll regret this.”

Isack took a single step forward. The dog took two.

The man ran.

Silence settled in the alley.

Isack looked at her then, but really looked. His eyes softened slightly, but his smile stayed wicked.

“Bit far from the palace, aren’t you?” he said, almost teasing.

She blinked. “How—?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “You lot smell different. Like roses and gold coins.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

Isack held out a hand.

“Come on, l’amira. You’re not going to last ten minutes out here without someone like me.”

She hesitated. Looked at the dog, then back at him.

Then she took his hand.

And just like that, the world tilted on its axis.

They walked side by side through the sleeping veins of the city, the dog padding ahead of them like a quiet sentinel. The lanterns were dimmer now, the night heavy with spice and dust, and still, the thrill hadn’t left her chest.

She kept glancing sideways at him, the boy who'd appeared from the shadows like a spirit, all cocky swagger and barefoot confidence. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

Eventually, she spoke.

“Where are you taking me?”

Isack gave a half-shrug, as if that question had no weight.

“I’m assuming you wanted to live a real life. Not many other reasons a girl like you leaves a palace in the middle of the night.” He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re sneaking out to see a lover. That would be scandalous.”

She scowled. “No.”

“Shame.” He grinned. “Would’ve made a good story.”

She stopped walking. “You think this is a joke?”

His grin faltered, not completely, just softened at the edges. “No,” he said, more quietly. “I think it’s a risk. And risks are either foolish or brave.”

They walked in silence after that, her arms folded tightly over her chest, his hands buried in his pockets. The city around them seemed to pulse with a life she’d never noticed before, an old women leaning out of windows to gossip, a boy chasing a chicken down a lane, the rustle of music from a distant courtyard.

At last, they turned into a narrow side street, its end lit by a single flickering bulb above a door.

“Come on,” he said, pushing it open. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had this man’s mint tea.”

The teahouse was small and dimly lit, smelling of cardamom, smoke, and dried orange peel. Rugs layered the floor, and the low wooden tables were uneven. There were no other customers, just an old man behind the counter with a wiry beard and thick glasses, hunched over a chessboard.

He looked up when he saw Isack and groaned.

“Ya weledi, not you again. I’m not running a charity.”

He sighed.

Isack held up a hand, grinning. “Sidi Ahmed, Allah ybarek fik w fi shay bik.” Sidi Ahmed, may God bless you and your tea.

“Rahmt Allah fi sabrek, mashi fiya.” God’s mercy is in His patience, not mine.

He eyed Isack’s companion. “At least this time you bring someone polite.”

Isack gave her a look. “Don’t let the scarf fool you.”

She sat carefully on a cushion by the wall, her spine still too straight, her eyes absorbing everything. The chipped glasses, the way the steam curled from the kettle, the way Ahmed measured sugar like it was gold dust.

He poured two small glasses and set them down with a grumble. “Pay this time, Isack. I’m not running a zawiya.”

Isack patted his pocket, dramatically empty. “We’ve talked about this.”

The old man turned away, muttering, “Sh-shabab li mabghawsh ykhadmou.” The youth who don’t want to work.

She looked between them, and without thinking, slipped one of her bangles off her wrist. It was thin gold, etched with delicate Berber script, a gift from her grandmother.

She stood and offered it gently across the counter. “Please,” she said. “Let this cover both.”

Before Ahmed could take it, Isack’s hand came down over hers.

“La,” he said under his breath. No. “Khalih.” Leave it.

She stared at him. “Why not?”

He leaned closer, voice soft. “You don’t trade gold for tea. Not here. Not tonight.”

Then he turned, all charm again, flashing a grin at the old man. “Tell you what, you still need that window patched? I’ll come tomorrow. Ghadwa, inshallah.” Tomorrow, God willing.

Ahmed narrowed his eyes. “You said that three bukras ago.”

“And now I have an audience to impress. I’ll even sweep the floor, if that helps.”

The old man gave a long sigh, more theatre than protest, and waved them off.

“Yallah, sit before I change my mind.” Come on.

Back at the table, Isack slid her glass toward her. The tea was hot, sweet, filled with bruised mint.

She took a sip.

It was rich and strange and entirely perfect.

“You were going to pay,” he said, watching her. “With something real.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You’re not here to help,” he said, without cruelty. “You’re here to learn.”

She set the glass down carefully. “What makes you think you have anything to teach me?”

Isack’s grin didn’t falter. “Oh, l’amira, I’ve got a whole city to teach you.”

And across from him, for the first time since leaving the palace, she smiled without hesitation.

The tea had cooled by the time their conversation found stillness again.

Outside, the street hummed with distant laughter and the thud of footsteps against stone. But inside the teahouse, everything felt quieter, as though the night had folded itself around the two of them and held its breath.

She sat with her knees drawn in, hands wrapped around the chipped glass. Across from her, Isack leaned back against the cushion, head tipped slightly to the side as he watched her. Not in the way men usually did, not with hunger or calculation, but with curiosity, like she was something rare he hadn’t quite made sense of yet.

“So,” he said, gently, “what were you planning to do?”

She blinked at him.

“What?”

“Out there,” he nodded toward the door. “On your own. No guards, no money, just what? Wander through the city until you found a better life?”

She looked down at the rug beneath them, at the intricate threads that felt far more grounded than she did.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

He gave a soft laugh, not mocking, more surprised than anything.

“You really didn’t have a plan?”

She shook her head. “Only that I couldn’t stay there. That I needed out.”

There was a silence then. Not awkward, thoughtful.

He took another sip of tea and set the glass aside, speaking without looking at her.

“I don’t usually do this. Take people in.”

She turned her head, slightly wary. “Take people in?”

“To where I stay,” he said. “It’s not much. But it’s safe.”

She blinked, startled. “You’re offering?”

He nodded. “For tonight. You can leave in the morning if you want. But the streets, they change after midnight. Not even your silk cloak will keep you safe then.”

She hesitated, lips parting, but no protest came. Just a quiet breath of surrender.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

He looked at her then, really looked. No teasing, no smirk, just something careful in his eyes. A flicker of understanding.

“Come on then, l’amira.”

“Still calling me that?”

“Until you tell me different,” he said over his shoulder. “Or until you learn to walk like someone who doesn’t own the world.”

She rose, following him out into the night, her footsteps softer now.

She had no idea where he was taking her. And for the first time in her life she didn’t mind.

They weaved through the medina like shadows, the narrow alleys stitched with silence and stars. The dog trotted ahead confidently, tail swishing, as if it knew the way by heart.

Eventually, Isack stopped beside a faded wooden door nestled between two closed shops. An old fig tree leaned over it, casting broken leaves across the stoop.

“Here?” she asked, surprised.

He didn’t answer straight away, just offered a hand and gestured upwards. “Not quite.”

He led her down a short passage, then up a creaking set of exterior stairs. They climbed to a flat rooftop covered in laundry lines and rusted water drums, then over a low wall onto another roof just below.

The dog leapt across first, landing clumsily with a thump before padding toward a slanted wooden hatch tucked beneath the shade of some old cloth draped like a makeshift canopy.

“Mind your step,” Isack said, and helped her across with an easy grip. His hands were calloused but warm.

She landed lightly beside him, breath caught more by the moment than the leap.

It was a small space, little more than a cove made from old beams and patched fabric. But inside, it was gently lived in. Worn futons lined the edges. There was a low crate filled with books, a chipped mirror hung on the far wall, and a faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.

The dog circled twice before flopping onto a blanket with a sigh.

“This is…” she began, then hesitated. “It’s lovely.”

Isack shrugged, already crouching beside the hatch. “It does the job.”

Before she could respond, he swung himself halfway back down through the opening and called softly, “Hadja kayna waḥda mikhadda?” Hadja, do you have a pillow?

A voice snapped back immediately from the flat below.

“A pillow, Isack? At this hour? Wallah, you treat me like a hotel!”

“Just one,” he laughed. “For a guest.”

There was a short pause. Then the shuffle of slippers, the thud of a cupboard.

A plump hand emerged through the gap, clutching a well-worn cushion. “Here, waldi, take it, and no more surprises tonight, tfaddal.”

“N’barek fik, Hadja.” Bless you, Hadja.

He climbed back in with the pillow in hand, a bit of thread clinging to his hair.

She had been watching the exchange silently, eyes wide in quiet mesmerisation.

“She called you waldi,” she said.

He smiled as he tossed the pillow onto one of the futons. “She’s not my mother. But she pretends she is.”

“She gave it to you anyway.”

“She always does. Even when she’s cross.”

He gestured for her to sit, then settled across from her on the floor, back resting against the far wall.

“She took me in when I was ten. Found me trying to steal her olives.” He smirked. “Didn’t succeed, by the way. She hit me with a broom and then fed me loubia anyway.”

She laughed, properly this time, not the polite laughter of courts and expectations, but something warm and unguarded.

He watched her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” she said. “Neither are you.”

They talked until the city slept.

Not just quiet, but truly asleep, the kind of stillness that only arrived deep in the night, when even the stray cats gave up their prowling, and the moon hung low like a watchful eye over the rooftops.

Isack had lit a stub of a candle from a jar tucked in the corner. It flickered beside them, casting shifting shapes across the patched fabric walls.

He told her about growing up with his back against the stone, the days when food came from the hands of strangers or not at all, how Hadja would scold him and feed him in the same breath. He spoke of the souks, the rooftops, the ocean he’d only seen twice, and how sometimes, when the wind came in strong from the coast, he could still taste the salt on the air.

She told him little things. That her mother had died young. That she was educated, but not free. That there was always someone watching, waiting, measuring her every word, her every breath. That she didn’t know what to do with freedom now that she’d found it, or something like it.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Leaving the palace tonight?”

He nodded.

She looked out through the fabric flap where the stars peeked in, and shook her head.

“No. I regret waiting this long.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just offered her a second cushion, and a smile that didn’t need explaining.

Eventually, her eyelids began to lower. The weight of the day, the years, pulling gently at her bones.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“I don’t want to take your bed.”

“You’re not.” He motioned to the futon. “That one’s for guests.”

She arched a brow. “How many guests do you usually have?”

He grinned. “None.”

He laid out a folded blanket, then pulled the cushion from the futon before she could object. Dropped it to the floor and settled beside the wall, arms folded behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.

“Isack—”

“Let me,” he said simply, eyes closed now.

She hesitated, but something in his tone made it impossible to argue.

So she lay down, curling onto the futon, fingers brushing the edge of the thin mattress. The dog gave a soft snore from the corner. The candle had gone out, leaving only moonlight, the kind that made everything look a little silver, a little softer.

She stared at the ceiling, expecting her mind to race the way it always did, with lists, and rules, and voices, and what-ifs.

But it didn’t.

For the first time in her life, there was no marble floor beneath her. No silk sheets. No guards. No walls.

Just the scent of sandalwood, and mint tea, and something faintly like hope.

And sleep, when it came, came gently, and held her like it meant to keep her.

She woke to the sound of the adhan, the call to fajr, curling through the air like the voice of the city itself.

It came from somewhere distant but clear, high and smooth and mournful in the way only the earliest hours could carry. The dog shifted but didn’t rise, only thumped its tail gently once and settled again.

She blinked, still tucked into the futon, a thin sheet drawn up around her shoulders. The world around her was a shade of soft blue, the sky just beginning to brighten in the east. It cast everything in hush,the worn crates, the fluttering fabric, the half-drunk tea still resting in its glass.

Isack was still asleep, curled slightly on his side on the floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely against his chest. In the half-light, he looked younger or perhaps just less guarded. A small furrow sat between his brows even in sleep, like he’d never quite let go of watchfulness.

She sat up slowly, the futon sighing beneath her.

The call continued, echoing from minaret to minaret across the rooftops. As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm… Prayer is better than sleep.

She knew she had to go.

There was no panic. No urgency. Only a quiet knowing. If she stayed longer, if she let herself fall even a step deeper into this stolen freedom, she wouldn’t return at all. And the world, her world, wasn’t ready for that.

She slipped her feet into her shoes, the silence stretching around her like a shawl.

The dog opened one eye but didn’t move, watching her with the calm understanding of someone who knew better than to bark at goodbyes.

She glanced over at Isack once more.

Then, with a breath, she reached for her wrist.

She slid off two of her bangles, the thinner ones, delicate, etched in the filigree of her mother’s people, and set them quietly on the edge of the futon where she’d slept.

Not payment.

A mark. A memory. A thank you.

She didn’t write a note. He would understand.

Then she pulled the scarf tighter around her face and stepped out into the early light, down through the hatch and over the rooftop. The air was cool and clean, the streets below still drowsy, not yet stirring with market cries or children’s footsteps.

The city hadn’t woken, but she had.

And by the time the sun had fully lifted above the rooftops of Algiers, she was already crossing back through the hidden door in the palace wall, the scent of mint and dust and candle smoke still clinging to her clothes.

Isack woke to the faint chill of dawn slipping through the cracks in the wooden hatch. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and mint, the scent she’d left behind.

He blinked, stretched his hand out instinctively and found the futon beside him empty.

His heart sank a little, slow and steady like the weight of knowing.

She was gone.

On the edge of the futon, catching the soft morning light, were two thin bangles, delicate and filigreed, the ones she had worn when she arrived.

He picked them up carefully, rolling them between his fingers, feeling the cool metal and the slight dents that told stories of a life far from his own.

A soft sigh escaped him. “Mashi moshkil.” It’s okay

He understood. She had her world to return to.

He slipped on the bangles and let his shirt cover the gold from the sunlight.

Downstairs, the old wooden door creaked open and the smell of strong tea and cooking filled the air.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Hadja.” Good morning, Hadja

“Sbāḥ l-nūr, waldi. Katḥess b’raḥtek lyom?” Good morning, my boy. Feeling alright today?

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kān bghī nsaʿdek shwiya f’dar.” I wanted to help you around the house a bit.

Hadja smiled, hands busy folding fresh flatbread. “Daima mzyan, waldi. Ma tkhafsh, ghadi nkhdem mʿak.” Always good, my boy. Don’t worry, I’ll work with you.

As he handed her a kettle, she caught sight of the bangles peeking from beneath his sleeve.

“Shno had lḥwayej?” What are these things?

He hesitated, then showed them to her.

“Tqdr tsawb bihom flus bzzaf,” You could make a lot of money with these she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. 

Isack shook his head, a faint smile tugging his lips.

“Hadi, mashī ghir ljawhra.” They’re more than just jewellery.

He grabbed a length of string from the counter and carefully threaded the bangles onto it, pulling the makeshift necklace over his head.

Hadja watched, then chuckled softly.

“Mashi mzyan, waldi. La tkoun ḥmar w mat'ttīsh rasek.” Not smart, my boy. Don’t be stupid and don’t get caught.

He grinned wider, a spark in his golden-brown eyes.

“Ana mabghītsh nshouf hadchi,” I never get caught, Hadja he said, voice low and certain.

She shook her head, but there was no real scolding in her voice, just the warmth of someone who’d seen too much but still hoped.

He tucked the string beneath his shirt and turned back to the rising sun outside.

His thoughts drifted, to the girl who had left the bangles, to the quiet promise of a night that had felt, somehow, like home.

By mid-morning, the streets were wide awake, sun burning the rooftops, voices rising from alleyways, children darting between market stalls like fish in water.

Isack moved through it all like he belonged there, because he did. The city knew him, and he knew it back. The dog loped along beside him, tongue out, tail wagging every time someone threw them a passing “salam” or scrap of bread.

He reached Sidi Ahmed’s place just as the old man was dragging out a broken wooden cart wheel, grumbling under his breath.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Sidi,” Good morning, Sidi. Isack called, crouching beside the wheel.

The old man grunted. “Mzyan jeeti. Rah kayna chghol bzzaf.” Good you came. There’s a lot of work.

Isack smiled and set to it, sleeves rolled, sweat already gathering at the back of his neck. The wheel was splintered, but nothing beyond saving, a couple of new dowels, some sanding, a bit of patience.

Sidi Ahmed’s son, Youssef, lingered nearby, watching with a lazy sort of interest, chewing on a stem of wild mint.

“Chouf,” Isack said after a while, glancing over at him, “tqder tsaʿdni f waḥed lsu2al?” Can you help me with something?

Youssef raised a brow. “Dirti chi musiba khra?” Have you done something stupid again?

“La, la, had mara....” No, no, this time…

Youssef understood the unspoken words and spat out the stem. “Go on.”

Isack wiped his brow with his sleeve and leaned back slightly against the wall, gaze fixed on the wheel but mind clearly elsewhere.

“Say you meet someone,” he began, slow. “Someone who’s not from your world. Proper different. But you get on, like, really get on. And then they vanish.”

Youssef squinted at him. “She run off with your shoes?”

Isack huffed a quiet laugh. “Not quite. Just left. No goodbye. But left something behind.”

Youssef’s face softened slightly, as if he’d caught the edge of what Isack wasn’t saying.

“What did she leave?”

Isack hesitated, then tugged the string out slightly from beneath his shirt, just enough to let the bangles glint in the sunlight.

Youssef whistled under his breath.

“Hadchi mn lkasr?” This from the palace?

“Ma-gult walou.” Isack shrugged. I didn’t say anything

Youssef leaned in slightly. “You want advice?”

He nodded.

“Nsuḥk. Khalli l’aql qbl lqlb.” My advice. Keep your head before your heart.

Isack looked down at the bangles, his thumb tracing the edge.

“W ila ma bghītsh ndīr haka?” And what if I don’t want to do that?

Youssef laughed. “Then may God help you, Isack. Because no one else will.”

They both chuckled, the tension breaking for a moment.

Isack stood, stretching, wiping dust from his palms. “Come on then, help me lift this wheel. Unless you just came to offer useless wisdom.”

Youssef grinned and bent down beside him. “Ana daba fassḥab raḥna f chi hikayat dyal Alf Layla w Layla.” I feel like we’re in some story out of One Thousand and One Nights.

Isack didn’t reply straight away, just smiled faintly, eyes catching the sunlight, the bangles warm against his chest.

The palace was quiet in the way that only vast, marbled halls could be, a kind of elegant, echoing silence that never let you forget how alone you really were.

She sat in the morning sunroom, half-curled on one of the velvet chaise lounges, fingers absently twisting the end of her braid. A tray of untouched figs and almonds lay on the table beside her, along with a fresh pot of tea that had already grown cold.

Her father entered without knocking, as he always did. The sharp scent of musk and cedar preceded him, the trailing end of his white robe brushing softly against the mosaic tiles.

“You’re off,” he said without greeting, eyes narrowing as he took her in, from the slight slump in her shoulders to the vague shadows under her eyes.

She didn’t look up. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer. “What kept you up?”

She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “The usual. Thoughts. Expectations. Century-old ceilings.”

“Don’t get clever.”

That earned him a glance. “Don’t ask stupid questions, then.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, brief, but visible. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“You never speak to me like that.”

“I suppose I’m tired of speaking like I’m being examined.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You used to confide in me.”

“When I was ten, and thought you ruled the sun,” she muttered.

There was a pause. He let it hang in the air just long enough to shift the mood.

Then, with the same cold precision she knew too well, he dropped a rolled scroll onto the table beside the figs.

“What’s this?” she asked, already knowing.

“A list.”

“Of?”

“Potential suitors. From respectable bloodlines. Royal, military, or diplomatic, no lesser. And no more poets.”

She stared at the scroll. Didn’t touch it.

“You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“And if I don’t?” Her voice was tight now, clipped at the edges.

“If you don’t choose one by July,” he said calmly, “then we’ll have an issue.”

She stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with more force than she meant to. “An issue.”

“Yes.”

“Like a diplomatic incident, or just another daughter buried in silk and obedience?”

His jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”

She met his gaze, hers unflinching, gold-flecked and defiant. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was a wall, and she’d lived behind it all her life.

He gestured to the scroll.

“Make a decision. You’re not a child anymore.”

Then he turned, and just like that, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of a palace built more for power than people.

She sat slowly, eyes still fixed on the scroll. Somewhere far beyond the stone walls and manicured gardens, the city lived and breathed without her.

She reached for a fig. Bit into it absentmindedly.

It tasted like nothing.

She let it roll on her tongue, slowly chewing, but it crumbled like ash. Sweet and hollow. Like the walls of this palace. Like her life.

With a quiet breath, she set the fruit back onto the tray and rose, silk skirts whispering against the marble as she slipped through the archway and into the palace gardens.

The air outside was cooler, fragrant with orange blossom and rosemary, soft earth beneath the soles of her slippers. Here, the palace forgot itself. Here, at least, the stone gave way to soil, and life.

She walked past the cypress trees, fingers grazing their rough trunks, until she reached the familiar little corner where the rose bushes curled like old memories around a simple stone marker.

Her mother’s grave.

The marble was smooth, the engraved words worn by years of wind and rain.

She knelt, brushing away a few stray petals from the base, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Salam, Mama,” Peace (Hello), Mama she murmured softly. 

The wind stirred the roses gently, as if in answer.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice barely carrying. “I don’t know what I want or who I am supposed to be.”

Her fingers tightened in the folds of her gown.

“I met someone,” she went on, casting her eyes down. “A boy. A boy with dirt beneath his nails and laughter in his eyes. With his feet on the ground and his heart open. Full. More than he has. More than he can give.”

She closed her eyes.

“Bzaf ʿlih... bzzaf ʿlia.” Too much for him... too much for me

She exhaled, slow and long.

“I wanted to be free, Mama. I wanted to run and see and breathe. But now I’ve tasted it, I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know if I can fit in this life any longer.”

Footsteps crunched lightly on the gravel behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Lalla,” Little girl, came the familiar soft voice, her mother’s old maid, gentle and lined with age. “You sit here like your mother did. All these years, nothing changes.”

She felt the old woman settle beside her with a quiet sigh.

“What would you do?” she asked softly. “You knew my mother better than she knew herself. What would you tell her, if she stood where I am now?”

The maid smiled faintly, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap.

“Tāmen b’Allah... w tmshi b’qlbek. Huwa li ghadi yurik triq.” Believe in Allah... and follow your heart. He will show you the way

The girl swallowed, throat tight. “And if my heart leads me away from here?”

The old woman touched her hand, warm and steady.

“Then you were never meant to stay, bnti.” my daughter

For a long moment, they sat in the quiet, the scent of roses thick in the air, the world turning softly beyond the palace walls.

Later that night, she sat alone on the terrace, the one on the farthest wing of the palace, furthest from her father’s private quarters and the endless eyes of the guards.

The marble beneath her legs was cool, her bare feet curling against the stone edge as the evening wind lifted strands of her hair. Above her, the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars, silver threads sewn across velvet black. The moon hung low and full, casting the palace rooftops in gentle light.

She breathed in the air, the scent of distant jasmine and city dust, the distant echo of life beyond the walls. It felt like sitting between two worlds. On one side, the endless gardens, the sharp spires, the cold, polished perfection of the palace. On the other, the old city, asleep and breathing, warm and rough-edged, untamed.

Her gaze lingered there, past the battlements, past the dividing walls, past the courtyards where only soldiers and servants tread. She tilted her head, lost in thought, wondering if the boy with the sun-darkened curls and the restless smile was asleep somewhere beneath that same sky.

A soft sound pulled her from her reverie.

She stiffened.

There it was again, a scrape, gentle but clear. A footfall against stone.

Her heart quickened. She glanced back towards the archway, towards the shadowed corridor behind her, empty. Still.

Then from the wall that marked the boundary between palace and city, the high old wall she’d once scaled as a child before she’d been caught and forbidden to try again came a quiet voice, low and teasing.

“L’amira...” Princess

Her breath caught. Familiar. Impossible.

She turned sharply and there he was.

Perched like a cat upon the wall, crouched comfortably as if he belonged there, was Isack. His hair caught the moonlight in soft curls, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief, his grin wide and unrepentant. 

She gaped, mouth slightly open. “You—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Do you want half the guard waking up?”

“How—how did you get up here?” she hissed, eyes darting nervously to the shadows behind her. “You’ll be killed if they see you.”

He swung his leg over the wall, now sitting casually, unbothered by the drop beneath him. “I’ve been climbing these streets my whole life, l’amira. Walls don’t frighten me. Neither do guards.” His grin widened. “Nor kings.”

She stood, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder as she stared at him in disbelief, hands curling into the stone balustrade.

“You’re mad,” she breathed. “Completely mad.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, easy as rain. “But you left before I could say goodbye. Before you could say anything at all. That’s rude, you know.”

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. “I had to go.”

“I know.” His gaze softened, the teasing edge fading, something quieter behind his eyes now. “But I couldn’t let it end like that. Not without seeing you again.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the terrace, palace silk against street dust, gold against leather, two pieces of a story that shouldn’t have touched.

She swallowed hard, voice low. “What are you doing here, Isack?”

He grinned again, but this time it was softer. Less bravado. More truth.

“Kan-fakker fik.” I was thinking of you

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering breath, steadying her racing heart.

“And what do you plan to do now that you’re here?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes dancing in the moonlight.

“Depends. Do you want to see the city from the rooftops? Like a real life? Or are you going to stay here, on this cold stone, and dream of it forever?”

For a long moment, the world was silent, save for the wind in the olive trees and the distant call of a night bird.

Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Help me over,” she said softly. “Before someone sees you and you lose that charming head of yours.”

His grin lit up his whole face.

“Mzyana bzaaf,” Very good he murmured. 

His hand was rough when she took it, warm and steady, calloused from years of work and climbing and living. Not like the soft, perfumed hands of the princes she’d been paraded before.

“Careful, l’amira,” he murmured with a crooked smile, steadying her as she clambered up onto the wall beside him. “Palace girls aren’t used to balancing this high.”

“I’m not palace born,” she whispered back, grinning despite herself. “My mother birthed me out of the palace, something the Sultan would not want anyone to know.”

Isack chuckled softly. “So you do have secrets.”

She glanced at him sideways. “More than you’d guess.”

“Good.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Hold on.”

And then, like two shadows slipping from their chains, they swung down onto the flat rooftops of the old city, his dog jumping up at the sight of them with a soft whine of excitement. The stones beneath their feet were warm from the day’s heat, glowing faintly under the moon. The air smelled of spice and dust and distant sea wind.

They ran.

Across roof tiles and crumbling plaster, over narrow alleyways and sleeping courtyards. The city stretched wide beneath the sky, full of twisting streets and secrets. She laughed, sudden, wild, unguarded, the sound breaking free from her chest like a bird uncaged.

It startled her.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. Like a girl, not a daughter of kings.

Isack grinned at her, breathless, pulling her forward. “Raki mzyana…” You’re beautiful His voice was low, teasing, but something in it was true and soft.

She ignored the heat in her cheeks and ran faster.

They went down twisting iron staircases into a courtyard where a fountain murmured in the dark. Past shuttered shops and quiet mosques, their tall silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the stars. The old souk lay deserted at this hour, only the scent of cinnamon and leather lingering in the air, and they wove through its maze, her slippers scattering sand and dust behind them.

They paused near a quiet square, where an old fig tree grew beside a shuttered bakery. Isack caught her hand, pulling her into the shadow of the branches.

“Look,” he whispered, nodding upwards.

There, the sky above the rooftops opened wide, and the stars poured down like light on water. The moon hung low and close, so bright it painted silver across his face, across the soft dark curls of his hair.

She leaned against the tree, breathless. Smiling.

“I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten what it smelled like. The dust, the baking bread, the night air...”

“Machi nshan, l’amira,” It’s not forgotten, princess he said softly.

He crouched by the base of the tree, resting a hand on the warm stone. “It’s in you still. The city. Like breath. Like blood.”

His dog sniffed the cobblestones, tail wagging slowly.

She crouched beside him, tucking her silk robe beneath her knees. “And this is your life. Dust and stone and sky.”

“And tea,” he grinned, pulling a tiny wrapped sweet from his pocket. “Never forget tea.” He unwrapped it, split the piece and offered her half. “You eat like the street folk tonight.”

She laughed softly, taking the sweet from his hand, their fingers brushing. “I think I prefer it.”

For a while they sat like that, sharing the sweet, listening to the quiet city breathe.

Then he stood, holding out a hand again. “Come. There’s more to see before the sun comes.”

And she went.

He led her down the back alleys where old women hung strings of chillies to dry; past the little mosque where boys gathered before dawn; over the market square where, tomorrow, the traders would shout for customers. She touched the walls, the stalls, the rough stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. She smelled mint and old wood, old iron and salt from the far-off sea.

When they reached the sea wall, they sat, side by side, legs swinging high above the water. Below them, the waves lapped gently against the old harbour.

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me why you live like this. So free. So careless.”

He smiled faintly, gazing at the dark water.

“Because no one expects anything from me, l’amira. No crown. No bloodline. I wake. I eat. I live. That’s enough.”

She watched his profile in the moonlight, the ease in his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice.

“I don’t know what that feels like,” she whispered.

He turned to her, gently.

“Maybe tonight you do.”

For a while they sat in silence, and it was enough.

When the sky began to pale towards dawn, he stood and dusted off his hands.

“Come. One more place.”

He took her up a steep stairway to the rooftops again, to a flat-topped house where the whole city spread beneath them, rooftops and minarets, domes and arches, all touched with silver light.

She turned slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve never seen it like this.”

“It’s yours,” he murmured beside her. “All this. Yours to hold or let go.”

She looked at him, at the dog sitting quietly at his side, and something old and tight in her chest eased.

“I don’t want to go back.”

He smiled sadly. “But you will.”

She touched his arm gently. “For now let’s stay until the sun rises.”

And they did.

Until the first light touched the city’s edges, soft and golden, and the distant call to Fajr prayer rose into the waking sky.

For one night, she had lived.

For one night, she had been free.

The first light of dawn crept over the sleeping city, turning the edges of the old stone buildings to gentle gold. The minarets stood like watchful sentinels against the softening sky, and far in the distance, the call to Fajr rose, a quiet, melodic thread carried on the morning breeze.

She stood atop the rooftop, her silk robe stirring gently against her ankles, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. The night’s freedom clung to her skin like perfume, warm and giddy. A soft yawn escaped her lips, unwilling, but honest, and when she rubbed her eyes like a child, Isack laughed quietly beside her.

“Let’s get you home, l’amira,” he murmured, gentle and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting.

She turned her gaze to him, eyes still bright with the thrill of the night. “No,” she said softly, firmly. “Not home. Just the palace. These streets...” She let her gaze sweep across the waking rooftops, the winding alleys below, the scent of baked earth and mint and dawn filling her senses. “These streets are home.”

He looked at her, properly looked, as if seeing something new unfold, and smiled. A real smile. Quiet. Fond. As if he understood without needing any more words.

Together they made their way back to the high wall separating her world from his, the wall that divided gold from dust, silk from leather, crown from calloused hand. His dog padded silently behind them, yawning as it trotted.

At the wall, he crouched first, bracing his hands, offering her a boost.

“Up you go, l’amira,” he whispered with mock ceremony.

She grinned and took the step, his strong hands steady at her waist as he lifted her. Her slippers found the old stones with ease, and she pulled herself over, turning back just as she perched atop the crumbling edge.

Isack swung up lightly beside her, half his body leaning over the top, one leg still hooked to the city’s side.

He rested his forearms on the cold stone, his face close to hers in the pale light of dawn. His voice dropped low, gentle as the breeze that stirred her loose hair.

“You know where to find me,” he said softly. “Just call my name, l’amira, and I’ll hear you. It’ll carry through the winds and I’ll come for you.”

Her heart gave a quiet, aching twist.

She reached out, without fear, without hesitation, and brushed the dark curls back from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered a moment longer than they should.

“Thank you,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My Isack.”

And then, daring, bold, the way she had not been for all her carefully caged years, she leaned forward and pressed her lips softly to his cheek.

A kiss, warm and fleeting, left just beneath the edge of his eye.

For a heartbeat, he stilled, surprise flickering in his golden-brown gaze, before the familiar, crooked smile curved his mouth once more.

“Tsbah bel khir, l’amira,” Sleep well, princess he murmured. 

She smiled back, heart thudding against her ribs.

And then she dropped silently to the palace side of the wall, back into the world of marble and duty, secrets and silk.

Isack stayed a moment longer, watching, his dog seated patiently at his feet, and then, like a breath on the wind, he was gone.

But her heart stayed wild in her chest, like the streets. Like him.

For the first time in her life, the palace felt far less like home.

Since that night, the months slipped by like sand through his fingers.

First April, when the city blossomed with the scent of oranges and the sea air grew soft and warm. Then May, hot and golden, when the sun lingered late into the evening and the alley cats grew lazy in the shade. June followed, dry and sharp, with the dust rising in thin curls from the streets. And now July was beginning to creep in, slow and heavy with its heat, the sky pale and cloudless as far as the eye could see.

And she had not called his name. Not once.

Hadja had warned him, wagging a crooked finger in his face as she stirred her pot of lentils. “Ma tderhach, waldi. Don’t go waiting for her. Girls like that, palace girls, they fly high and they never look down.” Don’t do this my boy

But his heart, that foolish, disobedient thing, still yearned.

Every evening he’d find himself drifting along the edge of the palace wall, pretending he was walking the dog, pretending he wasn’t hoping to hear her voice on the wind. But nothing came. Only the distant murmurs of the guards. Only the scent of jasmine and stone.

When the morning rose he wandered to Sidi Ahmed’s little shop near the mosque, the dog padding along beside him, tongue lolling. The old man sat outside, grumbling over a chipped tea glass, puffing on his thin roll of tobacco as he squinted at the quiet street.

“Sbah el kheir, Sidi,” Good morning Sidi Isack greeted, swinging down onto the low wall beside him. 

“Sbah en-nour,” the old man grunted back, eyeing him sideways. “Mafi shghal? You’ve time to waste this morning?” No work today?

“Waiting on wood delivery for you,” Isack shrugged, scratching the dog behind the ears. “And tea. You promised tea, old man.”

Sidi grunted and waved a hand. “Go make it yourself, I’m too angry for tea.”

Isack smirked. “What now? Someone insult your prices again?”

“La, worse,” Sidi huffed, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “The streets are closing for two days. Two whole days. For that cursed royal wedding.” He spat into the dust. “Two days no trade, no customers, no deliveries, no work. All because of that stupid fuss.”

Isack frowned, stirring the tea leaves lazily in the pot. “Wedding? Which wedding?”

Sidi gave him a look of disbelief, squinting one eye. “Yal himar” You donkey “You live under the sky and you know nothing, boy? The princess. The l’amira. She’s to marry that fool from Tizi Ouzou. Some prince’s son. Their tents are already pitched outside the palace walls. The wedding’s at the week’s end.”

Isack’s hand stilled on the teapot.

“Shkun...” His throat tightened. “Shkun bnat l’malik?” Which princess?

Sidi snorted. “As if there are many. The king’s only daughter, of course. The pretty one with the Berber cheekbones, the one who never smiles. But she will soon, I suppose. Once she’s properly wed, hm?”

Isack felt the breath leave his chest as if someone had punched him. The dog whined softly at his feet, sensing the sudden change in him.

“She never said...” he murmured under his breath, staring blankly at the steam curling from the teapot. “She never said anything.”

Sidi leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “Wach bik? What’s this face, boy? You look like you’ve swallowed a bad date.” What’s wrong with you?

“Nothing,” Isack said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”

But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Two days the streets would close. Two days of silk and gold and music. Two days and she would belong to another man, some polished stranger from the mountains who smelled of mint and power, who had never run the streets with dust in his hair or tea stolen in the market, who had never touched the old fig tree under the stars.

His hand drifted to the string around his neck, fingers brushing the hidden bracelets tied close to his skin. Cold now. Silent.

Hadja’s words whispered in the back of his mind.

“Palace girls never look down, waldi...”

But she had looked down once. And smiled. And kissed his cheek.

And now she was to be caged again, gilded and perfumed, behind marble walls.

“La tkoon hmaq,” Sidi muttered, grumbling as he refilled his glass. “Don’t be stupid, boy. This is their world. Not ours.”

But Isack said nothing.

He only sat in silence, the tea cooling between his hands, staring at the city that no longer felt like home.

She was to be wed.

To another man.

In three days.

And then she would vanish behind those marble walls forever, a shadow behind silken curtains, a memory pressed flat like petals between the pages of an old book.

Unless...

He set the glass down with a quiet clink.

There was no time to waste.

That night he paced the narrow cove above Hadja’s house, the bracelets heavy against his chest, as the old woman snored softly below. The dog lay awake by the door, tail thumping once when Isack knelt beside him.

“N’har el Khmis,”  Thursday Isack whispered, running a hand through the thick fur. “You and me, boy. One last foolish thing.”

He sketched the plan in his mind as clearly as a carpenter laying out his wood. Simple. Sharp. No room for mistakes.

Early in the morning on the wedding day, the streets lay quiet, stripped of their usual noise. Banners of white and crimson fluttered from the palace walls. The gates stood heavy and closed, but not for him.

He slipped along the shadowed alleys, the dog at his heel. When they reached the outer court, he knelt low, cupping the hound’s face in his hands.

“Sma’ni, a sahbi.” Listen to me, my friend

He tugged gently at the dog’s ear. “Run to the court. Bark. Chase. Bite the silk if you must. Make every guard chase you. And don’t stop until you hear my whistle.”

The dog wagged its tail, tongue lolling, clever dark eyes bright.

“Go.”

He bounded away, streaking through the open side gate just as the servants brought out wedding garlands. With a sudden wild barking and a flurry of paws, chaos broke like a summer storm. Men shouted, cloth ripped, baskets fell; the dog danced circles round them all, scattering petals and kicking over vases.

And while the front court swarmed in shouting confusion, Isack slipped silent as breath to the side wall.

He pulled himself up, grunting softly, legs swinging over the stone as he dropped to the inner courtyard where the date palms whispered. His heart thudded loud in his ears, not with fear. With something far more dangerous.

Hope.

Up the servant stairs, fast and quiet, barefoot. Past the scent of rose oil and incense. He knew the way; he’d listened to Hadja’s stories of the palace, of secret paths and quiet doors. Now they led him straight to her chambers.

He heard her voice from within, soft, distracted.

“You aren’t allowed to see me until after the wedding,” she called, assuming it was her betrothed, come foolishly to break the old tradition.

A grin touched Isack’s mouth as he leaned on the doorframe, careless and sure.

“Well, l’amira, lucky for you, I never cared much for rules.��

The room fell silent.

The curtain stirred, and she stepped out.

And for the first time in his life, Isack forgot every clever word he had ever known.

She stood there in her wedding kaftan, ivory silk, embroidered with gold threads that caught the light like dawn’s first glow. Her hair was plaited with fine jewels, little silver charms from the old mountains woven between the strands. Kohl lined her eyes, making them deep and dark and filled with too many feelings at once.

“Isack...?” Her voice was a whisper, barely breathing.

He swallowed hard, staring, utterly and beautifully lost.

“Ya lahbibti,” he managed, a soft smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You’re something the poets forgot to write about.”

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the chaos far below, then back to him, wild and bright, like the girl who had run laughing through the streets with him under the stars.

And in that quiet moment, caught between the palace and the world beyond, the air hummed with something ancient and fierce.

A promise.

A choice.

A beginning.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The soft scent of jasmine oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the crisp tang of fresh silk. Somewhere below, the shouting and chaos of the courtyard still stirred, muffled by distance, but here, in this quiet chamber high above the world, time itself seemed to have stopped.

Isack swallowed, his gaze steady on her, his chest tight with something raw and reckless.

“Come with me,” he said softly. His voice was not a command, nor a plea, but something gentle, a thread stretched between hope and fear.

Her hand gripped the carved edge of the dressing table; her knuckles pale against the dark wood.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, eyes dark and steady. “Can’t or won’t?”

She said nothing.

The silence between them grew thick, not of anger or doubt, but fear. Old fear. Palace fear. The kind spun into your bones from birth, as heavy and clinging as the scent of burning myrrh in the halls.

Isack smiled sadly, tilting his head as if listening to the wind through the date palms.

“It’s fear, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Not the walls, not your father, not even this ridiculous silk cage they’ve put you in. Just fear. Like a thread round your throat. It’s the oldest prison of all, l’amira.” His voice dropped low, rough as dusk on old stone. “Fear of wanting more than they told you you deserved. Of flying too far from the cage door. Of hearing your own name echo back from the wind and realising you were always meant for the sky.”

She closed her eyes, a shiver racing down her spine.

He stepped close enough to reach her wrist where it rested by her side, the silk of her kaftan soft beneath his fingers. Gently, reverently, he touched the thin golden bracelet there, the one she always wore, with its old engraving worn soft by time.

His thumb brushed across the script, his mouth quietly shaping the words in Arabic:

"Ul-iwazzan ur ttur, ul-iwazzan ur ikkes; ul-iwazzan ur ifus, zriɣ deg ul-iwazzan." The heart that is given is never lost; the hand that offers is never empty; the soul that dares is never broken.

Berber words. Mountain words. Old as the wind.

He smiled faintly.

“Your mother’s?” he asked softly.

She gave the smallest nod, her throat tight.

He traced the bracelet once more, his fingers lingering on the warmth of her skin. Then he raised his gaze to hers, dark eyes bright with something fierce and unspoken.

“Give me a chance,” he murmured. “I’ve nothing but a cove above Hadja’s roof and a dog that’s tearing up the palace court as we speak but if you’ll have me—” he breathed, the smile touching the edge of his mouth, soft and sure, “—I’ll make every breath of this life worth it. Every step. Every dawn. Until you forget what fear ever tasted like.”

The silence quivered between them.

And for the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be free.

To fly.

To fall.

And never break.

She stood frozen. A breath caught at the edge of her lips, the weight of centuries resting on her shoulders.

For a heartbeat Isack feared she would say no, that the palace would win, that the fear woven into the very stones of this place would tighten its grip and pull her back to the life she hated. Her eyes dropped to the floor; her hand trembled faintly against the silk folds of her wedding kaftan.

Then, a sound.

Her father’s voice, low and steady, carried down the corridor with the heavy certainty of all things expected.

“Binti” My daughter “It’s time. Come. We must go to the mosque.”

The words hung like iron in the air.

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the weight of her father’s voice, and then back to Isack, standing there in his worn shirt, dust on his skin, light in his eyes.

She lifted her chin, something fierce sparking in the dark pools of her eyes. Her fingers reached for the bracelet he had touched, her mother’s words warm against her wrist.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and strong, like water breaking stone. “Take me from here. Take me to the mosque, but only if you promise one thing, ya Isack.”

He stilled, breath caught.

“Promise me that you will wed me yourself. With no lords, no gold, no court. No lies. In the mosque, in the sight of Allah, with nothing but the truth between us. And let me be free of this life. Forever.”

His heart clenched. He reached out, gently cupping her face as he smiled, a slow, soft smile that held the sky itself.

“I swear on my life,” he said. “On my breath, on my dog, on the roof that shelters me and the streets that made me, I swear, l’amira. I’ll take you to the mosque with my own hand and you will be free. No walls. No cages. No fear.”

For the first time, she smiled, real and unguarded, bright as the morning sun cracking over the sea.

“Then let’s go.”

Without another word, he took her hand rough against the silk, and led her to the window. Below, the court was still in chaos, guards chasing the barking hound who darted between their legs like a spirit from the stories.

With a quiet laugh, Isack helped her swing over the terrace ledge, steadying her as her golden slippers met the stone. She glanced once over her shoulder, at the life she’d lived, the father who called for her, the walls that had held her since birth.

And then she leapt.

Into the dawn.

Into the world.

Into freedom.

Isack grinned, pulling her close as they dashed for the stairs, the wind rushing warm and alive against their faces.

“Come, l’amira,” he breathed as they ran, hearts pounding like drums. “Let’s get you wed, properly.”

And hand in hand, they fled into the waking streets of Algiers, where the call to prayer rose soft and silver into the sky, and the city opened before them, endless and wild as the sea.

They ran through the streets like the children she’d once watched with longing eyes, but now she was part of that world, part of the dawn, part of life.

Her slippers barely touched the cobbles, her golden bangles chiming softly with each hurried step, her silken wedding kaftan billowing like a cloud behind her. Jewels still clung to her neck and wrists, shimmering under the dim light of the waking city. Beside her, Isack ran barefoot in his worn scraps and dust-stained linen, his laughter breathless, his grin as bright as the sun rising behind them.

And together, like foolish lovers from some old street tale, they dashed towards the mosque.

The great white walls rose before them, calm and still against the blue-tinged sky, the call to prayer fading softly into the air. The old wooden doors stood half open, light from within spilling golden onto the stone.

Isack pushed through first, his dog waiting outside, tail wagging fiercely at the steps.

Inside, the familiar scent of oud and old prayer rugs filled the air. And there, bending to arrange the worn books of scripture, stood the imam, a stout man with a silver beard and thick brows, muttering to himself as he worked.

“Ya khoya!” Brother Isack called, grinning as he hurried forward. “Remember when I caught your runaway rooster last winter and you promised me a favour?”

The imam straightened slowly, squinting at him.

“Ya waldi, I’ve no dinar to pay you for that rooster,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I told you already, that bird brought me nothing but bad luck.”

Isack only laughed, glancing at her, breathless, radiant in her silks and gold.

“I’m not here for money, imam Saïdi,” he said softly, the grin fading into something almost shy, almost sacred. “I’ve come for my payment. Please, wed me to the woman who holds my heart. Now. Quickly. We’re in a rush.”

The imam stared, from Isack’s rough clothes to her shining wedding jewels, then back again.

“Are you sure, boy?” the old man asked, voice low with the weight of tradition. “This is no small thing, not a game to win and laugh over. Marriage is binding before Allah, here, and in the next life.”

Isack turned to her, his hand reaching for hers, fingers twining tight. She met his gaze, her heart thudding hard and wild.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice steady. “We are sure.”

The imam sighed, but the faintest smile curved his lips beneath his beard.

“Very well, waladi. Come here. Both of you.”

And so, beneath the carved wooden beams of the mosque, before the worn prayer rugs and the quiet dawn, the old man began the nikah.

Isack spoke first, his voice clear: his ijab, his offer to take her as his wife. Her heart jumped as she gave her quiet qabul, accepting him, her breath soft and warm in the hushed air.

Witnessed by Allah. No gold. No courts. No walls.

Only truth.

Only choice.

Only freedom.

The imam prayed over them, his hands lifted gently, invoking peace, blessing, mercy. The words of the Qur’an wrapped around them like light, weaving them into something whole and sacred.

“Baraka Allahu lakuma,” May Allah bless you both he said softly at last. 

But before the final words could fall, the heavy crash of iron-shod boots broke the quiet, and the wide doors of the mosque burst open.

Palace guards.

Dozens of them.

Their dark leather armour gleamed, swords glinting under the oil lamps. The captain stepped forward, gaze sharp and cruel.

“There they are!” he barked. “Seize them, by order of the Sultan himself!”

The peace of the mosque shattered, but Isack only smiled, fingers tightening around his new wife’s hand.

“Ya Allah...” the imam muttered, clutching his beads.

Steel-clad hands grabbed Isack roughly by the arms, wrenching him backwards with such force his shoulder jarred painfully. The dog growled low and deep from outside but dared not move as three more guards kept their blades close.

At the far end of the prayer hall, she stood, now alone, radiant in her wedding silk, defiant as the sunrise behind her. Her dark eyes flashed as the heavy tread of boots approached.

The Sultan himself entered the mosque, flanked by advisors and more guards, the weight of his presence sinking into the air like stone into water. His robe of deep emerald trailed behind him.

He halted in the centre of the prayer hall, eyes flicking from the bound street boy to his daughter, who was supposed to be waiting at the palace gates for her grand procession.

His face darkened.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice cut sharp through the silence, hard as steel drawn from its sheath. “What foolishness is this? Binti, explain yourself. Now.”

She lifted her chin, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I have nothing to explain to you, Father,” she said, her voice low, steady. “I have done what you never let me do, I chose.”

His gaze narrowed, dark with warning. “Chose?” he spat. “Chose what? This—” he flung a hand towards the struggling Isack, “this gutter rat? This thief from the streets? You throw away a kingdom for him?”

He strode towards her, his robe whispering against the tiles. His hand shot out, catching her chin hard, lifting her face so her eyes were forced to meet his.

“You shame me,” he hissed. “You shame your mother’s name. Your country. What have you done?”

Before she could speak, Isack's voice cracked the air, hoarse but fierce, his whole body straining against the guards’ grip.

“Don’t touch my wife!”

The words hung like thunder in the mosque.

The Sultan froze.

So did every guard.

Even the imam, who stood quietly by the prayer books, bowed his head and folded his hands before him.

“She speaks the truth, sidi,” the old imam said softly, his voice carrying clear and unafraid through the vast chamber. “By Allah’s law and witness, they are wed. Just now. With her qabul and his ijab. With me as their witness. The nikah is done.”

The Sultan’s hand dropped slowly from her face.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he stared at his daughter, who stood unflinching, her chin high, her eyes clear and bright.

“You married him,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “You married this... street boy. Without my blessing. Without the court. Without—” His hand trembled. “You dare defy me, your father, the Sultan?”

“I dared, Father,” she said softly, “because you left me no choice. You caged me all my life. This is my freedom. My will. My faith.” Her voice hardened. “And he is my husband.”

Silence fell like a heavy cloth over the mosque, save for the dog’s soft, warning growl and the faint creak of armour.

The Sultan stared at them, the gilded princess and the dusty street boy, joined in defiance and faith.

His jaw tightened.

And the air held still, waiting for his judgement.

The Sultan’s face darkened, rage twisting the lines of his mouth as the weight of his shame settled upon him. In front of his men. In the house of God. His pride, his own blood, choosing a street rat over the throne.

His hand shot out.

A sharp crack split the air as his palm struck her cheek, sending her head whipping to the side.

A breathless hush swept the mosque.

Isack roared.

With a violent wrench, he tore free from the guards' grip, their surprise too slow, their hands grasping at empty air as the boy, lean and lithe from a lifetime of running and scrapping, lunged across the space between them.

He grabbed the Sultan by the front of his robes, strong, hands knotting into the silken lapels and hauled him forward until their faces were but inches apart. His chest heaved; his golden-brown eyes burned bright as fire.

“The only thing holding me back from sending you to your death for laying a hand on my wife,” he growled, voice low and shaking with fury, “is that we stand in the house of Allah. But God is my witness, Sultan, if I see you again, and you dare try one more thing against her, against us, you shan’t live to say the word ‘La’.” No

A gasp rippled through the guards.

Even the dog bared its teeth, hackles raised, a low rumble thrumming in its throat.

The Sultan’s eyes, wide with shock, stared into Isack’s face, the breath stolen from his chest. No man, no beggar, no prince had ever dared grip him so. His guards hovered, hesitating, unsure whether to drag Isack down and risk defiling the mosque further.

Isack shook him once, hard, before shoving him back, hard enough that the Sultan staggered on his feet, his robes twisting about him like wounded pride.

She gasped softly, her fingers brushing her stinging cheek, but her heart swelled with something wild and bright. Isack, this boy from the streets, stood tall before a king without fear.

The Imam stepped forward quietly, his old hands raised.

“Enough. Baraka min hadshi.” Enough of this

His voice cut the tension like a blade, heavy with the quiet authority of one who spoke for God.

“All of you, this is sacred ground. No more violence beneath Allah’s roof. Leave your wrath outside.”

Isack stood firm, breathing hard, the fire still in his eyes.

The Sultan straightened his robe, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the silk smooth, his gaze burning into the boy before him.

“You have shamed me,” the Sultan hissed. “Both of you. This is not over.”

Isack smiled, slow, dangerous, wolfish.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s only just begun.”

Her hand slipped into his, fingers tightening around his as the guards shifted uneasily, no man daring to break the Imam’s peace, no sword daring to fall where Allah’s name was spoken.

And in that quiet moment, beneath the great dome of the mosque and the morning light streaming in, they stood, husband and wife, defiant and unbroken.

And free.

The weight of the morning’s confrontation still clung to them as she and Isack made their way through the narrow, twisting streets, fingers intertwined. They arrived at Hadja’s humble home.

Hadja greeted them with a knowing smile, her eyes sharp beneath heavy brows that had witnessed decades of stories. “Ah, waldi,” she said softly, her voice thick with affection. “And l’amira, the princess with the heart of a rebel.” She welcomed them inside, where the scent of mint tea and spices wove through the air like a familiar song.

Once seated, tea poured and steam swirling upwards, they looked to her for guidance. Hadja’s gaze softened as she began, her voice falling into a quiet rhythm, the past and present folding together.

“Love,” she murmured, she smiled faintly, “is a wild flame. I was once foolishly in love, too.”

Her eyes drifted to a faraway place, as though seeing a younger version of herself beneath a fading lantern’s light.

“There was a boy from a far village, kan zwin, he was handsome, kind, but life had other plans. Tqadit I was deceived. I thought love alone would be enough, but it was not.”

“Knt bghit nhss b huriya I wanted to feel free. But freedom, l’amira, isn’t given; it’s taken. And love is the courage to take it.”

When she finished, silence settled, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

Hadja’s hand reached out, worn and steady, resting on Isack’s.

“My son Isack, listen carefully. Take passage from here to Ghazaouet. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

Isack’s brow furrowed, surprise flickering across his face.

Hadja turned to l’amira, eyes shimmering with a secret long kept.

“l’amira, your mother was from Ghazaouet. I took passage with her to Algiers long ago. She was brave, she’d be proud of you.”

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around Isack’s hand.

“My sister works in the palace, she was your mother’s maid. You were closer than you ever knew.”

A tear traced a line down Hadja’s cheek, touched by both sorrow and hope.

“You’ll find fertile land there, and people who will welcome you. Seek out the trader named Rashid, he will guide you.”

The room felt alive with possibility, the past and future intertwining in Hadja’s words.

Isack nodded, determination hardening in his gaze.

She felt a quiet hope bloom inside her, fragile but fierce.

Together, they would chase the horizon.

Together, they would find freedom.

That night, they found passage to Ghazaouet, with nothing but a dog, a cloth bundling their meagre belongings, and their hearts. The road was long and winding, carving through desert and coast, dust clinging to their clothes and salt from the sea staining their hair. But they carried no burden heavier than the lives they had shed behind them.

It took five days. Five days of quiet prayers, whispered plans, shared bread, and watching the dog run wild through the hills as though he had always known freedom. On the evening of the fifth day, with the sun resting low like a gold coin on the edge of the horizon, they arrived.

They found Rashid just as Hadja had said. A man with lines on his face from years of salt and sand, eyes that knew the weight of secrets, and a heart that softened the moment he saw her face.

“Bint Laila” he whispered, as if he were seeing a ghost. “Your mother would be at peace now.”

He led them to the land her mother had left behind, acres upon acres of olive trees and wild thyme, crowned by a single stone house, worn by time but strong, built upon a rise that overlooked the endless sea. It had a stah, a courtyard with faded tiles and jasmine climbing along the old walls. Her mother had kept it all untouched, in case she too bore a restless heart, as she once had.

They did not return to Algiers. The city forgot them, as all cities forget their rebels and dreamers.

Isack worked with Rashid, hands calloused by honest labour, skin browned by the coastal sun. He returned home each day to a house alive with laughter and the scent of mint and coriander. His wife was no longer a princess. She was something far freer, a woman of her own making. She walked barefoot in the morning dew, learned the names of herbs, stitched cushions for the stah, and left her hair uncovered to dance with the wind.

They lived slowly. They lived wholly. And in quiet moments beneath the olive trees, Isack would take her hand and kiss her wrist where the bangle once sat and say, “You, l’amira, are the only kingdom I’ll ever kneel for.”

Years passed like the tide, soft but certain. No one remembered the boy from the streets of Algiers who stole the heart of a princess. No one spoke of the princess at all. The crown she once wore died with her old name, and she never mourned it.

In the spring of their third year by the sea, they welcomed a son. Isack held him with trembling arms and named him Nur el-Din, the light of faith, for he came into their lives as proof that their love had been blessed.

Years later, a daughter followed, born beneath a full moon. She named her Amal Layali, the hope of nights, for she had once looked to the stars and prayed for freedom, and the stars had listened.

They raised their children on stories and soil, on faith and fire, and on the unshakable truth that love, when pure, needs no crown to be sacred.

And in time, no one remembered the palace or the boy who walked its shadows.

But on the cliffs of Ghazaouet, where jasmine grows wild and the sea sings to the shore, you can still find the house with the stah, where a dog once slept in the sun, and where two hearts, once lost, found their way home.

And if you listen closely to the wind, you might still hear her whisper his name.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine @rayaskoalaland @amyelevenn @obxstiles @jaxtellerverstappen

[jungwnies]

kiss addicted | isack hadjar

୨ৎ : featuring : isack hadjar ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : kiss addicted isack... he just cannot seem to get enough of you.

୨ৎ : genre : romance ୨ৎ : word count : 327

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

absolutely kisses you in place of greetings. no hi, no hello — just walks in, drops his bag, and immediately presses a kiss to your cheek, your mouth, your shoulder — whatever’s closest.

cannot stand leaving without a kiss. if you walk out the door without giving him one, he’ll call you five seconds later like, “really? you just left me here like that?”

kisses during arguments. 100%. you're mid-rant and he's leaning in like “babe stop being cute when you’re mad, i literally can’t focus.” and then kisses you. just to reset the vibe.

kisses while you talk. kisses while he talks. kisses to shut you up. kisses when he doesn’t have anything to say but still wants to communicate that he loves you.

when you’re lying on his chest, he’ll kiss your hair every 20 seconds like it’s a reflex. “you’re doing it again.” “doing what?” kiss.

tries to be slick in public but fails. kisses the side of your head while you’re walking together, or your temple while waiting in the paddock — then pretends like nothing happened. everyone notices. he does not care.

you hand him a water bottle? kiss. you fix his collar? kiss. you pass him the TV remote? kiss.

once kissed your ankle while helping you put on your shoes. “isack what the hell was that for.” “you looked cute and it was right there.”

he mumbles “gimme kiss” when he’s tired. or grumpy. or pouty. or annoyed. or breathing. (my boyfriend does this and it makes me fold SO hard and i can just imagine isack being the same)

will 100% text you “forgot to kiss you this morning, emergency, call me right now.” picks up and kisses the phone. yes, really.

if he’s away racing, he sends you voice notes that are just: “this is me kissing you from a distance. muah. again. muah. okay now one more—muah.” you have a whole folder of them labeled kiss machine.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[mickyschumacher]

Hi please will you write isack hadjar fluff 🙏🙏

[LA VIE EN ROSE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: with isack home, you and all your pets are excited as ever. but a walk outside has left a small golden retriever to steal your heart. the only thing left to do is convince isack. or in which you and isack adopt another dog.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: established relationship, fluff, poor humour, me knowing nothing about pets or french, just two five cuties overall // poorly proof-read as usual

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: isack hadjar x gf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.9k+

𝐀/𝐍: i think i saw a tiktok where he said he has a dog and two cats??? i can't seem to find it tho... (lmk if you ever find it). whatever, it's the truth in this storyline. also idk if you can tell... but i don't own any pets so this is... something. hope you like it! <3

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that you and Isack are the most loving parents to three cute pets. A cute grey Chartreux cat named Fleur, a Birman cat named Jules, and a young Barbet named Ida.

With all of you together, you were a perfect family. More often than not, with Isack racing, you were the one looking after them back home in France. You didn't mind. You loved those three to bits and pieces.

Fleur and Ida had not initially got on. A sassy bark from the dog and an annoyed hiss from the cat was the common recurrence for the first few weeks. But with Jules acting as a mediator, somehow, all of three of them were three peas in a pod. Where one was sleeping, you'd find the rest laying nearby.

They didn't do anything without each other.

All three loved long walks in the park, particularly if the sprinklers were on. Well, Jules preferred resting on the bench, watching the other two play but he didn't think it was that much different. They enjoyed window shopping as much as you did, often becoming great helpers on what you should buy (which every enthusiastic bark and meow meant yes). They enjoyed resting with you while you studied or read.

However, they're favourite was when both Isack and you were together. Whether it was break or a surprise visit home, the raucous mewls and woofs often made you anticipate a visit from your neighbours.

Isack was back home for a week and a bit and least to say, all four of you were happily overwhelming him with some hugs.

"Hé, mes trésors!" Isack chuckled softly, barely putting his bag down. His arms were wide open, body bent down while enveloping the three excited animals at once. "I missed you," he cooed. Hey, my treasures!

You smiled gently at the sight, committing it to memory.

Isack's wide smile and slight wince as Ida lapped at his face and Fleur cuddled up to his arm. Jules, usually the most quietest (it came with age), was thrilled, actively jumping, clawing his small paws to get your boyfriend's attention.

"Oui, oui," he consoled the oldest cat, rubbing his cheek gently. "I missed you too, Jules."

Isack flitted his eyes from your pets, brown eyes softening as they landed on you. He stood up, walking over to you. "Chérie," he smiled, arms reaching to wrap around your body.

A comforting smile fell on your face as Isack's familiar scent washed over you. He was so warm as usual. You usually teased him, pretending he was your personal furnace but today... he was here with you. You tightened your arms around him, pressing a light kiss to his neck. "Tu m'as manqué, mon cœur,' you murmured. I missed you, my sweetheart.

Isack relished the sound of your voice in-person. He loved the little voice messages you sent before every practice, qualifying, and race. But it was always nothing compared to hearing to the real thing.

Pulling away, Isack couldn't resist pressing his lips onto yours, missing your sweet touch for the past month. He held you close, making sure you could feel every fibre of his being in this kiss.

Begrudgingly prying away, you smiled at Isack with your cheeks dusted with some heat.

"Comment ça va?" He mumbled, heart racing as per usual as you caressed his face softly. How are things?

You shrugged. "Good," you responded, "But always better with you."

Isack chuckled, an attempt to play off how you always touched him with the smallest of things. He squeezed your hand warmly. "Want to go for a walk with these three and then get something to eat?"

You nodded and smiled. "Of course."

━━━━━━━━━━━

"Ida!" Isack called out, looking incredulously between his dog and the ball he had thrown.

Ida looked blankly at him, tongue hanging out while she firmly ignored the ball a few metres away from her.

You failed to hold back your cackle as you sit on the bench, slowly patting Jules on your lap.

Isack turned to you, raising a brow with a hand on his hip. "She doesn't even listen to me anymore. I mean I was gone for a month but come on," he drawled with exasperation.

The pose only made you laugh even harder, head falling back.

"Okay... very funny," Isack mumbled, rolling his eyes before breaking into a small smile. Another thing he enjoyed. Your laugh. It was always so warm. And to be the cause of it was his honour.

Soon enough, you and Isack were walking out of the park and onto the streets, trying to keep Ida and Fleur out of trouble on the streets. Jules, who was adamant on being in your arms, was simplying watching them in disdain.

"And then Paul invited us to join him, his girlfriend, and Dino and Elvira to Italy," Isack told you, holding the leash tightly as Ida attempted to greet everyone she possibly could with a cute little bark.

"That's so sweet! We should go! The pictures from last year made me wish I went," you retorted with a small pout.

Isack grinned, remembering exactly how you said riding around on a vespa with him in Italy had suddenly become your number one priority.

You were about to mention some spots you could visit in Italy when your eyes became fixated on a certain shop. "Oh! Isack!"

Isack furrowed his brows, moving to look in the direction your had been looking in. A cautious expression fell onto his face as he eyed the dog posters and colourful birds in the window. Turning back to you, he pressed his lips on a line. "Chérie..."

You immediately responded with a small sigh. With you eyes widened and lips jutted, you could audibly hear the curse under your boyfriend's breath. You inched towards him. "Please Isack. It's just a look."

Isack gave you pointed a look, trying to brave your puppy eyes.

It was never just a 'look' with you.

More often than not, Isack would leave a store with something he had never thought of buying.

His fault was even looking in your eyes in the first place. So warm and so pretty... he had never been able to say no to them. He knew that. You knew that.

"Fine," he sighed, shoulders slumping.

A wide smile sprawled onto your face. You kissed his cheek quickly before entering the store with Jules, barely aware of slightly nervous boyfriend following behind you.

You weren't even sure where to look.

The air was full of numerous noises. Squawks of beautifully winged birds. Barks of enthusiastic pups. The run of bubbles as fish glided accompanied by the peaceful silence of the turtles. Simply delightful.

Ida barked, seemingly communicating with those all around her, Fleur following after her as well while they both sauntered the area. Isack kept a careful eye on you, though his body trailed after the two animals.

Was it bad he almost wanted to pray? Pray that nothing here caught your eye? Because that was exactly what had happened the last time he was here and you had both come out with Ida in the end.

You quietly gasped at purr from Jules when you stopped in front of the fish tanks. "Jules," you scolded, eyes returning to the memorising waves of water while the small big-eyed fishes looked at you curiously.

Slowly, you travelled to the cat section. To your surprise, Jules mewled in such a distaste, you wondered whether you had accidentally picked up Fleur instead. You watched your cat squint his eyes at the old cat curled up at the corner of his cushion, a small hiss falling from his mouth.

You blinked. Was this a matter of superiority?

You simply sighed, about to turn to the birds when a loud raucous bark caught your attention. You furrowed your brows, inching closer to the sound.

Your mouth fell open at the sight of the small Golden Retriever running on its paws, jumping at the sight of you. It was so tiny. Thin and yet with so much energy. You looked at the information label and your heart clenched.

A rescue.

"Hi baby," you cooed softly, bending down to meet the small pup. Jules peered down from your arms, curious as you.

The pup's eyes widened at you in excitement, tail furiously wagging while his paws leaped towards you arms. You laughed quietly, stroking his fur gently. "Aren't you such a happy boy!" You queried, tilting your head.

He looked at you, head raised as he gave a singular bark, agreeing with you. He never stopped jumping, the joy coursing through his veins. God, he was just so excited... you could feel your heart falling victim to it with every passing second.

You could feel Jules nudge his head on your arm. You turned to him, raising a brow. The cat looked at you, slowly blinking.

He liked the pup.

But you weren't sure if that was the one who needed convincing.

You twisted your head, eyes on the lookout for a familiar face. And as Isack pulled Fleur away in midst of her harassing the birds, he met your eyes and then looked to the pup and visibly sighed.

"Chérie," Isack started as he walked over to you, brown eyes lingering on the pup with a certain warmth you had seen before.

You cooped the pup in your arms and smiled at Isack. You pushed forward the pup in his face. "Meet Mylan."

"Mylan? You've already named him?" Isack pressed his lips.

Mylan barked in response, making you chuckle. "See! He already loves the name! Isack..."

Isack tilted his head at you. "You said you'd only look," he maintained.

You pouted, holding Mylan and Jules closely to the sides of your face. "But Jules and I already love him," you countered, again pushing the pup to Isack. "Don't you love him already?"

Isack blinked. He wasn't exactly sure if it was indeed Mylan that he loved or whether it was the hope brightly sitting within your eyes. "I mean... chérie... four pets... I– how are we going to handle that?"

A grin creeped on your face. He was considering it. Halfway there. "What's not to handle. Two parents and three older siblings. He's already spoilt," you stated as Ida barked in agreement, tugging on the leash your boyfriend held.

Isack's hands fell flat to the sides of his body. He sighed, shoulders slumping. "It's like I don't have a say in this household."

You snorted, inching closer to him. "Please... you liked him the moment I showed him to you."

Isack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he dismissed, hand reaching out to pat Mylan. He smiled at the eager barks falling from the pup's mouth. "You are pretty cute," he admitted.

Fleur mewled, paws clawing at Isack's leg, quickly missing the attention of his father.

Isack chuckled, picking up the cat in his arm. "You're cute too, Fleur," he said. "But not as cute as your maman," he grinned, leaning in to press a kiss on your cheek.

Like an idiot in love, because that's what you were, you grinned back. You looked down at Mylan, whispering too him, "Someone needs to tell your dad that he's cheesy."

Isack gave you a funny look. "You love it," he quipped back.

Your shoulders fell with ease. You smiled softly, cheeks warm. "I do."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑