#loop track (2023) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

here2bbtstrash · 15 days ago

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look down on me like that - 11 (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut, angst

pairing: yoongi x reader

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

word count: 23.1k 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

contains: mentions of suicidal ideation, depression, panic attacks, therapy. many scenes featuring alcohol (naturally) and a brief weed-smoking interlude. a whole lot of tears!!! but also everyone heals, yay!! we have a lot of conversations about trauma and family/childhood shit and accountability!! also the scammys are back (boooo) - plus a smidge of phone sex ft. reader masturbating.... as a lil treat 🤪

A/N: i told y'all i was gonna fuck it shibal this out and here we are!!! omg omg omg. i don't have the words, but thank you for being here. thank you for waiting TWO YEARS. thank you for even caring at all about this insane story that has been rotting in my brain since 2023. i am so, so proud to bring you this final chapter. neither it nor i would be here today if it weren't for a metric truckload of support from my incredible friends/beta team/personal peanut gallery: @sailorsoons @moni-logues @eoieopda @daechwitatamic @jihopesjoint @yoongukie-ff - i don't know what i did right in a past life to end up cared for by such incredible humans. y'all mean everything to me.

read on AO3!

chapter ten | masterlist

~*~

It’s quiet in Yoongi’s studio. He’s slipped his headphones off, frustrated, and now lets them clatter onto the desk as he slumps back in his chair. He stares at the track on his monitor like it’s a puzzle he can’t figure out.

It hits him all at once: he’s tired. Tired of looping this shitty song over and over, playing with the mix, adding new layers just to delete them again, unable to make it into anything worth anyone’s time. He’s tired of working until his contacts sting in his eyes and exhaustion feels like it’s sunk right down to the marrow of his bones.

If he’s honest, he’s fucking tired of living like this.

Yoongi exhales hard and the sound feels deafening in the quiet of the room. The soundproofing is decent in here, but he knows even if he flung the door open and screamed down the hallway, there’d be nothing else to hear except the echo of his own voice.

And no one to hear it. He’s the only one left in the building, has been for hours.

An issued key to the front door glimmers on its ring, next to his half-drunk coffee. Hasn’t even been long enough for the polish on it to dull.

His whole life is so much quieter, lately. In a way, that’s what he wanted.

Or at least what he asked for.

Yoongi reaches a hand back to rub at his shoulder, trying to work out the dull ache that’s blooming there, mouth twisting into a half-grimace. All of his joints feel stiff from sitting still for so long– he told himself he’d only put one more hour in tonight, and that was two hours ago. He really should leave, but he knows full well that when he packs up his things, shuts the studio door behind him and heads for the exit, he’ll walk by a desk that’s sat empty for weeks now. He’ll get into a car that’s too quiet, glance over at a passenger seat with no one in it, then drive home to a dark apartment.

All this empty space. It didn’t used to bother him.

The downturn of his mouth flattens out again as his gaze refocuses on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t want to think anymore, about that, or anything else. Introspection never leads him anywhere productive. He wants to work, to get this fucking track done so he can go home.

He straightens his spine, stifles a yawn, reaches for his headphones and steels himself for another listen through. Maybe all the issues have magically worked themselves out, he thinks dryly, and then the sudden buzz of his phone against his desk makes him start a little.

The noise drags out long enough for him to realize someone is calling him– who the fuck is calling him?

With a huff of frustration, he grabs for it, and then his headphones are dropping out of his hand, missing the desk entirely and plummeting straight down to the carpet under his feet. In the moment, he’s not even sure he notices.

Not when the name on his phone screen has just knocked all the breath out of his lungs. Because, well, it’s you.

He never did change your contact name.

But why are you– fuck, isn’t it late in California? Or early?

Yoongi’s head spins as he tries to remember the math, and then it occurs to him that his phone’s been ringing in his hand the whole time and he’s probably running out of chances to–

At what feels like the last possible second, he taps the button to answer the call. Taps again to put it on speaker. Doesn’t say anything. What the fuck is he supposed to say? Hi? How’s it going? Do you hate me?

There’s a long pause on the other end, enough to make him wonder if you’re already regretting the decision to call. Or maybe this was an accidental dial from the inside of your purse, or the back pocket of your jeans, while you’re out enjoying your warm, sunny, new life.

If he’s honest, he’s having a hard time trying to conjure up a reason why you’d want to talk to him at all.

And then you’re heaving a sigh and murmuring, “‘Course you don’t have a fucking voicemail message.”

Or at least that’s what he thinks he hears. The words all sort of run together.

But that’s your voice, unmistakably so. Yoongi feels the sound of it kick through him.

“Asshole,” you punctuate, and he winces. He supposes he deserves that.

There’s a shifting sound on the other end of the phone, like you’re moving around a bit, wherever you are. Maybe in bed, maybe on the bathroom floor. They seem equally likely given your current state.

“Alright, fuck it,” you say like you’ve finally decided on something, voice a little muffled, like maybe you’ve got your hands over your face. Maybe you’re exhausted, too.

“I guess,” you continue, “I‘m just gonna say what I wanna say, and then you can… fucking deal with it whenever you listen to this. And if you don’t like it you can just delete it. Or block me, or whatever. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

This is by far the drunkest he’s ever heard you. Which is saying something.

It takes a second for the reality of it to click into place, and then it dawns on him. You, apparently, have not realized that he actually answered his phone, probably aided by the fact that he hasn’t fucking said anything.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to quickly figure out how to proceed here. Fuck, he’s not good at shit like this.

And then you start talking.

“My friends are all mad at me tonight,” you say, and Yoongi keeps his eyes closed. “I showed up so late to this party, when I promised them I would be here. I fell asleep at my desk, working late, after everyone else had left for the day. I work like, all the time now. I guess it’s a distraction. Tiff says I’m pushing everyone away to keep myself from getting hurt again. Which is like. Yeah, probably.”

Your breath hitches slightly, sticks on a self-pitying laugh. “When I finally got here, I was like hours late, so I tried to catch up to everyone. But nobody told me Vernon makes his Jello shots with fucking Everclear and now I’m just… way, way too fucked up. And it’s like I’m– I’m not even having fun. I don’t even remember how. How I used to.”

Yoongi tries to make his exhale as steady and as quiet as he can, tries to ignore the way he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Fucking stupid.” He sees your voice in his mind’s eye, shaped like audio input on his monitor. A faint line wavering, unsteady, dropping in volume, shooting up again when you breathe in, a broken gasp. “This whole thing is so stupid. I’m so fucking angry, all the time. I don’t know what to do.”

The line stalls out– a long pause.

“You broke my heart.” The words come out all jagged-edged. “And now I’m just like you.”

And, well. That hits him like a truck.

“I threw my whole fucking life out and decided to come here, to get away from it all. And now I’m here and– it’s still everywhere. All over. I’m fucking miserable, and I wanna hate you for it, but I don’t. Not even close.”

Yoongi’s hand presses tight to his mouth, dry lips smudging over the lines of his palm, physically holding in this awful noise that threatens to tear out of the back of his throat.

“Half the time I wish I’d never fucking met you, and half the time I wish I’d never left. And I just… I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. About any of it. I don’t know how to stop being in love with you.”

The words hang there in the quiet of Yoongi’s studio, unfurling in his mind like ink in water. He can hear soft, tinny sounds through the phone speaker.

“So I guess you win,” you mutter, and it’s apparent in your voice now. You’re crying.

He scrubs his hands down his face, then shoves them through his hair. What the fuck is he doing, listening in on you like this? And why isn’t he saying anything?

In the empty space, you seem to come down from it a little bit; there’s a heavy shudder-sigh, then a sniff. A wet laugh. “Fuck. That was dramatic.” There’s noise on the line, like you’re dragging the phone closer. “God, how the fuck do you delete a voicemail?”

There’s a beep, then another, because you’ve started to aimlessly press buttons to try and delete a message that isn’t one, and if Yoongi’s going to say anything at all, it has to happen. Right fucking now.

So he swallows down the lump in his throat. And then he taps the button to end the call. Because he has no idea what to fucking say. How to make any of this better.

Yoongi pushes his chair back from his desk, lungs heaving air. He needs to take a fucking walk.

There are gaps in what comes next, like he is blinking in and out of reality. One minute he’s shouldering open the door to the lobby. Cars are rushing past in dizzying streams of light and sound. His face is wet, and he can’t quite catch his breath. He just keeps walking.

And then, all at once, there is the darkness of open water in front of him and a metal railing cool beneath his palms. Yoongi blinks out over the river, and it feels like he’s being unzipped, right down the middle. Like nothing has changed. Like everything has changed.

There’s footsteps, he hears them vaguely over the static in his brain. Steady rhythm, most likely a jogger, but then they start to slow before coming to a stop just past his shoulder.

So maybe it’s someone with worse intentions, he thinks, and it’s so unlikely, but there’s a fucked up kind of hope there. That it could be someone to flick open the line of a switchblade, find purchase right between his ribs, do for himself what he hasn’t figured out how to, hasn’t been brave enough to manage. Not even when he’s like this, on the precipice of it, close enough to taste it on his tongue: the allure of dreamless sleep.

He’s just so fucking tired.

When Yoongi turns back, he has to blink three times before he can process it. The figure standing a few feet behind him, in all-black athletic clothes, still breathing hard.

“Min Suga?”

“Jungkook?”

Yoongi is standing very still, but he wonders all the same if Jungkook can see it churning up inside of him. This dark, ugly violence.

“Is everything–?”

“I was just getting off work,” Yoongi answers simply, voice low. Jungkook’s head tilts a little.

“Walking home?”

Yoongi’s mouth pulls flat. “No.”

“Are you–?”

As if Yoongi is operating on a delay, the words he’s said finally catch up to him, shifting into place. Jungkook must track the way his eyes widen, because he loses his grip on whatever he was about to ask. Silence and warm night air hang in the space between them.

“The door,” Yoongi breathes. “Jungkook, I left the fucking door–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence before he starts running.

The city is a blur, just color and noise around him, useless, overwhelming. The only thing that matters is the thud of his sneakers on the concrete, underscoring the beat of his heart. Not again, not again, not again.

It isn’t until he’s jabbed the button for the elevator, and is standing there trying to take in air, that he realizes he’s not alone. Jungkook’s chest is heaving beside him. There’s a glisten of sweat at his temples.

“It’s okay,” Jungkook manages, and the words make Yoongi feel… insane. As if anything could possibly be o-fucking-kay right now. “Whatever happens. We’ll figure it out.”

The elevator chimes, and they step in together.

It’s quiet when they approach the glass doors. The lights are still on. No signs of obvious entry.

“I’ll go,” Jungkook says, and he’s pushing the unlocked door open before Yoongi can stop him. And Yoongi doesn’t stop him. He’s frozen where he stands, heart still hammering in his chest, hands shaking.

He is shaking all over, actually.

The minutes tick by, dreadfully slow, and then Jungkook is reappearing around the corner, Yoongi’s bag slung over his shoulder and the key in his hand. There’s no sound except the door easing closed behind him, and the click of the key in the lock.

Then Jungkook finally speaks. “Everything’s fine. Nobody took anything.”

Yoongi is still unraveling.

“It’s okay,” Jungkook stresses, and his brow is furrowed, like he’s really worried about something. “You made a mistake, you’re human. It’s okay.”

Yoongi doesn’t even think about it. All at once, his face is just– pressed to the smooth material of Jungkook’s shirt, leaving wet spots behind. There’s a split second where Jungkook stiffens, and then his arms are locking over the width of Yoongi’s back, and he’s pulling Yoongi that much tighter into his chest.

“You’re okay,” Jungkook says again, voice softer, and Yoongi fucking breaks down.

It’s a long time before Yoongi can get words in his mouth again. When he finally does, his voice is wrung-out.

“I– uh. Thanks. For that.”

Jungkook releases him, and Yoongi immediately puts space between them again, gaze skimming across the floor. He sniffs once, mouth drawn up tight.

“Did you eat, hyung?”

Yoongi glances up, not expecting the question, or how casually Jungkook asks it. Like nothing just happened. Like they’re old friends catching up.

Jungkook is already pressing the button for the elevator.

“Come on,” he says, turning back to meet Yoongi’s gaze again. “I want lamb skewers.”

Jungkook leads them out of the building and down a few blocks and Yoongi just follows, hands swiping at his cheeks, not really feeling like any part of this is real.

It’s nice, though. Just having somebody to follow.

It’s silent between them, and Yoongi can’t help but wonder if that’s for his benefit– quiet doesn’t seem to be Jungkook’s default state, not at work anyway. He’s always chattering on about some mobile game or the latest trend on TikTok– but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it, is the thing. Seems perfectly content to sit across from Yoongi and watch the skewers of meat turn over the coals and not talk.

Yoongi tips his head back, eyes closed as he chews, and feels himself coming down from it. Stepping back from the edge.

“You can head out if you want, Jungkook-ah,” he murmurs around his next bite. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“And what will you do?”

Yoongi hums a note, staring down at the table between them. “Go home. Probably get drunk.” Honesty comes easy to him in this moment. He doesn’t see a point in trying to act like he’s in a better headspace. Not after what Jungkook’s already seen tonight.

“Do you like Irish bombs?”

He blinks, surprised at the question, then looks up. “I– yeah. Do you?”

Jungkook’s eyes crease at the corners as a laugh floats out of him. “Why is everyone so shocked that I drink too?”

Yoongi’s mouth ticks up. “Hey, you’re allowed to, you know. Contain multitudes.”

“There’s a good place,” Jungkook nods toward the front door. “Around the corner.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much company tonight.”

Jungkook shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “It’s fine, hyung. Come on.”

Yoongi doesn’t really know what he’s doing. But the beers go down easily enough, and so he orders a whiskey neat, even manages the ghost of a laugh when Jungkook sheepishly orders his with soda, then still does this throat-clearing hiss of a noise at the first taste.

He’s swirling his drink aggressively, in what Yoongi assumes is some misguided effort to better disguise the taste of liquor, when he says seemingly out of nowhere, “Can I ask you a question, hyung?”

Yoongi nods, takes another sip of his own drink.

Jungkook is now sliding his glass back and forth across the table, palm to palm. “Why Suga?”

It takes a second for the question to make sense, and then Yoongi sucks in air through his teeth when the realization clicks, shaking his head a little. “Come on, how long have we worked together? And you’ve never heard this story?”

There’s no way he hasn’t, but Jungkook shakes his head innocently, gaze still locked tight on his glass. “Nope.”

Yoongi’s fingers drum a steady beat against the dark wood of the bar. It’s easy, telling this story; makes him feel more like himself. “I loved basketball as a kid. To play, to watch. Still do. Though I haven’t played in years now. But when I did, I was the shooting guard. So when I needed a producer name– took the first syllable of each. Su-ga.” He huffs a self-deprecating breath that flutters his shoulders. “It’s really not that interesting.”

Jungkook hums, thoughtful. “Why not just use your real name?”

Yoongi makes a face. “Suga is more like… a facet of me. There’s a separation there. I wanted there to be.” Jungkook is slow-blinking, like he doesn’t quite follow, and the whiskey is starting to loosen Yoongi’s tongue, so he keeps going with it. “It’s all just different versions of me, right? Suga, Agust D, Min Yoongi.”

Jungkook’s gaze snaps up. “Wait, Agust D?”

Ah, fuck. “I didn’t–” Yoongi fumbles, trying to find the right words. “Let’s not go there. Just forget I said anything.”

It appears to be an impossible task for Jungkook, who is already shifting excitedly in his seat, retrieving his phone as if he immediately needs to scour the internet. “Hyung, do you have, like– secret music?!”

“No, no. Not yet.” Yoongi wishes he could think more clearly, but it’s all cotton-fuzz numb in his brain, more from easing out of an adrenaline rush than the liquor. His face is hot with embarrassment. “I don’t know. Probably never will.”

“But you want to?” Jungkook prompts, and he shrugs.

“I– it would be nice.”

This seems to stir something up in Jungkook, his spine straightening out, like the conversation is suddenly one of utmost importance. “You shouldn’t wait. To go after your dreams.”

At that, Yoongi outright laughs into his glass, shakes his head as he swallows a mouthful down. “Dreams are overrated, Jungkook-ah. I used to dream about being a professional basketball player.”

Jungkook’s eyes are shining. “And then you dreamed to make music.”

“And look at me now,” Yoongi quips, voice thick with sarcasm. “Living the dream, and still miserable.”

The ice cubes in Jungkook’s glass clink together as he rolls it between his palms. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “So maybe it’s time to try a new one.”

Yoongi sighs. “I don’t have time. I work too much as it is.”

Jungkook deflates a little, but he’s got this look on his face like he’s trying to work out the answer to a difficult question: brow furrowed, lips pursed, eyes sweeping over the bar.

“Are you doing it all on your own?” he finally asks, and Yoongi just gives another shrug.

“I guess that was the plan. You’re only the– second person I’ve said the idea out loud to, so.”

There’s a pang behind Yoongi’s ribs as the words hang in the air, and Jungkook nods, and Yoongi knows. Knows that Jungkook gets it. Knows that Jungkook’s not touching it.

“I have this friend,” Jungkook says instead. “You two should meet. His name is Chan and he is an amazing producer, seriously– I mean, nobody is in the same league as you, of course. But. Maybe it would be easier, right? If you weren’t trying to do it all by yourself?”

Yoongi takes another slow sip of his drink before he answers. “I’ll think about it.”

He’s surprised that Jungkook doesn’t push it, that all he does is nod his head along to the music playing low over the speakers, letting them lapse back into a silence that is somehow, just– comfortable.

When they’ve both finished off their drinks, Yoongi gets to his feet. “Come on, my car’s at the office. I’ll drive you home.”

They’re walking the few blocks back, the city humming steadily around them, when out of nowhere, Jungkook’s voice cuts through the sound. “Can I tell you something?”

“Go ahead.”

He sucks in this big breath of air, and Yoongi has no idea what to expect. But then he starts to talk. “You know, when I was a kid. In school, and stuff. I was bullied. Like, really badly, actually. It got to the point where I was having panic attacks every morning, just at the thought of going to school. Having to deal with it all. It felt so impossible sometimes.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer, because it seems like Jungkook needs to get this all out, like his brake line’s been cut. So he lets him go and just listens, the two of them walking side by side.

“And for a while,” Jungkook continues, “It just made me, like. Pull away. From everybody, from everything. I stopped talking in class, stopped hanging out with my friends. Didn’t go to Taekwondo. I just thought it would be easier if I lived… the smallest life possible. Like if I didn’t do anything to draw attention to myself, then everyone could, I don’t know.” Yoongi looks over in time to see his shoulders shrug. “Forget about me, I guess.”

“And how did that go?” Yoongi asks, even though he’s starting to feel like he already knows the answer.

The laugh that Jungkook breathes out doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was so, so lonely, hyung.”

There’s a lump in Yoongi’s throat, and he doesn’t try to speak around it.

Jungkook’s voice comes back again, stuttering, like he’s unsure. “I-I just want you to know that you don’t have to be like that. Lonely. If you don’t want to be.”

And, yeah, Yoongi thinks to himself. That is, actually, exactly what he fucking is.

“Hyung?” Jungkook murmurs, and there’s this urgency in the way he says it that makes Yoongi glance at him again. His eyes are a little red. “If we– if I hadn’t, uh. Seen you. Would you have...”

He trails off, and it takes Yoongi a second to finish the sentence in his head, to remember where he was when Jungkook found him, white-knuckle gripping on the edge of it all. “No,” he answers firmly, maybe a little too quick. “No, I promise.”

Jungkook swallows, nods once. “But you were– thinking about it?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

I always am, Yoongi thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say that part out loud. Jungkook doesn’t need to carry that around with him.

There’s a long, heavy pause between them, punctuated by a soft sniff from Jungkook. Then he finally manages another question.

“Do you want to know what I do, sometimes? When it’s all just, like… too much?”

It takes Yoongi a few more paces before he realizes that Jungkook has stopped walking. When he stops to turn over his shoulder with a questioning hum, he sees Jungkook behind him, tipping his head back and letting out this big, primal shout.

“You’re drunk,” Yoongi says with a laugh.

“Try it! Just like a….” He does it again, fists balled up at his sides, and it’s almost triumphant this time, a victory cry.

Yoongi feels it all buzzing through him, his nerves open-wound raw. But he’s smiling.

And then he’s closing his eyes and shouting up to the sky: a messy, ugly sound, echoing in the warm night air. But it’s honest.

He opens his eyes, and Jungkook is beaming, proud, painted in the glow of a streetlight. “Feels good, huh?”

Yoongi nods, because it does.

~*~

It’s a few weeks later that Jungkook asks if Yoongi wants to take a walk after work, and he agrees. He’s started doing that more and more lately. Saying yes. Mostly to little things: office lunches and happy hours, team meetings. Boxing classes, which he actually liked a lot more than he expected.

And really, it’s not so bad, getting outside the four walls of his lab. It’s a good distraction, at least.

Yoongi finds it a little suspicious that Jungkook is walking so purposefully as he leads them down a few blocks. Even more so when their destination just so happens to be a park with a basketball court.

And when the dark-haired guy leaning up against a car in the parking lot starts walking toward them, a ball tucked under his arm, Yoongi scoffs.

“Oh, I see. This is an ambush.”

Jungkook hums a questioning note, like he has no idea what Yoongi’s talking about. “Hyung, this is my friend Chan. He’s a producer too, did I ever mention him to you?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but still catches the ball when it’s tossed his way. “You’re full of shit, JK.”

Chan’s only greeting is a nod of his head, and Yoongi returns it. They both seem to be waiting on him, and he hisses out a dry laugh.

“I’m not playing. Not for real. I’m too old.”

Chan lifts his hands, palms out, like he’s not trying to fight. “Whatever you want. It’s cool.”

Yoongi keeps the ball, though– lets it drop onto the asphalt a few times, getting used to the feel of it under his palms. Shakes his wrists out, rolls his shoulders back, all his stiff places cracking. It’s been a long time. He lazily tosses it up a few times, knees flexing, just trying to get his form right.

“Chan said he’d be down to help you work on your mixtape,” Jungkook finally admits. When Yoongi glances over, he’s rocking back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into the pockets of his work slacks, mouth drawn up tight.

“I don’t have a mixtape,” Yoongi mutters, words almost lost under the steady sound of the dribbling ball.

“But you could,” Chan offers, circling him, not unlike a shark. “Hyung, if you want to make music, you should make music.”

“I do make music.”

Chan laughs a little, makes a face as if to concede that Yoongi’s not wrong. “Yeah, but like. Music that’s for you, you know? It’s different. You’re not trying to keep another artist’s brand in mind, you’re just… speaking from the heart. Saying what you wanna say.”

Yoongi shrugs the suggestion off. “I don’t have time.”

At this, Chan seems to brighten a little. “So let us help. If you’ve got rough ideas of what you want, just send them over. I can polish them up, then we can fine-tune or rework parts as needed. I can help mix and master. I’ve taught Jungkook a little bit, too. He helps me with my guides a lot.”

“He really is good, hyung,” Jungkook says softly, lips still pursed like he’s nervous. “I sent you some of his stuff.”

He did. Yoongi’s listened to it, and he knows Jungkook’s right. He keeps his gaze fixed tight on the ball in his hands, watching it bounce as he dribbles aimlessly. His thoughts feel like they’re going a mile a minute.

“I’m not– I don’t want to waste your time.” Yoongi sighs as he lets himself get into it. “If we do all of that work, and I hate it, and I just want to scrap the whole thing. Or, or–” His chest starts to feel like it’s caving in, a little; he tries to breathe through it. “If we put it out there and nobody likes it. Or nobody cares. I can’t see why anyone would have interest in what I have to say, anyway.”

The ball thuds a heartbeat against the asphalt as Yoongi keeps going.

“‘Cause you know, who am I? Some producer? Some rich, out-of-touch, depressed asshole?” He shakes his head. “It’s just… probably not worth the hassle. I think some things are like that, you know. Better left as imagined ideals. Sometimes it’s better to just not try, ‘cause it’d be too painful to fuck it up. Reality is–”

“Hyung.”

Chan says the word forcefully enough that Yoongi glances up. Chan’s gaze is steely when their eyes meet, and Yoongi feels– a little ashamed, suddenly. Like maybe he’s overcomplicating this.

“Take the shot,” Chan directs, jutting his chin toward the net, and then Yoongi realizes that, yeah. He’s just been standing here dribbling all this time. Hasn’t even put it up once.

So he nods, drops the ball down one more time, then settles it between his palms. Brings it up, softens his knees. Gets out of his head, focuses on the thing in front of him, and for a few seconds, the rest of the world falls away. He sucks in a breath, and then he takes the shot.

It’s a pretty one, entirely silent, save for the swish of the net.

Chan’s voice comes back almost immediately, and Yoongi’s head jerks to take him in again. “Now in that moment– did you think about any of that shit?”

Yoongi’s mouth pulls flat, but it’s enough of an answer.

Chan’s already jogging up the court, retrieving the ball where it rolled to a stop against the perimeter fence. He keeps it tucked under his arm as he makes his way back, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his face as he steps in close to Yoongi.

“Sometimes, you just need to take the fucking shot.”

He passes the ball back, hard. Yoongi barely gets his hands on it before it knocks into his chest.

~*~

That Friday, in his studio, Yoongi tries not to think about it.

Jungkook is stretched out longways on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone; he’d hung around as the rest of the office emptied out, and then Chan showed up with a bottle of whiskey– motivation, he’d quipped– and a devious grin. He’s made himself at home in Yoongi’s desk chair, getting the bones of a track ready, expanding off an idea Yoongi had sent over earlier in the week, the night he’d actually agreed to this.

Why the fuck did he agree to this?

They’ve had a few drinks– well, Yoongi and Jungkook have– but it hasn’t quite managed to get him calm. He drains the last of what’s in his cup now, trying to go back over the lyrics in his head, even though he knows he knows them.

He’s had this song written for years, actually.

“Alright,” Chan’s voice breaks Yoongi’s concentration, punctuated by the sound of him drumming his palms against the desk. “Should be ready for you.”

Yoongi’s mind is still racing as he gets situated, pulling on the headphones he’s had slung around his neck. He feels the muscle in his jaw tighten as he glances over at Chan and nods once, and then the track starts up in his ears.

He steadies himself. Gets out of his head, focuses on the thing in front of him, and for a few seconds, the rest of the world falls away. He sucks in a breath, and then he steps up to the mic.

~*~

“Thank you,” Yoongi keeps his eyes fixed on the table, diligently pouring soju into his glass. “For agreeing to meet with me. I know it’s been a long time.”

Just like that, the days have somehow slipped away into months. A few months now that he’s– they’ve been steadily working on this– well, project. This mixtape. His mixtape.

And the thing is, Yoongi’s starting to think that he actually likes what’s coming out of all those late nights in his studio. It’s not perfect, and certainly not finished. But when he listens to the rough drafts they’ve compiled, shuts his eyes, lets the music open up those places inside of him he usually keeps locked down and closed up tight, it just feels different this time. It feels like he’s onto something.

He lets that be enough, for now. Tries not to worry too much about what comes next.

There’s a scoff from across the table. “Yeah, well. I think my agent was doing cartwheels after getting a call from the producer Suga to set up a business meeting.”

Yoongi glances up to see a knowing glint in Jimin’s eyes, his expression all too familiar.

“Of course,” Jimin continues casually, “it was obvious to me that you purposefully planned your schedule so that our visits to New York would overlap, because you wanted to chase down the one that got away. The person that you’ve been in love with all this time, never able to move on from, even after a decade apart.”

Jimin holds Yoongi’s gaze for the longest three seconds of his life, and then he can’t keep his laughter in any longer. He nearly falls off the bench seat. Yoongi’s mouth twitches at the corner, but he’s never been one for big outbursts, the way Jimin is. In some ways, he’s a little envious of that.

“Jesus, Park. How did you get worse since we were teenagers?”

“Hey,” Jimin holds up a finger as if to make a counter-argument, still giggling a little. “At least I keep my clothes on now. Mostly.”

Yoongi realizes he’s smiling despite himself. He hadn’t expected it to be this comfortable, that they could just pick up where they left off. But Jimin is like that, he remembers now. Easy to talk to. He sips down the liquid in his glass, then sets it on the table again.

“I thought it was time we got back in touch, is all. And I appreciated the ticket to your show.”

Jimin cards a hand through his hair, mouth pulled into a smirk. “Figured you should see how much better I’ve gotten in ten years.”

“Ah,” Yoongi waves his words away. “I always knew you’d be good. You were good back then, too, and your work ethic was…” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, considering. “Insane, really. I remember you were always the last one to go home, always practicing so much harder than everyone else.”

There’s a distant look in Jimin’s eyes as he stares down at his own empty glass, running a fingertip around the rim, before he reaches for the bottle to top them both up. “Do you remember what you used to tell me?”

Yoongi makes a soft, low noise, gaze suddenly locked on the table again. Because yeah, he does remember. And he thinks he knows where this is going.

“‘You don’t have to work this hard.’”

A breath of a laugh punches out of Yoongi when he glances up to find Jimin looking at him, like he can see right through him. “Are you quoting me or telling me?”

Jimin’s eyebrow lifts, barely discernible. He doesn’t blink. “Just thought maybe you needed to hear it, hyung.”

The way Jimin emphasizes the last word and stares pointedly at Yoongi makes him hot all over, enough that he shifts a little in his seat, clearing his throat. He reaches for a skewered fishcake, if only for the distraction, then finally hums another wordless answer.

“I’d actually say my life improved drastically when I decided to stop making everything so hard all the time. Because it really doesn’t have to be.” Jimin flicks his bangs out of his eyes, like he’s satisfied with his own wisdom.

Yoongi’s fist smacks against the table, and as he fires back, he can hear the tone to his voice that only Jimin seems to be able to pull out of him– the other trainees used to say they fought like a married couple. “You are really just attacking me right now, huh, Jimin-ah? Like no time has passed?”

“Aish, it’s not an attack! Both of you! You and her, you’re so alike!” Jimin huffs, frustrated, his voice knife-edge sharp. The words hit Yoongi right in the center of his chest. “Taking everything so personally! And running circles around each other, for no reason. When it could all be easy if you let it.”

Fuck. Yoongi throws back the liquid in his glass, fills it up again, takes that one too. Breathes in deep as the rush of warmth pours into him. “I– she– that’s not actually what I wanted to talk about. Just so you know.”

His voice comes out low, a little uneven, and Jimin goes just as quiet. His gaze has softened when Yoongi finds it again, but Jimin doesn’t say anything. He folds his hands over each other on the table, almost like he’s waiting for Yoongi to continue.

A bolt of nerves travels up Yoongi’s spine. It’s a question he has to ask.

“But how is she?”

The corner of Jimin’s mouth just barely ticks up. “She’s good, hyung. Really good. I promise. She’s been… working on herself.”

Relief floods through Yoongi, and he leans back in his seat, exhaling a long stream of air. He reaches to pour himself another drink, and Jimin’s still quiet, like he’s letting Yoongi work out whatever he needs to work out.

“Did you know she called me?”

A flicker of surprise flashes over Jimin’s face as he takes the bottle back from Yoongi. “I didn’t.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if she’d remember.” Yoongi’s chest is already tightening at the memory of that call, that night. “She was really drunk and, I don’t know. I picked up, but I think she thought it was a voicemail.” It’s all coming up now, undeniable, overwhelming, and he stares at Jimin across the table from him and just– says it.

“She, uh. Said she loved me.”

Jimin sucks a fishcake into his mouth, like it’s the least surprising thing in the world. “That makes two of you,” he says plainly, mouth full.

The words knock Yoongi off balance, and he blinks. “She– told you. About, uh. Me. That.”

“Of course she did.” Jimin chews, eyes narrowing, like he’s observing Yoongi carefully. “It really fucked her up, hyung. Everything that happened.”

“I know,” Yoongi answers. “It messed me up, too. In ways I’m still figuring out.”

Jimin nods, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek. “I guessed as much.” There’s a pause, and then he sighs. “Look, do you want my advice?”

All at once, Yoongi isn’t sure he’s ready for it. It’s too real and too much and he doesn’t think he’s had enough soju for any of this. He stutters for a second, then finally lands on, “I-I don’t know. Let’s just eat. Then, after. Maybe.”

Jimin makes a face as if to say, suit yourself.

Yoongi’s gaze sweeps over the table. “I’m working on an album, you know. Getting close to done now.”

“For who?”

“Uh, for me.” He swallows hard. “My first mixtape, I guess.”

Jimin’s eyes go wide, a smile playing at his lips, like he can’t quite believe it. “Wow, look at you. Finally doing it. Is it rap? Pop?”

“Some of both,” Yoongi shrugs, still uncomfortable with the attention. “Mostly rap, yeah.” He busies himself with eating as Jimin sips at his soju, and then a memory bubbles up. “Do you still rap?”

Jimin nearly spits his drink out. “Shut the fuck up,” he manages to cough, and Yoongi’s laughing too.

“I’m serious! It’s a real question!”

“Hyung,” Jimin groans. “I haven’t rapped in a decade. Please don’t remind me that I ever did.”

“Ahh, I always thought you were good!” It’s not not teasing. “You were!”

Yoongi’s still smiling at the picture of Jimin he can see so clearly in his mind: a decade younger, cheeks still full of baby fat, always with this put-on sneer, like he’d be quick to swing if you looked at him funny.

“I was such a try-hard back then,” Jimin mutters, and well, Yoongi can’t disagree with that. “Thought I had to be so tough.”

“You were cute,” Yoongi coos, and Jimin’s head hits the table with an audible thud. “Seems like you’ve grown into yourself, though. Like I’m not about to find you crying outside the bathroom anymore.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“How could I forget?”

It was the first time he’d ever really seen Jimin break down, exhausted from the stress of it all, the demanding hours, and mostly the pressure he put on himself. Yoongi had found him like that: thick-framed dark glasses, swoop of an overgrown bowl cut casting a shadow over his tear-streaked face, balled-up fists smudging at the corners of his eyes.

Yoongi is having a hard time reconciling that Jimin of his past with the one sitting in front of him. “You’ve changed so much,” he says against the rim of his glass, and Jimin just shrugs as he straightens himself back out again.

“Everyone changes, hyung.”

Jimin says it so easily. It makes Yoongi wonder how he’s changed, too.

It takes him by surprise when Jimin continues the thread of that memory. “I was going to quit that night. I really was. I was so, so tired. So worn out.” He pauses, staring at a point over Yoongi’s shoulder, then laughs softly, like something’s just come back to him. “And then you sat down next to me, didn’t even look at me, and asked: ‘Do you like fried chicken?’”

“Oh,” Yoongi murmurs. “That’s right.”

The rest of it plays out in his mind as Jimin recounts that night, so many years ago now. He’d led Jimin down the street to a hole in the wall place; it was all either of them could afford at the time. They’d had to split the free soda, watering their halves down to make it enough for both of them.

“You didn’t say a word to me the whole time. We just ate and then walked back home, and the next day you acted like nothing had even happened.”

Yoongi nods. That much hasn’t changed; he’s never been good with his words. Not when it matters.

“But it always stuck with me. That you did that for me when you didn’t have to.”

There’s a long pause, because Yoongi doesn’t know what to do with that comment. It almost feels incongruent, trying to line it up next to the idea he has of himself in his mind. Like the two can’t coexist. “You seem a lot happier now,” he finally admits, and Jimin’s eyes draw up in a slight smile.

“I think I am,” he says with a nod, reaching to drain the last of the bottle of soju into his glass. Yoongi busies himself with cracking the lid of another. “And actually, I think it’s because I stopped mistaking emotion for weakness. You know? Life is… hard enough, without trying to fight everything I feel.”

And, well. That resonates, more than he’d like it to.

Yoongi grimaces as he pours his own drink. “There’s a lot I could learn from you, huh?”

“I’m wise as shit,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious. Their eyes meet over the rims of their glasses, and as soon as he swallows, Jimin keeps going. “So you tell me, why did we stop talking?”

Yoongi clicks his tongue, because he doesn’t have a good answer, except that that’s just the way he gets. How he operates. With everyone. “‘Cause we both gave up on our dreams?” he tries instead, but Jimin just shakes his head.

“Ah, we were kids. We didn’t even know what we wanted, not really. And dreams change. It’s not a failure.”

It’s not like Jimin’s said anything that intense– Yoongi doesn’t know why, all of a sudden, it’s like his chest is caving in. He clears his throat, rolls his shoulders back. Can’t quite look up to meet Jimin’s eyes, so he delivers the offer to his glass of soju instead. “Well, if you ever want to try it again. Rapping. I have this track that I think you’d be good on.”

“On your mixtape?” When he looks up, Jimin’s eyebrows are nearly at his hairline. “Hyung, that’s… like, a big fucking deal.”

“You don’t have to. Just putting it on the table.”

“This hyung,” Jimin mutters under his breath, and then he’s swallowing down his soju, like he needs it for strength. “I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this, but. Send it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Yoongi feels himself smile, really smile, big and broad. “Like you could ever say no to me.”

It’s somehow nearly two hours later by the time they stumble out of the restaurant, faces flushed from drinking, Jimin laughing hard enough that he can barely keep his feet under him as he breathlessly recalls the way Yoongi used to shove safety pins in the front of his beanies because he thought it made him look cooler. Yoongi’s got his arm slung around Jimin’s shoulders, half-holding him up, Manhattan blink-blinking around them, and he realizes: he’s missed this. Just having somebody who knows him like this.

“Thanks again, for meeting up,” Yoongi mumbles, trying to unwrap himself from around Jimin, but before he can even manage it Jimin’s got both arms slung over his neck and is pulling him in for a real, proper hug, one palm smacking ruthlessly over the bend of Yoongi’s spine.

“Don’t make it ten years before I see you again, you fucker.” Jimin’s words run together, like his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and Yoongi’s laughing when he finally extricates himself.

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t. Get some sleep.”

With a final smirk, Jimin starts off down the street, and in the split second before Yoongi turns to go his own way, he watches him pivot on his heel, like he’s thought of one more thing. He’s walking backwards now, hands in his pockets as he stares Yoongi down.

“Hyung!”

Yoongi raises his eyebrows, hums a little, and the corner of Jimin’s mouth tugs up.

“Stop making things hard! That’s my advice.”

Yoongi already knows exactly what Jimin means, but he clarifies himself anyway, the little shit.

“Call her! It’s still early in California!”

“Goodnight, Jimin-ah!” Yoongi shouts in return, like he’s done discussing it, and the last thing he sees before he turns away is Jimin’s head thrown back, laughing up to the starless sky.

Before he even makes a conscious decision to do it, Yoongi finds himself walking the blocks between the restaurant and his hotel, long stretches of avenues, and he lets the white noise of the city streets buzz like static in his ears. New York is full of people, and he’s paying more attention to them now than he usually would. Standing outside of bars, hurrying down the street in the opposite direction, whizzing past on bicycles. Smoking, making phone calls, waving down cabs.

It’s like something unlocks in his brain, a key finally turning in a stubborn door. Good person, bad person. It’s all kind of… bullshit. All these people around him, they’ve all been hurt, and they’ve all hurt someone despite their best attempts. He knows it’s a banal fucking observation, and maybe it’s the soju talking, but somehow the thought has never quite hit him like this before. That people are just people. Trying and fucking up and trying again.

Everyone changes, hyung.

And yeah, maybe he’s changed too, in little ways. Maybe he still is.

Back at his hotel, Yoongi presses his keycard to the door, toes his shoes off in the entryway, and collapses down on the bed, phone in hand. He swipes to pull up his contacts, sees that familiar name, and feels everything swirl up inside of him all over again.

There’s so much he wants to say. And he’s so tired of not saying it.

He presses the Call button and breathes it all out as the line starts to ring.

~*~

It’s been a truly fucking terrible workday. Maybe not the all-time worst– you didn’t accidentally wipe an entire recording session’s worth of files, or not-accidentally fuck your nemesis in his studio– but it’s certainly up there.

The morning had started with an artist’s entire management team giving you grief for supposedly fucking up the studio scheduling, until you’d physically turned your computer screen around to show them that they had, in fact, booked time on the wrong day. It wasn’t even an hour later that you’d gotten a call about last-minute T&E costs that finance had forgotten to reconcile, which meant you had to work straight through your lunch hour to re-run all the quarterly reporting so the numbers wouldn’t be wrong. And just as you’d started packing up to leave for the day, an urgent call had come in from someone on the executive board, letting you know they wanted to “go in another direction” for tomorrow’s all-hands, and surely it wouldn’t take you too long to redo the ninety-minute presentation, right?

When you finally cross the threshold of your apartment, it feels like a miracle. You heave a sigh of relief, letting the door slam behind you a little harder than necessary, just to take the edge off.

“There she is!” Your roommate’s voice echoes down the hallway as you hang your keys on the hook and reach down to pull your heels off. “I thought you were done with your workaholic phase.”

“Yeah, well, the executives have no idea what they fucking want,” you mutter, and the words have hardly left your mouth when you feel your purse vibrate as your phone starts to ring. You’re positive it’s another one of them now, probably calling to ask about something that you’ve already clearly explained in an email sitting unread in their inbox.

Nearly toppling over as you shift your weight to pry your other shoe off, you drop your bag down onto the couch with an exasperated groan, then reach in to fish your phone out, anticipating the worst.

You take in the name staring back at you, and your heart instantly drops into the pit of your stomach.

The world tilts as your pulse starts to race, and all at once you lose your grip, like your brain is short-circuiting. Your phone slides out of your hand, clattering onto the floor beneath your feet, the impact enough to send it skidding right under the couch.

“Motherfucker,” you breathe.

You crouch down, hands and knees to the hardwood, and wriggle yourself halfway under the couch to retrieve it. The damn thing keeps buzz-buzz-buzzing, noise amplified by the floor beneath it until it feels deafening.

Distantly, you’re aware of the shuffle of Tiffany’s slippers.

“What’s up, buttercup?” she asks, voice drawing closer, and then she must turn the corner into the living room because her follow-up is much more direct: “What the hell are you doing?”

Just as you manage to close your grip around your phone, the ringing stops. Dread floods through you as you slowly drag it out, then turn over to sit right there on the floor, your back against the couch. You glance up at Tiffany, and even with a Hello Kitty sheet mask obscuring most of her expression, you can still see her eyebrows quirk up as something clicks into place.

“Oh no,” she breathes. “I know that face. You were making that face when I found you in the bathroom at the Jello shot party.”

“We agreed not to talk about the Jello shot party–”

“The point is!” she interjects, raising her voice to drown yours out. “That is your Yoongi face! Which means I need you to tell me right now: did he just fucking call you?!”

For a second, you can only nod dumbly up at her, and the words come out thin and reedy when you finally manage to say them. “Yeah. He did.” Tiffany drops down onto the floor next to you as you pull your knees into your chest. “What do I do?”

Her tone immediately softens. “What do you wanna do, baby? No wrong answers.”

You stare blankly at the dark screen of your phone, still clutched tight in your hand. It feels like staring into the depths of a black hole. “I have… no idea. I genuinely don’t know.”

“Okay,” she tries again. “Let’s start simpler. How are you feeling, right now, in this moment?”

With a steadying inhale, you let your eyes drop shut and try to find the answer. After all this time, and after a long, exhausting day, seeing Yoongi’s name flash up on your screen– it takes you back to months ago, when you were bordering blackout in the bathroom of this very house. The way everything rushed up inside you, a feeling so big you thought it might swallow you whole if you didn’t get it out.

“I think I’m… angry, Tiff. Like really, really fucking pissed off, actually.”

Her acrylics scritch gently at the back of your head, the sensation enough to bring you back to reality again. A muscle in your jaw tightens as you blink your eyes open.

“I think that makes perfect sense,” Tiffany says, nodding decisively. “I’d be hella angry too.”

A noise flutters out of you, halfway between a groan and a laugh. “Is it unhealed of me to want to call him back so I can just, like, fucking scream at him?”

Her head tilts, considering. “Um… it’s not super healed. But!” She raises a perfectly manicured nail for emphasis. “This does present an opportunity, if you want one, to share those feelings with him in a slightly more emotionally intelligent way. If you think it might help?”

Panic snakes up your spine; it’s an overwhelming idea. “Ugh, I don’t know. Like, I’m not– I don’t feel like I have to have closure from him, or even an apology.” Another self-pitying laugh. “I gave up on that dream after the fucking Jello shot party.”

“He never called you back, right?”

The memory is like a punch to the chest. You shake your head slowly. “Nothing.”

“Typical Pisces behavior.”

You sigh. “But at the same time, if we assume this wasn’t a butt dial, and that he for whatever fucking reason has suddenly decided to be open to conversation. Maybe it could be, I guess… cathartic? To hear what he has to say? And to communicate, like a calm, mature, rational adult who has had seven therapy sessions, that I’m still fucking pissed off and kind of want to kill him.”

Tiffany’s head tips back as she barks a laugh, aggressive enough that she has to reach up with both hands to keep her sheet mask in place. “You know what? I actually love that for you.”

Your pulse has already started to kick up at the thought. “Really? You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

She shrugs. “I meant it when I said no wrong answers! The way I see it, if he pulls some asshole shit, you can officially block him and be done with it, knowing that you tried your best and that he’s gonna be his own worst enemy for probably at least another decade of his life. And then we can go get milkshakes or something.”

“Oh my god, In-N-Out actually sounds so good right now,” you murmur. “I worked through lunch.”

Tiffany gestures down the hall in the direction of your bedroom, as if to remind you of the task at hand. “Survive the phone call first! Go forth, girlie. Give him a piece of your mind!”

With a groan, you drag yourself to your feet, giving her a cursory glance over your shoulder. “Thanks, Tiff.”

“Love you, mean it!”

It’s only once you’ve closed the door behind you and dropped down onto the bed that it really sinks in. The gravity of this decision, the potential for everything to go horribly wrong all over again. All the memories spiraling up of moments you’d rather forget.

But it wasn’t all bad, either. That’s the hardest part.

You’ve never figured out exactly what to do with it. How to extinguish that glimmer, a pair of eyes in the dark that know you too well, that almost-something feeling. Or if you even want to.

As you wake the screen of your phone, you take in one long slow inhale. Min Yoongi’s name stares back at you. Thumb hovering over the Return Call button, you summon all the courage you can muster. Then you tap the screen and press the phone to your ear.

The line rings once, twice, a third time, but it feels like it’s happening too fast. Like there’s nowhere near enough time for you to collect yourself, remember to keep breathing, figure out what you want to say or what the fuck you’re even doing–

“Hello?”

Yoongi’s voice is– unmistakable. Smoke and gravel. It couldn’t be anyone else.

It takes you a second just to manage a response.

“Hi, Yoongi.” You try to keep your voice firm, even, try to hide how breathless you feel at the sound of him.

“Hey, uh. I hope it’s okay that I called you.”

You genuinely don’t know the answer to that, but you already feel yourself bristling, an instinctive defensiveness rising up faster than you can reign it in. “Can’t say I was expecting it,” you mutter, and you can hear the harsh edge in your voice.

“Right, yeah,” Yoongi answers, pausing to clear his throat before he continues. “I know it’s sudden. And also months overdue, I guess.”

There’s a heavy pause, and it hits you all at once– how much you don’t want to talk about it. That night, that drunk phone call, the embarrassing voicemail you left and couldn’t figure out how to delete. Your memories of that night are hazy at best, in part because you’ve tried not to think about it since, but you remember enough of your alcohol-soaked confession that a rush of shame heats up your face at the reminder of it.

Thankfully, Yoongi speaks again. “I saw Jimin tonight.”

It’s enough to snap you out of your own thoughts. Your eyes widen. “Really?”

He hums an affirming sound. “I’m in New York this week, and our schedules ended up overlapping here. So I got in touch to see if we could meet.” You double-blink, equally shocked by the notion of Yoongi reaching out to anyone. “He got me a ticket to his show, too. Madison Square Garden. He’s really doing it.”

The thought of your best friend performing to a sold-out arena, living his dream– it makes something draw up tight in your chest. “I miss him,” you breathe, before you can even consider if you should say it.

“I think I did too,” Yoongi answers. “More than I even realized.” He hisses out a half-laugh before continuing. “I feel like he has life so… figured out. At least, compared to me.”

The corner of your mouth just barely tugs up, because you know that feeling well.

“And we talked about a lot tonight, and it got me thinking. That there’s some things I’d like to say to you, if you’re open to hearing them.”

A weight drops into the pit of your stomach, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to get your hopes up. The tension in your throat makes your voice come out thin. “I called you back, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Another flash of anger flares up inside of you, knowing he can’t say the same. You spit out the words, acid-laced. “Just say what you want to say, Yoongi.”

“Right, okay.” The line goes quiet for a second, and it’s punctuated with a faint exhale, like he’s breathing out nervous energy. “Sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be,” he murmurs, but he keeps going before you can get another snide remark in. “I guess the main thing I keep thinking is that you were right. About… everything you said to me, really. Before you left.”

It takes a second for the reality of it to hit. That you’re actually hearing these words, even if they are months too late.

“I think at some point in my life, I got it in my head that I was a bad person: selfish, depressed, an asshole. Whatever you want to call it. And I think I used it as an excuse to, well. Act like an asshole. Hurt people, push them away– all the stuff I did to you. Because that’s what a bad person would do. And that’s what I told myself I was.”

Phone clutched tight to your ear, you turn over onto your side. When you blink your eyes open, your gaze finds the window and the sky beyond it, colored blush from the last fading rays of sunset, bleeding out to hues of dusk, violet-gray and deep blue.

That anger is still there, a hot coal glow in your stomach. But it’s muted now, like words muttered softly in another room, shapes you can’t quite make out. All at once, it doesn’t feel so important. Not with the things Yoongi is saying.

It’s enough to sweep the floor out from under you; suddenly, you’re in water too deep to touch the bottom of. Enough to drown in, if you’re not careful.

Yoongi’s voice pulls you up out of it. “But then, this person comes along who sees me at my absolute worst. And for some godforsaken reason, one that I will probably never understand, she keeps coming back anyway. Like she sees something worthwhile, where all I see is self-loathing. She doesn’t get scared when I tell her how I feel, how I really feel, even when it’s not fucking pretty. Or when I get reckless and stupid. If anything, it’s like she just… gets it. In this way where I don’t have to explain. Maybe she’s like that, too, in her own way.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Because it felt the same for you, too. All of it. This terrifyingly perfect fit.

He huffs a dark, self-conscious laugh before he continues. “It made me fucking spiral, if I’m honest. Because it meant one of two things. Either that I was liable to seriously fuck up a good person with my own shit. Or, that I had been wrong about myself, all this time. Which, you know. That’s my whole sense of self just… gone. And I had no idea how to handle that.”

I didn’t either, you can’t help but think, and then the firm line of your mouth starts to tremble.

“So I panicked. And I did what I always do.”

There’s a lump in your throat, one you can’t swallow down or speak around. You thread an arm around your stomach, as if to physically hold yourself together.

Yoongi’s voice softens into something else, low and thick, a little hoarse. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m– really fucking sorry.”

And just like that, your resolve crumbles, like a sandcastle to a tidal wave.

“I know I’m saying it way too late. And this isn’t– I’m not expecting or asking anything of you. Forgiveness, or anything. Honestly, I’m not even sure that I deserve it. But when I saw Jimin tonight, and talked with him, and saw how much he’s changed, I don’t know. It made me realize that I’ve just been– stuck. For a long time. On a lot of bullshit that wasn’t even true.”

With a slow exhale, you try to listen, your eyes flitting around the room as he speaks. The sky has settled to blue-black now; the night breeze fluttering in through the open window is warm; you can faintly smell your fabric softener on the bedspread, sweet and floral.

You breathe it in as Yoongi keeps talking.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you. That I couldn’t get my shit together enough to even talk about it. That I made it all so complicated when it could’ve been easy. I don’t know if me saying this is worth anything to you now, but. I just wanted to say it anyway.”

When Yoongi falls silent, it occurs to you that he’s probably waiting on you to respond; it’s a struggle to find any words at all.

“I, um–” You have to reach a thumb up to swipe at a tear that threatens to streak down your face. “Sorry. Just… a lot to process. But I appreciate you being honest.”

He lets another pause linger before his voice comes back. “Jimin said you’re doing well, so. I hope that’s true. ‘Cause I don’t want you to hate yourself the way I did. You deserve to be happy. And I hope you’ve found that in LA.”

The sentiment retrieves a buried memory: Yoongi’s hand brushing yours at a going away party. The way he looked at you, how it felt for a moment like you were the only two people in the crowded, noisy break room. And the last thing he said before you ran right out of his life: I just want you to be happy.

You sniff. “Can I tell you something?”

Yoongi hums his answer, and you slowly sit up, lifting a hand to scrub at your face.

“The day after I– um. Called you. I think Tiffany could tell I wasn’t doing well, so she convinced us all to go for a drive up the coast. Said we’d walk along the beach, just make a day of it.”

The memory is so clear in your mind: the day had been oddly overcast for Los Angeles, and just a little too cold for swimming, but Tiffany had managed to talk your group into it nonetheless.

Matthew had rolled down the windows in his Jeep once you hit the PCH, and you remember the rush of cool air on your face, the way it soothed the dull hungover ache in your head and the emotions swirling in your chest. The wind whipping through Tiffany’s long black hair, the smell of salt rolling in off the ocean.

Vernon had gone quiet next to you in the backseat, dark sunglasses pulled down over his eyes, for long enough that everyone just assumed he was asleep, until an hour in he’d suddenly broken a stretch of silence to ask if Matthew could put on Charli XCX. Tiffany had been so startled that she’d screamed, and Matthew had nearly driven the car right off the road, he was laughing so hard.

“At some point,” you continue, “we pulled off at an overlook, where there were these steep cliffs, with the shore and the ocean way down below them. And everyone got out to see the view, and. I don’t know. I remember standing right there at the edge, and looking down, and thinking to myself. I could just… take another step. Go right over.”

All the way down, where the waves were cresting over the jagged edge of the coast. Where it could all finally be done.

The words are hard to shape, harder to say. “I didn’t even feel scared. I didn’t feel anything. A part of me wanted to do it, just because. It would be better than the… gray. The nothing. I was so exhausted of the nothing.”

You can’t keep the emotion out of your voice, not anymore, not with a truth this raw. It’s pulling apart now, splintering around the admission.

“That scared me so much, Yoongi. I’ve had highs and lows, but I had never really felt anything like that before. And when we got back in the car I just… broke down. I told them everything. I was so afraid to say it, thinking I was gonna fuck up these friendships.”

But that hadn’t happened.

Instead, Tiffany had crawled into the backseat, hugged you so tight you could scarcely breathe, then pulled away with her eyes wet and shining and murmured, “You don’t have to do this alone, okay?” Vernon had been the first one to gently bring up the subject of therapy, had texted you the links to a couple different websites to search for a provider. After a tedious month of waiting lists and insurance woes, Matthew had driven you to your first session, cranked up ‘All I Do is Win’ on his stereo when you’d walked out of the building ninety minutes later, face puffy from crying. First step taken.

They’d all shown up, in different ways.

“I had never thought of it like that before. Until I felt it. Wanting to push people away so they don’t see all the dark shit. Like you’re a liability.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi’s words sound a little stilted on the other end of the line. “That’s– yeah.”

“But they didn’t leave. They helped me. Got me into therapy.” The breath of a teary laugh slips out. “Turns out, I’m really fucked up over my dad dying. And even stuff from before that.”

“Trauma,” Yoongi murmurs softly, and something sticks in your throat. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is, actually.” You smudge the back of your hand over your mouth, heaving a sigh against your skin. “I don’t know. It’s only been two months, so. I don’t have all the answers or anything. Jimin is maybe overselling it, but. I’m trying.”

“Better than me. I don’t have a therapist. Unless you count Jungkook.”

It’s so unexpected, you’re laughing before you can stop yourself, and the feeling washes through you like relief. Like a balm for all the ache in your chest, for all the fracture-lines threatening to crack right open.

“If Baby Goth pulled all of that insight out of your emotionally constipated ass, you should be paying him,” you deadpan, and Yoongi really laughs, too.

“It’s– not exactly like that. But he’s somehow talked me into working on music, and when I’m writing, that’s when I really… Take everything apart and look at it. See it for what it is. But he puts up with a lot.” He huffs another low note, amused. “Probably should pay him.”

You can’t bite back your curiosity. “When you say music, like–”

“A mixtape. My mixtape, yeah.”

You turn onto your stomach, propping up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Wow, Yoongi, that’s–”

“Ah, let’s just–” he interjects, and the tone of his voice is so familiar that it’s like you can see the expression on his face. One hand to the back of his neck, brow pinched with discomfort. Like he immediately regrets bringing it up. “It might not happen; it’s not a definite, so. I’m trying not to put too much stock in it. If I actually see it all the way through, then you can congratulate me. Right now it’s just me screwing around, wasting time.”

“Okay,” you answer. “Well. I hope I get to hear it. Someday.”

“We’ll see,” Yoongi says softly.

You decide to let it be enough.

~*~

It’s a couple weeks later that your phone starts to buzz on the kitchen counter while you’re halfway through cubing a block of tofu.

The last time you’d spoken to him, Yoongi had extended an offer, and you had agreed to it: that he’d call you when he could, and that you were welcome to do the same. Neither of you had used the word, but it felt suspiciously like a proposal of friendship.

Which is… you’re not sure how to feel about it.

You haven’t managed to convince yourself to call him yet; in fact, the words of the previous conversation are still whirling around in your brain, not having quite settled in as reality.

But when his name lights up on your phone, you maneuver a free pinky finger to accept the call and put it on speakerphone.

“Hi, Yoongi.” It’s still weird to say that, too.

“Hey– bad time?”

“No, no, you’re good,” you murmur, trying to speak up to be heard as you slide the tofu off your cutting board into the pot on the stovetop, careful not to splash. “I just, uh. Got home from therapy, actually. So I’m a little drained.”

“Sounds like maybe it’s a bad time, then.”

“I’m serious,” you reiterate, wiping your hands on the kitchen towel so you can properly pick your phone up, turn off the speakerphone, and cradle it to your ear. “I would tell you if it was. Or, you know. I wouldn’t have picked up. Coulda sent your ass to voicemail.”

He hums, like he’s considering the argument. “Therapy was… tough?”

Your hip nudges against the kitchen counter. “Um, not the worst it’s ever been. I don’t know. Just talking about family stuff can be a lot. Heavy. Made me miss home.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

“Do you visit Daegu much?” It’s funny, all the things you still don’t know. Never had a chance to ask.

Yoongi sucks in a breath. “No. I should. It’s been years; my parents are getting older. I always say I’m too busy with work. But maybe I could take some time off.”

“It’s hard sometimes,” you murmur. “Home is weird.” Yoongi doesn’t say anything, so you turn back to face your simmering dinner. “I miss it, and also I don’t, so. I’m making soup about my complicated trauma feelings. This is what my wild nights in Los Angeles look like.”

The soft tones of Yoongi’s laugh filter through the phone, and it’s like you can see his shoulders shaking with it. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“That’s because I don’t,” you confirm. “Not historically. But, you know. Maybe I am becoming someone who does.”

“Cooking’s nice,” Yoongi muses. “Relaxing.”

And, oh. For just a second, you’re standing in a borrowed t-shirt, in a kitchen that isn’t yours, imagining a future that never came to be. Your breath sticks at the memory. That morning, the night before it, Yoongi’s hands on your body, his mouth finding yours under the spray of the shower, and the way it all felt so–

“Right.” Yoongi’s voice stops you before you can spiral any further. “I actually, uh. Wanted to get your opinion on something. If you’ve got a second.”

It’s a little hard to talk, but you clear your throat and try. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

He pauses, and there’s a shifting sound, chased by the faint click of a mouse in the background. You don’t know why it didn’t occur to you that he was probably calling you from his studio, given it’s midday in Seoul.

“I have…” Yoongi finally speaks, his voice deep on the other end of the line. “Been assigned a deadline, by which I need to stop dicking around and actually finalize my tracklist. For the– you know.”

“Mixtape,” you offer, and you don’t miss his disgruntled grumble of a response, even though it’s muffled, like he’s breathed it into the back of his hand.

“I’m stuck on this song. Whether to keep it or not. Can I send it to you?”

The question catches you off-guard. “Uh, yeah. Yes, okay. Will be glad to share my opinions as a professional music industry fraud.”

Yoongi scoffs a little, underscored by the muted clacking of his keyboard. “I’m emailing it to you.”

“And will you kill me if I play it right now?” you ask, pulling the phone away to flip the speaker back on.

“Nah,” he answers, and you can hear him groan softly, like he’s rolling out sore muscles in his desk chair. “I’ve already heard it a hundred times, what’s one more?”

“Fair enough,” you respond as the file appears in your inbox, and you pull it up and click play.

It’s clearly a demo, the production far from polished, but it’s still impressive. Yoongi’s flow is rapid-fire, his voice proud and dynamic– and, it occurs to you as the chorus hits, familiar. Everything about the artist on this track sounds exactly like the Min Yoongi you encountered on your first day of work. Unapologetic, pissed off, and maybe a little bit of an asshole.

“Wow,” you murmur as the final chorus repeats and fades out. “It’s good, really good. So different from your producer stuff.”

“Honestly, I think I hate it.”

“Well, you’re an idiot,” you retort automatically, smirking to yourself as you turn the heat down on the stove, then reach to take your phone off speaker again. You tuck it back up to your ear. “Why do you hate it?”

“That’s the thing,” Yoongi sighs, voice heavy with frustration. “I can’t figure out why. I just feel this disconnect.”

“I mean, the line about winning a Grammy is a little painful,” you admit, and he hums a note of agreement.

“That too. Obviously I wrote this a while ago. Before.” Emotion-soaked memories lick at the edges of your mind, and you will them away, trying to focus. “And now, I don’t know, it’s just…” he trails off, unable to finish the thought.

“It’s not you anymore,” you offer, and Yoongi exhales.

It takes you a second to realize it’s the breath of a laugh. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just. You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

There’s an extra beat of silence, like he’s hesitating. “I don’t know. Knowing me, I guess.”

It’s an overwhelming thing to hear, but Yoongi just keeps going.

“It’s not, no. When I listen to it I’m like, who is this kid? And why is he so angry?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the wry smile in his voice. “I mean,” you start. “Okay, I’ve actually talked this to death in therapy. You felt that anger at one point. It’s not wrong, just because you don’t feel it anymore. Like, I was really angry at a lot of things, for a really long time. Including you.”

“Yeah?” You can hear the surprise in Yoongi’s question, the way his voice eases up.

“Yeah. Still am, sometimes.”

Another pause. “You can, you know. Be angry with me.”

Your hip thuds hard against the counter, like your knees are considering giving out all together. You can’t help but wonder when Min Yoongi is going to stop surprising you, if he ever will.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Noted. And you can be angry on this song. Like, it’s not a bad thing.”

Yoongi makes a low noise, like he’s still not convinced. “I just sound like such a… try-hard.” It makes you wonder if he’s in one of those moods tonight, where every answer is the wrong one.

But he called you, didn’t he?

“Well,” you try, “is that really so bad, either? Music is by nature kind of a time capsule, right? Look at TXT. They’re not the absolute babies that they were when they did Cat & Dog–”

“That fucking song–”

“But,” you continue, unbothered. “It doesn’t mean it’s not still the greatest song that’s ever been written.”

“Christ,” Yoongi grumbles. “Why am I getting my advice from you?”

“We already covered that you’re an idiot,” you remind him, cradling the phone to your cheek as you turn to pop the lid of your rice cooker open. “All I’m saying is, I know firsthand that there are a lot of different versions of Min Yoongi. And this is only one of them, so. Maybe you just need some songs that showcase the others, too. Find a balance.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, like he’s considering this.

“‘Cause yeah,” you say, not quite able to hold in a giggle. “If your entire album was like this song, I’d be like, wow. This guy’s a real asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, like his jaw’s set firm. “Noted.”

~*~

“If I’m calling too often, you don’t have to pick up every time.”

You have to bite back your smile, doing your best to keep an office-appropriate expression as you click the button on your headset to turn up the volume of Yoongi’s voice.

“Workaholic producer doesn’t know what to do with himself with a whole week of freedom, huh?” you murmur, teasing, before turning back to your long list of scheduling requests.

Yoongi grunts an indignant sound. “I’m doing things.”

“Like sleeping?”

“Not as much as I’d like. My dog hogs the fucking bed.”

The mental image is enough to send a flutter of laughter through you: Yoongi relegated to the edge of the mattress, while a brown toy poodle– one whom you’ve received approximately 700 pictures of in the last seven days– sprawls comfortably in the middle.

“How is Daegu?”

It’s quiet on the other end of the line, save the chirp of early morning birds. A new picture replaces the old one: Yoongi pacing the back deck of his parents’ home, soaking up one of the last warm-weather days before autumn sets in. Barefoot, mug of coffee in hand, face still puffy from sleep.

With a hard swallow, you force yourself to refocus on work.

“It’s good,” Yoongi finally answers. “My last day here, so. I’ll cook them something before I go. Gotta finish up that woodworking thing for my dad.” He makes a soft, low groan, like he’s stretching himself out, or still waking up. It sends a shiver through you that you wish you could ignore.

“Are you glad you went?” you ask instead.

He hums, as if he’s mulling it over. “I think so. Brought up some stuff, but. It’s been good, too. Weird to think about it all. What’s changed. What hasn’t.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Just being with my family, my brother. Driving around streets that I know like the back of my hand. And there’s memories everywhere. That bus stop, where I didn’t have enough money but the driver let me on anyway because he felt bad for me. This restaurant, where I had a panic attack in the bathroom after I broke up with my first girlfriend. The kimbap from the GS25 across the street from my high school. I think that’s why I avoided coming back for so long.”

You can’t help yourself. “The kimbap?”

Yoongi hisses a half-laugh between his teeth. “Nah, I just. Knew it would all be a lot. ‘Cause I still feel like a kid whenever I’m home. That apparently doesn’t go away, even in my thirties.”

All at once, you find yourself holding your breath; Yoongi hasn’t talked much about his childhood, not even during this week spent in Daegu. You haven’t wanted to push the subject, but it feels like he’s on the edge of something, so you leave an empty space for him to get it out, in case he wants to.

He sighs softly, and then he keeps going. “I think a lot about that kid. How he didn’t get enough love.” A pause. “And how it fucked him up. But it’s like, I’m old enough now to know my parents were just people, too. They tried in their own way. So I just… don’t know what to do with it, I guess.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. In the weeks of sporadic phone calls that have drawn out between you, you’ve learned that Yoongi doesn’t always need all the answers. That sometimes he prefers not having them, and letting the reality of that settle into him. Learning to live with it.

“I’m serious, you can really tell me to fuck off if you need to work. I can monologue to the wind.”

You smirk, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “It’s fine. I’m just doing booking shit. I’d have put on a podcast anyway.” For a split second, you press your lips together, as if to keep the thought to yourself, and then you decide to just say it. “Or your mixtape.”

“Ah, there it is.”

It’s been a week since Yoongi drove out to visit his family– and seven long days since his album officially dropped on streaming platforms, the release done with minimal fanfare per his insistence. Seven excruciating days you’ve gone without saying a single word to him about it, despite the fact that he’s called you damn near daily.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” he admits, voice nearly teasing.

“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to talk about it.”

“And now, what, you’re tired of waiting?”

You roll your eyes despite the way your mouth is tugging up at the corners. “Just curious. We can keep not talking about it.”

There’s a pause on his end, underscored by the clack of your keys as you resume typing. “I have nothing to say because I haven’t looked at anything,” he finally admits.

That makes you lose your focus. “Wait, seriously?”

“I call it delaying the inevitable,” he answers dryly.

You open your mouth, then close it again, not sure what to say. How much to reveal. “And I take it you… want to wait? Until you’re back in Seoul?”

Yoongi sucks in a long sigh, like he’s debating, and then he finally lets loose a groan of defeat. “Fuck it. I’ve got stuff to distract me today. Go ahead, deliver the blow.”

“Are you sure?” You’re suddenly aware of the way your heartbeat is hammering behind your ribs.

“God, not an encouraging answer,” he mutters, before clearing his throat and putting on a more determined tone. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Get it over with, rip off the bandaid.”

“Okay,” you breathe, more to yourself than to him. Fumbling for the mouse, you navigate to the browser window you’ve had sitting minimized on your desktop for the last seven days, doing your best to ignore the tremor in your hands. “Do you just want me to, like, read them to you?”

“Just the most important parts. I don’t need the fluff.”

“Alright. Let’s see.” As quick as you can, you scan your eyes down the page, trying to pull quotes, trying to will your pulse to slow as you read off the screen. “‘Producer Suga releases his first mixtape under the stage name Agust D, proving that there truly can be 'no-skip' albums.’”

He exhales a laugh, and you keep going.

“‘Through compelling lyricism and cohesive storytelling, he presents a narrative of the hardship and spite that comes along with the art of existing.’” You flip to another tab, then another.

“‘Agust D's first masterpiece proves that the producer can do more than make songs. In his stunning mixtape, he sets a new standard for other artists and sets the stage for a new era of self-exploration as he navigates discovering his final form.’

“‘The album is a collection of introspective abstractions, exploring different personas to represent rage, desire, desperation and empathy. He remains lyrically candid from song-to-song, painting a raw picture of his inner self that packs a punch, emotionally and artistically.’

“‘The Grammys may have snubbed him under his producer pseudonym Suga, but make no mistake: there is no ignoring Agust D.’”

A heavy silence stretches out on the other end of the line, long enough that you’re halfway tempted to check your phone to confirm the call hasn’t dropped. Just as you find yourself reaching for it, your hand still shaking slightly in a way you can’t quite believe is solely from over-caffeination, there’s the sound of Yoongi breathing deep. Like he’s coming up for air.

“Thanks for that. And I appreciate you… editing out the less positive parts.”

It takes you a second to find your words. “I-I’m not, is the thing. It’s– they’re all like this.” Your admission of the truth is met with more silence, so you squeeze your eyes shut and continue. “Because it’s good, Yoongi. I believe I’d use the term critically acclaimed. You know. As a music industry professional.”

Another pause.

“Well, shit,” Yoongi finally murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

~*~

“God, you’re so lucky Los Angeles doesn’t have weather. It was cold as shit in Chicago,” Jimin mutters, tugging down the brim of his baseball cap to better shield his eyes from the morning sun.

“Hey!” Tiffany interjects, clearly offended on behalf of her city. Her baby pink sneakers kick up little clouds of dust as they crunch along the gravel path beneath your feet. “We have weather! Sometimes it rains.”

The weeks have, somehow, spilled over into months, and Jimin’s not wrong– late fall in Los Angeles is a far cry from the colder temperatures you’d be experiencing back in Seoul. It all makes time feel a little unreal, like it’s speeding up and slowing down, the days both long and short. You’ve slipped into a comfortable, steady routine now, doing your best to keep things more or less balanced: work, therapy, nights out with friends, FaceTime dates with Jimin.

And, well. Yoongi’s still calling. And you’re still answering.

“Look at her.” Your best friend’s unwavering sass brings you back to reality, and he scoffs, voice thready from the uphill climb, words punctuated by the scrape of his sneakers as the trail continues to steepen. “Off in her own world. Drag me out here on my one day off, make me go on a fucking hike because you’re ‘a person with healthy habits’ now, and what? You can’t even be bothered to make conversation?”

You shoot him the best death glare you can manage. “Mochi, I will throw you down this canyon.”

The laugh you huff out is more like a snort; you can hear Tiffany giggling, too, on your other side. There’s a glow on the apples of her cheeks when you glance over, the only indication she’s expending any effort at all, and then her mouth pulls up smug, and you already know what’s coming.

“Oh, I know what this is, she’s got that look. It’s her new Yoongi face,” she says helpfully, eyes narrowing along with her grin as she flicks her gaze back to Jimin. “The old one was like–” she frowns, brow pinched, mouth taking on a downturned slope, like she’s liable to burst into tears at any second.

“Very familiar,” Jimin confirms.

“But the new one is like–” Tiffany’s face immediately brightens, her eyes wide and lashes fluttering; she might as well have a cartoon heart floating over her head. She waves a hand in front of her as she drops the expression. “She’ll be back with us in five minutes, give or take.”

“That’s right,” Jimin continues before you can get a word in. “I forgot you two are having your regularly scheduled phone sex. I’m still trying to get Wonho to do that; he just gets so flustered saying things out loud.”

“Hate that,” Tiffany chimes in.

“Right? Like, just tell me you want to split me in half. It’s not that hard.”

This time you actually do shove Jimin, though he’s put on enough muscle from touring that the impact barely seems to register. “We are not having phone sex, Mochi.”

“They’re having deep, therapeutic conversations,” Tiffany supplies, and she shoots you a look when you whip your head back toward her. “What? Our walls are thin.” She shrugs. “It’s not my fault I can hear you two talking about your trauma all the time.”

Like she’s already bored with the discussion, she unzips the lilac fanny pack slung over her hips, retrieving her cell phone and beginning to tap gently at the screen with her nails.

“Yeah, trauma on that pus–”

“Jimin!”

“Okay, okay!” Jimin squirms just out of your reach, narrowly avoiding your attempt to tackle him to the ground. “I’m caught up now. It’s enemies to lovers to long distance boring-ass friends who aren’t even having phone sex.” He grimaces. “God, this narrative is all over the place.”

You roll your eyes so hard they threaten to fall out of your head entirely. “You need to stop trying to shove me and Yoongi into one of your 12-episode dramas. Life isn’t that simple, Park Jimin. Or that cliché.”

All at once, you must find a patch of cell service, because Tiffany’s phone starts buzzing in her hand, humming with so many notifications that for a moment you think it might just combust. When you glance back, she’s clearly processing something on the screen, because her eyes widen, and then she claps a hand over her mouth with a soft squeak.

“Oh, holy fuck,” she breathes into her palm.

“What?” Jimin asks. His brow creases with concern. As if on some kind of instinct, you feel the bottom of your stomach drop out.

Tiffany grips her phone with two hands again so she can type faster, thumbs clack-clacking for a moment before she manages to answer. “Um, well. Grammy nominations just dropped. And girl.” She’s looking at you now, eyes still wide. “Guess who’s on here.”

“Wait,” Jimin interrupts before you’ve even had a second to think. “For the mixtape? I’m sorry, am I a Grammy-nominated featured vocalist right now?” He tucks a hand under his chin, posing cutely, as if he’s already prepared to give the acceptance speech for his award.

Tiffany’s already holding her phone up so you can see it for yourself, and there it is, at the bottom of a list of names: Agust D.

Your heartbeat flutters like butterfly wings as your eyes snap up to the category.

“Best New Artist?!”

“Uh-huh,” Tiffany says, and you tear your gaze away from the screen just in time to see her shoot a grimace at Jimin. “Sorry for your loss, babes.”

“Those fuckers,” he hisses, immediately indignant. “Can’t believe they would snub me like this. Whatever, everyone knows the Grammys are a scam anyway.”

The static in your brain is whirring too loud for you to keep up with any of it.

“But Tiff,” you say softly, fully aware you’re processing all of this in slow motion. “It’s– that means– if he’s–”

“Better get ready, girl,” she murmurs, tilting to the side until her hip bumps against yours. “‘Cause here comes your man.”

The rush of memories is so overwhelming, it’s all you can do to keep up with the conversation as Tiffany and Jimin unpack the rest of the nominees, then somehow spend most of the long drive home on a tangent about tragic red carpet fashion. You barely hear any of it; all you can think about is– Yoongi, in a hotel bed, hair mussed from sleep. Yoongi, in a suit and tie, one hand squeezing yours as they call out a name that isn’t his. Yoongi’s head dropping down on your shoulder in a cab ride home, tongue thick in his mouth as he mumbles out–

“God, you really do have a Yoongi face.” Jimin’s shoulder thuds into the doorframe of your room, and you glance up to find him scrubbing a towel through his still-damp hair.

His eyebrows lift as you blink back at him from the edge of your bed.

“Um, excuse me, I believe this is the part of the exchange where you scowl at me? Threaten my life? Call me that stupid nickname?”

That one finally pulls you out of your thoughts enough to laugh. “If you don’t want me to call you Mochi, you should try being less mochi-shaped.”

“I can’t help that I’m adorable and delicious,” Jimin deadpans. He launches his towel into the laundry hamper tucked in the corner of the room, and then his gaze finds yours again, still a little questioning. “Seriously though, you good?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just. A lot to think about, you know.”

He hums, like he understands. “Well, Tiff said she’s picking up food, so I think I’m gonna ride along. Figured we’d leave you to your thoughts.” His mouth is already tugging up at the corner. “And your phone sex.”

“Mochi!”

You’re immediately on your feet, but Jimin disappears from view just as quickly; you can hear his retreating footsteps thud down the hall. By the time you make it to the doorway, he’s slipping into his slides, face still pulled into a shit-eating grin as Tiffany flips the lock on the front door, then swings it wide.

“Be right back!” she sing-songs, and Jimin is right behind her, shooting you one last glance over his shoulder.

“Tell Yoongi hyung I’m proud of him! You know, before you tell him how much you want his big, fat–”

The door slams shut before he can finish the thought.

With a groan of a laugh, your pulse already starting to quicken, you cross back to your bed, then grab your phone and drop down onto the mattress. Yoongi answers on the second ring, and his greeting is a noise that doesn’t quite manage to be a discernible word.

“Fuck,” you say quickly, trying to do the timezone math in your head. “Did I just wake you up? I figured you’d still be awake, but if you–”

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Yoongi clarifies, voice rough like gravel. “Chan and Jungkook took me out. I just got back. Almost called you, but.” He heaves a sigh. “Took me three tries to get my door open.”

It’s with that admission that what you’re hearing finally locks into place, the messy slant to his words, and you can’t hide the laughter that flutters out of you. “Oh my god. You’re drunk.”

“We were celebrating,” he whines, but the fact that he doesn’t deny it tells you everything you need to know. A version of Yoongi, albeit one you only ever managed a small glimpse of, slots into place in your mind: face flushed, smile all gums and teeth, laughing and dancing and scream-singing into a noraebang microphone.

The memory kicks through you, a pang that echoes right behind your ribs.

“I hope you had fun,” you finally manage, your voice soft at the edges. “I was just calling to say congrats.”

“‘S fucking crazy,” he slurs, sounding as dazed as you feel. “I almost pulled the plug on this album. So many times.”

“I remember.”

Yoongi inhales deep, like he’s preparing some big, elaborate thought, but then you hear all that air rush back out of him again, chased with a weary groan. “Fuck. I’m so– fucked.”

“Fucked for the Grammys or fucked for the amount of alcohol you drank tonight?”

The phone rustles a little, like he’s shifting, but there’s the sound of breathy laughter underneath it. “Just. Yeah. Fucked all the way around.”

“Best New Artist,” you try the words out, which just makes Yoongi groan again. “That’s huge.”

“‘M trying not to think about it. Too many milkis shots.”

For a moment, you wonder if maybe that’s it, and it makes sense. He’s so overwhelmed with a new future to start preparing for, a whole new level of fame and attention, all of it about to crash over him like an unforgiving tidal wave. Why would that have anything to do with you?

But then he’s continuing, his voice so low that it’s barely audible. “Guess I’ll be coming back to Los Angeles soon.” And you swear your heart jumps into your throat.

“Guess so,” you answer, with more breath than sound. All at once, you’re aware of so many things between the two of you: the big things, like space and distance and time, but also– this thread. This something, a tether you don’t have a name for, built up again from next to nothing.

In this moment, it suddenly all feels very, very fragile. Liable to break apart on impact.

“Wish I was there now,” Yoongi murmurs, and your breath catches. “With you.”

“You’re drunk,” you repeat.

“I know.” He sighs again, heavier this time, and you can feel it too. The weight of everything between you. Past and present. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

Your mouth twists. “And you can understand why that might be hard for me to believe, right?”

“I can,” he answers softly. His voice has emotion threatening your waterline.

You’re not sure what else to say.

Yoongi huffs out a frustrated noise. “Shit. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. But I don’t wanna only ever say shit like this when I’m drunk either. ‘Sjust easier sometimes. When I’m not thinking so much.”

The irony isn’t lost on you. You’ve been there, on the bathroom floor.

“We’re both guilty of that,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

A rush of words is coming up before you can stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut with enough force to push a tear past the border of your lashes. And then you just say it. “For the record. I did mean it. What I said that night.”

I don’t know how to stop being in love with you.

Yoongi pauses, and the silence of it stretches out long enough to make you wonder if he even knows what you’re talking about. Maybe he’s forgotten that voicemail entirely.

But then you hear him take in a breath. “I did too. When I said…” He trails off, like it’s a thought he can’t quite finish. “Yeah. Think you already knew that, though.”

You try to swallow around the lump stuck in your throat. “It’s nice to hear it anyway.”

“I’m sorry. That I fucked it all up.”

A few more tears streak down your face, and you swipe the back of your hand over your cheek. “It wasn’t just you, Yoongi.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, like he’s exhausted with himself. “It’s not– I don’t–” There’s a muted thud on his end of the line, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s his fist making contact with something soft, given the way he can’t even get a sentence out, the way his voice has gone jagged-edged with frustration. “‘M just. Gonna say this. And you don’t have to do anything with it, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe. You’re distantly aware of the sound of keys in the front door.

“It’s still true. For me. Didn’t stop. Hasn’t stopped.”

The words sweep your feet out from under you. All you can do is breathe.

“Okay.” You say it once, then again. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Yoongi echoes.

And then it’s quiet.

You finally speak first, punctuated with a sniff and a soft huff at your own dramatics. “I hate to ruin this moment, but my friends just came back with food.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yoongi murmurs, pausing to clear his throat. “It’s– yeah. You should go. I should sleep.”

“I have to console Jimin,” you say, unable to keep your mouth from tugging up at the mention. “He’s really torn up about his feature being snubbed.”

“Well.” Yoongi gives a grunt of effort, like he’s forcing himself to sit upright. “Tell him the Grammys fucking suck anyway.”

That actually manages to pull a laugh out of you. “I will.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air after the call ends, when it’s just you again, alone in your bedroom. You collapse back against the sheets, head spinning, still coming down from it all.

Yoongi loved you. Yoongi loves you?

The thought alone feels like touching a live wire, one that lights up every cell in your body. It’s awful, wonderful, terrifying, magical, life-ruining. It’s a nightmare. It’s the easiest thing in the world.

To his credit, Jimin’s patience lasts longer than you would’ve expected. He and Tiffany crowd in on either side of you, cross-legged on the floor of your living room, styrofoam takeout boxes of tacos fighting for space on the coffee table. The three of you make it through most of the blender of Tiffany’s homemade frozen margaritas before you feel his shoulder knock into yours. You know what question is coming before he even asks it.

“Alright, quit holding out on us. How did it go?”

Your pulse starts to quicken, and you keep your gaze fixed on the table. “Well. I guess. There is a distinct possibility. That Yoongi and I… could be more than just friends.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Tiffany pipes up.

You press your fingers to your temples, but you can’t keep the smile from breaking out over your face, one that only brightens when Tiffany starts squealing.

“I don’t know!” you quickly continue, even as you feel her close both hands around one of yours, fingers squeezing tight with excitement. “I really don’t know. I am, we are, still… figuring it all out. But there’s. Yeah. There’s something, I think. And it’s not a bad thing.”

Jimin, surprisingly, is quiet. You watch him closely as he sets his half-eaten taco down, then reaches for a napkin to diligently wipe the juices from his hands. All the while saying nothing, his face an expressionless mask.

Just as you feel your stomach start to clench with nerves, he turns to fully face you, and then you’re suddenly laid flat on the carpet, Tiffany letting out a squawk of surprise and barely managing to get out of the line of fire in time. Jimin’s on top of you now, pinning you against the floor, his arms wrapped around your waist in a hug so firm you can scarcely breathe. He peppers your face with kisses as you try to squirm out of his grasp.

“I am so fucking proud of you,” he murmurs, face squished in the crook of your neck. More tears immediately threaten the line of your lashes.

“Thank you, Mochi,” you whisper. You’re barely able to get the words out; his full weight crushed against your ribcage certainly doesn’t help. “For telling me what I needed to hear. I’m sorry that it took me so long to get my shit together.”

A fat, wet, dramatic kiss is pressed to your cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. I knew you’d figure it out. I was always on your side.”

“Thank you for being my best friend.”

“Always, babygirl.”

Before he even finishes the words, Jimin cuts himself off with an oof, and simultaneously, you feel a second weight drop down on top of you, pushing you that much flatter into the carpet. Tiffany’s head peeks over his shoulder.

“Hi.” She grins down at both of you. “I was feeling left out. Should I make more margs?”

“Please,” Jimin wheezes, and you can’t stop laughing.

~*~

With a mostly-smoked joint pinched between your fingertips, you suddenly find yourself halfway through a question, your words underscored by the old school hip-hop thudding softly through the speakers of Matthew's parked Jeep. The last rays of the setting sun cling to the horizon in front of you, coloring the world dusk pink.

“How do you know when you’re in love?”

You’re not sure you actually meant to ask it out loud, but Matthew nods, thoughtful, as he reaches to pluck the joint from your grasp. The crease in his brow deepens as he takes a hit, like he’s really considering his answer, and then he shrugs.

The words flutter out on his exhale. “Love is… easy. And I don’t mean like rainbows and butterflies, hell no. It’s more like, when you’re with that person, there’s that feeling. Where everything locks into place. It’s like, oh yeah. There you are. Like you just found something that you’ve been waiting on a long time, kinda thing.”

You take the joint back when he offers it, exchange it for another question. “Do you think it can ever be easy with two people who have really hurt each other?”

“Oh, for sure,” he answers with a nod, fingers drumming aimlessly against the steering wheel. “Take me and Tiff. We’ve been through it, most definitely. There was a long time when I didn’t want to say how I felt, ‘cause I didn’t want to show weakness, you know? And that girl is crazy, too. She’s made me jump through every hoop there is.”

You laugh, choking a little on smoke, because you know he’s not wrong. Tiffany has admitted as much herself.

“But,” Matthew continues, gaze distant through the windshield. “We’re trying. Taking baby steps with it. And every time we screw up, we get a little better at it, you know? And at the end of the day, there’s nobody else for me. Nobody else I want to be with, nobody who gets me, really knows me the way she does. For real. Like best friend type shit.”

The corner of your mouth turns up. “That’s really sweet.”

He shifts in his seat, crossing his arms behind his head with a smirk. “I got a soft heart hiding behind these rock-hard tiddies, I know.”

You cackle as you pass the last remains of the joint back across the center console. Matthew puffs on it a couple more times, then finally lets it drop out the open car window.

“I’m serious though,” he says, glancing over at you in the passenger seat. “If two people are both willing to put in the work, try to meet each other halfway, and be accountable about their own shit, then. Yeah. Some people think if you’re always struggling, and fighting, it means you really love each other. I don’t buy that. But I do think sometimes you have to go through hard to find easy.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. The thought of it feeling easy almost seems too good to be true. And yet that’s exactly how it’s been in this strange little bubble, just you and Yoongi. Spending hours on the phone, yet somehow never running out of things to say.

“It’s scary,” you finally manage, and Matthew nods, sympathetic.

“Fucking terrifying, for sure.”

A long, stoned silence stretches out between you, until Matthew finally breaks it.

“So, you in love with that asshole producer still? Or, again?”

The smile flits across your face before you can stop it, and your pulse thuds in your throat. It feels so real, to say it so casually like this. “I think I am, yeah. Still and again. Both.”

Matthew’s smiling too, when you look back at him. “That’s cute. Well, I’m rooting for y’all.”

“God, you’re such a sap, Matthew.”

You both startle at the sound of Tiffany’s voice. Matthew’s gaze flits to the rearview mirror while you turn over your shoulder to see her stretched lazily across the backseat, eyelids still heavy.

“Damn, girl,” Matthew huffs. “I thought you were comatose back there.”

“I was meditating,” Tiffany says, like it’s obvious. “Can we get Taco Bell? I would do some very fucked up things for a crunchwrap right now.”

Matthew outright salutes, which has Tiffany snorting with laughter as she manages to pull herself back up to sitting. “I gotchu, baby.” The car roars to life as he turns the key in the ignition, then cranks the stereo a good ten notches higher. “Seatbelts on, y’all!” He has to yell to be heard over the music, and you fumble for the metal buckle of yours. “Daddy’s about to pull an illegal U-turn!”

~*~

You wake up flushed all over, bedsheets kicked down to the edge of the mattress, an ache of desire thudding like a pulse between your hips. Remnants of sleep-soaked images stick to the edges of your thoughts, and you try to will them back into frame: the slide of rough hands down your body, the press of deft fingers working you to pieces. The scent of sandalwood and musk.

Your phone is in your hand like a reflex. It’s only once the line picks up and you hear an answer that it hits you, what you’re doing.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi’s voice is painted with concern. “Isn’t it late?”

The middle of the night, probably. “Yeah,” you reply, knowing full-well that your voice is thick with it, this want. “I just– I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have called.”

“What is it?” He tries again, undeterred. You wonder if you’re imagining that his voice has softened slightly, dropped a little deeper in his chest. It radiates through you, liquid-hot.

“I just, uh.” The words feel heavy in your mouth. “I had this dream.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the phone, just long enough that you nearly falter, and then you hear Yoongi’s voice again.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.” The answer comes before you can stop it, flutters out on an exhale so soft you’re not even sure it registers. “I want you, Yoongi.”

“Yeah?” The word is so familiar, you can see the smirk on his face with your eyes closed. Your body reacts automatically. “You want me to tell you what to do?”

“Please,” you breathe with your heart in your throat.

“What are you wearing?”

It’s insane, really, the way your nipples stiffen from a single question.

“Just, uh.” You swallow hard, suddenly self-conscious at what feels like an unsexy answer. “A t-shirt, shorts. I was sleeping–”

“Take the shorts off,” he instructs, voice dark, and it’s so easy, following his lead, slipping the thin cotton fabric over your hips. Easier still when he tells you to touch yourself, to tease your drenched folds apart, to moan for him as you press yourself open with a finger. And you do.

“How wet are you?”

“Soaked,” you tell him, working a second finger in, gasping at the stretch, curling them until you find the place that makes your breath catch.

Alone in your room, with thousands of miles between you, it still doesn’t matter. It’s like you can feel the heat of Yoongi’s breath on your skin.

“Am I the only one you get this wet for?”

“Yes, Yoongi.” There couldn’t be anyone else.

“Tell me how it feels.”

Instinct takes over: you press the heel of your hand flat to your center and circle your hips, choking on another gasp at the friction-spark against your pulsing clit. “Fuck,” you hiss, head tipping back against the pillow. “It’s so good.”

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Keep going.”

“God,” you moan as your hips fall into a steady rhythm. The needy press of your fingers only serves to make you that much wetter, until you can feel it painting your thighs, soaking the sheets. “It feels so fucking good,” you say again.

“I bet you look so good right now, fucking yourself like this.” Yoongi sounds like he’s coming undone, too. There’s a pause, and then his voice comes back. “Do you wish it was me?”

“Yes,” you gasp, without hesitation. “I miss you.”

“Yeah, you miss the way I touch you? The way I fuck you?” You feel it all in the dark. The weight of Yoongi’s body above you, the brush of his mouth over yours, the slow drag of his cock fucking you all the way open. This unmistakable ache, right behind your ribs.

“Yes, Yoongi,” you murmur. It’s overwhelming, a flood of a thousand emotions at once as you work yourself to the edge, thinking only of him. “All of it. All of you.”

When he speaks again, it’s softer. “Wish I was there with you. To take care of you. Make you come until you can’t take it anymore.” A pause, and he breathes a laugh. “Make you squirt. God, that was hot.”

“Yoongi,” you whine. You’re drowning in it now.

“I know, baby. You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Squeeze so fucking tight around me?”

“Yes,” you moan. “Please, I’m close.”

“Love the way you look when you’re all fucked out.” The word flutters through your body like a wave. Love. “Fucking beautiful.”

“Yoongi.” It’s all you can say, all you can think.

“I’m right here. Come for me.”

And you do. With a shaky gasp, you pulse hard around your own fingers, wishing they were his instead.

“Fuck, you are– unbelievable,” Yoongi says softly. You can barely hear him over the waves of pleasure rolling through you, dragging you under.

It’s a long time before either of you speaks again.

“Thank you,” is all you can finally manage once your pulse starts to slow, and then it occurs to you how one-sided this has been. You’re not sure what the rules are. You’ve never done anything like this before. “Um, did you want me to–?”

“No,” Yoongi answers before you can finish asking. “It’s okay. That was probably more than I deserve anyway.”

“Yoongi–”

He cuts you off, insistent. “Really, I’m fine. And you should get some sleep.”

Even in the haze of post-orgasm glow, the feeling swells up again: you miss Yoongi. Desperately, terribly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to feel him beside you, the weight of his body on the mattress. Sweat beading at his temples, pulse thudding in his throat, his dark eyes searching yours.

It crashes over you, undeniable. You love him. Of course you do.

But the words feel– too big to say. Too small to close the ocean of distance between you. Too much, and not enough.

“I wish you were here,” you whisper instead. Despite how badly you want to keep talking, exhaustion is already on you like a heavy weight, easing your eyelids shut. You can feel yourself starting to drift.

“I know,” Yoongi answers. “I will be soon.”

You don’t remember ending the call, just the dreams that come after: hot breath on your skin, a body pressed firmly into yours, and three little words, whispered over and over, like a prayer in the dark.

~*~

You try not to overthink things. But just like that, the near-daily occurrence of hearing from Yoongi starts tapering off. Three days between calls, then five. Then a week, sometimes two.

When you do hear from him, it’s usually just long enough for him to tell you how busy things are before he has to go again. You know there’s a lot going on, with his music, his work, his blossoming career as an artist. And you get it; your job keeps you plenty occupied as well.

But any free moment you manage, you can’t stop yourself from playing it all back, looking for answers. Wondering what you might have done to make him start pulling away.

Part of you wonders if he regrets that night, the phone sex. If you swung the pendulum too far back, in a direction he had no interest in revisiting. If it somehow made him think differently of you. But you can’t make sense of that– he was there. He told you as much himself, and you heard the truth in his voice. How much he wanted it, wanted you.

At least, you thought he did. But as the weeks stretch on, you’re not so sure.

The closer the Grammys loom, the tighter the anxiety spiral knits in your chest, until finally, you can’t take it anymore. The next time you hear from Yoongi, hardly a fortnight out from when he’s meant to touch down in Los Angeles, the dam breaks.

“Is something going on?”

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, but he doesn’t answer right away.

“Will you please just tell me, Yoongi?” You hate the way your voice sounds as you say it. “What– what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers immediately. “At all. It’s me.”

Your stomach twists. “What does that mean?”

“It’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Things have been really hectic lately, and I’ve been trying, but.”

You steady yourself for the blow.

“I just don’t think there’s a way that I’m going to be able to see you. While I’m in town.”

“Oh.” It’s the only response you have.

He keeps going. “My schedule is… honestly, just fucking insane. Rolling Stone, Genius, Pitchfork. My calendar looks like I’m speed-dating the entire LA music industry. I’ll get maybe three hours of sleep a night if I’m lucky. So then I thought maybe I could extend the trip, stay for an extra day or two, but. I’m booked up for a solid month after this. I have to be on the first flight Monday morning just to make it back in time. As it turns out, I’ve somehow stumbled my way into working two full-time jobs.”

“It’s okay, Yoongi,” you finally manage, but you're not sure how convincing you sound. “I get it. I remember how busy it was last year, so. I can only imagine what it’s like for you now.”

But you can’t ignore the creeping sense of dread, a skull-numbing buzz that’s all at once too familiar. He really can’t make any time for you? You’re not worth even half an hour?

“I know it’s not fair to you,” he continues. “And I’ve been more distant because I was dreading having to tell you, and part of me was convinced that I could figure it out, that maybe there was a way I could make it work.”

He could make it work, your mind whispers. If he really wanted to.

“Right,” you answer wetly, a beat too late. “I get it.”

“I’m really sorry.” His voice has gone raw, like it’s hard for him to say these words. “I’ve looked at this from every angle. But I’m not… I’m not good at this. I don’t want the first time that we see each other to be when I’m– a wreck. Overwhelmed, anxious, jetlagged and running on nothing. You deserve better than that.”

A tear streaks down your face, quickly chased by a second. “Yeah.”

“None of this has anything to do with me not caring about you, or not wanting to see you. I need you to believe me when I say that.”

“Yeah,” you repeat dumbly, but you can feel it all building, until it threatens to choke you. The disappointment, the shame, the anger, a poison that stings in your veins. And with it, the urge to pick up your fears and your trauma, to wield them like weapons. To say things that can’t ever be unsaid. To hurt Yoongi the way he’s hurt you, over and over again.

Yoongi speaks before you have the chance to. “I know. I know I keep doing this, putting work above everything. It’s not fair to you. And I’m sorry for doing it then, and sorry for doing it now. But I just want to get this right. Being with you again, after everything– I want to do it right.”

“It makes sense,” you say softly, and then your facade crumbles. “It just hurts.”

“I know,” he says, like he really does. “It hurts me, too.”

A sob hitches in your throat. The thought of Yoongi being so close, so soon, and not being able to touch him, to even see him, after all this time. Loving him like this, from a distance. It’s devastating.

“I wish there was another way,” you breathe. “I just– I’m scared I’m never going to see you again.”

“I promise,” Yoongi says, and you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him more serious. “You will. Just let me get through this, and then I’ll come to you, and we can take our time. I’ll be all yours. No distractions.”

You swipe away a few more tears. As much as you want to blame him, hate him, a part of you understands that just as much of this is your fault. You were the one who ran away.

The words tumble out before you can shove them back down. “I wish you had stopped me. When I left. I kept hoping, I don’t know. That maybe you would show up at the last second and take it all back, or ask me to stay. And I just–” You try to swallow past the lump in your throat. “I know it was my choice. But I just really wish you had.”

Yoongi goes silent for a moment. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again. “I do, too,” he says. “Trust me.”

And, somehow, despite everything. You do.

As terrifying as it is, like free-falling with no safety net, you squeeze your eyes shut, and let your weapons drop. For the first time in your life, you make the choice to take Min Yoongi at his word. To trust him.

“Okay.”

~*~

“You know I'm fine, right?”

You turn to face Tiffany accusingly as you ask the question, and her eyes immediately snap away from your face. She does her best to act engrossed in the broadcast, as if you haven’t felt her gaze staring daggers into you the entire day.

Concerned, loving daggers, sure. But it’s driving you crazy all the same.

“I know!” she chirps, entirely unconvincing. “It’s just, like. We can always put something else on, if you want.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” you say for what easily has to be the fifth time.

“Tiff, seriously, drop it.” Matthew interjects through a mouthful of chips. The large serving bowl you’d set on the table for everyone to share has somehow ended up permanently in his lap. He reaches in for another handful. “Gotta admit though. Dude can for sure rock a suit.”

The four of you have been camped out in the living room for the better part of the afternoon, and you’ve just made it through the Grammys red carpet pre-show– well, at least three of you have. Vernon has been horizontal on the floor for at least an hour now, and you’re not positive if he’s sleeping, dead, or a secret third thing.

You’re appreciative to have the kind of friends that won’t let you go through a hard time alone, but it occurs to you now that maybe you actually would have preferred to be alone for this.

There’s no escaping the ache that blooms in your chest anytime Yoongi is onscreen. You find yourself holding your breath, just taking him in. The same dark eyes, same overwhelming gaze, his hair grown even longer in the year you’ve spent apart.

His fans have already made themselves known, and the reaction to him on the red carpet makes your heart flip. Even the interviewers are in on the “Yoongi Marry Me” jokes, and Yoongi does his best to force polite smiles that you can see straight through. It’s so strange to think how quickly everything has shifted; that only a year ago, no one knew who he was, or cared that he was at the Grammys.

And a year ago, you were there with him, too.

You swallow hard, trying to will those memories out of your mind, when Vernon sits up with a gasp.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday,” you answer slowly. “Why?”

Vernon’s brow is now creased with a panicked look, one you’ve frankly never seen before. “And tomorrow is Monday?”

“That’s how days work, yes.”

“Oh, then I’m fucked,” Vernon groans. His gaze flits from you to Tiffany to Matthew and back again. “I’m super fucked.”

“Vernon, baby, deep breaths,” Tiffany instructs. “What’s going on?”

“That big training on Monday,” he explains, expression twisting into a grimace. “I completely forgot, they wanted me to put the deck together, it was supposed to be like three hours of content.”

“Just do it now, dumbass,” Matthew says, and Vernon pauses, as if taking a moment to consider this.

The grimace quickly returns to his face. “I might, uh. Have left my laptop. At the office.”

“You’re telling me I gotta drive your ass all the way–”

“I can do it,” you interject quickly, before Matthew can spew any more chip crumbs out along with his complaints. A wave of relief rushes over you, because this is exactly what you need right now: the promise of an empty office and enough busy work to keep you occupied. “Seriously, I can build a deck in my sleep. I’ll just do it, and I’ll bring your laptop back in case you want to change anything.”

“Are you sure?” Vernon asks, awestruck.

But you’re already on your feet; a millisecond later, Tiffany is on hers, too. “I’m coming with you.”

“Tiff–” you shake your head, doing your best to shoot her a convincing smile, one that you’re sure doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just, please. Let me handle this, okay?”

Her mouth pulls flat; you know her well enough to know it means reluctant acquiescence, and you don’t hesitate. You cross the room to the front door and slip into your shoes, then grab your keys off the hook.

“Vernon–” you turn back over your shoulder. “All your files are on the shared drive, right?”

His brows raise, like it’s his first time hearing the term. “The… what now?”

As if to express his disappointment, Matthew lobs a couch pillow across the room, missing Vernon by at least a foot. You do your best to bite back a smile– it’s not like you can exactly judge anyone for a lack of computer knowledge.

“Just text me your password and where your laptop is, okay?” you try instead.

Vernon nods, shooting you a double thumbs-up. “Thank you for saving my ass!”

When you step outside, the promise of rain sits cool and heavy in the air, and you let yourself breathe it in. You’d been wound so tightly, trying to hold it together in front of your friends. You can feel those threads starting to snap now, like you’re coming apart at the seams.

The lights of the city begin to blink on, one-by-one, as you make your way across town. What was once an overcast afternoon sky has begun to bruise darker into grey-black storm clouds, thick and ominous over the hills.

You’ve barely managed to lock the office door behind you when the sky opens up, giving way to sudden downpour.

Finding Vernon’s laptop is easy enough, as is actually getting the slides together, despite his questionable notes. And, well. You can’t help it. You prop your phone up on the desk, tuned into a livestream of the Grammys broadcast.

It’s a long show, and you manage to finish the deck before Yoongi’s category is called. It’s still pouring down rain, so you stay at your desk, eyes glued to your phone.

You remember the feeling of Yoongi’s hand slipping into yours, the tick of nerves in the line of his jaw. Selfish as it may be, you can’t help but wonder if you’re on his mind at all. If he wishes he was with you instead. If it hurts him just as much, being this close.

And then a pretty blonde country singer is stepping up to present the next award, and your heart leaps into your throat as the words leave her mouth: Best New Artist.

Flashes of performance footage are stitched together into a video montage introducing each artist. You see Yoongi sneering into the microphone, dark hair falling into his eyes as he stares down the camera like it’s the barrel of a gun.

It’s suddenly hard for you to get a breath in.

The presenter fumbles a little with the envelope, but eventually manages to get it open. She leans into the microphone for one long moment of suspense, and then she says it.

“Agust D.”

The room erupts, and your heart cracks, right down the center. He really did it.

There are tears in your eyes now, and as you try to blink them away, you realize the camera is swinging a little haphazardly. It almost looks like they’re trying to find Yoongi, which doesn’t make any sense, given that they know exactly where he’s sitting.

When the broadcast finally manages to zero in on the dark-haired man bounding towards the stage, you clap a hand over your mouth in disbelief.

It’s Jungkook.

He makes it up to the microphone, as wide-eyed as you’ve ever seen him, one hand raised in a shy wave. “Oh, wow. Um, hi everyone. Hi Grammys.”

There’s another pang in your chest. God, you miss this kid.

“My name is Jungkook. Agust D has asked me to accept this award on his behalf.” You can see the look of sheer terror on Jungkook’s face now; he stares into the camera like a deer in headlights. “He, uh, gave me a note to read. Hang on, let me get it.”

As Jungkook starts to pat down his pockets in search of the note, you catch a glint of silver at the edge of his mouth. Is that a… piercing? You lean in closer, squinting at your phone screen to try and make it out.

There’s a bang at the front door, so loud that it makes you jump. You glance up, startled, and then the bottom drops out of your stomach.

Min Yoongi is standing outside of your office, soaked to the skin, like something out of a dream.

None of it feels real. Not when you get up from your desk, not when you unlock and open the door. Not even when he steps inside in his all-black suit, clearly out of breath, raking back his wet hair.

“You’re here,” he says dumbly, and you just stand there, sure that you’re about to wake up. Any second now.

“Yoongi,” you finally manage to breathe. “What are you–”

“I love you.”

The words nearly knock you off balance. “Yoongi,” you try again. “You just–”

He shakes his head. “I have to say this first, and then you can tell me to fuck off forever. I love you. I’m sorry that I didn’t say it sooner, or that I took it back when I shouldn’t have. It’s like you said– I was scared.” His dark eyes threaten to burn right through you. “I just couldn’t sit at that stupid show anymore knowing I was so close to you. I had to come tell you myself.”

You press a hand to his face, feather-light, your fingertips swiping at an errant bead of rainwater trailing along his cheek. His arms close around your waist, pulling you closer as if on instinct. Heat blooms under your skin at every point where your bodies touch.

“You just won a Grammy,” you say softly.

The look on Yoongi’s face shifts from concern to confusion, and then his jaw goes slack beneath your palm. “I– what?”

All you can do is nod. You feel a tear streak down your face. “I was watching the broadcast. You won, Yoongi.”

“I–I didn’t think I had any real shot.” His eyes widen. “Oh my god, and I told Jungkook to give my speech.”

You manage a wet laugh, even as more tears start to fall. “He did it, I saw him. He was shaking like a leaf.”

“Oh, the fangirls are going to love him,” Yoongi mutters with a disbelieving grin, and then he shakes his head again, as if to refocus himself. “We’ll circle back to that. This is more important. Than the music, than the Grammy, all of it.”

It feels like your chest could cave in at any second. “But Yoongi, this is your dream.”

His arms tighten around you, and a shiver trails up your spine. “There’s this funny thing that happens when your dreams come true. It makes you realize what really matters. Because as it turns out, being there tonight meant fuck all without you beside me.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “As much as I love Jungkook.”

Yoongi’s eyes search yours as he keeps talking. “I’m sorry I didn’t go after you when you left. I wish I’d known that you wanted me to. But I figured maybe if I did it tonight, it might count for something. Like, better late than never.”

You’ve given up on trying to hold the tears back, and you feel Yoongi trace a thumb gently beneath your lash line as more spill down your cheeks, unrelenting now.

“I hate to see you cry,” he says hoarsely.

You look up at him through your wet lashes, wondering how on earth he hasn’t put it together by now. “I’m crying because I love you, you idiot.”

Recognition spreads slowly over Yoongi’s face, and then you’re both laughing, his hands moving to cup your jaw. He looks at you like you’re something precious, something he doesn’t want to lose twice. For a second, it’s impossible to breathe.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks softly.

“Please,” you answer, and he does.

His mouth on yours blots out every other thought in your mind. It’s a long time before you finally pull away.

“Hang on,” you start, once you’ve regained the ability to string words together, every cell in your body still buzzing with electricity. “How did you even know I would be here?”

Yoongi shrugs, strands of damp hair falling into his eyes. He pushes them back again, and you swear there’s a tinge of mild embarrassment in his expression. It’s an emotion you didn’t know he was capable of. “I… didn’t? I just kind of ran out of there, and I knew your office was close, and it was raining, and– I don’t know. I guess I was hoping for one more of those cosmic coincidences.”

“We do have a lot of them,” you admit with a nod of your head. “But honestly, you could have just called.”

“I know, I know.” He winces, and you swear you can see his face reddening. “I was acting on impulse, okay?”

“Shocking,” you deadpan, and he really laughs. Your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest at the sound. Another tear slips down your face at the realization: you’ve missed it all. Every piece of him.

Yoongi’s still smiling, your face still cradled in his hands. “Alright, your turn. Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story,” you say with a shake of your head. “And we have better things to do.”

“You make an excellent point,” he replies, lips brushing close to your ear. You feel him hesitate, just for a second. “I really am sorry I can’t stay longer. But I’ll be back as soon as I can, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course,” you murmur. As if you haven’t missed him since the moment you set foot on California soil. As if you could ever want anyone else, anything but this.

Another kiss, this one pressed to your hairline. “I know it’s probably way too soon for me to talk about this,” Yoongi’s voice is soft against your skin.

“It’s okay, Yoongi,” you answer. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”

“I just– do you think you’ll ever come home? To Seoul?”

And, well. You can’t help yourself. There’s a small smile on your face as you tip your head back to gaze up at Yoongi, feigning as much innocence as you can muster. “You know, I’m not sure.” You blink, and there’s a flash of something all-too familiar in his dark eyes. It’s a look that makes your gut clench with anticipation. “I guess you’ll have to make me.”

His mouth finds yours again, and something tells you that you won’t need much convincing.

~*~

A/N: thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading. 🤍

chapter ten | masterlist

#yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #bts x reader #look down on me like that

580 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Four

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, autistic breakdown on page, racing accidents (Las Vegas 2023), domestic fluff, slight (?) cliffhanger

Notes — Another longggg one! Hope you love it.

2023 (Las Vegas)

It was one of those overcast afternoons where the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or not. The light through the huge windows was grey and flat, and the air inside the rented house-slash-shoot-location had that odd, sterile warmth that came from too many camera batteries and ring lights and people trying to look casual for content.

The house itself was the kind of place you couldn’t quite imagine anyone actually living in — all clean lines, brushed steel, and exposed concrete. There were too many stairs. Too many echoey corners. And absolutely no soft lighting. It had been chosen for aesthetics, not comfort.

Amelia sat curled in the corner of the oversized leather sofa, knees tucked under her, one hand gripping her iPad, the other fidgeting absently with the drawstring of a hoodie that had somehow ended up in her lap. She hadn’t asked for it. Someone had draped it over her when she sat down, and now it was hers, apparently. That was fine. She liked the weight of it.

Her focus, however, was fixed entirely on her screen. The Vegas GP loomed ahead — a race full of unknowns, simulations stacked high with red flags and conditional parameters that changed every time she blinked. The track was new, the surface barely tested, the layout odd and inconsistent. Every variable gave her brain another reason to loop. And loop. And loop.

She was halfway through calculating braking loads based on preliminary corner speeds when Lando wandered past, all soft socks and too-long limbs, dragging one arm into a puffer jacket he wasn’t really planning to zip. He slowed when he saw her, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You gonna wear that for a photo?” He asked, nodding at the hoodie.

Amelia didn’t look up. “No.”

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You sure? You’d look cute.”

She blinked once, then met his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for cute. I’m calculating brake performance for a track we have literally never raced on before. There are so many variables. I’m stressed.”

Across the room, Max Fewtrell barked a laugh, his voice echoing faintly as he adjusted a light stand. “That’s the most Amelia sentence I’ve ever heard. Like, ever.”

Pietra, seated on the floor nearby in flared jeans and a cloud-soft crewneck, turned toward Amelia with a gentle smile. She had a scrunchie looped around her wrist and two bracelets Amelia had given her after a layover in Japan. “You can do both,” Pietra said warmly. “Be cute and stressed.”

Amelia looked at her, expression softening around the eyes. “Honestly, I just want to stay sat down.”

“Okay,” Pietra said, and leaned sideways to gently press her shoulder against Amelia’s. “Then we’ll sit. Together.”

Amelia didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Lando reappeared a moment later with a bottle of water in one hand and a small protein bar in the other. He plopped onto the armrest beside her, knees brushing hers. His eyes flicked to the hoodie.

“You know that one’s technically mine.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia said without looking up.

He grinned. “I figured.” He nudged her ankle gently with his socked foot. “Still think it’d look better on you anyway.”

“That’s not difficult,” she replied, tugging the cuff of the hoodie over her hand. Then, after a pause, she added flatly, “That was a joke.”

Max dropped into a nearby chair, flinging one leg over the side with practiced drama. “Just one picture of you, Amelia? Come on, people would love it. Bit of behind-the-scenes. The fans adore when you’re in anything.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “No thank you.”

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Pietra let out a warm laugh. “Stop bothering her, Max. Lando does enough of that.”

“Oi,” Lando said, mock-affronted. “Leave me out of this.”

“You’re both bothering me,” Amelia replied, perfectly even. “I’m trying to work. I already hate the Vegas track.”

He turned his full attention to her now, brows lifting. “Why? We haven’t even been yet.”

“Because it’s new!” she burst out, sharper than she meant to. The volume bounced off the walls. She winced immediately, ducking her head into her shoulder. Her voice dropped low, controlled. “Because it’s new and we haven’t raced it before and that means no past data to lean on. That means sim work based on theoretical grip levels. That means error margins get wider. And that means I have to prepare twice as hard with half as much certainty.”

There was a pause.

“...Fair enough,” Lando said gently.

“I hate guessing,” she mumbled.

“No one likes guessing,” Pietra offered.

Amelia gave a small nod. “I like control. I like knowing.”

Max opened his mouth like he was about to tease her, then caught the subtle tension in her shoulders and wisely shut it again.

Lando tapped the top of her tablet lightly with one finger. “Well. You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

She glanced up at him. “Because it’s my job.”

“And because you’re brilliant.”

She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth ticked upward.

“Are you wearing that to dinner later?” Pietra asked, gesturing to the hoodie.

Amelia looked down at it, then back at her. “Yes. I don’t want to change. I’m comfortable.”

Pietra smiled. “Good. I’ll wear mine too. We’ll match.”

“Accidentally?”

“Deliberately.”

Amelia considered that. “Okay. But only if we sit near the window.”

Pietra beamed. “Done.”

Lando looked between them, then leaned back on his hands. “You’ve replaced me.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “I only want to kiss you.”

He made a thoughtful face. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re both so weird.”

“I’m autistic,” Amelia said plainly.

“You’re the weird one,” Pietra added to Max.

“Rude,” Max said.

Lando grinned. “You’re still in love with us.”

“Terrible.”

Outside, the sky finally made up its mind — light rain pattering against the windows in slow, scattered streaks.

Inside, Amelia tucked the hoodie tighter around her, legs still folded, checklist still glowing on the iPad in her lap. Her head leaned lightly against Pietra’s shoulder now, and Lando’s hand rested on her shin — grounding, present, always within reach.

They’d survive Vegas. They would.

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “I need a backup plan for the Sector 2 hairpin.”

“You’ll come up with one,” Lando said, completely sure.

And she would.

Because she always did.

—

The sim suite smelled faintly of coffee and carpet glue.

It was making Amelia feel violently ill.

It was well past nine in the evening, and the McLaren Technology Centre was mostly dark — lights dimmed, staff dispersed, and only the low hum of servers and quiet keystrokes from the strategy team still working in the next room. On the main screen, a full layout of the Las Vegas circuit was overlaid with predictive data. Telemetry lines in orange and blue flickered in real time, charting Oscar’s run.

Inside the sim rig, Oscar exhaled sharply and let the steering wheel go slack as the run ended.

“Turn ten still feels off,” he said, voice crackling slightly through the headset. “Rear snaps too easily on downshift. It’s like— I don’t know. It just unloads.”

Amelia stood beside the sim rig, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look at Oscar as she replied. She was looking at the data instead. “We’re too aggressive with the engine braking into the apex,” she said. “You’re already on a mid-bite diff setting. I can pull back the torque map slightly — see if we can stabilise it.”

Oscar lifted his visor and blinked into the low lighting. “We tried that earlier though.”

“That was with a higher track temp sim,” one of the strategy engineers chimed in from his desk.

Amelia nodded. “This time we’re modelling it colder. Night session, cooler surface, lower grip. It’s a different profile now.”

Oscar gave her a skeptical look. “You think it’ll make the difference?”

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “We run tests. And I wait for the results.”

He frowned at her. “You’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Amelia replied. “I’m tired. And annoyed. This track is stupid.”

The strategist behind her snorted into his water bottle. “That’s the technical term, is it?”

“Yes,” she said, deadpan. “Stupid.”

Oscar raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. No argument from me.”

Amelia stepped forward and typed something into the control console. “I’ll load the next setup with the revised map and a minor front wing tweak. You’ll run sectors two and three only.”

Oscar nodded, settling back into the seat. “Short run. Got it.”

“Not just short,” Amelia added. “Precision. I want minimal steering corrections. No overcommitting. If we’re going to adjust setup for the race, I need to see your clean line.”

Behind her, Lando’s voice chimed in from the doorway, “someone’s feeling bossy tonight.”

Amelia didn’t turn around. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m just here to observe,” Lando said, stepping in with a smoothie and a faint smirk. “Oscar’s face is funny when he gets told off for oversteering.”

Oscar flipped him off without lifting his head.

Amelia keyed in the updated run. “I don’t care what his face does. I care about what the car does.”

Lando walked over, watching the screen over her shoulder. “What’s the target delta?”

“Half a second gain from his last run if the balance correction holds.”

Lando let out a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“It’s not,” Amelia replied. “It’s necessary.”

There was a pause.

“You doing okay, baby?” He asked, a bit more gently now.

“I will be fine,” she said. “After Vegas is over and no one asks me to model tyre deg on untested tarmac again.”

Oscar cleared his throat from the rig. “Not to interrupt, but—uh—ready when you are.”

“Go ahead,” Amelia said, refocusing instantly. “Cold tyres, revised torque, short sector two and three run. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Oscar replied.

The sim kicked back into life. Virtual Vegas, all garish lights and overblown spectacle, unfurled across the screen. Oscar’s car dove into sector two with smoother transitions, noticeably fewer corrections in the corners.

“Better,” Amelia muttered, half to herself.

Oscar’s voice came through again. “Still doesn’t feel natural, but it’s drivable now.”

“We don’t need natural,” she said. “We need consistency.”

Oscar snorted. “You should get that put on a mug.”

“I did,” Lando added from behind her. Sarcastically. “It’s in our kitchen. Pink ceramic. Very cute.”

Amelia didn’t respond to that. She was too busy watching the data smooth out. Torque delivery flattened. Brake pressure stayed linear. The car made it through turn ten without any hint of snap.

Finally, she let out a breath. “Alright. That’s something we can build on.”

Oscar coasted to a stop in the sim. “You going to sleep tonight?”

“No,” Amelia said plainly. “I’m going to write a full report for Andrea and then run sector modelling for Sunday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sleep.”

Lando moved closer, brushing his hand against hers lightly. “You’ll sleep. I’ll make sure of it.”

Amelia didn’t argue, but she didn’t confirm either.

Instead, she turned back to the engineers. “We’ll do a full load run tomorrow, weather sim in two parts. I’ll rework the wing config tonight.”

Oscar pulled off his gloves. “Do we ever do anything the easy way?”

“No,” Amelia said simply. “But if we want to win, we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

Lando smiled at that. “Now that should go on a mug.”

—

The Woking flat was dark except for the glow of Amelia’s laptop screen and the soft blue hue of the night bleeding in through the curtains.

Lando had been asleep for the last hour. Or at least, he’d been pretending to be—chest rising slow and steady under the covers, one arm thrown across the pillow she’d vacated earlier. He hadn’t moved, even when she’d shifted to the desk by the window and started typing furiously with only a desk lamp and the stars for company.

She’d barely noticed how stiff her back had become. Her legs were tucked beneath her again, one sock half-rolled, posture twisted into something unnatural. Her fingers moved with focused speed, mapping Oscar’s sector performance against a projected tyre wear curve.

“Amelia,” Lando said, voice rough from sleep but still gentle. “Baby. Come back to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been almost done for forty minutes.”

“That’s because I keep finding new things to optimise,” she replied, tapping a key with just a little too much force. “The grip model’s still off in sector three. I think the sim is overcompensating for the surface temp. If Oscar brakes, he’s going to overshoot.”

Lando sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know you’re going to fix it all tomorrow anyway, right? It doesn’t all need to happen tonight.”

“It does,” she said immediately. “It does, because it’s unpredictable, and if I don’t account for everything now, I’ll be scrambling when I’m supposed to be thinking clearly. And I hate scrambling.”

He rolled out of bed with a sleepy grunt and crossed the room to her, quiet and barefoot on the plush carpet. When he reached her, he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching her for a long moment. Not judging. Just… taking her in.

“You’re spiralling,” he said simply.

“No, I’m working.”

“Amelia.”

That one word, soft and firm and Lando-shaped, made her pause.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but her hands stilled over the keyboard. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Tired. Frustrated.

“I don’t know how to switch it off,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Not when I know I haven’t solved the problem.”

“I know,” he said, and gently reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “But right now the problem is that you’re running on fumes, and if you don’t rest, you’re not going to solve anything.”

“But—”

“You’ll still be brilliant in the morning. I promise.”

She swallowed, jaw tense. “I hate how much I care. I hate that it makes me feel—” She clenched one hand into a fist. “Like I’m chasing something I can never quite catch. Because there’s always something else to fix.”

“I know,” Lando said again. “But you’re allowed to rest without fixing everything first. That doesn’t make you less good at your job. It just makes you human, yeah?”

Amelia looked at him finally. Her eyes were glassy, but not tearful. Just full — with pressure, with effort, with the weight of wanting to be the best and feeling like she had to prove it constantly.

He reached down and took her hand in his.

“Come to bed,” he said gently. “I’ll lie awake with you if your brain won’t shut up. We can talk about strategy, or nothing at all. But I want you with me.”

Amelia hesitated. Then closed her laptop with a soft click.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little hollow from the sudden shift in momentum. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Lando squeezed her hand and led her back toward the bed. She climbed in beside him, limbs slow and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure how to be still. He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You’re allowed to rest,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to exist outside of your job.”

She let out a long, shaky breath. “I know.”

“Say it like you believe it.”

“I’m allowed to rest,” she repeated, curling into him. “Even if I haven’t fixed everything.”

He smiled against her skin. “Good girl.”

Amelia relaxed by inches, not all at once, never that, but her breath began to slow, her hands stopped fidgeting, and the tension in her shoulders faded as his warmth soaked into her.

It was enough.

—

Amelia stirred slowly, the weight of Lando’s arm still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even behind her.

Her brain came online before her eyes opened. The first thought was always a race.

Telemetry. Overnight sim data. Updated Vegas surface temps. Sector three.

She kept her eyes shut. Just for a moment longer.

Her hand reached, automatically, half-blind, toward the bedside table. She found her phone and lit the screen — brightness low, eyes squinting. There was a new email flagged from McLaren strategy. An attachment from the sim team. A message from Oscar. Just a quick one.

Brake marker change in T11? Feel like it’s off. Can we run it again?

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

Then a low, sleepy voice rumbled behind her ear. “If you answer that, I’m going to bite you.”

She stilled.

Lando’s voice was rough with sleep, his face still half buried in her hair, but his grip on her waist tightened just slightly — enough to ground her, enough to keep her in the moment.

“I wasn’t going to answer,” she said softly. “I was just checking—”

“You were doing the exact thing we talked about,” he said, not unkindly. “Waking up and not even giving yourself ten minutes to take care of yourself before you start thinking about everyone else.”

She blinked. Her screen dimmed and went black. She let the phone fall gently back onto the bed.

Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Thank you.”

“I really wasn’t going to do anything,” she murmured again, not sure why she was defending it. “I just needed to know what’s going on. So I could stop thinking about it.”

“I get that.” He kissed the back of her neck this time, a little firmer. “But I also know you. One look turns into an hour of work. You don’t know how to stop unless someone physically pins you down.”

She rolled onto her back to look at him. His hair was flattened on one side. His eyes were sleepy but open now, watching her like she was something fragile he was determined not to drop.

“I just don’t want to miss something important,” she said. “Vegas is proving to be a nightmare.”

“We’ll be fine. You’ll be better than fine.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can guarantee that if you burn yourself out now, you won’t be able to fix the problems when they actually matter.��

Her lips twisted into something half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s annoying because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He nuzzled her hairline. “I like you when you’re being all smart-pants Amelia,” Lando said, pulling her closer again. “But I like it better when you’re well-rested.”

She sighed and let herself relax, her head falling against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat — steady and calm — the opposite of her usual thrum of anxious energy.

He tapped her hip. “Tell you what. You stay here, in bed, with me for fifteen more minutes. Then I’ll get up and bring you your laptop, your iPad, three highlighters and whatever else you need. Deal?”

She closed her eyes. Thought about saying no. Thought about Vegas. Then she nodded.

“Deal.”

Lando smiled against her temple. “My girl.”

—

Las Vegas

Amelia found herself blinking too fast at the way the skyline shimmered. There was no charm, there was only overstimulation. Neon screamed from every building; engines echoed off concrete; something in the air smelled like fried sugar.

Her stomach turned.

As they moved through the paddock, she turned sharply to her dad, who was walking beside her, and asked, "Can I do a track walk later? I need to see the surface in person. Kerb structure, cambers. The sim doesn’t replicate the actual feel, not at night."

Zak gave her a careful look, then a sigh that told her the answer before he said it. “Honey… I’m sorry. They’re limiting access this weekend. Safety regulations, plus a logistical headache with all the road closures. Sorry, kiddo."

She stopped walking entirely. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. My understanding of this track is directly tied to driver performance.”

“I know that,” Zak said, placating. “But it’s out of my hands. FIA’s ruling.”

Amelia blinked. Hard. Her jaw set. Her brain scrambled to make the logic work — and couldn’t. The denial didn’t make sense from a safety standpoint or a performance one, and worse, it was illogical and personal.

She threw both hands out in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now? What kind of regulatory framework tells the people making car decisions that they can’t assess the track in person?”

Zak ran a hand down his face. “I know. Believe me, I tried. I even—”

“No, this is absurd,” Amelia went on, ignoring the curious glances of passing engineers and team staff. “I’m being told to rely on visual models and telemetry estimates on a track that doesn’t exist on any previous calendar. Dad.”

That word slipped out sharp and unimpressed.

Zak winced. “You’re mad at the wrong person.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose and folded her arms. “I’m mad at everyone.”

Lando, a few steps ahead, doubled back when he realised she wasn’t beside him anymore. “Everything okay?”

“She’s not allowed to walk the track,” Zak supplied.

Lando’s brows rose. “Why not?”

“Ask the FIA,” Amelia muttered, rocking slightly on her heels, clearly overstimulated and trying not to explode about it.

Lando gave a low whistle, stepping up beside her. “That’s proper stupid.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, voice clipped.

Lando’s hand slid to the small of her back. Just the lightest pressure. She leaned into it instinctively, grounding herself.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “You’ve been simulating this track for two months. You probably know it better than anyone else already.”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She looked out at the chaos of the strip behind the paddock fencing, then back at the rows of garages, the closed doors, the high fences. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Zak, softer now, said, “Hey. Don’t give this the power to make you wobble, alright? You’ve got this!”

Her face didn’t soften, but her posture did, just slightly. She nodded, tight and short.

Then, “If Oscar crashes because I misjudge Turn 12 apex grip, I’m going to email the FIA and tell them to eat gravel.”

Lando grinned. “There she is. My beautiful, terrifying wife.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss the side of her head and whispered, “Now stop worrying so much.”

—

The media room was lit like a game show. Two stools, a camera crew, a backdrop with the McLaren logo, and a table of whiteboards and markers.

Oscar looked mildly bored. Lando looked amused. Amelia looked like she’s been forced to be there (she had).

A social media coordinator beamed behind the camera. “Okay, welcome to a special edition of 'Who Knows Her Best!' We’ve got our race engineer Amelia here, and joining us are her driver, Oscar Piastri—”

Oscar gave an awkward little wave.

“—and her husband, Lando Norris!”

Lando winked at the camera.

Amelia stared dead ahead. “You have ten minutes. I have things to do.”

“Great! First question—What’s Amelia’s favourite food?”

Lando started writing instantly.

Oscar hesitated. “Does coffee count?”

Amelia frowned. “No. You don’t chew coffee.”

He groaned and scrawled something anyway.

“Alright—reveal!”

Lando flipped his board: Marco’s Italian Marinara Pizza Oscar’s board: …Toast?

Amelia pursed her lips. “Lando’s right.”

Oscar muttered, “She eats toast every morning.”

“I eat it because it's efficient, not because it brings me joy,” she replied.

Next question.

“Okay—what’s Amelia’s biggest pet peeve?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

Lando paused and narrowed his eyes. “Only one?”

They flipped.

Oscar: Inefficiency Lando: People breathing loudly near her

Amelia blinked. “Both are right. I can’t put one above the other.”

Lando smirked. “So I get half a point?”

“We didn’t agree on half points.” She huffed.

Oscar stifled a laugh.

The coordinator laughed nervously. “Alright! Final question: What’s her idea of a perfect day off?”

The boys scribbled.

Reveal:

Oscar: A quiet room, iPad fully charged, noise-canceling headphones Lando: No phones. No noise. Me, her, somewhere nobody can find us.

Amelia looked at both answers, then spoke flatly.

“Oscar’s is my ideal race-weekend. Lando’s is correct for a non-race-weekend.”

Lando grinned. “Boom.”

Oscar sighed. “I should’ve said that.”

“You were just guessing.” She shrugged.

The social media manager clapped. “Well! Looks like… Lando wins!"

Amelia stood. “Great. I’m going back to run a qualifying simulation now.”

She left frame without saying goodbye.

Oscar and Lando both laughed as the camera faded to the McLaren logo.

—

The McLaren garage buzzed with the low hum of machinery and murmured radio checks. Engineers moved with purpose, but Amelia sat on the edge of Oscar’s workstation, unusually still, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Oscar was halfway into his race suit, glancing at her between sips from his bottle.

“You’re staring at me,” he said, trying to make it light.

“I’m thinking,” she replied flatly.

He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

A beat passed.

Then, in that clipped, low tone of hers, “Track’s colder than ideal. Grip will suck the first stint. You’ll want to push, but don’t chase the feeling if it’s not there. Let it come to you.”

He nodded, tightening his gloves. “Copy.”

“Stay out of traffic, especially Sector 2. If someone impedes you, don’t get emotional about it. Just report and reset.”

Oscar studied her. “You okay?”

“I’m briefing you.”

“…Right.”

She unfolded her arms slowly, like the motion took effort. Her jaw was tense. The usual snap in her delivery was duller, like she was wading through fog and didn’t want to show it.

“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone today,” she said finally, without meeting his eyes. “Not to me. Not to the paddock. Just get the data. Clean session. That’s the win.”

Oscar hesitated. “You sure you’re alright?”

She finally looked at him. Her expression didn’t shift, but there was something behind her eyes—tired, maybe. Not physically. He couldn’t tell.

“Focus on your job, Oscar.”

A long pause.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do it, then.”

He turned to leave for the car, but her hand briefly touched his forearm.

It was the first time she’d done that all season.

“You’ve got this,” she said.

And then she was gone; disappearing behind a headset and a screen, shutting the world out with precision.

Oscar didn’t say anything.

But when he climbed into the car and pulled his belts tight, his shoulders were a little squarer. His breathing calmer.

—

The TV feed cut to chaos. Red flag. Marshals sprinted onto the track. Carlos’s Ferrari was being craned away. Oscar hadn’t even managed to leave the garage yet.

Amelia stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, headset still on. She hadn’t blinked in fifteen seconds.

Her dad appeared behind her, phone in hand, expression a blend of irritation and corporate damage control.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Drain cover came loose,” she said flatly. “Sainz drove over it at 320. Floor’s completely destroyed.”

Zak frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The cover wasn’t welded properly. Obvious risk. They didn’t check.”

He looked at the monitor. “Are we running Oscar?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She turned her head slowly toward him. “Because there’s a hole in the track.”

Zak didn’t respond.

She continued. “Sending a car out now is negligent. I already told Race Control we won’t participate until they give a structural inspection report. I won’t risk Oscar’s chassis because someone forgot a torque wrench.”

Zak sighed. “Okay.”

Behind them, mechanics hovered awkwardly, unsure whether to continue prep or stand down. Amelia tapped her headset.

“FP1 is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Go back to base. Check Lando’s floor and cooling ducts for debris. Full diagnostic.”

Oscar walked up, half-suited, helmet under his arm. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him. “You’re not going out. Drain cover came off. Session’s red-flagged.”

“That’s it?”

“It could’ve killed someone,” she said. “So yes. That’s it.”

He blinked. “Right.”

She turned to walk back toward her workstation.

Zak called after her. “Don’t be angry!”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. “I’m not. Anger won’t fix the track.” Then, after a beat, she said, “But I think someone should be fired.”

And she walked off to find her husband.

—

The lights along the Strip hadn’t dimmed, but everything else had gone strangely quiet.

It was well past midnight. The garage, usually crackling with anticipation before a session, felt more like a waiting room. Too many people moving too carefully, voices lowered like something had been interrupted. Amelia stood at the pit wall, headset already pinching slightly against her temple, her fingers motionless over the trackpad. Waiting.

She hadn’t said much in the last hour. Not out of some dramatic mood, she just didn’t feel like filling the air with worthless commentary.

When the green light finally blinked on at the end of the pit lane, there wasn’t relief. Just exasperation.

She keyed her mic, steady. “Box out. Let’s see how everything feels.”

Oscar responded immediately. “Copy.”

The car pulled away, the hum of the engine disappearing into the neon distance. She stared after it a beat too long.

They hadn’t run in FP1. None of the planned setup work mattered anymore, this was just about salvaging time, collecting data.

But now, every drain cover was now a threat. Just another thing to add to her list of concerns.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to the screen, watching Oscar’s telemetry as if she could will the suspension to stay intact through every straight.

Two chairs down, her dad made some offhand joke about this being “the most expensive late-night go-kart session ever,” and she smiled with half her face, but didn’t turn.

The data streamed in. Amelia’s brain parsed it automatically, throttle traces, brake pressures, steering angles, but the usual focus wasn’t clicking the same way tonight. She pressed the mic button. “Feeling okay with the grip?” She asked.

“Better than expected,” Oscar replied. “Still a bit green, but manageable.”

“Copy that. Let’s try Mode 7 next lap.”

A beat passed.

“You alright?”

She blinked. The question had come in over a private channel. Just him. “Yeah,” she said. “Just having to watch everything twice. Sorry if I sound a bit distracted.”

She didn’t add that the neon lights were starting to feel like they were flickering behind her eyes, or that the pressure in her chest hadn’t really gone away since the FP1 red flag. Or that the silence before the sessions had settled into her bones in a way that didn’t feel temporary.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight. He had 90 minutes, and they had to make every single one of them count.

She shuffled on her hair, opened the sector comparison window, and let out a quiet breath. “Let’s go hunting, ducky.”

—

Amelia sat on the edge of a low bench, her headset off, fingers tapping absently on the worn fabric of her skirt. Oscar slid next to her, helmet still under one arm, face flushed from the heat of the track.

“You did well out there,” she told him.

Oscar smiled, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “You sure? It felt like I was half driving with one eye on every drain cover.”

She let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “Yeah, well, that’s what we get for racing on a casino parking lot.”

He glanced at her, watching for the flicker of something beneath her calm. “You okay?”

Her eyes caught his. “I’m fine. Just... processing. You know how it is.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. If you need to step back or—”

“No.” She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “No. I’m fine.”

Oscar leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Roll on tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Tomorrow.”

—

Oscar and Lando stood by the side of the track, away from the chatter and TV cameras, sharing a rare moment of quiet.

“She’s different,” Oscar said, voice low, like sharing a secret. “Not in a bad way. Just... more quiet, more serious. Even when she talks, it’s like she’s somewhere else.”

Lando nodded, eyes scanning the pit lane as if he could spot the cause in the distance. “Yeah. Noticed. You think she’s pushing herself too hard?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t want to be that guy who notices too late.”

“Good call,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to get it out of her tonight, but I appreciate it.”

Oscar smiled, half relieved. “Anytime, mate.”

—

The lobby’s glare hit Amelia like a punch, each flicker of neon and burst of laughter hammering against the fragile calm she’d been clinging to all weekend. Every unfamiliar voice seemed to multiply, overlapping into a chaotic storm behind her eyes. Her skin prickled, nerves sparking in every inch of her body. She tried to focus on the steady rhythm of her own breath, but it felt shallow, too fast.

The weekend had been a relentless tide of changes — the new track layout, unexpected strategies, the flood of questions from media she barely had energy to endure. Everyone expected her to be sharp, ready, unflappable. But inside, her mind was scrambling to process it all, the sensory overload making everything worse.

She could feel the walls closing in, the pressure building behind her ribcage, tightening like a vice.

Just breathe. But the breath didn’t come easy. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers trembling.

She tried to steady herself, a practiced smile pressed onto her face for the reception staff, for Lando, for Oscar. But it was too much. Too loud. Too unpredictable.

The floodgate broke.

Her vision blurred, chest tightening until it felt like the air itself was betraying her. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want anyone to see this unraveling — but she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Lando’s voice cut through the haze — soft, patient, familiar.

“Hey, baby. Let’s go over here.”

His touch was a lifeline, grounding her in the chaos. She stumbled toward him, every shaky breath breaking as the raw exhaustion spilled out.

She wanted to explain, to scream ‘this isn’t weakness!’ but the words caught in her throat.

Lando didn’t say a thing. He just reached out, firm and steady, pressing his hand gently but insistently into the small of her back. A solid, grounding pressure that said, I’m here. I’ve got you.

She leaned into it, breath ragged, heart racing, muscles trembling. His warmth was steady beneath her — an anchor.

Her hands found his arms, clinging like an octopus, desperate for the hold that would stop the spinning. She didn’t have the words to ask for help, but the silent understanding in his touch was enough.

Without a word, Lando lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all, cradling her close against his chest.

The noise of the lobby faded into background white noise as he carried her through it, the solid rhythm of his steps matching the slow crawl of her ragged breathing.

They moved past the glare of the lights, past the curious eyes, straight back to the safety of their room — where she could finally just be.

—

The shower ran hot, steam swirling thick and heavy in the small bathroom. Amelia sat on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, fingers tightening around her stim toy, the familiar texture a welcome relief. The water hammered down, relentless and fierce and perfect.

Behind the fogged glass, Lando crouched, silent and steady. His presence wasn’t words or pressure, just steady warmth, a solid anchor in the swirling storm she couldn’t always control. His hand rested lightly on the tub’s edge, close enough that if she reached out, she’d find him there.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His calm, wordless support let her unravel at her own pace, gave her permission to sink low and find the fragments of herself again. The tight coil inside loosened, breath slowing, muscles softening.

When she finally reached out, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and exhaled a slow, quiet breath.

—

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Amelia lay on her side, knees tucked in, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow her whole. The bed creaked softly as Lando shifted beside her.

After a long pause, his hand found hers in the dark. “You doing alright, baby?” He asked, voice low but steady.

She hesitated before answering. “No. Not really. Today was... too much. Like everything was spinning, but I was stuck in place.”

Lando squeezed her fingers gently, patient. “You’ve been on edge since we landed.”

A small nod, tight with tension. “Since the plane, yeah. I felt sick the entire flight. And then here—everything just kept coming at me. Noise, people, changes. I thought I could handle it, but it kept building.”

He kept his hand in hers, steady and warm. “Nobody had enjoyed the weekend so far, baby. I promise you, you’re not alone there.”

Amelia finally turned her head to look at him, eyes searching. “I don’t want to sound weak. Or like I’m complaining.”

Lando shook his head, a soft smile breaking through. “You’re the last person that anyone would think was weak.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding escaping in a quiet sigh. “I’ve just felt physically sick with nerves since we left England. It’s like the whole weekend’s hanging over me, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Hey,” he said gently, fingers fluttering over her cheek and eyelids, “We’ll get through it together. We handle tomorrow, then we handle race day, and then we get to go home.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “I might lose it completely if it wasn’t for you.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t let that happen, would I?”

They stayed like that for a while, fingers entwined, silence wrapping around them like a shield.

“I hate feeling like I’m not in control.”

“I know, baby. And I’m sorry I can’t take that feeling away.”

She blinked back the hint of tears, voice softer now. “Thanks for being here.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

—

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, softening the edges of the hotel room. Amelia was curled up in bed, the duvet pulled just below her chin. Lando balanced a tray with two plates of eggs, toast, and steaming coffee, trying not to spill as he settled it on the bedside table.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked under him, already half-entwined in the quiet comfort of the morning. This wasn’t their first breakfast like this; the three of them, an unspoken little routine born out of long weekends and unpredictable schedules.

Lando grinned as he handed Amelia her coffee. “Here you go. Not too sweet, I promise.”

She gave a small, tired smile, reaching out to take it. “Better than last time.”

Oscar, perched close by, reached for a piece of toast and grinned back at her. “Glad I don’t like coffee. I’m just here for the food.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, sipping. “You remind me of a stray cat sometimes.”

Oscar laughed, warm and easy. “I weirdly don’t mind that comparison.”

Lando shot Amelia a fond look across the bed.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Oscar asked, munching thoughtfully.

Lando shrugged, “Take it slow. FP3 later and then Quali, obviously, but nothing crazy this morning.”

Amelia leaned back into the pillows, her voice quiet but steady. “I might go and buy some Epsom salts. Write some strategy notes in the bath.”

Oscar nodded, eyes kind. “Sounds relaxing”

She glanced at Lando, who gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Hope so,” she said simply.

Oscar reached out and ruffled Lando’s hair. “Christ, mate. You could do with a haircut.”

Lando scoffed, showing him away. “Fuck off. Says you, mister swoop.”

Amelia pursed her lips and hid her smile behind her mug.

—

The gift shop was a small, cluttered oasis of weirdness and nostalgia tucked inside the hotel lobby. Amelia was scanning the shelves with practiced efficiency, eyes locked on the little jars of bath salts.

Lando and Oscar were already browsing the second aisle.

Lando held up a neon cowboy hat. “Mate, how can you say no to this?”

Oscar was inspecting a glittery, oversized keychain shaped like a slot machine. “It’s got lights and sounds. Look.” He pressed a button and the keychain erupted with flashing colours and a cacophony of jingles. “Jackpot! I’m rich.”

Amelia sighed, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Guys, don’t start. I just want some bath stuff.”

Oscar grinned, undeterred. “But we’re just doing cultural research.”

Lando plopped the cowboy hat on his head sideways and attempted a drawl. “Y’all ready for the rodeo?”

Amelia gave him a flat look. “Great look, husband.”

Oscar laughed and reached for a novelty plastic cactus, pretending it was a microphone. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Gift Show! I’m your host, Cactus Carl.”

Lando, clearly in his element, grabbed a toy rattlesnake and slithered it along the floor toward Amelia’s feet. “Don’t step on the snake! It’s venomous.”

Amelia stepped back, raising an eyebrow, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Right. Venomous and ridiculous.”

Finally, she found what she was looking for; a small, unassuming jar of lavender bath salts with a label promising relaxation. She grabbed it, turning to the boys.

“Alright, I’m done.”

Lando tilted his hat back and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Mission accomplished.”

Oscar picked up another keychain. “Hey, look at this one! It’s a limited edition.”

Amelia sighed tiredly.

—

Less than an hour later, the hotel bathroom was filled with the soft scent of lavender from the bath salts Amelia had chosen. The water was just the right temperature, warm enough to ease the tension knotted deep in her shoulders but not scalding. She sank down slowly, letting the heat seep in, her fingers tracing the ripples on the surface.

Outside the bathroom door, Lando and Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with laptops balanced on their knees. Their voices were low, careful not to break the fragile calm Amelia was clinging to.

“So, the long straight,” Oscar said quietly. “Telemetry showed some unusual brake pressure spikes on your last run.” He said to Lando.

Lando nodded, flicking through the data. “Yeah, I noticed that too. Maybe the surface temperature was throwing off the balance?”

Amelia sighed, eyes closed. “Probably. Felt off the whole session.” She added, only having to speak a little louder than usual to be heard through the ajar door.

Oscar glanced toward the door. “You want us to try something different for FP3?”

She let her fingers trail in the water, thoughtful. “Maybe adjust front brake bias… just a bit.”

Lando nodded. “I’ll write it down.”

There was a pause, the only sound the gentle dripping from the faucet. Amelia opened her eyes a crack. “Thanks for this.”

Oscar grinned. “You asked for company and telemetry. We deliver.”

Lando chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve got nowhere better to be, baby.”

She let herself smile, a quiet warmth spreading beyond the bathwater. In this little bubble of steam and soft voices, the chaos felt a little less relentless.

—

FP3 was more than just practice—it was a chance to claw back control after yesterday’s chaos, and Amelia was feeling the weight of it.

Oscar was in the car, revving the engine, while her headset buzzed with team chatter. The track was unforgiving today, hotter, more demanding, but Amelia’s eyes stayed locked on the timing screen. She flicked through sector times, braking points, tire temps—all the little details she’d been obsessing over for days.

Her gut still fluttered, nerves stubborn beneath the surface, but she pushed it aside. This wasn’t the place for doubts. She spoke into the comms, “brake bias -0.3 for the next run. Watch rear temps.”

Her radio crackled, Oscar’s voice clipped but focused. “Got it. Feels different already.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Keep the feedback coming.”

A few laps later, she caught a subtle improvement in the data—sector two times shaving off milliseconds. Not perfect, but progress. The day wasn’t going to beat her.

By the end of FP3, the sun was blazing, sweat damp on her brow. Amelia’s mind was a swirl of analysis, but beneath it all was something steadier—quiet confidence, the kind that comes after pushing through the noise.

When Oscar pulled into the pits, she let herself exhale. One step closer.

—

Qualifying came in the blink of an eye and Amelia’s eyes were glued to the screen, every pixel of telemetry, every split second on the sector times drilled into her mind.

Oscar’s car cut through the track, precise and aggressive, pushing the limits. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk—not from nerves, but calculation, running through every variable in her head. She caught the slight twitch in the rear suspension, the tiny loss of rear grip in sector two. Adjustments would be needed. Not a disaster, but enough to make a difference.

Will was nearby, watching too, but Amelia barely noticed him.

Oscar crossed the line, a clean lap, but not quite the best. Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Sector three’s where he’s losing time. Let’s tweak the brake bias for the final run.”

Will leaned over, quiet but warm. “You think he’s got it?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “I don't know. He needs the car to behave like it’s supposed to.”

The final moments stretched taut, then Oscar’s second run flashed up. Faster, cleaner. Still not enough to get out of Q1. Her jaw clenched.

Fuck.

—

[Twitter Feed – #protectamelia]

@/f1fanatic123:

just saw that vid of amelia having a full autistic meltdown in the hotel lobby in vegas last night… why don’t you weirdos shut the hell up and disappear into a hole and leave the fucking girl alone omfg

@/raceengineerlvr:

people spreading that clip with zero context? big yikes. amelia is freaking brilliant and deserves respect. stop the ableism.

@/landosupportr:

if anyone can handle this insane pressure it’s amelia. lando’s lucky af to have her, and honestly? so are we. back off.

@/keepitrealf1: autistic, blunt, iconic. amelia’s meltdown is just her being human—get over your toxic asses.

@/f1momlife: as a parent to a neurodivergent kiddo, this blatant ableism online is disgusting. show some empathy. #protectamelia

@/oscarp443:

oscar’s team isn’t complete without amelia. her meltdown shows how much she cares. toxic ‘fans’ need to check themselves

@/nocapf1:

y’all acting like sharing a meltdown is funny or weak. nahhhhhhhh, that’s ableism 101. have some respect or just stay offline ????

@/disabledandproud:

this is EXACTLY why autistic ppl get unfair hate. stop weaponising someone’s mental health moments for clicks. grow up.

@/f1_truthteller:

seeing the clips blow up and ppl twisting it into jokes? pure ableist nonsense. end of.

—

[Instagram – McLaren Official Story]

Video clip of Amelia working intently in the garage, captioned:

"Focused, fierce, and the backbone of the papaya team."

—

[Reddit – r/formula1]

Post Title:

“Can we talk about the video of Amelia Norris? The backlash is unreal and uncalled for.”

Top comment:

“It’s easy to forget these people are human. Amelia’s dedication is clear, and the meltdown just shows how much she gives. This fandom can be toxic. Let’s be better.”

—

Amelia sat rigid, fingers barely twitching on the edge of the conference table. The room felt too bright, too loud—like a spotlight had been slammed onto her without warning. She watched her dad pace. His voice was steady but tight, every word laced with frustration.

“How did we let this happen? The video should’ve been reported immediately.”

She caught Lando’s fists clenching behind her, his jaw set hard. He wasn’t shouting—he didn’t need to. The anger radiated off him like heat, a shield she wanted to lean into.

Oscar was quieter than usual, but his eyes, sharp and steady, burned with the same quiet fury.

They all thought they were defending her.

But inside Amelia, it felt like a thousand static whispers; people’s opinions buzzing at the edge of her brain, overwhelming and unrelenting. She wasn’t weak. She was tired. The energy it took to smile, to explain, to pretend like none of this was a breach of her life felt like a lead weight pressing down on her chest.

The PR team rambled about damage control and messaging, but Amelia barely heard them. Her thoughts slipped away from the room, spinning cold and sharp.

She looked up, met her dads expectant gaze.

Her voice was flat, stripped of any theatrics. “Yeah, it sucked having it put out there. But I’m not going to make a scene about it. I can handle it.”

They waited, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. She knew what they wanted: a show of vulnerability, maybe some anger.

Instead, she smiled inwardly.

She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering. Then, with a quiet kind of defiance, she pulled up a new tweet.

Autism affects 1 in 36 people. Awareness beats stigma.

Also, I married Lando Norris and you didn’t. Suck it.

[Link to autism awareness resource]

She hit send.

Lando’s laugh was the first sound to break the tension. Her dad let out a short, grudging chuckle. Oscar’s eyes flickered with something like pride.

—

[DTS Outtake Clip]

Will Buxton

“Yeah, so… that clip of Amelia, it really went viral, didn’t it? I’m sure she must have thought her weekend couldn’t get any tougher after that moment. But then Sunday came…”

—

Amelia caught Lando just before he stepped into the car. The hum of the track buzzed behind them, but for a beat, it was just them.

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Good luck. Be safe. Drive fast.”

He smiled, eyes bright with that fierce fire she loved. “Always, baby.”

She turned and headed to the pit wall, heart steady but fierce — ready.

—

The roar of the crowd swallowed the pre-race tension whole as the lights blinked out, one by one. Oscar launched perfectly—an instinct honed from endless hours tracking telemetry and analysing every millisecond. He surged forward, slicing through the tight corners of the Las Vegas street circuit with brutal precision.

Amelia’s eyes locked on the screens, her fingers dancing over the buttons and dials at the pit wall. Every lap was a heartbeat, every split time a breath held. She was the calm centre for Oscar’s storm.

“Sector one clean, good pace,” she told him over the radio, voice even but focused.

“Copy. Tires feeling good,” came Oscar’s crisp reply.

She allowed herself a brief, tiny exhale. This was what she lived for, the rhythm of the race, the flow of strategy, the challenge.

But then, amid the relentless thrum of engines and tires gripping asphalt, the radio sparked. A sudden crackle, then Lando’s voice—strained, quick.

“Car’s sliding—shit—oh fucking—”

The pit wall fell silent except for the crackling radio. Amelia’s chest tightened. The word ‘crash’ hovered unspoken but undeniable in the space between sounds.

Her fingers froze. Her eyes darted to the live feed on the screen; Lando’s McLaren spinning wildly, slamming into the barriers.

Time fractured.

The noise dimmed, the crowd’s roar now a distant wave crashing against the edges of her mind.

“Lando’s out,” the comms guy said quietly beside her. “Full safety car. Medical car dispatched.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the sudden lump forming in her throat. Breathe. Focus.

She had to focus.

Oscar was still out there, still racing.

She shook her head slightly as if clearing fog. “Oscar, you’re clear. Keep the pace, watch brake temps—”

“I’m ok.” Lando reported, but his voice was tight — like he’d been winded.

Amelia’s voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. Hated how much it betrayed her insides.

Oscar’s voice came steady, but she could hear the surprise, the tension. “Shit. That was Lando?”

“Yeah,” she said before she could stop herself. “He’s… he’s climbing out of the car. He’s okay.”

She stole a glance at the live feed showing Lando being helped out, walking with a medic, shaking his head like he was fine. But she knew—knew the physical toll, the adrenaline masking the pain, the shock that would hit later.

She frantically grabbed for her golf ball — she always kept it beneath the monitors, and squeezed it. Grounding herself.

“Focus on the race, ducky. I’m here. We’ve got this.”

Oscar’s voice softened, “You sure?”

She swallowed hard again. “I’m sure.”

Every lap was a razor’s edge now. Amelia ran through data, strategic calls, tire management; but her mind kept drifting back to that crash, to Lando’s face on the screen, the unspoken “what if.”

The pit lane buzzed, the crew working, the team breathing with her through Oscar’s race, but she was somewhere else too.

She bit back a dry sob and pressed on. “Sector two clean. Let’s push on the next lap. You can get Sainz.”

Oscar’s voice returned with renewed fire. “Copy. Let’s make it count.”

She nodded, though no one could see.

And yet.

There was the ache.

The race carried on, unforgiving.

—

The monitor in front of her flickered with telemetry, lap times, sector splits—Oscar’s heartbeat in digital form. She had to be here. Had to be present.

Her fingers danced a quiet rhythm on the edge of the pit-wall console—a practiced stim to keep the rising panic locked behind a steel door in her mind. The world had already cracked around her today.

“Sector three’s slower by two tenths, watch the tyre temps,” she said, voice clipped, tight. Her gaze never left the screen, even as the chaos inside her threatened to seep out. The noise outside, the shouted team radio chatter, the flashing pit boards, it all blurred into one sharp focus: Oscar.

The world had been unpredictable all weekend. The unexpected video circulating. The judgment from people who didn’t know. Lando spinning out and hitting the wall. But here, in this moment, Amelia was the engineer, the strategist. The calm in the storm.

She clenched the golf ball in her palm, fingers twisting the soft silicone shapes until the ridges bit into her skin just enough to bring her back. The tears she hadn’t let herself shed yet pooled behind her eyes, but she swallowed them down. Not now. Not now.

Her radio crackled to life, “Oscar, focus on exit at turn seven, keep it smooth; tyres need managing.”

And then, after what felt like a lifetime of silence, she sensed him before she saw him. A warmth settling over her. Lando, standing just behind her, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. No words.

His arms wound around her waist and he squeezed. Tight and warm and perfect.

The sharp edge of panic softened in that quiet pressure. It was like a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding for hours finally escaped. The knot in her chest loosened.

She kept her eyes on the screen, voice steady but softer now, “Push on the next lap, Oscar. You’ve got this.”

The relief didn’t break her focus. Instead, it sharpened it, gave her the strength to keep Oscar moving forward through the pack.

But just for one brief moment, the whole world faded away, leaving just the hum of the race, the steady pulse of the monitor, and the quiet heartbeat pressing against her back.

—

Amelia sat at the small kitchen table, absently stirring her coffee, her mind half on the morning briefing notes she’d reviewed earlier.

She wasn’t in the mood to think much, really. Too many things buzzing in her head—the weekend, the viral video fallout, the constant undercurrent of stress that never quite left her.

Then, for no particular reason, her hand drifted to her phone, and she opened the calendar app. That’s when it hit her.

The date she’d been quietly expecting had come and gone.

No sign.

A slow, quiet realisation settled in her gut. She hadn’t missed a period in years.

She blinked, staring at the screen. No big dramatic wave of panic. No sudden flood of excitement either. Just… a plain, blunt acknowledgment.

Oh.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself quietly, voice flat but certain. “Should probably tell Lando.”

She stood and walked to the living room, pulling out her phone again.

iMessage — 13:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

She slid the phone onto the table, fingers lingering on the edge for a moment. Missing a period wasn’t a crisis, just a mildly inconvenient fact.

She glanced out the window at the bustling street below. Monaco was doing its usual thing, people rushing, cars honking, life barreling forward.

Amelia took another sip of coffee and muttered under her breath, “Well, that’s new.”

Then, with all the casual decisiveness of someone deciding what to have for lunch, she shoved the thought aside and got back to work.

NEXT CHAPTER

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