#ma&thp

[formulaforza]

miss americana and the heartbreak prince

—07. Homegrown —word count: 15.8k —warnings: none :) love, mackie... I don't really have much to say lol... just that I love this chapter and it got a little out of hand. I hope you love it like I do!

Chris takes a personal day at work on the Thursday Charles gets into Georgia. She wants to make sure she’s the one picking him up from the airport, doesn’t want to spend a single second longer than she needs to without seeing him, hugging him, kissing him. 

His flight lands at 10:15, but by the time he gets through customs, baggage, and calls Chris three times after getting lost in the Atlanta airport, it’s 11:30. She finally finds him outside the Maynard Terminal, backpack slung over his shoulders, suitcase next to him. He looks so perfectly like a boyfriend, she thinks. “I can see you,” she says. “Do you see my car?”

“No,” he laughs, and it pours from the car speakers like sweet honey. “I don’t.”

“Okay, well, stay put, then. I’m coming to you.” She manages to make her way across two lanes to be right on the curb, and then he spots her, his whole expression taking shape when their eyes lock. She rolls her window down as he approaches, and slots the car into park. “Oh my god,” she giggles. “Is that Charles Leclerc?”

He rolls his eyes. “Open the trunk?”

“Charles Leclerc wants me to open the trunk?” She says, pushing the button on her door-panel to pop the hatch open. 

“Charles Leclerc wants you,” he says, hoisting his suitcase up into the back of the car, tossing his backpack there, too. “Could have stopped there,” he chuckles, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. She blushes, a cheek-aching smile still on her face. He slams the trunk shut and makes his way around the car, opening the passenger door. “Hi, pretty girl,” he properly greets her. “What’s this?” He asks.

Sitting there, on the passenger seat, is a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, white roses, and white carnations for passion, new romance, and luck. Filler greens and red estelles for encouragement. Manilla and sheer white tissue paper wrap the flowers, a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around the stems. Next to it, is a matching envelope with his name scribbled in purple pen. Inside the envelope is a white greeting card with “just because” printed in simple, black lettering, a handwritten note from Chris on the inside. 

Chris smiles. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” He asks, the hint of a giggle in his tone. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Chris shrugs, watches him carefully pick up the flowers and the card and climb into the car where he further examines them. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, tucking her bangs behind her ears. “I had to go with Hannah to the florist this morning.”

“No, it’s so cool. Nobody has ever gotten me flowers before.”

Chris frowns. “Never?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “my mum once, but that doesn’t count,” and then he starts to open the envelope, but Chris stops him.

“No, please,” she says, her hand covering his. “I can’t watch you read it, I’ll die.”

He laughs, “you’re so cute.”

Her face stays straight and solemn. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” he sets the flowers and the card down securely between his feet. “I’ll wait.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Chris can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks. God, she feels like such a child. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to kiss you, now.”

“Okay,” she giggles. “You’re going to kiss me, now.”

His lips meet hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It’s like they hadn’t been apart at all, the way their mouths perfectly fit together. His hand finds her cheek, thumb moving carefully over her skin, letting her deepen the kiss. They let themselves just be for a few moments, to let everything else fade away and cling onto their perfect moment. “Seriously,” he says when they pull apart, and then he gives her another quick peck. “Thank you,” and then another on her forehead. “I missed you. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she nods. “Hungry. Very hungry. How are you?”

“Hungry, also.”

“How hungry?”

“Very.”

Chris nods, kisses him again, just because she can. Because she couldn’t for so many days. “I know a place, but it’s a surprise.”

It’s a twenty-three minute drive to Pig’n’Chik Barbeque in Northern Atlanta. Charles is visibly apprehensive of the little red building and the parking lot filled with the aroma of southern barbeque, but he keeps his commentary to himself. Chris knows it’s probably a little overkill, the hole-in-the wall joint being even a little too gimmicky for her taste, but that’s the whole point. The place is supposed to be gimmicky, while also being good. Chris used to love this place as a little kid—Bill would always take the kids there whenever they’d gone to the city. It was his favorite place then, and so it will always hold a place in her heart. 

Charles holds open the door, a bell attached to it announcing their entrance, eliciting a greeting from the staff, a “Hey, guys! How’re you doing?”

“Good, thank you,” Chris smiles, moving through the restaurant towards the diner-style bar at the back. She holds her hand out behind her for Charles, turns to tell him: “You might not have been able to get a seat at your sushi bar, but I can get us up at the Pig’n’Chik bar,” she laughs. 

Charles matches her laugh, a playful eye roll and the shake of his head before they’re sitting down on the red leather barstools. 

She’s telling him before they even have the menus in front of them what they need to order; fried pickles to split, lemonade to drink because it’s not pig’n’chik without their lemonade. She’s going to order the shrimp and grits and he absolutely needs to have the catfish.

When he cocks his head at the idea of… eating… catfish… she tells him he’s not allowed to look it up, and that he also has to trust her. “It’s the best thing on the menu,” she says. 

Charles quirks a brow. “Then why aren’t you eating it?”

“Because the hushpuppies will kill me,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t eat them, either.” The grease that comes along with eating a deep-fried batter ball isn’t good for anyone’s system, especially not someone who isn’t used to this kind of food. The last thing she needs this weekend is a boyfriend who can’t be more than three feet from a bathroom. 

It’s an hour and a half, at least, until they’re pulling into what Chris affectionately calls her “driveway.” Charles thinks that anyone else would more likely call it a dirt road. A trail, even, that turns into a driveway after the trees clear and you can actually see the house. 

“This is all yours?” he asks, swears her yard is the size of his apartment lobby. 

She nods. “I mean, it’s mostly trees, but, yeah.”

He’s taken on a tour of the old-style farmhouse, which, by the way, is so incredibly her you’d think the place was built for her—lots of beadboard, all this delicate woodworking that a FaceTime call has never been able to do justice. Thick glass windows with the frame painted over, no central heating or cooling, a couple window air conditioners and old radiators to boot. The most like her, though, is the back porch. It’s screened in, has a creek to the floor that the dusty, antique rugs can only attempt to muffle. There’s two couches that couldn’t match less, but still somehow go with each other, both cozy with throw pillows and cushions and warmth. The whole place smells like her, sounds like her, feels like her. He’s immediately comfortable. 

Chris and Charles spend most of their afternoon trying to plan out their evening. Starting tomorrow morning, their weekend is on a strict schedule, so they want to make the most of their free time tonight before their dinner with her family. They want to make the most of it so badly that they can’t decide on anything at all, and end up falling asleep on her living room couch. 

When Chris’ alarm goes off—the one she’d set the first time she caught herself dozing off, realizing Charles was already passed out next to her—they grumpily get ready to head over to her parents’ house. It’s then, while Charles navigates around Chris and the countertop of her makeup, that she tells him all about Thanksgiving, about her mom pointing out the hickey, and she offers up a warning. “They’re going to pretend they hate you for like, half an hour,” she tells him. “Pretend you’re intimidated.”

“And…” Charles begins, running gelled fingers through his hair. “What if they actually don’t like me?”

“My mom likes everyone,” she says, gestures away at his words. “And my Dad, well, you’ve already met him. He liked you good enough then.”

“He liked me enough to talk to me for ten minutes,” Charles counters. “That doesn’t mean he liked me enough to date his daughter.”

Chris smiles in the mirror, carefully applying her lipstick. “Lucky for you,” she says, “he doesn’t get a say.”

– – –

His leg bounces for the entirety of the ten-minute drive, so much so that at a stop light he can feel how much he shakes the car. Despite that, he doesn’t realize just how nervous he is until they’re in the driveway—which is just as long and trail-like as Chris’ is. Their house is bigger, though. Much bigger. 

His palms are clammy, and he wipes them off on his jeans—should he have worn something nicer than jeans? Jeans are really all he brought besides clothes for the wedding, for sleeping, for working out in. Jeans are fine. Jeans are good. Their driveway is a dirt road, jeans are good. 

“Relax,” Chris says, trying (and failing) to hold back a little chuckle. “It’s not that serious.” He rolls his eyes because it quite literally is that serious. You only get one chance to make a first impression on your girlfriend’s parents, and when your girlfriend is as close to their family as Chris is, it’s an impression you’d really rather not screw the fuck up. “And the longer we sit here, the longer they’re going to watch from the kitchen window.”

With a deep breath, he climbs out of the car, walks up the rest of the drive and onto the porch a pace behind Chris. She raises her hand to knock twice, turning the doorknob and letting herself in before anyone could even attempt to answer the knock. He steps in behind her, into a wallpapered entryway with a tall table full of keys and pictures and discarded mail on one side, and a wooden bench with tan throw pillows on the other side. “Mom! Dad! We’re here!” She shouts into the house. 

A woman’s voice calls back, “in the kitchen! Dad’s upstairs in the office.”

Chris slips off her shoes and Charles follows suit, slotting them under the wooden bench next to hers. He hadn’t worn a coat, but she ducks into a hall closet to hang hers up. He’d worn a sweatshirt over a t-shirt, and he’s pretty sure he’d already sweat through the t-shirt. 

He thinks he could smell his way to the kitchen, the way the scent of the home cooked dinner fills the entire house. He follows behind Chris like a lost puppy into the kitchen, and as soon as she turns the corner and walks through the archway, she’s being greeted by her mom, wrapped into an oven-mitt clad hug. He gets a perfect view of her mom, gaze slotted over Chris’ shoulder. She’s not so scary, he thinks. He can recognize more than one of Chris’ features on her face—in the way she smiles and the shape of her eyes, too. That’s where her smile comes from, and her eyes, too. 

Over her shoulder, Chris’ mom opens her eyes, waves a bangle-bracelet clad, oven-mitt covered hand in his direction. Charles steps fully into the kitchen, determined to make a good first impression. “And  I take it this,” her mom says, pulling away from the hug, “is the charming gentleman you’ve been telling me nothing about?”

Chris laughs, catching his eyes when she says: “Yes, Mom, this is Charles. Charles, this is my mom, Cindy.”

“Hi,” Charles offers a handshake. His friends had reminded him—briefed him, basically—that Americans are fond of their personal space, and he figures if Chris is right, and they are going to be playing the intimidation game with him, there’s no chance he’s getting anything more than a— 

“Oh, please,” Cindy laughs, swatting his hand out of the way. “We hug in this family,” and he’s already being pulled in. His surprised eyes catch Chris’, who looks back at him with an oh, my God. I’m so sorry, glance, which makes him chuckle. If this is what pretending not to like him looks like, he’d hate to see what actually liking him is all about. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he hums, finally pulling away from the hug. “I have heard so much about you.”

“I can’t say the same,” Cindy laughs pointedly at Chris. “But what I have heard has all been good.”

“Well, anything you want to know, I came tonight with my life story ready.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Cindy nods. “Her dad’ll like that a lot.”

“Mama, where’s Beans?” Chris asks, and before he knows it he’s following her out into the backyard for the introduction that he knows is actually the most important. As they stepped onto the lush, green grass, a gentle breeze rustled through the trees. In the corner of the yard, the aforementioned Beans, a friendly Golden Retriever, lays beneath the growing shade of an old oak tree. The fur around his snout is a distinguished shade of white, and he looks up with wise, kind eyes as Chris approaches, his tail shaking slowly at her presence. 

“Here he is, my Beanie Baby,” Chris says with affectionate enthusiasm, crouching down to stroke the dog’s ears. He follows suit, squatting down beside her. “Beanie, this is Charles.”

Charles approaches cautiously, fully aware of just how important this introduction was. He extends his hand, letting Beans sniff it gently. The elderly Golden accepts the gesture, the pace of his tail wagging picking up speed. “Hey Beans,” Charles said softly, voice warm. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Beans responds with a content sigh, his old eyes conveying the years of love and happiness he’s had in this very yard. He leans into Charles’ touch, relishing in the attention.

Chris laughs, “I think he likes you. He’s a bit slower these days, but he’s still the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet.”

After much convincing, and the promise (and fulfillment) of several treat bribes, they’re able to convince Beans to come back into the house, where he curls up on his bed with his milkbones. 

Chris’ dad, who joins everyone else downstairs ten minutes later, pops into the dining room while Chris and Charles are setting the table. Chris looks up in the direction of his footsteps with that radiant smile, warm eyes, like always. “Hi, Dad,” she says, her voice drenched in affection. 

“Mums,” the man smiles softly, greeting her with open arms and a gentle hug. 

“You remember Charles,” she says, and he steps forward, leaving the silverware settings on the tablecloth. Charles extends his hand first, is met with Bill’s firm, heavy handshake. 

“Mr. Elliott, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” His voice is stiff, polite, but there’s still a touch of earnestness that betrays his nerves. “Thank you for having me, I’ve heard a lot about you and your family.”

“Now, son, if I’m bein’ completely honest with you. I never thought I was gonna see you again after Texas. I wasn’t feelin’ you out the way I should’a been, if you know what I mean?”

Charles nods, even though he thinks he picked up about seventy-five percent of what was said. “Yes, sir.” He thinks he’d probably answer any question thrown his way, if it meant when he left tonight it was in her parents’ good graces. 

Her parents, Bill especially, do maintain their intimidating presence for just as long as Chris says they will. Sat at the dinner table with all of them, next to Chris and across from Cindy and Bill, he can’t help but feel the weight of the situation as they all eat. 

“So, Charles,” Bill says, wiping his mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of wine. They’re all nursing glasses of wine, even Charles, who despite never having been particularly fond of the drink, was too scared to say no when Cindy offered. He’d glared daggers at Chris to keep her from speaking up. “Monaco, right?”

Charles nods. “That’s right.”

“A racecar driver from the rich and famous’ playground,” Bill continued. His voice is low and inquisitive. “I’m sure you can see why I might be a lil’...” he chuckles, “worried about you.”

Next to him, Chris cocks her head defensively, leans forward in her seat. “What are you trying to imply, Dad?” Charles unconsciously moves his hand to her lower back in an attempt to reassure her silently. He knows why Bill’s asking questions like this, he knows the reputation certain aspects of his life carry with them. It does put a butterfly or two in his stomach that she’s so eager to jump to his defense, though. 

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just quite the party lifestyle you live, isn’t it, Charles?”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Charles laughs awkwardly. Chris takes a big sip of her wine, leans back in her chair again. He moves his hand from her back to her leg, where she interlocks it with her own under the table. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll go out with my friends when I’m in town, or we have something to celebrate, but… I’ve honestly become more of a home person these last years.”

Bill raises his brows, takes another bite of his food. “Really?” Charles nods. “That must be difficult, son, all the traveling you do. Alotta’ people in alotta’ cities. How d’ya handle that?”

Charles smiles, fully aware that Bill is just attempting to gauge his character. “It can be lonely at times, but I'm committed to a steady relationship. I like to think I’ve learned to balance my racing career and my personal life.”

“A steady relationship with our daughter.”

Chris squeezes his hand, he squeezes back, smiles softly. “A steady, committed relationship with your daughter, yes.”

Cindy takes a sip of her wine, smiles into the red liquid. She seems satisfied. Bill, not so much. “And what is it that you like most about her?” He asks. 

“Dad,” Chris laughs pointedly at her father, a hint of disbelief in the action. “That’s enough.”

“Sorry, Charles,” Cindy interrupts with an awkward chuckle, an attempt to keep the peace before Chris lunges over the table at her dad. Charles isn’t offended by the question, so he wonders if maybe Cindy is apologizing to Chris more than she is to Charles. “He doesn’t mean to come off so investigative. Chris is just our baby, everyone has always looked out for her.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” he nods, takes a bite of food. “As for the question nobody wants you to ask me,” he looks to Bill, remnants of his food still in his mouth. He speaks with the napkin over his lips. “It’s hard to even find a place to start with that, right? I mean, she…” he glances to Chris, finds that she’s already listening to him intently. He smiles, “you are an incredible person,” and he has to look away, because if he keeps going while staring into her brown eyes, he’s going to be as red as a tomato, completely and utterly smitten. “If you really want me to pick something, I guess I would say her kindness, and I’m sure you’re both familiar enough with her heart that I don’t need to ramble on about how lucky I am to have her in my life.”

Chris sinks in her seat, finishes off what’s left of her wine. “Well, now that I’m properly embarrassed for the rest of my life.”

Cindy laughs. “Oh, Chrissy, I haven’t even gotten the baby pictures out yet.” Chris turns to bury herself in Charles’ arm. He can feel how warm her face is through the fabric of his sweatshirt, and it makes him laugh. 

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles.

Charles’ ears perk up. “There’s baby pictures?”

Chris nods against his arm. “She’s a scrapbooker.”

He’s so boggled by the way that they can just switch up after that, the way that they stop trying to intimidate him and welcome him with open arms. He thinks that his Mum could never, that she knows within the first thirty seconds of meeting someone if she likes them or not. When it comes to Pascale Leclerc, you’re forever categorized by her first impression. He didn’t tell Chris that, because he didn’t want to worry her more than she already was in her sweats and messy-hair in Abu Dhabi. 

After the meal had been cleaned up, the four of them sat comfortably in the living room of Chris’ childhood home. Their home is so nice, so warm and welcoming.  He wonders if it’s always been such a comfortable place. 

Chris is sprawled out on the corner-seat of the sectional couch, Beans taking up the seat next to her, his head in her lap while she pets him mindlessly. Charles sits on the floor, back to the corner cushion, legs outstretched in front of him under the coffee table. Bill is in the recliner in the corner, working his way through a newspaper crossword puzzle, half-dozing off every ten minutes. 

Cindy carries a cardboard box down the stairs, sets it down on the coffee table in the middle of the family room. It’s full to the brim with worn, leather-bound scrapbooks, with Christyn Claire neatly written on the side of the box. She sits down on the floor next to him. Carefully, she pulls one out and gently sets it on the table, brushing the dust off the black leather cover. 

Charles watches as she flips open the pages, each one filled with their own vibrant photos, handwritten notes, and little trinkets that tell a story of young Chris. Charles can’t help the smile on his face when he sees the images of her in every stage of life, from a curious toddler with messy, curly pigtails to a teenager with the same smile he can’t get enough of. 

Cindy’s eyes sparkle with pride, and she has an anecdote for each and every photo. He’s captivated by it, not just the snapshots, but also the obvious love Cindy carries for her daughter. 

“This is Chrissy on the first day of school,” She explained, pointing to a picture of a young girl with a backpack almost as big as herself. “She was so excited to learn, has always been eager to take on new challenges.” Charles nods, hangs onto every word she says. “She’s always been a quick learner, even then.”

Cindy continues to flip through the pages, her and Charles silently sharing in knowing smiles at photos they both know Chris would find particularly embarrassing, making sure she doesn’t catch onto their shared moment from her seat on the couch. Cindy reveals photos from family vacations, birthdays, and school events. Her tales of Chris’ adventures—combined with Chris’ personal renditions added in—make for quite a delightful, and humorous, evening. 

“Ah, this one,” Cindy chuckles as she turns the page, revealing a picture of a grinning Chris covered head to toe in colorful paint. “We had an art day in the backyard, and Chrissy decided she'd rather paint herself than the paper.”

He laughed along, felt like he was growing more and more connected to Chris and her family with every shared memory. Part of him wonders if this is still a part of the protective parent act. If it is, it’s definitely doing its job. You can’t be mean to someone when you look at them and imagine the tiny version of them playing dress-up in a princess themed bedroom, or helping wash Dad’s car, or taking a nap at the beach on a mermaid towel. He should get a few baby pictures from his mom, he thinks. To show them to Chris, just so that she isn’t allowed to hurt him. 

“She’s always had a big heart,” Cindy said, her smile warm. “Her friends were like extended family,” she continues, pointing out a picture of Chris and several other little children. She points to a blonde, “You’ve met Hannah, right?”

“We’re going there, next, Ma,” Chris interjects. 

“Oh, well. This is her when she was five. I think Chris invited her to spend the night for weeks at a time.”

Charles nods, everything he knows about her, the way that she makes friends with anyone she interacts with, it all tracks, can all be seen in these pictures. He thinks that he could sit on the floor all night and go through every single picture in every single scrapbook, and still wouldn’t have enough, wouldn’t know enough about her. 

– – –

They leave the Elliott’s house a little after nine, and the air outside is cooler, now, the day fully transitioned into night. Charles sits in the passenger seat, eyeing Chris’ ability to perfectly maintain a speed two under the limit, and the way that she flipped her brights on everytime another car wasn’t cruising down the road. It seemed like this entire town was half-covered in wooded areas, so he supposes it’s better to keep an eye out for any wild animals. The warmth of the evening experience with her parents still radiates through him, but their conversation is now focused on their next destination; Chase and Hannah’s house. 

Chris, in the driver’s seat, is more animated than ever. She was preparing him carefully for the meeting, the anticipation of how her best friend and brother would perceive him hung in the air. She explained on the drive from the airport earlier that day that she’d “promised Hannah she would meet you before the wedding.”

As they rolled to a stop at a red light, Charles cast a quick glance over to her, feeling the weight of her guidance. “What should I know about them? Any advice on how to impress them?”

“Gosh,” she’d said, “I don’t know. Hannah’s easy. Chase is weird, but, just talk about cars or something. He really likes, um,” she pauses. “He races with you… from Australia, I think.”

Charles mulled over the comment, committing it to memory. There’s only one Australian he can think of racing against. “Daniel?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Daniel Ricciardo. He really likes him.”

Charles absorbs the information, realizing that Daniel would serve as an excellent conversation starter about racing. The light turns green, and she checks the intersection for a comically long amount of time before proceeding. He does everything he can not to laugh, and is hit with a sudden wave of gratitude towards the way he’s been wholly and completely welcomed into her life like this. The night of endless nerves aside, the excitement of learning all the chapters of her life that predate him is something he isn’t going to take for granted. 

– – –

They arrive at Chase and Hannah’s house for a relatively relaxed night in, greeted by the warm glow of a bonfire crackling in the backyard. The air was filled with the smokey scent of burning wood, and the soft lull of a country song pouring from a speaker. 

“Hi!” Hannah calls before the couple is even halfway through the back gate. “Hi, Hi, Hi, oh my gosh!” she squeals, hurrying over to the gate to greet them. “It’s about fucking time,” she adds, pulling Chris into a tight hug. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, but Charles knew they were together just that morning. “And you,” the blonde continues, “must be Charles. Unlike everyone else around here, I’ve actually heard a lot about you,” she laughs. 

He laughs too, accepts her open-arms for a hug. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“William Chase,” Hannah calls to the man standing over the fire, a stoker stick in one hand, a glass beer bottle in the other. His head shoots up from the embers when he’s called.  He holds his beer up as a welcoming gesture, but Hannah isn’t satisfied. “Get over here!”

He meets them halfway through the yard, in a part that’s unlit by either the house lights or the glow of the fire. “Hey,” Chase says with a relaxed smile, pulling Chris into a side hug, and then approaching Charles with an outstretched hand. “You must be Charles,” he says, the two exchanging a laid-back handshake before pulling each other into a bro-hug. “It’s good to meet you, man. You want a beer or something?”

“I can get it myself,” Charles assures, “just tell me where they are.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hannah scoffs, “You’re a guest,” she insists, and it is already halfway up the steps of the back porch. “You want one, too, Chris?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Chris smiles, her hand finding his in the space between their bodies, interlocking their fingers and pulling him over to the fire Chase has already returned to. 

Chris and Charles find a cozy spot on the porch swing that sits in front of the firepit, a shared bench that seemed to be the ideal medium between two chairs and sitting on top of each other, perfect for family introductions. They sit side by side, thighs brushing against each other, his arm around her nursing his beer. Charles keeps the swing moving with his feet, but Chris has one leg crossed over the other, the base of her beer bottle leaving a darkened ring of condensation on her jeans everytime she picks it up. 

“You want another one, Chris?” Chase asks, shaking his empty beer bottle by its neck when he heads back inside for another round, and per Hannah’s request, to check on Reid. 

“I’m okay,” Chris smiles. She’s turned fully sideways, now, her back resting against his shoulder, both legs off the ground and onto the other end of the bench. “I’m driving home,” and then she cranes her neck to look at him. “Do you want another?”

“No,” he says, because he’s pretty sure he can already feel her dozing off while they swing, is almost certain it’s going to end up being him driving back to her place tonight. “Thank you, though,” and then he kisses the top of her head, pulls his arm out from under her body weight to wrap around her front lazily. She adjusts to his adjustment, leans into him and finds a comfortable curve in his chest. 

Even among the scent of wood and fresh cut grass and smoke, he’s found himself in the perfect position to smell her hair without even trying. He thinks he’s finally nailed her shampoo, coconut and rose, he’s almost sure of it. 

“Mate, Chris was telling me you’re a Daniel Ricciardo fan?” Charles asks, looking for a way to break the ice into a more active conversation, utilizing the very few tools he has at his disposal. Chase and Hannah seem both way lower-stress than Bill and Cindy did, but he'd still like to leave tonight knowing he made a good impression. Or, at least leave knowing he tried his hardest to make one. 

“Yeah, man. We actually started racing at COTA in 2020, and Renault and Daniel did this thing with our team, gave me a little good-luck message and stuff. It was real cool. I’ve been a fan of him since.”

Surprised, and trying to find common ground, Charles asks: “Do you follow Formula One?”

“You know, I tried after the whole Daniel thing, but,” he shrugs nonchalantly, takes another swig of his beer and leans back in his seat. “Honestly, all respect, but there’s just nothing quite like the roar of a stock car at Daytona for me. It’s like thunder, man.”

Charles nodded, an eager grin on his face. He doesn’t know much about NASCAR, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t study up on it during the flight over. “The sound of those engines at full throttle must be crazy. It’s V8’s, right?”

“Yeah, V8. What are y’all running? Isn’t it hybrids?”

“Yes,” Charles laughs. “They’re crazy with the engineering. Basically, you have a turbo V6 combined with energy recovery systems… it all helps keep us lightweight.”

“That’s another thing that blows my mind, how light your cars are! I know you pull crazy downforce, but I swear it’s a totally different game on an oval, dude. Our cars are like, thirty-three hundo.”

Charles’ eyes go wide. He knew they were heavier, but that’s like… it’s more than double, he thinks, or has to be close to it “Oh, my God!” He laughs, taking another sip of his beer. Chris chuckles, too—he feels it in his chest. He also feels the nonsensical shapes and patterns that she traces over his sweatshirt sleeve while he talks, the way she seems completely lost in toying with the fabric. 

“I know, you guys got fuckin’ feathers compared to us!” Chase gins, joining in on the laughter. 

Charles leans forwards a bit, and when he does it, Chris adjusts her positioning. She’s somehow managed to slide gracefully down until she was curled up on the wooden bench, resting on her side with her head on his tights. She’d found a makeshift pillow in his lap, and he couldn’t mind it less. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he says, checking his watch so that when Chris asks him later tonight ‘when did I fall asleep?’ he can give her a proper answer. “We are all about precision, crazy aero packages. It’s not just about speed and downforce, it has to be managed so perfectly.”

“There ain’t no time for precision when you’re wheel-to-wheel at Talladega. It’s all about survival. We’re out there swapping paint and shit. Bumping and drafting are all a part of the game.”

“How crazy is that?” He questions, even though he doesn’t have more than an educated guess as to what drafting is. “The way the air affects your car when you’re always that close?”

“I mean, I guess I don’t notice it all that much because I’m so used to it, but yeah. We’re always pushing the limits, especially in the high-banked ovals. Drafting is both your best friend and your worst enemy.”

“Drafting, mate,” he peruses, taking a shot in the dark when he says: “that’s like getting the slipstream, no?”

“Exactly, yeah,” Chase nods. “All drag reduction shit.”

“It’s crazy, when we’re wheel-to-wheel, we’ll do about anything not to make contact”

“It’s ‘cause your shit weighs ten pounds,” Chase laughs. “It’ll fly away if there’s any contact.”

They go on like that for some time, comparing technicalities. There are few things Charles appreciates more in life than actually getting to sit down and talk racing with someone—true, technical, perfectionist racing. There’s no investigating what the problem with this year’s car is, or what he hopes happens next season. It’s just… how they work. How different formula racing is from stock cars. He feels like this is something he can actually talk about, a conversation he knows he can contribute knowledge to. 

“Riveting stuff, boys, really,” Hannah finally interjects, sitting down into her camping chair. Charles hadn’t even noticed she’d left, but here she was popping the bottle cap off another beer, taking a big swig. “You put Chris to sleep and I’m on my fucking way.”

Charles stills, his movements suddenly gentler as he tries to crane his neck to see her face. “She’s asleep?” He asks, half-whispered. 

Hannah nods, and Chase chuckles, “Dude, she’s been out cold for like half an hour.”

He smiles down at her, shaking his head, and then checks his watch again. 10:36pm, she didn’t even make it an hour and a half, poor girl. Charles brushes her hair out of her face and carries on with the conversation. His mind is completely absent to the fact that his fingers continue their exploration of her hair, a natural masterpiece of unruly waves. Each strand has its own rhythm, defying any form of order. The curls become even more pronounced as they cascade toward the nape of her neck, dancing freely with the erratic breeze. 

At the root of her bangs, there’s a stubborn cowlick, and one side of her face-framing cut has a mind of its own, constantly threatening to tumble into her eyes. Amidst all that delightful chaos, small, intricate braids intermingle with the curls, held together with tiny brown elastics. His touch is reverent as he selects one, playfully twisting it around his finger while he speaks. 

With painstaking care, he slides the elastic from the braid, and doesn't miss a beat in conversation with Hannah and Chase as he carefully unravels it. Their words dance in the air around him, and by the time he becomes cognizant of his actions, he’s on the last little braid. 

When it’s time to turn in for the evening, when the conversations are more yawns than actual questions, Charles wakes Chris up softly. He runs his hand up and down her upper arm slowly, squeezes her elbow to coax the sleep from her heavy eyes. “Baby,” he hums softly. 

Chris stirs with a groan, sits up and stares back at him with empty eyes, like she has no clue what year it is. He bites back a smile at the state of her, raises his brows and waits for her to say something, to scold him grumpily for waking her up. Chris Elliott is a force to be reckoned with when she’s woken up, and it’s something you only have to witness once to be scared of ever seeing again. She doesn’t scold, though. 

Instead, a soft smile pulls on the corner of her lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiles back. She’s already leaning against the far armrest of the swing, curling up into the corner like she’s going to go back to sleep. She probably will, it’s been far too easy to wake her up. His hand finds her knee, thumb rubbing circles along the denim fabric. “Are you ready to go home?”

She nods, but her eyes are already closed again. Chase is already dousing the fire with water. Hannah’s already inside cleaning up. Charles opts to leave her there, sweet and peaceful, while he collects her things from inside. 

It’s the first time he’s been in the house, and it's just as ambient as the backyard is. The warm glow of the dimmed lights accentuate the charm of their modern-farmhouse decor; wooden shelves bathed in the soft radiance, full of potted succulents, framed photographs, and small artworks that offer a glimpse into their lives. Large, strategically placed windows allowed for a gentle cascade of moonlight to slow, making the entire place feel calm and serene.

Chris has been wearing a pair of Hannah’s slippers since she went inside for the first time, so the first thing he looks for is her shoes. He finds them in the entryway, just outside the door, and finds her keys on a small table there, too. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, the purple silicone case practically glowing against the black granite countertops and pristine white cabinetry. In the living room, he notices a little figure lying on the couch—Reid, he assumes, lies nestled under a Cars blanket, a scene of pure childhood innocence set against the backdrop of grown-up sophistication. The entire room excludes warmth, thanks to an oversized gray sofa and a plush rug, all enhanced by the dull LCD of the quiet television and subtle nighttime lighting. Behind a throw pillow on the same couch, he finally uncovers her purse, carefully slipping it out so as to not disturb the sleeping child. 

“It’s not worth the fight sometimes,” Hannah explains, but Charles didn’t need one. He remembers the age of begging to have a sleepover on the living room couch, to stay out past his bedtime and watch shows on the big television. It was the highlight of his weekends, sometimes. 

“He’s adorable,” Charles says. “I love the blanket.”

Hannah chuckles softly, crossing her arms over each other to hug her small frame. “It’s his favorite movie,” she shrugs. “Wants to be just like his dad.”

He puts all of her things in the car before he even attempts at getting her into the car. Everything is neatly put into a place, her address typed into his GPS by Hannah and plugged into the aux on the radio, and she still sleeps on the swing. 

His humor buoyed by the absurdity of the situation, Charles decided to start with the slippers. He gently slid them off her feet, one by one, and handed them over to Chase, who watched on with the bemusement of an audience at a comedy show. With a soft, nearly conspiratorial tone, Charles whispers: “Chris, baby,” planting a tender kiss on her forehead. 

In response, she produces a mumbling symphony of incoherent sounds. “That’s not French, mon amour,” he chides playfully, prompting a breathy laugh from her lips. His aim is to keep her here, to prolong that delicate state of semi-sleep where she tattered between slumber and annoyance. “Let’s go home, yes?” he inquired. 

Chris, in her hazy state, offered a subtle nod. Charles grinned, heart painfully warm, and said, “Could you help me out?”

In response, she obligingly wraps her arms around his neck, and he effortlessly hoists her into his arms, carrying her in a bridal-style embrace. He guides her to the waiting car with gentle steps, Chase strolling alongside them to open the car door.  She stirs when he sets her in the seat, fastening her seatbelt. 

Chase shuts the door and the two of them exchange a classic, old-as-time bro-handshake-goodbye, a silent acknowledgement of both their meeting today and their future introductions all weekend long. 

It’s not until they’re at her house, the soft purr of the engine falling silent as he properly parked in the driveway, that she’s really awake. Her sleepy eyes flutter open with the automatic cab lights. 

He moves swiftly, circling the car quickly to open the door for her. As she grumpily emerges from the car, he gives her an encouraging smile. “Go get ‘em, killer.” he playfully whispers, his hands working against her shoulders. She meets him with a death-glare he could never possibly be afraid of. 

Chuckling, he plucks her phone from the passenger seat, locks the car before following her up the driveway.

The journey inside concludes shortly in her room. Chris has an early morning ahead, and a late night, too. Charles marvels at the resilience; doesn’t know how she’ll manage tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. As she settles in under the comforter, he can’t help but watch her for a moment, all sweet and sleepy and beautiful, like always. 

Soon enough, the exhaustion creeps up on him, too, and he finally succumbs to sleep’s gentle embrace, entwined with the woman he finds himself cherishing more with what feels like each passing breath. 

– – –

He wakes up when the soft chimes of her alarm break through the morning darkness. The dim glow of the clock on the nightstand reads 6:30 am, and it was clear that daylight has yet to pierce the veil of a southern winter outside. 

He can’t help but appreciate her attempts to tiptoe through her morning routine. The effort is commendable, really, but the old, creaky wooden floors and the protesting door dram betray her intentions. He doesn’t mind, though—How could he? Any moment with her, even early morning ones where she bustles around the space, is better than a moment without. 

Lying in the cozy bed—which, by the way, her bed is so fucking comfortable, he allows himself to fully wake up, knows that her morning rituals would be far more entertaining than any dream he could have cocooned in sleep. 

His sleepy gaze watches her as she moves through the bedroom gracefully, her face illuminated by the soft glow of dawn creeping in from the curtains. He smiles at the little sounds and routines that make up her life, the ones he never gets to see, to savor. Watching her move about is a special kind of beauty, one that makes him feel lucky, insanely so, to experience a life with her in it. 

Leaving the comfort of the bed, he ventures out into the kitchen. He knew she had an early start, a long day away from him, and he was determined to steal every extra moment they could share. 

She’s finishing her lunch, packing it into her backpack when he sneaks up behind her, snaking his arms around her middle and hugging her from behind. “Hi,” she laughs, turning around in his arms to face him properly. 

He gives her a kiss and her lips taste like her morning coffee. He marvels at the ease with which she can make someone’s day—make his day. 

She grins, and there is a special kind of mischief in her eyes when she playfully warns him: “Promise you won’t get lost in the woods and eaten by a bear today,” she says, and then, because she can’t help but add it, “At least wait until I’m there to witness it.”

With a chuckle, he teases, “I can always outrun you, they say you only have to be faster than the other guy.”

Her laughter bubbles out, filling the room, and his chest, with warmth. “You wouldn’t let me get eaten by a bear,” she replies. 

He pauses for a minute, then playfully concedes, “Well, I might.”

“Wouldn’t.”

“Would.”

– – –

After she left work, he found himself helpless in the war against sleep. What was the point if she wasn’t around to keep him up? If nothing was around to keep him up? It was almost eight o’clock before he finally got up for the day, feeling refreshed and ready for yet another evening of introductions. 

His breakfast consists of a simple serving of toast, nothing anywhere near extravagant, but enough to stave off his hunger. Not to mention, he’d rather not make a mess in her house with the very first thing he does all day. 

After breakfast, he heads out for a run, decides he’s going to try and navigate his way around without getting lost. He fails, miserably, because it seems like everywhere he looks has the same landmarks—trees, trees, and more trees. The cool air is invigorating, though, and the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement keeps his mind clear, gives him a certain appreciation for the fact that he doesn’t have to keep his eyes and ears open for anyone who might be watching him. No, here it’s just him, just Charles. There’s nothing special about it, which is what makes it so fucking special. 

Returning home—to her home—he enjoys a shower that washes away the cold sweat of the run. Dressed and ready, he ponders his plans for the rest of his day. It’s hours still until Chris is home and the festivities really kick off. 

As if on cue, his phone buzzes, Chase’s name popping up on the Caller ID. Hannah had insisted on him exchanging numbers with both of them the night earlier. Just in case Chris decides to fuck off to another country again without telling us, she’d said. 

He answers, listens to Chase’s offer to join in on a round of 9 holes with him and Bill, considers it for only a moment, and accepts enthusiastically. He’s in the passenger seat of Chase’s truck within the half-hour. 

“Survived the dragon, I see?” Chase greets Charles with a smile, clearly still amused over the previous night’s encounter. 

Charles chuckles. “Just barely.”

– – –

The day was pristine for golf, with a brilliant blue sky overhead and a gentle breeze. Charles has played at some pretty impressive courses around the world, but something about this one felt special. The green really wasn’t all the lush, and the views weren’t outstandingly picturesque, but. But, there was something that felt so special about it. 

Bill, the most experienced of them, begins the round with an expertly executed swing that has Charles chuckling under his breath. His ball soars through the air, landing with pinpoint accuracy in the fairway. Chase follows with a powerful drive that seems to only gain momentum as it sails. It gracefully lands not far from Bill’s.

Charles takes his stance, feels a bit like a circus clown amidst his partners, but steadies himself nonetheless. He draws the club back, manages a swing with a surprising degree of finesse. The ball leaps from the tee and manages an astonishingly straight shot that lands in a… respectable position. He’s not too far off Bill and Chase. 

Charles would never call himself a golfer, but he’s grateful for Chase and Bill’s attitude—the way they are constantly pretending he’s better than he is, blaming any mistakes (he has a beach full of sand in his shoes from all the traps) on the fact he’s rented his clubs from the course. 

As they stroll down the lush, sunlit fairway on one of the holes, Charles decides he’s brave enough to start a conversation, rather than just participate in one. He turns to Chase as he addresses the only topic he can think of. “So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh? You’re feeling good?”

Chase grinned, golf club slung casually over his shoulder. “Dude, more than anything. I’ve been trying to marry Hannah for a long time. I’m lucky, you know.”

Bill nodded, “Y’all are all but by now.”

“Anything specific you’re excited for?” Charles questions, can’t help but be curious about the details. “Or just a big ball of excited?”

Chase chuckles. “I’m really looking forward to the ceremony. The moment I see her walking down the aisle, it’s gonna be somethin’ else.”

Charles smiles. He wasn’t expecting such a romantic answer, not given what he’s experienced from Chase up to this point. His answer feels more like something you tell your closest friends, not your little sister’s boyfriend you’d just met for the first time the night before. “How about the holiday? Any special plans?”

Chase’s eyes lit up into a laugh. “Ah, the honeymoon. Yeah, we’re going somewhere… sometime. I don’t know, it’s not at the top of our list of things to get done.”

“All I know, Son,” Bill, whose been quiet for what feels like some time now, offers up some wisdom, “Tomorrow’s gonna be real overwhelmin’, but remember it’s your day. Savor all of it.”

Chase nods in agreement, “Don’t worry, Pops,” he chuckles, pats Bill on the shoulder, “I’ll savor it all.”

“And if you get nervous,” Charles laughs, “feel free to let it mess you up out here,” he says, gesturing to the fairway. The whole trio shares a laugh, but Charles seriously wouldn’t mind if the other two suddenly forgot how to golf. 

With Chase excusing himself to meet up with Hannah at the rehearsal dinner venue, Charles is left with just Bill, the pair heading up to the country club’s restaurant for a late lunch. The ambiance inside is refined, and they sit next to big floor-to-ceiling windows that offer views of the manicured greens and vast wooded area they’re situated inside. 

As they settle into their table, Charles takes a sip of his water, wiping the condensation from his hand on the side of his pants. He can feel the weight of the conversation that’s likely to follow—there’s no Cindy or Chris around to keep him in check like there was last night. 

Bill, cutting right to the chase, speaks in a casual tone. “So, Charles, how’re you finding our little corner of Georgia? I reckon it’s awful different from Monaco.”

Charles smiled, appreciating the comfortability of his voice. Maybe Chris was right, he was getting himself worked up yesterday over nothing. “It’s different, for sure,” he laughs. “Home is home, but there is something about the calmness here, the open space. It’s refreshing. And meeting everyone, it’s been great.”

Bill, who’s been nothing but stern in his expression for the entire time Charles has known him, seems to soften, even if just slightly. “I gotta admit, I was a lil’bit… cautious when I first learned about you and Chris. Fathers, y’know, we worry.”

“I can imagine,” Charles nods. He understands. Of course he understands. “You have my word, I have pure intents. Chris means a lot to me.”

Bill seems fully contemplative now, his usual sternness fully replaced when he looks back at Charles. “She’s real happy with you from what I can see, and her brother tells me you treat her real well. That’s the kinda stuff that matters to me.”

His chest feels stupidly warm at the remark. If Chris is half as happy as he is, they’ve really got something here. Something real. Scary real. “I care about her deeply, Sir, and I want her to be happy, too.”

Bill chuckles under his breath, shakes his head softly. “You’re not seventeen, son. You can call me Bill.”

“I care a lot about your daughter, Bill.” It’s an easy thing to do, he thinks. There can’t be a person in this world that knows her and doesn’t care for her. Not when everything about her makes him believe in luck, in something otherworldly—Gods or guardian angels or invisible strings. 

“See?” Bill questions, picking around what’s left on his plate with his fork. “We’re already buddies.”

– – –

Bill drops Charles off just before Chris gets home from work. He’s not in the house for ten minutes, is still moving around the kitchen searching for a glass to fill with water when the door swings open. Chris enters the kitchen with Reid, half a dozen things in her arms and a familiar four-year-old in tow. “Hey,” she greets, lifting her bags onto the counter next to him, setting down all of her belongings. 

“Hi,” he greets, hand finding a familiar space on her lower back, pulling her closer to him, to lean down and give her a quick kiss. “How was your day?” 

“Long… and chaotic,” she sighs, forcing a weary smile onto her lips. Charles frowns. Searching her eyes for elaboration, she just shrugs. “Reid, say hi to Charles,” she introduces. “Charles, this is my little tornado, my nephew, Reid.”

Reid looks up at him with bright eyes and a mischievous grin. “Can I call you Chuck?”

Charles laughs. “No, you can call him Charles,” Chris answers on his behalf, before he gets the chance to tell the kid to call him whatever he wants. 

Reid rolls his eyes. “Hi, Charles,” he huffs. “Auntie Chris says you’re gonna help me get ready.”

Charles smiles warmly. “That’s what I hear. It’s quite a mission to accomplish, do you think you are up for it?”

Reid nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. I’m almost five.”

Chris chuckles, and Charles’ eyes shoot over to her when she does. Hearing her laugh isn’t enough, he needs to see it, to share in it. “Good luck with the tie,” she tells him. Charles winks at Chris, grins down at the kid in front of him. “Reid, you like Cars, right?”

Reid’s eyes go wide, his head snapping over to look at Chris, who matches his expression with a smile on her face. He turns back to face Charles, “How did you know that?”

“So, it’s true?”

Reid nods apprehensively. “I love Cars. My Dad is in Cars 3, y’know? He’s got, like, a awesome race car.”

Charles feigned surprise, “No way! That’s like being a superhero.” He leans down conspiratorially, speaks quietly, just to Reid. “Do you know Lightning McQueen?”

Reid’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he launched into a passionate monologue about the Cars movies, the story, and the characters—paying a special interest to Chase’s automotive-self in the animated world. Charles listens with genuine interest while Chris quietly prepares a snack for the boy. 

He gets ready while Reid eats, moves around Chris in the bathroom. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, using her entire arm to move her stuff off one side of the sink vanity. “I’m taking up your side,” she continues, pulling her curling iron out of her hair, carefully cradling the steaming strands. Charles smiles. His side. He kisses her softly, then— mindful of her unfinished makeup and hair. She smiles out of it, gives him another quick peck, “what was that for?”

He shrugs, reaching for his hair gel, “Just because.” 

– – –

They get to Dahlonega right at five o’clock, thanks in massive part to Charles’ ability to comfortably drive above the speed limit, and in small part to Chris’ ability to finish her makeup while Charles does a poor job at avoiding potholes. 

Every event this weekend takes place at the same place—a vineyard about thirty (if you speed) minutes from Chris’ house, but it’s nothing like what he would usually think of as a quote-en-quote vineyard. It’s more of a… barn put in the middle of a field, but. It’s beautiful nonetheless. 

“How do I look?” Chris asks as they walk up the long drive from the parking lot to the barn. She runs her hands over the thighs of her jeans, straightening them out. 

“Do a spin,” Charles says, and she does. “Hot,” he nods, smiles. Chris rolls her eyes. “Always hot.”

Hannah is running around with a woman wearing a nametag—the wedding planner, he assumes—like a chicken with its head cut off when they get there. Reid bolts away from them as soon as Chase is in his eyeline, chatting with his groomsmen around the bar. Charles trails behind Chris, hand interlocked with hers, as she makes her way over to a frazzled Hannah.

She greets them with a smile, swiping her hair off her shoulders and opening her arms for hugs. “You look beautiful,” Charles comments, kisses either of her cheeks. 

“Oh,” She laughs. “This is new.”

Charles laughs, pulling away from the hug, “Sorry.”

“Oh, no. It’s fun,” she says, looking to Chris. “You should’ve dated someone French a long time ago.”

“He’s not French.”

“But y—”

Chris cuts her off. “Monégasque,” she continues. Charles smiles meekly. “And very proud.”

The setting sun cast a warm glow over the venue as the wedding rehearsal began. Charles found himself sitting in the second row, behind both Chase’s family and with the rest of the partners of the bridal party. 

They’re orchestrated by the meticulous woman with a name tag from earlier, carefully moved through the motions of the ceremony tomorrow. Charles watches with quiet amusement as they navigate each and every step with precision. The officiant guided them through the script, the words blending into a hum that surrounded the ceremony space. 

He partakes in the bland small talk with the other partners—how beautiful, how exciting, how sweet—all the stuff that random strangers with no present connections have to talk about. Charles can't help but glance at Chris intermittently, catching her eye and exchanging silent conversations that only they understand. She’s just so pretty up there, her brown curls cascading off her shoulders while she holds two mock-up bouquets of flowers. She bounces in place, practically, obviously half as tired and bored with it all as he is. 

As the run-throughs progress, he can feel her restlessness like it’s his own. Her wide eyes betray her thoughts when, without words she tells him, this is so boring.

He chuckles under his breath, meeting her gaze with the minute raise of his brows, an unspoken agreement passing between them. So boring.

The repetition of the steps continues, though, each run-through blending together into the next. Charles and Chris share more glances, continue to communicate the same sentiment of impatience to a point of amusement. In the stolen moments, he finds solace in the connection, a reminder that even the most orchestrated events can’t stifle their shared sense of humor. 

As the rehearsal finally drew to a close, the sun dipped below the horizon casting a warm, golden hue over the gathering. The group dispersed, heading towards the dinner that awaited them. 

When Charles catches up to Chris, she’s talking with the best man—Ryan, who the wedding planner kept asking to take this a bit more seriously. He seems nice enough, brother-y enough. Charles thinks he probably has a few good stories about Chris, even more about Chase. 

“Everyone always thought we had a thing going,” Chris tells him after the introduction has finished, while the two of them wait at the bar for their drinks. 

His brows raise, leaning back off the bar to scan the room for the guy. “Do you want me to be jealous?” He asks, lets his hand rest on the small of her back, thumb moving smoothly against the fabric of her top. 

“No,” she says, but the smile on her lips tells him she’d be entertained by the sight of a jealous version of him. “I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else this weekend.”

He nods, picking up the drink that’s set down in front of him/ “Well, did you?” He asks, taking a swig of the dark liquor. 

“Did I what?” Chris asks, moving her drink closer to her, stirring it with a little black straw. 

“Did you guys date?”

“Oh,” she shakes her head. “Never.”

Charles nods. “Shame, I was going to put on a show.”

The welcome party kicks into full swing after the satisfying sit-down meal. Laughter and chatter fill the rustic barn, the air buzzing with the lively energy of the gathering, of the weekend. Charles, having eaten the entirety of his dinner earlier, finds himself following Chris as she seamlessly navigates the crowd. 

The burger truck, stationed at the edge of the venue, offered a tempting array of late-night treats. The scene of grilled meat wafted through the air, enticing those who weren’t around for the earlier, intimate dinner. 

The barn was alive with the murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, the bursts of laughter. It seems like a million people fill the space, a million strangers—a mix of extended family and friends and coworkers and distant relatives and even distant-er friends. For him, all of these faces are unfamiliar, and he relies on Chris like a lifeline to guide him through most of the interactions. 

She effortlessly leads the way, introducing him with a warmth that mirrors her nature of being. She moves through the place like she owned it, with a grace that seems to come naturally to her, connecting with friends and family alike. Everyone seems thrilled to see her, absolutely beside themselves. He understands them, even if he doesn’t know them, and observes with quiet admiration her ability to make everyone feel at ease. 

She seems to flourish in social settings, her personality shining brightly. She greets old friends with hugs, shares jokes with cousins, compliments grandparents’ outfits, and introduces him to each and every one of them, punctuates every interaction with her infectious laughter. 

He’s always felt like he’s more of a one-on-one guy, that his connections are better made independently rather than in groups. Chris, though, could lead a crowd anywhere with this unwavering confidence. She doesn’t make a single misstep all night, navigating the whole evening perfectly, makes an evening he’d spent the majority of outside his comfort zone anything but unsettling. With her, his words feel valued, important, intelligent. He’s content to be her partner in social settings longer than anyone should be. 

It’s long past midnight when they finally get back to her house, the fatigue of the day well-settled on their skin, casting a convincing sleeping spell that made the prospect of a comfortable bed a welcomed one. 

The house is silent, the hush of the night hugging them as they reach the bedroom, the weariness of their bones palpable. Anything but falling into the comforter seems like quite the ambitious endeavor. 

The comfort of the sheets cradles them as they sink into the mattress, a shared haven offering respite from the busy weekend. “Next time I come here,” Charles yawns, the effort of the evening present in his voice, “we are doing nothing.”

She must be more drained, he thinks, she’d worked almost a whole day before this, but contently, she responds with a gentle hum, snuggled up close to him. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Perfect.” The simplicity of doing nothing seems like the perfect plan, a promise of unhurried moments and the luxury of just being together. He wants more of that. He wants more of her. 

– – –

He wakes up for the first time that morning, if you can really call it waking up, to the shift of the bed as she climbs out of it. He doesn’t check the clock, doesn’t even hear more than the creak of the floor before he’s back asleep. He wakes up for the second time, and you still probably can’t call it that, to her standing over him, fingers running through his hair. She gives him a kiss and comments on something he can’t hear through sleep. 

The third time he wakes up that morning, it’s to the ringing of his phone on the bedside table. Her name is on the screen, a photo of her grinning in front of a statue in Monaco and holding a thumbs-up. 8:34, his phone reads. The sun is shining in through the opening in the curtains. 

She’d forgotten the steamer on the living room coffee table when one of the other bridesmaids picked her up two hours earlier. He says he’ll bring it, asks if the girls want coffee, swears he remembers her order. She texts him the other three girls’ orders. Within the hour, he’s riding with the wedding planner on a golf cart from the parking lot to the bridal suite with four long-winded coffees in one hand and a steamer in the other. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the bridal suite, but it wasn’t what he found. The chaos hangs in the air like a sweet perfume. He weaves between makeup artists, hair stylists, and bridesmaids to find Chris, talking with Hannah and a makeup artist about what’s about to be painted onto the bride-to-be’s face, fulfilling her maid-of-honor duties. 

Chris looks up quickly to scan the room, eyes landing on him and immediately returning to the conversation at hand before doing a double-take, a heavy sigh leaving her lips when she recognizes him and the objects he carries. 

“Hey,” she greets, takes the steamer from his hand and kisses him. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you,” and she kisses him again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he laughs, pulls a coffee out of the cardboard cup holder and hands it to her. “Your hot dirty chai with one shot of espresso, oat milk, and salted caramel.”

“A man after my heart,” she says, taking a sip of the drink. He winks—anything more and he’d blush bright red—and continues reading the orders off. 

“Brown sugar oat milk latte with blonde espresso for Hannah,” he says, pulling it out and handing it to the blonde and pulling out the next one. “This is the… Iced matcha latte with soy milk and strawberry cold foam, and the…” he holds up the cupholder, one drink left in it, “Caramel brûlée latte.”

The groom’s house—which is where he’s affectionately sent to after the coffee delivery—is a direct contrast to the bridal suite. College football plays on the television, the cheers and groans of the game providing a lively soundtrack to the prelude of the wedding. The girls were all half-ready, but the guys are still shoveling breakfast foods into their mouths on the leather sofa. 

Noon arrives, and with it the collective decision that it was time to actually start getting ready for the wedding. Chase and his groomsmen needed to be ready for pictures at three, which meant that Charles and the rest of the bridesmaid’s boyfriends needed to be ready to be anywhere but the groom’s house at three. 

Between the laughter and the beers and the arguing over the best way to iron a shirt, there’s a knock on the door. He doesn’t even bother to look who it is, assumes it’s a relative of some sort. When Ryan, the never-had-a-thing, you-don’t-need-to-be-jealous Best Man has a hand on his shoulder, telling him “Chris is outside, she wants to talk to you,” he meets the guy with furrowed brows. 

He finds her just where Ryan said she was, pacing outside on the concrete patio, ready head-to-toe for the wedding procession. He can’t help but be struck by her beauty, the way the delicate fabric of her dress accentuates her figure, the way the color complimented the glow of her skin perfectly. Her hair is pulled back off her face, revealing the curve of her neck, her subtle makeup highlighting her features. 

He feels like he’s seen her a million times by now, in a million different ways, but there was something almost ethereal… angelic about her in this moment. The nerves in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders only add to the charm, make her feel more real, more human. 

He’s never looked at her and thought she wasn’t beautiful, but there are moments where he’s particularly struck by her allure. This is one of them. 

As soon as she lays eyes on him, her words rush out in a torrent. No hello, no pleasantries, just— “I’m freaking out, Charles. This speech… I’m just. I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up.”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” he promises. He’s heard Chris’ maid-of-honor speech probably a dozen times by now, and she’s a different level of nervous every time. This might be the most nervous he’s seen her about it, though. “Can you… can you listen to it, please?”

He nods, his gaze steadying her shaky one. “Of course, let’s hear it.”

She unfolds the tiny, half-crumpled piece of paper out and delves into her speech. He focuses on her words, the genuine affection and admiration for Hannah present in each and every syllable. When she finishes, she meets his eyes, a mix of hope and anxiety in hers. 

“Well?” She asked, her lip caught between her teeth. 

Charles smiles. “It’s amazing. You are going to do great.”

“Are you sure? Because the part where I talk about Colorado—”

Charles shakes his head, puts his hands on her shoulders. “It’s perfect,” he says, gives her a quick kiss. “You’re perfect.”

She sighs, relief visibly washing away the tension. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He grins, “You would still do great. But I’m here anytime you need it.” She gives him a quick hug,  and he can feel the gratitude seeping through the squeeze, so he makes it last just that moment longer. He just, he gets such a surge of pride that he gets to call her his, that he’s lucky enough to call her his girlfriend. “Go knock ‘em dead,” he laughs. 

When three o’clock finally does roll around, the wedding party separates to head off for pictures, and Charles, along with the other significant others, joins the convoy heading down to the ceremony space. The excitement among the group was palpable, everyone connected in some way to Hannah and Chase’s love story, ready to witness and be a part of their union.

The ceremony starts at four, and hell if he can’t stop catching Chris’ eyes the entire time. He doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed a wedding quite like he’s enjoying this one. Chase and Hannah are lovely, and the officiant’s words resonate with sincerity, but he’s less attuned to the details of the ceremony itself and more absorbed in the captivating spectacle that is Chris. 

Her laughter, musical and infectious, is all he hears when the entire place laughs, and her discrete attempts to wipe away tears, to pretend they aren’t falling, melt his heart entirely. Even the way she plays with the ribbon on the bouquets she holds—something so small and trivial, it all captivates him.

He finds himself swept away by a tide of emotions, some messy kaleidoscope of feelings that defy articulation. There’s something magnetic about her, an irresistible urge to kiss her that seems to linger in the back of his mind, always. It’s all lined up for him, a million synchronized harmonies that underscore every interaction. 

The changing colors of leaves and the smell of rain on a pine patio, the heartbeat of a conversation, a light in every room. His perception of his own emotions, the way he feels about this fucking woman, it’s so clear it becomes cloudy. Every stolen glance and shared smile is this integral part of their connection, this thing that he can’t let go of. 

There’s something so fucking special about her, and he can’t make sense of any of it.

Cocktail hour is at five, and the whole family—everyone at this entire wedding he knows—are off doing ‘golden hour’ pictures. Charles lingers by the bar, stuck to the outskirts like a wallflower. 

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of insecurity. It’s not often he’s put somewhere completely on his own like this, almost always has someone he can use as a lifeline if he needs to. Everyone here seems to have known eachother forever, and he feels like an intrusion on their camaraderie, worries that if he does manage up the courage to start a conversation with someone, they won’t understand him, or worse—he won’t understand them. 

His social battery is just… it’s drained. It’s been a long couple days of mingling with strangers, of trying to impress everyone. He’s ready to just curl up somewhere with Chris and enjoy the limited time they do get to spend together—alone—this weekend. 

Maybe then, with some more fucking time, he could sort out all his nonsensical thoughts. Make some sense of his own feelings. 

At the reception, he’s seated at the family table with Bill, Cindy, and Reid. Chandler is there, too, but she and her girlfriend Lex seem about as interested in him as they are the dinner menu. They give him a passing greeting, an introduction, if you can call it that, but content to leave it at that. 

They’re only a few feet away from the head table, where Chase, Hannah, and the bridal party are sat. So close, but when you’re as drained as he is, when you’ve been prim and perfectly proper for more hours than you can count, just want to be with the one person around who you don’t need to impress… Chris’ nameplate might as well be a quarter of the way around the world. 

There isn’t some big announcement or introduction for the bridal party, they just filter in after the conclusion of pictures with the rest of the family. Chris is one of the last to filter in, and finds that the rest of the bridesmaids and the groomsmen are all settled in their seats. Chris doesn’t head for her seat. Instead, she makes a bee-line for her family table, for Charles, who is scrolling through his phone and nursing what she thinks is Chase’s signature drink. 

She sneaks up on him, but he isn’t startled by her arms when they wrap over his shoulders. “Hi,” she greets, leaning over to kiss him. It doesn’t take her but a second to feel how tense he is—it’s in his shoulders, in his kiss, in the way he just keeps spinning the liquid around his glass instead of drinking it. Most of all, it’s in the way she doesn’t get even a hello back, just a focus smile and a kiss. Her brows furrow in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m just tired. It has been a busy couple of days.”

“I know,” she nods in agreement. “I was thinking, we should get super drunk tonight, skip brunch tomorrow, and then do nothing all day. What do you think?”

He laughs, and she feels the vibrations in her hands. “Deal,” he says, holding out his hand to shake on it right as the DJ comes over the microphone. Ladies and Gentleman, Chris’ eyes go wide, practically death-dropping into a squat so quickly she nearly loses her balance in her heels. Charles laughs, but she doesn’t miss his hand reaching out to steady her. If I can direct your attention to the barn door, let’s all give a warm welcome to the reason we’re all here tonight. I’m pleased to introduce for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott! Even from her squatted position, she still claps and cheers for Chase and Hannah. 

As the clapping dies down, the instrumental of their first dance song transitions in. She shifts on her feet, from one heel to the other, and thinks about how graceful she would have to be to attempt to slip her shoes off in her current position. When she looks to Charles, she’s met with the clearest what-the-heck-are-you-doing look she’s ever been on the receiving end of, and a nod that all but picks her up and puts her in his lap itself. His arms slip around her waist lazily, like it’s where they’re supposed to belong, like a magnet pulling itself to the fridge.

As their first dance song starts, as Chase and Hannah sway around the dance floor as husband and wife, Charles places a soft kiss into her exposed shoulder. The warmth of his lips sends a chill up her spine. “Are you cold?” He whispers, and she shakes her head even though she’s been chilly since she put the dress on that morning—who the heck chooses one-shoulder bridesmaid dresses for their outdoor wedding in December? He runs his hands up and down her arms to warm her up with the friction. “You can have my jacket if you want.”

“I’m okay,” she says. 

“Okay.” Another kiss, and then he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Let me know.”

After the first dance, Hannah and Chase give a short welcome speech, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate with them, for making their day so perfect. And then, it’s time to eat. 

She offers to pull over a chair and eat with him, and then offers again silently after Bill makes a joke about how we won’t bite him. She doesn’t like to see him like this, so tired, so drained. “I’m good,” he says, “I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, but her return to the head table is hesitant, and she keeps an eye on him the entire meal. 

– – –

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Chris, and for those of you who do, you probably knew this was coming,” Chris laughs nervously, microphone in sweaty hands. She can’t believe she has to follow Ryan’s speech. He had the whole crowd laughing until they couldn’t breathe. “I’m not one for public speaking, which I know you all find very funny considering my career choice, but when your best friend since the oh-so tender age of seven is getting married, you throw caution to the wind.”

She looks at Charles, but has to look away quickly. Just imagine me in my underwear, he’d told her before she got up here. She can’t do that. She can’t look at Hannah or Chase, either, though, or else she’ll burst into tears. So, she just looks at the piece of paper in her hand. 

“So, let’s talk about Hannah. We’ve been through it all together, from the back of a Sunday school class at Grace Haven where two little girls made their first friend, to hiding from customers in the kitchen of the Pool Room listening to Mr. Gordon tell us about his ‘shine days. We weathered the storms of adolescence, rocked the awkward phase, and somehow managed to make it out on the other side with our sanity intact—well, mostly,” the room chuckles. Hannah laughs, and Chris thinks that maybe she can look at her—she can’t, can already feel the tears welling, the frog in the back of her throat. 

“But,” she cracks, “It’s not about the trials we faced in high school, it’s about the triumph that is happening right now. Chase and Hannah, standing—sitting—here, about to embark on a new chapter of their lives.” Chris turns to the next page of her notes, hand shaky when she does it. “It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows getting here. Life threw us some curveballs, as it tends to do. But Hannah, she’s a force of nature. She faces challenges head-on, and with the strength of a thousand warriors.”

Chris’ eyes catch Reid, sitting on Bill’s lap next to Charles. He’s not paying any attention, but what four-year-old would? Instead, he’s swinging his legs back and forth, tapping Charles’ knee with the toe of his shoes everytime. Charles takes turns grabbing one of the attacking feet, his eyes unbreaking from her, before letting Reid wiggle it away, laughing softly at the interaction each time. “My best friend became a mom at nineteen, and there wasn’t much about it that was easy. But, like I always do, I watched her rise to the occasion, and I’ve never been prouder. I work with five-year-olds every day, and as similar as Reid is to Chase, he’s his mother’s son, and I would pay a million dollars to have twenty of him in my classroom. And Chase, you were there through all of it. When things got tough, you didn’t run; you stood by her. You became not just the guy she loved, but the rock she could lean on, the partner she deserved.”

Chris nods, continuing. “Some might say they don’t have the most conventional love story. But what is love if not a journey? One that involves bumps and twists and unexpected turns? Chase and Hannah, you’ve proven that love isn’t just for fairytales; it’s for the real, messy, complicated, and beautiful moments of life.”

Chris looks past Hannah, to Chase. It's just as hard to maintain eye contact with him. Harder, maybe, because he looks like he’s about to cry, too. Chris can count on one hand the amount of times she’s seen her brother cry. “Chase, my big brother,” she laughs through a tear. 

“Fuck you, dude,” he says back, through an equally tearful laugh. Hannah’s hand runs in circles on his back. 

“You are so lucky to have Hannah. Everyone in this room knows that she has this magical quality about her—this remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. I’ve seen her do it time and time again, watched her sprinkle her own special kind of magic everywhere she goes.”

“Hannah,” she says, turning fully to face her best friend, abandoning the piece of paper she has memorized and replacing it with Hannah’s hand. “You are my confidante, my partner in crime, my source of strength, and my beacon of light. You are the kind of friend who not only stands by people in the good times, but also holds you up when life gets a little bit wobbly,” Chris feels a single tear fall down her cheek, and then another. She sniffles softly. “Thank you for helping me through the wobbles,” she squeaks. “You’ve been my sister as long as I’ve known you, Han, I’m just glad it’s finally official.”

Chris turns back to address the crowd, raising a glass of champagne to two of her favorite people. “To Hannah and Chase. May your love be modern enough to survive the times, but old-fashioned enough to last forever. Cheers to the messy, the beautiful, and the happily ever after you both so richly deserve.”

Hannah wastes no time enveloping Chris into a bear hug, rocking back and forth on their feet. The lace and tulle from Hannah’s dress scratch against Chris’ arms, but she doesn’t mind. She’s too busy trying not to cry onto the fabric while the rest of the tables clink their glasses to her speech. Chase is next with the hugs, a stupid one that’s stronger than Hannah’s. 

“Dude,” he laughs, “you didn’t have to make me cry.”

Chris sniffles. “I love you.”

Chase pauses, squeezes her a little bit tighter. “I love you, too.”

Speeches are followed by the father-daughter and mother-son dances. Chris sneaks back over to the family table during the latter, makes her dad move over into Cindy’s seat so she can sit next to Charles. He has a fresh glass of the same drink from earlier, and is nursing it the same way he did the first one. 

“You know,” she says, checking the state of her makeup with her phone’s camera. “You’re going to have to pick up the pace if we’re getting wasted tonight.”

He laughs, the side of his foot bumping against hers under the table. She leans her foot back on the heel of her shoe, toys with the hem of his slacks. “Is that right?” He spins the drink, talks into the bottom of the glass, but she’s not fooled. His ears are red at the simple action. 

“Yeah,” she nods. “Let me show you,” and then takes the glass from his hand, downing what’s left without a scowl. It’s dark liquor. She loves the burn. 

Chris is like… she reminds him of that battery rabbit. A constant source of energy. She’s practically bouncing off the walls, giddily introducing him to anyone they come across that he doesn’t already know. She’s just so personable, and the buzz she’s gotten from the champagne and the stolen sips of his drinks only make her more lively. She knows everyone here, he’s sure of it, but she could befriend a brick wall if it gave her five minutes.

It’s impossible for even the most sullen people not to feed off her energy—everyone is swallowed up by her laugh, every conversation brightened by her presence. She’s so fun to watch that he wonders if he’s dreamt her up, created a figment of his imagination in the shape of someone just so good. God, she’s good. 

They survive the newlywed games and the anniversary dances, even make it all the way to the cake cutting before it becomes an Elliott family party—which, if you didn’t know, is synonymous with a drunken rager. As soon as Hannah swipes a finger full of frosting across Chase’s cheek, it’s game over. 

Drinks flow as freely as laughter echoes, and the dance floor is nothing more than a playground for a bunch of drunken idiots. Chris and Hannah, seasoned dance partners, showcase their moves with infectious enthusiasm, dancing the blurry line between elegance and idiocy. 

When the music slows, though, she’s always finding her way to him, heavy arms around his neck, his around her waist. If they know the song, they take turns butchering the vocals and giggling until the other person kisses them. 

“So, how was my speech?” She asks soberly, swaying along to the tune of some slow song he’s never heard of. 

“You made that speech your bitch, baby,” he slurs, even though he has a million and one questions about her speech. 

He’d heard it. So many fucking times, he’d heard it, and not once had he heard the ending. He thought he heard the ending—he did hear the ending. It was just different. Shorter. Sweeter. Didn’t put a confused knot in his stomach. Thank you for helping me through my wobbles. A remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. He doesn’t want to entertain them as connected, to live in a world where they’re connected. 

“You think so?” She beams. He can’t ask when she smiles like that. 

“Yeah,” his tongue feels dry in his mouth—cottony. He’s bothered, and he doesn’t understand why. “It was great, very personal.” He shouldn’t let it bother him. It’s a fucking speech at a wedding for people he barely knows. It shouldn’t bother him, it shouldn’t rot his insides, the concept that two sentences could be in any way related to one another. It shouldn’t bother him, really. It does, though. And he can’t stop himself when he’s half-drunk the way he could if he was sober. “Everything you talked about… it’s all you two, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Hannah’s done a lot for me, y’know. I’m sure we’re like you and Joris, just. I cry more than you.”

“Even the, uh…” he clears his throat. “Even the whole thing about, um…”

“Charles,” she laughs, brows furrowed in a way he thinks only he could perceive. 

He sighs. “You know that you’re the kind of person who is easy to love, yes?”

She doesn’t look at him when she nods, or when she smiles, or when she kisses him. “I know,” she mumbles, and it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever said. The easiest lie he’s ever spotted, but it’s even clearer that she doesn’t want him to push on it, so he doesn’t. He’s smart enough to know when it’s time to just dance with his girlfriend. 

– – –

They wake up the next morning disgustingly hungover. Like, stare at the white ceiling for twenty minutes talking about how hungover they are and praying they don’t throw up, hungover. Her ceiling is textured, and the pattern repeats every foot-or-so like it’s been stamped on. That’s how hungover he is.

He showers while she makes them prairie oysters, and despite how absolutely horrifying it looks, sounds, and sells, he manages to find enough trust in her to force it down with a grim scowl. Fuck, it’s disgusting. Horrifically so. 

They take an uber out to the wedding venue to retrieve Chris’ car, and she gives directions back to the Dawsonville Pool Room with her eyes half closed, sunglasses over her eyes. Everytime he looks at her he thinks she’s turning green. 

The owner recognizes her as soon as they’re walking through the door. Charles doesn’t understand a single fucking word the guy says. Chris orders “two Bully Burgers, but I swear to holy Heaven if you put slaw anywhere near my plate you’re gonna see the Devil, Mr. Gordon.”

He responds in something Charles could technically call English, and Chris shakes her head, a smile pulling on her lips. “I’m serious, he’ll back me up,” she says, thumb pointing to him. “He’s not from around here, you’re just another stranger.”

The greasiest, sloppiest, most mediocre burger he’s ever eaten is put in front of him five minutes later, and he feels like a new man after. Still absolutely strung out and exhausted, yes, but like his stomach is content to stay inside his body. 

Later that afternoon, when they’re both half asleep on the couch, some stupid sitcom playing as background nose, he’s still thinking about her fucking speech from the night earlier. It’s still bugging him. “Baby?” he mumbles against the skin of her shoulder. He doesn’t even know if she’s awake to answer. 

“Hmm?” She hums. 

“We do not have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but. You are a very lovable person, I think.” He couldn’t give any specific examples of what makes him so sure of this fact, he honestly couldn’t. But isn’t that proof enough? That just her being is enough to answer the question. 

“Babe,” she stretches against him, speaks through a yawn. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I just. I don’t know.”

“No, it’s okay. We can talk about it.” She adjusts, if just slightly, so that it’s easier for her to look at him while they speak. “When everyone has the same complaint, all your old friends and old boyfriends tell you that you’re too much or too little, you realize maybe you’re the crazy one.”

He doesn't like that reasoning. He thinks it’s a load of bullshit, actually. “Why do you think of yourself in this way?”

Chris laughs. “It’s fine, really.”

“It’s not,” he says, because he knows it’s a lie. 

“It is, because I’ve come to terms with it. I accept it.”

He frowns, hates the way she seems so content with this. Like it’s something that is even kind of rational. It’s not, he knows. He pauses, can’t even come up with something to say to her level of absurdity. “I don’t think you should accept that.”

She turns away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, and laughs softly. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“You are not unlovable.” She’s not. She’s not. He knows she’s not. He knows, he knows, because of rain on a pine patio and leaves that change colors. He knows, because if she was unlovable, he wouldn’t love her. And he does, he does love her. 

Wait.

“Well, we’ll see. Everyone always sees.”

No, hold on. Wait. His stomach is tangled, flip-flopping and fluttering like every butterfly this side of the Atlantic has suddenly taken up residence in his insides. You don’t love her, you idiot, he thinks. But he does. Fucking… His heart races. He hopes to God, pays to something he’s not sure he believes in that she can’t feel it against his chest. That he can get away with it. “See what?”

She shrugs. “If I knew, nobody would see it,” she laughs. He laughs along, too, but it’s so forced that it sounds like some pre-recorded bit. She’s so casual about all of this that he feels like he needs to pinch himself. It doesn’t make sense, he can’t wrap his mind around it. But Chris, she’s comfortable enough with her bull-fucking-shit ‘facts’ that she can pull her phone out and scroll through it while they wrap up the conversation. “And before you ask, ‘What if I don’t see anything?’ like everyone else but Hannah always asks, nothing happens.”

“Nothing happens?”

She opens her fucking email. He’s in love with her, and she’s opening her fucking email while telling him it’s not possible. “You win, I guess.”

“I win you?”

“I mean, I don’t like to consider myself something that can be won,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. His heart is beating so loud he thinks the neighbors can probably hear it. “But for lack of a better word… sure. You win me.”

He nods. There’s nothing more he can add to the conversation, not now. Not when he’s just ran face-first into a brick wall of I love you.  Fuck. Fuck. He’s totally in love with her. What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

last chapter masterlist next chapter

[swiftieinbrazil]

Taylor Swift at The Eras Tour on May 21st, 2023 in Foxborough, MA (USA) - (x)

[reminiscentreader]

I have bad news: miss Americana and the heartbreak prince is slowly becoming a “TikTok song”

[lyricsbytaylorswift]

Taylor Swift - Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince

[tesaurotaylorswift]

Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince

TG: Lover [álbum]

Letra

[hazellevessque]

“Surreal, I’m damned if I do give a damn what people say.”

My favorite couples as Taylor Swift songs part ii | Lavender Haze (Yamini Kapoor-Mercado-Lopez and Prince Rudra of Naga-Loka’s Version)

[lycheepocketwitch]

𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 (𝐦𝐚&𝐭𝐡𝐩 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞)

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: it's been a decade since you've stepped foot inside shield. you can't say your're exactly excited to see your old classmates again, but all you have to get through the reunion and then it's another goodbye.

warnings: suggestive language

word count: 2.2k

series masterlist | main masterlist | also on ao3 | library blog

It was true what people said about how dramatic high school seemed; your tumultuous relationship with Wanda was evidence of that. Anything and everything that happened to you two felt like it was the be-all and end-all of your lives. Years down the line, you would shake your head at how much heartbreak you went through, all because of poor communication. Your high school experiences definitely shaped who you had become, but you still wished you would’ve fought for yourself a little harder back then.

At least, you no longer were the quiet artist your peers knew. Perhaps moving to the West coast did you some good after all. It wasn’t easy moving across the country, but it felt necessary. You were never going to stay in Westview forever, and New York City just reminded you too much of high school, no matter how big it was. That wasn’t to say that Los Angeles didn’t have its pitfalls, the incredibly expensive houses being one of them. You weren’t really looking forward to paying off your mortgage on top of your college debt (although alleviated a bit by the scholarships you’d gotten over the years). The one good thing out of this situation was that you’d get to have your forever home with the love of your life. All that was left was actually finding it.

You fiddled nervously with the ring on your middle finger as you took one last glance at yourself in the mirror. “You look lovely, honey,” your mother cooed from the doorway of your childhood bedroom.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my mom,” you said.

Your mother simply shook her head in disagreement. “Don’t forget to drop by the Proctors’ bakery for your cake-tasting appointment.” You hummed in response, rearranging your loose white blouse under your mustard yellow blazer. “Two buttons,” your mother suddenly said.

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

“Leave two buttons undone. You and your fiancée will thank me later.”

“Oh my god, mom, I’m gonna leave now,” you said, ignoring your laughing mother as you made your way down the stairs. You bid goodbye to your parents quickly before leaving the house.

hot shot fiancée #2: you’re not thinking of ditching are you? hot shot fiancé #1: wow you have so much faith in me hot shot fiancée #2: i was just checking to make sure to see if i had to punish you later😈 hot shot fiancée #1: how am i supposed to drive to the last place i want to be knowing i could have you in my bed instead if i stayed home? hot shot fiancée #2: patience baby and you’ll get your reward ;) hot shot fiancée #1: you’re gonna be the death of me omg hot shot fiancée #1: i miss you so much hot shot fiancée #2: i miss you more❤️  i wish i could be there with you right now hot shot fiancée #1: me too❤️ see you soon i love you hot shot fiancée #2: i love you always💕

You smiled down at your phone, turning it off to get ready to pull your rental car out of your parents’ driveway. Driving down the street, you couldn’t help but glance at the Maximoffs’ house, a nostalgic feeling bubbling up at the sight.

A loud ringtone broke you out of your thoughts. You carefully reached for you phone in one of the cupholders and trying to accept the call while keeping your eyes on the road. “Hello?” you said as soon as you accepted the call and put it on speakerphone.

“Where are you?” Yelena’s angry voice rang through.

“I’ll be there soon,” you said, wincing when you noticed that you were now going to be at least 30 minutes late if traffic wasn’t going to be a total asshole tonight.

“I’d believe you if you didn’t have your location on, pchelka. You aren’t even in the right state right now!”

“I’m sorry! I got caught up. I swear I’ll try to be there as soon as possible.”

“The missus isn’t even with you and she manages to distract you,” Yelena scoffed, but you couldn’t help grinning at the thought that soon, you’d be married to the woman of your dreams.

“You love her,” you retorted.

“Yeah yeah, whatever, she grew on me. Now, get your ass over here. I can’t stand these people. All they’re talking about is how they were the shit in high school.”

“Why are you there when you clearly don’t want to be?”

“Free food, duh. Now, hurry up!”

“I will. I will,” you said, shaking your head in amusement even though she couldn’t see you.

True to your word, you made it to your old high school less than an hour later and found Yelena leaning against a tall table near the group that had formed around Vision.

“Why would you subject yourself to this torture?” you snickered as you successfully managed to sneak up from behind her and spook her. Yelena wasn’t nearly as amused and just smacked you on the arm with the back of her hand.

“They took my goddamn table,” she grumbled.

“It has your name on it?”

“I had it first. It’s the closest to the bar,” she explained, slightly glaring at the group who didn’t spare her a second look.

“Come on, little miss grumpy,” you snorted, not bothering trying to tug the woman away since there was no way her stubborn ass was going to move now. You had to give it to the reunion committee. They did an excellent at redecorating the gymnasium to not make it look… well, like a high school gymnasium.

“I can’t believe you left me here alone, all of you!” Yelena exclaimed. In defence of Makkari and Druig, you didn’t think they exactly planned on timing the birth of their first child to match the night of the reunion, but you didn’t say anything as not enrage the other woman even more. “I had to listen to Vision talk to his groupies about his upcoming projects for Stark Industries’ line of smart home gadgets.”

“Is that even legal? Shouldn’t those be like super under wraps or something?”

“I bet you it’s a marketing scheme, making it seem like he’s revealing some deep secret when really, they’re relying on the crowd to spread the word to others,” Yelena shrugged, downing her shot of vodka.

“Oh Pietro!” you suddenly heard Vision shout as he waved at him to come over. You and Yelena followed Vision’s line of sight to see Pietro slowly making his way to the younger Stark with a tight smile. As he made his way to their table, he greeted you and Yelena with a subtle head nod, which you both returned before you continued your conversation.

The tables were close enough for you to hear Vision and the rest of the group congratulate Pietro on winning a silver medal at the previous Olympics, as well as Pietro thanking them and answering any questions they had about what else he’d been up to. To outsiders, it would look like old friends catching up, but you distinctly remember the fallout the Maximoff twins had with the popular kids. You started to tune out the group’s questions to solely focus on your conversation with Yelena until you heard Peter Quill ask about his sister.

“She’s been good too,” Pietro answered easily. “She’s still doing her residency in pediatrics and she loves it. I think she had to finish up something urgent at work today, so that’s why she’s late.”

As if on cue, the doors to the gymnasium opened once more to reveal a very late Wanda dressed in a plum colored, tight fitting evening gown with a cowl neck. Maybe you were biased, but it definitely felt like time had stopped as you watched her standing by the entrance in search for one particular person. She was even more beautiful than she was in high school and you couldn’t help your thumping heart as you kept your eyes on her while she grinned when she finally found the person she was looking for.

Wanda didn’t bother with niceties like her brother did. She made her way straight to you, gently caressing your cheek before pressing her lips against yours. “Told you, I’d see you soon, sunshine,” she murmured, staring lovingly into your eyes.

“Not soon enough,” you said quietly. “You look gorgeous in that dress, by the way. I can’t wait to take off you.”

It was apparently not quietly enough because that prompted Yelena to cough and reply, “One, ew. Two, I should have you know that I’m very offended by that. If you don’t appreciate my presence, I have no problem making myself scarce.” At the same time you told her you didn’t mind that, Wanda protested and told her to stay. “I’m gonna remember this betrayal,” she said, playfully narrowing her eyes at you.

“I will not be blamed for wanting to spend some alone time with my fiancée,” you asserted with a shrug, snaking one arm around Wanda’s waist to rest your hand on her hip.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. We have the rest of our lives together,” Wanda cooed and placed a gentle kiss against your cheek.

“Are these two making you feel like a thirdwheel again?” Pietro asked Yelena after leaving Vision’s table to stay at yours.

“Always,” Yelena groaned, earning herself a round of laughter from all three of you.

You’d been quite apprehensive about this night. While you had gained a lot of confidence since your high school days and were practically an entirely different person, you weren’t exactly ecstatic to go back to the place your insecurities had stemmed from. Wanda was the one who convinced to give it a shot.

She didn’t pressure you into going, but she did tell you that it’d be a nice way to show your younger self that you’d grown. “Plus, I’d get to show off my incredibly hot fiancée to everyone,” she had added, only somewhat jokingly.

The night wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d imagined it would be. It was pretty boring and uneventful, but Wanda was right, if younger you could see you know, she would be so proud of you for getting this far.

“So,” you drawled, “when can we leave?”

“I just got here. I haven’t even gotten to show you off yet,” Wanda whined. Seeing you pout, she sighed. “Fine, we can leave soon, but I’m parading you around before we head to your parents’.”

You let out a small chuckle and relented, looping your arm into hers as she started to drag you around the gymnasium to quickly say hi to old classmate before leaving the reunion. Yelena trailed behind, grumbling about how she was going to get payback on Kate for bailing last minute and not attending her reunion next year.

“Your girlfriend is a busy CEO, Lena, give her a break,” you said and laughed when Yelena’s pout transformed into a grin as she showed you a text from Kate saying that she would try to make it up to her with cuddles. You said goodbye to your best friend and got into your car, opening the door for Wanda to get into the passenger seat.

“You think your parents are asleep yet?” Wanda asked, rearranging her hair so that laid over her seatbelt while you put the keys in the ignition.

“Probably not,” you responded and you could tell Wanda was smirking without even looking at her. “You better actually be quiet this time. I don’t want a repeat of last Christmas.”

“I was quiet! It’s not my fault there was a freaking spider that showed up out of nowhere and landed on the bedside table.”

“I can barely look my dad in the eye now,” you groaned. “How awkward was it when he went to pick you up from the airport earlier?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Wanda shrugged. “And you know what, I would say it’s pretty impressive that that was the first time they caught us in bed.”

“I would’ve preferred it if they had never caught me under you instead.”

“Aw, is my baby shy about being a bottom?” Wanda teased. You snapped your head in her direction, watching her with an incredulous look.

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” you said and redirected your eyes to the road.

“I don’t think I will,” she replied. She leaned towards you to kiss your cheek and from the corner of your eye, you saw her lean back against her seat while she crossed her legs.

You smiled to yourself thinking of how far you two had gotten. It had taken years for Wanda to grow into herself and stop caring so much about what people said about her, and for you to learn how to stand your ground and not let others walk over. After all this time, you’d finally gotten to this place where both of you were ready to enter a steady and serious relationship together. It wasn’t an easy journey and even now, you had your difficult days, but you were both so happy to have each other again, at last.

[xaviergalatis]

[meetsthebones]

ppl slander lover bc they arent fun enough to like me! but like. ma&thp cruel summer dbatc the archer lover sygb daylight cornelia street all perfect songs 

[dam-bluecookies]

Hi bestie! It's your secret Santa! I'm sorry it's taken me a while. I didn't see you turned on anon! How are you?! What's your favorite Taylor swift album/era/song? Hope you had a wonderful Christmas!

YAYY and I'm really sorry! I turned on anon as soon as I was informed lol

I may or may not have forgotten about having a secret Santa of my own-

So my favourite TS era is probably Reputation or Lover era! I can't pick a song, but my comfort albums have to be Lover, Reputation and Evermore

[formulaforza]

welcome to dawsonville!

miss americana and the heartbreak prince: chapter 7 coming tomorrow.

[neck-thats-made-for-bruising]

In honor of Lovers birthday tell us what your fav lyric(s) is/are from each song

IFTYE: Your name on lips, tongue tied/free rent, living in my mind

Cruel summer: Said "I'm fine," but it wasn't true

Lover: My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

The man: If I was out flashing my dollars/I'd be a bitch not a baller

The archer: They see right through/Can you see right through me?

I think he knows: Lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh/We could follow the sparks, I'll drive

MA&THP: It's you and me, that's my whole world/They whisper in the hallway "shes's a bad, bad girl"

Paper rings: The moon is high/Like your friends were the night that we first met

Cornelia Street: Baby, I get mystified by how this city screams your name

DBATC: But if the story's over, why am I still writing pages?

London boy: BABES DON'T THREATEN ME WITH A GOOD TIME

Soon you'll get better: I know delusion when I see it in the mirror

False God: The alter is my hips

YNTCD: CAUSE SHADE NEVER MADE ANYBODY LESS GAY

Afterglow: Hey it's all me, in my head/I'm the one who burned us down/but it's not what I meant

ME!: HEY KIDS, SPELLING IS FUN

INTHAF: You been stressed out lately, yeah me too

Daylight: I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you/I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you & I wounded the good and trusted the wicked

tagging some of my fellow swifites (no pressure) @ava-taylors-versionversion @angerycat @mqstermindswift @when-emma-falls-in-love13 @two-maroon-ghosts @wonderstruck-land89 @stvrlighhttt @poppy-inmyhair @person4924 @bookish-swiftie13 @bejeweled-13 @my-castles-crumbling @andtheysaidspeaknow-13 @sleepingswift85 @erasofswift @friendship-bracelets-anon

sorry if I forgot anyone, if you want to join you can <3

[hellohannie]

Hits Different | lc

“𝙝𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 ‘𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪”

it was no secret that you had dated many people in your past. when you were with them, you believed you loved them and they loved you. when you broke up, you realized that they didn't truly love you. but you still believed that love was real. then, you met lee chan. when he broke up with you, you started to question if love truly did exist after all. part of the taylor swift x seventeen collection

♡ PLAYERS - lee chan x f.reader

♡ WORD COUNT - 7.5K

♡ TAGS - exes to lovers au, rockbandmember!chan, fluff, angst, alcohol use, mentions of one night stands, reader is bisexual, reader gets called sexist things (not by chan))

♡ INSPIRATION - Hits Different by Taylor Swift

♡ NOTES - guuyysss, i had the hardest time writing the mushy gushy scenes in this one and i have no idea whyyyy so please forgive me if they are cringy T_T anyways, i hope you enjoy this one!!

p.s thank you so much for all the kind comments on MA&THP! you are all so sweet!

You could feel the bass beat through your feet as you swayed on the elevated surface at the club. The lights formed a kaleidoscope of colors behind your closed eyelids as you swung your hips back and forth, stumbling a bit in your heeled boots. You were long past the point of being conscious of where your limbs were, heavily dependent on the boys around you to keep you upright. 

You felt a light squeeze on your hand, and you wrenched your eyes open to look down at Hansol who was standing on the ground in front of you, ready to catch you in case you pitched yourself off the stage in your drunken haze. 

“Are you ready to go?” The music was too loud to hear what he said, but you managed to make out the movement of his lips. 

“No!” you gasped, backing into Seungkwan, who tightened his grip on your hips. “I love this song!”

Hansol looked over your shoulder, having a wordless conversation with his friend. You felt Seungkwan sigh, his warm breath tickling your ear. “It’s alright, we’ll stay for one more,” he reassured you. You relaxed, allowing him to guide your bodies to the rhythm of the music. Hansol kept a grip on your hand, making a face when he caught your eyes. You laughed, looking past his shoulder at the crowd, when a blonde head caught your attention. 

The boy threw his head back to laugh, and you jolted. Was that…

“Chan?” you mumbled, standing still. 

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” Seungkwan came to stand next to you, as Hansol turned around, trying to figure out what caused the anguished look on your face, but you paid them no mind. 

Your heart was racing. Chan was here. With another girl. It shocked you completely out of your daze, enough to where you started to focus on your surroundings again. That’s when you heard it. The speakers were blasting yours and Chan’s song. The song he would play in the car as you drove down the city streets at midnight. The song he would play after dinners in his apartment as you danced together in the kitchen. It was your song, and here he was, dancing to it with someone else. 

“I need to get down,” you choked out, squatting down to get off the stage.

“Y/N that’s not him,” Seungkwan was repeating frantically. He must’ve noticed what caught your eye. “That’s not Chan.” 

But you were past the point of listening. 

Hansol gripped your waist and helped you down, trying to steady you as you swayed on your feet. You shook his hands off and sped towards the exit, feeling too suffocated in the musty nightclub. 

You stumbled outside, chest heaving as you allowed the chill air to clean out your lungs and clear up your mind. 

That boy in there wasn’t Chan, but you didn’t feel relieved. Your intoxicated mind ran scenarios of Chan laughing like that with other girls. Scenarios of Chan with other girls. 

“Y/N,” Seungkwan grabbed you by your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. Hansol stood behind him, head bent over his phone, probably ordering an Uber. “That wasn’t him.”

“I know,” you nodded, arms clutching your stomach. Your mind just wouldn’t stop thinking. “Oh God, I’m gonna yak,” you groaned. Seungkwan’s arms retracted at lightning speed as you spun around, throwing up onto the street. Then, you stumbled back until your body hit the brick wall of the building, sliding down until you were sitting like a marionette doll on the concrete sidewalk, legs splayed out in front of you. Your head was throbbing and tears stung your eyes. You vaguely heard Hansol sigh and say “I’ll go get her some water.” They were used to this. After all, this wasn’t the first time you had made a scene like this at a club.

Seungkwan sat down next to you, gently guiding your head to rest on his shoulder and petting your hair. 

“I miss him,” you sobbed, pathetically, the melody of your song playing faintly from inside the club.  

“I know babe, I know.”

“Love is a lie,” you had once said to Seungkwan and Hansol after your first major break up, post high school graduation. Your boyfriend at the time did not want to pursue a long distance relationship, and since neither of you wanted to give up attending your dream universities, the relationship had met an inevitable end. 

You had moved on pretty quickly however, getting into a serious relationship with a girl in your sociology class freshman year of college. That was until she moved away junior year to join the national swimming team full time. 

“Love is a lie,” Seungkwan had said as you sat in his embrace, Hansol handing you a mug of comfort hot chocolate. You sniffled and nodded. Sure, your friends would tell you love was a lie, but you didn't really believe that. It was just something you said to get by. To help your heart move on.

It was a pattern from that point forward. You would meet someone you thought you loved more than your previous partner, then you’d break up for some unavoidable reason. Your best friends would assure you that your partner didn’t love you, that love was a lie. You’d mourn a bit, then move onto the next. After all, it’s easy to move on from something that wasn’t true love, especially when you believed that your real love was waiting for you somewhere. 

Then, you met Lee Chan. It was at a dive bar near your college town, where they held the annual battle of the bands. Hansol’s band was competing, and you and Seungkwan went, half for moral support and half to scout for post-graduation flings. 

“Oh my God,” you grumbled. “Just go talk to him instead of sitting here and drooling everywhere!”

Seungkwan squawked in indignation, “I am NOT drooling!” 

You rolled your eyes in disagreement.

“I can’t just go and ‘talk to him’,” his fingers formed air quotes. “He is so hot, and-”

“Totally your type,” you interrupted. 

“Exactly,” Seungkwan protested. “Which is why I know his type is not me.”

You glanced at your friend, who looked genuinely defeated, shoulders hunched forward and lips slightly pouting. You sighed, tossing back the rest of your drink before hopping off the stool and grabbing Seungkwan’s hand. 

“C’mon,” you tugged. “Let’s go.”

Seungkwan’s head shot up, eyeing you in confusion. “Go where?”

Now you were trying to pull Seungkwan off his chair with both hands. “We have 5 minutes until Hansol’s set, which means we have 5 minutes to get you a date with Mr. Total Hunk over there.”

Seungkwan was resisting, playing a game of tug of war with you. “Are you crazy?” he practically shrilled, drawing the attention of the people nearby. 

You looked over your shoulder to see that Seungkwan’s crush and his companion were both looking over in your direction, eyes alight in amusement. You whipped back around, stamping on Seungkwan’s foot to throw him off balance. “They are looking over here, stop embarrassing yourself,” you hissed. 

After taking a moment to compose yourselves, you once again yanked Seungkwan in the men’s direction, your friend following willingly this time. 

“Hi, I’m Y/N! And this,” you subtly tugged, “is Seungkwan.”

Your full attention was on the tall brunette Seungkwan was eyeing, trying to figure out if he was interested in your friend. 

“I’m Mingyu, this is Chan.” A large hand stretched out towards your friend first, and you smirked. Perfect. It seemed like Mingyu did swing that way, which meant it was time for you to leave, taking his friend with you. 

“You know, I am just so thirsty-” your breath hitched as you truly looked at the blonde boy for the first time that night. Oh no, he’s beautiful. 

The boy, Chan, smiled at you, a big grin showing perfectly white teeth. “I can get you something at the bar, my treat.” He stood as you nodded, utterly speechless. You shook yourself out of your stupor and followed him to the bar. No Y/N, you thought, you are taking a break from dating. Just distract him for Seungkwan, that’s it. 

“What would you like?” Chan leaned against the bar top, left arm propped on the counter. 

You hummed. “Surprise me.” You eyed him up and down as he rattled off an order to the bartender. It was clear this man knew how to dress, from the leather jacket that enhanced his broad shoulders and the white tank underneath that showed off his sharp collarbones, to the extremely ripped jeans that did nothing to hide his thick thighs-

You subtly fanned your warm cheeks, hand shooting down to your side when the boy turned back around.

“For you,” Chan handed you a clear drink. 

You took a sip and crinkled your nose. “Vodka soda, how creative,” you droned. 

“Well,” he shrugged, though it was so graceful you’re not quite sure if it could be called something so inelegant. “Guess you’ll have to stick by me so I can get you another drink later.”

You raised an eyebrow. Ok, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just flirt back a bit. 

“What makes you think I would want to be in your company for that long? If your drink of choice is any indication, you don’t seem all that interesting.”

Chan scoffed, bracing his hip against the counter as he crossed his arms. Your eyes shot to his biceps straining against the sleeves of his jacket before shooting back up to his face. A smug look took over his face. “Is being part of the town’s best band interesting enough for you?”

Ah, he’s one of those guys who’s in a band just to pick up girls. You were barely able to contain an irritated eye roll, choosing to fake an impressed look instead. 

“You’re in a band?” You cocked your head to the right, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind your left ear. The dangly earring you exposed laid gently against your skin, showing off the slope of your neck. You watched Chan’s eyes linger there before taking a gulp of his drink. You tried not to get entranced by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. 

“Mhm,” he nodded in affirmation. “We’re competing tonight. You’ll vote me,” he leaned in closer, using the tip of his index to nudge your earring. “Won’t you Darling?”

If the fluttering of your heart at that moment made a noise, it would be similar to the tinkling of your earring, light and dreamy. As flustered as you were, you refused to let the cocky man in front of you know that. 

“I would,” you replied in a sing-song, “but…” You traced a finger along Chan’s (ridiculously) sharp jawline, applying a little pressure to turn his head towards the stage. “That band up there is my best friend’s band and considering they are running four years undefeated,” you gripped his chin, jerking his face back to yours. The two of you were so close together, the tips of your noses brushed against each other. “I’d say you should spend less time flirting for votes and more time worrying about your performance.”

Your words were cruel, you knew that, but you suddenly felt the need to defend Hansol and his bandmates. Especially from someone who didn’t seem to care about music, and rather chose to use it as a means to pick up dates. You expected Chan to feel so slighted that he’d step away from you, maybe hurl some not-so-kind words your way, then leave. Except, he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he glanced at your mouth, leaning his forehead against yours. “I think you underestimate me,” he whispered. His breath smelled like mint, warm as it tickled your lips. You were about to respond when a loud voice appeared behind Chan.

“Lee Chan, let’s go! It’s almost our set!” 

You jumped back, startled out of whatever bubble you and Chan had created around yourselves. It wasn’t clear to you if you should be cursing Mingyu for ruining the moment or thanking him. Chan on the other hand squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a disgruntled sigh. Clearly, he felt the former. You pinch the space between your thumb and index finger on your left hand, the pain a reminder that your heart could not handle another failed relationship. You were waiting for the right one, your forever person. There’s no way this man was them.   

By now, Mingyu and Seungkwan had made their way to your sides, the taller one grabbing his bandmate’s elbow. Chan had slipped the smug mask back onto his face. “Guess a bet is in order. If my band wins tonight, you let me take you out on a date.”

You crossed your arms, one eyebrow shooting up at the sheer audacity of this man in front of you. “And if you lose?”

Chan started walking backward, allowing Mingyu to tug him towards the stage. He shot you a smile, but this one was different from the ones he gave you every other time tonight. This one was not so perfect or staged. It was slightly crooked, the left side pushing deeper into his cheek than the right. It caused his eyes to glitter. “Don’t you worry your pretty little mind about that Darling. I won’t lose.”

Later that night, as you looked up at Chan on the stage, who winked at you as he held his trophy up in the air, you thought to yourself that maybe you wouldn’t mind if you got your heart broken by someone like him. At least you would’ve had the privilege of loving him.

You slip your sunglasses onto your face, laying back onto the beach towel, letting the sun rays warm your skin. You could hear the hollers of your friends from where they played in the water. It was a miserable day.

“Y/N c’mon! Come get in the water, it’s a beautiful day!” Soonyoung shouted.

You stayed laying down, simply lifting an arm to wave him off. They were trying so hard, your friends, to distract you from what the date signified, but you wished they’d just let you wallow in your misery. 

Suddenly, a shower of sand struck your face. You sputtered, shooting up into a sitting position as you scrubbed the sand off your glossed lips. 

“Seokmin!” You shrieked, ripping your sunglasses off so the exciting man standing over you could clearly see your glare. “What the hell?”

He was undeterred, gripping your forearm to pull you up. “Let’s go!”

“Where?” You allowed yourself to be pulled up, too depressed to put up a fight. 

“The ocean! We didn’t drive all this way just so you could create a Y/N sized dent in the sand.”

You huffed, dragging your feet along the sand as you followed Seokmin to join the rest of your group. The ocean water was chilly, but you were too distracted to notice. 

The last time you were at the beach, it was with Chan, just a month after your fourth anniversary. Chan’s band had successfully recorded their first demo and sent it off to recording agencies, and you brought him here to celebrate. Little did you know, that just two months after that, he’d be breaking up with you. It’s not your friends’ fault that they didn’t know. They thought they were doing a nice thing, bringing you to the beach to distract you from the fact that today would’ve been yours and Chan’s fifth anniversary. It’s not their fault that it was as if Chan had touched every corner of Korea, to the point where every place reminded you of him. 

A pinch to your waist snapped you out of your reverie. You slapped Jeonghan's hand before taking note of your surroundings. Somehow, you had waded your way deep enough into the ocean that the water was grazing the hem of your bikini top. 

“How kind of you to join us, Princess,” he quipped. You simply stuck your tongue out at him before splashing his face with water. 

“I wouldn’t make that face if I were you,” his voice took on a conspiratory tone. 

You shot him a confused look. “Why not?”

He jerked his chin in a direction just past your shoulder. “There’s a guy there who cannot take his eyes off you. Maybe a potential summer fling?” 

Jeonghan was the first person you ever had a one night stand with. You met him at a party during orientation week in university, and while you both had a good time, you both decided you'd be better off as friends. Soon after, Jeonghan found a long term boyfriend in Joshua, whereas you…well, let’s just say the couple was well versed in being your wingmen. Though, once you started dating Chan, Jeonghan and Joshua figured they could officially retire from their unofficial jobs, and so did you. Now, here Jeonghan was again, trying to find you another notch to add to your bedpost. 

You glanced just once over your shoulder at the man Jeonghan pointed at, giving him an awkward smile when he noticed your gaze and waved. You turned back around towards Jeonghan, giving him a doubtful look. “Seriously, you want to set me up with him? He looks like a Ken doll.”

“What, I thought you liked blondes?” Jeonghan laughed, teasing you further. “Or is it just the bleached ones?” 

Your mouth dropped open, dumfounded. Jeonghan’s eyes widened, as if just realizing what exactly it was that he said. “Y/N, I didn’t mean-”

“Not cool, Han. I thought you of all people would understand what it is I’m going through.” You didn’t stick around to hear a response, choosing to start making your way back to the beach instead. 

Jeonghan, like you, used to have a habit of sleeping around, switching out partners like dolls. Joshua was Jeonghan’s first real partner, so when you told him how you felt about Chan, he understood. Chan was not just any other partner, he was the love of your life, like Joshua was his. 

Tears began to sting at your eyes, blurring your vision so much that you didn’t see the person in front of you and ended up running right into his chest. You stumbled back, almost falling backwards into the water. 

“Woah,” hands grabbed at your elbows. “Sorry I thought you saw me.” It was the guy from earlier. Somewhere from the time you left the boys’ spot in the water to here, the guy had approached you. 

You swiped at the tears brimming your eyelids, “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“Is everything ok?” His hands stayed on your arms. “You’re crying.”

He leaned down to level his head with yours. You stepped out of his grip, having to jerk your arms back to make his grip loosen. “I’m good, thanks.” Your tone was clipped, but apparently the guy in front of you couldn’t (or didn’t) take the hint. 

He stepped closer. “Are you sure? Doesn’t seem like you’re ok? Maybe I can help?” The further you stepped back, the more he came forward. “I came over here because I thought…”

Shit, shit, shit. This guy was crowding in way too close to you, and you felt incredibly unsafe, but there wasn’t much you could do. You couldn’t run in the water, or swim fast enough away, and the faint voices of your friends were indication enough that they were not close enough to help you, let alone notice something was wrong. 

“...listening? Um…hello?” Your eyes snapped back to the man in front of you. “Were you listening?” It was clear from his expression that he was annoyed, the false kindness from before completely gone. You were in trouble.

You stuttered, “I…uh…sorry, I was-” 

The guy scoffed. “Of course, here I was trying to be a nice guy and check up on a cute girl that looked sad, but you zoned me out. Bitches like you like guys who treat you bad don’t you. Should’ve known from the way you’re dressed that you’re nothing more than a dirty-”

“Hey!” a hand slipped around your waist as two bodies appeared on either side of you. You sighed in relief. 

The guy in front you stepped back, eyeing the two men who interrupted. “Who are you guys?”

“I’m her boyfriend,” Wonwoo said, tugging you closer to his chest.

“And you are?” Jun asked, lazily. 

The guy in front of you was tall and broad, but not as tall and broad as Wonwoo or Jun. Clearly he noticed that as well, as he started to scurry backwards, away from your large group as the rest of your friends began to join. 

He started to laugh slowly, as if trying not to show that he was intimidated, but failing greatly. “All these guys,” he pointed at your circle of friends, “are your ‘friends’? I knew it, you are a whore.” 

Wonwoo took one menacing step forward, and it was all the guy needed to trip backwards into the water before quickly making his way onto the beach and away from you. 

Jun placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, “Are you ok, Y/N.”

You nodded, suddenly too exhausted to do much else. “I want to go home.”

Quickly, the boys began to run onto the beach and pack up all of your things to load the cars. You followed behind slowly. A few months ago, the beach filled you with happiness and a sense of freedom. Now, the sun felt like it was burning your skin, and the sand was scratching at the bottom of your feet. Who knew the absence of just one person could make an environment feel so different.

You whined as a hand snatched the red solo cup out of your hand, “Wasn’ done w’that.” You lifted your head off Jeonghan’s shoulder to give Seungkwan (what you hoped) was a glare. 

“Babe, there was nothing left in the cup anyways,” the former commented. “You’re wearing your drink.”

“Oh,” you responded, oh-so eloquently. 

By the time your group left the beach and made it back to the little cottage you had rented for the weekend, it was sunset time. Everyone quickly showered and set up a bonfire in the back. According to Seokmin, s'mores and alcohol were the best pick me ups. You had not wanted to join at first, still disoriented from your less that ideal experience with the guy from the beach. Jeonghan however had begged you to join, clearly very apologetic for unknowingly putting you in that position. After you had a few drinks in you, you had completely forgiven him, leading to your position now, half in his lap as you both squeezed into a lawn chair by the fire. 

“Here Y/N,” it was Joshua, handing you a well assembled s’more from the other side of Jeonghan. 

“Thanks Joshie,” you mumbled, while taking a bite. You stared at the burnt marshmallow as you chewed slowly, tears starting to stream down your cheeks. 

“Y/N! What’s wrong?” Soonyoung called from the opposite side of the circle. His voice caught the rest of the group’s attention and suddenly, everyone was fussing over you. 

“It’s just that…Channie liked his marshmallows burnt like this,” you had started full on sobbing. “I miss him!”

If you were even the slightest bit sober, you would’ve noticed the exasperated looks the boys sent one another. It was yet another event where you got drunk and started slurring Chan’s name. While the boys were sympathetic to your plight, it was only so long they could stand a fun night being brought down by broken-hearted crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, swiping at your face. “I’ll go inside. You guys can enjoy the rest of the night.”

“No, Y/N, it’s ok-” 

“Seriously,” you lightly shook off Jeonghan’s fingers that had circled your wrist as you stumbled onto your feet. “Good night everyone.”

A chorus of pitying ‘good nights’ followed you as you made your way into the house and to the room you shared with Seungkwan and Hansol. As you laid in bed begging the world to stop spinning, you had a sinking feeling that you would not be receiving any more invitations to go out. At least, not for the time being.

Let it be known that you and Chan did not break up for lack of love. Let it also be known that you didn’t see it coming because you both had loved each other so much.

It had been one of your regular weekly date nights, where you and Chan would eat dinner at your apartment and then watch a movie afterwards.  

Chan had been oddly silent that night, and you could tell something was bothering him. Still, you decided not to ask, knowing he’d confide in you if he chose to. What tipped you off that the issue must be serious was when he didn’t ask you to dance when the speaker played your song. 

“Channie,” you started, hesitantly. “Is everything ok?” At this point, you were sitting on the couch as he paced anxiously in front of you. “Here, come sit.” You grabbed his hand and guided him to sit next to you. 

Chan was silent for a long time, the clicking of the wall clock’s second hand indicating that it had been a full 30 seconds before he spoke. “My band signed a record deal.”

“Oh my God! Darling, that’s amazing!” You threw your hands around his neck, giving him a tight squeeze before kissing his cheek. “Which agency did you guys choose? SM, JYP…”

Chan mumbled under his breath. 

“Hm? I didn’t hear you.” 

Your smile started to fade when Chan reached up to unhook your arms from his neck, choosing to hold your hands in his lap. His thumbs drew circles on the back of them as he said again, “Republic Records.”

You bent your head to try and catch his eye. “Like Taylor Swift’s label, Republic Records?” 

He nodded, and said nothing else. 

“But, they are based in New York. How will you guys work with them from Korea?” 

No response. 

“Chan?” 

Still nothing. You were getting anxious.

“Lee Chan!” You ripped your hands away from him, forcing him to look up at you. Your breath hitched when you saw his red eyes, rimmed with tears. No, you thought, please don’t say-

“I have to move. To New York.” 

You knew it. 

You bolted up from the couch. “How…how could you make this decision without at least talking to me?” You were standing over him, screaming at the top of his head. Little dark spots started to stain the beige couch where Chan’s tears dripped. “Long distance relationships aren’t so easy that you can just decide without me!”

Chan looked up at you, cheeks glistening with tears. His breathing was shaky and uneven. He didn’t say anything, not even an apology. “We won’t do long distance.”

You felt your heart drop to your stomach. If Chan meant that as ‘we won’t do long distance because you’re coming with me’, he would’ve definitely told you about this before signing the contract. Which only meant one thing. 

“No,” you started to step back, away from him. “No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening to me. Not again.” You were vigorously shaking your head. 

“Y/N,” Chan was scrambling to his feet. 

“No! Don’t do this, please-”

Chan seized your shoulders and pulled you into his chest as you began to sob. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he kept repeating, as the two of you eventually sank to your knees. 

“Why? Why are you break-” you couldn’t say the word. “Why are you doing this,” you whispered, throat too sore to yell anymore. “Is it because I got upset? I didn’t mean to get angry, I support you, you know I support you.”

Chan pulled you away from his chest, cupping your face with both hands. “It’s not that. I know you support me. That’s why we have to do this. Break up.”

You heaved another sob. 

“Y/N, I love you. I love you so much, which is why I can say confidently that no one knows you like I do. You hate long distance relationships-”

“That was different!” You insisted, gripping his wrists as tight as you could. “I didn’t love him like I love you!”

“I know Darling,” he swiped at a tear with his thumb. “It’s because you love me more that long distance won’t work. You need consistency. You need someone who will combine Google calendars with you and stick to a schedule you create together. That’s the only way you’ll feel reassured that you truly have someone. I can’t give you that abroad. I can’t call or video chat with you at the same time every day. I can’t give you consistency. Long distance won’t sustain our relationship, it’ll just prolong our inevitable breakup.” He placed the most delicate kiss on the bridge of your nose. “It’s selfish, but I wanted to be able to cut it off while holding you, so I could tell you that this isn’t ending because we fell out of love. I wanted us to have a clean break.”

You were angry again, this time choosing to punch at his chest. “This is anything but clean! You think after you leave, I’ll just forget about you? That I’ll just move on, like this is a normal break up? How dare you leave me here alone, thinking I’d just get over you? You’re a jerk, Lee Chan!”

“Chan? Y/N? What’s going on?” It was Seungkwan with Hansol trailing behind, both wearing similar looks of confusion on their faces. 

Neither you nor Chan acknowledged them. “You won’t be alone. You have them.” He leaned in to place a singular kiss to your lips. That kiss would be forever ingrained in your mind. Your last kiss with Chan, one that tasted of salt and despair. “Take care of yourself, Darling.”

“No!” You started weeping again, desperately trying to grab onto Chan as he stood up and stepped away. 

“What the hell is happening?” Seungkwan demanded, sharp eyes pointed at Chan. He simply shook his head, as if saying sorry, before leaving. You could only see until he reached your doorway because by then, Seungkwan had fallen to his knees in front of you, blocking your view. 

Hansol followed Chan out the door, stopping him halfway down the hallway. 

“Chan, what happened? Why did you tell us to come here?” he asked rather calmly.

The boy in question turned to face his friend, eyes once again filling with tears. “We got signed by a record label in New York. I broke up with her.”

Hansol nodded just once. While he didn’t quite understand why Chan made the decision he did, Hansol knew that he didn’t do it to hurt you. In fact, this must be hurting him just as much as it was hurting you, if not more. “Good luck.”

Chan’s shoulders dropped visibly, as if he felt that he no longer needed to hold himself together. “Hansol, I know I’m probably not in a position to ask any favors from you but,” he cringed as another sob echoed down the hallway, “can you make sure she understands that I never lied to her when I told her I loved her?”

When Hansol made it back into the doorway of your apartment, he heard Seungkwan say, “Love is a lie.” 

You agreed like every time before, but Hansol could tell from your face that it was different this time. You really did believe it.

The warm summer air faded away to welcome the crisp autumn breeze, but that didn’t mean you weren’t still sweating buckets at the slightest amount of physical work. 

“Seungkwan, push!” 

“I’m trying, you little witch! I still don’t understand why you insist on jam packing suitcases with your winter clothes and sticking them in a storage room when you could just leave them in your closet!” 

Seungkwan had offered (read: been bribed) to help you switch out your warm weather clothes for your cold weather clothes. Unfortunately for you both, the elevator in your building was broken, leading to the two of you lugging suitcases up and down three flights of stairs. 

“Finally,” he grunted, flopping down on your couch once the last of your bags had been brought into your place. 

“Thank you, Kwannie,” you sang, voice extra sweet. 

He rolled his eyes fondly, “Yeah, whatever. You should be thankful Jihoon has been dragging me to the gym with him.” 

You giggled, moving to unzip one of the suitcases when Seungkwan’s phone rang, indicating that he had received a text message. 

“It’s Hansol. We are out of groceries, and God forbid someone sends him to the store alone. Once, I told him to bring home fruit and he brought back a bag of tomatoes insisting I should’ve been clearer. Who thinks of tomatoes first when someone mentions fruit?” Seungkwan ranted as he made his way to your door. “Anyways, I’ll see you tomorrow Y/N!” The door slammed shut. 

You were silently glad Seungkwan left so suddenly as you fully opened the suitcase in front of you. You had forgotten that this was the one filled with all of the clothes Chan left behind in your apartment, as well as your own that held memories connected to him. 

Placed right on top was a denim bucket hat that he used to wear when you both would go for bike rides along the river bank. Tears pricked your eyes, as you contemplated what to do. Hansol and Seungkwan would tell you to throw everything away, that keeping these items wouldn’t help you get over him any quicker.

You cursed as memories came flooding back. It had been nearly a year since he left, and you still couldn’t figure out why. You felt like there were so many options besides simply breaking it off. Hansol kept telling you what Chan told him, but you couldn’t believe it. If he loved you, truly loved you, then why did he leave?

You thought of the creases by his eyes when he smiled at you, his soft hair that brushed your cheeks when he kissed you. He believed that the world was inherently good, that people don’t do things for the sake of hurting others. He made you believe too. How could you have possibly guessed that that boy would shatter your heart beyond repair. 

You huffed, rushing to the bathroom to splash water on your face. You needed to stop crying over him. 

Over the sound of the sink, you thought you heard the lock twist on your front door. You turned the faucet off and paused, trying to listen for any more sounds. Nothing. You shrugged, patting your face with a towel. Great, guess I’m hearing things now. 

Then, another noise. This time, it was the door creaking open. 

“Seungkwan…?” you called out hesitantly. He was the only person who knew about the key under your mat. Well, except Hansol, but he makes it a point to not use it and bang on the door instead. 

“Seungkwan,” you repeated, louder this time. Still no response. Now you were scared. Quickly, you grabbed your curling iron from the sink, the long wire making it a great throwing weapon. 

You peaked your head out into the hallway, trying to catch a glimpse of the intruder. 

Blonde hair. Bleached, blonde hair. 

Warm brown eyes, staring right at you, as if this person knew the layout of your apartment.

Plump, pink lips quirked in a smirk and long fingers holding onto the keys you hid under the doormat. 

“Still haven’t moved these?” 

You dropped the curling iron onto the tiles, stepping out fully into the hallway. “Chan?” Great, now you were seeing things.

“Hi Darling,” he smiled that smile. The crooked one that made his eyes glitter. The one he reserved solely for you.

Your heart was racing and beating so hard you thought Chan would be able to hear it. One step. Then two, then three. Your feet were moving all on their own. Then an abrupt stop. Your brain took over. You can’t run at Chan and throw yourselves into his arms like you did before. Like he was yours. 

Chan’s lips pursed into a straight line when he noticed you stop. “Y/N-”

“What are you doing here?” You spoke, frantically. “You-You should be in New York.”

“I quit,” he responded, looking at you expectantly as if that should answer all your questions. 

You huffed out a laugh in disbelief. “You quit? Why?”

“I regretted my choice.” 

You blinked, at a loss for words. 

Chan’s eyes flickered to the open suitcase. He knelt down, gently running his fingers over his old hat. “You kept all of my things,” he said in awe. 

You bristled, angry that he believed you would be heartless enough to throw them out. Of course he thought that, he must’ve assumed you had moved on. Just like he must’ve. 

“I was about to trash them-”

“You still love me,” he looked up at you, light brown eyes twinkling with joy. 

You were caught off guard. “No, I don’t, I-”

Chan rose to his feet, starting to walk towards you. You stood in your place. “You kept my things because they remind you of us. Because you still love me. You never threw them out because you never got over me. You love me.” He was laughing now, eyes forming crescents on his face. Chan was standing barely two feet in front of you, but you moved your eyes to the ground. If you looked at him now, when he was standing so close, you’d kiss him, and you couldn’t do that because he wasn’t yours to kiss anymore. 

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” your arms were wrapped around your torso, as if they were holding you together. “It doesn’t change the fact that you left.”

“And I’ve regretted it ever since,” he whispered. “There was a time when the greatest love in my life was my music. It was all that ran through my veins. It was what kept me feeling alive. Then, I met you. Darling-” his voice cracked, forcing you to look up. A lone tear slipped from Chan’s eye, but he didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he lifted his hands to cup your face so gently, as if you would disperse like a cloud if he squeezed too tight. 

“The more I knew you, the more I loved you, you became my music. My greatest love. You kept me feeling alive, but I didn’t realize it until I left. I thought I was doing the right thing, leaving you behind, but I was wrong. I should’ve never let you go,” his hands began to slip. “I know I have no right to ask for a second chance but-”

You grabbed his wrists and pressed your lips to his, cutting off his words. You tasted salt, and it reminded you of the last time you had ever kissed him. Your eyes began to burn, and soon you were both crying softly as you kissed.

“I forgive you,” you mumbled, lips brushing his as you spoke. “You deserve a second chance. You taught me love is true.” Your foreheads touched. Chan wiped your tears with his thumbs as you spoke. “All those heartbreaks led me to you, my one real love.”   

You made a strangled noise of surprise when Chan’s arms circled your waist and picked you off the ground. “I love you, fuck, I love you.” You giggled into his kiss, legs wrapping around his waist as he stumbled over to the couch, falling onto it with you sitting on his lap. 

You kissed and kissed, the feeling of familiarity and love settling comfortably in your heart. When the two of you eventually pulled away, it was to catch your breath. You ran a hand through his soft hair as Chan brought your other hand to his lips, brushing gentle kisses over your knuckles. 

“Missed you,” he mumbled. “Missed your voice and your eyes,” he raised his head to look at you. 

“Your hair,” he tucked a lock of it behind your ear.

“The smell of your perfume,” he leaned in to press a kiss to your neck, then trailed his nose along the slope of it until he could whisper into your ear.

“Your body,” he nipped at your ear lobe. 

“Channie!” you squealed, pushing at his chest. He fell back with ease, his loud laughter echoing throughout your apartment. 

“Even missed that, the way you say my name.” Your stomach fluttered like it was filled with butterflies. Only he could be so shamelessly flirtatious one minute and so devastatingly sweet the next. 

You laid your head on Chan’s chest, his heartbeat playing a soothing sound to your ears. “What now?” You asked as his hands gently rubbed your back. 

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do now that you left New York? What about your band and your music?” To be honest, you felt a bit worried. If Chan’s future was ruined because of you, you’d never get over the guilt. 

You felt lips pressing against the crown of your head. “There’s no need to worry your pretty little mind about that Darling. Turns out there’s a pretty successful band in the area that’s looking for some new members. Mingyu even came back with me because of it.”

It was his sly tone that made you sit up straight and give Chan a skeptical look. “Really…what band?”

He smirked.

You were sitting at a table in the familiar dive bar with Seungkwan, having a serious case of deja vu. “Why can’t you talk to him this time?”

“Because Y/N,” Seungkwan snarked, “you weren’t the only one left behind. Mingyu had the nerve to leave for New York without even saying goodbye, and then doesn’t even have the decency to let me know he’s back? I refuse to go back to such an inconsiderate, unmindful, callous-”

“He’s staring at you like a kicked puppy.”

Seungkwan chanced a look over his shoulder, sighing when he saw the hopeful smile sent his way. “He is pretty cute isn’t he? Maybe I’ve made him sweat enough.”

You nodded, amused. 

Seungkwan groaned before tossing back the rest of his drink. “God,” he looked up at the ceiling of the building, “I am NOT your strongest soldier.” Then, he hopped off the stool and strolled towards Mingyu, who was visibly perking up with every step taken his way.

You were giggling at the scene when you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned to see a cup being held out to you. You raised an eyebrow before accepting the orange drink and taking a sip. “A Mai Tai? Looks like your drink orders are getting a lot more creative.”

 A flirty smile. “Told you I’d get you another drink if you stuck with me.”

You laughed loudly before pulling your boyfriend in for a kiss.

Tonight was the night of your town’s annual battle of the bands and you’d been reminiscing the whole time. After all, this dingy little bar held all the memories of the first time you met Chan. This was where it had all started, and it seemed that Chan was insistent on replicating those memories.  

“You know, my band is competing tonight. You’ll vote for me,” he smiled wide, “won’t you Darling?”

You put on a thoughtful expression, trying your hardest not to break character. “Well… I heard the band up there right now is this year’s defending champion,” you traced a finger along Chan’s jawline. “I’d say you should spend less time flirting for votes and more time worrying about your performance.”

“Yeah?” Chan leaned into your ear, his soft hair tickling your cheek. “How about a bet? If we win, you’ll spend the rest of your life with me.”

You turned your head to face him, your nose bumping his. “And if you lose?”

Chan smiled, hands resting on your waist as he brushed his lips against yours. “I have my good luck charm right here. Just like last time, I won’t lose.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh before clutching the front of Chan’s shirt with your fingers and pulling him in for a searing kiss. He tasted like alcohol and home.

“Lee Chan, quit making out with my best friend and get over here! We’re next!” Hansol yelled from halfway across the bar. 

You pulled away, proud to see that Chan’s cheeks were just as flushed as yours probably were. “Good luck, my love,” you placed one last peck to his soft hips. 

“Don’t forget the bet,” he called as he walked away, smiling a real, crooked, smile.

Later that night, as you looked up at Chan on the stage, who winked at you as he (once again) held his trophy up in the air, you thought to yourself that you truly didn’t mind that you got your heart broken by him. It led to this moment and now, you were looking forward to spending forever loving him.

[taylorswiftstylequestions]

I know it's beyond highly unlikely to the point of laughable, but part of me hopes the muses were just emotional seeds for broader rage, and this album actually addresses societal issues like idk gun violence and orange fascists to totally upend the stan space.

I see where this is coming from (and it's not like we haven't seen her use metaphors she's familiar with as a backdrop to explore allegorical thoughts see: MA&THP) but think this album ~feels~ like it will be a personal narrative storyline about what she's experienced in the last two years in her life / relationships (not that that pathway outright excludes these wider thoughts and tragedies). But I just don't personally envision this.

[lavendermunson]

♥︎ ⸺ WELCOME TO LEIA'S LOVER HOUSE

leia. 20s. she/her. infj. bisexual. swiftie. coffee enthusiast. amateur baker.

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the favorites:

⊹ dancing with our hands tied - eddie munson ⊹ burning desire - eddie munson

⊹ red velvet - steve harrington ⊹ golden hour - steve harrington

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⊹ miss americana and the heartbreak prince series - steve harrington ⊹ mine - steve harrington

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eddie munson, 27 dresses inspired

ma&thp part 5

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