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vunblr · 2 months ago

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A Star Without a Sky (#2)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.7k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

When she came back to retrieve the plate, he was already halfway to sleep, with heavy eyelids, slow and shallow breathing. The enamel dish rested on his lap, spotless. Not a drop left.

“Oh, you managed to eat it all. Any repercussions?” she asked, her voice a hush in the low-lit room as she picked up the tray.

His lashes lifted just enough to reveal the pale blue underneath. “No, ma’am. Just-” But the rest of the sentence faded off, swallowed by the weight of his exhaustion.

“Alright,” she murmured, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Let’s get you laid down proper.”

“S’not necessary,” he rasped, barely audible. “Can sleep sittin’. Be best if-”

“Nonsense.” Her hands were already at his shoulder, and one at his waist. She didn’t wait for permission. “Your back’ll be stiff as oak in the morning if you stay like that.”

He let out a rough sound -half breath, half groan- as she coaxed him down, his muscles tense with resistance. “Stubborn woman,” he slurred, somewhere between reproach and resignation.

She didn’t answer. Just kept working, tucking a pillow beneath his head, checking the bandage with gentle pressure along his side. The dressing held. No fresh bleed. That was enough.

“All good,” she muttered, mostly to herself, pulling the sheet and blankets up to his chest. Her hand lingered a moment, resting over the quilt. Then she looked at him.

“You feel cold?”

His head moved, barely a shake.

“You sure? No need to play at being made of iron.”

That got a twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. “Never been buried under this many layers in my life,” he murmured. “Can’t complain. You’re spoilin’ me rotten.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Alright then. Good night, Sheriff.” The lamp’s glow dimmed with a twist of her fingers, leaving him to rest.

As she walked back to the kitchen, tray in hand, her lips pressed into a line.

Spoilin’, he’d said. Her bed had two wool blankets, a patchwork quilt stitched by her aunt long before the war, and clean sheets that smelled faintly of soap. There was nothing special about it. Nothing soft enough to call luxury.

Unless, of course, you’d spent too many nights without a bed at all.

----

A scream tore through the night.

She jolted upright, with her heart hammering, and her breath caught high in her throat. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was -what time, what room- but then her mind caught up to her body. The sound had come from the master bedroom. Him.

She was up and moving before she had time to think, striking a match with trembling fingers, shielding the lamp glass as the flame caught. The hallway stretched long and narrow in the flickering light. The door was ajar.

Inside, the sheriff twisted beneath the patchwork quilt, slick with sweat. His breath came ragged through clenched teeth, and small, broken sounds escaped his lips, fragments of something no language could hold.

A nightmare. A vicious one.

She hovered at the threshold. Someone told her once, Don’t touch the person right away. Don’t call loudly. You never know how a man might wake from such a state. She hesitated only a breath before stepping forward, setting the lamp on the nightstand, and sitting carefully at his side on the mattress.

Her hand gently found his shoulder. “Sheriff Barn- James.”

No answer, just a low groan, and his brow twisted like he was being carved from the inside.

She moved her hand down his arm, in slow circles. “It’s just a dream,” she whispered. “You’re alright. Wake up now.”

His eyes snapped open.

Wild and glassy, pupils dilated as they darted around the room like he was searching for a threat. She didn’t move, but let her hand drop to her lap. “You’re alright,” she said quietly. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

His chest rose and fell fast, then slowed as something clicked behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, hard.

“Fuck-” The word rasped out before he caught himself. “sorry.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I’m not the type to faint over a curse, Sheriff.” He nodded once, fixing his eyes on the ceiling like he didn’t want to meet hers. “You want a glass of water?” she asked, gently.

He nodded again. Still not looking.

She remained seated a moment long before rising, bed sheets sighing beneath her as she stood. As she walked away, he clenched his fists beneath the quilt, trying to calm his breath.

It had been years since that particular memory came back to haunt him.

That place. That goddamn place.

When she slipped out of the room, he closed his eyes again. Not to sleep, but to chase the dream back. It clung to him. Its weight, its filth. It was years ago, but the air still tasted the same in his throat when he woke up. Damp wood, rusted iron. Straw soaked in blood. He’d forgotten the name of the man who held the whip, but not the sound it made. Not the smell of the cellar.

He breathed deeply. Tried to remember where he was.

A bed. A room. A quilt that smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. And her.

She returned quietly, soft steps on the wood floor, with the glow of the lamp sliding along the walls like water. In one hand, she held a glass. In the other, a small plate with something dark and glinting on it.

He shifted a little, lifting himself with a grunt, pressing his back against the headboard. His eyes flicked down to the offering. A dried plum, sugared and shining like a dark jewel on porcelain.

She sat again, with her knees just brushing the edge of his blanket. She handed him the water first. He drank slowly, grateful clean taste in his mouth. Then he looked at the plate.

“A plum?”

Her eyes flicked down. “Sugared. My ma used to give me one when I had a nightmare. Said it helped chase the bad things off.” Her voice was soft, and something about the way she looked down, not quite embarrassed but not fully confident, caught him off guard.

“I appreciate the thought.” He set the empty glass on the nightstand and took the plum with two fingers. He turned it once, grazing the sugar crust with his thumb, then slipped it into his mouth.

Sweetness bloomed slowly across his tongue. Rich. Dark. A softness he hadn’t tasted in years, maybe ever. He’d eaten food on the road that didn’t even deserve the word. This… this was something different. This was kindness, disguised.

He blinked down at the plate and cleared his throat. “I’ve never had one before.”

She gave the faintest smile. “There’s more in the tin by the hearth.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt, but didn’t look away from her this time. Just leaned back against the pillows, with the taste still on his tongue, foreign and warm. Something about the offering felt larger than it was. Too small to matter, too tender not to.

She let her hand brush lightly against his as she took the plate, casual but not accidentally.

“Good night, Sheriff. Try to get some more sleep,” she said gently as she stood.

He gave a slow nod, but his gaze followed her. Not obviously, not hungrily. She reached for the lamp, its warm light catching on the sheen of her hair, loose now for the night. The neckline of her nightdress had slipped a touch lower when she leaned forward earlier, showing a hint of collarbone. He hadn’t meant to look, but the image was scorched into his mind now, as unwanted and persistent as any fever dream.

She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she gave him the grace of pretending not to.

She turned down the wick until the lamp dimmed and lifted it by the hook. At the door, she hesitated. Then slipped into the hallway, softly shutting the door beside her.

He stared at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. Dragged a hand down his face, trying hard not to think about the glimpse of skin he'd caught or the way her loose hair framed her face just as he thought it would, or how she hadn’t hesitated to touch him when he was shaking and desperate. The plum’s sweetness remained in his mouth.

----

By the fourth morning since he’d woken, she rose before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. The house still held the hush of sleep, save for the soft groan of timber and the distant, half-hearted cluck of a hen not ready to greet the cold. She slipped on her day dress, wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and moved toward the stove, planning to start the fire to make breakfast.

As she passed the doorway to the master bedroom, she paused -a habit, by now- and glanced inside.

The bed was empty.

The covers were thrown back haphazardly, his pillow bearing the faintest dip from where his head had rested. She furrowed her brow and turned to glance around the kitchen, also empty. No sound of boots, no cough, no shifting of furniture.

Her stomach dropped with worry. She clenched her hand on her shawl and flung the door open in one smooth motion, and cold air bit at her skin.

He was outside.

Near the coop, sleeves rolled to the elbow, coat forgotten somewhere, chopping wood like the devil himself was in pursuit. His movements were efficient, but he was slower than he should be. Too careful. Every swing came with a slight hitch in his breath.

Her boots crunched across the frost-kissed ground.

“Are you insane?” she snapped, storming toward him with her shawl fluttering behind her like a snapped flag.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look up immediately. Just drove the axe down one more time, splitting a stubborn knot with a grunt. Only then did he lift his head, sweat dampening the locks at his temples.

“Morning to you, too, ma’am,” he said, unbothered.

She folded her arms tightly over her chest. “You're barely a week since you got shot. You could tear something inside. Reopen the wound. Pass out and split your skull-”

He huffed, more breath than laugh, and leaned on the axe handle. “Figured I’d earn my keep since I can stand.”

“You’re recovering,” she said, stepping closer. Her hand reached out to brush a stray woodchip off his shirt. She didn’t think about it before doing it. “Not laboring. That’s what healing is. Let me see.”

He didn’t argue, just let her lift the edge of his shirt, gently checking the bandage under it. It was stained a little, but dry. No heat under the gauze. Still, too much strain would tear everything back open.

They stood close, breath curling in the cold air between them. His skin was warm beneath her touch, solid.

“You’re shivering,” he murmured.

She pulled back like he’d struck her. “You’re the one half-dressed in the snow,” she snapped, more embarrassed than angry. “Do you think I need kindling that badly?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like she’d said something peculiar.

“I think,” he said eventually, “your tenant should’ve shown up to do it already.”

She huffed. “If you don’t get back inside this house right now, sheriff, I swear you’re getting nothing for breakfast. And I mean it.”

He muttered something under his breath as he passed by her, brushing snow off his trousers with stiff fingers. She caught the faintest smirk on his lips before it vanished.

She followed him inside and pointed at the chair at the head of the table with a sharp tilt of her chin. “You sit. Don’t move unless it’s to eat.”

He did as told, sitting with a faint grunt, hands flat on the table like he wasn’t entirely sure how to rest.

“Had ranch foremen less bossy than you,” he murmured.

She didn’t turn. “And I bet they didn’t save your life while elbow-deep in blood.”

He tilted his head, a wry half-smile creeping at the edge of his mouth. “Fair point.”

The scent of frying bacon and warm bread came to his nose, and he sighed. He watched her move about the kitchen, the occasional creak of the floorboards under her feet, the soft rustle of her skirts, domestic sounds, nice sounds. Sounds he didn’t know he craved.

He cleared his throat, glanced at the hearth, then back at her. “Don’t suppose that plum trick works for grown men in the morning, too?”

She glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow sharp enough to cut butter. “Did you just call me a nightmare, Sheriff Barnes?”

“I would never, ma’am,” he said, slow and smooth, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth like mischief trying to surface.

“Good,” she replied, turning back to the stove. “Because if I were, you’d still be screaming.”

----

It was strange, seeing the head of the table occupied again.

She’d grown used to quiet breakfasts. To the silence of her own company. A single plate, a single mug, the occasional thump of a woodpecker on the siding. But now, there he sat.

Sheriff Barnes. With his shoulders drawn in like he didn’t quite trust the chair not to break beneath him. Elbows tucked close, and deliberate movements. A man not used to being watched while he ate.

He worked slowly through his plate, pausing after each bite like he was trying to remember how a man was supposed to eat among company. After the second forkful, he glanced at her grip on her utensil, then subtly adjusted his own.

When she reached out to offer more, he hesitated. Cast his eyes down with a flicker of indecision as he glanced at what remained on his plate.

“I won’t be offended if you want seconds,” she said lightly, watching him over the rim of her mug. “You paid for this food, Sheriff.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, but one corner of his mouth twitched, wry, self-deprecating. “Don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.” She was already reaching for the pan. “That body needs all the nourishment it can get.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she stilled. So did he.

His head tilted ever so slightly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the table. The tips of his ears and his cheeks pinked under the stubble at his jaw. She busied herself with the spatula.

“For recovery,” she added, a touch too quickly.

He gave a faint nod and held out his plate in silent surrender. Still didn’t look at her. Just watched the checkered cloth like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

She refilled the plate and set it in front of him with care. He murmured something that might’ve been “thanks,” but it barely made it past his throat.

After that, they ate in a comfortable silence. Just the clink of cutlery, the low sizzle from the stove. The wind brushing the windows in slow, sleepy passes.

It was Bucky who broke it first.

“Given I can stand and walk, and that woodpile didn’t kill me… reckon I’d be fine to ride. If I take it slow.”

She looked up. He wasn’t looking at her, just nudging a bit of egg across the plate like it might offer him an easier way to speak.

“I’m headin’ back to town tomorrow,” he added quietly.

She blinked. Toast halfway to her mouth.

“Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”

His fork paused mid-motion. “Been gone too long. Folks’ll start thinkin’ I ran off. Or got myself buried somewhere.”

She nodded once, pressing her lips into a small, tight line. “Makes sense. I’ll take you, then.”

“I was thinking of borrowing the mare. Ride her in. Come back later with the stallion.”

“That’s a lot of riding, Sheriff.” Her voice didn’t rise, but there was something in it now. Something firm. “Even if you’re feeling spry, that body’s still healing. Let me take you in the cart.”

He finally looked at her.

His brow twitched. “They’ll see us. Together. And like you said, people talk.”

She gave a dry little smile, brushing a crumb off the table. “We say I found you on the road. Headed into town for supplies. Gave you a ride. That’s all.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “You thought that up quick.”

She shrugged, folding her hands in her lap to still the fidgeting. “I’ve lived here long enough to know how to preempt a rumor. It’s a fine story. Neat. Believable.”

His jaw clenched, and something unreadable shifted in his eyes. “You don’t mind?”

She tilted her head. “Mind what?”

“That folks might think… something improper.”

The silence that followed was a breath too long.

“I know what I did. And you know what happened. I can live with the rest. I’m a widow, not a schoolgirl,” she said, in an even tone. “If I gave half a damn what people thought, I wouldn’t live out here alone with a shotgun and a few fruit trees.”

He huffed a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Still, his eyes didn’t lift. He stared down at the edge of his plate, curling his fingers around the mug.

“Even so,” he said, softer, “I’d rather not have your name tangled up with mine.”

She watched him, then set her cup down with a gentle clink. “Well, it’s too late for that, Sheriff. You’ve been sleeping in my bed.”

He choked on his coffee.

Coughed hard, raising his fist to cover his mouth like he could maybe disappear behind it. The flush that climbed to his ears was impossible to miss.

“Right,” he rasped. “I- uh. That’s- true.”

She sipped from her mug, calm as anything. “Now that you’re better,” she said, almost absently, “can you tell me what happened to you?”

Across the table, he stiffened just a little, pausing his fork mid-air before he set it down neatly beside the plate. He looked at her, but not quite, more through her than at her.

“Was following a lead,” he said after a beat. “Cattle robbers. Had reason to believe they’d been riding east, crossing property lines without much concern.” He paused. “I think a few stayed behind to make sure I didn’t keep following. Or maybe…” His voice quieted. “Someone else used the distraction to take their chance. Either way…”

His jaw flexed.

She nodded once. “Is that something that happens… often?”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “No,” he said. “I’m usually the one doin’ the tracking, not the one getting left in the snow.”

He tried for a chuckle -soft, empty- but it dissolved before it reached his throat. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Is that so?” she asked, lightly. “How old are you, Sheriff?”

He hesitated. More than a moment.

“I don’t know.”

She blinked. “You don’t…?”

“Grew up in an orphanage.” He didn’t look at her. Just traced the edge of the mug with one thumb. “Nobody there cared enough to mark the day. As far as I know, I was six when I arrived. Maybe seven.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t reach for pity.

“For what they told me,” he added, “I figure I’m thirty-something.”

“Well, that ain’t old.”

He snorted faintly. “Ain’t young either.”

“I’m thirty this year.” Her brow rose. “You callin’ me a hag?”

That startled something out of him, an actual look. His head lifted, his eyes widened. “No, ma’am. No. I- certainly not.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “Mm. My ego’s bruised now.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Tell you what,” she cut in, grinning. “You do the dishes, and you’re pardoned.”

He stared at her for a beat, then leaned back in his chair, twitching his lips. “Ma’am,” he murmured, “you are cunning.”

She stood up and walked toward the counter, dish in hand. Then turned slightly. “You know what, Sheriff?” she said, gently. “Call me by my name.”

His brow furrowed.

“You’re leaving soon,” she said. “But still. Feels strange, hearing ‘ma’am’ this, ‘ma’am’ that. After all that’s happened.”

She turned back toward the counter, but not before she caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

He cleared his throat quietly. “Alright.”

She slid a plate into the basin, and the water sloshed faintly.

“Alright, what?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder with a raised brow.

He sat very still for a beat, then ducked his head, the faintest curl of a smirk on his lips. His voice came low, a little rough.

“…Alright, Y/n.”

----

He never asked.

Not once.

But he watched. Not directly -never- but he noticed things. The way she muttered to herself when the drawer stuck, pulling at it frustrated with tight fingers. How she shook her head when the shutter didn’t catch again, clicking her tongue softly before she walked off with a basket on her hip. He’d hear the sigh when the pump handle needed coaxing, see the look on her face when she leaned over the gate, checking if the wood had held.

And then, quietly, he moved.

She’d step into the kitchen and find the drawer gliding smoothly, like it had never stuck a day in its life. The shutter would stay closed with a firm, satisfying click. The fence post would be upright again, reinforced with fresh nails and rope that hadn’t been there yesterday.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t remain nearby to be thanked. Just nodded once, maybe, when she noticed.

Sometimes, she’d catch him rubbing his ribs after hammering something into place. And she’d frown. He’d meet her look with blank eyes and a face so still it bordered on stubborn. Like he hadn’t done a thing worth scolding.

That afternoon, she caught him stepping back inside, sleeves damp from washing, his hair shoved behind his ears in loose, dark waves. He paused when he saw her.

“You know, Sheriff,” she said, resting one hand on the table, “I appreciate the diligence. Creeping around like a fix-it sprite, patching up every squeaky hinge and crooked thing in this house…”

He stood still, blinking once.

“…but there’s no need to strain yourself, really.”

He scratched the back of his neck, brushing the edge of his collar with his thumb. “Don’t like sittin’ still. Don’t like feelin’ useless.”

His tone was flat, but the flick of his fingers through his hair betrayed something else, unease, maybe. A fight not with her, but something else.

“Mm,” she said, not arguing. “You’re heading back to town tomorrow, trying to play whole again. Maybe take it easy today.”

He glanced toward the window and didn’t answer.

She stepped toward the counter. “Tell you what. If you’re so desperate to be useful, I’ve got three pots of stew and jam to preserve. You can sit down, rest those ribs, and help me jar them.”

He blinked again. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Perfect. I love a good experiment.” Her smile was soft, not teasing. Warm. “Everything’s ready. Just spoon it in, cork the jar, and don’t spill. Think you can handle that, Sheriff?”

He hesitated, just a beat. Then nodded.

“Yes, ma-” He caught himself. Cleared his throat. “Alright.”

----

He’d seen preserves before, lined up behind store windows, or clattering in the back of wagons, sold by traders with half their teeth gone and dirt under their nails. But he never thought about the making. Who poured them. Who watched them cool. Who decided what was sweet enough to keep.

Now, spoon in hand, he stared down at a jar of pears like it might break if he held it wrong. The syrup caught the light, rich gold, and his fingers moved with slow care as he settled the slices inside.

Across the table, she worked by muscle and memory. Smoothly. One ladle or a little more, one glance, cork, cloth, and set it aside. Her hands never paused.

He watched a while longer than he meant to, then cleared his throat.

“You do this often?”

She didn’t glance up. Just nodded. “Every year. I’ve got trees just past the house on the bit of land I kept. Apples, plums. Some late pears. What I don’t eat, I store.”

Another jar sealed, another one ready.

“What’s left over, I sell in town. To Mr. Bell of the store, and to Mrs. Marshall who bakes it into her pies. The meat jars stay here, though. Can’t sell what I have to buy first.”

He nodded faintly, looking to his own jar. He moved more slowly. Less confident. But the scent of syrup and sugar in the air calmed something in him. His hands, usually meant for holsters and reins, adapted without argument. One spoonful at a time.

It was quiet work. Repetitive. Soothing in a way that surprised him.

He wasn’t used to that. Peace that didn’t come with a price.

He set another jar down and wiped a thumb across the rim to keep it clean. The syrup clung warm to his skin.

“It’s…” He paused. Eyes narrowed a little in thought. “It’s nice to do.”

She looked up, finally, and smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

He rolled his sleeves higher to keep them from the syrup, baring the lean muscle of his forearms. Her eyes, without meaning to, caught on the constellation of small, circular scars that patterned the inside of his left arm. Oddly neat, like a trail of punctures stitched in wavering lines. She’d seen them before, faint and pale when she washed his unconscious body days ago, but there was something different now. The skin flexed and came alive over muscle and sinew.

She didn’t glance away when his gaze flicked up and caught her looking.

“That’s an unusual pattern,” she murmured. “Is it all right if I ask what happened there?”

He hesitated. Just the briefest pause. Then, he breathed through his nose. “Spurs,” he said plainly.

She blinked. Furrowed her brow. “Doesn’t look like someone stepped on you.”

He cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the jar like he was making sure every pear landed just right. “Some adoptin’ homes got physical when they wanted to make a lesson to stick. The mister -one of 'em- he didn’t like that I left a horse unswept before sundown. Took one of his spurs and went back and forth ‘til it sank in.”

Her hands stilled, hovering the ladle above the jar. She said nothing at first. Just breathed in through her nose. “How old were you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Nine? Maybe ten.” Another scoop. Another pear. “Didn’t forget again, though.”

She didn’t look at him with pity. Just moved to gently cork the jar he’d finished, brushing his fingers in the pass.

His hand stilled around the lip of the jar, curling his fingers slightly as though he could still feel rough hands dragging him by the collar through dust and hay. The silence between them thickened until he broke it with the drag of breath through his nose.

"You talk... plurally. About the homes," she noted, her voice was careful, not cautious. Gentle, but not pitying.

He didn’t look at her, just passed the filled jar forward. Her fingers brushed his again.

“The orphanage had too many mouths to feed,” he said finally. “Didn’t care much for the kind of men who came lookin’ for boys to haul hay, run traps, clean stables. Said they were offerin’ an opportunity.”

She was staring at him, he could feel it. He rolled his sleeves further up his arms, leaning his elbows to the table now.

“Harvest season, branding, slaughter, when the work ended, most of us were tossed back like unwanted scraps. Some stayed longer if they worked harder. Or if they didn’t complain.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. He went on, with his gaze fixed on the jar.

“You figure out real quick not everyone showin’ up on adoption day is lookin’ for a son or daughter.” His tone was calm, measured, but underneath it, she sensed it. Rage. Old, cold, and buried too deep to thaw.

She swallowed. “Did you... did you ever get a home?” she asked, voice lower than before. “Eventually?”

He was silent for a long beat, raising his shoulders with a slow inhale. “When I was old enough to fend for myself, and the chance came, I ran.”

The rain had started then, soft taps against the windows like hesitant fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely more than a whisper. “No child deserves to live through that.”

His mouth twitched, neither smile nor scowl. Just a crack in the wall.

A sudden thought popped into her head. “The laundry. Damn it,” she muttered, stepping back from the table. “I left it out.”

Without hesitation, he stood up. She turned toward the door and heard his boots behind her. Outside, the drizzle had thickened, silvering the world. She grabbed the lines, quickly, while he moved beside her, pulling down the damp shirts and twisted sheets.

By the time they stumbled back in, with damp clothes and misted hair, the kitchen smelled like warm pears and rain-drenched wool. She dropped the basket by the stove and turned to him.

He was cradling the last armful of sheets like something fragile, as water beaded on his forearms.

“Well,” she said, trying not to smile, “that was very good teamwork, Sheriff.”

He stood there a second too long, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now. Then he slowly handed her the sheets.

“I didn’t drop a single pin,” he muttered.

She laughed, and the sound made him look up at her. Then his eyes crinkled a little at the corners.

“You’re a natural,” she teased, stepping past him to drape the damp linens over the backs of the chairs and other furniture. “Who knew beneath the brooding lawman, there was a capable housewife just waiting to come out.”

“I’ll have you know I’m still brooding,” he said, straight-faced.

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder, with her hands on her hips, and quirked lips. “That so?”

He nodded once, slowly. “Very broody.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, rinsing water off her fingers, “think all that brooding might ease up a little if I let you eat some of the pears still on the pot?”

He glanced at her from under lowered lashes, then let a crooked smile break across his face. Wry, a little sheepish.

“Can’t promise,” he murmured, “but you can try.”

----

They did try.

After dinner, when the dishes were stacked and the fire had banked low, when the kitchen was settled into its night hush -creaking timbers, cooling stovetop- she leaned back in her chair and stretched.

“I was thinking,” she said, “if I’m dropping you in town tomorrow, we ought to go at an hour I’d usually run errands. Makes it easier to believe I found you on the road.”

He stilled. The spoon in his tea mug made a faint clink against the ceramic rim.

Right. That.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The thought caught somewhere behind his tongue.

“I mean,” she continued, casually tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I usually bring preserves around midmorning. If that works for your great return.”

He nodded, curling his fingers tighter around the mug, then easing as he set it down with more care than necessary.

“You sure you wanna be the one to take me?” he asked. “Told you I could ride. Come back later with the stallion.”

She gave him a knowing look. “You’d still show up in town riding my mare.”

He blinked. Shit. How did he miss that?

“True,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes dropped to the grain of the table.

“Don’t be so serious, Sheriff,” she cheered, nudging his boot lightly under the table. “What could anyone possibly say? I was headed to town, and I found you on foot. Simple. Respectable.”

She leaned forward, almost conspiratorial. “And don’t worry. I won’t ruin your reputation as the town’s most coveted bachelor.”

He looked at her like she’d thrown cold water down his collar. Frowned, shifted in his seat. “That’s not-” His hand dragged through his hair again. “I’m thinkin’ of your reputation.”

She tilted her head, teasing tone falling to something firmer. “Because I gave the sheriff a ride?”

“What’s the harm in that?”

He exhaled. Long. Measured. “You’ll find out sooner or later.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. But he didn’t need to.

She went still, then leaned on the table with one arm.

He finally looked up, just a flicker.

“Do you know why they hired me?”

“I’d guess not for your jam-stuffing skills,” she offered, voice trying to be humorous, but it faded when he didn’t smile.

“I was a bounty hunter,” he said. “Then a vigilante. Rode with some fellas who figured the law was either too slow or too bought.” He paused. “They weren’t wrong.”

Her eyes didn’t narrow. Her lips didn’t twist.

He went on. “Got caught. I wasn’t proud of what they found. They could’ve hung me. Instead, they gave me a choice. Wear a badge, work out here, keep the dust quiet.”

His thumb ran along the side of his mug again.

“Didn’t seem like anyone else was eager to take the job.”

She pondered it for a moment. “And?”

He blinked, not expecting that. “And?” he echoed.

“Should I be scared of you?” she asked simply.

He stared at her like he couldn’t believe she’d said it that way. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

“Do you regret what you did?” she questioned.

He hesitated. “Some of it. Not all.”

She folded her arms. “You weren’t a bank robber or a rustler. You didn’t hurt women or children. You hunted bad men before someone handed you a badge to make it legal.”

His mouth parted, but nothing came out. His fingers tapped once on the table, then stilled.

“I appreciate you tellin’ me,” she added gently. “But if that was supposed to scare me off, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

His mouth lifted at one corner, just barely. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

“You’re not a monster, Sheriff. Just a man who’s seen too much and did what he thought was right. World’s full of worse.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just watched her, unreadable. Then, low and rough, the words spilled out. “Still… some of the townsfolk don’t feel thrilled with my presence.”

She didn’t look away. “For having a sheriff who knows what he’s doing?” she asked, matter-of-factly. “Screw them.”

He blinked. Just once. But it was enough to show he felt that.

“I won’t shy away from being called your friend,” she said. “If that’s something you’re alright with.”

Blue eyes lifted in surprise, searching her gaze. “You’d call me that?”

She tipped her head with the smallest of nods. “You’ve earned it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. He exhaled through his nose, dropping his gaze briefly to his hands, then back to her.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s more than alright. And... call me Bucky, when it’s the two of us."

"Isn’t your name James?" One brow arched, teasing, just a little sharper than before.

"James Buchanan, ma’-" He caught himself mid-honorific with a huff and a faint shake of his head.

"So, James 'Bucky' Barnes, huh?" she echoed, folding her arms, pretending to weigh it like a choice in the market. “Well, it sounds kind of dangerous.”

That drew the corner of his mouth up, slow and crooked, with a flicker of warmth. “Only to the wrong people.”

“Well, Bucky,” she said pushing up from the chair, exhaling softly, and stretching her arms high over her head. The fabric of her dress pulled snug across her chest, the cotton hugging the curve of her breasts, and he looked. Didn't glance. Looked longer than he should have.

She didn’t notice.

“It’s late,” she murmured, rolling her shoulders loose. “And I’m dyin’ to unpin my hair and get out of these boots.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak, not right away. His eyes trailed the sway of her hips after she turned, the curve of her waist. He imagined her standing in front of the mirror, with her hands at her nape, tugging the pins free one by one, letting her hair fall on her shoulders. Pictured brushing it aside, pressing his mouth against the spot behind her ear, where her pulse would flutter if she let him close. She’d smell like rain and woodsmoke and soft things no one had ever given him.

His jaw clenched. “Good night,” he managed.

She glanced back briefly, then disappeared into the hall.

He stayed rooted in place, flexing his hands against his knees, with the image of her undoing herself still vivid in his mind. He swallowed hard, wishing it were him, wishing he had the right to lean close, to loosen every fastening, to make her sigh his name.

Instead, he sat leaning forward in the dim room, elbows to knees, dragging both hands through his hair, trying not to want.

----

Their breaths curled pale from their mouths in the morning air as they moved around the cart, boots crunching over the brittle ground, fingers red with the cold.

She was fussing, naturally.

“You really shouldn’t be lifting-”

“I’m fine.” Bucky grunted as he set the last box into the back of the cart, arms flexing under his shirt. The crate hit the wood with a dull thud, and he straightened his back slowly, flexing his jaw as a small breath hissed between his teeth.

“Don’t got glass bones,” he muttered, brushing his hands on his thighs.

She gave him a look, crossing her arms under her shawl. “Just because you're made of stubborn doesn’t mean you're healed.”

Still, she didn’t stop him again, just huffed and disappeared into the house. When she returned, it was with a folded wool blanket in her arms, soft leather lining showing at the corners.

“For the legs. Cold’s worse when you're sittin’ still.”

He nodded once, took it from her, barely brushing her fingers in the pass, and put it in the cart. Then he turned and stepped back inside. When he returned, he was a different man.

The sheriff.

Waistcoat snug over a crisp white shirt, and long black coat sweeping his legs like a shadow. He’d strapped on the gun belt, with the holster riding familiarly against his hip, and the brim of his hat cast a shade in his eyes. He looked taller. Dangerous. Distant. She stared for a second too long before she realized she was doing it.

“Well,” she managed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I guess I’ll have no trouble selling the story that I found you coming back from a job.”

He didn’t answer, just adjusted the collar of his coat, then looked at her beneath the brim.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

She climbed onto the driver’s seat, and he stepped up beside her. She put the blanket over their thighs, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of the wind through the bare trees.

Their thighs bumped. She cleared her throat. He didn’t move.

It wasn’t the first time they sat shoulder to shoulder, but somehow it felt different.

The mare clucked forward, hooves biting into the frost-hardened road. As the cart rolled over a rut, the wheel dipped deep, and she tipped sideways with a soft gasp, straight into him.

He caught her without thinking.

One arm came up, firm around her waist, the other bracing against the back of the seat.

She supported herself with her palm on his chest, breath caught halfway in her throat, close enough to feel the heat of his body even through the leather of his coat.

“Sorry,” she said, voice a little thinner than usual.

“S’alright,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once against the curve of her hip before letting go.

She pulled back just enough to sit upright again, but their legs kept still pressed together under the blanket, hip to knee, shoulder to shoulder.

Neither of them moved

It was a small bench. A cold morning. A practical thing.

But his weight beside her, the heat of his body, the scent of pine and saddle soap clinging to him like a second skin, it all felt far from practical.

Every bump on the road rocked them a little closer. Every turn made her more aware of how little space existed between them.

And he didn’t move away. Didn't shift to reclaim distance. Just sat still and quiet, with his gloved hands curled against his knees.

As they rolled toward the outskirts of town, the buildings rose slowly out of the frost, fences and rooftops touched gold by the weak morning light.

She shifted a little, more from nerves than chill, and looked over at him.

“Well… this is it.”

He nodded, adjusting the rifle strap across his chest. “I reckon I told you before,” he said, eyes still fixed ahead, “but I owe you. I don’t forget that kind of thing.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replied. “Any neighbor would’ve done the same.”

“No,” he said, this time turning to look at her. The hat didn’t hide his eyes now. “They wouldn’t. Not like you did.”

Her fingers clenched on the reins.

“If you ever find yourself in trouble,” he continued, his tone rough by something that had nothing to do with the cold, “if anyone gives you trouble, you come find me. Even if you think it’s nothin’.”

She laughed once. “I can’t have the sheriff ridin’ in every time someone forgets their manners-”

“I’m not sayin’ it as the sheriff.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m sayin’ it as a man.”

Her voice caught in her throat.

“Okay,” she managed to murmur.

The main street opened before them, busy with the daily rhythm, boots on wood, doors swinging open, the clang of a distant hammer. Heads turned. Some folks nodded politely. Others watched longer than courtesy allowed.

She slowed the mare in front of the sheriff’s office. The wheels creaked to a stop.

He shifted beside her, brushing off the blanket slowly before rising. She felt the space he left behind was too wide.

His boots hit the packed dirt, and he reached into the cart to grab the small sack she’d readied, two jars of pear preserve inside, and some apple pie.

He didn’t look at her at first. Just adjusted the strap of his rifle and touched the brim of his hat.

“Goodbye, ma’am,” he said formally.

She swallowed. Her knuckles whitened on the reins. “Goodbye, Sheriff Barnes.”

He paused. Just for a beat. Like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t know how. His gaze remained on her, not her face, but her silhouette against the morning light.

Then he turned.

His coat flared in the wind as he stepped onto the boardwalk, long and black like a curtain drawing closed. She watched him go, hands still curled on the reins, still feeling the heat under the blanket where his thigh had been pressed against hers.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier @muchwita @gentlelimerence

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Sheriff!Bucky #Sheriff! Bucky Barnes #Western! Bucky Barnes #A Star Without a Sky

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pitlanepeach · 24 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, slight smut, a bit of general anxiety.

Notes — Welcome to Miami!!!!!

2024 (Miami—Imola)

The McLaren garage was quiet in that early-morning lull before the chaos. Screens still black. Tyres covered. Mechanics nursing coffees and stretching into the day. Amelia stood just inside the halo of overhead lights, hands on her hips, watching her car, her car, come alive in pieces.

The floor gleamed with fresh resin. The side-pods were lean, smooth, seamless in their curvature. The front wing was finally the right spec; the airflow data had confirmed it. The new floor geometry played nicer with the updated rear suspension. The whole package, finally cohesive.

It had taken months of pushing. Quiet conversations. Brutal ones. Drawings on the back of napkins, pacing in her kitchen at 2am. And it was all here now, carbon and copper and logic made real.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just circled the car slowly, one hand brushing against the wing mirror, the leading edge of the nose, the curve of the intake. Reverent, almost.

Tom stood a few feet back, sipping from a thermal mug. He was always nearby at the moment; watching and learning. “Looks different,” he said.

Amelia nodded. “This is the car I designed from the beginning. No compromises. No shortcuts.” She crouched beside the floor, fingers tracing the sculpted undercut, the exact shape she’d fought for. “We’ve been patch-working upgrades onto old foundations. But this; this is a clean slate. It’s mine. Finally.”

“So it’s ready?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah. It’s ready to win.”

Lando ducked into the garage then, still in joggers and a hoodie, yawning around a protein bar. He caught her eye, then stopped mid-step. “Holy shit.”

Amelia nodded.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. Studied the car with wide eyes, taking in every minor adjustment, every small change that’d somehow made the entire car look different. Meaner.

“It looks fast.” He breathed.

“It is.”

He turned toward her, something quiet in his expression. “You happy?”

Amelia didn’t blink. “I’m relieved. Now it’ll do exactly what I designed it to do.”

Oscar wandered in a moment later, eyebrows lifting when he saw the chassis. “Oh shit, this the final spec?”

“The one I promised you both,” Amelia muttered.

Oscar grinned, circling the nose. “Looks like a weapon.”

Amelia hummed. “That’s because it is. All the patchwork’s gone. This weekend, you’ll both be driving the car I built for you from the ground up.”

Tom, now beside her, tapped his pen against his notebook. “You going to name it?”

Amelia looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It already has a name — and that name has my initials in it anyway. Why would I give it another name?”

Oscar shrugged. “I name my chassis something new every weekend.”

“That’s because you’re weird.” She told him.

But later, when they were running race simulations and Lando had slipped out for media, she sat alone beside Oscar’s car, one hand resting lightly on the side-pod. Just for a second. And under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear: “Don’t let me down.”

Because it was all here now; her vision, her work, her legacy in motion.

And in Miami, for the first time all year, she was finally going to see her car on track.

—

Even in Miami, the F1 Academy paddock felt smaller. Tighter-knit. Less spectacle, more steel. It reminded Amelia of the early days she’d watched on flickering TV screens—before race suits were tailored, before engineers had agents. When she’d been three feet tall and already knew more about car setup than most of the men working on them.

She walked beside Susie, the low hum of tyre warmers and generators buzzing faintly underfoot. The air smelled like brake dust and fuel. It smelled like home.

“You don’t get much spare time,” Susie said, glancing down at the curve of Amelia’s bump beneath her papaya hoodie. “So thanks for making this one count.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Amelia said, eyes scanning the compact garages. “These girls are the future of motorsport.”

A mechanic rolled a jack across their path. A knot of young drivers stood nearby, still in their fireproofs, talking fast, voices tight with nerves.

Susie called one over. “Chloe. Come here a sec.”

Chloe Chambers jogged over, ponytail bouncing, already grinning like she knew exactly who Amelia was.

“Amelia Norris,” Susie said, pride softening her voice. “Meet Chloe. One of our brightest. She’s been dying to pick your brain.”

Chloe stuck out a hand, eyes wide. “I’ve watched every onboard from Oscar since you started working with him. And you basically built this year’s McLaren, right?”

Amelia glanced at the hand, winced, then gave a small shrug. “Built it. Argued over it. Cried about it once or twice. So—yes.”

Chloe lit up, dropped her hand like she didn’t even register the rejection. “I want to do what you do. I mean��I want to drive first. But also understand the car. Maybe even design one. Someday.”

Amelia's smile tugged sideways, something more serious behind it. “Then don’t let anyone tell you to choose. You don’t have to.”

A few more girls wandered over—Doriane, Abbi, Maya. One asked if it was true she’d rewritten part of the ride height algorithm in the middle of the night, thanks to pregnancy nausea.

“It’s true,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t recommend it. I couldn’t stand the smell of carbon fibre for three days.”

They laughed, young, high, unfiltered, and something eased in her chest. She didn’t feel like a figurehead here. Not a myth. Just one of them. Older, yes. Blunter, definitely. But still part of it.

“Do you still get nervous?” One asked. “Being Oscar’s engineer?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But sometimes, I get… quiet before an upgrade. Or a tough strategy call. But I trust the hours I put in. That’s how you survive in this job—you trust the work, then you trust yourself.”

They asked for a photo. She said yes.

Afterwards, stepping back into the heat and light, Amelia felt something shift beneath her ribs. Not the baby. Something else.

“These girls,” she murmured. “They’re so—”

“Ready,” Susie finished. “They just need someone to show them what’s possible.”

Amelia looked down at her belly. The baby kicked once, low and firm. She wondered—would her daughter want this one day? The speed. The noise. The risk.

Would she want her to?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this: she wanted the door to be open. And she wanted it to stay that way.

“Well,” Amelia said, eyes back on the track. “Let’s make sure the road stays clear.”

Susie nodded, a quiet kind of promise in her voice. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

—

The room was dark.

Not pitch-black—just enough light from the closed blinds to trace the edges of things. A spare media suite deep in the team hospitality unit, soundproofed from the bustle outside. Cold air whispered from the vents overhead.

Amelia sat curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands. In her lap, she twisted the stim toy between her fingers: click, roll, flip, snap. Again. Again. Again.

Her morning had unravelled in that invisible way it sometimes did. Nothing catastrophic—just too many voices, too many schedule changes, someone touching her shoulder without warning. The wrong texture on the cutlery at breakfast. The wrong smell in the paddock. She’d swallowed it all down with a brittle smile until she couldn’t anymore. Now the inside of her head felt raw and overlit, and only silence helped.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

The door opened.

Soft, slow. No bright light flooding in. Just a narrow slice of hallway glow and a silhouette. Lando.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside, closed the door again behind him. Let the dark settle. He moved quietly, then sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder with hers.

A beat later, the door creaked again. Oscar this time.

She didn’t look up, but she knew him by the shape of his walk, the subtle way he moved like he was trying not to wake a sleeping cat. He settled on her other side, crossed-legged, just close enough to touch but not quite.

Nobody spoke.

Amelia kept clicking. Rolling. Flipping. Snapping.

And slowly, her breathing evened out.

Lando reached over and gently brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She let him. Then let her head tilt sideways until it rested lightly on his shoulder.

Oscar stayed quiet, respectful in that way he always was with her—like he got it, even if he didn’t always understand. He just existed beside her, like a grounding point.

The toy made a soft clack as she turned it over again, her fingers finding the rhythm she liked best. The baby shifted inside her, low and firm. She exhaled slowly.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t asking her what she needed. They just were. Present. Patient. Steady.

It hit her, then, with quiet force: how deeply she was loved. Just… for being.

She blinked hard. One tear, maybe two. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that came when the pressure released, even just a little.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

Lando rested a hand on her hip, tracing soft circles on the red, itchy stretch marks. Oscar leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Amelia let the dark hold all three of them.

And she knew that soon, she’d feel okay again.

—

Amelia had gone out for air.

That was the plan, anyway—just ten quiet minutes away from the structured chaos of media day. No cameras, no questions. Just walking, hoodie on, head down, hands in her pockets.

But somewhere along the paddock hospitality row, she saw them—six or seven VIP fans lingering near the McLaren garage, lanyards bright, eyes wide, trying not to look starstruck and failing. Most of them were young women. One had a notebook. Another had made her own earrings out of mini DRS wings. A third was nervously adjusting the hem of her papaya windbreaker.

They saw her before she could disappear.

“Hi—sorry—Amelia?”

She could’ve smiled and nodded and kept walking. Instead, she stopped. “Yes,” she said. “Hello. You’re not supposed to be standing there. You’ll block the tyre trolleys.”

One of them blurted, “You’re, like… kind of our hero.”

Amelia blinked at them. “Why?”

Which made them all laugh awkwardly.

“I mean,” the DRS earring girl said, “you built the car. Everyone knows it. You’re the reason we’re consistently getting podiums again.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Amelia said bluntly. “But thank you.”

The girl with the notebook held it out. “Could I maybe ask you a few questions? Just for fun?”

Amelia glanced around. There was a patch of artificial turf by the hospitality tents where a drinks cooler sat forgotten. No cameras. No execs. No schedule.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to sit down. And I want something to eat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was cross-legged on a grassy patch, a fizzy drink in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated girls. Someone had scrounged up crisps and trail mix from a hospitality unit. It was, essentially, a picnic.

She’d taken a napkin and a pen and was now drawing vortex flows and side-pod shapes in clean, confident lines, explaining how turbulent air off the front wing could be used as a tool, not just a nuisance.

“People always think air is the enemy,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a language. And if you understand what it’s saying, the car will behave for you.”

Someone gasped. Someone else scribbled furiously. One girl offered Amelia a gummy bear, which she accepted without breaking eye contact from the diagram.

“Do you… want your daughter to be an engineer too?” One asked, softly.

Amelia paused. “I want her to believe that she can be anything she wants to be.”

That was when Lando found her.

He was coming from an interview and nearly missed the scene entirely. Then he spotted her—Amelia, sitting in the middle of the grass like a camp counsellor or a pre-school teacher, surrounded by fans who all looked like they were in total and utter awe of her.

Oscar arrived seconds later. “Is this… what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a cult,” Lando whispered. “My wife has created a cult and she is their leader.”

One of the girls spotted them and nudged the others. The whole circle turned.

“Oh. Hi,” Amelia said, gesturing vaguely to them. “They asked me about ground effect. I got carried away.”

Lando sat down beside her without a word. Oscar followed, grabbing a crisp from the communal bowl like this was all perfectly normal.

“We’re learning,” Oscar said solemnly. “Let’s not interrupt the professor, Lando.”

One of the girls burst into laughter. Amelia handed her the napkin diagram and grinned.

And there, in the middle of a media day she’d meant to escape, Amelia Norris held court not to journalists or executives; but to the next generation. Bright-eyed. Hungry to learn. Eager to belong.

—

Later, Lando slipped an arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

“So,” he said, voice light but steady, “when our daughter’s old enough, do we risk teaching her about vortex generators and having her build a wind tunnel in our bathroom?”

Amelia rolled her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “Who knows? She might put us all out of a job.”

He laughed softly. “She’ll definitely get your brains.”

“And your stubbornness.” She gave him a sidelong look. “And adrenaline addiction.”

“Great combo.”

They walked slowly back toward the garage.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If she wanted to race,” Amelia started, her hand moving instinctively to her hip, “would you want that for her?”

Lando scrunched his nose, bit his lip. “God. Uh…” He paused, searching her eyes. “I’d be worried. Not happy about it, but if it’s what she wanted, I’d make it happen.”

She studied him. “You’d make it happen even if it made you unhappy?”

“Worried,” he corrected gently. “Worried sick, probably. I’ve crashed, seen the worst of it. You know how dangerous this sport is. Would you be okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’d tell her the risks, the stats. Karting? Sure. But racing professionally… I don’t know.” She hesitated, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Lando cupped her cheek. “It’s okay not to know yet.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, staring into his eyes as panic fluttered beneath her skin. “Why don’t I know? I should.”

He pulled her close, voice low. “It doesn’t work like that, baby. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled, clutching his shirt. “Parenting is already hard and she isn’t even born yet.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, with a shaky kind of inhale. “Yeah.”

—

Amelia sat on the couch in their hotel room, fiddling with her stim toy, brow furrowed. The past few weeks had been… confusing. She knew about pregnancy hormones, but this sudden surge in her sex drive? That was new and confusing territory.

Lando entered the room, carrying a glass of water. He caught her eye and smiled, but there was a flicker of something (nervousness?) in his gaze.

“You okay?” He asked, voice a bit higher than usual.

Amelia bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Is it… normal to suddenly want sex all the time? Like, nonstop?” Her voice was blunt but uncertain. ‘I’m nervous to look it up in-case weird stuff comes up.”

Lando’s face flushed, and he scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, yeah. Totally normal. Second trimester… hormones and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amelia blinked, surprised by his sudden heat.

Lando shifted closer, cheeks still pink. “I mean, it’s… well, you’re pretty irresistible right now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Irresistible?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. So, uh… we can make you feel better, if you want?”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. The kiss was soft but full of promise, and Amelia’s heart sped up in that familiar way; equal parts surprise and warmth.

When they parted, Lando grinned sheepishly. “You want to?”

Amelia stared at him. “Yeah. Now. And then again a few more times. And tomorrow morning before we go to the track.”

He stared at her for a beat before he smiled wide, sharp little fangs and all.

—

Amelia lay awake.

Her head rested on Lando’s chest, his hand soft against the curve of her belly. His breathing was slow, steady, familiar. She could feel the faint shift of it under her cheek.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle circles over the sheets.

She hadn’t expected to want him like that. Not with this body — not now, not so much. And yet…

Flashes of the night flickered across her mind like bright sparks.

Lando’s laugh, half-muffled against her neck.

His voice, rough, whispering, “You sure? You’re sure?”

The way he’d kissed the inside of her wrist every time.

Her hoodie halfway off, clumsily caught around her elbows.

The sound she made when he touched her lower back — sharp, surprised.

His thumb brushing gently over her bump, reverent. “Hi, baby,” he’d whispered, “Your mum’s kind of a goddess.”

She blushed in the dark just thinking about it.

But what stuck with her most wasn’t the heat — it was how seen she felt. How known. How safe.

She’d spent most of her life learning to translate herself for the world. She thought that’s what relationships would always have to be — filtering, explaining, shrinking things down.

But with Lando, she had never once had to do that.

He read the pauses in her voice like she would read telemetry. Felt her silences without trying to explain. Met her confusion with patience, not pity. Anticipated the needs she hadn’t even decoded herself yet.

She tilted her head, studying him in the quiet.

She hadn’t just fallen in love with him all those year ago.

She’d grown into love with him — steady, real, elemental.

And somehow, impossibly, he kept giving her more reasons to love him even more.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, so soft he didn’t stir.

Then closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

—

The bathroom lights were aggressively bright for how little sleep Amelia had gotten.

She was perched on the closed toilet lid, sleep-shirt inside out, bump resting on her thighs, and a toothbrush in her mouth. Her phone leaned against a half-used roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Pietra’s face filled the screen, already smirking.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” Pietra said with wide eyes.

Amelia spat into the sink. “I had sex for four hours straight last night.”

Pietra choked on her iced coffee. “Good morning, mami.”

Amelia shrugged like she was reporting on tyre deg. “Hormones.”

“Second trimester hitting like DRS on the main straight, huh?”

She nodded seriously. “It’s physiological. There’s blood flow redistribution and heightened sensitivity in—”

“Stop,” Pietra laughed. “You can’t do the engineering breakdown of your sex life.”

Amelia grinned, a little proud. “I definitely can. Do you want to see my graphs?”

“No graphs.Please. No vibes. How’s Lando coping?”

“Hydrated. Exhausted. Still asleep,” she said, brushing through her tangled hair. “He kept making these noises like he couldn’t believe what was happening.”

Pietra chuckled. “Yeah, he’s down bad for you, my girl.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “He, like, kept kissing my wrist.”

“Amelia. Please.”

“No, like he held it and did it twice.”

There was a pause.

Pietra blinked slowly. “That’s so sweet.”

“He made me feel like myself again.” She flushed.

Pietra was quiet, her smile gentler now. “Because you are.”

Amelia nodded once. “He’s also half-worried that our daughter might invent a bathtub wind tunnel.”

“Oh God,” Pietra said, grinning again. “That little girl is going to make him go grey. I hope she cuts up her dolls and builds a diffuser from their severed limbs.”

“She won’t have dolls.” Amelia said dryly. “She’ll have CFD software.” Even though her tone was flat, the twitch of her lips betrayed her joke.

Pietra laughed. Amelia finished tying her hair into a low, slightly messy ponytail. A streak of sunlight cut through the window, warming the tiles beneath her feet.

“I should go,” she said. “Track walk in forty-five minutes.”

“Tell Lando I said ‘well done’.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No. That’s weird.”

“You love me anyway!”

Amelia ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror for a second.

Messy. Flushed. A little wild-looking.

Entirely herself.

And deeply, deeply loved.

—

The heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the whole paddock buzzing with anticipation. Miami was loud, chaotic, full of pastel shirts and bass-heavy DJ sets; but the McLaren garage felt like a storm waiting to break.

Amelia had one hand on Oscar’s halo as he settled into the car. Focused. Calm. Starting fourth on the grid. It was a good starting position, but they both knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb through the field — if they even managed to keep their position into turn one.

“Conditions are fine. Brakes might take a while to come in. Let the tyres come to you.”

Oscar looked up at her, half-grinning under his visor. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll scream at you over the radio for being annoying and not listening to me.”

He laughed. “As usual.”

She patted the car once, stepped back, and moved to her tiny little thrown-together desk just as Lando passed her on his way to climb into his car. His hand grabbed her back. Their eyes met. He gave her a look; small, private, thrilling. The kind of look that said: I think today is the day.

She nodded once. Just once.

She’d believed in him for years now — since before Sochi, since before he’d even been given the full-time McLaren seat.

He was capable of incredible things.

—

The first 20 laps were a blur of strategy juggling and telemetry surges. Amelia was locked into Oscar’s race; managing his energy deployment, traffic, undercut threats.

He was driving sharp. But something wasn’t sticking.

A slow pit stop on Lap 32 killed their momentum. They dropped back into traffic. She clenched her jaw, recalculated in seconds, called Plan C.

“Ducky, don’t lose steam. We’re still in this for good points. Head down.”

“Copy,” he said, clipped. Frustrated, but fighting.

But further up the field, Lando was flying.

And then there was the safety car.

Chaos. All improper preparation and garages rushing.

And then Lando exited the pits. And he hadn’t just made up a few positions — he’d taken the lead.

The garage erupted. Amelia nearly stood up from her station. She felt it before the numbers confirmed it — Lando was about to win his first Grand Prix.

She could barely breathe.

—

Oscar crossed the line P6. Solid points. Not what they hoped for, but not failure.

But Lando…

Lando held off Max for the last five laps like his life depended on it. No mistakes. Just pure, blistering pace and nerves of steel.

And then—

“Lando Norris. That’s P1. You are a Formula One race winner!”

Will’s words cracked through the comms.

The garage exploded.

Amelia didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the console like it would float her back to earth.

He’d done it.

Finally.

No more self-doubt. No more what-ifs.

Lando won.

Her husband, who stayed up with her until 3am looking at ride height data; had won.

And he did it in the car she built for him.

"We did it, Will. Amelia — baby, we did it. We did it!" He said over the radio.

The first race it was fully her spec — and sure, they’d gotten ‘lucky’ with the safety-car, but luck was insubstantial. His pace said it all.

He’d won. And he’d won by a mile.

—

The moment she found him in Parc Ferme, still helmeted, still breathless, still shocked, she ran.

Not far; just to the holding area, where only a few people were allowed. But she was McLaren’s lead engineer. She was also his wife.

She had every right.

He turned and saw her and the helmet came off in one swoop.

His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed, disbelieving.

She launched into his arms and he caught her without hesitation, arms around her waist, face buried in her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I won. I fucking won, baby.”

“I can believe it,” she said, steady and breathless. “I knew it was coming. How long have I told you that this would happen for you? You’ve been driving like a winner all year, Lando.”

He kissed her, fast, messy, barely containing the wild joy in him. “Tell me you saw the move on Max.”

“I saw it. It was amazing.”

He laughed against her neck, giddy and stunned and vibrating with relief. “I did it, Amelia.”

“You did.” She leaned into him, eyes pricking with tears. “I am so, so proud of you. So proud.”

—

They went to a few parties. Smaller ones. Danced together — Lando being celebrated in exactly the way he deserved.

He hadn’t been all to keen on the idea of his visibly pregnancy wife going into the Miami nightclub, but she’d insisted they go. Even just for a little while.

Oscar and Lando stayed close — like bodyguards. Max was no better, hovering, constantly bringing her water. It was sweet. It was nice to still be involved in the celebrations.

His trophy sat on their hotel room table.

Lando was in the shower, singing Queen, completely off-key.

Amelia sat on the bed in one of his t-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other tracing the MCL38-AN etched into the side of the silver.

Their daughter kicked.

She smiled. “Your dad,” she whispered, “is a Formula One race winner.”

—

They touched down just before dawn, Heathrow still hushed in early morning fog. Amelia’s body ached with the kind of deep exhaustion that only adrenaline can leave behind; but her hand never left Lando’s.

He’d won. That wasn’t going to stop echoing in her head any time soon.

By the time they got to his parents’ house, the sky had cracked open with gentle rain. The front door opened before they even rang the doorbell.

His mum pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. His dad hovered behind, proud and misty-eyed in the quiet way he always was. There were champagne flutes already out in the kitchen, a cake someone had clearly stayed up late decorating — “P1, Finally!” scrawled in sugar icing.

But what caught Amelia off guard was how his mum hugged her too.

Carefully, because of the bump. But tightly. Fully. Without hesitation.

“We were watching,” she said, her voice warm in Amelia’s ear. “I’ve never screamed so loud in my life. He wouldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?”

Amelia blinked. Didn’t know what to say to that. Just squeezed her hand and nodded.

—

Later, in the quiet of Lando’s childhood bedroom, Amelia lay curled into his side beneath soft, over-washed sheets. The walls were still plastered with old racing posters, a few crooked photos of karting days — a little shrine to where it all began.

The trophy was on the dresser.

Not a glass cabinet, not a pedestal. Just… sitting there. Like it belonged next to a lava lamp and a stack of F1 magazines from 2009.

Amelia snorted at the sight of it. “You really just plonked it there?”

“It’s weird, right?” Lando said, his voice drowsy. “Feels like it should be… more. But also not. I don’t know.”

“It’s exactly right,” she said. “It belongs where you started.”

He looked over at her. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a moment, “It’s strange. Everyone talks about how hard it is to get here. To win. To be part of something like this. But nobody tells you how hard it is to… stop. To come down from it. To believe that it’s real.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her closer, hand on her belly. “She’s gonna know,” he said softly. “Our daughter. She’s going to grow up knowing this is possible. Because she’ll have you. And she’ll have me too.”

“You,” Amelia said firmly, “are going to be her favourite person.”

He flushed, kissed her shoulder. “You’re both my favourite.”

—

Breakfast was a chaotic, sweet mess. His younger cousins had come by with orange balloons and mini trophies made of Lego. His grandmother insisted on touching Amelia’s belly and declared, in full authority, that the baby would be born with racing boots on already.

Someone pulled out a bottle of something sparkling, and Lando looked like he might cry for the tenth time in 48 hours.

Amelia stepped outside with her tea, just for a moment. The garden smelled like damp grass and daffodils.

Lando came out after her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nose pressed into her neck.

“We really did it,” he murmured.

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “We.”

She leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

For once, she didn’t argue.

—

The highly sought after private clinic was tucked behind a row of converted barns; all soft wood beams and white walls, the kind of place that smelled faintly of lavender and sterilised plastic. Quiet. Private. No waiting rooms. No fluorescent lights.

It had taken Amelia weeks to agree to in-person visits. Not because she didn’t trust the care, but because the idea of new faces, new spaces, new sounds — it made her skin hum in the wrong way.

But this midwife, Fiona, had been patient. Kind. Spoken to her over the phone like Amelia wasn’t strange or fragile or complicated. Just… herself. And today, for the first time, they were meeting in real life.

Amelia sat in the softly-lit consultation room, sleeves pulled over her knuckles, while Lando leaned back in the chair beside her, fingers loosely linked with hers.

The door opened, and Fiona stepped in; mid-forties maybe, silver at her temples, Doc Martens under a midi skirt. Exuding a calm energy.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said with a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia blinked at her. “You don’t sound as tall as you do on the phone.”

Fiona laughed, delighted. “That’s a first. Most people say I sound shorter.”

Lando grinned. “She’s very good at spatial audio. It’s… sort of freaky.”

Amelia elbowed him lightly. “It’s not freaky. It’s useful.”

“I know, baby,” he said, kissing her hair.

Fiona sat, not rushing. Just matching the room to Amelia’s pace.

“Shall we talk through everything slowly?” She offered. “We’ll do the checkup, listen to baby’s heartbeat if you’re feeling up for it — and then talk about next steps. I’ve got your notes printed exactly how you like them. Font size 13, double spaced.”

That surprised a smile out of Amelia. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

—

Fiona talked her through every step before touching her. Let Amelia guide where the Doppler went. Gave her control.

The heartbeat came through — fast and steady and perfect.

Lando stared at the screen like it was made of gold.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s our girl.”

Amelia stared at the graph. “Still sounds like a horse galloping.”

“Strong horse,” Fiona said. “Very healthy.”

They spent another fifteen minutes going over nutrition changes, sleeping positions, birth plans. Fiona never pushed. Never filled silence with filler words. Just waited.

“You’re very good at this,” Amelia said finally. “I don’t like many people.”

Fiona smiled gently. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

—

They stepped back out into the quiet spring air, a softness between them.

Lando opened the car door for her, waiting until she was settled before getting in himself. He looked over at her, one hand finding hers on the armrest.

“I like her,” he said.

“I don’t hate her,” Amelia replied, which was even better.

“You did so well,” he added softly. “I’m really proud of you.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because I know how much it costs you to do things that feel uncertain,” he said. “And you still showed up for her. For our daughter.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled, caught off guard by the depth in his voice.

“She deserves someone better than me, sometimes,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s getting someone more brilliant, more brave, more herself than anyone could hope for.”

She kissed him. “Okay. Take me to get some chicken, please?”

—

The kitchen was full of soft light and the smell of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. There were too many voices, too many overlapping stories, the occasional clink of cutlery — but somehow, it didn’t overwhelm Amelia the way it usually did. Maybe it was the dimmer switch Lando had installed last year. Maybe it was the way he kept checking in with her from across the room. Or maybe… maybe it was just the peace that came from knowing her daughter was still tucked safe inside her, heartbeat strong.

Dinner was warm.

They passed around the scan print-outs — Lando sliding them carefully across the table. His mum teared up a little at the clearest one, where the outline of a tiny face and curled fingers was visible.

“She’s so beautiful already,” Cisca whispered.

“She looks like an angry shrimp,” Amelia said flatly, which made Adam chuckle into his wine.

“An angry shrimp with a big Norris head,” Lando added.

“Oi,” Adam said. “Watch it.”

“She’s got Amelia’s precision, though,” Lando added, turning the scan toward his dad. “Perfect symmetry in the profile. Look at that jawline. Look.”

“She’s 38 centimetres long, Lando,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised. “She’s still just a smudge.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Let me have this.”

—

Cisca topped up everyone’s water and gently set her glass down. “Have you two thought much about… the birth yet? Or after? What it’ll look like, who you want with you, where?”

Amelia nodded immediately, already sliding her phone from the edge of her placemat. “Yes. I’ve got it all planned.”

She pulled up a bullet-pointed note, clean and colour-coded. “I’ll be labouring at home for as long as is medically safe, with Fiona monitoring. Then transferring to the birth centre — the one with the adjustable light panels and hydrotherapy. I’ve selected a playlist that aligns with optimal relaxation frequencies, and Lando will be coached on pressure-point guidance in case I don’t want verbal input. We’ll have backup bags packed and pre-positioned in the car by Week 37.”

The table went still for a moment. Not unkind. Just… a bit awed.

“And after?” Adam asked gently.

“Fiona will do at-home checks. I’ll be off work technically, but I’ll still be supporting Oscar’s data remotely if we’re out of hospital. I’m going to stay with my mum in Woking. Sleep will be rotational in the first two weeks depending on Lando’s schedule, but my mum had already agreed to step in. Breastfeeding is Plan A, bottle Plan B. I have a spreadsheet.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Cisca reached over the table, her hand warm as it closed gently over Amelia’s. “That all sounds wonderful, my darling. But, and this is only a but, if it doesn’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, don’t panic,” she said. Her voice was soft but certain. “Sometimes babies decide to do things their own way.”

Amelia didn’t flinch from the contact — rare for her. She just looked at Cisca’s hand, and then at her face. “I know that,” she said, a little stiffly. “Logically.”

“But knowing it logically isn’t the same as feeling okay when it happens,” Cisca said gently.

Amelia looked down at the scan photo in front of her. Then quietly, almost like a confession, “I want to do it right. I want her to feel safe from the second she arrives.”

“She will,” Lando said, reaching for her hand under the table. “Because she’ll have you.”

—

The door was already open before they even made it up the path.

“There she is!” Zak’s voice boomed from the hallway as Amelia climbed out of the car, Lando trailing behind with his hand protectively on the small of her back.

Tracey appeared right behind him, dish towel still slung over her shoulder. “Let her breathe, Zak, Jesus.”

Amelia barely had time to blink before she was enveloped in one of her mother’s trademark, over-long hugs — all vanilla perfume and chaotic warmth.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Tracey murmured, hands sliding down to press lightly at Amelia’s bump. “My granddaughter’s in there, that’s crazy.”

“She’s the size a watermelon,” Amelia said, dry. “A big watermelon. But still.”

Lando grinned. “Not for long. She’s growing every day.”

Zak clapped a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re gonna be a dad, son.”

“Same,” Lando replied with a breathy laugh.

—

The Browns’ home was bigger than you might expect, but still carried the energy of a family who talked over each other and left laundry on stair banisters. The TV was on in the background playing a re-run of some F1 docuseries, and Zak had already pulled out a bottle of strawberry alcohol-free wine.

“No, Dad,” Amelia said, waving him off. “No bubbles. I’ll get heartburn.”

“I’ve got ginger beer!” Tracey called from the kitchen. “And saltines!”

Amelia drifted toward the fireplace, fingers brushing over old framed photos. There was one of her as a little girl with a screwdriver in one hand. Another of Zak holding her on his shoulders at the Silverstone track.

She stared at that one for a beat too long.

“You okay, kiddo?” Zak asked gently, appearing beside her.

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just remembering.”

“You’d sit on the garage floor with the brake calipers,” Zak said, fond. “You used to name them.”

“They needed names. They had personalities.”

“You said one was ‘grumpy and over-torqued.’ You were five.”

She let out a tiny laugh.

—

Dinner was loud. American-style pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans drowning in butter. Tracey refilled everyone’s drinks every ten minutes. Zak told old stories about testing sessions Amelia had half-forgotten.

Later, Amelia found a quiet spot in her childhood bedroom, lights dimmed, the duvet still vaguely smelling of fabric softener. Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching her brush her fingers over an old model car she’d built with Zak when she was nine.

“You okay, baby?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m nervous to be staying here again, after having the baby. I wish we could just… have her in Monaco and disappear for a few months.” She frowned. “We didn’t plan our timing very well, did we? You’ll be mid-season, and Oscar won’t have me there, and—“

Lando crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.“Hey. Hey, calm down, baby. I think that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” he murmured. “You’ll want your mum, yeah? She’ll be able to help you adjust without being overbearing.”

She hummed against his chest, her hands closing around his shirt. “What if you’re not here when it happens?”

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll come home as soon as possible, baby. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to miss a single session.” She said, hotly. “But I want you with me all the time and I can’t have both, can I?”

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He murmured. “It’s fine, baby.”

—

Amelia stood at the edge of the test platform, squinting at the flow viz spread across the prototype floor. She wasn’t officially here to work, just visiting. Just dropping in. Just… checking the numbers. Seeing the model. Touching the damn tunnel wall like it could somehow speak to her.

“It’s still bleeding airflow here,” she muttered to herself, pointing at the front of the floor, just under the bargeboard curve. “Boundary layer’s detaching early.”

“Still better than Ferrari’s design,” someone mumbled behind her.

“Low bar,” she shot back.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers danced automatically across the control screen. Toggling split channel overlays, flipping between computational fluid dynamics layers. She could feel her heartbeat syncing with the faint thrum of the tunnel, her mind slotting into gear like it always had.

Until she felt someone step beside her, too quietly for a regular engineer.

“Amelia,” Oscar said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

She blinked, her brain still five seconds behind in aero-language.

He glanced at the setup, then at her bump, then back to her face. “Did you… sleep at all last night?” He asked.

“I took a nap on Lando’s thigh for twenty-three minutes in the car,” she said.

Oscar huffed. “Very normal. Very healthy.”

She turned back to the airflow sim. “This isn’t right. The adjustment from the Miami spec — it’s throwing off drag balance on the mid-straight.”

“Amelia.”

She didn’t answer this time. Just kept muttering corrections under her breath, lips moving like she was translating a language no one else could see.

Oscar stepped closer, then placed one hand gently on her wrist — not to stop her, just to connect.“You’ve been here for hours. You can come back to this later,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be here without doing something.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But we’re not racing this week. And you’re allowed to just… exist in this space without trying to fix every tiny issue that you see.”

Amelia looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut again. He didn’t push. Just stood with her in the quiet hum of the room, solid and calm.

Eventually, she whispered, “My brain’s too loud when I stop.”

“Then let me help you turn the volume down,” Oscar said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go sit by the lake for a bit.”

—

They ended up outside with two mugs of ginger tea that Oscar had somehow convinced catering to let them take out of the dining hall. Amelia sat with her feet up on the bench edge, dress stretched over her bump, breathing slower now.

She watched the fountain spray in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For not treating me like I’m fragile,” she said. “But also not treating me like I’m a machine.”

Oscar smiled sideways. “You’re a human. A terrifyingly brilliant, data-possessed human. But still.”

She let out a tired laugh and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell Lando I had a moment.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’ll stay between us and the ducks.”

She smiled. “My ducky and my ducks — conspiring together. Cute.”

He rolled his eyes.

—

The morning sun hit the Emilia-Romagna pit lane with a sharpness that reminded Amelia of why she loved racing. Clean, brutal light cutting through the lingering coolness of dawn.

She stood just inside the garage, eyes scanning telemetry streams on her iPad, but her mind elsewhere. This was her second-to-last race before maternity leave. A strange mix of accomplishment and anticipation knotted inside her.

Lando caught her eye across the garage, giving a small thumbs-up. She returned the gesture with a faint smile.

Oscar approached, carrying his helmet. “Ready?” He asked.

“Of course I am.”

—

During a quiet moment before qualifying, Amelia slipped out from behind the pit wall to find Lando.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. Just… thinking about how this is all starting to feel a bit too much like a goodbye for my liking.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll hold the fort. You’ll be back before you know it. You don’t need to worry.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. But it feels… weird.”

He held her. Kissed her. “You’ll be fine, baby.”

—

The race was intense. Strategy calls fired rapidly, tyres switching, gaps closing. Amelia’s voice came calm and precise over the radio, guiding Oscar through every corner, every lap.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Oscar finished fourth — solid, but just off the podium. Amelia exhaled, a complex wave of pride and bittersweet acceptance washing over her.

Lando’s race had been even more intense; a nail-biting late charge from Lando, a nail-bitingly close finish between him and Max.

They’d take second.

But she could see it. Hear it.

Her husband had enjoyed winning. And he was hungry for more.

—

Back in the garage, the team gathered around the screens replaying Lando’s brilliant win at Miami — a reminder of the highs to come. Amelia let herself smile, feeling the warmth of the team around her.

Lando slipped an arm around her waist. “Only one more weekend to go,” he murmured.

She leaned into him. “Yeah.”

Tom gave them a nervous smile. “I feel ready to take the reins. Do you think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you could possibly be.” Amelia told him.

Oscar laughed a bit. “I feel like I’m being passed between my divorced parents.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous, ducky.”

NEXT CHAPTER

511 notes · View notes

adore-laur · 5 months ago

Note

Omgg I would love to see different times dadrry gets protective !! Like I can so see him being one of those dads that set boundaries the first time the baby is being introduced to family. He’d be like “no kissing on the face, no taking her away from mom without asking her first and wash your hands before holding her” etc etc. Or him getting defensive when people start to pity him when they find out he’s having a third girl and he gets annoyed and defends his girls 😭😭

Also ofc need to say your dadrry series is the best thing ever I still have tumblr solely to read your writing ☺️☺️

PROTECTOR

——

Pacific loons wailed hauntingly near the shoreline as you sat in the patio's swing chair, listening to the sundry sounds of nature. The oceanic view was a calm presence, one that often lulled you into a hypnotic trance with the endless ebb of waves and the horizon's dying light. Above the railing, brass wind chimes produced a plinking melody in the wind. The atmosphere of home engulfed you like a warm hug.

It was a moment of serenity while Harry went on a grocery run with the girls. He had offered to take them after work, and it was sweet of him to give you time to decompress after parenting alone all day. Plus, it got them out of the house. You would usually be able to take them somewhere for fresh air and fun sights to see, but pregnancy fatigue prevented any hopes of traveling past the front door.

A month had elapsed since you surprised Harry with the news of a third baby. Two weeks since you both had found out it was a girl. In that time, life had coasted by blissfully between the routine of working part-time, daycare drop-off and pick-up, and bonding with your little family over the weekend.

As much as you cherished the hustle and bustle, it was necessary to prioritize personal time. Sometimes it came in the form of sinking into a hot bath, venturing to the beach with a novel, or catching up on much-needed sleep. Today, it consisted of feeling the breeze pass through your hair and appreciating the beauty of southern California.

It would be easy to fall asleep out here. The crashing waves, birdsong, and rustling trees were a lullaby. But you knew the moment you closed your eyes, you would miss the last streaks of the sunset, with its delicate wisps and golden clouds. So you shifted slightly to wake your limbs that were becoming jelly-like, and as you did, the blanket previously draped across your collarbones pooled into your lap. You stared down at it, smiling. The bedroom's storage ottoman held approximately a dozen different blankets, all with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. The crocheted quilt your first daughter had come home from the hospital with; the heated one with Mom embroidered on it; the oversized fleece one Harry liked to specifically use for cuddling either you or his girls.

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness.

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is fine, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions—how old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, this lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you'd created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You kissed him softly, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of comfortable silence, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation was burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread on your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #dad harry #dadrry #dad!harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #adore-laur

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bernardsbendystraws · 8 months ago

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Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 FINAL

Summary: One night at a party seems to change everything. A strange man with a friendly smile and a sleeve of patchwork tattoos seems to make you feel at home for a change. You're finally happy to have made a good friend to lean on - especially when it comes to your not-so-great relationship with your boyfriend. But what happens if you lean too much...what happens if you fall?

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

00 : midnight moonlight

[ 3 months ago ]

The air around me felt so fresh. I couldn’t tell if it was the fact I had finally escaped the crowd of smoke and sweaty bodies, but it felt good. Cold cement made my legs clutch together for warmth.

“I’ve…I’ve never talked to a stranger like this,” I admit.

Matt. He was sweet. Parties weren’t his thing either. I hadn’t even noticed him sitting five feet down from me until he had said hi. It scared me at first. A strange man, alone in the dark, with a sleeve of patchwork tattoos and a scowl painted on his features.

“Well,” he smiles, his teeth reflecting the moonlight from above us. The same soft grin that had soothed my panic to begin with. He wasn’t intimidating at all once he started talking. “---I don’t think I’ve ever talked to anyone like this, to be honest with you. I…I don’t know….it’s been a rough day and…I think I needed this. I’m glad we met,” he remarks.

Warmth radiates off of him while I let my shoulder relax onto his briefly. Curiosity swarms my thoughts. I hated talking to strangers. In fact, I hated everything about this. A loud party, a strange man, and bitter, unforgiving weather with a poor outfit choice.

Was I so tired I was growing delirious?

“I…me too. It’s been a day for me—-a week, even,” I snort. Matt swivels himself to look down at me. Sitting back up, feeling my stomach curl as his eyes gleam into mine. I feel bare. The brutal breeze does nothing to compare how stripped I feel under his intentful eyes.

Licking between his lips, he turns his head back towards the ocean. My chest heaves with relief. “I, uh…I guess it’s just been rough? I mean, I didn’t move to LA too long ago. Just…still getting settled, I think,” I explain.

Wrapping my arms tighter around myself, I feel my shoulders fall. Still getting settled. It had been months—four months—and there was no promise of more. I was still getting the same kind of opportunities for work, the same kind of photoshoots that made me…uneasy.

“Tell me about it,” he suggests.

Shaking my head, I let out a dry laugh. “I…I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Just—-let’s talk about something else. What’s going on with you, hm? What made your day so shitty?” I ask.

Matt lets out a deep sigh. Turning his body back towards me, he shrugs. “Don’t really know, to be honest. How about….how about we just talk? We are strangers, I’m sure there’s lots we could tell each other,” he points out.

“Um, let me think…” I snicker, pulling my lips between my teeth. “I—” Looking over, his eyes are trained on me. My words get caught in my throat as I feel the back of my neck crawl with heat, despite the freezing air. “I—why are you looking at me like that?” I mumble, looking at him from the corner of my eye as my lips curl up with a shy smile.

His laugh echoes in the air, easing the tension that had pelted onto my skin. I feel his hand land on my knee. “Geez, you’re freezing. Here,”

Before I can object, his sweatshirt is thrown over my lap. I bite my tongue as my cheeks flush from the innocent gesture. Darting a glance towards him, I open my mouth to object, only to have him push the fabric more onto my legs.

“Don’t worry about it. I have a long sleeve on too. I just—I’m not gonna sit here and watch you freeze all night. Plus, this way we can talk for longer,” he admits, sheepishly pulling his face towards the view in front of us with a soft grin.

“Well, what do you wanna talk about?” I retort.

Matt is quick to pull his eyes back towards me, squinting with question before he starts to speak.

“Moon or stars?”

Thank you for reading. Any interaction is appreciated!!!

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nyc-looks · 5 months ago

Text

Johainess, 37

“I’m wearing a handmade patchwork leather denim vest, with Betsey Johnson dress and Timberland heel boots. My style is inspired by making something vintage feel fresh and modern.“

Nov 2, 2024 ∙ Industry City

#nyc looks #street style #street fashion #new york #style #outfit #fashion #vintage #betsey johnson #timberland

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mead-iocre · 8 months ago

Text

La Castanyada | Alexia Putellas x Reader

synopsis: alexia invites you to meet her extended family

warnings: it's a longgggg one

wc: 7.2k words

The late autumn sunlight filters through the mildly tinted windows, casting shadows that danced across your face. You welcome it, deciding to savour whatever little warmth is left before the arrival of the cold in the upcoming months. The only sound coming from inside the car was the mild buzz of the engine, and the low hum of Alexia’s favourite radio station reporting the latest sports news. The car smells of herbarium berries thanks to the overpriced car perfume you purchased a few months ago. Cool notes of fresh-picked blackcurrant berries mingle with flowery rose accents prick your nose. You mentally remind yourself to buy another car diffuser, but maybe not one tagged with a fancy label like this one.

You gaze out the window to a serene scene of fallen leaves and autumnal charm. You had never been so far away from the city before. The journey was worth it though, full of new sights and sounds; with patchwork of amber and rust-coloured trees, charming villages, and vineyards against backdrops of evergreen pines. As you drive further, you past towns surrounded by vibrant landscape of rolling hills and dense forest. Living in the city for so long made you realise just how you missed being around the natural wonders of the world. The car stops at a red light and you glance over at the rusted cobbled pavement, watching as a gust of wind sends a pile of leaves to swirl and dance in the air.

The realisation that you were nearing your destination made your palms sweat and your heart race. Alexia was taking you to meet the rest of her clan. Today, you will officially be meeting her extended family. Alexia’s grandparents had invited everyone to stay at their estate, a home that Alexia had told you countless of stories about. Stories of mornings that start with churros on the breakfast table; Sunday lunches on a long oak table, beautifully set with fine china and crystal glasses; and playing hide and seek with her cousins around the family vineyard until the sun set.

A warm palm clasping your knee startles you out of your daydreams. When you turn your head, warm hazel eyes meet yours. “Cómo te sientes? You okay, amor?”

You hum, nodding your head, placing your hand above hers. She slows down as the car approaches traffic, using the opportunity to focus her attention back to you. You watch the way her eyes study your face, probably looking for any sign that you might be holding back from saying what you were really feeling. She entwines your fingers together before tugging it towards her lips to place a kiss on the back of your hand.

“Are you…ansioso?-- nervous?” She asks, focusing her attention back on the road now that the stoplight has turned green. She keeps one hand on the steering wheel, her other hand entwined with your own.

“Maybe a little bit” You admit. You had met Alexia’s mother and her younger sister, Alba before and that went well. In fact, it went so well it turned into regular visits from her mother and weekly brunches with her sister. But this time it was different, not only was Alexia's mother and sister not due to arrive until tomorrow, you were going to be meeting her grandparents. She spoke so highly about them all the time. Her voice would soften and her eyes would glimmer every time she recalled stories about her childhood growing up in her grandparent’s home. If they didn’t like you, you fear Alexia might just leave you.

“Meeting your whole family, it’s a lot. What if they don't like me?”

Alexia shot you an incredulous look, as if the mere thought was unfathomable. “Impossible.” She proclaimed, so confident, so assured. “They’re going to love you. Besides, mi abuela has already seen your picture a hundred times. She thinks you're ‘muy guapa’.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Yeah, but a picture is different from meeting in person.”

She lifted your entwined hands, giving the back of your hand another kiss. “Mi amor, pictures do not do you justice. They’re not expecting perfection. Just be yourself. They are not scary, I promise.”

That helped, slightly. You sighed, looking out the window as the olive trees and vineyards passed by. “I just hope my Spanish doesn’t embarrass me…”

“Your Spanish is great!” Alexia exclaimed, squeezing your hand. Along with weekly Spanish online classes with a tutor, you encouraged Alexia to speak to you in spanish regularly so you can pick up the language quicker. “But if you want to speak English, that is fine too. I will help you. No te preocupes”

You wrap your other hand around her arm, picking at the soft cashmere coat she was wearing with your fingers. You had bought her this coat, convinced she would look really good in it as soon as you saw it in the store. You were right.

"What if I mess it up?"

“You cannot ‘mess it up’” The last bit was said accompanied by finger quotations. She briefly detangles her fingers from yours to make finger quotes in the air, before promptly entwining them again. Alexia’s voice was soft, but full of conviction. Her hazel eyes were earnest, almost pleading with you to trust her word. “Just be yourself. You will be fine.”

You wanted to believe her. You really did. But the nerves didn’t go away. Instead, they settled deeper, twisting into a tight ball in your stomach. You had never met your partner’s family before, not like this. This wasn’t just dinner with their parents. This was Alexia’s whole extended family, in a different country, in a language that you weren't fluent in.

Looking out of the window, you tried to focus on anything but your growing anxiety. You caught a glimpse of an older couple seated outside a cafe, a group of children chasing a ball down the narrow street and a man leaning against his bicycle, deep in conversation with a shopkeeper outside of a flower store. The scene was peaceful, unhurried, like time itself had slowed down for everyone else but you.

“I’m just… worried,” You finally admitted, your voice small and slightly shaky. You hated feeling this way, not being in control, not knowing what could happen next. “I don’t want to let you down.”

All of a sudden, Alexia swerved and pulled the car to a stop by a street lined with rows of charming little shops. She turned fully to face you, her eyes soft and understanding. “Amor, look at me.”

Rather reluctantly, you met her gaze.

“You could never let me down. Eres mi todo and my family knows, ” Alexia's words were steady, filled with the kind of reassurance that you desperately needed. “And if anyone has a problem with that, they will have to fight me.”

You chuckled weakly, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” She smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “Te quiero mucho. And that’s all that matters.”

Her eyes scan your face, probably sensing your lingering doubts. She cups your face, her palm warm against your cheek. She brings your face closer to hers. “Eres perfecta,”

Pretty hazel eyes meet yours, all love and affection. She leans in to kiss you, her lips soft and plump against yours. Pulling away slightly, just a breath of distance between the two of you, before she murmurs. Her voice low and hushed , “You know what that means, Si?”

You hum, your eyes fluttering closed, still partly consumed by her kiss. Of course you knew what that phrase means, it was one of the first Spanish phrases she ever translated for you. You tilt your head towards her, leaning into her space, greedy for another kiss.

“Mmhmm. Perfect.” She mumbles in english, her tone is teasing, enunciating the word with perfect pronunciation. Although it is slightly jumbled by your lips being pressed against hers again. She smiles against your lips, no doubt feeling your desperation. Your yearning.

Her hand tilts your face to the side, fingers pressingly lightly against your neck, urging you to succumb to her lead completely. Like all she wants you to do is just close your eyes, kiss her back, and she will handle the rest.

Eventually she starts to pull away, but not before she leaves a teasing bite to your bottom lip, a cocky smile perched on her lips at the sight of the dazed look on your face. You open your eyes half heartedly, your gaze immediately zeroing in on her plump bottom lip still wet from your kiss. “Later” She promises.

And Alexia always keeps her promises.

She tucks your hair behind your ear and squeezes your knee as she leans back into her seat. Both of her hands back on the wheel. “Vale. We’ve still have some driving to do.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The countryside was a picturesque scene of rolling hills, vineyards that span miles and miles, and tall, slender cypress trees. The leaves had begun their slow descent, carpeting the roads and pavements in hues of amber, crimson, and goldenrod, creating a soft crunch beneath the tires. The scent of earth and woodsmoke wafts in through the slightly cracked window. You noticed it earlier, but it’s a lot stronger now. As the car navigates the winding roads, you catch glimpses of traditional stone houses, with their windows framed with charming flower pots that still hold the last few blooms of summer.

As you wound deeper into the heart of Catalonia, the landscape became more secluded. The occasional farmhouse dotted the hillsides, their red-tiled roofs peeking through the autumn foliage, and their silhouettes softened by the setting sun.

And then, as the car rounded the final bend, the mediaeval town of Peratallada came into view. Peratallada with its ancient stone walls and narrow cobblestone streets. The town was full of charm, its streets flanked by ivy-clad beige and gold stone, the weathered facades only adding to it's history.

Eventually, Alexia slowed the car down, allowing you to take in the new surroundings. You take out your phone, snapping a few pictures of the pretty sights. The cobblestone streets were narrow, twisting through archways and past old stone fountains. Vines clung to the walls, leaves now tinged with the colours of autumn, while small terracotta pots with trailing ivy and late-blooming flowers adorned the windowsills of homeowners. Every corner and alley seemed to hold a secret passage—a hidden courtyard, a glimpse of a garden, and even a cosy café where a few villagers sat outside, sipping wine and chatting quietly.

The smell of roasting chestnuts filled the air, carried by the breeze from vendors setting up stalls in the main square for the evening’s festivities. The town was quiet, peaceful, but you can see preparations are being made for the upcoming La Castanyada festival.

As you leave the narrow streets behind, the road opens up, leading you deeper into the countryside. The car continues to meander through the occasional quaint shop-fronts and cobblestone paths until the road begins to slope upward. You sit straighter in your seat.

The soft crunch of gravel under the tires announced your approach to Alexia's family estate, hidden behind tall stone walls and ancient oaks. Gradually, the estate came into view, as the road curved around a hillside, revealing tall gates surrounding the property. You had never seen anything like it.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise as the large dark, wooden gates swung open automatically just as the car pulled up. The car drives through and you spot what looks to be some sort of wooden sign announcing the estate's name, beautifully carved in dark wood. It was like Disneyland.

You knew Alexia came from a well off family, but you were definitely not expecting a family-that-has-a-fancy-sign-outside-of-their-gated-estate kind of rich.

Alexia turns to you, biting her bottom lip. Her eyes were bright with excitement, she was practically buzzing in her seat. This was the most excited and awake you have seen her in the last hour of the drive.

She points to your window. “This is my family's vineyard”

You lean forward and sure enough there was a vineyard. The estate was perched high on a hill, offering a panormaic view of the property. The vineyard itself looked like something out of a painting, the grapevines, heavy with the last of the season’s fruit, stood in neat rows, aligned against the backdrop of rolling hills. Beyond the vineyards, the estate was flanked by tall trees offering privacy from the rest of the world.

“Wow, this place is beautiful,” You were in complete awe at the scenery.

Alexia's cheeks flushed with warmth. She quickly removed her green cap, brushing out her hair. “My grandparents have lived here for years."

The car continued to drive on. Soon enough an impressive structure came into view. The house--mansion(?) itself was breathtaking— a lavish stone manor with its ivy-covered walls, grand arched windows, and terracotta roofs. Even though Alexia had prepared you for her grandparents’ “big house”, nothing compared to the real thing.

“We’re here,” Alexia said softly, pulling the car to a stop at the front of the estate. She shut off the engine and unbuckled her seatbelt. She then turned to you and did the same, unbuckling your seatbelt for you out of habit.

As you both stepped out of the car, the cool autumn air enveloped you completely, crisp but not biting. You just stared for a moment, your breath catching as you took it all in. The courtyard was paved with smooth stones, lined with tall, iron lanterns leading towards the grand entrance of the house. The doors, massive and intricately carved, stood closed. Almost intimidatingly.

“This is your grandparents' place?” You asked, still in awe. Who did you know had multiple 2ft tall cast stone vases lined up by the entrance of their homes. No one-- at least until now.

“It’s home.” She took your hand, guiding you toward the entrance.

You felt a flutter of nerves in your belly. You had been excited about the trip initially, but now that they were here, the reality of it all weighed on her.

Would they like you? Would they understand your broken Spanish?

Before Alexia could reach for the doorbell, one of the doors opened.

Alexia’s grandmother, Abuela Carmen, was the first to greet you at the door, her face lighting up with a warm smile. Her silver hair was pulled into a loose bun, and her dark eyes twinkled as she wrapped her granddaughter in a tight embrace before turning to you.

“And you must be Alexia's girl,” she said in English, her accent thick yet soft. She took your hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. You introduced yourself and she repeated your name back to you with such fondness, as if she had known you your whole life. “Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you. Gracias" You replied, your nerves easing as Alexia's grandmother pulled you in for a hug. Alexia was about to say something about the luggage in the trunk, but her grandmother just flapped her hands away dismissively, instead ushering you both further inside her home.

The house was as grand inside as it was outside. The foyer welcomed you inside, its walls lined with decor and tall paintings. Towards the end of the foyer you could see an expansive living room that you swear is bigger than your entire apartment. A large fireplace dominated the room, its flames reflecting against dark wood beams. Terracotta tiles stretched across the floor, complemented nicely by the intricately patterned rugs.

The walls were painted in soft, creamy tones, adorned with vibrant mosaic tiles. Large arched windows lined the walls, with the wooden shutters thrown open to let in the last rays of the setting sun, bathing the room in a golden glow. The windows framed picturesque views of the vineyard and rolling hills beyond. You were still in awe.

Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the high ceilings, while wrought-iron chandeliers hung gracefully, the warm light casting shadows across the room. Plush sofas and armchairs upholstered in rich fabrics, blend with the dark wooden tables and cabinets. The sofas were lightly dented and the rugs weren't perfectly brushed out. You could tell that each piece in this room was meticulously chosen with the purpose of making this house a home.

"Show our guest around the sala, Alexia. Then come to the kitchen for some merienda after" Abuela Carmela practically orders her granddaughter. With you, she just sends you a quick wink before nudging the both of you away as she saunters over to where you assume the kitchen is. It’s hard to tell with a house as big as this.

Alexia leads you through the main hall, where a large stone fireplace crackled with a burning fire. Above the mantel, an intricately carved wooden mantelpiece held an array of family photos, a reflection of the generations that had lived and loved in this house.

“We gather in this house every year,” Alexia said, her voice filled with affection. "It's my favourite time of year. It's the only time I get to see all of my family in one place".

Alexia waves you over, closer. You stand on your tiptoes as she points out herself and her sister in the photos, whispering stories of her childhood for every single one. The smile that lights up her face as she tells her stories is infectious, like she was experiencing every happy memory all over again. Stories of bike rides around the town, muddy boots around the vineyard, and summers spent sunbathing at Poseidon Calella beach.

She leads you into the next room, your hand in hers the entire time. The dining room was an expansive room with a long, polished wooden table perfectly set for the occasion.

"Wow. This is the fanciest table setting I have ever seen..." The table was adorned with what looked like hand-painted ceramic plates and bowls, surrounded by intricate silver cutlery and crystal glasses that sparkled in the candlelight. The centrepiece was a beautiful arrangement of autumn leaves, chestnuts, and candles.

"Oh no, this is not where we will be eating," Alexia tugs your hand, leading you around the fancy dinner table and towards a set of French glass doors framed by lush cerulean curtains. She points outside.

"There is where we will be eating"

An expansive terrace has been transformed into a breathtaking outdoor dining space. Under the pergola draped with twinkling lights, a long wooden table stood as the focal point of the evening’s festivities. From where you were standing, you could see hints of colourful glassware, candles, ornate table centrepieces, and neatly folded napkins.

You turn to face Alexia, playfully mouthing a "holy shit" -- one of the first English phrases she picked up quickly-- to which she just rolls her eyes at you. But you can see the corner of her mouth tugging upwards.

"Vale. Let's go to the kitchen. My abuela is probably waiting"

As Alexia led you into the kitchen, you marvelled at the sights before you. The kitchen was any chef’s dream. The floor was laid with terracotta tiles which were noticeably worn smooth by generations of footsteps. You could tell the family spent a lot of time inside this part of their home.

Stone countertops, big windows, wooden cabinets, and a large farmhouse sink. Stainless steel pots and pans hung from a wrought-iron rack above the island, and the glass cabinets were filled with an array of colourful ceramics. Alexia’s stories of how her grandma would cook her infamous Gazpacho whenever she was sick filled your head at the sight of a large, stone fireplace by the corner.

There was a smaller table, placed near the fireplace, looking to be made from reclaimed barn wood. It was surrounded by mismatched chairs, their cushions upholstered in colourful, patterned fabrics. The table was set with a simpler table setting compared to the one in the dining room and the terrace. You could imagine the family using this smaller table whenever they are rushing in the morning and only need to stop for a quick breakfast before school or work.

Alexia's grandmother was busy at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled divine. She greeted you both with a warm smile. “Ah, there you are! Just in time to help,” she said, clapping her hands.

Alexia's grandfather, Abuelo Miguel, appeared carrying a tray piled high with steaming chestnuts. His face, weathered with age, split into a grin as he saw Alexia. “Ah, mi nieta,” he said, his deep voice warm with affection. He set the tray down before giving Alexia a big hug. The kind of hug only a beloved grandfather can give.

Then, turning to you, he gave you a welcoming nod and extended his hand. “And you must be the woman we have all heard so much about.”

Taking his welcome, you smiled back– albeit a bit awkwardly, but the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled at you put your nerves at ease.

"Vale. Keep doing what you were doing" He gestured playfully to the controlled mess around the kitchen, making you all laugh. There were dishes and casseroles everywhere, stuff cooking on the stove and oven. No counter space was left unused.

“Chestnuts are always the centrepiece,” Alexia whispered to you, pointing about the growing pile on the kitchen island. “Traditions say they were eaten back in the day to keep warm during the colder months. These days, we eat them to remember the souls of the departed.”

You watched as Alexia's grandparents moved with an easy grace, tending to the chestnuts roasting in the open hearth. Abuela Carmen was masterful, her wrinkled hands moving deftly as she placed a fresh batch of chestnuts into the iron skillet over the flames. She gave them a gentle toss, and the warm, nutty scent wafted through the air. You swear your stomach grumbled at the smells alone.

You and Alexia got stuck in, plating dishes and gathering the cutlery. Abuela Carmen called you over to watch and observe her roast the chestnuts and Abuelo Miguel showed you how to make authentic Sangria. As the final preparations were completed, you and Alexia helped carry the food out to the terrace. After a few back and fourths, you make your last trip to the terrace carrying a pitcher of the Sangria that you had made. You place it in the corner of the table, stepping back to admire the setting.

The table was made from rich, dark wood. It was long enough to accommodate the entire extended family, with matching sturdy chairs situated on each side. The natural grain of the wood is complemented by a table runner that runs down its length—a delicate fabric adorned with intricate patterns in shades of gold, dark blue, and deep red.

"Barcelona colours. You see?" Alexia points out with a wink as she passes you to put down a platter of cured meats. You roll your eyes at her. You can take the woman out of Barcelona, but you can’t take Barcelona out of the woman.

Each place setting thoughtfully arranged, with ceramic plates, polished silver cutlery, and neatly folded deep burgundy linen napkins held together with rustic twine and a sprig of fresh rosemary. Above each plate were crystal glasses ready to be filled with the finest wines-- to which Alexia pointed out to you that there were separate glasses for red and white wine. You did not know that beforehand.

An arrangement of autumn leaves in hues of gold, orange, and crimson was interspersed with clusters of chestnuts, pomegranates, and small gourds. Among the foliage, candles in glass holders flickered softly, their flames bouncing off of wine glasses. Along the table were small bowls filled with olives, marinated in garlic and herbs, and plates of freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven. Ceramic bowls filled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar sat within easy reach.

Personalised name cards, handwritten on small pieces of parchment, were placed at each setting. You round the table, eyeing each name card, and pausing when you see one addressed to you. Yours was next to Alexia's, handwritten in beautiful calligraphy just like the rest of the family.

Soon your ears pick up on the muted sound of gravel crunching under tires. One by one, cars pulled up to the grand estate, and the echoes of greetings pierced through the silence. You take a deep breath, looking down at your outfit to make sure you didn't have any balsamic stains on your cardigan or any suspicious crumbs on your trousers.

The first to arrive were Alexia's uncle Javier and his wife, Elena, along with their three children. Javier, a tall man with a warm smile, embraced you with a hug. Maria, a graceful woman with kind eyes, kissed you on both cheeks, her greeting rolling off her tongue easily. She had a nice voice, you thought to yourself, but that could just be the nerves forcing you to focus on anything but your growing anxiety.

The children, two boys and a girl, darted past their parents, racing each other to check out the table and all the colourful decorations.

“Alexia, it’s been too long!” Javier exclaimed, shrugging off his blazer and draping it over his chair. He turns to you. “And I'm glad you finally brought your girl home. Welcome to the family, hija.”

Next came Tia Isabel, Elena’s great-aunt, a sprightly woman in her seventies. She arrived with her husband, Roberto, and their son, Carlos. Isabel, wearing a vibrant yellow shawl greeted everyone with enthusiastic hugs and kisses-- including you. In fact, you swear she gave you an extra tight squeeze when she came to hug you.

Soon after a car pulled up with Alexia's cousins, Maritza and Sofia. Their partners trail behind them with their bags and bottles of wine. Maritza comes strutting onto the terrace, her high-heel shoes click clacking, announcing her arrival. She greets you, complimenting your cardigan, and practically steals you away from Alexia to chat. She leads you to the table, sneakily swapping the name card to your left with her own so you can sit together and talk more.

Meanwhile Sofia, who Alexia mentioned is an artist, carried a canvas bag filled with small gifts she had made for the family. After yelling her greetings to everyone, she goes straight to the table and starts picking out wrapped objects from her bag, placing them by the corresponding name card. Everyone immediately goes to open their presents, revealing handmade pottery. There were mugs, bowls, and small plates, each glazed in vibrant colours and decorated with unique patterns and designs. She takes out the last one and walks over to you, holding it out. "This one's for you. Alexia said you love the colour pink and anything with cherries on it"

You stand up, thanking her and unwrap your present. You start to apologise for not having brought anything for her in exchange, but she just waves your apologies away, urging you to focus on unwrapping your gift instead. Underneath the wrapping paper revealed a ceramic white mug with red cherries all over, sweet and dainty. Perfect for your daily cups of coffee. "Wow. This is beautiful. Thank you, Sofia"

Sofia smiles proudly, accepting the shouts of praise directed at her from the rest of the family as well. She bows exaggeratedly before she threatens everyone that they must use their gifts or else.

As the last few family members continued to arrive, the atmosphere grew even more festive. From your view from above, the courtyard was abuzz with activity—children playing tag around the lanterns, and adults catching up, their hands already occupied with their beverage of choice or nibbling on some tapas.

Soon enough Abuela Carmen called everyone to come to the table. It was time to eat. Everyone gathered around, their faces lit by the warm, golden light. The terrace offered a breathtaking view of the vineyard below, the rows of vines now bathed in the silvery light of the moon.

“Come, come, sit,” Abuela Carmen urged, gesturing for you to take your seat. You take your place, feeling Alexia slide into her seat right next to you. She takes her napkin, unfolds it, and lays it across her lap. You follow suit. “I hope this is enough food for your first La Castanyada.”

Alexia chuckles from beside you. She gestures at the feast before you. "It's more than enough, Abuela. Te lo juro"

"Muy bien. Good. I want your first La Castanyada to be perfect" Aubela Carmen looks down at you fondly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear when a light breeze blows by. She gives your shoulder one last squeeze before she walks over to her own place by the head of the table.

You had heard of the Catalan tradition before. Alexia had not only explained it to you countless times before, but you also took the liberty in doing some research before coming. According to your research, La Castanyada is a celebration held in late autumn to honour the dead. The tradition is rooted in the whole family coming together to enjoy seasonal treats like roasted chestnuts and tiny almond cakes.

Between courses, music filled the air. Abuelo Miguel strummed his guitar, leading the family in traditional Catalan songs. Alexia's cousins joined in with their singing, encouraging everyone else to clap and sing. Even the children took turns dancing and performing.

The table was a feast for the gods. At the center of the table, a large platter showcased roasted vegetables fresh from the estate’s garden. Beside it sat a carved wooden bowl overflowing with mixed greens—arugula, radicchio, and delicate frisée—tossed lightly in a vinaigrette of lemon, olive oil, and herbs.

A large paella pan sat ready at one end of the table, brimming with golden saffron-infused rice. It was piled on with prawns, mussels, and pieces of chicken, with slices of chorizo nestled among the rice. Fresh sprigs of parsley were scattered over the top, and lemon wedges lined the edges. Next to the paella, a warm loaf of crusty artisan bread sat on a wooden board. Nearby was a selection of spreads and dips; including a rich, roasted red pepper romesco, and creamy whipped feta with herbs.

Right in front of your plate sat a dish of patatas bravas. The fried potato cubes were smothered in a spicy tomato sauce and drizzled with a swirl of garlicky aioli. Plates of jamón ibérico were carefully fanned out beside it, the thin, ruby-red slices almost translucent. The seafood continued with grilled octopus, charred lightly at the edges and served on a bed of roasted chickpeas and fennel, dressed in a lemon and caper sauce.

Abuela Carmela lifted her glass, her eyes sparkling with affection as she looked around at her family. “To La Castanyada,” she began, her voice warm and steady. “To our loved ones, present and remembered, and to the blessings of family.”

Everyone echoed her toast, glasses clinking, blending with the crackle of the fire nearby. With that, the meal began. You picked up one of the roasted chestnuts, still warm from the cazuela. You took a tentative bite, and immediately, a soft sweetness spread over your tongue. The texture was velvety, almost creamy. You did not know chestnuts could taste like this.

Alexia watched you chew, your face screwed up in thought. When you turned to her with a big smile on your face, she subconsciously released the breath she was holding. While you were busy scooping another mouthful of the chestnuts, Alexia secretly raised a thumbs up at her abuela. Abuela Carmen replied back with a quick wink and a satisfied smile.

When the large pan of paella, Alexia used the serving spoon to scoop a generous serving of the rice, with prawns and chorizo, and placed it on your plate for you. She then served herself before passing it down the table.

You pile your fork with the paella, bringing the fork to your mouth. Immediately, the layers of flavour bloomed in your mouth: the smoky paprika from the chorizo, the sweetness of the prawn, and the aromatic saffron that tinted the rice. You chew some more before tucking into your plate again. Gathering another spoonful of paella into your mouth, you were practically dancing in your sea. In the middle of chewing, you turn to Alexia with wide eyes.

She thumbs away the little bit of sauce on the corner of your lip, patiently waiting for you to finish chewing.

You swallow, licking your lips afterwards. “Delicioso”

“Si?” Alexia asks, with raised eyebrows, as if she can’t see the pure elation painted all over your face.

You hum in reply, nodding– practically humming a melody as you eat another forkful. “Si!”

Alexia laughs at you, endearingly, unable to resist the urge to love on you. She wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to her, and starts raining kisses on your cheek. You blush profusely at her blatant display of affection in front of her family but everyone just continuous on eating, but you can see a few secret smiles on their faces.

“Oye, Carlos! pass the paella, por favor” Alexia calls out. When the plate reaches her, she scoops a serving directly onto your plate.

“We cook this every year,” She says, leaning close to your ear. “It’s part of the tradition. You’ll have to learn the recipe if you want to stick around.”

You look at her and smile, your heart swelling at the thought of being part of these yearly rituals. Glancing around the table, you tried to take in the sight of the rest of Alexia's family and their happy faces. Everyone sat around this large table, passing around dishes and stories. The evening air was filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low crackle of the fire. Not a bad deal at all.

From the distance, just across the vineyard, you could see a faint warm glow illuminating, perhaps from where other houses were participating in the celebrations as well.

The evening slipped into a comfortable rhythm. The conversation flowed, mostly in Spanish with Alexia translating when needed, but even when you didn’t understand every word, you never felt left out. Everyone made sure to try and speak English, especially when they were referring to you. Your heart warmed at their efforts.

Javier, ever the storyteller, was in the middle of recounting a story from his travels. His hands moved expressively as he spoke, his voice booming with laughter. You listened intently as you followed his tale.

All of a sudden a hand gently tapped yours that was resting on top of the table.

“So,” Tia Isabel, who was sitting in front of you, asked. She eagerly leaned forward in her seat, her plate pushed aside and she was nursing her glass of red wine. “Tell us, how did you and Alexia meet?”

You smiled, glancing over at the woman with the pretty hazel eyes sitting right next to you. “We met through the club,” You explained. “I work for the club doing all the social media stuff."

Maritza pipes up from beside you. "Oh. Are you the one--uhh how do you say-- filming the videos?"

You turn to her and nod. Maritza looked a lot like Alexia's sister, Alba. If you did not know any better, you would've assumed Alexia had been hiding a third sister from you. "Si. I make and create content for the team's social media."

You catch from your peripheral as your girlfriend suddenly seems very interested in your conversation. She stretches an arm, resting it on the back of your chair.

"So the blindfolded pizza challenge was your idea?"

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat up. That video was one of your favourite pieces of content you had ever created, and it was an instant hit with the fans. On the other hand, it was Alexia’s least favourite.

Sofia clasps her hands together, practically bouncing in her chair. "I love that video!"

Alexia interjects. "I still can't believe she made me eat olives. I hate olives"

Chuckling at the visible shudder she let out, you smile when you recall the shock on everyone's faces when Alexia blindly picked out the one paper that had olives on it. The rules of the game state that the players must take turns blindly pulling out little slips of paper with a food item on it. They must then put the food item onto their pizza, and bake it. To make it fun, aside from the typical pizza toppings, food options include gummy worms, mustard, anchovies and– unfortunately for Alexia– olives.

So Alexia had no choice but to begrudgingly place a couple olives on her pizza. You will never get over the sight of the Barcelona captain with tears welling in her eyes at the end of the video. Afterwards, she gave you the silent treatment the entire evening.

As the conversation continued to flow, Abuela Carmen stood up, her chair scraping against the tiled floor, catching everyone’s attention. “I hope everyone has room for postres-- dessert,?” she announced with a smile. She motioned for Elena and Sofia, who brought out trays of panellets and sweet potatoes.

Everyone ooooh'd and ahhh'd' as the trays were placed on the table. You watched in awe as the beautifully arranged treats were revealed. Panellets, the traditional marzipan sweets, were decorated with pine nuts, coconut, and almonds. Their sweet aroma mingled with the scent of the roasted sweet potatoes.

Abuela Carmen handed you a small dessert plate. “You must try these, preciosa. Quickly. Before the rest of the family eats them all.”

You graciously took a piece of the panellet, its delicate sweetness melting in your mouth. “Esto es delicioso, Abuela Carmen!”

Abuela Carmen beamed, patting your hand. The crinkles by her eyes deepened until her eyes smiled like crescent moons. “I’m glad you like them”

She turns to the table, quickly grabbing the last bit of the panellets, much to the apparent surprise of the entire family. She places the last piece on your plate. “This is for you.”

The table is stunned for a moment, but they all nod in agreement. That is until Maritza breaks the silence by calling for another toast– this time, to you. You wave your hand around, covering your face in embarrassment but it only fuels everyone to continue teasing you out of affection. Alexia is beaming by your side. It’s sort of a known thing in their culture that people usually offer the last piece of any cake or desert to the people they care about. Her Abuela offering the last piece to you is already a sign of fondness.

Despite your embarrassment over the attention, you gladly accept the last piece of desert and enjoyed every last bite.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eventually, the family gathered their drinks and began to move from the terrace to the courtyard. The space was softly illuminated by string lights and a large stone fireplace. Vintage wrought-iron lanterns hung at intervals along the pergola’s length. Arranged in clusters around the fireplace, there were plush, low-slung lounge chairs and sofas, upholstered in fabrics of earthy tones.

The warmth from the fire pit mingled with the cool autumn breeze. You were almost tempted to excuse yourself to fetch your coat, so when Alexia silently handed you a big wool throw for you to share, you practically let out a big sigh in relief. "no puedo imaginar la vida sin ti, mi corazon. i love you so much"

Your lover just laughs, throwing her head back freely, before bending down to meet your lips for a kiss. You feel her smiling against your lips as she whispers "stop picking up your Spanish from telenovelas, amor"

She kisses you once more before asking you to scoot over.

She took her seat beside you, your shoulders touching, legs cocooned under the throw blanket. There was something magical about this moment right now. Something comforting about the way the stars seemed to glow brighter, the way the fire crackled in the distance, and the warmth of Alexia's hand in yours.

“I am really happy you are here,” she leaned in to whisper, pressing a soft kiss to your temple afterwards.

You smiled, your heart swelling with a deep sense of contentment and belly full of the hearty meal. “Me too, baby.”

As everyone continued to sip their beverage of choice, Abuelo Miguel began to tell stories—tales from his childhood, stories of La Castanyada celebrations that stretched back generations. His voice carried the weight of the years. You could see the flicker of memories in his eyes as he recounted how, when he was a young boy, they would light bonfires in the town square, gathering with chestnuts and special wine specially reserved for the occasion.

Alexia nudge you with her shoulder, her eyes doing that thing where she studies your face intently, silently trying to read your mind. When she likes what she sees, she smiles. “It’s beautiful, si?”

You gaze right back at her, appreciating the way the glow of the fire highlights her face; the sharpness of her jawline, the twinkle in her eyes, and the slight wetness on her plump bottom lip. “Very beautiful,” you whispered back to her.

As the evening wore on, more chestnuts were passed around. Everyone ate them with sticky fingers and washed them down with small glasses of sweet moscatel wine. Talks shifted to quieter conversations as the night settled, the stars brighter against the dark sky.

At one point, Abuela Carmen stood and began to sing a melodic song, her voice warm, the notes hanging in the cool air like a lullaby. Abuelo Miguel joined in, his deep baritone harmonising with hers, creating a moment so tender that you almost felt as if you were intruding on something too intimate.

Alexia shifted closer to you, tugging the blanket higher so it covers you from the neck down. The air was slightly chilly now. She throws an arm around your shoulder, tucking you to her side, letting you rest against her. “I grew up with these songs,” she said softly against your ear. “Every year, we sing them.”

You laid your her head on her shoulder, taking a good look around the courtyard, taking in the scene—the glow of the lanterns, the warmth of the fire, the faces of the people who had welcomed you so easily, and the sound of Alexia's steady heartbeat beneath your ear.

“I think I could get used to this,” You whispered to the woman beside you, surprising even yourself with the hint of emotion in your voice.

Alexia smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. She cupped your chin, tilting it up slightly, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. “Qué bien, because you are part of it from now on.”

fall is such a romantic season.

i hope your autumn has started off as beautifully as mine. think of me whenever you see leaves dancing in the wind x

・❥・- kisses, butter

read more of the Butter's Meadio-cre Mayhem (the Spooky Season collection) here

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas fanfic #woso x reader #woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #alexia putellas one shot #alexia putellas imagine #barca femeni #fc barca femeni #my fics

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scealaiscoite · 9 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ one hundred paired prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ a pot of fresh coffee and split knuckles

²⁾ orange peels and a car battery

³⁾ sand dunes and leather boots

⁴⁾ a printer and a knife

⁵⁾ incense and handcuffs

⁶⁾ a crushed velvet sofa and a video camera

⁷⁾ stale cigarettes and cotton candy

⁸⁾ loose change and headlights

⁹⁾ grey hairs and a gold belt buckle

¹⁰⁾ burnt coffee and grass stains

¹¹⁾ cherry cola and blue jeans

¹²⁾ chipped green nail polish and an empty dinner table

¹³⁾ a stack of paperwork and metal music

¹⁴⁾ a patchwork quilt and sweet tea

¹⁵⁾ a hockey sweater and a two-seater sofa

¹⁶⁾ perfume oil and rolled up shirtsleeves

¹⁷⁾ fallen leaves and guilt

¹⁸⁾ radio channels and a birthday card

¹⁹⁾ ravens and meadowsweet

²⁰⁾ apologies and bitter red wine

²¹⁾ library books and pouring rain

²²⁾ a breathalyser and popcorn

²³⁾ princess plasters and iodine

²⁴⁾ a tote bag with one broken strap and a winding staircase

²⁵⁾ a parasol and a tumbler of straight whiskey

²⁶⁾ fresh honey and a cult

²⁷⁾ wisdom teeth and blue eyes

²⁸⁾ sour cherries and a stolen hoodie

²⁹⁾ the flu and a heatwave

³⁰⁾ a boonie hat and a sunset

³¹⁾ vanilla perfume and a kitchen counter

³²⁾ a buffalo skull and a leather armchair

³³⁾ a throw pillow and a doorway

³⁴⁾ pink fluffy handcuffs and an unexpected guest

³⁶⁾ a package and a divorce

³⁷⁾ a stripper pole and a hangover

³⁸⁾ familiar cologne and a black eye

³⁹⁾ a lit candle and a snowstorm

⁴⁰⁾ an unsealed letter and a fallen pine tree

⁴¹⁾ headlights and footprints

⁴²⁾ a blocked number and traffic lights

⁴³⁾ a racesuit and a countdown

⁴⁴⁾ a butcher’s apron and a phonecall

⁴⁵⁾ battered comic books and a broken window

⁴⁶⁾ cold floorboards and a roommate

⁴⁷⁾ smooth vermouth and gold rings

⁴⁸⁾ a lip piercing and a rough hand

⁴⁹⁾ someone’s spare room and an eclipse

⁵⁰⁾ a game of mahjong and bad jazz music

⁵¹⁾ a jigsaw puzzle and a mortuary

⁵²⁾ a broke-up sidewalk and a knitted scarf

⁵³⁾ a poundshop wig and broken glass

⁵⁴⁾ a bunk bed and a crush

⁵⁵⁾ a red ink tattoo and a dinner gone cold

⁵⁶⁾ a warm palm and a flannel shirt

⁵⁷⁾ fresh basil and a half-empty bottle of arrack

⁵⁸⁾ a nightclub bathroom and smeared eyeliner

⁵⁹⁾ a busted lip and strawberry icecream

⁶⁰⁾ a floral-patterned dress and a looming balcony

⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar

⁶²⁾ a white mercedes and cheap perfume

⁶³⁾ a fwb and a housekey

⁶⁴⁾ a blue sarong and a fingertip tracing over a scar

⁶⁵⁾ a sauna room and a terse exchange

⁶⁶⁾ fried plantains and a briefcase

⁶⁷⁾ dried lavender and a tiled bathtub

⁶⁸⁾ a hotel room and a bouquet of lilies

⁶⁹⁾ sweet mango lassi and a suitcase

⁷⁰⁾ orange streetlights and a nightmare

⁷¹⁾ a crucifix and a thigh tattoo

⁷²⁾ a palm tattoo and the thrum of a heartbeat

⁷³⁾ a champagne room and a police siren

⁷⁴⁾ blue nitrile gloves and a hickey

⁷⁵⁾ a double-wide trailer and shotgun shells

⁷⁶⁾ stitches and pyjama shorts

⁷⁷⁾ karaoke and a snowdrift

⁷⁸⁾ an older man and a twin bed

⁷⁹⁾ chinese takeout and a graveyard

⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens

⁸¹⁾ carbolic soap and a creaking staircase

⁸²⁾ an undercover assignment and wrung hands

⁸³⁾ the back seat of a limousine and bustling night streets

⁸⁴⁾ a steamed-up bathroom and cold floorboards

⁸⁵⁾ a grand prix and a breakup

⁸⁶⁾ a third place trophy and a picture frame

⁸⁷⁾ the last slice of birthday cake and crossed legs

⁸⁸⁾ squashed raspberries and heated cheeks

⁸⁹⁾ pink lipgloss and brass knuckles

⁹⁰⁾ a ghost mask and a late visit

⁹¹⁾ loose bullets and slashed tires

⁹²⁾ a tactical belt and patterned bedsheets

⁹³⁾ a goaltender’s stick and a lonely walk home

⁹⁴⁾ a dog bed and a migraine

⁹⁵⁾ lit billboards and a floor-length gown

⁹⁶⁾ a divebar negroni and a game of pool

⁹⁷⁾ olive trees at harvest time and divorce papers

⁹⁸⁾ a caviar bump and vanilla coke

⁹⁹⁾ a whale tail and pantsuit

¹⁰⁰⁾ legs thrown into a lap and calloused hands

#enjoy my prettiessss #another instalment of trio prompts on the way!!#prompts #paired prompts #aesthetic prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #drabble prompts #drabble meme #writing inspiration #writing inspo

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sososunniest · 6 months ago

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Patchwork is adorable

How old is patchwork?

#ᨓᨓ jeremy's art #undertale #utmv #underverse #sans au #undertale multiverse #undertale au #patchwork comic 4 #patchwork answer #patchwork answers #patchwork fresh #patchworkverse #patchwork au

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ghoulphile · 1 year ago

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no use cryin' over spilled milk | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.8 k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, frottage, lactation kink, pregnant!reader, fingerfucking, praise kink, breast play, the ghoul calls reader pretty mama, he's a pervert who wants to lend a 'helping' hand ➥ summary | based off this ask; oops being an experiment from vault 4 where you may be the first rad resistant human pregnant with a possibly rad resistant baby, and you come across the ghoul who helps you get to a safe place but then he gets attached with you and the baby 🥺 (this is just me trying to insert a lactation kink somewhere i'm sorry) ➥ notes | uhhhh pls let me know if i missed anything, my brain is dribbling out my ears (its 3:44 am and i have work at 8 am rip) but the parasites persist. i'll do the tag list when i wake up ❤️ masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Going topside wasn’t an easy decision.

In fact, bile bitter regret often lingers in the back of your throat - a lump that stifled the air in your lungs.

And while you might’ve been bioengineered to survive better under these harsh wasteland conditions, every time you find yourself in a less than ideal situation, you're catapulted headlong into paralyzing self doubt; alone and rudderless.

No one lives in the vaults - not truly.

Birdie (and the others) warned you of what awaited beyond those lead-lined walls. But you couldn’t abide spending the rest of your life trapped in a cage, albeit a gilded one.

Not anymore.

Oh no, you wanted to feel a real breeze instead of air pumped through the HVAC. Experience the sun baking warm into your skin like fresh bread instead of the artificial heat of the UV lamp used for mandatory light therapy sessions. Complain about the chafe of sand in your shoes and hear the crunch of dirt under foot instead of a hollow clunk of sterile metal.

To witness first hand all the sights, sounds, and smells this world offers.

Only… you didn’t expect it to be this hard.

Nor did you expect to be pregnant when setting off into the great unknown on your own (a definite oversight on your part [you really shouldn’t have had one last hurrah before hitting the road]).

Through trial and error, motion sicknesses that swing into crippling nausea as manic energy - your first taste of true freedom! - dwindled into dragging fatigue, you found a happy medium. None of which would have been possible had it not been for the most unlikely of companions.

Ghouls; who knew, huh?

Sure, you’d heard of them from the rotating door of visitors that found themselves at Vault 4, but you’d never seen them. While you grew up surrounded by visible mutations, seeing the battlefield of his body was off putting; how a person could survive a patina of burns and patchwork slices without unraveling at the seams was beyond you.

And kind of frightening.

But he took it in stride, introducing himself as Ghoul. Refused to divulge anything else of substance no matter how much you poked and prodded. His life pre-bomb was a complete mystery filled with plot holes and unanswered questions (which is exactly what he preferred).

You learned to be comfortable with his meandering conversations, and all the words he spoke that said much of nothing. And what you did glean, you did so through observation alone.

He was alone - had been for a very long time.

He was very old - one of the last of his kind.

And he was, in his own way, very kind - at least by wasteland standards.

“The fuck you doin’?”

Pausing, you stop mid push and hover awkwardly on your hands and knees. The vault suit pulls taut across your hips, pinching behind your knees uncomfortably. Your toes squeak in your shoes, socks thoroughly soaked through with sweat.

It’s been unseasonably hot (or it’s the hormones). Whatever the case, this is the first semi-decent lodging you’ve camped in for weeks, and you’re not about to miss an opportunity to freshen up.

And maybe find a way to soothe the building ache in your tits - flesh swollen tender and nipples rubbed raw.

“I’m just, uh, gonna,” you motion towards the back of the house, the askew bathroom door clinging to its hinges by a corner, “y’know, f-freshen up. See if they don’t still have some water.”

The Ghoul scans you up and down, gimlet-eyed. “S’that so?”

You huff, your knees starting to ache.

Being five months pregnant throws your center of gravity for a loop, the atmosphere weighing extra heavy on your bones. It doesn’t help that the baby’s decided sitting directly on your bladder with a foot tucked under your ribs is the best position.

“Didn’t know I needed permission to take a piss now,” you snipe. Usually, you try to reign in the hormones but the day’s been too long and you’re in pain. Anyone would be a little snippy (right?). “Can I do that on my own or do you need to watch, Mr. Ghoul?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his gaze glinting from beneath the rim of his hat as he tips his head. “Better watch it, sweetheart,” he says. “Otherwise, I might have’ta wash your mouth out with soap.”

Pushing yourself up with a grunt, you determinedly ignore the raspy chuckle that follows as you waddle towards the bathroom. Cussing him out all the while in your mind.

While he’s been ‘nicer’ today - stopping for extra breaks, even packing it in several hours earlier than usual because he noticed how weary you looked - he’s still an asshole.

The toilet’s gone, the tub’s tipped sideways, the linoleum’s cracked, and closing the door sounds like a pack of howling mole rats but its functional. When you catch your reflection in the spider web fractures of the mirror, you grimace.

The wastes have certainly left their mark on you. Gone is the prim-and-proper vault dweller, replaced by a gremlin of a woman Overseer Benjamin would surely scowl at.

A true ‘surfie’ now.

“Great,” you groan, scrubbing a palm over your face. “Just - ugh!”

You’re caked in grime, a steak of dirt smeared across the bridge of your nose. Mysterious stains darken the blue fabric, the golden stripes of your suit an off-putting grey.

Your hair clumps in greasy chunks. You’re glossy with sweat, and while your curves have plumped up over the last few months, you didn’t realize just how much until now.

The vault suit’s always been tight - now it clings and creases in unflattering places. And there’s nothing you can do about it, unless the Ghoul is willing to spare a sewing kit.

You could let the waist out some…

What the hell am I gonna do if he won’t? There’s no way I’ll fit if this baby gets any bigger. Shit, I look like a fucking sausage. Your hand cradles the side of your stomach, stroking over the bump with a frown. This is all your fault, you little parasite.

“You better be so fucking cute - the cutest goddamn baby in the wasteland. Or I will riot.”

Tugging down the zipper over your breasts is heaven, the swollen flesh spilling out of the parting fabric, no longer compressed. It’s almost enough to make you cry as you struggle to tug the lycra off your shoulders, the fabric putting up a fight.

After some awkward contortions that pull uncomfortably at the muscles of your shoulder blades, you manage to wrangle yourself free.

The temptation to burn the stupid goddamn suit is almost too much to resist, but then you’d really be traipsing around the wasteland in the nude and just… no.

Peeling off your undershirt is another story altogether, the soft cotton feeling like sandpaper as it scrapes over sensitive skin. Your nerves tingle with awareness, bolts of pain shooting through your nipples with every shift.

Quick like a bandaid, you think, taking a steadying inhale.

It’s a miracle you don’t scream.

Tears cling to your lashes, your nose running as you toss the shirt to the side with one hand and cradle your chest with the other. Sure, you’ve had tenderness with your period but this kind of pain? A whole new level.

You almost don’t know what to do with yourself.

How is this fair - aren’t you suffering enough?

Sniffling, you peer down at your tits and gingerly cup them with your palms. Swollen hard and warm to the touch; a heavy weight crushing your ribs.

Do I really have to milk myself like a fucking brahmin? Another bolt of lightning crackles through your nerve endings as if in response. Fine. God, this is embarrassing.

Only any attempt at touching your nipples produces pure agony, shards of glass biting into delicate skin.

No matter how slight your touch, no matter how gentle your fingers - it doesn’t work. Leaves you more distraught and in pain than when you began as inflamed nerve endings crackle and burn.

And when the tears truly start, the dam breaks. It’s not long before they drip down your cheeks in fat rivulets, your breath hitching from you in pathetic little exhales.

Your fist shoves against your mouth in an attempt to smother the sounds, teeth sinking into your knuckle until you leave sore indents.

But you should know better, not only does the Ghoul have heightened senses (he’s taunted you constantly with this fact like the asshole he is), but he’s uncannily perceptive in a very annoying way.

You don’t hear the squeal of the door, but you do sense his presence behind you; the rad warm burn of his body as he stops a scant few inches away. You feel his breath against the nape of your neck, the barest brush of his chest as he inhales.

“You ready ta stop bein’ stubborn?” he hums. “I thought I told you not ta wait s’long.”

Your voice warbles from you, “G’way.” You curl into yourself, shoulders hunching as you hang your head. “Don’t need your help.”

The Ghoul snorts. “Cuz you doin’ so well on your own, huh?”

“I resent that.” You shoot him a weak glare, the animosity ruined by the crumble of your lips. “I really, really do.”

You hate always having to rely on him, so desperate to prove that you can take care of yourself only to have every effort to do so thrown back in your face.

Shit, you hate how right Birdie was, “Honey, you won’t last five minutes on your own. Please stay here with us where it’s safe.”

“Well, maybe so. But pickers can’t be choosers, sweetheart,” he shrugs with a languid roll of the shoulders. “Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk. C’mon, the longer you wait, the worse it’s gon be.”

“I just - you don’t understand…”

He reaches around you to set his hat on the sink, the dwindling light of twilight creeping in through the holes in the roof to bathe him in its bloody light.

He looks like a grotesque demon that clawed its way from the depths of hell. It gets your pulse thudding, electric awareness an unwelcome visitor as it roosts behind your navel.

“I understand plenty. Now, let me.”

Not an offer - not really.

More akin to a demand, one wrapped up pretty like a gift. You’ve been here many times before, and while the Ghoul proffers his help under the guise of not wanting to hear your bitching and moaning, the hungry gleam of his eyes as they rake over your face say otherwise.

If it’s one thing you’ve learned in your travels with him, it’s this: he is entirely self-serving. He offers because he wants to suck on a set of pretty tits. If you happen to cream your panties while he does, well, he counts it as a win-win.

Quid pro quo.

And what you hate more than how utterly correct everyone is about life on the surface, is how needy he makes you. How desperate and dumb and dripping he’s got you by the end, drunk off the flick of his tongue and the rasp of his touch.

Because it’s so hard to be strong in the face of pain when the solution is right there; open-palmed.

“...Fine, just don’t - don’t leave marks this time, okay?”

A slow waking smile creaks across his face, and he says, “I ain’t makin’ any promises, sweetheart.”

Your stomach swoops, and your thighs clench.

Shit.

Scarred lips work over tender flesh as a talented tongue flicks and swirls over the bumps of your areola, the tip digging into your nipple and drawing the swollen nub into a hot mouth. You whimper, arms tossed over the Ghoul’s broad shoulders.

Cold ceramic digs into the base of your spine, your body crowded back against the sink as he plasters himself to your front. Cuts off any escape routes and refuses to let you squirm away from the overwhelming sensations as he suckles.

Heavy palms grope at the plush curves of your hips, fingertips digging into the fat.

His lips pop off your nipple with a sticky smack. “Always taste s’fucking good,” he groans against your sternum. “Got the prettiest set a tits in the wasteland.”

“Hnn! N-Not so hard.”

While you say that, you don’t mean it - not really. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, clit swollen and aching for friction. Your inner thighs are a mess of slick, your vault suit caught around your knees.

He never touches you below the waist directly (some boundaries still exist between you two), but at this point in your pregnancy, you’re so sensitive a gentle breeze could set you off.

“Heh, ain’t you know lyin’s a sin?” he says.

A scarred cheek drags over the swell of your breast, the rasp of rad burn alighting your nerves. Bolts of desire ricochet down your spine, fizzle like Nuka Cola on your tongue. He presses an open mouth kiss to your nipple, his tongue flicking out to massage the tender bud.

At the taste of your skin, his cock twitches where its grinding against your thigh. You feel him through his ragged pinstripe slacks, his shaft a thick line of heat.

It’s probably the hormones (you refuse to admit its anything else) but just the thought of touching him, of sinking down onto his erection - feeling how fucking good he’d stretch you out and fill you up - makes you dizzy.

You pant, your voice distinctly whiny when you say, “Please, d-do something. It still hurts.”

His grin reminds you of the mongrels roaming the wastelands. “Sh,” he hushes you. “I got you, sweetheart.”

The tips of his fingers brush along the side of your swollen stomach. Your heart flips in your chest, your breath catching as he follows the contours of your body, reaching down to brush over the skin of your mound. This is new, he’s never done this before. It’s simultaneously as arousing as it is terrifying.

“Can smell how wet you are for me,” he says, tone low and gruff. “You gonna be a good girl for me, ain’t you?”

“I-”

Then his mouth is slurping at your tit, his teeth biting down on your nipple gently as those strong fingers dip between your thighs. Blunt nails scratch through your pubic hair, a calloused pad swirling circles around your slippery clit. Your hips jump, your head rolling back between your shoulders as a loud moan rips itself from your throat.

You arch back so far your belly presses against the Ghoul’s, your tits smothering his face.

You think, half deliriously, it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a nose otherwise you might’ve broken it.

“Shit, that’s so - oh, fuck, please, please, please!’

Your legs widen to make room for his hand as yours fly up to grab his biceps, nails biting into the rough leather of his duster.

His tongue flutters across your areola. “C’mon, pretty mama, give it ta me.”

“Oh.” Sparks dance behind your eyes, your knees shaking as the Ghoul strokes over your folds, tests your wetness and the give of your cunt as he plays with your entrance. “Right there,” you gasp. “I’m gonna…”

He grunts, tugging on your nipple with his teeth.

The sharp bite of pain shoots through you, deepens the kindling warmth behind your navel that steadily builds and builds and builds. You feel on the very edge, nerves plucked like the keys of a piano.

So close you can taste it.

Then a tingling starts in the tips of your fingers.

Burns its way up your arms to settle in the weight of your chest, pins and needles pricking across the skin of your tits, lancing through the swollen buds of your nipples.

You tremble, the relief bringing tears to your eyes as tears the heaviness releases in a warm flood, your milk letting down to flow into the Ghoul’s eagerly pulling mouth.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he moans, chasing after the taste by nuzzling into your chest. His cock ruts against you. “Took you’re sweet damn time, didn’t you, darlin’?”

Your head spins, hazy thoughts scattering like confetti.

Endorphins simmer through your veins as you float on a cloud of cotton softness. Reality seems worlds away, your vision blurry as you focus on the points of contact between your bodies. The stretch of his fingers plunging into your pussy to stroke over the front wall.

Mouth slack, your hands creep up the Ghoul’s arms to trace over the sides of his neck, watch the dance of your fingers over his skin. “It feels s’good,” you slur. “Please don’t stop - wanna cum just like this.”

“Heh, wouldn’t dream of it.”

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #cooper howard smut #the ghoul smut #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout fanfic

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riddlesrizzler · 2 months ago

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Tackled at the Tailgate

summary: Who knew tailgates could be romantic? characters: frat bro! mattheo. sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherin boys warnings: mentions of alcohol word count: 1.7k

By the time the morning light spilled across the lawn of Sigma Nu, the world had already shifted.

Sunlight broke through the clouds in soft golden beams, casting a honeyed glow over the dew-slick grass, which shimmered like it had been kissed by stardust overnight. The entire street pulsed with an undercurrent of excitement-a barely-contained buzz in the air, like the seconds before a storm breaks, only this storm smelled like beer, cheap cologne, fresh-cut grass, and something distinctly electric.

Banners flapped in the breeze, fraying slightly at the edges, their bold letters spray-painted in colors that had long since faded from too many seasons of tailgate glory. Empty cans rattled down sidewalks like windblown tumbleweeds, pushed by the same breeze that carried the bass thrum of music into the sky. The Sigma Nu snake, regal and coiled, stared down from every flagpole and cooler with a smug kind of pride-an unspoken dare to any other frat who thought they could compete.

Mattheo Riddle stood at the edge of it all-silent, composed, watchful. His broad shoulders tensed beneath a charcoal gray hoodie already dusted with grass stains and pollen, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms inked with memories and mischief. He sipped slowly from a red Solo cup, watching pledges scurry with folding tables and speaker cords like ants desperate to impress their queen.

He didn’t speak often during tailgate setup, but when he did, his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“If that table wobbles,” he called, not even looking up from his drink, “and she spills anything-you're walking home from this tailgate.”

They knew exactly who she was.

And then-like a scene written by fate-she arrived.

Her glitter-dusted Jeep pulled up in a swirl of sunlight and dust, the engine humming like the opening chord of a favorite song. She stepped out like the universe had slowed down to watch. Cooler in one hand, sunglasses perched on the tip of her nose, a cropped Alpha Delta Pi jersey tied at the waist, and white sneakers so clean they glowed. A dainty gold necklace glinted at her collarbone, catching the light with every step she took.

The Sweetheart of Sigma Nu.

The crowd shifted as if pulled by her gravity. A few girls waved, a few boys tripped over themselves trying to offer help, and one pledge abandoned an entire stack of plates just to grab her cooler. She moved through it all like she was born for this moment-composed, radiant, the kind of beautiful that didn’t feel real unless you were lucky enough to see it in motion.

Mattheo’s smirk betrayed him before his words could. He didn’t move to greet her. He didn’t need to. She was already walking toward him.

“Morning, Sweetheart,” a voice called.

“Morning, boys,” she replied, her laugh dancing through the air like wind chimes.

She passed Mattheo with a sideways glance and the ghost of a smirk-one he knew was meant only for him. And when she winked, like a secret shared across a battlefield of red cups and dented coolers, something settled in his chest. Something heavy. Something familiar.

By noon, the party was in full bloom. The Sigma Nu lawn had become a tapestry of noise and motion and color. Cornhole bags flew lazily through the air, music spilled from truck beds and balconies, and someone had tied gold streamers to the backs of barstools just because it looked festive. The air smelled like sunscreen, hot dogs, and something that would become nostalgic in later years.

The porch was a patchwork of peeling paint and sun-faded frat pillows, but she made it look like a throne.

Tucked into the corner of a battered couch, legs folded beneath her like a cat in the sun, she had Mattheo’s Sigma Nu hoodie wrapped loosely around her shoulders-its sleeves pushed up to reveal delicate wrists stacked with beaded bracelets and a faint smear of glitter along her forearm. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and laughter, eyes half-lidded behind oversized sunglasses as she sipped lazily from a half-empty Solo cup.

The chaos of the tailgate buzzed around her-music pulsing from the lawn, someone yelling about a lost frisbee, Blaise singing off-key into a broomstick-but she sat above it all, untouched and glowing. Like she belonged to a slower, sweeter world tucked just out of reach.

Mattheo returned from the grill, balancing a paper plate in one hand, condensation dripping from a cold can of Sprite in the other.

“Figured you’d forget to eat,” he said, holding out the plate.

On it: a cheeseburger-perfectly seared, still steaming, bun slightly smushed at the edges-and a handful of chips with no napkin in sight.

She blinked up at him, lips parted in surprise. “Wait… did you just voluntarily bring me food?”

“I know,” he said, deadpan. “Call the Pope.”

She laughed as she scooted over, patting the seat beside her with the heel of her palm. “Did you make it?”

“Watched it cook. That’s close enough.”

He dropped down beside her, his thigh brushing hers. The couch groaned under his weight, the springs protesting like they knew exactly what kind of tension they were holding.

She peeled back the foil all the way, the smell hitting her immediately-grilled onions, melty cheese, that warm toasted-bread comfort. Her stomach growled audibly.

Mattheo smirked. “Told you.”

“Fine,” she said, breaking the burger in half and handing him a piece. “You can stay.”

“Lucky me.”

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the kind that only came with familiarity-the kind built on midnight study sessions, long walks back from parties, and whispered confessions on rooftops no one else knew how to find.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, laughing when Mattheo offered the corner of his sleeve.

“Gross,” she said, but used it anyway.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he murmured.

“Apparently. Grill master. Sleeve provider. Sweetheart handler.”

His expression softened, gaze dipping to her lips before he quickly looked away. “I don’t handle you. That would be impossible.”

She smiled down at the burger like it was suddenly the most interesting thing on earth. “You’d be surprised.”

A gust of wind tugged at the streamers tied to the porch rail. She shivered, more from the weight of the moment than the breeze, and instinctively curled closer to him. The hoodie smelled like him-cologne and soap and bonfire smoke, earthy and warm and unmistakably him.

He leaned back, arm stretched lazily across the back of the couch, fingers barely grazing her shoulder.

“You always show up like that,” he said suddenly.

“Like what?”

“Like a goddamn movie scene. That Jeep rolling up. That laugh. The sunglasses. The glitter.” He turned his head slightly, eyes finding hers. “You wreck the whole party in three seconds flat.”

She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t.

Instead, she looked down at her half-eaten burger, heart thudding against her ribs like it wanted out.

“I never know what to say when you talk like that,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied, just as soft. “You’re already the best part of my day.”

The game played on somewhere in the background, Theo screaming at the radio, Blaise doing a keg stand for no reason other than the crowd had started to chant his name. Enzo ran laps around the lawn with a Sigma Nu flag billowing behind him like he was leading a charge into war.

But on the porch, time folded in.

And for a moment, it was just them. Sharing a burger on a broken couch, wrapped in sun and shadows and something that felt dangerously close to forever.

But Mattheo stayed seated, eyes on her.

Until the football came flying.

It landed with a soft thud beside her sneakers, rolling to a stop like it knew it had found the most important person on the lawn.

“Oh no,” she said, holding her drink like it was fine china. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re playing,” Theo shouted. “House rule!”

“I bruise like a peach,” she argued, already laughing.

“Two-hand touch!” Blaise yelled back. “We’re not monsters!”

“Let me guess,” she said, standing. “If I’m playing, Mattheo is too?”

Mattheo arched a brow and drained the rest of his drink. “Obviously.”

The teams formed quickly, lines drawn in the grass with crushed cup borders and sun-faded frat shirts.

Mattheo stood behind her as quarterback, fingers brushing her waist to guide her forward.

“Run left,” he whispered near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. “I’ll find you.”

She shivered. Not from cold.

The game was glorious chaos-wild laughter, tangled limbs, and the kind of fake competitiveness that comes from people who know each other too well. She juked left, then right, her laughter ringing out every time someone missed a tag. Her cheeks flushed with sunlight and adrenaline, her eyes bright and wild.

Then she ran straight into Mattheo’s arms.

He caught her easily, one hand around her waist, the other bracing her fall. They tumbled into the grass like a moment suspended in amber-time slowing as they landed in a mess of limbs and breathlessness.

She was beneath him, wide-eyed, laughing. Grass tangled in her hair. The sun turning her into a painting.

“Did I win?” she breathed.

He smirked, leaning over her, weight balanced on his elbows. “You always do.”

She stared up at him, and for one long moment, the party faded-voices distant, the world blurry around the edges.

He brushed a blade of grass from her cheek.

“Do you ever think,” he murmured, “we’re just… meant to end up in moments like this?”

Her breath caught. “You mean sweaty, grass-stained, and slightly concussed?”

He laughed, soft and full. “Something like that.”

The cheers called them back-Theo yelling about penalties, someone screaming about a pizza delivery.

Mattheo stood and offered her his hand.

She took it.

Their fingers threaded together, instinctive now.

As he pulled her to her feet, their laughter trailing behind them like confetti in the wind, neither of them noticed the way the sun dipped lower, casting everything in a golden haze.

It had started as just another tailgate.

But the way he looked at her-like she was a secret only he knew, like she was already his and just didn’t realize it yet-told a different story.

One that wasn’t finished.

One that was only just beginning.

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blainesebastian · 2 months ago

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home is a person

word count: 11,493 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for smut, suggestive sexual language, and expletives) summary: London has a house you live in. All of those memories in New York patchworked into a home. London could never feel like that. notes: a while ago, an anon asked me if i took requests. i don't, but ironically, i got inspo from their ask, which was for jealous!nick. so hope you enjoy those moments in here! 🥰 notes2: masterlist is here, gifs are from here!

In all honesty, your move from New York to London hadn’t been pleasant.

This was the last thing you wanted, but when your mom needed a fresh start after the drama with your father? You couldn’t exactly blame her. You just…didn’t expect her to look for job offers in another state, let alone another country. It wasn’t easy, packing up your entire life, moving to a brand new city, a new house, trying to figure out where everything fit—including yourself. You’ve always believed that things happened for a reason but this? You weren’t too sure.

Then you met Nick.

It’s not like you’re trying to center your entire existence around a guy, or anything, but…sometimes he feels like he’s at the center of what makes you feel good. Like he’s become the pinnacle of your orbit, that your friendship with him has really yanked you out of feeling the worst type of way about moving here. You met Lion, Jenna and Nick through Giles, your mother working with his father, one social event slipping into another. At the charity gala you were introduced, you remember being drawn to him, the long lines of his suit fitting him perfectly, the gentle golden hue to some of his curls, the fullness of his mouth, how it seemed to twitch into a smile when he met you.

You also remember the blonde scowling nearby, practically plastered to his side all night.

“Events like this are always such a bore,” Anna sighs through her nose, leaning back in her chair. “I mean, can’t we just donate money and move on without all the speeches?”

You could understand that perspective, maybe. There were a lot of speeches tonight geared towards raising money. But…isn’t that the whole point? To listen to the different voices on why it was so important to do something before it was too late? That’s why there’s a bunch of informational tables as well, all dedicated to something different to help preserve and protect wildlife and oceans. It never bothered you to come to events like this because at least it felt like you were doing something with your money that helped…but you’re also reminded of people like Anna—brash impatience.

“I mean,” She picks up her wine glass, taking a sip, “Not that our money here will do a lot of good anyways,” She crinkles her nose, “Remind me to choose another charity next time.” She laughs softly with her friend next to her, Nick on the other side with a look of thinning patience.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, standing from the table. Anna’s eyes dart to you, setting her glass down.

“Oh, hope I didn’t offend you.” She says, but her eyes are a glint of something…territorial. Like she wants you to leave the table. She doesn’t look one iota apologetic.

You give her a tight smile, “No, not at all. Your dress actually reminded me that I wanted to check out the table on the efforts of plastic removal.” You motion to the right and walk off in that direction, though, not before you hear Giles’s snort of amusement and Anna’s scoff of disbelief.

You linger at the coat check, waiting while someone retrieves your jacket, chewing on your lower lip. You already made a few donations with your mom’s approval at several conservation foundations, so, there’s really no need to return to your table. You’re not sure you’d be able to keep your mouth shut anyways and…you don’t want to start an argument with a so-called ‘prominent’ daughter of the social circles both you and your mother are now traveling in.

“Headed out?”

Turning, Nick approaches the other side of the coat check, handing his ticket to someone as well. You chew on your lower lip, nodding, because…that should seem fairly obvious. You expect the conversation to die there, but it doesn’t. He sticks his hands in his pants pockets, rolling back on his heels,

“Did you know that half the oxygen we breathe comes from ocean plankton?”

You blink—out of anything you expected to come out of his mouth, it wasn’t that. “What?”

He smiles a little bit, amused, like throwing you off kilter was exactly what he intended. He motions that the coat attendant has come back with your jacket and you have to tear your gaze off him to take it.

“Just seems like this event is a big deal to you, so, thought you might know that.”

You scoff, unsure if he’s here throwing a factoid in your face because you insulted Anna back at the table. You slide your sleeves through your jacket as he gets his, “Yes, I care about ocean conservation, okay? I want to maybe do something with marine biology one day,” You have no idea why you’re telling him that, “So sorry if your girlfriend’s flippant comment got under my skin.”

You begin to walk towards the exit, but since you didn’t drive a car here, you’re left lingering on the top step and he slides up beside you. He’s pulling a ticket from his pocket for the valet and you’re fishing out your phone to call for a ride.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” He says, turning a bit to look at you. He then takes a backwards step, landing on the stair below the one you’re on. You’re almost eyelevel like this. Almost. Your gaze skitters over him—he’s handsome. Far too handsome. “Can’t date someone who doesn’t care about plastic, or plankton, for that matter.”

A twitch of your lips at that. Okay so…maybe you judged this, him, all wrong. You got the inkling that Nick might be as uptight and shallow as Anna if he was with her, but now it seems like…he’s not even giving the impression that they’re friends. They’re just in the same space sometimes, that she’s in his space when she can be.

“Those are some pretty decent requirements.”

Nick hums softly, motioning over his shoulder. “Did you drive here?”

You shake your head, lifting your phone a little, “Ordering a car.”

“I can take you,” He offers, holding his hand out to help you down the carpeted steps in your heels, “Or…we could go for a drink.” At your hesitation, he takes another step down, “I know plenty of other plankton and ocean facts, if you’re curious.”

A real smile now spreads across your lips before reaching for his hand, “Well how can I deny myself that?”

—

London has a house you live in.

When you thought about home, New York always sprung to mind. Not just the city and all the places that you loved visiting, but your loft-like bedroom, the twinkle lights above your windows, succulent plants on the sill, your cat curled up on one of your pillows. You thought of the smell of homemade meatballs that your mom would make, clinging to the space long after they were eaten. Of laughter that stuck to the walls when playing a board game or watching a movie, tears over your first boyfriend, arguments with your father before he left.

All of those memories patchworked into a home. London could never feel like that.

—

A few months turn into a handful of years and the seamlessness in which you do things with Nick, Lion and Jenna is something that settles into place in a way you never planned on. Back home in New York, you had maybe one best friend that you did everything with. And what could you claim of that ‘best’ friend now? The relationship completely disintegrated upon moving. But with Nick, Lion and Jenna, it feels like…somehow, you’ve always been an addition to the trio. You’re grateful for that, to find your people that you don’t want to be without. It’s unexpected in the best way.

Something else you never expected? Jenna’s stamina when it comes to dancing.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as she does a twirl on the dance floor, her arms coming up over her head. Lion and Nick are nearby, drinking more than dancing, but it’s still fun. The club is a little packed for your taste but the music is good and so are the drinks that are flowing. You lean in close to Jenna, tossing your arms around her shoulders,

“I’m gonna grab some water!” You’ll get her some too, turning to go towards the bar.

You push through a small wave of people, reaching a semi-filled space, not as hectic as the dance floor. Letting out a slow breath, you push a few strands of hair out of your face that’s threatening to stick to your neck where you’re slightly flushed from dancing. Leaning against the bar, you wait to get the bartender to notice you.

When someone slides up beside you, you don’t think much of it. There’s not much room as it is, so you know there’s a lot of accidental encroaching in space, but then you realize he’s not looking to get the bartender’s attention—he’s looking right down at you. He leans far too close to talk into your ear,

“You’re beautiful, let me buy you a drink.”

You’ve learned a long time ago that there’s no requirement for you to be nice when someone makes you uncomfortable. You take a step back and shake your head, “No thanks.”

He doesn’t take the hint, of course, trying again. You’re not sure why guys think they need to push at the word ‘no’. “Come on, what’s one drink going to hurt?”

Fuck, he’s not going to leave you alone. You’re going to have to leave the bar and come back for the water. Before you can turn around, you sense Nick before you see him. At this point, you know the weight and warmth of his body, how his hands feel on your back or where your hip meets your waist, the scent of his cologne mixed with something that’s purely him. There’s a safeness there, a comfort, a knowing, and you find yourself leaning a bit into it as he touches his chest to your back.

“Fuck off to the other side of the bar.” Nick says to the hoverer over the music, gently clasping your elbow and encouraging you under his arm, his body creating a bit of a cage to block the guy out.

The guy eventually disappears, but Nick’s stance doesn’t change. And you…don’t mind that. You turn just a little under his arm, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth,

“I was just on my way back to you guys.”

“Didn’t like how long you were gone.” He replies when he leans down to talk to you. It’s a completely different sensation having him do it, his lips brushing your ear. A shiver courses down your spine, despite how warm your body feels against his own.

“Oh you were worried?” You tease, raising your eyebrows.

“Jenna was worried.” He insists but there’s a twitch of a smile to Nick’s lips, his gaze flicking to yours and then to the bartender that asks what you want to order.

When you bring the water back to your friend, handing it off to her, she’s dancing with Lion. When you take a step back, sipping from your straw, you end up leaning against Nick’s side again.

Neither of you seem to be bothered by it.

—

You thought it was going to rain today, but it seems to be holding out alright. Tipping your head back to look at the sky, you sit down on the edge of Nick’s pool and dip your legs in. Jenna and Lion are in the deep end, treading while sipping on drinks and Nick pops up out of the water. He runs both hands through his hair but loose curls still sit on his forehead. He smiles at you, wandering over to stand near your knee.

“Told you,” He motions towards the sky.

You purse your lips, adjusting your sunglasses, “I dunno, some of those clouds still look suspicious.”

He shakes his head but he’s smiling a little, “If it rains, we’ll be in by then. Got to take advantage of the sunny days here.”

You chew on your lower lip, knowing he’s right but…this, admittedly, isn’t your favorite type of weather. Nor your favorite season. You live for snow and while Nick’s right, sometimes it can be rather gloomy in London, that doesn’t take away from wishing for snowflakes.

He scoffs softly, his hand moving to touch your leg, his thumb tracing a circle along your ankle. “Thinking about snow, aren’t you?” When you raise your eyebrows, he smiles, “Got that look on your face, getting pretty good at reading you.”

He is. Nick, however, shields his emotions fairly well. You’ve gotten to know him since you moved here, and you’d say you’re nearly close? But he’s still rather guarded with heavier feelings. Big emotions are obvious, but those minute ones that become visible between heartbeats, they’re harder for you to gauge. Which is how Nick likes it. You’re determined though, one of these days you’ll figure him out. One day you’ll be able to read him like a favorite book.

“I just want to visit a cabin or something. Ski resort.” There’s hope in your voice, sounding a little wistful.

“Can you even ski?” At the crinkle of your nose, Nick laughs. “Guess that wouldn’t be the point.”

You huff, playfully splashing him with a bit of water, “No.”

“Cabin in the woods sounds like a horror movie,” He volleys back, squeezing your ankle.

“It is one,” You grin, “But again, not the point. You’d be traveling with a seasoned horror movie professional,” You touch your chest, “I’d keep us safe.”

Nick shakes his head, turning to look at Jenna and Lion—maybe even to ask them if they’d be interested in something like that, but they’re too busy kissing to be paying attention to either of you.

When he shifts his attention back, there’s a gentle eyeroll that makes your eyebrows pull together. He’s not…annoyed, exactly? But there’s something there that you can’t quite place. And you wonder if it’s because you’re seeing it for the first time, a microexpression that doesn’t usually slip free from the well-guarded emotions he keeps under lock and key.

He looks up at you, licking his lips, “What?”

You curl your hair around your ears, your mouth opening and…should you even say anything? Then, “Nothing, I just think it’s cute that you’re jealous.”

Nick scoffs, “I don’t get jealous.”

Now it’s your turn to make a noise, giving him a look of slight disbelief, “Seriously?” You expect him to buckle underneath the scrutiny but he doesn’t, just shrugs his one shoulder. “Never?”

“No,” He smiles a little, floating on his back in the water. You pay special close attention to his face and not water gliding down the muscles of his chest, “It’s a useless emotion.”

You can’t help but laugh, “So is getting pissed off to the point that you punch someone, and yet…” You grin at him.

Nick makes an O shape with his lips, letting out a sound to let you know that your comment has struck him. He swims closer, almost to your knees—and then grabs you.

“Nick!” You screech, but it’s too late, he’s pulled your entire body into the pool.

You pop back up to the surface, splashing him right in the face. Dick. But he’s laughing and honestly, so are you, shaking your head as you lean back against the pool wall. When Lion and Jenna float over, Nick brings up your cabin in the woods idea and while a plan starts to form of maybe actually doing a small trip, you can’t stop your head from spinning about what he said. About not getting jealous.

Is he lying? But what would be the point of that? Has he never been with anyone that’s warranted the emotion?

Or does he really not feel it?

—

You don’t know how you allow yourself to get dragged to these things (or, well, you do but—). You can’t help but wince when another punch is thrown in the ring, snapping the other guy’s head back. Fuck. These bare-knuckle fights are brutal and you’re…not sure which is worse; the fight itself or the cheering around you. You suppose you sort of get it? Treating it like a sport and all that, a spectator to absorb yourself in but…it’s just not your thing.

The only reason you’re here is—

A short gasp leaves your lips as someone’s body hits the concrete, your own turning automatically towards the right and—Nick takes a step closer to you, his arm sliding around your waist. You mold into his side, practically shielding your face into his shoulder, his hand pressing calming circles into your hip.

“You’re really going to do this?” You ask him, tipping your head up just a little to meet his eyes.

That’s why you’re here. To support him because he’s got a fight next but…god, you can’t imagine how much worse that’s going to be? Seeing him get hurt.

“I’m a much better fighter than either of these guys.” He replies but it’s…it’s not even like he’s trying to sound cocky, it’s just matter-of-fact.

You run a hand over the side of your face, “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

He smiles a little, the end of the match in front of you announcing a victor. “You don’t have to stay, Jenna’s not a big fan of these either.”

And while that sounds tempting? You’re already here and, “I want to support you.”

Nick watches you for a few moments, nodding, his hand moving to tuck your hair around your ear before he moves to head with Lion towards the locker rooms.

—

Well, staying and offering support is easier said than done.

You stand on the sidelines with Jenna, one of your arms wrapped around your middle, your fingers pressing into your mouth as Nick warms up. Your gaze lingers over the toned muscles of his body, his trim waist, the delicate lines of his tattoos, the way his boxers peek out from his sweats…it only serves as a distraction for so long. The fight begins and he chances a glance at you for one moment before punches are being thrown.

Fuck.

You take a step back out of instinct, landing right on someone’s foot, and he clasps your arm so you don’t buckle. It’s a tall guy, handsome, brown eyes and dark skin, curls but cut close to his head. He gives you a light smile, letting go of your elbow once you’ve centered yourself.

“Sorry.” You tell him, your gaze finding the fight again, though a bit reluctantly. It…appears? Nick is winning. At least you think so, it’s difficult for you to tell. The next jab hits him right in the ribs and you definitely have to tear your attention away from that one.

The guy next to you shifts, “Boyfriend?” He asks.

You blink, realizing he’s asking about Nick. “What? Oh—no. He’s a friend.”

He hums, “Does your friend usually ask you to watch things that make you uncomfortable?”

A soft laugh leaves your lips for a few reasons, sliding your attention to this guy for a moment. “Am I really that obvious?” He glances down at you, a soft smile to his own lips, “And also, no. Nick didn’t ask me to be here, I offered because I wanted to try and support him.”

Try being the word here, you’re not doing too hot.

You force yourself to look back at the ring and there seems to be pretty even ground, a shuffling between Nick and the other fighter, moving in circles as punches are thrown and landed. Your hand slips to the back of your neck,

“Have you been here before?” You ask, trying to at least carry on a conversation now that one’s started.

The guy nods, crossing his arms over his chest, “Yeah, I don’t put any money down, but I like watching the fights. I’ve been boxing for the past few years, so, observing other techniques sometimes sharpens your own.”

“My friend Jenna,” You motion to her beside you and she turns her head at the sound of her name, giving a small wave, “Her boyfriend owns the gym.”

He raises his eyebrows, “That’s awesome. I’m Coleson, everyone calls me Cole, though.”

You smile a little, introducing yourself as well. When Nick uses the force of his body to get the other opponent on the floor, throwing heavy punches, you find yourself turning a little again. A twitch of a smile pulls Cole’s lips,

“So if you’re not interested in boxing, what do you like?”

And you’re not sure whether he’s trying to get to know you or distract you but, either way? You’re grateful for it.

—

As you wait for Nick and Lion to come outside, you lean back against the familiar red McLaren, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth when you change the unknown number in your phone to say ‘Cole’. Jenna gently nudges you with her elbow, a knowing look on her face.

“What was going on between you and ‘tall, dark and handsome’?”

You shrug, chewing on your lower lip, “Think he was just being nice. Practically smashed his foot on accident at the beginning of the fight.”

“You gonna go out?”

“Maybe,” A small smile again, a flutter of butterflies in your stomach. Even though you’re pretty sure Cole was just asking you questions to get your mind off what was happening in the ring, you liked talking to him? Maybe going on a date wouldn’t be so terrible? “Probably won’t even see him again after tonight.”

Her eyes follow a line of sight over your shoulder and you don’t have to turn to know it’s Cole leaving the warehouse, but when you do? His eyes are on you, giving you a soft wave as he makes his way to a motorcycle.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Jenna grins, which only makes heat kiss the back of your neck and your cheeks. But you’re smiling too.

Turning your attention back towards the entrance, you see Nick and Lion come out, Nick in a pair of black jeans and zip-up hoodie. You grimace just slightly at the bruise forming on his cheek, your fingers itching to reach out and cup his jawline when he’s close enough. Instead, you offer him a soft nod.

“Celebratory drinks at my place.” Lion grins, grabbing Jenna’s hand and giving her a playful twirl before tugging her towards his car.

You came with Nick, so you linger, giving in and reaching for his wrist. You run your thumb over his knuckles, a wince pulling at your lips. “Congrats on your win.”

For someone who came out on top? He seems a little off. Quiet, stoic. But maybe he’s just in pain. He’s got plenty of bruises and small cuts despite winning. You make a mental note to grab an ice pack for him when you get to Lion’s.

Nick opens his mouth but then hesitates which…you find that’s something he doesn’t often do. He’s not one to hold words underneath his tongue and yet it takes him a moment to say, “I’m surprised you even noticed.”

You blink, confusion clouding your face. Your eyes scan his face, the way his eyelashes sit on his cheeks as he looks down at your hand around his own, his thumb tracing your knuckles, the darkened gold to his curls because he’s taken a shower, the cupid bow of his lips. And then, a brief glance over your shoulder—where Jenna looked before.

Where Cole is on his motorcycle.

Nick confirms it a moment later with, “You seemed a bit preoccupied.”

Your brain seems to do a double-take. You’re about to argue that you did the best you could while he was fighting—it’s definitely not a secret that being here had you feeling out of your element. But…there’s also something in his tone, in the way his eyes aren’t meeting yours, hyperfocused on your hands joined instead.

Your mouth opens and then snaps shut. No…because that would mean, “You know, for someone who says they don’t get jealous, your eyes are suddenly the prettiest shade of green.”

You reach out your other hand to touch his cheek but Nick draws his head back, a scoff leaving his lips even though there’s a twitch of a smile there. He knocks your hand away and that makes you laugh, the giggling seeming to melt whatever ice was holding onto his shoulders. They relax, his movements warm towards you, and he squeezes the hand he’s still holding.

“No, it’s cute really!” You continue, even when he turns you around to face the passenger side of the car, grabbing the door to open it up for you. “That you wanted my laser focus on you throwing punches, I’ll remember that next time.”

You expect him to completely ignore you, you expect him to give a wiseass comment and encourage you to get to the car. You do not expect him to lean against your body, his head tilting down to brush his lips against your ear as he speaks,

“You better.”

—

Staring down at the card on your desk, you’re unsure of what to do with it.

You know your mom wanted to move to start over, something disconnected from your dad and all the issues he caused. It’s not a new story—he cheated on your mom, created an entire new family, wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Nothing to do with you.

And yet, here on your desk, sits a birthday card.

It’s a month late and you’re not sure whether that’s because he sent it after the fact or he doesn’t know when your birthday is. Both ideas are plausible.

Either way, the card unleashes a torrent of emotions you thought you’d gotten over. It’s obvious that while your mother wanted to start new, she gave your dad the London address. You’re just…not sure why. You really hope she doesn’t miss him—you both deserve better than that. Than him thinking that he’s needed or something.

Your fingers dig into your closed palm, wanting to throw the fucking thing away and yet—yet you can’t do it. Which just pisses you off even more.

“Y/N.”

Your head snaps towards the doorway of your bedroom, where Nick is lingering, his eyebrows raised at you. He takes a step in but pauses, his eyes falling to your desk before lifting to your face again. He’s supposed to be picking you up to head to a party at Anna’s and you have no idea how long he’s been waiting, or worse, standing there trying to get your attention.

“You alright? I’ve been calling you.”

You clear your throat, moving even though your knees feel like jello, “Sorry, I—yeah, I’m fine.” You force a smile on your face that you’re pretty sure Nick can see right through, “Let’s go.”

Before he can ask another question, you brush past him in the doorway, the scent of his cologne squeezing your ribs against your lungs. You don’t wait to see if he follows.

—

The party is a lot of fun and while you know it’s not the best coping mechanism? You allow yourself to be tugged down in the weight of dulling your inhibitions. You let the drinks flow a bit more freely, aren’t as concerned with hydrating with water in-between as you usually are, and readily accept shots when Lion or Jenna bring them back over to your group. While Nick is in the midst of it, you can feel his eyes on you every so often, persistent. And you know what it’s about.

He knows you, knows something is wrong, but doesn’t push either. He just waits—waits for you to offer whatever it is up to him.

Well, at this rate, he’s going to be waiting a long time.

A laugh slips out of your lips when Jenna wraps her arms around you, twirling to the beat of the music as you all linger in the living room.

“Think there’s jello shots in the kitchen.” She grins. And while you’re usually not a jello shots kind of girl, the…jiggling sort of freaks you out. Tonight? You’ll have one.

“Maybe some water would be a better idea,” Nick tosses out, taking a slow sip of the beer in his hand that he’s had for about an hour.

“Maybe stop trying to kill my buzz.” You volley back, your voice sharp.

But Nick doesn’t rise to verbal sparring with you, doesn’t take that bait. He just licks his lips, a muscle working in his jaw before having another sip of his beer. You’re not sure whether you’re more relieved or disappointed. Fighting with him won’t solve your problems—he’s not the one you’re really upset with.

You swallow down a lump in your throat, turning a bit towards Jenna to give her a smile that hurts your cheeks. “Yes to jello shots.”

If she senses the weird mood passing between you and Nick, she doesn’t say anything, just moves towards the kitchen to grab the shots. You set down your empty glass on a table, straightening out your dress, crinkling your nose at the jello shot when she returns…but take it anyways. It’s absolutely fucking awful, reminding you of some sort of cherry cough syrup but you force it down your throat.

It instantly makes you nauseous.

“I’ll be right back.” You turn to head in the direction of the bathroom, not exactly caring if anyone follows you. You just need a moment to yourself…and to make sure you don’t throw up.

You head right to the sink, splashing some cold water on your face that makes you feel better. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror, unsure you’d like what you saw there. You know this is completely unlike you, to let something like this sway you right into trying to bury your emotions instead of meeting them head-on. It’s just…too much for you to deal with right now. Especially since you thought the problem had been solved with moving.

You rub the back of your neck, shaking your head. Fucking birthday card.

When you open the bathroom door, you bump right into— “Cole.”

He smiles down at you, his eyes a little glassy, probably matching your own. “Hey! I was wondering if you were here. I was gonna text you.”

You raise your eyebrows, warmth blooming in your chest. He looks really handsome tonight—black jeans, white button down that’s slightly open, sleeves rolled up his forearms. “Yeah? Well, here I am.”

He licks his lips and nods, his gaze finding your mouth. You’re wearing a berry shade of lipstick tonight—always a crowd pleaser. “Here you are.” He glances past you towards where the stairs are, “You uh, you want to head up to the second floor? Anna’s got a balcony—we could smoke.”

A few things that sound altogether like a bad idea—stairs, heading upstairs with someone that you barely know even though he seems nice, and smoking. You don’t smoke at all, it’s just not something that’s ever caught your appeal but…sitting on a balcony does sound like something you’d like, the fresh air and everything.

But…there’s a dip in your stomach, that same nausea from before. It’s not a good idea. You’d rather have your wits about you to hang out with Cole for the first time, not like this. Not heading to the second floor into rooms that are probably a lot more private when you don’t…you don’t know him. You don’t trust him.

“Uhm,” You shake your head, “No, I think—”

“C’mon,” He grins, taking a step closer but not touching you, “I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” He promises, sticking his hands in his pockets. “These hands will stay in these pockets.”

You can’t help but laugh, glancing towards the stairs before letting out a sigh—he does look utterly defenceless like that, “Alright.”

But you don’t even make it up two steps before you feel a firm hand on your elbow. For a moment you think it’s Cole breaking the promise he made but…you’d know that touch anywhere. Your gaze finds Nick’s, on the bottom step, heat in his brown eyes so potent that you’re surprised something hasn’t caught fire.

He’s pissed—which just causes a flip in your stomach and an affronted yank of your arm.

“Get off, what are you doing?”

He’s gentle but he manhandles you down the two steps, pulling you past Cole, “Stopping you from making a choice you’ll regret tomorrow.”

You scoff, bumping into him when you lose your footing. He has zero clue what you were about to do with Cole. But a small voice whispers in the back of your mind that…yes, you were headed somewhere quieter, more private, that while Cole was going to keep his hands in his pockets, it doesn’t mean he could have changed his mind. Doesn’t mean something wouldn’t have happened. Your inhibitions are low and you’re feeling just a bit reckless tonight.

A little embarrassed and a lot indignant, your fingers dig into the palms of your hands, creating fists, “I don’t need your help.”

Cole glances between you and him, his hands slipping from his pockets. “Dude, I think she’s good.”

Nick’s gaze is frigid, ice that’s capable of cutting right through someone, “She’s drunk,” He snaps, his one hand holding onto you while the other shoves Cole in his shoulder, hard. There’s a slight height difference given the steps but Nick’s got a boxer’s stance—balanced, “Fuck off or I’m going to lay your ass out.” He warns but you’re not about to give him the opportunity to do that.

You quickly yank Nick by his arm in the direction of the front door and once he realizes that’s the direction you’re going, he shifts, his hand hovering along your lower back to guide you towards his car.

You squirm, picking up on unspoken words, “No, if you want to leave, then leave. I’m not ready yet.”

“Think you’ve had enough.” Nick mutters, practically through clenched teeth.

“You don’t get to tell me that,” You turn so fast to shove him that you nearly twist your ankle on the gravel, the only thing keeping you off the ground is Nick’s arm now around your waist—which just pisses you off more. “I can handle myself, I’m fine.”

Now he scoffs, stopping short, his arm slips from your waist but his fingers graze your forearm, “No,” He replies, shaking his head, “You’re not. You haven’t been fine all night.”

You swallow over a lump in your throat at the scrutiny, the fact that he sees right through you. You draw in a deep breath, trying to center yourself. You’re not even upset at the whole Cole thing, not really…because despite that you thought you were making an okay choice, anything could have happened. Nick did do you a favor—not that you’re going to admit that now.

No, you’re not fine. You feel your chest beginning to cave in over this—over him standing in front of you, picking apart your emotions like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. So bold of him, given that he never lets you in. Never lets you see how he feels. Him wanting to be there for you offers comfort just as much as it enrages you.

You shake your head; you’re not going to get into this. You make a shift to walk past him, back into the party. If you’re not going to head upstairs with Cole, you can at least continue your night with Lion and Jenna.

But Nick blocks your path.

“Move.”

“No,” He says, voice calm, “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about it.” You snap, trying to go past him again but he’s quick, repositioning his weight so that you end up bumping right into him. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh so you’d rather play pretend?” Nick asks, his words cutting you more than you thought they would. “Like that’ll fix anything?”

“Fuck you.” Though there’s no fire behind your voice. His commentary has landed far too sharply, leaving debris in their wake. Fuck him. Like he’s suddenly the poster child for handling his emotions the way he should?

You don’t even realize your eyes have filled with tears until a sharp breath leaves your lips.

Nick’s gaze softens and you have to look away as your lip wobbles, a tear slipping down your cheek. He lets out a slow breath out of his nose, reaching up to thumb it away. You push his wrist but he doesn’t let you pull too far away.

“C’mon,” He whispers, “C’mere.” And wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his chest.

The bridge of your nose stings as you squeeze your eyes shut, your face resting against his shoulder as his arms wrap around your frame, hand tangling in your hair. You’re unaware that you’re holding onto him so tightly until he gently pries your hands off just to get you into his car.

—

Seated on top of the hood of Nick’s McLaren, in his leather jacket, you wait for him in a diner parking lot. He comes out of the front door with two milkshakes and a brown bag of food. Despite feeling a little dizzy and nauseous, you know better than anyone that grease will help you feel grounded. He sets the bag down, handing you a milkshake,

“They were out of strawberry, that within itself feels criminal.” A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you take a sip. “Figured chocolate is a good second bet.”

You hum, licking your lips as he pushes himself up onto the hood next to you, a few burgers and fries spread out between his leg and yours. Reaching for two fries, you dip them into ketchup after Nick squirts some onto an open burger wrapper. You glance over at him, the lights from street lamps create a warm glow against his handsome face. It’s something that feels…utterly comforting in a way you can’t explain.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, throat sore from holding back tears, even after crying a bit against his chest.

Nick looks over at you, shaking his head as he picks up some fries too, “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, “I dunno.” You were…a lot tonight. “I almost hit you when you brought me outside.”

A flicker of a smile pulls at his lips, “I could have taken it.”

You think that’s true—if you would have done something like slap him, you think Nick just would have rolled with it. Still would have said the same things. Still would have held you. Still would have ended up right here, on his car, with milkshakes and food.

When a few french fries and your milkshake doesn’t seem to make you sick, you reach for your burger, having a bite. It’s quiet between you two, just the sound of cars and traffic, the night spilling over your bodies. You draw in a soft breath, using a napkin on your lips, wiping away most of your lipstick.

“My dad sent me a birthday card.”

You put your burger down, not automatically speaking for a few moments. You appreciate that Nick allows that sentence to sit in the silence.

“I’m angry my mom gave him our new address, that…he sent a card in the first place.” You swallow, “That it’s late or whatever stupid reason I ended up getting it today and not a few months ago.”

Your gaze wanders over to him and he’s watching you, listening. You bite down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood, so you don’t cry. Admitting this outloud feels like some sort of shameful secret even though you know Nick would never look at you like that, like you have any reason to feel embarrassed.

“I’m angry that I miss him,” You confess, “That I thought I was done feeling that way.”

Nick reaches over to place his hand on top of yours, squeezing briefly, “Two things can be true at the same time,” He offers gently, “You know you can hate him and still miss him.”

You let out a slow breath, sniffling as one more tear escapes. You wipe your cheek and even though your chest is still heavy, you feel better. You’re not sure why you do it, but you lean over and press a kiss to his cheekbone. It’s soft, far too quick, but hopefully enough to convey that you’re grateful for him. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, but other than that, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

After you eat a little more of your burger, you pick at the fries, resting your head on his shoulder. He shifts a little closer, can feel his lips brush your temple, picking up his milkshake to have another sip.

“I think the fries taste better with the chocolate shake,” You say after a moment, “Even though we usually get strawberry.”

You can hear the smile in Nick’s voice when he replies, “I know. I was thinking the same thing.”

—

But maybe, it’s not about London at all. Maybe you realized that home was never meant to be just a place.

—

Cole texts you a few nights later apologizing for the party. He admits that he was a little drunk but that he had no intentions of doing anything other than just talking to you on the balcony, or smoking a little, if you wanted to. And you believe him. That night’s a little fuzzy to you for a few reasons but…you do think, overall, Cole’s a good guy.

Which is why when he asks you out, you say yes.

—

The four of you tend to have dinner together a lot. Whether it’s ordering in food or making something, time is spent talking around a table and then usually having a late-night swim. Tonight’s no different, making tacos is on the agenda. Lion and Jenna are running late because Jenna wanted to pick up ice cream (amazing of her, to be honest), so that leaves you and Nick in his kitchen messing around with pans of different meat on the stove. Chicken, chorizo, shredded beef, and managing seasonings for this taco night.

“Mind your business, I got this,” You insist, pushing Nick with your hip towards where he was making homemade guac. All of a sudden he’s super concerned about you adding spices to the meat, like you don’t know what you’re doing.

“Yeah, the last time I let you help manage what was cooking the carbonara was so spicy I nearly threw it out.”

You scowl at him, “It was not.”

“My tongue still hasn’t recovered.”

“And yet you’re still talking just fine—” A squeak leaves your lips as he attempts to reach for the cayenne in your hand. You lift it above your head which…does nothing because he’s taller than you.

So you twist a bit, a laugh skittering from your lips as he grabs onto your hip, “C’mon, just a little! We need a little spice in our lives.”

“That sounds like a threat when you say it.”

You slip out of his grasp and round the counter, sprinkling it on the chicken with a triumphant grin. Playfully putting your fingers to your mouth, you pull them away with a muah! sound.

Then, pursing your lips, you pick up the red pepper flakes and pretend (maybe) that you’re going to add them to the chorizo and Nick moves, quicker this time, grabbing the container. Though you realize attempting to take the pepper flakes off of you is pretty much just his fingers wrapping around your own.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You pout, “Yes, chef.”

Nick smirks as he looks down at you and you realize very quickly that the front of his body has mapped out against your own, slightly pressing you into the counter. The moment the smile fades just a touch from your lips is the same moment he recognizes it too, going still. But he doesn’t move.

There’s something that you want to say but it’s stuck in your throat, words you don’t recognize, your eyes instead drinking him in while he’s this close. The gentle gold touching the front of his curls, the layers of brown in his eyes, a shade lighter given the natural sunlight pouring into the kitchen, the warmth of his breath on your face, the beauty marks on his one cheekbone.

Your heart pounds against your ribcage and you must say his name because he swallows, his other hand moving, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes along the bone there, drawing down, until it plucks at your lower lip.

You don’t even realize you’ve kissed the pad of his thumb until it’s too late—a muscle feathers in Nick’s jaw, his restraint seeming to snap as he leans down, his lips touching yours—

And then a loud bang as something drops in the hallway, the space between you two suddenly cold and wide. You draw in a sharp breath, swallowing sour butterflies as your friend’s voices fill the space.

“Lion!”

“The ice cream is fine,” He replies, “Slipped out of my hands, Jen.”

They both come around the corner, moving about the space as your brain spins like it’s on an overactive rinse cycle. You don’t even feel like putting the red pepper flakes in the chorizo anymore, instead, moving to stir all the meat on the stove and turning the fire off.

“Everything smells amazing.” Jenna grins, setting her hands on the counter.

“Yeah, we can eat now that you guys are here.” Nick clears his throat, throwing scraps of avocado away from when he was making guac.

Lion puts the ice cream in the freezer, reaching for a fingerful of cheese from a small bowl to pop into his mouth as you focus on filling a taco shell with chorizo. Something to just…keep your hands busy. You’re not even sure what toppings you add at this point, just anything so that you don’t have to look up at Nick. Your cheeks and the back of your neck feel hot and you hope you’re not as flushed as you feel.

“Babe,” Jenna says, getting your attention. You blink, realizing you’ve missed something.

“Sorry, food focused.” You lie through your teeth, giving her a small smile.

Her eyebrows draw together briefly like she doesn’t altogether believe you, but she repeats, “I said, I worked out those dates for the cabin. We can go this weekend.”

Oh that’s right. How did you fucking forget? One conversation about wanting to grab some sort of cabin in the woods turned into renting an airbnb in the countryside, not too far away from where Nick’s mother lives actually. It wasn’t exactly the snowy escape you were picturing but it was close to a lake and cold enough in the wooded area to do some sort of bonfire outside. The fact that it was put together and decided on was good enough for you, it’s different from the usual set of things that you guys do together.

“Right,” You clear your throat, “I actually…I have a date on Friday? But it’s early. It should wrap up right before I drive out to meet you guys.”

You can feel more than see Nick go motionless across the room.

Jenna raises her eyebrows with a grin, “No shit—is it with Cole?”

You swallow, your eyes flickering across the counter towards Nick. It’s brief but you see it—the straightening of his shoulders, a muscle working in his jaw when he grits his teeth, a slow breath out of his nose when he leans against the counter. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, replaced with a neutral expression. A lie.

“Yes,” You tell Jenna, and then she asks for details, pushing aside the airbnb weekend plans for right now.

Nick doesn’t meet your gaze for the rest of the night.

—

You and Nick don’t talk about what nearly happened in his kitchen which is…fine. Because nothing happened. There’s no reason to talk about nothing, is there? It was just a moment, a blip in time, not quite a mistake but the unsure, quiet promise of what if? And yet neither of you bring it up. That has to be a sign too, right?

So you keep pressing forward, plan for your date with Cole, pack for a long weekend cabin trip. Which is what you’re trying to do right now.

Nick lounges on a cushy chair in your walk-in closet, scrolling through his phone as you toss another sweater towards an open suitcase on the floor. He glances down at your growing pile, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You do realize we’re going for three nights, not for a month.”

You crinkle your nose, your hands slipping to your hips as you regard him, “Uhm, who has the extensive knowledge of horror movies that happen in the woods? It’s not you.”

A grin spreads over his handsome face and he puts his phone down, leaning up a little to rest his elbows on his knees. “And that explains why you need…” He tilts his head, “Four sweaters?”

“I’m going for variety, options—you never know what you might need.” You state, like it’s obvious. You then sit on the floor in front of your suitcase, tossing things out of it so you can neatly fold everything in…oh right, you need shoes too. “This is why if there’s an axe murderer, I’ll be one of the only ones to survive.”

Nick reaches for a lacy bralette sticking out from under one of the sweaters, holding it between two fingers, “Oh why, because you’ll have this?”

You scoff out a laugh, snatching it from his hand, “Shut up.”

Grabbing a pair of lounge slippers and two pairs of sneakers, you place them in the bottom of your suitcase, starting to fold sweaters. Your phone vibrates and when you take it out of your pocket, a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips when you see Cole’s name. Nick shifts in his seat in front of you and when you follow the movement, your eyes fall to his.

He motions to your phone with his chin, “Cole?”

You let out a slow breath before nodding. Unsurprisingly, this topic feels like a series of landmines. You want to regret what almost happened in the kitchen because it spun you through such a loop. Though, at the same time? You again wonder why it should matter—why should nothing happening make you feel like your insides are tied into knots?

You almost believe that...until you get a good look at Nick's face.

While it might seem impassive, you know him. There's a taut line of his spine, a gentle crinkle between his eyebrows, his jaw clenching like he’s grinding his molars together, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. Isn't sure of the words.

You draw in a breath, “You don’t like him?”

You try to convince yourself that Nick’s opinion is as important as Jenna’s would be, or Lion’s. That he cares about you and therefore has your best interests in mind.

But really, you know that it’s more than that. His opinion matters the most, even though you’re not sure why.

(Yes, you do.)

Nick leans back, “Kinda rubbed me the wrong way.”

Right. That whole night is kind of foggy for you, which you suppose is Nick’s point. The whole ‘going upstairs with unclear intentions’ thing. Not entirely Cole’s fault, but…you’re not about to jump in and give an explanation either. You’re not sure if it’d matter—he’s not going to budge on it. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the chill in his unwavering gaze.

You nod a little, looking down at your suitcase like it’s holding something far more interesting than this conversation. Then, a twitch of your lips, a familiar comment sitting on your tongue as you look up at Nick,

“Are you sure you just don’t like him because you’re jealous?” Your voice is warm and teasing, yet it meets a wall of ice.

Nick holds your gaze for a long moment, his fingers playing with the silver chain-link bracelet on his one wrist, “I’m not.”

You wait for that moment for the air to shift, for a teasing tilt to come to his lips, for him to make a joke about you bringing this up again. That moment doesn’t come.

He clears his throat, looking down at his hands, “I just…I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That…is not what you expect him to say, and while you’d usually appreciate a comment being made like that, it just…slips under your skin in the worst way, like little pin-pricks in your veins. You straighten your back a bit, reaching for a sweater to fold,

“I can take care of myself.”

The soft smile you were after flickers across his lips, just barely, “I know.” He picks up a sweater as well, folding it too, “Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

There’s something in the way that he says that, it digs between your ribs, right into the cage. Like he’s trying to pluck butterflies out and set them free. All at once, this feels far too complicated—not talking about what happened in his kitchen, about Cole, about your date, about what you deserve, about Nick sitting here in your closet as you fold clothes into your suitcase like it’s the easiest thing you two have ever done.

You shake your head, “I don’t want you to worry about me.” You stand with the suitcase, carrying it into the other room to set on your bed. There are some other things you can pack. Toiletries, or something. You just need to move around. You slip into your bathroom and just like you knew he would, he follows, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Someone ought to.”

Swallowing over an emotion in your throat, you point out, “Not you.”

Nick’s quiet for a moment, reaching out to touch your wrist. Only when you stop moving does he lift his hand to brush his thumb over your jawline. “Why not?”

You’re not sure what you’re supposed to say, nothing feels like it fits. You tilt your chin into his touch, lips brushing over his skin. You hate how you wonder what it’d be like to kiss him.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket again, making you take a step back from him. The energy fizzles between you two, like an atom being ripped in half, something so brash and sudden that it makes you draw a deep breath into your lungs.

You glance up at him, “You know why.”

Walking past him, you try not to think about that if he’d just admit that something was there, that maybe, he was in fact jealous—you probably wouldn’t be going out on this date with Cole at all.

—

Admittedly, you’re still trying to figure it out, how jealousy can be considered a ‘useless’ emotion. That’s what Nick had called it right? Useless? And yet, you feel like it’s colored everything in your relationship thus far, whether he realizes it or not. Whether he wants to admit it or not.

You don’t mean for it to happen, but when you’re with Cole, your mind wanders. You think about if the roles were reversed, if Nick was the one on a date night now, if he was out with Anna…would you just sit idly by? Would you not tell him how you felt?

You’re not about to justify anything that your father has done, but didn’t he just walk around bottling his emotions? Keeping them under lock and key, festering them like an open wound until it turned into something ugly, unsalvageable? You don’t want that.

You and Nick are complicated, messy, and he may have trouble sharing how he feels but you know what? So do you.

“You’re distracted tonight,” Cole comments, having a sip of his drink.

You blink, your thoughts shuffling back to him, and you at least have the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Thoughts elsewhere?” He asks, a small smile, far more polite than you deserve. “On him? Nick?”

You swallow, waiting for the moment where he gets upset, where he gets angry—you wouldn’t blame him, you’ve obviously wasted his time. But he doesn’t look at you like that, just takes some cash out from his back pocket to pay for both of your drinks.

“Glad to see it’s that obvious.” A soft, humorous laugh leaves your lips.

Cole shrugs, “I could kind of sense something when I met you, just wasn’t sure if it was serious or not.” The unspoken end of that sentence is, it’s obviously serious.

And yet, “It’s complicated.”

He doesn’t like that answer, crinkles his nose a little as a scoff slips out, “So uncomplicate it. You waiting for something specific?”

Another laugh rumbles in your chest but it doesn’t make any sound, because…yeah. For some reason, you’re waiting for him to admit something he shouldn’t have to, for him to acknowledge that something is there, crackling between the two of you.

“Haven’t you seen enough?” Cole asks quietly and you hold his gaze for a long moment—

thinking about Nick.

Thinking about the way he smiles at you, the way he holds your hand, the way his arms wrap around you to pull you close, the soft laugh he does which is mostly just air leaving his nose, the soothing timber of his voice. The way he bends over backwards to make you feel better, to hear you, to see who you really are, even the uglier parts, and not looking away. The way he makes you laugh, especially when you’re sad, the way he knows exactly what to order for you at the diner, even when they’re out of strawberry milkshakes.

And Cole—Cole’s right.

Haven’t you seen enough?

—

Maybe home was never meant to be a place. Maybe home is a person.

—

You get to the cabin a little later than you wanted.

The place you guys rented is tucked into trees, near water, and you remember thinking that Nick’s sister would probably love to explore a place like this. It’s a large, contemporary space, dark green paneling, a large porch with plenty of cushy seats and a bench swing. While you teased that the cabins in all those movies you’ve watched don’t have things like WiFi or televisions, you’re glad that this comes with amenities. You’re not exactly a ‘rough it in the wilderness’ type of girl, even though the aesthetic is admirable.

Cole’s car slides over gravel, pulling up next to Nick’s McLaren. You get out, giving him a warm thanks before grabbing your bag from the backseat, waving as Cole backs up out of the driveway and heads on his way.

You breathe in deeply, the scent of trees and earth greeting you, bugs trilling and adding to the ambiance even though the weather isn’t warm. You pull your sweater a little tighter around you, turning to walk towards the stairs—

“Take it the date went well.”

You almost jump out of your skin, your hand going to your chest as Nick stands from the bench swing on the porch in a pair of black sweats, and a large oversized knit-sweater. Jesus. The sight is striking, which is the last thing you need, given how your heart is hammering at his surprise welcome.

“Jesus Nick, haven’t I told you enough about these movies not to sneak up on people like that?”

But then you realize what he’s said, about Cole dropping you off, the slight dip in his voice. There’s a wall there, wrapped around himself, like he could care less about how your night went. Except, that tells you everything you need to know.

That he cares far too much.

You walk up the stairs to the porch, setting your bag down on one of the chairs. He turns a little, facing you, leaning back against the banister, eyes brushing over your form in a way that shouldn’t feel so intimate.

“My car wouldn’t start,” You reply, “Cole offered to drive me, so you can stop sucking on that lemon at any point.”

“I’m not—”

An amused noise leaves your lips, “That scowl is practically etched into your face. Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’ll get wrinkles like that?” You touch his cheek, brushing your thumb along the bone there. Jealous, he’s jealous. You don’t need him to confirm anything this time.

You expect him to roll his eyes, huff off your accusations, maybe even gently push you away. But he doesn’t. He just holds your gaze—and doesn’t deny it. It solidifies in his pretty brown eyes as he looks down at you, his silence is answer enough. He turns his head just a little, his lips pressing against the end of your hand, near your wrist.

Your heart ricochets right into your throat, encouraging you to keep talking.

“Do you know why my date didn’t go well tonight?” You ask quietly and there’s a flash of something in Nick’s gaze—protectiveness, you think. Like he expects you to tell him that Cole did something awful. You suppose, given the last interaction Cole and Nick had, you shouldn’t be surprised.

But you don’t want him to think that. Cole actually helped you work through emotions that you didn’t know how to say.

You press your thumb against his lower lip, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The words barely leave your mouth before Nick pulls your hand away and kisses you.

Something unlocks in you, a shuddered sigh that feels like finally and that seems to be all Nick needs to encourage you forward, against him, picking you up in a fluid motion to carry you inside. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, holding onto him and savoring the groan that leaves his throat when your tongue teases the seam of his lips, meeting his own.

You have no idea where Jenna and Lion are, and honestly? It’s a fleeting thought as he takes you into a sitting space, depositing you on one of the couches. You don’t let him get very far, not wanting him to pull away, like if he…backs up enough, he might realize what you’re both doing. He might stop. He might have time to regret this.

You’re not sure you’d ever recover if that were the case.

His hands travel to your hips, squeezing to get your attention, and when your eyes meet his, he nips at your lower lip, “Do you want me to stop?”

God, that’s the last thing you want. You appreciate the sweet concern, but you give an insistent shake of your head that makes his lips twitch into a smile. His hand slides between your bodies, thumbing at the button of your jeans. Again, a hesitance, and when give a soft yes against his lips, he undoes them and slides them down.

The cool air kisses your heated skin and you don’t even care that he’s fully clothed and you’re missing some of yours, all that you care about is how Nick sinks to his knees, pressing yours open to accommodate his body. He plants a kiss to the inside of your thigh, not close enough to wear you want him. His hand slips up, his thumb brushing over the center of you—

“You’re practically soaked through.” His voice rumbles, eyes alight with something possessive. You almost laugh at all the claims about not being jealous. Almost. The giddiness is somewhat swallowed by how turned on you are.

You follow that train of thought easily, “All for you,” Your voice comes out in a whisper, breathing slightly heavier, “Just you.”

Fuck. Your hips roll just a little, your hand threading through the front of his curls, resisting the urge to tug him closer.

Nick’s fingers curl around your underwear, tugging them down and out of his way, his body warm and solid when he settles between your legs again. The anticipation of his lips on your skin makes you cry out when it finally happens, his tongue circling around your clit before traveling down the center of you. His one hand places your leg on top of his shoulder, while the other travels up your body, cupping your cheek, almost covering your mouth.

You tip your chin, encouraging that, because you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your sounds to yourself.

Nick works you open with his tongue, eventually using his fingers while he pays close attention to your clit. He reads you like an open book, words printed directly onto your skin, knows what you need and when you need it, a build-up of pressure that makes your body tremble until you’re chasing after that release. When his tongue flicks quickly over that bundle of nerves, fingers curling up—you cum, hard, his name on your lips. The sounds are muffled by his hand, which is quickly replaced with his mouth as he kisses you.

You feel slightly dizzy when he pulls his hand back, a series of pecks from his lips along your jawline, his body resting against your own. Your eyes slip closed as you come down from your high, heartbeat in your ears, only tipping your chin down to look at him when you feel like you can breathe normally again.

Nick smiles a little, the tip of his nose brushing against yours.

“So just to be clear,” You whisper after a moment, “This is you not jealous?”

He playfully pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger before he draws you into another kiss.

—

The patio area behind the house is spacious, filled with an in-ground fire pit and cushioned seats. You sit on the center seat of the couch, leaning back against the oversized pillow, a pair of sweats and a hoodie on. Tugging the sleeves over your hands, you breathe in the scent of Nick’s lingering cologne, your eyes slipping closed as the high flames kiss your face.

A yawn slips out of your lips when you stretch your legs out, your gaze falling to Jenna who’s curled up in a chair across from you, a light smile tugging her mouth.

“So,” She says after a moment, her voice almost lost to the crackling fire. It sends orange flecks that remind you of fireflies into the sky. “No more Cole?”

You smile a little, can’t help it.

It’s been a day and a half at the cabin, you and Nick nearly inseparable. So it’s…obvious that something has happened between the two of you. You’re a little addicted to kissing him, at the feeling of his hands on your body, at the way he smiles into your skin when he pulls you close. And while the physical changes are nice? It’s not just that. It’s the way you’ve always been with one another, that intimacy and closeness in the way you can share anything, talk about everything.

Jenna lets out a soft laugh, “Yeah, I didn’t think he was going to stand a chance.”

You scoff out a laugh too, “Bullshit.”

“I was trying to be supportive!”

Cole will definitely be someone nice to date for someone else, just…not for you.

You smile, glancing up as the backdoor springs open, Lion and Nick coming out with hot coffees and a few extra blankets. Your stomach does a tell-tale swoop, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth as he wanders over where you’re seated. He passes a coffee into your hands, fingers brushing, pulling himself onto the couch to sit in the corner.

He wastes no time drawing you close and you fold easily into his chest, careful not to jostle the coffee, taking a small sip. As you lean into his chest, Nick flutters the blanket over you both, his hand cupping your arm. He rubs back and forth to create friction, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth as your gaze meets his. He presses a kiss to the bridge of your nose,

“Good?” He asks softly, though you’re not sure if he’s asking about the coffee or just…everything. How comfortable you are on the couch, if you’re warm enough, if you’re enjoying the time spent at the cabin. If you’re happy.

You smile, tipping your chin up to kiss the corner of his mouth, covering all the above. “Good.”

—

Home is a person.

#nick leister #nick leister x reader #my fault london #my fault: london #matthew broome #matthew broome x reader #my fault series #my fault london x reader #mccall writes things

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bodybaggage · 11 months ago

Text

Shadows in Gotham

---

Gotham’s twilight sky was a patchwork of purples and reds, a fading canvas that gave way to the inky blackness of night. The city was alive with the usual sounds of distant sirens, honking horns, and the underlying hum of danger that never quite left its streets. For Danny Fenton, now in his early twenties, Gotham was supposed to be a fresh start—a place to lay low and raise his unconventional family.

His daughter, Danielle, Ellie, as she preferred—skipped ahead on the cracked sidewalk, her energy boundless despite the long day. She looked about ten years old, though she was technically more of a clone than a traditional daughter. She had Danny’s black hair but with an unruly curl to it, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. Beside Danny, holding his hand, was a boy who looked no older than eight. His hair was tousled, and his expression was a strange mix of innocence and the haunting wisdom of someone far older. This was Dan, Danny’s de-aged evil future self, a living, breathing reminder of what could go wrong if they weren’t careful.

The trio moved through the narrow streets, Danny’s senses on high alert as they made their way back to the modest apartment they now called home. He had retired from the life of a ghostly vigilante, focusing instead on keeping his small family safe and hidden from the relentless pursuit of the Guys in White (GIW). To the world, they were just another struggling family in Gotham. But beneath the surface, their existence was anything but ordinary.

“Can we get pizza tonight?” Ellie asked, her voice full of hope as she glanced back at Danny.

“Pizza sounds good,” Danny replied with a smile. “But it’s Gotham, so let’s hope the delivery guy makes it to our place in one piece.”

Ellie giggled, and even Dan let out a rare smile, though it was fleeting. The moment of normalcy was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle up ahead. Danny’s instincts kicked in as he pulled his kids closer, eyes narrowing at the scene unfolding just around the corner.

A man, clearly desperate, was trying to rob a woman at gunpoint. The woman’s purse dangled from his shaky hand, and fear was etched across her face. Danny knew he should keep moving, that getting involved could blow their cover, but he couldn’t just walk away.

“Stay here,” Danny whispered to Ellie and Dan, his voice firm.

Before he could intervene, a shadowy figure dropped from the rooftops, landing silently behind the mugger. The man didn’t stand a chance as a blur of red and black moved with lethal precision. Within seconds, the mugger was disarmed and unconscious on the pavement.

Red Hood stood over the man, his stance relaxed but ready, as if this was just another routine night in Gotham. He turned to the woman, who quickly grabbed her purse and bolted, muttering her thanks. It was only then that Red Hood noticed Danny and the kids standing just a few feet away, watching the scene unfold.

Danny tensed as the vigilante’s eyes—hidden behind that crimson helmet—seemed to study them. He instinctively placed a hand on each of his kids’ shoulders, ready to flee if things went south.

“You alright?” Red Hood asked, his voice rough but not unkind. He seemed to soften at the sight of the kids, his posture relaxing ever so slightly.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Danny replied, his tone cautious. “Just heading home.”

Red Hood’s gaze flicked between Danny and the children, and Danny could almost feel the wheels turning behind that mask. This was Gotham, after all, a city full of dark secrets. A young man, barely an adult, with two small kids in tow—it wasn’t hard to jump to conclusions.

“You live around here?” Red Hood pressed, the curiosity in his voice making Danny’s stomach tighten.

“Not far,” Danny answered, hoping to end the conversation quickly. “Just trying to keep my family safe.”

Red Hood nodded slowly, as if weighing his next words. “Gotham’s not exactly the best place to raise kids, especially if you’re... alone.”

Danny’s jaw clenched, recognizing the underlying question. “We manage.”

Before Red Hood could probe further, Ellie stepped forward, her usual boldness taking over. “He’s the best dad ever! And we don’t need any help, mister.”

Red Hood chuckled softly, the sound almost disarming. “I’m sure he is, kid. But just in case, you should know there are people around here who can help... if you ever need it.”

Danny forced a tight smile, grateful for Ellie’s fierce loyalty but wary of the attention they’d attracted. “Thanks, but we’re good.”

Red Hood seemed to accept this, though the suspicion in his stance didn’t entirely fade. “Take care of yourself,” he said finally, before turning and vanishing into the shadows as quickly as he’d appeared.

Danny let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The encounter had been brief, but he knew it wouldn’t be the last. The Bat Family had eyes everywhere, and their curiosity was piqued.

“Let’s get home,” Danny murmured, guiding Ellie and Dan down the street with renewed urgency.

They reached their apartment without further incident, the familiar creak of the stairs a welcome sound. Once inside, Danny locked the door and sagged against it, the weight of their precarious situation pressing down on him.

Ellie flopped onto the worn couch, her earlier bravado replaced with concern. “Are we in trouble, Dad?”

Danny ruffled her hair affectionately. “No, Ellie. We’re just... being careful. That’s all.”

Dan sat quietly at the kitchen table, his eyes distant as he processed the night’s events. “He was one of the Bats, wasn’t he?”

Danny nodded, joining Dan at the table. “Yeah, Red Hood. He’s... complicated. But we should be alright if we keep a low profile.”

The night passed uneventfully, but the encounter with Red Hood lingered in Danny’s mind. He knew that living in Gotham meant constant vigilance, but the thought of the Bat Family watching them added a new layer of stress.

---

Meanwhile, across town, the Bat Family gathered in the Batcave, the massive space filled with the glow of computer screens and the quiet hum of machinery.

“Interesting case tonight,” Red Hood—Jason Todd—began as he removed his helmet, revealing the slightly tousled dark hair underneath. “Ran into a guy with two kids. They seemed... out of place.”

“Out of place in Gotham?” Dick Grayson, quipped from where he was perched on the edge of the Batcomputer’s console. “That’s pretty much everyone.”

Jason shot him a look. “Not like that. The guy was young, barely in his twenties. The kids were ten and eight, maybe. And something about them just... felt off.”

Bruce Wayne, Batman, looked up from the screen, his expression unreadable. “Off how?”

Jason hesitated, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. There’s something he’s not saying. And those kids—they’re attached to him, but it’s like they’re all trying to stay under the radar.”

Damian Wayne, the current Robin, scoffed. “Plenty of people try to stay out of sight in this city. It’s not our problem unless they break the law.”

“Yeah, but...” Jason trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “There’s a chance that guy’s a victim. The way the girl talked about him, it was like she was protecting him.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think the children are in danger?”

Jason frowned, shaking his head. “Not from him. I think they’re all running from something.”

Silence settled over the Batcave as they considered the implications. Bruce stood, his presence commanding as ever. “Keep an eye on them. Gotham has a way of uncovering secrets, and we can’t afford to overlook anything.”

---

Back at the apartment, Danny lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The shadows played tricks in the dim light, reminding him of the life he left behind. He had taken on more than just the role of a father—he had become a protector, a shield against the darkness that sought to consume them.

But Gotham was relentless, and he knew their time in the shadows was running out.

---

🧌

#dp x dc crossover #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #de-aged dan #de-aged danielle

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bernardsbendystraws · 8 months ago

Text

Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 FINAL

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

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02: try harder

The peace didn’t linger in the cool air seeping through the window very long. Not when I checked my phone to see the messages from Hayden, texts consistently rolling in throughout the night that let me know he didn’t sleep at all.

And it was my fault.

“Hey.”

The simple greeting from me didn’t falter his blank expression as I shut the door to his apartment behind me. I slipped off my shoes, swallowing thickly as I watched his sunken eyes squint sadly.

No words left his lips. A silence clouded the room with unbearable tension, making the air hitch in my chest as I sat on the couch, leaving about a foot of room in between us. The distance did little to ease the heavy weight falling on my spine, an uncomfortable jolt of anxiety flowing up and buzzing in my ears.

“I…hey,” he whispers back. The soft tone of his voice makes my teeth clench into the side of my cheek inside of my mouth. I hurt him. I really, really hurt him. All to feel better for myself when I disappointed him.

My tongue stammers against my teeth. I feel the rush of disappointment glide over my skin, washing over me like a rough wave of harsh salt water. And it stings.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe out.

Looking over at him, I watch as his eyes shift to mine with a bitter fury. Hayden’s face twists with sour distaste. “I….thanks. Means a lot after you spent the night with another guy, really,” he spits sarcastically.

Ouch.

His words hurt, but they hurt because they were true.

“It’s not like that—I…I just—”

“You just what?” he cuts me off, running his hand over his mouth. “You can’t even try to hang out with me and my friends, but you can run off with the same guy over and over again? I mean—Jesus, you’re not even showing me you care. I—what do you want me to think? Because, right now? I…it feels like you want to make me feel like shit. It really does.”

There’s a burning defensive rage burning in my gut as I listen to his words. I am trying. Did me sticking by his side for so long not mean a thing? Was it pointless for me to even attempt to pitch into the conversation with his friends in the first place?

But he’s right. I left. I left him alone when all he wanted was me to stick by his side.

“I’m sorry, I—I’m trying, I really am. I…I understand why you’re upset, I really do—I’ll, I’ll try harder, okay?” My question washes over him with some sort of relief as I watch his eyes relax. “I’m really sorry I made you feel so…unimportant. I…I’m trying, but—I’ll try harder,” I say.

His lips smack open and shut as his eyes flicker from my eyes to the couch cushions. “Okay,” he breathes.

My body sinks further into the couch as my gut clenches with nerves.

How the fuck do I try harder?

__________

“Try harder? I mean—what the fuck does he want?” Matt questions.

I lift my shoulders in a slight shrug, clasping the warm cup in my hands as the cold wind brushes against the tip of my nose.

“Like, stay by his side when he’s talking to his friends? Maybe? I…I don’t really know,” I stammer.

The crunch of the leaves stutters in the silence from his steps. Looking over, I see Matt’s feet planted on the cement trail. Trees shroud behind him, mostly bare as the rusted orange foliage starts to fall.

His face is furrowed with confusion and judgment. I shift in my place, tilting my head as I let out a sigh. “Matt, you—you don’t know everything–”

“I know enough. You do try. For fucks sake–even last night. You waited by his side like a fuckin’ puppy for how long? Yeah—no. I know enough to see how shitty he is. You….”

A subtle pout tugs on my lips. The warmth in my hands feels heavier, the hot chocolate seeming to pull down with gravity as I grasp the cup tighter.

“What, Matt?” I urge, curious and sour as I start down at his jeans.

“You just…” he takes a couple steps forward. His hand rolls through his hair messily before falling on my shoulder and lazily rubbing down my arm. “You deserve better.”

My eyes meet his for a moment. It’s like I can see myself in the way he looks at me—every part of my skin starts to buzz as I swallow thickly.

This isn’t right.

“Matt, I…just—stop. I,” his hand drops to his side disappointedly. He lets out a dry laugh, starting to walk forward as I take a couple steps to catch up to his side.

“Whatever, tell yourself whatever you want, I guess. I’ll…I’ll be here, ya know,” he looks over at me, his eyes becoming gentle in their gaze as he breathes loudly. “Whatever happens, I’m here, okay?” he announces.

“I—okay,” I agree.

Our feet patter on the curving cement once again. Tall trees block the sun, the cool breeze intensifying as I clutch onto the hot chocolate in my hands tighter.

“Ugh,” I groan. My head tilts uncomfortably with a wave of frustration. From the corner of my eye, I see Matt looking at me. He’s laughing. I can’t help but let my lips curl upwards at the sound of his boneless laugh—something I’ve never heard with anyone else besides him.

“What’s up? You,” he snorts through while giggling between breaths, “---ya good there, sweetheart?” he remarks.

Sweetheart.

It’s not in a genuine way. He’s joking. But–I can still feel the bitter wind bite against my flushing cheeks, a warmth crawling up my neck and behind my ears.

By the sounds of his laugh echoing louder, I know he can see the hue on my face. The embarrassment makes my stomach curl into knots, my eyes looking to the side as I clench my teeth together.

“Shut up, oh my god,” I say through my teeth.

But—it only makes him laugh harder.

I want to be mad, I want to keep a straight face so he doesn’t feel any sort of pride over a stupid fucking nickname. But, a laugh pushes through my lips as a smile spreads along my cheeks.

He rubs over his squinted eyes, sighing tiredly before placing a hand on my shoulder. “I…I’m sorry. You—you’re just too fun to mess with sometimes,” he sighs out more giggles while looking down at me. I stare up at him with squinted eyes, trying to keep a blank face. “---sorry, sweetheart.”

The vicious melody of giggles is somehow quieter. Matt leans over, resting his head on his hand that’s on my shoulder, leaning on me as his body shakes with laughter.

“Matt, shut the fuck up.”

My blunt words seem to make his body vibrate even further before he stands up tall, taking a deep breath while cupping my face in his hands. The wrinkles by his eyes makes my heart feel like it’s tingling.

“Okay, okay—I really am sorry, I’ll stop,” he reassures.

Nodding, a silence settles between us. His palms are warmth underneath my chin, his fingers swivel on my cheeks tenderly as I look up at him.

I can’t explain the feeling. All I know is I want more of this moment—more of this sensation. The butterflies aren’t just in my stomach, they’re everywhere. I feel lightheaded from the amount of dizzying comfort.

His hands aren’t clean. We had been looking at cool rocks, showing each other anything on the ground that excited us. I should be worried about the dirt possibly creating a blemish, but—I just don’t care. Not when I feel like this.

“You…” his eyes drift over my face as his head tilts to the side.

This is wrong. I shouldn’t feel like this. Not with here—not with him.

I place my hand around his wrist, gently letting go as I watch it drop to his side. Matt lips falter in a displeased expression. He quickly shakes his head, out reaching a hand. “Sorry, here–” Taking the near empty cup from my hand, he throws it in a trash bin on the side of the trail.

Why did I only have this feeling when I was with him?

Hayden never made me feel like this, but maybe that was my own fault. Maybe I had put all this pressure on myself—that stupid title made everything feel so much harder. I’m his girlfriend. I have so much I’m supposed to do—supposed to feel—but it just didn’t work.

Matt was a friend. Maybe the fact that there was no pressure was why it felt so…good.

“Hey, wear these,” the knit material slides over my hands softly. I look down, seeing oversized mittens covering my fingers loosely.

Shifting my eyes upwards, I smile at him. His tongue prods through his lips with concentration as he tucks the gloves in the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

Why the fuck did he even have these gloves?

“Matt, how do you just have a pair of gloves? I—it’s fall! We live in California!” I remind.

The second he peeps up at me with a sly smile and his hair ruffled messily, I feel myself melt. I didn’t have an issue admitting he was attractive—obviously people saw that. This was different. It wasn’t just how perfect his face looked, it was the emotion I felt from him staring into my eyes—the bursting emotion that made my tongue quiver on the roof of my mouth.

“Because,” he squeezes my hands before dropping them lighty. “I know you. And—I know that your hands and feet are ice cubes half the time,” he huffs.

He noticed.

My poor body circulation wasn’t a new thing. I had dealt with it as long as I could remember. Well, I had just tred through life ignoring it to the best of my ability. Gloves were too hard to remember half the time and I didn’t see much of a point seemings how I had been so used to it by now.

But, it felt good. It felt really good.

I never had realized how much easier it made everything. My mind was more at ease without the frozen sharp pains in my knuckles. The air felt nicer. Everything just felt so…effortless.

“Ya good, dollface?”

The teasing nickname falling off his tongue makes me squint my eyes at him. Dollface. It was something we had talked about the first day we met—on the stairs, outside the party, with the cruel breeze.

But, that stupid moment—it kept me up. In fact, it lingered so much on my mind that the day after when Hayden asked me to be his girlfriend…I almost said no.

What would’ve happened if I had said no?

What would be different?

I feel Matt slug his arm around me, pulling me into his side as we stride forward with imbalanced steps. “Does he compliment you enough?” he asks.

My lips get stuck between my teeth. Clearing my throat, I let out a huff of air. “I don’t need compliments.”

There’s an answer hidden in my reluctant words—he notices. I can tell Matt notices by the way he looks over at me while slowing down our steps.

“I didn’t ask if you needed them. I…you deserve them. Remember what I told you the night we met?” He cocks an eyebrow with a soft smile at me.

I remembered—I remembered it all too well. It was engraved in my mind everytime I looked in the mirror. His words didn’t just stick to me—they sunk into my skin.

“I’m….--’m tryna not to scare you, but—god, you just—you’re a different kind of pretty. It’s like—well, I don’t even know how to describe it. But…I just…I’d never be able look away from you if you kept looking at me like that.”

So vague and unclear, but it felt like the best dose of euphoric drugs created. There was just something about his words, something so gentle, so…effortless. It was like he couldn’t hold himself back from saying it.

And that—that was something I couldn’t help myself from falling asleep thinking about.

It wasn’t just the words or they way they fell from his lips. It was the way he looked at me. It was the way he made me feel just by looking at me. I never had someone look at me like that. And now…now I was scared.

What if trying ‘harder’ means losing this?

A/N: thank you so much for reading!

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