#watch them all crash and burn without me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

diamonddaze01 · 6 months ago

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Full Throttle (i)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record

summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae @ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 2 here! <3

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit

The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.

His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.

You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."

But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.

The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.

"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.

"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."

But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.

"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.

Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.

"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.

His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.

"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"

The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.

Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"

The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."

Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"

His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."

Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.

"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."

The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.

"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."

He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."

As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.

FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit

The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.

The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.

But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“Y/N?”

The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.

“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”

Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”

“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.

For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”

“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”

“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”

“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”

“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.

You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”

“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”

You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”

He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”

With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets.

Damn him.

The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.

"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"

His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."

"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."

You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"

His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"

You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."

"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."

Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?

Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:

"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."

It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.

He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar.

You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.

"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."

You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."

He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"

"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."

"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."

"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.

"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."

"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."

You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."

He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor.

When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri.

The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped.

Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.

The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.

As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.

He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.

Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.

A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.

By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.

“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”

He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.

“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”

With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.

The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.

“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”

Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”

Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.

“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.

Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.

Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."

His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.

Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.

“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.

Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.

“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”

“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”

Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”

Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”

Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.

“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.

“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”

Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”

But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.

“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”

“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”

But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.

“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”

Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”

Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”

But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head.

You’ve got a crush.

He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.

He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.

No, it was you.

Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.

And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.

“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.

He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.

“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.

“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”

You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”

He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”

“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”

“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”

His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”

Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“There you are!”

Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”

“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.

Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”

Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.

“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.

FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco

The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.

Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.

You.

You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.

Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.

Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.

Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.

When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.

You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.

You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”

The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.

Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”

For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.

When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.

“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”

The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort.

"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."

You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"

He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."

It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.

You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.

You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."

You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”

His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.

For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.

“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”

His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.

You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”

He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.

Just another driver.

The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.

Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.

And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed.

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly.

Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.

The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you.

He clicks it immediately.

The headline strikes first:

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.

Mingyu?

Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”

That’s it.

No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.

Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.

But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.

He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.

By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.

As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”

He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.

The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.

He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.

What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?

He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.

The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.

The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.

What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.

He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.

It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.

The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.

In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.

It stings more than it should.

Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.

The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.

When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.

He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.

FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen.

You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.

The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.

As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

And then, it happens.

The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.

“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.

And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.

You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.

But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024 Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.

But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.

You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.

When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third.

Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.

You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.

"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.

"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"

You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.

"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"

Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."

His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."

His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.

“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”

For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.

He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.

Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.

The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.

Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.

By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.

The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.

You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.

And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:

Dear Y/N, In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers. We look forward to your continued coverage. Best regards, Ferrari PR Team

It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.

At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.

So, you agree.

The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.

You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.

It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.

Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.

But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.

Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air.

There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside.

The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay.

Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.”

A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration.

Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife.

“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury.

The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out.

The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him.

When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after.

But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet.

You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him.

Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching.

Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.

“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak.

Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.”

You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?"

“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.”

A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been."

Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised."

A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore.

He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.”

“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.

“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.”

The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes.

“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought—

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded.

You don't finish the sentence.

Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.

The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—

He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.

“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.

You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.

Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”

It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.

But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.

“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”

You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.

But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.

“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.

For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring

The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.

You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.

“Back again?”

The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.

“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”

He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”

“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”

He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.

Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.

You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.

As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit

Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s back.

The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.

He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.

“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.

He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.

You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.

Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.

Jealousy.

The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.

You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.

You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”

Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”

There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”

The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.

Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”

His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.

Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.

The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.

When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.

Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.

The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:

I’m sorry.

You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.

He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.

The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.

The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.

Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.

Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.

The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.

There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.

You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.

“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.

He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”

You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”

“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.

“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.

He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”

Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.

“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”

His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”

You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”

“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”

Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”

Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”

You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”

He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”

“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”

“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.

He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.

The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.

You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.

You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”

He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”

“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?

He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”

You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.

“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.

The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.

“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”

Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.

“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.

As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.

The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.

You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.

Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.

You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.

He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.

You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.

“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.

You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.

Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”

“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”

Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”

That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”

“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.

You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”

His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”

He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.

The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.

Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens

The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.

But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”

Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.

“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.

He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.

FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1.

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat. But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room.

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.

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piastriprincess · 1 month ago

Text

caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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ama3003 · 2 months ago

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The Cost of Sides

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes! I didn't want to respond directly since it does contain some Thunderbolts Spoilers but I really hope you see this. If you do see this, please message me that you did so, I can have some peace of mind.

The request started with "Can I request a fic for Bucky please? I’m wanting lots of angst of reader and Bucky not seeing eye to eye after..."

Type: Angst

Summary: You and Bucky seem to be on opposite sides.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You met Bucky through Steve during the U.N. bombing fiasco—back when everything was falling apart and nothing felt safe.

From that moment on, you were in it with him. Every step, every fight, every quiet moment in the aftermath. He never had to ask; you were just there.

And when Steve died, when the weight of it all came crashing down, the two of you leaned on each other like you were the only solid thing left in the world. Somewhere in that grief, love happened. Slowly, then all at once.

After that, you were just… you and him. No big declarations. No drama. Just this steady, easy rhythm.

Sure, there were arguments—small ones, over stupid things like laundry or leaving dishes in the sink—but never real fights. Nothing that stuck. You could read each other so well it never got that far.

Until you played the video Sam sent you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers,”

And there was Bucky. In the center. Wearing his suit. Standing with them.

Your heart dropped so fast you couldn’t breathe for a second. Not because you thought he betrayed you or Sam though he definitely did—but because he let it happen. Because he stood there, quiet.

You didn’t want to pick sides. God, you really didn’t. But it felt like he already had.

He said he didn’t ask for it. Said he wasn’t even sure how it happened. But he kept showing up to their briefings, kept running missions with them, kept wearing that title like it didn’t burn.

And the worst part? The government—the government—was backing them. Funding them. Controlling them. You grew up watching them twist heroes into weapons. And now they had Bucky.

You tried to talk. At first, it was calm. Then it wasn’t.

Now it’s been fourteen months. And you barely recognize the way your fights stretch out, sharper, faster, more frequent. Less about the Avengers and more about everything that’s not being said.

You still love him. That’s not even a question. And he loves you. You know that. But sometimes love isn’t enough to close the space that’s growing between two people who don’t see the world the same way anymore.

You try. You both do. But it’s harder than it used to be. Way harder.

This morning, you show up at the compound with coffee in your hands, the paper tray trembling just slightly from lack of sleep—and everything else. It’s your way of saying sorry without saying the words. Not for what you fought about, but for the way it happened. For the silence after.

That’s how you find yourself stepping off the elevator and into the team’s living space chest still aching from the night before—just in time to hear it:

"Weren’t you going to talk to him?"

"I already did," Bucky says. His voice is low, tired. Like he’s already lived through the argument in his head too many times to want to say it again.

"And?"

"It went poorly."

You stop just past the doorway, your stomach twisting. You shouldn’t have heard that. But now that you have, you can't pretend you didn’t.

“You spoke to Sam?” you ask, stepping into the room fully.

Everyone looks up. The weight of too many eyes lands heavy on your skin. No one says anything. They don’t have to. Everyone knows what’s been going on—what’s been quietly breaking between you and Bucky for over a year now.

“I brought coffee for everyone,” you offer, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. It doesn’t hide the tension. It only highlights it.

Then, gently to Bob: “I got you decaffeinated tea.”

“Thank you,” Bob says, offering a soft smile, trying to smooth out the edges of the moment. But it doesn't do much.

You turn back to Bucky, heart in your throat. “You spoke to Sam?”

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?” you ask. You already know the answer. You’re just hoping it’s not the one you’re thinking.

“To see if he would stop all of this,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face.

You stare at him, jaw clenched. “I told you he wouldn’t. Ross is breathing down his neck. He basically has his hands tied.”

Bucky shakes his head, frustrated. “That doesn’t give him the right to make this whole thing hell for us. It’s not our fault that Valentina decided to do all of this.”

You feel the words catch in your chest before they come out. “But you didn’t fight it.”

The room is still. Even the air feels heavy.

Yelena, sitting off to the side, casually adds, “You do know that he filed for copyright of the name.”

Bucky turns toward her, caught off guard. “Did he?” Then his eyes swing back to you. “See? We're not doing anything. He’s taking it too far.”

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger exactly—something messier. “Look, the Avengers stay with the one who has the shield. He has the right to start up the team again. And don’t forget—you’re the one who told him he should.”

“I never said that.”

You glare at him, the words hitting before you can stop them. “He vented to you, Bucky. You gave him advice. You told him Steve didn’t make a mistake handing him the shield. You told him to lead—to build something new. The Avengers. And now not only is there a new team, but you’re in it. With the same government that once tried to erase him. And you didn’t even try to understand his side."

He scoffs, voice rising. “Sam’s side? He’s the one who doesn’t want to speak to me! He’s the one who’s blaming me like I planned this!”

“What happened during that call?” you ask, arms crossed tightly in front of you like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“I told him—” Bucky starts, then shrugs, eyes flicking away. “I told him he was being ridiculous. That there’s already an Avengers team. That there’s no reason to start a second one.”

Your lips part, but it takes a second for the words to come. “So you basically told him to back off.”

“He’s making this really difficult,” Bucky mutters.

You feel something in you crack—quietly. You can't keep arguing. You lost all willpower. You grab your purse off the counter. “I’m not doing this right now,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

But behind you, his voice calls out, rough and wounded. “You’re not even going to hear me out?”

You stop. You turn. Slowly. “I’ve been hearing you out for fourteen months, Bucky,” you say. “Every time. I’ve listened. I’ve tried to understand. But you signed on with them. What more is there to hear?”

He steps forward, like being closer might help you hear him better. “It’s not like that—”

“No?” Your voice trembles, but the anger in it keeps it from breaking. “Because it feels like exactly that. And fine, let’s say you didn’t sign up for the politics, but you’re still here. Standing next to them. Like that shield and that name didn’t come with blood and pain and history.”

His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. That flash of guilt flickers in his eyes again—but he swallows it down too fast. Again.

“This isn’t about Sam.”

You almost laugh. “Everything is about Sam.”

“I didn’t want this,” he snaps. “But sometimes we don’t get to wait for the perfect cause to show up. The world’s on fire. Sam had time—he could’ve acted. But now he’s creating this new team out of spite.”

You look at him like you don’t recognize him for a second. “And sometimes you don’t even realize you’re helping the very system that tried to erase your best friend from history...That tried to bury you.”

He flinches. That one lands. You can see it in the way he goes still.

You take a shaky breath. “Sam bled for that shield. He earned it. But they made him prove himself again and again. Until he was almost broken. And now you’re smiling for the cameras next to the same people who happily tried to hand that legacy to John.” You glance at Walker. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” Walker mumbles. You ignore him.

Bucky’s face darkens. “I haven’t forgotten what they did. But I haven’t forgotten the threats out there, either. This team… it’s not perfect. But we show up. Sam’s team haven’t shown up at all.”

“And when they do?” you say, stepping closer. “Are you really going to go up against Sam? Against his team? Over a name?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

It feels like a punch to the ribs. You stare at him, voice soft and hollow. “And what about me?”

That shatters something in his expression. You see it—the flicker of fear he tries to bury but can’t. Because this time, it’s different. You’ve fought before—circling this dilemma for months, both of you carefully pretending it lived outside your relationship. Like you could keep love and ideology in separate rooms. But this? This is the first time the line disappears. The first time it feels personal.

And you can’t pretend anymore.

“We’re a family, Bucky. After Steve, it’s always been us three. And now you're ready to go against him? Over a group name that we both know belongs to him.”

“I want to be where I can help,” he says, quieter now. “Sure, the government backs us up, but we're not letting them control us. We're on the right side."

Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. “And what happens when the lines between right and wrong blur, Bucky? When the people you’re working with start justifying things again?"

He doesn’t answer right away.

You lower your voice, barely above a whisper now. “What happens when history repeats itself?”

He looks at you, offended. “You think I’d let that happen again?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

The silence hung there like a bruise. No one said a word.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the muffled sounds of the team whispering amongst themselves, trying not to be obvious, failing miserably.

You turned toward the window because it was easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing what was—or wasn’t—left in his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant, cracked at the edges.

“I can’t follow you into this, Buck.”

You heard him breathe in—sharp, like maybe he hadn’t expected that. Or maybe he had.

“I never asked you to,” he said. But there was something in his voice. A break. A catch. Something small but real.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You nodded, once. No drama. No grand speech. Just… done. Then you turned and walked toward the elevator.

No one stopped you.

You felt their eyes on your back. You felt his most of all.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped in stiffly, trying to keep your hands from shaking and your heart from breaking right here in front of them.

The doors started to close.

He still didn’t move.

Still didn’t say your name.

And that? That was the part that broke you. He was letting you go.

Only when the doors shut and you were alone did your shoulders slump. Only then did the breath you'd been holding finally let go—and it came out shaky.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You pulled out your phone, meaning to call Sam. Ask if you could crash for the night.

But your screen lit up before you could type.

Your lock screen.

That damn photo.

You and Bucky, wrapped up in each other, grinning like idiots. Some blurry picture someone else had snapped at some rooftop barbecue. He had his arm around you, his mouth near your ear. You were laughing like the world wasn’t ending.

Back when things still felt easy.

Before sides. Before names meant more than people.

Before all of this.

You stared at it, and your chest ached. Actually ached.

Different times. Different battles. Same man.

But maybe not the same love.

You’d followed him through hell and worse. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

But not this time.

Not into something that went against everything you believed. Not when it meant losing pieces of yourself just to stay close to him. Not when it meant standing against the memory of the only real family you've ever had.

Ahhh, I seriously love getting Bucky requests—they're always my favorite to write!

Also, I know this whole Sam vs. Bucky situation has stirred up a lot of emotions, but honestly, their friendship is so strong that I doubt it'll last long.

Anywhoooo I hope you enjoy this one! Love you all and thank you for all the support!!!!!

Pleaseeeee send me more requests (I'm on a Bucky roll right now lol)! And to those who have requested don't worry I'll get to yours soon!

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wooyoungiewritings · 1 month ago

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Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Part 3)

Summary: You try to be honest and tell your husband about your relationship with Seonghwa, but it doesn't quite go after plan. But you've had enough of playing nice, so you break the rules and give in to your hunger for Seonghwa. But what happens when it all comes crashing down when it's all perfect, and your husband gives you an ultimatum?

Word count: 9.8K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, angst, DRAMA (u might cry), slow burn, smut (YAAAALLLL THIS IS FILTHYYYYY IM SO SORRY MOM AND DAD)

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), TEASINGGG omg, DOM Seonghwa, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking, spitting, LOTS of dirtytalk, creampie, aftercare (<3), heartbreak (?), lmk if I missed anything!

PART2 PART4

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

The day after the annual company dinner, you're home alone again, waiting for your husband to be home. The quiet pressing in like a weighted blanket. You’ve opened the same text thread with your husband three times, thumb hovering over a message you never send. The words feel too heavy for a screen. Too fragile to survive being read without your voice wrapped around them.

So you wait. He said he’d be home all Sunday, but there’s no sight of him.

You sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, hands twisted together in your lap. You’re picking at a hangnail, teeth digging into your bottom lip, while the clock on the wall ticks out its judgment in slow, steady seconds. Every imagined version of the conversation plays through your head, ten different openings, twelve different ways to admit you’ve been falling into something deep and real with someone else. With Seonghwa. With his boss.

But every sentence feels like a betrayal. Too guilty. Too selfish. Too bold. And too late to take back.

You don’t even hear the front door open until it bangs shut behind him with the kind of energy that says he’s already somewhere else in his head.

“Babe! Babe, I’m just grabbing a charger, and have you seen my blue striped shirt?” His voice echoes down the hallway, fast and distracted. You hear his shoes hit the floor one after the other, the thud of his bag against the wall.

You blink, your body lurching upright from the couch. “You’re home late.”

“Yeah, had to grab some things, heading over to her place,” he calls back casually, like it’s not a blade between your ribs.

You follow the sound of his voice, your bare feet quiet against the floor. Your pulse is already climbing, fast and hot in your neck. He’s in the bedroom, already yanking open drawers like it’s a routine he’s done a hundred times. Maybe he has.

His shirt’s only half buttoned, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder. He doesn’t even glance at you as he moves.

You stop in the doorway. Hover. “I-, can we talk for a second?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, talk while I pack,” he says, like it’s all so simple. “You always catch me at the last minute, you know that? It’s like your special skill or something.”

You watch him toss a pair of jeans into the bag, roll up a hoodie, cram it in too tight. The sleeves are sticking out. He doesn’t care.

“I have something important to say.”

“Hit me,” he says, not even looking up. “As long as it’s not about the gas bill, I paid it. And hey, guess what? Jen and Caleb broke up. You totally called that, didn’t you?”

You open your mouth, close it. “I-”

“Also,” he goes on, now moving around the room with a momentum you can’t stop, “We’re going to this wine cabin thing next weekend with her friends. Fancy place, hot tub, the works. Kinda insane. You’d hate it.” He laughs, like he hasn’t left you alone for months while you tried to convince yourself this arrangement wasn’t breaking you.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” you say, loud enough that it forces him to pause.

Only for a second. Then he zips the side pocket of his bag and straightens. “Really?” He flashes you a grin over his shoulder. “Finally! Thank God. I was starting to think you were gonna fossilize in front of that dumb dating show you like.”

Your stomach turns. “I-”

“No, seriously, I’m glad,” he says, swinging the bag onto both shoulders like the conversation is a warm-up for something more interesting. “This is the whole point, right? Open and honest. No secrets. No drama. This is growth. Proud of you.” He gives you a joking little salute. “So? Who is he? Mystery man from the supermarket? Did you fall for a barista? Actually-, don’t tell me. Keep it spicy.”

You try again. Your voice is trembling now, no matter how hard you try to sound steady. “I think you should know. It’s-”

He cuts you off, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Babe, I’m happy for you. Really. You needed this. You’ve been so... closed off. Like you forgot how to flirt. It’s good for you to feel wanted again.”

The words land like a slap. He’s still talking, but all you hear is the echo of that condescending tone. Like you’re broken. Like you’re someone he’s left behind without ever saying goodbye.

“It’s Seonghwa,” you say.

But he’s already back to packing, muttering, “Shit, where’s my charger?” as he digs through the mess on the desk. He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does and chooses not to react.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you can barely hear yourself breathe.

He finds the charger, tucks it into his bag, and strides over to you. Kiss your cheek like everything’s fine. Like you’re still just his wife waiting around for him to come and go.

“Maybe this means we should keep the open thing going, huh?” he says with a grin. “Not just a year. Could be a lifestyle. You know, modern love and all that.”

You can’t even speak. Your throat’s too tight, your mouth too dry. Everything inside you is screaming, but all you do is stare.

“I gotta go,” he says. “She’s waiting. I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after.”

And then he’s gone. The door closes with a click.

You don’t move.

Not right away.

You just stand there in the hallway, trembling, your chest tight with something worse than hurt, disbelief. He didn’t care. Not even a little. You gave him the opening. You handed him your honesty. And he brushed right past it like it was a grocery list.

You had waited to be fair. Waited to be honest. Made yourself wait. Made Seonghwa wait. Waited until your heart couldn’t hold back anymore. Let the tension simmer, even when it hurt. You held Seonghwa at arm’s length for this?

You don’t even realize you’ve stood there for ten whole minutes until your legs start to ache. The door’s been shut. The apartment is silent. He’s gone. Again. And you’re still holding words that no one wanted to hear.

Something in you snaps.

You tried. You tried to do this the right way. You held yourself back for months, swallowed every urge, every look, every breathless pause between you and Seonghwa. You gave your husband time. Honesty. Respect. And it meant nothing.

Your hands shake as you grab your phone. No texts. No calls. No warning.

You just type in the address and call the cab.

The ride there is a blur. The driver makes small talk; you barely nod. Your knee bounces the whole way, fingers clenching in your lap like you can hold yourself together for just a few more minutes. Your heart is loud. Your mouth dry. Your body humming like it already knows.

You need him.

You need Seonghwa.

The second the cab pulls up to his building, you’re out. You don’t even wait for the receipt. You take the stairs because the elevator’s too slow. Every step feels like shedding.

Guilt, fear, hesitation. Gone. Gone. Gone.

You’re done waiting.

You knock, hard. Then again. You don’t even know if he’s home, don’t care what time it is, don’t care if you’re supposed to be polite.

When the door swings open, he’s there.

Soft shirt, loose belted pants, hair a little messy, like you caught him mid-evening routine. There’s music playing low in the background, some warm jazz tune, and the apartment smells like ginger and something sweet.

He blinks at first, surprised, but the second he sees your face, his expression shifts.

Gentle. Open.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful. “Are you-?”

You don’t let him finish.

You grab the collar of his shirt, pull him down, and kiss him like you’ve been drowning for weeks. It’s messy. Desperate. His lips part with a soft sound of surprise, and then he’s kissing you back just as hard.

Your fingers thread into his hair. His hands find your waist, steadying you, grounding you, but you don’t want to be steady. You want to fall. Into him. Onto him. Through him.

His hands find your waist, but you’re already pressing forward, and your back hits the door with a quiet thud. Your hands slide beneath his sweatshirt, nails dragging across the bare skin of his stomach. His breath shudders.

“Wait,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “Did you-, how did it-”

“Shut up,” you whisper, breathless, half-wild. You drag your mouth along his jaw, nip at his skin until he swallows hard. “Just fuck me. Now.”

His hands tighten at your waist. There’s a beat of stunned silence, like you just shattered whatever calm he had left.

Seonghwa’s smirk is all heat and mischief, but behind it, fire. “Yes ma’am.”

He lifts you in one fluid motion, arms firm beneath your thighs, and your breath catches as your back leaves the door. You wrap your legs around him instantly, clinging to the only thing that feels steady right now, him. His lips find yours again, hungry and claiming, as he carries you down the hall like he’s memorized the way blind.

You’re both breathing hard when the door swings open, when he walks you inside like he can’t afford to stop. And he can’t. He places you on the edge of the bed like you’re breakable, his last moment of gentleness, and your back hits the bed. He hovers over you, eyes devouring every inch of your face, your body, like he doesn’t know where to start because he wants everything at once.

Seonghwa doesn’t speak right away. His fingers trail up your thighs, slow and rough, like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t have you like this.

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a soft whimper when his fingers curl around your hips, tugging you closer so your thighs frame his waist. He leans in, mouth brushing your jaw as his hand slides up, fingers splaying over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, but letting you feel the pressure. The control.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “You have no idea what you just started.” his fingers wrap around your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. He leans in closer until his mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your lips, but doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

“Tell me,” he growls. “Tell me I can have you. Tell me you’re mine tonight.”

You whisper, trembling, “I’m yours. All of me.”

He lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s dark and aching. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there’s nothing sweet there now. Just heat. Possession.

His hand slides down your stomach, slow and firm, and your hips arch before he even reaches the edge of your pants.

Your thighs press tighter around him. “Please,” you whisper, already breathless.

He laughs softly, low and cruel and utterly delighted. "That’s cute. But I haven’t even started." He tilts your head back by your throat and presses his mouth to yours, hot and slow, tongue sliding in with a groan like he’s starving.

He doesn’t take you right away.

Not like you expected. Not like you begged for.

He could. God, he wants to. He’s hard already, pulsing against you through his clothes, and every brush of your thighs makes him twitch with the effort it takes to hold back. But he doesn’t move fast. He just watches you for a long moment, thumb brushing the corner of your lips.

“I should make you wait,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “After all the things you’ve done.”

You’re panting, your chest rising with every breath, but you still manage a small, confused sound. “What things?”

He smiles, slow and dark. “Coming to my home in your little dresses, teasing me when you knew I couldn’t do anything. Sitting across from me at dinner like you weren’t soaking wet under the table. You think I didn’t notice?”

You whimper.

He dips his head lower, nose trailing your throat, and inhales. “You wanted me to lose control.”

You try to speak, but his hand slides up your inner thigh and all you can do is gasp.

“You wanted me to break. To forget I’m your husband’s boss. To drag you into a room and fuck you like you were mine already.” His lips brush your ear. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper, almost ashamed, but you shouldn’t be. Not with the way he growls low in his throat at your answer, like your honesty just made him hungrier.

“But I didn’t,” he says. “I was good.” His eyes roam your body, and there’s heat, awe, and vengeance all at once. “Now?” His hands slide to your hips, fingers curling tight. “Now I’m not going to be good.”

His shirt is unbuttoned now, but still on. His belt is still tight around his waist. Your breath catches, lips swollen, thighs pressed together as you chase after his mouth. He chuckles darkly, dragging his eyes over you as if deciding what he’s going to do to you first.

“You’re shaking already,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles slowly along your jaw. “What happened to the girl who liked to tease me until I couldn’t speak?”

His fingers trace the hem of your top, moving so slow it’s maddening. He drags it up, inch by inch, until your skin is on display, but he doesn’t touch. He just looks.

“Take it off for me.”

Your hands shake as you pull it over your head. His eyes never leave yours.

“Good girl.”

You shiver.

He pulls your jeans down slowly, deliberately, like every inch of exposed skin is something he needs to memorize. His fingers trail down the insides of your thighs as he goes, mouth following with kisses that are too soft, too slow, because he knows it drives you crazy.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, almost reverent, almost. Because then he grins. Sharp. Dangerous. “So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.”

You whimper, hips tilting toward him, needing him to do something, anything, and he just tuts like you’re a misbehaving student.

“Nuh-uh.” His palms flatten against your inner thighs, pushing you down, keeping you there. “You don’t get to be greedy. Not tonight. You made me wait, sweetheart. Now it’s your turn.” He leans down slowly, lips ghosting across your skin, from the inside of your knee to your hipbone. Not kissing where you need him, not yet, just tracing. Breathing. Teasing.

And when you try to move your hips again, chasing his mouth, he just pins you harder.

“I said wait.”

The growl in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He kisses up your stomach instead. Licks between your breasts. Sinks back to press one single kiss just above your underwear. And stops there.

He leans in close, lips barely brushing your soaked heat through the fabric.

“Say please.”

You’re wrecked already, panting, trembling. “Please.”

He smiles. “Not yet.”

Then he spits. A slow trail between your legs that soaks into the thin fabric, and finally drags his tongue up the damp center, just once.

You sob.

He grins and pushes your panties to the side. He slides a single, thick finger between your folds, and yes.

You’re soaked.

He moans softly against your skin, lips trailing lower. “Fuck-, listen to that,” he hisses, dragging his finger up and down slowly, gathering the slick. “You’re dripping for me.”

“Seonghwa,” you gasp, back arching.

He pushes the finger in. Slowly. Torturously. “You think one’s enough for you?” he asks, curling it just so. “Or are you gonna be a greedy little thing and ask for more?”

You’re already moaning his name, eyes wet, hands trembling. He adds a second finger without warning, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit in lazy, teasing swipes.

“Every time you begged and bit your lip and walked away like a good girl, this is what I imagined,” he growls. Then his fingers leave you completely.

His fingers withdraw slowly from your dripping heat, and he chuckles darkly when your hips lift off the bed, chasing him. “No. No, no,” he tuts, dragging his slick fingers up your stomach, up to your lips. “You don’t get to grind up against my hand like some needy little brat.”

He presses those soaked fingers into your mouth, firm and controlling. “Suck.”

You do. You’re eager, moaning around his fingers as your tongue swirls over the taste of yourself, cheeks hollowing like it’s instinct. And it is. Because you’re hungry. Starved. And he’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“God, sweetheart” he groans, his jaw tight as he watches. “You don’t even know how fucking perfect you are like this. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You know he’s teasing you. You know he’s making you wait for him to fill you up but, gosh. Somehow you never want this to end. Him touching you, tasting you, teasing you. It’s all worth it.

“Get back,” he says lowly, voice a dark command as he stands at the foot of the bed. “Hands above your head. Keep them there.”

You obey instantly. He watches you for a moment, clothed from the waist down while you're half-naked and trembling beneath his gaze.

He tosses the belt to the side with a quiet thud, then removes his shirt completely. His chest rises with each breath, toned and golden under the warm lighting, his veins prominent down his arms, jaw tight from restraint.

“You know how long I’ve wanted this?” he mutters, voice rougher now, his control thinning. “Weeks. Weeks of you crawling into my lap, whispering pretty little things, looking up at me with those eyes like you had no idea what you were doing.” He steps back between your legs. “And I didn’t touch you. Because I respected your rules. I waited.”

“But now look at you,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Finally laid out the way I’ve wanted you. Needy, soaking, begging for me.” He starts undoing his jeans, slow and deliberate, making a show of it.

You whimper his name, thighs instinctively rubbing together for friction.

He sees it. “Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

You freeze. He smirks.

Jeans open, he slides them down his hips, leaving only his black briefs, soaked at the tip, the outline of his cock pressed tight against the fabric. And he takes his time climbing back onto the bed, crawling over your body until he’s hovering over you.

“You want me inside you?” he whispers, voice low like a secret. “You think you’ve earned that?”

You nod quickly, lips parted. “Yes-, yes, please-”

His hand shoots out, wrapping firmly around your throat again, thumb pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

“You ready?” he asks, voice deeper, ruined. “You ready for me to fuck you like I should’ve the first night?”

“Yes, please Seonghwa-”

He cuts you off with a hard kiss, tongue claiming your mouth again. But when he pulls back, he goes to place kisses everywhere he can. Your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, below your ear, your neck. In the midst of his dominance, he still takes time to worship you, make you feel safe. Feel loved.

“Holy fuck,” he growls. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

He kisses you all the way down your stomach. And then, finally, he slides one hand between your legs again, pushing your panties aside, and spits down on your cunt, slow and filthy, fingers immediately spreading the mess over your clit in deep, slow circles.

You cry out, body jerking, but his free hand slams down on your hip to hold you in place.

You’re a wreck. Sweat slicking your skin. Lips parted. Nails digging into the sheets as if that’s the only thing keeping you on this plane of existence.

“You want me to ruin you, my love?” he whispers, finally dragging his tongue over your clit, once, slow, cruelly gentle. “Want me to fuck you like you’ve always belonged to me?”

“Yes,” you cry, high and broken and wrecked. “Please, Seonghwa-, I’m yours, I’m yours, I swear-, just take me, take me-”

He watches you squirm beneath him, the heel of his palm rolling slow, relentless circles over your clit while his fingers just barely dip between your folds.

“You like this?” he whispers, voice like silk over gravel.

You whimper. It’s not even a yes, it’s just sound now, your body too wound up to form words.

And he knows it. His fingers are relentless but never fast, just deep, slow pressure, teasing you right up to the edge.

And then stopping.

Again.

“Seonghwa-, please-” You’re full-on begging now, thighs shaking.

He grinds his cock slowly against your skin, still clothed, letting you feel how hard he is.

Your moan cracks into a sob as his fingers slip away again, leaving you soaked, trembling, and painfully empty. And Seonghwa just smiles.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Beg like that. You’ve been making me suffer for so long, baby. Do you know how many nights I lay in bed with your taste still on my lips and my cock in my hand?”

He drags two fingers along your thigh, smearing spit and slick in slow, idle patterns.

“You'd text me goodnight like nothing happened,” he growls, eyes flicking to yours. “Pretending you didn’t grind on me till you came. Acting like I wouldn’t have ripped those panties off if I had half a chance.”

His voice is slipping now. Rougher, lower, needier.

“Look at me.”

You do. Wide-eyed. Drenched.

“Open your legs.”

You obey without thinking, and he grins.

“Good fucking girl.”

He rises to his knees, finally shoving his briefs down and off. His cock springs free, hard, heavy, flushed at the tip. And your body arches before you even realize it, your thighs shaking at the sheer sight of him.

But still, he pauses.

Gripping his cock at the base, he strokes it slow, dragging his palm up and letting his spit drip onto the head before working it down again.

“You want this?” he says through gritted teeth. “Want me to fuck you till you forget your own name?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes-, God, yes, Seonghwa, please-”

He grabs your hips, drags you down the bed toward him. You feel the head of his cock press between your folds, finally, finally there. He rocks forward, just enough to sink in a little—

And then stops. Not even halfway.

You scream. “Seonghwa-!”

He leans down, mouth by your ear. “You’re mine.”

And then, without warning, he slams the rest of the way in.

Your cry breaks into a choked gasp, back arching hard off the bed. He’s deep, impossibly deep, and already moving, dragging out slowly, then slamming back in, harder. Again. And again.

“Is this what you’ve been teasing me for? Driving me crazy, wearing those tight little jeans, grinding on my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing?”

Your words come out in broken moans. “Yes, yes-please, don’t stop-”

“Oh, baby.” His hand wraps around your throat again. “I’m not stopping.”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you like he owns you, filthy, hard, punishingly slow at times just to make you sob.

But the whole time, he’s in control.

Grinning when you beg.

Groaning when your body clenches down.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of reverence, as if he’s worshipping you even in this moment. He pulls out just enough to make you whine, only to slam back in with a force that makes you see stars.

“Seonghwa, please… please…” you cry out, desperate for release, your voice breaking with need. “I need you-, please, don’t stop…”

Seonghwa doesn't waste another second. He moves with a kind of urgency, yet his every action is precise, deliberate. He pulls you into him again, lips crashing against yours in a deep, desperate kiss. His hands are everywhere, tracing every curve of your body like he's memorizing it, every touch stoking the flames of your need.

His hand doesn’t leave your throat as he shifts you, rough but careful, guiding you down with an edge of possessiveness that leaves you dizzy. "Turn over," he growls against your ear, voice dark, ragged. “Face down. Now.”

You obey, breath catching, and he helps you onto your stomach. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, dragging your body back to him, not even giving you a second to fully settle before he’s inside you again, thick, hot and unrelenting.

“He might be your husband on paper” Seonghwa murmurs, dragging his palm up your back, nails grazing your skin. “But you’re mine in every other way.”

He grinds his hips slow, purposefully, just to feel your reaction. You let out a needy sound and he chuckles darkly. His hand grabs your wrist and pins it to the mattress. Then the other. His palm presses down between your shoulder blades, holding you there as he places kisses on your back. “You don’t have to do anything. Just lie back and let me worship you like you deserve.”

He pulls out so slowly you want to scream, the stretch of him leaving you hollow, empty, until he slams back in.

“Fuck, Seonghwa-, you’re so good-”

“You like when I fuck you like this, huh? When I can't get enough of you?” he pants, voice right at your ear now, body flush to yours, pinning you down completely. Then his free hand snakes around your throat again, tight and possessive. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words ragged, broken, desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls, pace shifting again, slow, torturous, dragging every inch of himself out before slamming back in. “You fucking are.”

And god, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. The sound of skin meeting skin, the slick, messy wetness of it all, it’s obscene. He’s filthy, ruthless, a man starved, and finally allowed to feast. And yet… through all the roughness, there’s something deeper, rawer.

His pace becomes more erratic, more frantic, as though he can’t hold back any longer. His hands are everywhere now, gripping, squeezing, marking. Each movement is purposeful, designed to make you feel owned, cherished, in the most deliciously painful way.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he grinds out, his voice a low rasp. Your body is trembling beneath him, your breath coming in desperate gasps, and he watches, enraptured by the way you fall apart for him, piece by piece.

You can feel your release building, so close. “Please,” you gasp, barely able to keep your eyes open. “Seonghwa… please… I’m so close.”

He chuckles, dark and low, as if he’s savoring every second of your desperation. “That’s it, that’s my girl. So good for me. Always so good for me.”

He drives into you again, deeper than before, the words setting you off completely. Your body goes rigid with the force of it, your back arching into him, every inch of you trembling.

And that’s when he finally, finally, lets go.

He pulls you into him, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand back on your throat, guiding you through your release as his own crashes over him. His grip tightens on your skin, marking you, holding you there, as if he never wants to let you go.

Your body trembles beneath him, legs weak, breath coming in stuttering waves as the final crash of pleasure still echoes through you. Seonghwa is barely holding himself together, buried deep, groaning low and broken against your skin as he spills inside you, gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself to reality. His whole body is tense, desperate, surrendering.

But the second it’s over, the shift is immediate.

He exhales shakily and gently lowers himself down, his weight easing over you like a warm blanket. His arms come around you instantly, protective, careful, not a single trace of that merciless dominance left in his touch now. He kisses your shoulder, your back, your spine, all soft, slow, reverent. Like you're something sacred.

He eases out of you with utmost care, kissing the center of your spine before whispering, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, my love.”

The bed shifts as he leaves, and you lie there, boneless, dazed, heart thudding against your ribs, not just from the intensity, but from the weight of the moment. This meant something. It always did.

When Seonghwa returns, his touch is impossibly tender. He kneels beside you and gently rolls you onto your back, using a warm cloth to clean you, every movement slow, soothing, reverent. Not a word is spoken, but his eyes never leave yours, and they say everything.

You reach up to touch his face, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it, then your palm, then each fingertip.

“I’m sorry I was rough,” he whispers, like the thought alone tortures him.

You shake your head. “You weren’t… not in a bad way. You knew what I needed.”

His arms tighten. “Still… I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you now.”

He finishes cleaning you up and disappears for a moment again. When he returns, he climbs under the covers and pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, your body cradled tight against his chest. He wraps himself around you like he’s trying to protect you from the rest of the world. Like maybe if he holds you tight enough, time will stop.

“I’ll remember this,” he whispers. “All of it. Every second.”

“I will too.”

There’s silence. Soft, heavy, laced with emotion too big for words. His hands roam your back in slow, calming motions. He kisses your hair, your forehead, your cheek.

“I wanted to be good,” he says. “Wanted to respect your boundaries. Your marriage. But every time you looked at me like that... I knew I’d never be the same.”

Your chest aches. You can’t help it, you curl closer.

“I don’t know how to be without you anymore,” you confess.

His arms tighten. “Then don’t be. Even if it’s just like this. Even if we’re pretending the world doesn’t exist.”

You nod, tears stinging your eyes. You don’t let them fall. Not tonight.

Because tonight isn’t for sorrow.

It’s for his hands, gentle as they explore your skin like a prayer. It’s for his voice, low and warm, humming soft nothings into your ear. It’s for his heart, beating steady beneath your cheek, a rhythm you’ll remember long after this ends.

It’s for the way he kisses you like you’re his whole world, even if he can’t keep you.

Even if he never could.

***

It had been a month since you finally caved. A month of living in the quiet space between reality and fantasy. Of pretending that time didn’t matter, that hearts couldn’t break if you just held each other tightly enough.

You and Seonghwa had taken that idea and run with it.

You’d spent almost every free moment in his orbit—lazy mornings tangled in sheets, late-night drives just to hold hands in silence, dinners you cooked together with music playing in the background and wine glasses left forgotten. You found parts of yourself again in his arms. Laughed like you used to. Kissed like you were starving. And Seonghwa, he loved you with the patience of a man who knew he might not get to love you forever.

Neither of you said it out loud. But you both knew.

You were still married, after all. Technically. Legally. Logistically.

And you found yourself, for the first time in a long time, wanting to go somewhere just to see someone’s face light up when you walked through the door.

That’s what led you here.

Late afternoon, just cool enough to wear a sweater, coffee cups warm in your hands as you step into Seonghwa’s office building. You haven’t told him you’re coming. You don’t want to give him a chance to say no. You just want to see him. To remind him that, even in the middle of his workday, he’s wanted. Missed. Thought about.

Of course you know the risk of seeing your husband here, but he usually leaves work before this time. The messages from your husband has grown sparse. Short check-ins about rent, reminders about trash day or Wi-Fi bills. He doesn’t ask where you were. Doesn’t seem to care. He’s always at her place, anyway.

So you stopped telling him where you were going.

You step into the elevator, heart thudding, watching the floors tick up one by one. You know which office is his.

You reach his office door and hesitate for a second, the smell of roasted beans curling up with the nerves in your chest. In one hand, the folder he forgot, left on the nightstand in the rush of morning kisses and whispered promises not to be late. In the other, two coffees from the little place you always stop at together. His favorite, made just the way he likes it.

The door to his office is cracked just slightly open. You push it gently, peeking your head inside.

He’s standing near the window, phone to his ear, one hand in his pocket as he speaks with that low, composed voice he uses when he is working. His jacket is gone, his tie loose, a few buttons undone. You watch him a second too long, how could you not?

He glances up mid-sentence and freezes when he sees you.

His eyes widen, then softens in that familiar way that always makes your stomach flip. A little stunned, then flooded with something warm and unspoken. He gives a quick, murmured goodbye into the phone, hanging up fast before taking a step toward you.

“You’re here,” he says, surprised, voice breaking into a grin. “What-”

“You forgot these,” you lift the folder. “Found them on the dresser. Figured you’d need them.”

“And I couldn’t resist bringing this,” you add, offering one of the coffees. “Because I’m incredibly generous. And also maybe I missed you.”

His laugh is soft, delighted, boyish. “You spoil me.”

“Only a little.”

Seonghwa steps forward, takes the coffee from your hand, but it’s your wrist he holds onto just a second longer than necessary, eyes lingering on your face like he can’t decide whether to speak or kiss you.

“I thought about you all day,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “Kept thinking about this morning.”

“Me too,” you say, your tone just as soft.

His thumb strokes your wrist gently. “Close the door for me?”

The moment it clicks shut behind you, it’s like gravity pulls you straight into him. You don’t even think, your body moves on instinct, reaching for him just as he steps into you, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other cradling your cheek as his lips find yours.

The kiss is slow, but only for a second. Then it grows deeper. Needy, familiar, warm. His mouth opens against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you all over again, his hand tightening at your waist as you lean into him, letting your coffee press into his chest so your other arm could wrap around his neck.

“You should get back to work.” you whisper against his lips, breathless.

“You know how I feel when you’re playing the boss-card,” he murmurs, chasing your mouth again, lips brushing yours between words. “It’s dangerous territory.”

You giggle softly, tilting your head as he nuzzles into your neck, kissing the skin there like it was his favorite secret. His hands roam gently, still careful even as his mouth betrays just how much he has missed you.

“I shouldn’t stay long,” you whisper, not meaning a word of it.

“Then let me be quick,” he teases, breath hot against your jaw.

“You never are,” you whisper, tugging him closer.

But when he finally pulls back, there’s something lingering in his gaze. A shift. A decision.

“I’m leaving,” Seonghwa says softly.

You blink. “What?”

“I’m done for the day.” He sets his coffee aside, already reaching for his suit jacket. “I’ve been working non-stop. I miss you. Let’s get early dinner.”

Your heart flutters. “Are you sure?”

He shoots you a smile over his shoulder. “I’m the boss, remember?”

You laugh, watching him tidy a few files with one hand while he slips his watch back on with the other. Within minutes, he has everything locked down. Then he comes to you, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s second nature.

“Ready, my love?”

You nod, warmth blooming in your chest as he opens the office door.

You walk down the hall together, hand in hand, every step light and quiet like the world belongs to you both for just a little longer. But when the elevator dings, and you stand waiting for it to arrive, Seonghwa turns toward you again.

His hand slips to your waist, the other brushing your cheek as he leans in. This kiss is different. Slower, deeper, something molten in the way his mouth lingers on yours. It curls your toes, sends a hum through your chest, and leaves you dizzy.

And then…

“Y/N?”

The voice cuts through the air like glass.

You freeze.

Seonghwa’s lips are still brushing yours when your eyes fly open and see your husband standing several feet away.

He’s alone. No colleagues in sight, no buffer. Just him… and the truth he had clearly just walked in on. His gaze flickers between your face and Seonghwa’s. Down to your hands. Back to your lips. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

He clearly didn't expect this.

You step back instinctively, like space might soften the blow. “I-”

“That’s him?” he cuts in, voice sharp. “That’s who you’re seeing?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes. You can’t find your voice. You haven’t prepared for this, this collision of both your lives, here, now, in the open.

His eyes widens, expression laced with disbelief. “You’re dating him?” He asks again. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. My boss? You’re screwing my boss?”

“Watch your tone.” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the tension like steel. He steps forward slightly. Not aggressive, but protective. Firm.

Your husband’s eyes snap to him. “You know she’s married.”

“I do.” Seonghwa’s expression didn’t waver. “I also know she’s in an open marriage. A situation you created.”

You take a shaky breath, trying to speak, but no words come. You can’t do this here, not like this.

Seonghwa turns and sees the way you’re frozen. Hands shaking, eyes glossy, lips parted like they wants to move but can’t.

“We’re leaving,” he says simply, gently tugging your hand.

Your husband looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't. Not as Seonghwa leads you into the elevator, wraps you under his arm protectively, and hits the button.

The doors slide shut, and just like that, you’re gone.

The door shuts behind you both with a soft click, muffled by the sheer stillness of the apartment. It should feel safe, it usually does, but now the silence only makes your thoughts louder.

You step in a few paces, drop your bag on the floor, and turn around like you don't know where to go next.

“I messed everything up,” you say in a breath, voice shaky. “I didn’t even say a word, I just stood there,- God, his face, Seonghwa, he knows.”

Your fingers tremble at your sides. You can’t stand still. The panic keeps bubbling up, sharp and sudden, and you drag a hand through your hair like that would slow your racing mind.

Seonghwa says nothing at first. He simply watches you for a moment, letting you unravel, but stays close.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” you whisper. “We were careful. We-, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. What if-, what if he tells someone? What if it-”

He reaches for you before you can spiral further, large hands settling on your shoulders with calm, grounding weight. “Hey,” he says gently. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Your eyes are glossy, your chest rising and falling in quick bursts.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you into him.

Your hands curl into the fabric of his coat without thinking. His warmth surrounds you, steady and quiet. His touch isn’t desperate, it’s reassuring. Calm.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says into your hair, rubbing a hand down your back. “But you didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?”

You say nothing, only shake your head into his chest.

“What if he doesn’t approve of this?” you whisper. “Of you. Of you being the one I’m seeing.”

His hand pauses for half a second, then resumes its slow strokes down your spine. “I don’t know.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull back enough to check the screen.

Husband: Can we please talk?

Seonghwa doesn’t ask questions when you read the text aloud to him, voice barely above a whisper.

“I have to go,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I need to talk to him.”

He nods once, the motion slow. Measured. “I know.”

You shift your weight, swallowing thickly. “I’m,-” The words tangle in your throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Seonghwa says gently. “This was always something you had to do.”

You step closer, eyes searching his face. “I hate that this is how it’s happening.”

“I know,” he says again, quieter this time. “But you’re not alone.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with the softest touch, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. His thumb grazes your cheek like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you before he lets you go.

“Do you want me to take you?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You hesitate, then nod.

You want to tell him he’s done enough, that you shouldn’t drag him deeper into this, but you can’t. Because a part of you wants that last moment. Wants to feel him close before you walk back into the house you’ve been slowly drifting away from.

The ride is quiet, headlights casting golden stripes across your face as the city rolls by. You feel like your heart is caged behind your ribs, thrashing to get out.

Seonghwa’s hand rests near the gearshift, close enough to touch. And for a moment, it brushes yours. Not by accident. His pinky hooks lightly with yours, just enough to say I’m here.

You don’t speak the rest of the way. But somehow, you feel everything. When the house comes into view, your breath catches. The porch light is on. His car is in the driveway.

Seonghwa pulls up without a word, letting the engine hum quietly as you sit frozen in place.

“You want me to stay here?” he asks gently, breaking the silence.

You look at him, hesitating for a moment. “I think I’m okay.”

“Good” he says, offering you the faintest smile, soft and sad and full of love he won’t say out loud. “But if you need me, I’ll be back before you can even unlock your phone. Okay?”

Your throat tightens. You can only nod.

Then, without thinking, you lean across the console and press your lips to his. Brief, but full of every unspoken thing between you. It’s not goodbye. It can’t be. Not yet.

You pull back, and he’s still looking at you like you’re the only reason he knows how to breathe.

“Go,” he murmurs, voice tender. “Do what you have to do.”

You step out into the fading light, the front door looming ahead, your heart thudding with every step. As you reach the front door, you look back as Seonghwa one last time before entering your home. The home you’ve shared with your husband of 8 years. The door closes behind you and there he is.

Your husband is standing there. Hands in his pockets. Face unreadable.

But his eyes, his eyes were full of questions.

You stand in the hallway, your fingers still curled around the handle, your heart pounding so hard it almost drowns out the silence.

You don’t know what to expect. An argument, questions, maybe even cold indifference. But what you don’t expect is him suddenly kneeling to the ground, helpless, in the middle of the floor, shoulders slumped, hands clasped like he doesn’t even know how else to hold himself. It’s like he’s unraveling right there, like pride means nothing anymore.

You stare, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, more breath than sound. “For everything.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if it’s anger or sadness, or the crushing weight of what this moment might mean.

“I never should’ve asked for an open marriage,” he continues. “It was stupid. So fucking stupid. I-, I thought I wanted space. I thought maybe we could be happier that way, that I was giving us a better chance by letting things feel… open.”

His voice cracks. He lifts his gaze and it guts you.

“When I saw you with him today and I-” His breath shudders. “I didn’t know it would be him,”

He shifts forward slightly on his knees, reaching out like he wants to touch your hand but doesn’t dare.

“Please,” he whispers. “Let me try again. I’ll end things with her. I’ll be the husband I should’ve been. I’ll do anything. Just don’t walk away from me.”

And god, part of you wants to fall into his arms. He’s your husband. The man you’ve loved for 8 years. The one who now looks more broken than you’ve ever seen him.

But another part of you aches for what this means.

Because Seonghwa’s face flashes in your mind. His voice. His touch. The way he looks at you like you hung the stars, like he’s trying to memorize every second you give him because he knows you were never his to keep.

Your husband is still kneeling. Still waiting. Desperate. Tear-streaked.

You bite your lip so hard it hurts.

“I…” you begin, voice trembling. “I need time. Time to think”

A pause. Then a small nod from him, like he’s afraid to ask for anything more.

But in your chest, something stirs. Something terrifying.

Because no matter what you choose… someone’s heart is going to break.

And maybe it’ll be your own.

***

The house feels hollow. The evening's darkness is casting over your house like the feelings inside of you.

Your husband is still asleep on the couch. Or maybe he’s just pretending. You don’t ask.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. Just laid there in your bed, the one that used to be yours and his, but also once, without your permission, became hers too. The silence between you and him was unbearable. He offered the bedroom like it was a gesture of goodwill.

Your chest still feels tight as you stand in the hallway now, jacket in hand, shoes barely laced. You write a note. Nothing dramatic. Just I need some air. I’ll be back later.

You don’t know when “later” is. You just know where you need to be.

Seonghwa opens the door before you even knock. It’s like he knew.

You’re met with the smell of tea, the warmth of his apartment, and his eyes, dark with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice like a balm. “You okay?”

You nod once.

Then your lip trembles.

And he knows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he murmurs, stepping forward just as your breath hitches.

You try to stay composed. You really do. But then his arms are around you, pulling you into his chest, and the weight of everything presses down so hard it feels like your knees might give out.

You collapse into him, arms locked around his waist, fingers fisting into the back of his shirt. His hand cups the back of your head, the other smoothing down your spine.

“I-I tried to be strong,” you manage, voice thick. “I wanted to be okay, but he-, he was on his knees, Seonghwa. He begged me.”

You feel him tense slightly, but he says nothing. Just holds you tighter.

“He said he’d end things with her. That he made a mistake. That I’m still his wife and he wants me back and-” You pull back just enough to look at Seonghwa, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “And I wanted to feel good hearing it. I did. But all I could think about was you.”

Something flickers in his gaze. Hope, maybe. Pain too. But he doesn’t speak. He just listens.

You sniff, trying to hold yourself together. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you. I know I’m hurting you by not knowing what I want and I hate it-”

“Hey,” he cuts in gently, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “Stop. I told you, I don’t want anything from you that hurts you to give.”

“But you-”

“I want you,” he says simply. “In whatever way you can give me. Even if that means just this. Being here, telling me what you’re feeling.”

Your throat tightens again, but this time it’s not just from sadness. It’s because of how safe you feel with him. How seen. How loved, even if he’s never said the words. You press your forehead to his chest and he just sways you gently in his arms, fingers tracing slow patterns along your back.

“I’m so lost, Seonghwa.” you whisper.

He exhales against your hair. “Then stay here. Just for a little while.”

And god, you’re tired of choosing. Tired of being torn.

But as his hand slips into yours and he leads you to the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs, tucking you in close like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held, you know this much:

This man… this love… is real.

You don’t remember when the tears stopped. Or what time it is. Or how long you’ve been sitting here. The two of you sit curled into his couch like you’ve done so many times before. But this time, everything feels sharper. He’s cradling you with a kind of care that’s almost reverent, your legs stretched across his lap, your face tucked beneath his chin. You can hear his heart beneath your ear, slow and steady. He hasn’t moved since you sat down. He doesn't dare to.

His fingers are laced with yours, your thumb tracing a trembling path over the back of his hand. The blanket wrapped around your bodies makes it feel like the world outside has stopped. Like you're suspended in a fragile little moment where time can’t touch you. And yet... you know it will.

It’s you who speaks first. Your voice is hushed, barely more than breath. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Seonghwa sighs gently through his nose, resting his chin on top of your head.

“I know,” he says. Just two words. No judgment. No bitterness. Just a quiet truth, laced with understanding.

You shift slightly so you can see his face, and he’s already looking at you, those dark eyes as warm and soft as ever, even now. You can see it in them: how much he adores you. How much this is killing him.

But you also see something else. A kind of resolve. One that terrifies you.

He brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Then another. Then he just lingers there, lips resting against your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he knows this might be the last time.

And then, barely above a whisper, he says it.

“You should go back to him.”

The words slice through the quiet like ice water, and you freeze.

“What?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes at first. He’s staring down at your joined hands like it’s the only way he’ll get through this.

“You’re married.” he says slowly. “And he’s... trying. Maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s not. And I see you struggling to choose. I see it all over you.“

You swallow thickly, your chest cracking open.

His hand tightens just slightly around yours. “I don’t want you to look back one day and wonder if you made the wrong choice. If you left too soon. If I was just an escape.”

Your hearts drops.

“So let me make it for you,” he whispers, finally meeting your eyes. “Let me be the one who walks away. Let me be the bad guy, if that’s what it takes. Because I’d rather be the one who lets go than make you carry the guilt of choosing.”

You pull your hand from his, suddenly feeling cold. “Are you trying to push me away?”

“No.” His voice cracks, and it breaks everything inside you. “I’m trying to let you go before it hurts you more to stay.”

You hate how reasonable he sounds. You hate how selfless he is. You hate that he means it.

You shake your head, desperate. “Seonghwa, please-”

He smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that feels like the beginning of a goodbye.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t supposed to be more than a brief chapter in your life. And I was okay with that. I was. Because even if I couldn’t be forever, I still got you shortly. And I would do it all again, even knowing it would end.”

His voice cracks. But he keeps going.

Your throat burns. Your vision blurs.

“I let myself dream about it, you know,” he says softly, an empty laugh escaping his lips. “About what it would’ve been like if you met me first. If there wasn’t already a ring on your finger. But I know this isn’t about what I want. It never was.”

He brings your hand to his lips again, presses a trembling kiss to your fingers.

“So go back to him,” he murmurs. “You deserve a chance to fix what you had. To see if there’s still love waiting for you there. And if there is… don’t look back. Don’t wonder. Just go.”

You finally whisper, “But why-”

“Because I love you,” he says, cutting through everything.

It’s the first time he’s said it.

The first time you’ve heard it.

His voice wavers, just a little, but he doesn’t look away.

“I love you,” he says again, softer. “And I know I’m being incredibly selfish by saying that to you right now, because I don’t wanna make things harder for you. But I do. I didn't want to confuse you, or make you feel like you owed me anything. But I need you to know.”

His eyes shine, but he’s still holding it together. Just barely.

“I love you,” He leans his forehead gently against yours. “And I would give anything to be the one you stay with. But if I really love you… then I have to do what’s best for you. Even if it breaks me.”

Tears prick at your eyes, sharp and sudden. He gives you a faint smile, and it’s the saddest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Why does this feel like punishment?” your voice cracks.

His eyes soften even more, somehow. “Because loving someone you can’t keep always does.” his thumb drags over your cheek, removing a tear from your eye.

And the silence that follows is unbearable. A crushing, yawning void between your heart and his. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to disappear into his arms and never have to come back to the reality that waits for you outside this room.

You want a world where you don’t have to choose.

But that world doesn’t exist.

Not for you.

Not for him.

“I don’t know if I can say goodbye to you,” you whisper, barely audible.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His hand lingers on your cheek like it’s memorizing every line. Every softness. Every trace of the life you almost had.

And then, without a word, because words don’t work anymore, you lean in.

And so does he.

Your lips meet in the quietest, saddest kiss of your life.

His lips move like he’s trying to tell you everything one last time. Like he’s writing all his unsaid I love yous into your skin. Like this moment has to hold every second he’ll never get.

You fall into him, legs curled up tighter, arms around his neck like a lifeline. His fingers thread into your hair as if he can anchor you there, just a little longer. Like maybe if he kisses you softly enough, sweetly enough, the universe will change its mind.

But the universe doesn’t.

And he knows it.

And when you finally pull back, just enough to look at him. He’s crying, quietly.

Still holding your face like you’re something precious.

Still loving you as you let him go.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he says, barely audible. “Even when you forget the sound of my voice. Even when he holds your hand. When he gets to fall asleep next to you. When your life goes on…”

Your breath shatters.

You’re sobbing now, silently. Your chest aches. Your whole body aches.

He presses the softest kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your forehead, like he’s saying goodbye to every part of you, one last time.

“I hope he knows,” Seonghwa whispers, voice broken. “I hope he knows he gets to keep the heart I would’ve spent my whole life protecting.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

He just lets you go.

Because he loves you too much to make you choose.

And that’s what real heartbreak sounds like.

Silence.

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx

@lveegsoi @vixensss @yizhou-time @imgenieforyou-boy @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @ateezswonderland @cozypaint @blutiny @aerangi @arigakittyo @femaholicc @queenofdumbfuckery @mingiatz @hwaskookies @vent-stink @desanslogique @taestrwbrry @hannahstacos @tinyteezer @gold--gucciempress @zhangyi-johee @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @yunhoswrldddd @beljakovina @soso59love-blog @trivia-134340 @skzfangirl143 @spicxbnny @h0rnyp0t @mingimangomu @no-nottoday @roguesthetic @hwas-star @tsuukamori @londonbridges01 @nayutalvr @purplelady85 @lover-ofallthingspretty @awkward-fucking-thing @luvbgy @thuyting @p1ecetinyzen @eumpappasmom @marsofeight @maidens-world @girlblogger-04 @renapersa @lol-imtrash2000 @melitadala @yoonglesbae @bby-boo4u @babymbbatinygirl @dalsuwaha @diekleinesuesse @beccaskz @les4heeseung @oddin4ry @manu2004 @mingimangomu @intowxnderland @chaotic-floral @toxicstrawberries @musicconversedance @insanityz @therealcuppicake @darkdayelixer @soobieboobiebaby @thevintagefangirl

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littlelamy · 5 months ago

Text

sports car

warnings: smut, mdni

lamy's notes: heavily inspired by sports car by tate mcrae! i know i said i'll post tomorrow but i just HAD to write something based on this song.

rafe cameron doesn’t ask, doesn’t even fucking hesitate when it comes to claiming what’s his. it’s in the way his gaze burns through you, stripping you bare under the flicker of shitty alleyway lights, his lips curling into that cocky smirk like he already knows how wet you are just from the way he looks at you.

in the alley? fuck, he lives for the filth. the sharp scent of damp concrete, the muffled bass from the club pounding in time with your heartbeat. he’d slam you against the wall without a care for the grime, his fingers already pulling your panties aside. “you’re such a dirty little thing, aren’t you? letting me take you out here where anyone could see?” his voice is a low growl against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as his fingers pump into you, wet and obscene. he’s rough, unrelenting, whispering filth in your ear as he makes you fall apart in the shadows.

in the back of his car? that’s practically his second home for this kind of shit. the windows fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space as his hands roam every inch of you. his lips crash into yours, messy and desperate, his teeth catching your bottom lip just to hear you gasp. “you like being my little slut, huh? letting me fuck you like this, so fucking loud?” he’d shove the seat back, spreading your legs wide as his head dips between your thighs, his tongue working you over with a filthy precision that has you clawing at his shoulders. and when you cum, trembling and gasping his name, he’s grinning like the devil himself, proud and possessive. “you’re not done yet, baby. i’m not fucking done with you.”

then there’s the center of the room—the sheer audacity of him. some swanky event, his family’s fancy dinner, whatever. it doesn’t matter. he’d grab your wrist, dragging you away with a wicked gleam in his eye. “you think you can sit there, looking like that, and i’m just gonna behave?” he’d lay you down right there, the thrill of possibly being caught only making him harder. his hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, his mouth hot against your skin as he fucks you like he’s staking a claim. “let them hear,” he’d snarl, his hips slamming into yours. “let them fucking know who you belong to.”

with the windows rolled down? oh, he’s all over that. speeding down some dark, empty road, one hand gripping the wheel while the other slides up your thigh, fingers teasing under your skirt. “you’re such a needy little thing, can’t even wait till we stop.” and when you’re practically begging, he’d pull over, dragging you onto his lap in the driver’s seat. the car rocks with every thrust, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as you ride him, the cool night air rushing in through the open windows. “you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his lips bruising yours as he fucks up into you. “every inch of you is mine.”

on the corner of your bed, his hand wrapped around your throat, his voice a dark growl that sends shivers down your spine. “you’re mine. say it. fucking say it.” his other hand is between your legs, fingers working you open as he watches your face twist in pleasure.

on the beach, under the moonlight, he’d take you in the sand, the waves crashing around you as his body pins yours down. the salt air mingles with the sound of your cries, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he takes you hard and deep.

and when he’s feeling particularly unhinged? he’d sit back, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you touch yourself for him, his cock throbbing as he strokes himself in time with your movements. “you like putting on a show for me, baby? yeah, keep going. let me see how fucking bad you need it.”

he’s chaos, lust, and danger all wrapped up in one—and he’ll ruin you over and over until you’re begging for more.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

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luveline · 1 year ago

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Hiii!! Could I request a bombshell reader x Spencer where someone (a local police maybe) says something rude to her about her appearance or something and normally it doesn’t really get to her, but something snaps and she kinda shuts down/is rude to Spencer until he coaxes it out of her? Sorry it’s long I had an idea and ran w it loollll

ty for requesting angel! confident fem!reader, 1k

Spencer shouldn’t expect his colleague to hold his hand, especially one so confident. What sense would that make, a woman as established as you are, who smiles without a lick of worry nor smugness, wanting to hold his hand?

But you do it all the time, is the thing. In the car on the way to crime scenes, in the hallways of the office, under the round table. It started as a tethering for his distractedness, when one day he’d wanted to talk but hadn’t had the presence of mind to walk at the same time, so you’d taken his hand and led him to the office. You’ve been taking it at your discretion ever since.

Spencer knows something is wrong —you haven’t tried to hold his hand all day. And even if you aren’t interested in him romantically, Spencer has come to crave the touch. He’ll accept platonic hand holding. Anything, really.

“You’re staring very deeply, Dr. Reid,” you mutter, shades from your usual lightness.

“I’m thinking.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“About you.”

“Well,” you smile fleetingly. “You should always be thinking about me.”

“You’re truly humble.”

His joke doesn’t land, it crashes and burns; your smile fades completely into a short, sharp line. Your gaze moves back into the restaurant, waiting for the team's food order in silence once again.

Spencer’s pinky finger twitches across the gap.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Fine.”

You stay quiet, Spencer worries. He takes the bags before you can when they bring your food to the collection desk, two lumps of heat he holds to his thighs as you begin the walk back to the hotel. Tonight, the team will pick at their food together and rehash the same arguments they’ve been making all day, filling in each other's gaps, and tomorrow the work will start again. He can’t have you this unhappy again tomorrow.

“You’re amazing,” he says, watching you turn to him from the corner of his eye, “you know you are, we all do, everyone who meets you. I know you don’t need me to tell you that, or to feel better, but… I’m here for you. If you want to talk. It’s been a hard couple of days, and talking about traumatic events as they happen and directly afterward make them easier to recover from.”

“I’m not traumatised.”

“Upsetting,” he corrects. “Having a shoulder to cry on is good for you, and I can be that shoulder. You know, if you need me to be.”

He can’t know this in the moment, though maybe one day you’ll tell him, further down the line when the hand holding is better defined, but you look at him and you love him. To know Spencer is to love him. Or at least that’s how you’ve always felt. You’d love to cry on his shoulder about what transpired that morning if it weren’t embarrassing to think about, you’re upset over a throwaway comment made by nobody important.

Spencer offers his company earnestly. He stammers. It’s amazingly sincere, as he usually is. He won’t mind if it’s embarrassing, he’ll just listen.

You clear your throat. “I know I’m not to everyone’s taste. I know that the way I… present myself isn’t what most men like. People love confidence, but not when it’s bossy, not when it’s– when it’s vain. And I am vain. I think about my appearance a lot, I think I’m beautiful most of the time, I try so hard to have that be true.” You eye him thoughtfully. “Do you realise that?”

He shakes his head gently, one ear toward one shoulder and then the other, as though balancing. “Sort of. I know you put effort into your appearance, but I also assume a lot of it to be natural.”

“Right, well. It’s not natural. Not really. My natural beauty wouldn’t be all the beautiful to most people. And I’ve accepted that, I know what I like about myself, and–” You’re losing the thread of your point, an upset creeping into your melodic tone and turning it ragged. “When people tell me they don’t like how I look now, I guess it hurts because I know they wouldn’t like me before, either, and I feel defeated because I know I can’t win.”

“Who said they don’t like how you look?” Spencer asks, confused, on his way to annoyed.

“Officer Friendly.” You look to your shoes, watching the steps you take. “Guess he wasn’t as nice as we thought.”

“What did he say to you?”

You shrug. “Same story. He doesn’t like girls who wear makeup. Doesn’t like uppity women.”

“Did he call you that?”

“What are you gonna do if he did?” you ask without malice.

“Morgan’s teaching me self defence for a reason.” You smile at his light joke, though it doesn’t last. He transfers the takeout bags into one hand, the other held out to you, his fingers sliding down your arm to your wrist. “You know you’re beautiful, with or without makeup. And you’re not uppity, you’re out of his league. There’s a difference.”

“You’re flirting with me.”

“No.” He wishes he had the wherewithal sometimes, but this isn’t flirting. “I’m being honest with you. Men like that don’t like you because they know they’ll never, ever have you, or anyone like you. There isn’t anyone like you,” he adds, sliding his hand into yours.

He squeezes all your fingers together twice in quick succession.

“Don’t let a jealous chauvinist halfwit make you think you’re not good enough,” he says.

You curl your fingers around his before he can take his hand back. Slowly, you squeeze his hand. Then, smiling, you let him go.

“I’ve never heard you say something mean like that,” you say. “Halfwit. That’s crass.”

“I was going to say he’s an asshole, if that’s better.”

Your laugh echoes off of the sidewalk. “That’s perfect. Say something meaner.”

The insult he uses next doesn’t bear repeating.

#spencer and bombshell reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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sixxels · 11 days ago

Text

you, always. ~ choso.k

summary!! in the chaos of frat parties, firelight, and fucked-up choices, you and choso keep dancing around what you really are. everyone sees it except you two. when one mistake shatters the illusion, you’re forced to face the truth: he was never yours. and that’s what made it hurt the most. a messy, slow-burn situationship full of angst, heartbreak, and the kind of love that doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you try to let it.

wc: 12.8k

!!disclaimer!! based on this ask! heavy themes of situationships, emotional angst, betrayal, and heartbreak, choso is a stoner, alcohol and drug use, slow-burn with a payoff, eventual resolution.

"gojo! go long!"

the air smells like salt and smoke. waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm under the thump of bass from a speaker half-buried in the sand. the fire crackles, casting flickering shadows on faces you know too well.

you kick off your sandals, the sand cool beneath your feet. the party is in full swing, bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, joints passing from hand to hand. alpha phi knows how to throw a party, especially when finals are over and the only thing left to do is forget.

your eyes drift to the open sand, watching as sukuna, goji, and toji pass around a football with ease. shirtless, of course. they yell and laugh and tackle eachother without a care in the world as nanami and geto sit on a towel supervising their tipsy friends.

their eyes snap towards you, and gojo flashed a big toothy grin.

"y/n!! you're here!" you smile back at him but before you could walk up to greet him with a hug, two arms snake around your waist, and the scent of weed, smoke, and aragon oil invades your senses.

"hey, baby."

"hey cho."

you don’t turn around. don’t need to. his voice is low and lazy against your neck, warm breath brushing your skin like it’s second nature. he pulls you in a little tighter, his hands settling on your hips like he owns them. like he always does when he’s high and feeling a little territorial.

“jesus christ,” gojo hollers, already laughing, “you guys are so gross. it’s a beach party not a porno.” you roll your eyes, but choso doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t say a word. just rests his chin on your shoulder like he plans on staying there all night.

“don’t be mad no one wants to cuddle you,” you shoot back, and gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you physically stabbed him.

“wow. okay. betrayal. and after i saved you that jello shot earlier.”

“you drank it in front of me.”

“for you. spiritually.”

choso huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but you feel it. the way his mouth brushes the curve of your jaw when he does it, the way his arms tighten for half a second like he’s anchoring you to him.

“you wanna smoke?” he murmurs, voice quiet under the music, just for you. you tilt your head back slightly, eyes meeting his. his lashes are heavy, lids low, and he looks so fucking relaxed it makes your chest ache. that easy, sleepy stoner look. always so chill, even when you know he’s not.

“yeah,” you say, just as soft, “but only if you roll it.”

he smirks, barely. “you just like watching me do it.”

“you roll like it’s a love language.”

“maybe it is.”

you feel it in your stomach then. that familiar pull. the ache of something you’re both pretending isn’t real. you lean into him anyway. because you’re a little buzzed and the night smells like ocean and smoke and the fire makes everyone look golden.

“c’mon,” he says, and tugs your hand gently, guiding you away from the fire, away from the noise, to somewhere a little quieter. as you walk, you hear gojo yell behind you, “don’t fuck on the dunes!”

you flip him off over your shoulder.

you don’t hear choso laugh, but you feel his smile in the way he squeezes your hand.

after you and choso disappear, gojo's football arcs through the night sky, spinning like a slow comet before landing in sukuna’s outstretched hands with a soft whump. he catches it effortlessly, turns, and hurls it back to toji without looking.

“well choso's all over y/n again.” sukuna says, not even trying to sound casual. toji catches the ball against his chest, grunts, then shrugs. “he’s always all over her.”

“yeah, but like,” sukuna kicks at the sand, eyes following where choso and y/n disappeared into the shadows past the firelight. “they’re not together, right? still?”

“they’ve never been together,” gojo calls out as he jogs up to them, sweat sticking to his neck, eyes glassy from whatever edible he snuck earlier. he throws himself into the circle, catches the football when toji tosses it back. “they just… do whatever the fuck it is they do. the ‘situationship’ special.”

“he fucks her. sleeps next to her every night. calls her baby,” sukuna ticks it off like a grocery list. “but they’re not dating. okay.”

“you know choso,” gojo says, spinning the ball in his hands. “he’s too high to define anything.” toji lets out a quiet scoff. “too lazy, more like.”

“same thing,” gojo shrugs. the fire crackles behind them, muffled bass bumping from the speaker half-buried in the sand. people laugh, yell, somewhere a girl shrieks in mock horror. the air is warm with weed and ocean breeze, the kind of night that makes everything feel heavier than it is.

“i don’t get it,” sukuna mutters, squinting in the direction they disappeared. “she’s bad. like, bad bad. and she’s just letting him walk around like he’s not barely trying.”

“she’s not letting him,” gojo says. “she’s just not saying anything.”

“yeah, well,” toji grunts, reaching to scratch at the back of his neck, “what’s she gonna say? ‘hey, could you stop being a pussy and ask me out’? it’s not her job to spell it out.”

sukuna snorts. “you’ve seen the way he just lets girls flirt with him, right? he doesn’t even do anything. just lets it happen. that’d drive me fucking nuts.”

“yeah, but he never does anything,” gojo cuts in, voice a little more serious now. “like, he never kisses them. never leaves with anyone. he just—sits there. lets it happen ‘til they get bored.”

“still feels like a betrayal,” sukuna mutters, kicking at the sand.

“not cheating, but not loyal either.”

toji hums low. “he’s not a cheater. he’s just… lazy. too lazy to say no, too quiet to set boundaries. but he doesn’t cross lines. not really.”

“no,” gojo agrees, tossing the football in the air and catching it. “he just hovers near the edge and hopes no one calls him on it.”

“gojo, didn’t you say that girl from theta chi was hanging off him at that house crawl last week?”

“yep.” gojo grins, wide and toothy. “kept playing with his hair, calling him cho-bear. it was nasty. and he didn’t even move. just let it happen like a couch with a pulse.”

“fucking couch with a pulse,” sukuna howls.

“no, but for real,” gojo says, tossing the ball back to sukuna, who catches it one-handed. “she saw it. y/n. just stood there, stone-faced. didn’t say a word. you could tell it was eating her alive.” toji watches the ball get passed back again. “she’s not gonna call him out unless he gives her a reason to. and he’s smart enough to never quite cross the line. just hovers near it, like a dickhead.”

“i think he genuinely doesn’t even notice when girls flirt with him,” gojo says, lounging back into the sand now, hands behind his head. “like, i think he thinks they’re just being friendly.”

“that’s even worse,” sukuna scoffs. “ignorant motherfucker.”

“nah, he notices,” toji says after a beat. “he just doesn’t care enough to stop it.” they all go quiet for a second. the ball sits forgotten in the sand between them, the firelight throwing weird shadows across their faces. “so what’s she supposed to do?” sukuna finally asks.

“go crazy,” gojo says, laughing. “spiral. drink too much. flirt with someone worse.”

“someone like you, you mean?”

gojo raises a hand. “i would be the villain in her story, yeah.”

“you’d do it just to get a rise out of choso.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“i mean, it’d be fun to watch.” sukuna smirks, then sighs, kicking back a little in the sand. “she deserves someone who actually tries, man.”

“she deserves someone who isn’t high 24/7 and doesn’t look like he crawled out of a grave,” toji adds. gojo grins. “she likes the grave thing, though.”

“unfortunately,” sukuna says. they all look back toward the shadows past the firelight where choso and y/n disappeared, now just vague outlines under the moonlight. they’re sitting on a blanket, her legs stretched across his lap, a slow curl of smoke rising between them. her head tilts back in laughter at something he says, and even from this far, you can see the way he watches her. eyes soft. half-lidded. stoned and glowing and absolutely hers, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

“fuck,” gojo mutters. “he likes her. you can see it all over him.”

“then why doesn’t he just say it?” sukuna asks, and for once there’s no edge to it. just confusion. “because if he says it out loud,” toji says, picking up the football and tossing it lightly between his hands, “then it’s real. and if it’s real, he could lose it.” gojo whistles low. “damn, dr. phil in the house.” toji throws the ball at him. hard. “shut the fuck up.”

gojo laughs as he catches it, wincing a little. “i’m just saying. he’s not dumb. he knows the second they talk about it, shit might change. and right now? they’re in that sweet spot. not official, not broken. no labels. just… vibes.”

“vibes,” sukuna echoes, rolling his eyes.

“vibes don’t keep people around forever,” toji mutters. and they all go quiet again. the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. the kind that feels a little too honest, even for them. eventually, gojo sighs. “should we go tackle him? drag him back here and bully him into having one single adult conversation in his life?”

“nah,” sukuna smirks. “let him fuck it up on his own. it’s more entertaining.”

“you’re such a good friend,” gojo deadpans. sukuna shrugs. “i never said i wasn’t an asshole.” they go back to throwing the football. the fire pops and spits. and in the distance, choso passes the joint to you like he’s handing you a piece of himself. not a word spoken. just that same lazy, deliberate affection that drives you insane.

not quite enough, but still just enough to keep you here.

for now.

you slip away from the firelight without saying a word, your drink forgotten in the sand, music fading behind you as you wander toward the dunes.

he follows like he always does. doesn’t ask where you’re going. doesn’t need to.

the world feels softer out here, where the party is a dull hum and the moon hangs low over the ocean like it’s watching. your skin is warm from the fire and the drinks and his eyes, heavy on your back as you settle on the slope of a dune, dry grass brushing your bare legs.

choso sits behind you. doesn’t touch you at first. just passes you the joint, his fingers brushing yours like he doesn’t mean to. like it’s accidental. it never is. you take a slow drag, eyes on the black water in the distance. the kind of quiet settles over you that only ever exists with him. easy, full of things unsaid. always full of things unsaid.

he shifts closer. knees bumping. breath grazing your neck.

“cold?” he murmurs.

you shake your head, even though you kind of are. but he wraps an arm around your waist anyway, pulling you back against him. warm hoodie. bare legs across his. his chin finds your shoulder like muscle memory. you can feel his heartbeat against your spine. slow. steady. so fucking calm it drives you insane.

“you’re quiet tonight,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind. “so are you,” he says, and it’s not a deflection. it’s an observation. his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin. not in a sexual way. not yet. just grounding. just his hand resting there like it belongs.

you tilt your head and he takes the cue. kisses the side of your neck. slow, unhurried. his lips trail over your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. because he has. but this time, he lingers. this time, he doesn’t stop. your fingers find the edge of his shirt, tug lightly. he shifts so he’s above you now, braced on his forearms in the sand, his hair falling forward to tickle your face. he looks at you like he’s stoned and dreaming.

maybe he is. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing that soft patch of skin beneath his lip. he kisses you like he’s never been in a rush in his life. slow. deep. lazy, but not careless. like he wants to make sure you feel every part of it. like this is the only thing tonight that he means.

your back arches under him. his hand slips beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into skin that’s still warm from the firelight, from his touch. the kiss deepens, turns a little messier, a little hungrier, but still never rushed. he tastes like weed and salt and something sweeter that’s just him.

he pulls back, barely, breath ragged. “you okay?” he asks, voice low and rough. you nod, lips parted, eyes on his. “want me to stop?” you shake your head.

his mouth curves into something almost like a smile. not all the way. just enough. he kisses you again, slower this time. less urgency, more meaning. like he’s trying to say everything he never does with his mouth instead. your fingers tangle in his hoodie. his hand spreads across your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wants to climb inside you just to be near your heartbeat. like closeness is the only language he’s fluent in.

and it’s not just sex. it never has been. not with him. this is what it always is—soft mouths, quiet hands, closeness that never gets named. something just shy of love. you don’t talk about it. you just kiss like maybe it’s enough. and maybe, tonight, it is.

he kisses you one last time, softer than the others, like he’s tucking something away. then he shifts, rolls off to lie beside you in the sand, hoodie bunched at his ribs, arm behind his head like nothing happened.

you stare at the stars. try to even your breathing. try not to think too hard about the way your lips still feel swollen, the way his hand had fit so perfectly behind your knee. “that was…” you start, then stop. instantly regret saying anything.

he hums, low in his throat. noncommittal. like he’s agreeing but not really engaging. like he knows what you meant but isn’t going to make it easy. silence stretches between you. not quite comfortable this time. not like before.

“your hoodie smells like weed and bonfire,” you say eventually, just to fill the air. “so do you,” he says, lazy. not even looking at you. you swallow. blink up at the sky.

“are we gonna talk about it?” the words slip out before you can stop them. his jaw tightens, just for a second. you catch it in the side of your vision. “talk about what?”

you shrug, try to make it light, like it doesn’t matter. like you didn’t just let him kiss you like he meant it. “this. whatever this is.” he takes a slow breath. the kind people take when they don’t want to lie but don’t want to tell the truth either.

“it’s whatever you want it to be,” he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. your throat tightens. that’s the problem. it’s always been whatever you want. and you never say what you want. and he never asks again. “right,” you say, a little too fast. “cool.” you sit up, brush sand off your legs, avoid looking at him.

“we should go back,” you say. “people are probably wondering where we went.” he doesn’t move right away. just watches you, eyes unreadable in the dark. then he sits up too, pulls his hoodie straight, stands. you walk back together but not touching. not speaking.

his hand hovers near yours the whole time but never quite reaches. and you don’t ask why. you just let the pain in your chest eat you up from the inside out as you make your way back to the bonfire, greeted by gojo and yuki.

the fire’s burning hotter than before when you make it back. someone’s thrown more logs on it, and the flames lick high into the night, casting everyone in gold and shadow. gojo spots you first, sitting crisscross in the sand with a red solo cup balanced on his knee and a bottle of tequila in his lap.

“look who finally decided to rejoin society,” he grins. “get over here, slut, we’re playing truth or dare.” you laugh despite yourself, letting the rest of the group pull you in. yuki scoots to make space, draping an arm around your shoulders, already three drinks in and glowing like mischief incarnate. “you missed nanami getting dared to do a shot off haibara’s stomach. tragic.”

“and he actually did it,” shoko adds dryly from across the circle, holding a cigarette like a wine glass. “he’s so real for that.” you let yourself settle in, take the cup someone hands you, ignore how your heart still beats unevenly in your chest. choso’s a few feet away, sitting on a driftwood log, blunt in one hand and a half-empty bottle of something dark in the other. he’s slouched low, legs spread, hoodie falling off one shoulder. eyes half-lidded, mouth slack.

you glance at him. he doesn’t look back. you look away. “okay,” gojo claps once, way too loud. “truth or dare, y/n.” you raise a brow. “we’re just starting with me?”

“you disappeared for like thirty minutes,” he says, waggling his brows. “gotta make up for lost time.” you sigh dramatically. “fine. truth.”

“ooooh,” yuki coos. “boring.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re laughing. gojo leans forward, blue eyes gleaming. “if you had to kiss someone in this circle right now, who would it be?”

groans echo around the fire. you make a show of looking around, tapping your finger to your chin. “hmmm… probably yuki.”

“coward!” gojo shouts. “hot,” shoko says at the same time. “kiss her then,” sukuna smirks from across the flames. you raise your cup in mock salute.

“haibara,” yuki says, pointing at him with a wicked grin. “truth or dare?”

“truth,” he says too fast, already blushing “what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said during sex?” the group erupts, groaning, laughing, shoko immediately choking on her drink.

“you’re evil,” haibara says, clutching his chest. while he fumbles through a mortifying story about calling someone “milady” mid-hookup, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the fire.

choso’s leaning back against the log now, body heavy, hoodie pushed halfway off one shoulder. his cup is empty. the blunt that had been passed around earlier is down to the filter in his fingers. he’s not saying anything, just watching the flames, face slack and unreadable.

he’s wasted.

not just high, not just tipsy—gone in that quiet, slippery way he gets when he doesn’t want to talk. eyes half-shut. jaw loose. totally somewhere else. you don’t clock it fully, not yet. not with yuki howling beside you and gojo still hanging off your back like an overgrown child.

“milady??” gojo cries, throwing his head back. “nah, jail. straight to jail.” the circle bursts into laughter again. you smile, distracted. choso doesn’t. he's way too off his face to even think properly, and when he was like this, he was very impressionable.

“next round.”

the game rolls on. someone dares toji to shotgun a beer with no hands (he does it without blinking). haibara is dared to say the filthiest thing he’s ever googled (he refuses, gets booed). yuki chooses dare, ends up giving shoko a lap dance that has geto raising his eyebrows and muttering something about needing a cigarette.

then gojo turns to you again, eyes sharp. “truth or dare, y/n.” you smirk. “dare.”

“yes,” he hisses. “okay. i dare you to sit on someone’s lap for the next two rounds.”

“jesus christ,” you mutter. “don’t act shy now,” yuki laughs. “just pick your victim.”

your eyes skim the circle. your gaze flicks to choso’s spot.

it’s... empty?

the log is bare. the bottle’s gone. the blunt’s out. no sign of him.

you blink.

when did he leave?

you hesitate too long and gojo grins wider. “need help choosing?” you huff and drop yourself in his lap, just to shut him up. he yells, triumphant, wrapping his arms around your waist like a wrestling belt. “ladies and gentlemen, i am blessed.”

“you’re a menace,” you say, trying not to laugh as he leans into it, chin on your shoulder, theatrically sighing. you stay there for two rounds, as ordered. it’s stupid and warm and kind of perfect. yuki flicks bottle caps at you, toji starts telling a story no one believes, and the fire cracks and spits into the night like it’s trying to keep up with everyone’s energy.

but underneath all of it, a small thought needles at you.

'where the hell did choso go?'

you don’t say it out loud. you just smile and laugh and sip your drink. pretend not to feel the hole that opened beside you when he left.

the firelight dances over everyone’s faces, laughter and music mingling with the smell of salt and smoke. you can still taste tequila on your lips, hear gojo’s ridiculous jokes echoing over the waves. everyone’s caught up in the moment, gojos still relishing in the fact you're in his lap, nanamis still scowling at yuki for being so loud, but your mind drifts back to choso.

you last saw him sitting with you guys around the fire. something aches in your chest at the memory—like you should have stayed closer, made sure he was okay. instead you laughed with yuki, played along with gojo’s dumb dares, tried to forget. forget the akward moment the two of you shared before all of this.

visibly, you were upset. anyone could see you were looking for choso, it was just what you did.

but then you catch sukuna’s eye from across the circle. he’s staring where you are, face unreadable under the flicker of flame. with a stern look in his eyes that almost screams 'i'm sorry' he points his chin toward the bar with a slow nod. you frown—why is sukuna looking at you like that? it’s a silent invitation to look back. you shift uncomfortably in gojo’s lap. he snickers, but you barely hear him.

“you good?” he asks, eyebrows raised. you force a smile, head shaking. “yeah. just… saw something.” you shrug it off and stand unsteadily—two drinks plus who knows how many hits of blunt doesn’t mix well with sand.

you push through the circle of friends, “i’m just gonna grab another drink,” you tell gojo, but you don’t reach for the cooler. instead you make your way toward where sukuna pointed. the makeshift bar is a low wooden plank on cinder blocks, empty bottles strewn at its feet. choso is there, only he’s not alone.

you catch the last line of a slurred sentence—“what, i can't even see your face right now i'm so fucked up—” and see him pressing his mouth against a girl’s in a sloppy, desperate kiss. her arms are around his neck, and she’s pulling him closer. she’s pretty in that sorority way, wavy hair and cheap sundress, someone you barely know. neither of them notices you. his hoodie is off, draped on the back of the barstool. he’s shirtless except for a half-unbuttoned flannel, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls, uneven. he smells of weed and booze and regret you haven’t even registered yet.

your heart collapses before you even process what’s happening. he’s never done this. he’s never gone past a little throat-clearing and some conversation when other girls flirted. he never let things escalate. but here he is, his lips smashed against another girl’s, fingers tangled in her hair. he’s too drunk to pull away. it’s not just a flirt or a laugh-by; it’s something messy.

you step closer, frozen. your mouth goes dry. you hear someone call your name from the fire circle, yuki’s voice, but you can’t answer. your breath catches when choso’s gaze flickers away from the girl’s mouth. his eyes widen for half a second when he sees you, and then he panics.

he pushes the girl off him. she stumbles back, startled, and you feel a sharp pang for her, too, she was probably just playing the game like everyone else. his hands tremble as he reaches for her, swaying on his feet. the girl backs away, wiping lipstick off her mouth, then walks off into the dark, leaving choso standing there alone with his shirt hanging open.

he turns to you, lashes drooping. his voice slurs: “y/n, shit, i—”

you can’t hear the rest. you can’t even breathe. everything goes quiet except for the pounding in your ears. tears burn behind your eyes. you feel goosebumps prick your skin even though it’s warm. your legs quake. how could he do this to you? he’s never done this to you. he’s never shown any sign of wanting someone else like this. he’s always been so… lazy, but at least he never burned you like this.

you open your mouth, wanting to scream something, but the only sound that comes out is a ragged whisper: “cho…” the name catches in your throat like a curse. he steps forward, but you step back.

“i didn’t—i didn’t mean it—” he stammers, palms raised, his voice thick. “she just—was right there, and i—”

his words make no sense. they never do when he’s this fucked up. you’ve seen him high and you’ve seen him drunk, but never this wasted. his eyes are unfocused, his cheeks flushed. he’s tripping over himself, trying to explain. trying to fix something you don’t know can be fixed.

“are you for real right now?” you finally rasp, voice cracking. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. his hands drop to his sides. he sways a little, like his body is untethered from his mind. “y/n, ma, i’m sorry. i’m—shit.”

you step back even further, your hands coming up to cover your face. you don’t want him to see you cry, but you can’t stop the tears. they fall hot down your cheeks. your whole chest aches. the world tilts sideways. you feel like you’re drowning under the weight of it.

he reaches out, hesitates, then drops his arm. “i’m—I was just—”

you slash a hand through your hair. “just, just what? just what, choso? you’re never ‘just’ anything with me. you know that.”

he swallows hard. his throat moves, and you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing. fuck, you always notice. fuck, you hate how much you notice. “i was—i got too high. too drunk. i wasn’t thinking.”

you laugh—bitter, broken. “thinking? you weren’t thinking before either. you never think. but at least before, you didn’t do this.”

he recoils as if your words burn him. his shoulders slump. “you—i’m an asshole, i know.”

“you’re more than an asshole.” the words are sharp, pulsing. “you’re a fucking cunt. you don’t even know what you want.”

he flinches, but push comes from his chest. “that’s not true—”

“no?” you whisper, voice trembling. “so you do want her? is that it? maybe you want a real girlfriend? this is what you want?”

he looks away. his jaw tightens. he runs a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers. he closes his eyes. “i don’t know what i want.”

you feel a fresh wave of hurt, like acid in your bones. “exactly. you don’t know. but you sure know how to use me until you’re bored.”

his head shoots up like he’s been stabbed. his eyes slide to yours, glossy. “i—”

“stop,” you choke out. “just stop.”

he blinks again, tears forming too. you can see how much he’s struggling to keep it together. he opens his mouth to say something, but instead he coughs, draws in a shaking breath, lets it out. his voice is quiet and ragged and real: “i’m so sorry.”

it’s the rawest thing you’ve ever heard from him. but you don’t let yourself believe it. not yet. you can tell by the way he’s stumbling, slurring around his words, he means it in the moment—because he’s too high to lie. but as soon as tomorrow comes, will he remember? will he care?

“i’m fucked up,” he confesses, voice breaking. “i know—i know i fucked up. i—i hate myself so much right now.”

you see it in his eyes: he’s so deep down, he can’t fix this. he knows he’s fucked, but that doesn’t help you. it’s just another confession that puts your heart on a slanted knife. you’re trembling—anger and heartbreak twisting in your gut.

“you hate yourself?” you repeat, voice hollow. “you should.”

he flinches again, then steps toward you slowly, as if wading through quicksand. “look. i'm sorry, i am. i... fuck me bro i don't know how to talk about this right now give me a break.”

“too late,” you spit, stepping around him as if he’s diseased.

he reaches out, then drops his arm again, like he can’t even touch you. “y/n—please.”

you can’t look at him anymore. you feel something hard and cold snap inside you. “i want you to leave,” you say, voice low and controlled. “leave me alone.”

for a moment he just stands there, looking at you like he’s seeing the end of something he didn’t realize was real. then he turns away, unsteady. you watch his shoulders shake. you can’t tell if he’s about to cry or puke.

he staggers toward the dunes, disappearing into the dark. you don’t follow. you don’t want to watch. you sink to the ground in front of the bar, knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. the firelight feels harsh, like it’s burning you. you press your face into your knees, let the tears fall freely. you feel everything—anger, sadness, shame, confusion—raw and jagged.

you don’t know how long you sit there before someone touches your shoulder. you look up to see yuki crouched beside you, eyes wide with concern.

“y/n?” she whispers. “are you okay?”

you shake your head, voice lost somewhere in your chest. “i can’t,” you choke out. “i can’t.”

she wraps her arms around you. you let her hold you, even though it feels like admitting defeat. the party rages on behind you, music thumping, friends oblivious or perhaps just giving you space. the waves crash somewhere beyond the fire, steady and indifferent.

you think of choso out there, stumbling over sand, alone. you think of the regret in his eyes, how you saw it plain as day. you think of how you loved him in silence for so long, and now his mistake has ripped that away.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into yuks’s shoulder, though you don’t know if you’re apologizing to her, to yourself, or to him. the tears won’t stop. your heart feels hollow, like the tide has taken a piece of you out to sea.

and somewhere in the dark, choso probably crumbles, realizing he’s lost you. you want to hate him for that, but you can’t. you just want to bury yourself until this night never happened.

choso’s head felt like a fucking drumline was marching through it, each beat sharper and heavier than the last. the sun stabbed through the blinds in long, cruel fingers and the stale smell of smoke clung to the air like a bad hangover perfume. he blinked, slow, trying to remember where the hell he was. the frat house. alpha phi. his bed. but how the fuck did he get there?

his mouth was dry and tasted like burnt rubber, throat raw and sore. he propped himself up on one elbow, the room spinning slightly. he groaned low, the motion making his head pound harder. last night was a blur—faint memories flickered like a broken film reel. laughter, firelight, the crash of waves, the weight of someone in his arms, then flashes of something else, something he didn’t want to remember.

the door creaked open. sukuna stepped in, calm and precise as always, but the usual mischief in his eyes was replaced by something colder, sharper.

“you’re up,” sukuna said, voice low and steady. he didn’t smile. that was the first warning.

choso rubbed his face with both hands, trying to piece it together. “sukuna. how the fuck did i get home?”

“i carried you,” sukuna said flatly. “passed out face-first in the sand behind the bar. someone had to get you the hell out of there before you died or embarrassed yourself worse.”

choso groaned again, sinking back onto the mattress. “shit…”

“yeah, shit,” sukuna muttered, pacing the room with slow, deliberate steps. he sat on the edge of choso’s bed, leaning forward. “you fucked up, man.”

choso’s eyes narrowed. “i know.”

“you don’t,” sukuna said sharply, almost like he was frustrated by his own words. “you really fucked up. and you’re about to find out how bad it is." sukuna says, leaning back and letting out a breath. “you fucked up so bad, choso. you—” he leans forward again, voice low and dangerous, “—you really fucked up.”

“god...” choso muttered, feeling the weight crash down on him like a tidal wave. guilt spread through his chest, thick and heavy. he felt sick, the kind of sick that wasn’t just from booze or weed.

sukuna’s voice cut through the fog. “you’re a goddamn idiot for letting it happen. you’re not the type, not really. you’ve always had some stupid line you wouldn’t cross, but last night you trampled all over it like it didn’t matter.”

choso looked up, voice raw. “i didn’t mean to.”

“no shit,” sukuna said, but his tone wasn’t mocking. it was serious, almost like a warning from a friend who gives no fucks about sugarcoating.

choso swallowed hard. the knot in his stomach tightened. “fuck. i didn’t want this.”

“doesn’t matter what you want.” sukuna’s eyes bore into him. “you had her, you had this whole fucking thing that was more than a hookup but less than a relationship, and you threw it away.”

choso’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “i’m so fucked.”

“yeah. you are. you wanna know why?” sukuna leaned back, shaking his head. “because she didn’t deserve it. she’s been holding her shit together around you while you got high and drunk and let some other girl get what she’s been waiting for. and now she’s gonna hurt. and you’re gonna have to watch.”

chosо runs a shaky hand through his undone hair. the memory clicks into place like a hammer to his skull: the girl’s lips on his, the way he’d lost himself in a haze of substance and needed something familiar, something warm, so he’d found the first person who was breathing close. he feels bile rise in his throat. “i didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “i wasn’t thinking.”

“bullshit,” sukuna snaps, voice surprisingly loud in the small room. “you were drunk, yeah. you were high, yeah. but you were coherent enough to know that wasn't y/n.”

chosо flinches. the memory of slurred words pours into his mind—words he wishes he could swallow back into oblivion. he touches his lips, damp with saliva now. “fuck, y/n,” he breathes, and his chest caves in.

“you do realize what you did?” sukuna demands. he stands, pacing the length of the room, hands curled into fists. “you humiliated her. you broke her heart. and y/n… y/n’s been your ride-or-die since freshman year. hell, she’s been in love with you since day one.” chosо winces. he closes his eyes, vision blurring. “i know.”

“no, you don’t know.” sukuna’s tone shifts, angrier now. “you have no fucking idea. you let her believe your fucked-up silence was affection. you let her walk around telling everyone you were hers and she was yours. you let her think you cared about her. now you’ve gone and spat on that trust.”

choso’s eyes flutter open. he’s sweating, although the room is cool. “i—i know i’m an asshole.” his voice cracks. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

sukuna stops pacing and squares his shoulders. he stares at choso like he’s looking through him, like he can see every flawed cell. “i’m not here to hear you say sorry. do you know why?”

chosо shakes his head, staring down at his hands. “because it doesn’t fix anything?”

“exactly.” sukuna folds his arms, voice shaking with a quiet intensity. “saying sorry doesn’t undo the damage. saying sorry doesn’t un-break her heart. saying sorry doesn’t make her forget watching you with someone else. saying sorry doesn’t bring her back to you.”

choso feels his chest tighten until he can hardly breathe. “i know.”

“do you know what she’ll do now?” sukuna asks, stepping closer, gaze piercing. “do you know she’ll pretend she’s okay? do you know she’ll crash and burn from the inside out because she can’t handle facing you?”

chosо just looks at the floor. tears burn back behind his eyes. he feels like he’s been punched too many times to count. “i don’t deserve her.”

“no shit,” sukuna says softly, then shakes his head. “and that’s the problem. you think you don’t. so you never mess up your lazy routine of smoking and half-assing everything. but this isn’t just half-assing. this is destroying someone you used to claim you cared about.”

his voice cracks. for a moment, choso thinks sukuna might cry. instead, he turns away and stalks toward the door. “i’m done here. get your shit together, cho. learn how to be a man. learn how to say no. learn how to keep your mouth shut when you know saying something will ruin everything. and for god’s sake, figure out what you want before you ruin the next person who loves you.”

he swings the door open and pauses. “and if you ever look at her again like nothing happened, i will personally drag you out of this room and force you to tell her everything you feel. got it?”

chosо nods slowly, unable to trust his voice. sukuna leaves without another word, closing the door with a final click.

he sinks back onto the mattress, head spinning. he slides down until his back presses against the cool wall. tears finally slip free and track down his cheeks. he presses his face into his knees, breathing hard. guilt slams into him like a freight train—so overwhelming he can’t think how to make it stop. he hates himself for hurting y/n. hates himself for being too lazy to say no earlier, for being too cowardly to have the difficult conversation before he got wasted. hated himself for believing he could keep using her heart like it was just another spare, something he could pick up and toss aside.

“so then i said, ‘professor, with all due respect, you can’t assign a 3k essay during finals week and also expect me to be sober.’”

you snort, biting back a grin as gojo throws his arm dramatically over his chest like he’s just taken a bullet. the two of you are walking past the library, sunlight flickering through the trees, heat radiating off the pavement in lazy waves. it should feel like freedom—finals are done, summer’s coming, everyone else is already half-drunk on the taste of no responsibilities.

but your chest is heavy.

you don’t say anything. you just keep walking, nodding along to gojo’s ridiculous story about submitting a paper with a meme in the bibliography.

he’s doing a good job of keeping it light, you’ll give him that. he always does. it’s like he knew you didn’t want to talk about last night—knew you needed distraction, not comfort. jokes, not pity.

“anyway, the TA gave me a seventy-two, which is basically a love letter. should i text her or is that inappropriate?”

“definitely text her,” you say, trying to sound amused. “start with ‘hey, baby. your academic standards are low, and so are mine.’”

gojo clutches his chest again. “y/n, you complete me.”

you smile. or at least you try to.

and then you feel it. not the sun. not the warmth of gojo’s voice. something colder. sharper.

you look up—and there he is.

choso.

he’s across the quad, walking toward the science building with his hoodie pulled up even though it’s too warm for it, and a plastic cup of coffee clenched in his hand. you don’t think he’s seen you at first—he’s walking slow, like his body hasn’t caught up with his brain, like he’s still in last night. his eyes are sunken, skin pale, mouth downturned. he looks like hell. like regret.

and then his gaze lifts. and meets yours. everything halts.

his steps slow. his grip on the cup tightens just slightly, enough to make the lid shift. his whole face stills, mouth parting a little like he might say something, even from this distance.

you stop too. mid-stride. your stomach clenches.

it lasts only a second. maybe two. but it stretches, long and loud and tense. like the entire campus is holding its breath.

you can’t look away from him.

and then he blinks. looks down. keeps walking.

you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. force your legs to move again.

gojo doesn’t say anything for a moment. doesn’t joke. doesn’t tease. just lets you walk beside him in silence until your fingers curl at your sides, and you have to ask.

“did he look at me?”

gojo sighs, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “like you hung the fucking moon.”

you swallow hard.

“he looks like shit,” you mumble.

“yeah. guilt’s not a great moisturizer.”

you let out a small, bitter laugh. “fuck. this is so embarrassing.”

“it’s not embarrassing, y/n. he’s the one who kissed someone else.”

you blink back the sting at the edges of your eyes and shake your head. “we weren’t even… anything.”

gojo stops walking. turns to face you, squinting against the sunlight. “don’t do that.”

you furrow your brows. “do what?”

“pretend it didn’t mean something. like it wasn’t real just because no one put a label on it. i know it’s easier that way, but it’s not the truth.”

you hate how gentle his voice is. how nonchalant he normally is, and how careful he’s being now. it makes it worse. it makes it real.

“i just…” you start, but the words die on your tongue. “i don’t know what to do.”

gojo shrugs, soft. “you don’t have to do anything.”

you blink.

“seriously,” he says. “you don’t owe him your forgiveness. or your rage. you don’t have to figure it out today. you can just be pissed. or sad. or numb. it’s allowed.”

you look down at your shoes. at the way the sunlight splashes across the concrete in broken gold.

you think about last night. about the way choso looked at you before he stumbled off behind the makeshift bar. about how you didn’t notice he was gone. about sukuna’s warning glance. about the girl’s hands in choso’s hair. about the way he couldn’t even string a sentence together. about the way your heart cracked in real time, like glass under pressure. quiet, and then all at once.

you wonder if he remembers it. if it keeps replaying in his head the way it’s stuck in yours.

you wonder if he’s sorry. not just in his body language. not just in the way he looked at you like he was drowning. but really sorry. the kind you say out loud.

gojo nudges your shoulder. “come on. let’s go get lunch before i start crying in public.”

you nod, wordless, and let him steer you toward the student union building. but as you walk, you can still feel it—that moment of eye contact, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

it hurts in ways you didn’t know silence could.

you sighed as gojo pulled you along beside him out of your thoughts. you’re now sitting on the edge of a bench outside the arts building, chin in your hand, barely paying attention to the slow trickle of students passing by. it’s too nice of a day to be sulking, but that hasn’t stopped you before.

gojo plops down beside you like he’s got springs in his joints, letting out an exaggerated sigh as if he’sthe one emotionally hungover from your situationship unraveling in public.

“you know what your problem is?” he says, already grinning.

you glance sideways at him, unimpressed. “no, but i’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“you need to get drunk and reckless and do something stupid. preferably at my place, tomorrow night, very exclusive. i’m inviting you, which means you’re special.”

you raise a brow. “is it really exclusive if you’re inviting the whole campus?”

“shhh,” he hushes, waving a hand. “don’t ruin the illusion. i’m curating vibes, not sending out mass texts.”

you pause, fingers picking at the frayed seam of your sleeve. “i don’t know, satoru…”

“oh, come on.” he leans in closer, drops his voice just enough to make it conspiratorial. “you show up lookin’ hot, drink my alcohol, dance a little, maybe flirt with someone who doesn’t make out with random sorority girls while cross-faded. total healing.”

you snort, despite yourself. “that’s your solution to heartbreak? tequila and objectification?”

“babe, i’ve seen worse coping mechanisms. plus,” he adds, nudging you with his shoulder, “it’s me. you know it’ll be fun.”

you let the silence stretch for a beat, eyes flicking out toward the courtyard. the weight in your chest hasn’t lifted—not really—but it feels a little less suffocating around gojo. he’s good at that. distracting you without making you talk about it.

finally, you shrug. “fine. i’ll come.”

“yes!” he pumps his fist dramatically. “dress code is ‘make your ex cry,’ by the way.”

you roll your eyes, but a real smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet, somehow, still your favorite.”

you don’t argue. maybe he’s right. maybe a party is exactly what you need. or maybe it’s just easier to dance through the ache than sit in it.

either way—you’re going.

"alright."

the bass is already rattling the windows when you step up to gojo’s front porch. the door’s wide open, light and heat spilling out into the night like the house itself is breathing. you can hear laughter, the clink of bottles, someone yelling about beer pong in the backyard.

you take a breath, adjust the strap of your top, and step inside.

the place is packed. bodies everywhere, music thumping through the floorboards, the air thick with sweat and smoke and something sweetly chemical. you’re barely two steps in before someone presses a red cup into your hand.

“look who finally showed up,” yuki grins, appearing at your side like she’s been waiting for you. she’s in a black crop top and ripped jeans, glitter dusted across her collarbones. “damn, you look hot.”

you laugh, a little breathless. “thanks. you too.”

“obviously,” she smirks. “come on, let’s find sukuna before he starts a fight.”

you follow her through the crowd, weaving between clusters of people, dodging elbows and spilled drinks. the living room’s a mess—couch cushions on the floor, someone dancing on the coffee table, a couple making out against the wall like they’re the only two people in the world.

and then you see him.

choso.

he’s slouched on the couch in the corner, hood up, eyes half-lidded. there’s a joint between his fingers, a bottle of something dark on the floor by his feet. he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. his gaze flicks up, meets yours for a split second, and then drops back to the joint.

your stomach twists.

“don’t,” yuki says, catching your arm. “he’s not your problem tonight.”

you nod, swallowing hard, and let her pull you away.

in the kitchen, sukuna’s leaning against the counter, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos peeking out from beneath the fabric. he raises an eyebrow when he sees you, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“well, well,” he drawls. “look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

“don’t start,” you warn, but there’s no heat in your voice.

“start what?” he feigns innocence, pushing off the counter to stand in front of you. “i’m just appreciating the view.”

yuki rolls her eyes. “you’re such a slut.”

“takes one to know one,” he shoots back, winking at her.

you laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

“come on,” sukuna says, grabbing a bottle from the counter. “let’s get you a real drink.”

he pours you something strong and sweet, the alcohol burning a trail down your throat. you take another sip, letting the warmth settle in your belly.

“so,” sukuna says, leaning in close. “how’ve you been?”

you shrug. “surviving.”

“that’s all anyone can ask for,” he nods.

“listen,” sukuna says, voice a little lower, a little more serious, “i talked to choso.”

your hand pauses halfway to your mouth, red cup hovering in the air. you don’t look at him, not yet.

you just go, “yeah?”

he nods once, slow. then, after a beat: “the night of the beach party. i drove him home.”

you finally glance up.

he’s not wearing the usual smirk. no teasing, no smugness—just sukuna with his jaw clenched a little too tight and his eyes sharp with something you don’t usually see on his face. concern, maybe. or regret, even though this isn’t his thing to regret.

“he was out of it,” sukuna says. “like, properly fucked up. couldn’t walk straight. slurring all over the place. when i found him behind the bar, i thought he was gonna hurl on that girl’s face.”

your stomach flips.

“he kept saying your name,” sukuna goes on. “like, in between trying to light a joint with the wrong end of a lighter. just kept saying it. over and over. sometimes like he was pissed at himself. sometimes like he was scared you’d left already.”

you don’t say anything.

you just keep staring at the edge of the countertop like if you look hard enough, it’ll swallow you whole.

“i sat him in the car,” sukuna says, softer now. “he couldn’t even get the fucking door open. just slumped in the seat and stared out the window the whole drive. i don’t think he even knew i was there. and then he said—”

he cuts himself off, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

you glance at him. “he said what?”

sukuna’s eyes flick to yours. something unreadable flickers there.

“he said, ‘she’s not gonna look at me the same,’” sukuna mutters. “‘i ruined it.’”

your throat closes.

he shrugs, like he’s trying to keep it casual, like he hasn’t just torn a hole in your chest.

your heart is beating in your ears now, too loud, too fast. the crowd, the music, the whole fucking house feels like it’s underwater. like you’re moving through molasses.

sukuna leans his elbows back on the counter, watching you.

“look,” he says, voice calm but firm, “i’m not saying this to excuse what he did. he fucked up. and not just at the party. i mean all of it. the way he lets girls talk to him like he’s not taken. the way he never says shit when they flirt. the way he lets you hurt in silence because he’s too fucking lazy to figure out what he wants.”

your jaw tightens.

“but i know choso,” sukuna adds. “he doesn’t care about them. any of them. he never even touches them, not really. not until that night, and even then—it was like he didn’t even know what he was doing. like he was trying to prove something. or forget something.”

you whisper, “me.”

sukuna looks at you.

you don’t mean to say it. it just slips out. soft. sad. pathetic, maybe. but it’s true.

“he was trying to forget me.”

sukuna doesn’t argue.

he doesn’t need to.

because you both know it’s true. that when choso’s world got too full of you, too sharp, too terrifying, he tried to blur it out. the way he always does—getting high, getting drunk, fucking off his feelings until he could float above them.

except he couldn’t. not this time.

“he looked wrecked when he woke up,” sukuna says, his voice gentler now. “like he wanted to peel his own skin off. he couldn’t even look at me. just sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.”

you blink, slow.

“he knows he fucked up, y/n.”

you close your eyes.

it hurts. it still fucking hurts. even knowing all of this. even hearing the guilt in secondhand words. it doesn’t undo the image burned into your brain—choso, kissing someone else. his hands on someone who wasn’t you. his mouth where only yours should’ve been.

and worse, knowing he knew what he was doing. that even if he regretted it, he still let it happen.

because what the fuck did that mean about you?

sukuna watches you a moment longer before nudging your cup with the back of his hand.

“drink,” he says. “you deserve to have a good time.”

you nod. you drink. it burns.

“just—” sukuna pauses. “don’t let him take up your whole head tonight, alright?”

you try to smile. “i’ll try.”

he leans in, his grin returning, just a bit. “i mean, worst case scenario? you can always rebound with me.”

you roll your eyes, snort softly, but the ache in your chest has shifted just a little.

it’s still there, still sharp, but now you know it’s not just you who’s hurting.

and somehow, that makes it worse.

and better.

all at once.

the bass hits you in the chest the second you step back into the living room.

you throw your head back, laugh bubbling out, drink still cold in your hand as yuki grabs your wrist and spins you into the circle forming near the coffee table. the lights are low and golden, the air thick with weed and heat and breathless voices. bodies are everywhere—lounging, grinding, tangled limbs on couches and in corners—but all you care about is the way your friends are looking at you like you’re electric.

“you’re a menace tonight,” gojo yells over the music, grinning so wide you can’t help but laugh.

“finally!” yuki shouts, raising her drink. “she’s letting loose. it’s about fucking time.”

toji’s watching you from his place on the arm of the couch, lips curled into the barest smirk. “is this her trying to pretend choso isn't a thing anymore?”

“she’s earned it,” shiu says, eyes glittering as he hands you another drink. “cheers to heartbreak and hedonism.”

you take it. you take all of it. the laughter, the dancing, the teasing. it doesn’t fix anything, but it lets you forget. even if just for a little while.

you let go.

you dance with yuki like no one’s watching, her arms slung over your shoulders as she mouths the lyrics to a song you don’t even know. toji moves with lazy precision beside you both, rolling a joint one-handed. gojo grabs your other hand and spins you, dramatic and ridiculous, until you’re dizzy from more than the alcohol. shiu throws a pillow at him and the whole room erupts into chaotic laughter.

someone pulls out a disposable camera. you pose in yuki’s lap, fingers in a peace sign, tongue out. someone snaps a picture of you and gojo fake-kissing just to piss people off. you feel blurry and beautiful and wanted.

the floor shifts beneath your feet. the lights swirl. everything smells like weed, cologne, sweat, spilt beer.

you’ve never felt more untouchable.

until you realize you really need to pee.

“bathroom,” you shout into yuki’s ear, who nods and swats your ass like she’s sending you off into battle. you weave through the living room, slipping past elbows and shoulders and breathless giggles. the hallway’s darker, quieter, like stepping into a different world.

you turn the corner—

—and there he is.

choso.

leaning against the wall just past the bathroom door. hoodie half-on, hair falling in front of his eyes, red solo cup dangling forgotten from his fingers. solemn. still. like a ghost in the middle of the party.

your breath catches in your throat.

he lifts his head.

his eyes meet yours.

and just like that, the whole party fades away.

no music. no shouting. no laughter or bodies or haze of weed curling in the air. just you and him, standing in the soft hallway light like ghosts who forgot they were alive. frozen. held in place by the weight of something too big to look at directly.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

it’s all there in the air between you—heavy, aching, unfinished.

choso’s eyes flicker down, like it hurts to hold your gaze for too long. he swallows, thumb nervously rubbing the side of the plastic cup. there’s a tremble to the way he exhales. not drunk, not high—not like before. just scared. tired. stripped of all the usual defenses.

and then, finally, he speaks.

“i’m sorry.”

two words. small. fragile. like he’s been carrying them around too long and now they barely hold their shape.

you blink. your heart stutters in your chest.

he doesn’t wait for you to say anything. he can’t. the words are already spilling.

“i was—i was so fucking out of my head that night,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “i don’t even know how it happened. i didn’t—i didn’t want her. it didn’t mean anything. i wasn’t thinking. i just… i wasn’t here.”

he runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back, breathing like the air hurts to take in.

“and that’s not an excuse. i know that. i know that doesn’t make it okay. but i need you to know—it was never supposed to be anyone else. it’s always been you.”

your chest tightens.

“even if we weren’t, like—together,” he says, softer now. “even if we never called it anything. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you swallow hard, the ache catching at the back of your throat.

“i didn’t say anything that night because i didn’t know how,” he murmurs. “i thought… i thought i’d ruined it for good. and maybe i did. but i swear to god, i’ve never regretted something more in my entire life.”

he finally meets your eyes again.

“i hurt you. i know that. and if you never want to talk to me again, i get it. but i had to say this. i had to tell you. because pretending like i didn’t care was the worst thing i’ve ever done.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the warmth touches your cheek.

“you mean everything to me,” he says, like it’s a confession. “and i’m so fucking sorry.”

and for the first time in weeks, he looks like himself again.

not the broken boy on the couch, not the too-stoned mess at the beach, not the ghost you keep locking eyes with across a room. just choso. your choso. tired, hurting, but finally honest.

you don’t say anything right away.

because what is there to say to something like that?

you just look at him. and he looks at you. and the silence doesn’t feel so heavy this time. it feels… suspended. fragile. like if either of you moves too fast, it might all disappear.

but for the first time in what feels like forever, the space between you feels open again.

like maybe something could grow there. if you let it.

you look at him.

really look.

and you think about all the nights you spent tangled up in him—his skin warm against yours, his mouth pressed to the hollow of your throat, the sound of his voice all low and wrecked when he said your name like it was the only thing he could hold onto.

you think about the way he’d pull you closer after, like he couldn’t stand the distance. the way he’d brush the hair out of your face, whisper dumb shit that made you laugh into his neck.

how even when you weren’t having sex, you were still wrapped around each other—on his bed, on your couch, in the backseat of someone’s car, high out of your minds and half-asleep but still reaching for each other without thinking.

like magnets. like instinct. like he was home and he didn’t even know it.

you remember the way he’d kiss your shoulder in the dark. soft. almost careful. like he didn’t want to wake you, like maybe even then he was scared to admit how badly he needed you.

you remember thinking— 'maybe he’ll say something this time.'

and then he wouldn’t. and you’d just stay there in the silence, curled into him, heart beating way too loud for a girl who wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

but you did. of course you did.

and this—this moment, right now—was the one you’d imagined more times than you’d ever admit. him, finally saying it. the truth. not some half-joke or drunken almost-confession, but real, bare, bleeding honesty.

it’s always been you.

your throat tightens.

you’d hoped for this so many times. but not like this. not with your heart in pieces and mascara clinging to the corner of your lashes, not after all that damage.

not with that girl’s lipgloss still burned somewhere into your memory like a fucking scar.

but he’s here. and he’s saying it. and you can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

you can’t pretend that those nights weren’t everything. that he wasn’t the only one who ever made you feel this full and this hollow, all at once.

your fingers twitch at your side, aching with the muscle memory of touching him.

but instead of moving, you just stand there. caught in the weight of it.

his apology. your history. everything you never said.

the hallway feels too quiet. your pulse, too loud.

and still, he waits.

like he knows this might be the only time you’ll let him say it. like he’s ready for whatever comes next—even if it’s nothing. even if it’s goodbye.

and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

he’s finally giving you everything you wanted.

but now that it’s here, you don’t know if it’s enough.

he’s still looking at you like that.

like you’re it. like even if you walked away right now, he’d still wait.

and you’re still standing there like an idiot, heart too full, body too frozen, blinking through the blur of too much feeling.

then you move.

just a step. just one.

but it’s enough.

his face breaks when you do. not in a bad way. just—softens. like he can’t believe it. like something in him finally unclenches.

and before either of you can overthink it, you crash into each other.

arms around his shoulders. his around your waist.

no hesitation. no performance. no air between you.

you bury your face in his neck and just breathe.

and he laughs. a little broken, a little teary, like the sound gets caught in his throat halfway out.

“fuck,” he whispers, holding you tighter. “fuck, i missed you.”

you laugh too, because you don’t know what else to do, because it’s so stupid how long you went pretending this didn’t matter.

you squeeze him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t.

“you’re such an idiot,” you say into his skin. “you’re actually the dumbest person i’ve ever met.”

he laughs again, warm and quiet. you feel it vibrate through his chest.

“i know,” he mumbles. “i know.”

your fingers fist in the back of his shirt. his hand cups the back of your head. you stay there like that for a long time.

not speaking. just holding. just letting the ache bleed out slow.

“i thought i lost you,” he says into your hair, voice thick. “for real this time.”

you pull back just enough to look at him. eyes glossy. nose red. cheeks a little flushed.

you give him the softest smile you’ve ever worn.

“you didn’t,” you say. “not yet.”

and then he hugs you again. even tighter. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

you laugh against his neck, one hand slipping under the hem of his hoodie just to feel his skin, just to make sure he’s real.

“you always smell like weed,” you mumble.

“and you always smell like heaven,” he replies, without missing a beat.

you groan. “jesus christ.”

he grins into your hair. “too much?”

“way too much.”

but you’re smiling. you’re both smiling. and this—this doesn’t feel like a fix, not really.

but it feels like a beginning.

he doesn’t let go of your hand after that.

just keeps it tangled in his, like if he loses contact, the whole moment might vanish.

his thumb brushes over your knuckles as he walks you up the stairs, step by step, quiet except for the sound of music bleeding up from below and the creak of the old floorboards.

you’ve been up here a million times.

you know the way to his room like the back of your hand.

but this time feels different. slower. like neither of you want to break the spell.

he pushes open the door and lets you in first, and it’s the same as always—dim, messy, faint smell of weed and detergent. but something about the air feels heavier now.

like something’s finally about to change.

you stand there for a second. he closes the door behind you.

it clicks shut, and the silence settles around you both like fog.

you half-turn toward him, expecting him to reach for you like he always does. to kiss you, to push you gently back onto the bed, to start peeling off your clothes like second nature.

but he doesn’t.

he just looks at you. like he’s seeing you all over again.

like he’s remembering every late night, every laugh, every time you crawled into his lap just to feel close. every time you left in the morning and he wished you didn’t have to.

“can i—” he starts, then stops.

clears his throat. rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“can i say something?”

you nod, heartbeat in your throat.

he steps closer. slow and careful.

not touching. not assuming. just… there.

“i know i don’t deserve anything from you,” he says quietly. “not after how bad i fucked it all up. not after that night.”

your breath catches.

“but i need you to know it’s never been anyone else. not really.”

his voice wavers, just a little. “even before we started… whatever this was. it was always you. it’s still you.”

your chest tightens. you look at him, and he’s so serious. so raw. so real in a way you haven’t seen in so long.

he swallows hard. steps a little closer.

“i don’t wanna keep pretending like we’re just friends who fuck. i don’t wanna keep hurting you just because i’m scared of calling it what it is.”

his voice drops, just a murmur.

“i want to be yours. if you’ll let me. for real this time.”

it hits you like a wave. a real, breath-stealing, chest-caving wave.

because this is what you always wanted.

not just the touching. not just the late nights and the secrets and the tension.

you wanted this. the honesty. the softness. the choice.

you don’t say anything right away. just step forward, slow and sure, until you’re in his space again. until your forehead rests gently against his.

you close your eyes.

“okay,” you whisper.

his breath hitches. “yeah?”

you nod. just once.

his hands come up, hold your waist like you’re fragile. like you’re something he’s afraid to break.

he doesn’t kiss you. not yet.

just pulls you into his chest and holds you.

quiet. steady. like he finally knows what he wants. and it’s this.

just this.

you.

his hands are warm on your waist, steady like they finally know where they belong.

you’re still pressed against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around him, heartbeat slowing to match his. the room’s quiet now, soft and golden in the low lamplight. like it’s holding space for this moment.

he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his eyes flick across it, like he’s memorizing every detail.

and then he says it. quietly. sincerely.

“i’m gonna take care of you.”

your breath stutters, but he keeps going.

“for real this time. not just when it’s convenient or easy. not just in private.”

his voice trembles a little, but he doesn’t stop.

“i’ll be there when you’re tired, when you’re pissed off at the world, when you’re sick, when you’re sad, when you don’t wanna talk and just need someone to sit with you.”

he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, so gently it makes your eyes sting.

“i’ll remember your coffee order. i’ll walk you to class when it rains. i’ll hold your bag while you try on shit at the mall and tell you you look hot in everything, even when you don’t believe me.”

a soft laugh breaks out of your chest—wet and breathless.

he smiles, but it’s soft around the edges, like he’s still afraid to fall apart.

“i know i don’t always say the right thing. or show shit the right way. but i’m gonna try. i’m gonna learnhow to love you the way you deserve. because you deserve everything.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, eyes fixed on yours.

“i love every single part of you. the loud parts. the quiet ones. the way you talk with your hands, and the way you tuck your knees up when you’re on the couch. the way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry, and how you laugh when you’re drunk.”

your chest twists, overwhelmed. his voice is low now, almost reverent.

“i love how smart you are. how you always know what people need before they say it. how you care too much, even when it hurts you. how you make everyone feel like they matter.”

you’re crying now, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. he cups your face in both hands.

“but more than anything, i love you. even when i didn’t know how to say it. even when i pretended it was nothing. it’s always been you.”

you blink up at him, breathing hard.

your voice shakes when you whisper, “choso…”

he leans in. kisses your forehead. your cheeks. the corner of your mouth.

“i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

like it’s always been right there on the tip of his tongue.

“and i’m gonna be the best fucking boyfriend you’ve ever had. i promise.”

and somehow, you believe him.

because he means it. every fucking word.

the house is quiet now.

party debris litters the living room—empty solo cups, discarded hoodies, a half-eaten pizza box still open on the kitchen bench. someone’s shoe is on the stairs. no one knows whose.

gojo and sukuna are camped out on the back porch, slouched low in mismatched deck chairs, beers in hand. the moon’s high. the air’s still warm from the chaos earlier, thick with leftover smoke and the faint pulse of whatever playlist had been on repeat for six hours.

gojo stretches out his legs with a groan, tipping his head back.

“bro… my back hurts like i gave someone a piggyback through the trenches.”

sukuna doesn’t look up from his beer.

“you did. yuuji tackled you into the kiddie pool.”

“…oh. yeah.” he snorts. “that was kinda funny though.”

they sit in silence for a second, the good kind, broken only by the clink of their bottles when they sip.

then sukuna says it.

“so. you see choso and y/n disappear earlier?”

gojo grins. “upstairs?” he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “yeah, i saw.”

sukuna huffs a small laugh. “fuckin’ finally, man. those two have been doing mental gymnastics around each other for like, what? a year?”

“a year and five months,” gojo corrects, holding up a finger. “i’ve been counting.”

sukuna gives him a look. “of course you have.”

“you know it’s bad when I noticed the emotional repression,” gojo says, tapping his temple. “like, i’m all for subtle pining, but watching those two was like… watching a slow car crash in a rom-com.”

“a rom-com where everyone’s too stoned to say their feelings.”

“exactly.”

sukuna takes another pull of his drink, then smirks.

“lowkey thought she was gonna kick him in the dick after the beach party though.”

gojo cackles. “she should’ve! man was acting like a dumbass.”

“nah, he is a dumbass,” sukuna says, stretching his arms behind his head. “but he loves her. like, real shit. he looked like a kicked puppy for weeks.”

“the haunted stare,” gojo nods sagely. “saw him just sitting on the couch one day staring into the void while yuki played meg thee stallion.”

“emo boy in a house full of chaos,” sukuna mutters.

gojo hums, gaze drifting up to the open window above the porch—choso’s room. the light is off now, but he can imagine what’s up there.

soft conversation. laughter. maybe some kissing. maybe a little crying.

a happy kind of mess.

“you think they’ll actually work out?” he asks.

sukuna shrugs. “i think they already were. just didn’t admit it yet.”

gojo smiles, lazy and warm.

“yeah,” he says. “they’re good together. weird, but good.”

another beat passes. the crickets are loud. someone starts snoring from the living room.

“you think we’ll get invited to the wedding?” gojo says eventually.

sukuna scoffs. “only if you don’t ruin the reception.”

gojo lifts his beer with a grin.

“no promises.”

they clink bottles.

and somewhere upstairs, behind the walls of a room where two people finally figured their shit out, the light turns on again.

heck yeah i'm back 👅👅👅 if you liked this let me know 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

more choso ! sex with a stoner | sticky situation

~ m.list!

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espresso1patronum · 4 months ago

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rival!gojo x f!reader mdni | your enemy loves having you at his mercy

satoru’s fingers slide between your folds, teasing slow, lazy circles over your swollen clit. his touch is light, almost frustrating, like he’s daring you to beg for more. when he feels how wet you are, he lets out a low chuckle, his smirk widening.

“damn, you’re dripping,” he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick. “guess you like this more than you wanna admit.”

your whole body burns with humiliation, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch at his touch.

“i f-fucking hate you, gojo,” you manage between ragged breaths, trying to sound defiant.

satoru just laughs, deep and cocky. “yeah? your tight little cunt says otherwise.”

before you can snap back, he pushes two fingers inside, curling them just right. your breath catches, your back arching as pleasure sparks up your spine. he moves slowly at first, dragging it out, watching the way your body reacts to every little motion. then, without warning, he picks up the pace, fucking you on his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world.

“s-satoru—” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets.

“hmm?” he tilts his head, amused. “what’s that? thought you hated me.”

you want to wipe that smug look off his face, but you’re too busy trying to hold yourself together. his fingers hit that perfect spot, over and over, and the heat in your core tightens, unbearable.

“fuck—” your whole body trembles as the orgasm crashes over you, pleasure rolling through you so hard your mind blanks for a second.

satoru watches the way you shake, your thighs squeezing around his hand, your release dripping onto the sheets. slowly, he pulls his fingers out, slick with your cum. he holds them up to the light, then, without hesitation, slips them into his mouth. his eyes flutter shut for a second, like he’s actually savoring the taste.

“shit,” he groans, licking his fingers clean. “you taste so fucking sweet.”

you turn your head away, embarrassed, but he doesn’t miss the way your breath still comes in shaky gasps. his phone buzzes, and with an irritated sigh, he straightens up.

“guess i gotta go.” he runs a hand through his hair, then flashes you a lazy, knowing grin. “too bad—i’d love to stay and ruin you properly.”

he winks, and you swear you’ve never wanted to punch someone so badly in your life.

mostly because you hate how much you wish he’d stay.

#Haha hate fck with satoru #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jjk smut #gojo smut

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makeyuomine · 11 days ago

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wedding night

Summary: It’s your wedding night and Harry can’t wait to get his hands on you.

Type: Blurb

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

The door shut softly behind us, sealing off the world we’d just come from—the music, the toasts, the chaos of the day—leaving only silence and us.

I stood in the middle of the honeymoon suite, hands twisting the delicate lace of my veil, still perched in soft waves over my hair.

The moment we stepped into our suite, his hands were on me, sliding under the fabric of my wedding dress.

The dress slipped off my shoulders and pooled at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but the white lace lingerie set I’d chosen just for him. It clung to my skin like a secret, sheer and delicate—made just for his eyes and pleasure. The soft veil framed my face and cascaded down my back, the fabric making me feel both fragile and fierce.

He leaned against the closed door, eyes dragging over me like a slow burn. The black suit he still wore, tie loosened and collar unbuttoned, made him look dark and delicious, like sin wrapped in silk. His curls were slightly tousled from dancing, lips parted, eyes heavy with desire.

“Fuck me,” he whispered.

He took a step closer, his black suit sharp and almost too formal against the softness of my lace. His hands came up, trembling just a little, as they hovered before finally settling on my hips.

“You look…. You’re..” he was at a loss for words.

“Holy fuck…” he spoke again as he loosened his tie.

I swallowed hard, feeling the heat radiate off him, the tension thick enough to taste. I’d never seen him so flustered.

His hands were still on my hips, his gaze drinking me in like he couldn’t believe I was real. I ran my fingers down the lapels of his black suit jacket, smiling softly as I watched his jaw clench.

“I had it custom made,” I whispered, voice just barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “Just for tonight.”

His eyes flicked up to mine—dark, heated, hungry. That was all it took.

He crashed his mouth to mine, all restraint snapping. His hands moved up, one cradling the back of my head, the other gripping my waist with a desperation that made my knees weak.

The kiss was deep and filled with need. His tongue slid against mine like he was claiming me, just how I wanted. My fingers curled in his jacket as I melted into him, already trembling.

His lips were everywhere—soft, warm, and intentional. He started at my neck, slow and lingering, brushing kisses along my skin. I tilted my head back, moaning softly as his mouth found the hollow of my throat.

I shivered beneath him, fists tightening as his lips traveled lower, down the slope of my shoulder, across the delicate bone he exposed when he pushed the lace strap aside with his nose.

He kissed the top of my chest, right above the line of my bra, and whispered against my skin, “I’m gonna make you feel as good as you look, baby..”

I whimpered—quiet and aching—because I knew he’d follow through with his promise. He always did. I was already falling apart and he hadn’t even touched me properly yet.

I felt his hand trail down the curve of my hip, slow and deliberate, fingers hooking under the waistband of my panties. The lace dragged across my skin, and I lifted my hips instinctively, letting him slide them down.

He didn’t rush.

He kissed the inside of my thigh as he pulled them off completely, then balled the lace in his fist and looked me right in the eyes with a smirk that made my stomach clench.

Without saying a word, he shoved the panties into the pocket of his suit trousers.

My eyes widened. “Harry…”

He rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine as he led me slowly to the bed. In just a few steps, we were on the bed, Harry’s body pressing over mine in one fluid motion.

He touched me with such familiarity. He knew my body like no other, perhaps more than myself.

Tender. Rough. Delicate. Heavy.

He kissed down my chest, my torso, my thighs, and stopped at my center.

“Please… open your legs for me, Mrs. Styles.”

I moan almost immediately in response. I didn’t expect that. It felt so good.

Mrs. Styles.

I open my legs at a timid pace, never being able to kick that initial shyness. I think it’s because I loved the way he worked to draw me out of it.

He grins at my shyness, never kicking the thrill he gets from that.

His fingers trail lightly down the inside of my thigh, warm and steady, never rushing. He doesn’t push—he never does. Instead, he waits, kneeling between my knees with patience written all over his face.

I exhale shakily, biting the inside of my cheek.

He leans in and kisses the bend of my knee, soft and slow. Then the inside of my thigh.

He whispers something I barely catch, “You’re so beautiful like this.”

His hands slide up again, coaxing gently, his thumbs brushing the delicate edge of my hesitation.

And then I do it—not all at once, not without nerves—but I let my legs fall a little wider.

His smile is reverent, not smug. Like I’ve given him something sacred.

“Mmh,” I hear him moan at the sight of me.

His gaze lingers between my thighs like it’s something sacred, something he’s been waiting for, but never entitled to. The weight of it makes me shiver.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he says, voice low and rough now. His hands settle on my inner thighs, thumbs tracing idle circles like he’s memorizing me.

I swallow hard. “Show me, baby.”

He leans forward and presses a kiss right at the top of my thigh, so close I twitch. He notices.

“Still shy,” he whispers against my skin. “Still fucking sexy.”

Then he moves lower—mouth dragging lazy, open-mouthed kisses until he’s exactly where I want him. He doesn’t dive in. He waits. One hand stays on my thigh, grounding me. The other parts me even further with slow, practiced care.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, breath warm and maddening.

“It’s not,” I whisper. “It’s not enough.”

That’s all he needs.

His tongue slides through me with devastating precision, and my hips jump despite myself. I try to close my legs again—out of instinct, out of habit—but his hands catch me gently, holding me open.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”

And something in me gives.

The shyness doesn’t vanish—but it melts into something else. Something hotter. He licks me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring me. I moan—quiet, breathless—and his grip tightens just slightly.

“That’s it,” he says against me.

His mouth is relentless, but never careless. Every stroke of his tongue is deliberate, tasting me like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. I can feel how much he wants me in the way he holds me open, the way his hands tremble just slightly against my thighs.

My breath catches as he sucks gently at that spot that makes my legs shake, and I gasp—louder than I expect. Embarrassment rises fast, but he pulls back just enough to look up at me.

“Don’t hold it in,” he murmurs, lips slick. “I want all of it—all of you.”

I reach down, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to tell him I need more. He smiles into me, groans low in his throat like my need is its own kind of reward.

But then he pulls back entirely.

He lines himself up, moving slowly, carefully—like he knows I’ll tense if he rushes. The stretch is real, thick and hot, and my breath hitches again as he starts to push in.

He groans—deep, guttural—like the feel of me around him might undo him on the spot. “So fucking tight,” he breathes. “Oh fuck.”

I can’t help the way my fingers clutch at his arms, digging in as he rocks forward another inch. He pauses, kisses my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth.

When he bottoms out, we both just stay there—breathing each other in. He doesn’t move yet. He just lets me feel it, lets me adjust.

Then he starts to roll his hips, slow and deep, dragging pleasure out like a secret.

Every stroke pushes me open a little more. Every sound he makes coaxes another one from me. My shyness doesn’t vanish, but it no longer feels like something to fight. It’s just part of how he loves me—patiently, reverently, and with everything he’s got.

“Mmm,” I moan, fingers digging into his shoulders, “you feel so good.”

His eyes flick up to mine, like those words land harder than anything else. Like that simple truth is the thing that undoes him more than the heat, the moans, the friction.

“Yeah?” he breathes, his voice ragged.

I nod before pulling him to me and kiss him hard—needy, unfiltered—because there’s no room for pretending right now. He’s deep inside me, filling me completely, and I want him to know exactly how wrecked I am by it.

“You’re so good to me,” I whisper between kisses. “So fucking good, you don’t even know.”

His rhythm falters slightly, and I feel it—how much the words hit him. Not just the praise, but the truth of it.

He swallows hard. “Say it again.”

I hold his face in both hands, gaze steady despite the way my body’s shaking. “You’re good to me. You make me feel wanted. Safe. Insatiable.”

That last word comes out on a gasp as he thrusts deeper—rougher now, like I’ve lit a match inside him. His mouth crashes into mine again, desperate and messy and full of everything we haven’t said.

He’s already buried deep inside me, sweat slick at the base of his neck, breath hot against my collarbone. The rhythm is steady, controlled—but there’s tension beneath it, like he’s holding himself back.

I smile through the haze, tilting my hips up to meet him. “You fuck me like you’re made for me.”

“I am made for you, baby.”

His head drops against my shoulder, and I feel his entire body shudder. He groans—loud, needy—and then it’s like something inside him snaps.

He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His gaze is dark, intense, almost reverent.

I open my mouth to speak, but he moves before I can—grabs my thighs and pushes them up, deeper, tighter, until I gasp. His thrusts change, no longer slow or careful—they’re full, purposeful, desperate in the most delicious way.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice thick. “You love this? You love how crazy you make me?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”

He moans again—louder this time, rough around the edges—and he leans down, kissing me like he’s trying to climb inside me. His hips slam forward and I cry out, the pleasure rolling through me in waves.

I claw at his back, pulling him closer, dizzy from how good he feels. “Don’t stop. You’re making me—fuck—you’re making me feel…everything.”

His mouth finds my ear, and he groans right into it. “You should feel everything. You deserve that. I want you ruined by me—shaking and wrecked and knowing no one else could ever touch you like this.”

He’s still inside me when I shift, slowly, carefully. His hands instinctively guide me as I straddle him, knees braced on either side of his hips. We both groan at the change in angle, at the way it feels different like this—deeper in some places, more exposed in others.

His eyes drag over me, wild and reverent. “Holy fuck,” he breathes, chest heaving beneath me. “Look at you.”

I still wore my lace veil and bra.

I roll my hips slowly, testing, teasing, and his head falls back against the pillow with a choked moan. But it’s not just the pleasure that has him undone—it’s the sight of me.

He trails his fingers up my ribs, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me. His eyes have been locked on it for minutes now, distracted by the way it clings to me, how the fabric stretches over my curves.

He sits up, both hands now at my back, unclasping it with practiced ease—but he doesn’t rush. He holds the band for a moment, breath ghosting over my skin. Then, gently, he slides the straps down my arms, one at a time, eyes flicking up to my face to make sure I’m okay.

I am. More than okay.

The lace slips away like a whisper, soft against my skin, and he exhales sharply when my breasts are finally bare before him.

“You’re unreal,” he says, sitting up on one elbow, the other hand running up my stomach to cup my breast.

I arch into his palm instinctively.

Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—and kisses the swell of one breast, then the other. Soft, open-mouthed kisses that make me gasp and roll my hips again. He groans against my skin, like the feel of me is something he can’t quite handle.

His hands come up to cup both breasts fully, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I feel myself pulse around him from the sensation.

“You don’t know what this does to me,” he murmurs, voice muffled as he rubs his cheek against my chest, nuzzling me like he’s half-drunk on the feeling of skin against skin.

I cradle his head, fingers threading through his hair as he mouths at my nipple, sucking gently, then swirling his tongue over it again and again until my thighs start to shake.

I rock my hips slower now, keeping us both on that edge, and he swears under his breath again. His hands trail down to my hips, guiding my pace but never controlling it—letting me lead, letting me take him.

“I love watching you fall apart,” I whisper, leaning down to kiss his temple.

“Evil girl,” he grins before pulling me in for a kiss.

His hands grip my hips as I move over him, slow but steady, our rhythm deepening with every roll. The way he looks up at me—like I’m the most sacred thing he’s ever touched—only pushes me closer. His lips are still warm from where he’d been sucking on my breasts, now parted and panting, trying to hold back the storm building inside him.

“Just like that,” he groans, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t stop, baby—don’t stop.”

His hands slide up my back, then down again, like he needs to feel all of me—needs to anchor himself in the moment.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes locked on where our bodies are joined.

The tension between us sharpens, electric. Every movement, every breath is laced with need. His hips start meeting mine on instinct, thrusting up into me just right, just deep enough to make stars explode behind my eyes.

He’s still catching his breath beneath me, hands roaming up and down my thighs like he can’t stop touching me. But then he sits up, kisses me deeply, and murmurs against my lips, “I need you underneath me now.”

The way he says it — low, reverent — makes something pulse deep inside me.

He flips us gently, careful not to break the connection for more than a second, and settles between my legs.

His body covers mine completely, chest pressing against my breasts, his forearms braced on either side of my head. His hips nestle against mine, and when he slides back in — slow, deliberate — we both let out the kind of sound that comes from deep within.

His hips roll into mine with perfect rhythm — deep and slow, dragging pleasure out of both of us with every thrust. He kisses me through it, moaning into my mouth like the feel of me is driving him mad.

“Look at me,” I whisper, cupping his face.

His eyes meet mine instantly, glassy and dark, like he’s barely hanging on. He moans almost immediately.

His forehead drops to mine, and he starts to move faster, harder, chasing that last stretch of friction. Our breaths tangle, our bodies tense, and I feel it — the breaking point — approaching fast.

“I’m right there,” I gasp, nails digging into his back.

“Me too. Fuck, baby—me too,” he moans, driving into me with just enough roughness to tip me over the edge.

Pleasure crashes through me in waves, pulling a cry from my throat as I clench around him. He follows instantly, groaning my name as he spills inside me, his whole body shuddering against mine.

He’s still inside me, his weight more comforting rather than heavy, his chest rising and falling against mine.

His mouth finds my neck first — slow, open kisses that make me melt even more. Then my jaw. Then the curve of my cheek.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice low, careful.

“Mhmm,” I manage to say.

He kisses the top of my shoulder, then the spot just above my heart, then the length of my collarbone like he’s trying to press pieces of himself into me.

I could only guess how undone I looked in that moment.

I couldn’t stop the blush that rose as it hit me all over again — Harry is my husband. And I’m his wife.

#harry edward styles #harry styles angst #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry x y/n #harry styles

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charlvr · 18 days ago

Text

- the universe's cosmic joke | the universe said f**k you

Pairing. Megan Skiendiel x Reader | Daniela Avanzini x Reader

w.c. 8.0 k

The fans think Megan and Y/N are in love. But Y/N’s heart actually belongs to Daniela. And Daniela? Well… she’s straight.

Falling in love with Daniela was easy. Inevitable. Like tripping on your own feet or realizing the ground beneath you had quietly shifted. You barely noticed it happening until it had already swallowed you whole.

It all began at Dream Academy, a place whose name sounded like a promise whispered on a stage: floodlights, fan chants, and viral stages. In reality, it ran on nerves, endless drills, and the quiet desperation of teenagers trying to become stars before the world forgot them. Every day felt like you were caught in the same nightmare. Long days packed with choreography, vocal training, evaluations, and interviews that never quite let you forget you were being watched. You were always performing, even when the music stopped.

It wasn’t glamorous. It was grueling. You learned how to push through injuries that never fully healed, how to force a smile on two hours of sleep, how to bow and thank every instructor even when you felt like you might shatter. Some days you wondered if it was worth it. Other days you were sure it had to be. Because when the lights would hit the stage, when the footage of your hard work would be replayed back for the world to see, you wanted to be there to catch them.

The other girls were intimidatingly good. They moved like they were born to dance. Like the music itself had chosen them as its favorite children. But even the best of them couldn’t be compared to Daniela Avanzini.

Daniela danced like she wasn’t a part of your world. Every movement she made was effortless, every smile perfected, like she’d just rolled out of bed one day and decided, “Yes, today I’ll defy gravity for fun.”

She was the kind of dancer who didn’t just take up space; she made you forget the floor had limits. You watched her in those first weeks, a spark of awe in your chest that wouldn’t leave. It was everything she did. Every breath she breathed. Even when she was just sitting cross-legged on the floor, adjusting her shoelaces, you could see it in the tilt of her head, the easy grace in her fingers: she couldn’t just dance, she was the dance.

You, though? You were good. Not great, not world-class, but good. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror mid-rehearsal, hair plastered to your forehead, eyes wide with determination, face twisted in that half-smile that said you were trying not to let on how much your calves burned, and you’d think, “Hey, not bad.” But then Daniela would glide past you like a summer breeze, and you’d remember, “oh yeah”. She was untouchable.

So when Daniela offered to stay behind and help after a particularly brutal rehearsal, you had half thought she was joking. Or that you were finally hallucinating from the dehydration.

The rest of the class had long stumbled out like zombies, leaving behind a studio that smelled like sweat and cracked dreams. You were still trying to figure out how to make your foot stop cramping when she had spoken up.

“Want me to walk you through that combo again?” she said, like it was no big deal. Like helping you wasn’t going to cost her precious rest or time.

You blinked. “Me? Really?”

She grinned. “Yeah, you. Unless you’re worried I’m secretly plotting your elimination?”

You laughed, a breathless huff that came out more like a snort, not your finest moment, but Dani just laughed in turn. A big, warm laughter that somehow made your exhaustion feel lighter.

You stayed, if only to see how things would play out.

She showed you how to let the music fill you up, how to soften your lines without losing your strength. She corrected your posture with the lightest of touches, gentle yet grounded. And even though she didn’t have to, even though she could have easily just gone back to her dorm and crashed like everyone else, she didn’t. She stayed.

After that, every late-night practice turned into a ritual: late-night practices when the world outside the studio was dark and still, just you and Daniela and the mirror reflecting your progress in fits and starts. And every time you wanted to quit, she’d find some way to make you laugh: a silly face, a ridiculous story about her first recital costume, a badly timed joke that made you smile simply because she had gone through the trouble of telling it.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was better. It was friendship first, late-night giggles in the hallway when you should have been sleeping, shared bites of half-melted protein bars, hugs that always smelled like coconut shampoo and clean sweat. It was something small and steady that grew in the spaces between rehearsals, in the silences when you were too tired to talk.

You hadn’t expected to find a lifeline at Dream Academy, but Daniela was yours. On elimination days, when your name was on the line and your stomach felt like it might implode, you always found her eyes across the room. She’d give you that look. Steady, bright. Like she believed in you more than you believed in yourself.

When homesickness crept in like a fog, it was Daniela who pulled you out of it. She’d find you curled up on the stairs, phone clutched like a lifeline, and plop down beside you. “Want to talk about it?” she’d ask, and sometimes you’d say no. She’d just sit with you anyway, humming little snippets of pop songs that had no right to be that catchy.

And when your name was called in the finale, when the world blurred into lights and noise and you thought your heart might beat right out of your chest, it was Daniela you ran to. Because she was the one who made you believe you could get there at all. And Dani? She hugged you so tightly that night you thought your ribs might crack. It was the best pain you’d ever felt.

—

Of course, your feelings only grew as time went on.

Because there were seven of you in Katseye, someone had to draw the short straw and end up in the three-person room. You, Dani, and Manon ended up sharing. Honestly? You were kind of relieved. If it had just been the two of you, you probably would have combusted by now. Daniela in pajamas? Daniela brushing her teeth with a little dance sway? You were not built for that level of proximity. You had a dignity quota to maintain, and sharing a bedroom with just her would have drained it completely.

Still, you were content. Totally, wholly, tragically content just crushing on Daniela from afar. You had a ten-year plan: get more confident, improve your freestyle, learn how to flirt without buffering like a dial-up connection. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d be brave enough to tell her. But for now? You were happy just to watch her in stolen moments, hands brushing in crowded hallways, laughter echoing in the spaces you shared.

Then the Weverse Live happened.

It started out harmless, a silly distraction in a hotel room that smelled like stale air and overpriced soap. The group had gotten a break between events, everyone scattered across several rooms. Manon and Lara had taken up residence at the foot of Manon’s bed, turning it into their own private talk show. They answered fan questions with effortless charm, laughing so loudly Yoonchae had to send them several threatening texts to be quieter. Daniela drifted in and out, appearing on camera whenever the mood struck her.

You watched the live from your phone, the next room over, a smoothie balanced in your lap, pretending you weren’t just watching for Daniela. No, this was about supporting all your friends. Obviously.

Manon squinted at her phone dramatically, eyes lighting up at a particular one, “Okay, here’s a good one,” she said, a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth, “Any rumors you girls want to debunk?”

Before Lara could even pretend to be scandalized, Daniela popped her head into the camera frame. Her hair was still damp from the shower, the natural curls somehow still alive despite management’s ruthless attempts to flatten it into submission. Spirals framed her face, soft and a little wild, and you had to remind yourself to blink. Daniela was grinning like she’d just found out breakfast was served until noon. “Yeah,” she said, throwing her hands up with fake exasperation. “That I’m gay. Enough with the gay allegations!”

Manon and Lara lost it, clapping and squealing like she’d just announced world peace. Their laughter was so loud you could hear it through the wall separating your two rooms, and the string of curses that left Yoonchae’s mouth had you clutching your pearls, “Congratulations!” Manon and Lara hooted, the fans similarly losing their minds in the chat.

“Wow. You're so brave.”

You, on the other hand, had dropped your smoothie. The plastic cup wobbling and falling with a sad little splat on the floor, smoothie splattering across your bare toes. Because that? That might have been the one variable you hadn’t prepared for.

You’d accounted for all the usual things: the slow burn of unrequited feelings, the fear of rejection, the endless “what ifs” that kept you up at night. But the “not even in the same ballpark” revelation? Yeah, that one slipped through the cracks.

You tried to act normal. Held it together for a few days, which you figured deserved some kind of medal. Chalked it up to pride. Dignity. Delusion.

It worked, until it didn’t.

Eventually, you cracked and wound up outside Lara’s door, full meltdown mode, hoodie pulled over your head like that would somehow soften the blow.

The girl opened the door with her usual calm: face mask in place, hair wrapped in a towel, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Don’t even start,” she said, before you could even open your mouth.

You didn’t bother with a greeting, just trudging in and flopping onto her bed like it was your own, “This group is full of gay people,” you groaned, burying your face into her pillows, “How did I manage to fall for the only straight one?

Lara snorted, peeling off her mask. The door softly shut behind her with a muted click, “Pretty sure it’s just you and me, babe.”

You peek through your fingers, cheeks on fire, “Really? Just us?”

“Tragically,” she said, wiping away the last of the mask. Then, a pause, “Well… actually—”

The door swung open and Megan suddenly stepped in, a lint roller in one hand. Upon seeing you, she paused in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene: you flopped across Lara’s bed and Lara unbothered as always.

Megan’s eyes flicked over you for a fraction of a second before she looked away. Her mouth pulled into a polite smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

“Uh… am I interrupting something?” she asked, her voice careful. Neutral. Like she was weighing her words in her head before they even reached her mouth.

Lara shot you a look that said, Don’t say anything weird, before she turned back to her roommate, innocent grin and all. “Nope. Just girl talk.”

You pushed yourself up too quickly, like you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Yearning? That wasn’t a crime, “Hi, Megan,” you said, your voice cracking with the effort to sound casual.

“Hey.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting to the lint roller in her hand like she’d forgotten why she was there at all. She barely glanced at you again, like it was easier not to see you at all.

“I’m just grabbing the lint roller,” she said, her tone clipped.

You almost pointed out she already had one but bit it back. Lara, of course, saved the day. She reached behind her and tossed Megan another lint roller without a word.

Megan caught it, fingers toying with the handle like she needed something, anything, to do with her hands. For a moment, she just stood there. Two lint rollers, one awkward silence, and the kind of pause that felt heavier than it had any right to.

It looked like she was about to say something more. You swore she was. But then she looked away, her mouth pulling into that polite little smile you’d seen too many times. The kind that always felt like a door gently shutting in your face.

“Thanks,” she said, a little too flat to pass as casual. “Well… I’ll see you both in the morning, I guess.” She lingered in the doorway half a second longer, like the air itself had a grip on her sleeve. And then she turned, disappearing into the hall with a soft click of the door.

You blinked. The weirdness of it all clinging to your skin like static. It almost felt like she’d rather crash on the floor outside than share a room with you.

Lara let out a small laugh, the sound muffled by a hand. “Wow. You scared Megan away,” she said, voice light, teasing. “Didn’t even know that was possible.”

You groaned and flopped deeper into her comforter like you could disappear into the stitching. “I swear, she hates me,” you muttered. “Every time she’s near me, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lara said, rolling her eyes. “Megan doesn’t hate you.”

She nudged you with her foot. You grumbled a half-hearted “Hey!” and before you could fully protest, she yanked a pillow from behind you and smacked you with it.

“Now can you get your dramatic ass back to your own room? Some of us have practice tomorrow, and I’d like to survive it.”

You groaned louder, attempting to hide beneath the blankets. “Your friend is in emotional ruin and you kick her out. Say you hate me!”

Lara just laughed harder and shoved you off her comforter. “You’re being ridiculous,” she said, ignoring the pleading look you gave her. “But I love you, anyway. Now seriously—out, before Megan comes back.”

You dragged yourself upright with the full theatrics of teenage heartbreak and shuffled toward the door, still muttering quiet curses of “betrayal” and “injustice” under your breath.

When you slipped back into your own room, Daniela was still awake, curled up on her bed with her phone resting on her knees. She looked up as you entered, concern flickering in her eyes. Manon was nowhere to be found. Just you, Daniela, and the echo of your pitiful dignity.

“Hey,” Daniela said softly, setting her phone aside. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly, the smile you offered feeling all wrong, tight and shaky, like it had been assembled in a rush. “Yeah. I’m great,” you thought, miserably. Just in love with you. Ha ha. No big deal.

She sat up a little straighter, watching you with those wide, painfully sincere eyes that always made lying feel like a crime. “Are you sure? You look kind of…” She trailed off, clearly trying to find a word softer than wrecked. “Tired.”

You let out a laugh that pitched too high and landed nowhere good. “I’m fine,” you said, waving a hand like that would dismiss the gnawing ache in your chest. “Just a long day. A stupid one.” Then, quieter: “Thanks, though.”

But she didn’t look away.

“If there’s anything I can do, seriously. I don’t mind.”

You tried to hold her gaze but couldn’t. The kindness in her voice made it worse, like it was peeling away all the armor you’d so carefully duct-taped together. “No, I’m okay. Really.” I mean, unless you want to start liking girls, but no pressure.

She gave you a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eye, but still, she nodded. “Alright. Well, I’m here. If you need me.”

You mumbled a quiet “thanks,” and crawled into bed, curling under your blanket like it might make everything less loud, less sharp.

Because yeah, things were going great. Just you, your hopeless crush, and the universe’s favorite ongoing joke.

And it was almost as if the universe took your thoughts as a personal challenge.

—

The day of the magazine interview arrived with about all the fanfare you’d expect: bright lights, meticulous outfits, and the kind of backstage chaos that made you wish you could evaporate into the nearest wardrobe rack. It wasn’t your first group interview, far from it, but today felt like the universe had gotten bored and decided you would be its favorite chew toy.

Because somehow, for reasons that remained unclear and deeply unfair, you were seated right next to Megan. Meanwhile, Daniela—the love of your life, in case the universe forgot—was at the other end of the couch, practically sharing a cushion with Lara. You tried not to take it personally, but the cosmic targeting felt a little obvious.

Of course Lara noticed immediately. She locked eyes with you across the room, her grin already criminal, as if to say, “Haha, loser. Jealous?” You glared back with all the energy of a jilted CW side character, mouthing, “There’s no loyalty anymore.” She just winked.

You sank lower into the couch. Daniela was laughing at something Lara had said, her head thrown back in that easy, airy way she had. You tried to mask the bitterness creeping up your throat.

Next to you, Megan sat like she’d been carved out of stone. Perfect posture. Perfect composure. And the kind of silence that felt too loud. You kept sneaking glances at her, wondering if she was still thinking about how you’d basically melted down in her room the night before. She didn’t look your way once.

Desperate to fill the silence, you cleared your throat. “So… uh, how’s your morning been?” you asked, voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the others.

She startled slightly, like she hadn’t expected you to speak. “Oh. Fine,” she said, stiff and overly polite. She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, eyes flicking to the camera crew setting up across the room. “Yours?”

You shrugged. “Same. Just… you know. Trying to look awake.”

A small smile ghosted across her lips but vanished before it could settle. “Yeah. Same,” she said again

And that was it. Silence returned with a vengeance, awkward enough it practically had its own zip code. You couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable because she hated you or because you’d made a complete fool of yourself the night before. Probably both.

Mercifully, the producer called for quiet as the interview began, and you were pardoned from your suffering. The interview was simple enough, questions about training, group dynamics, upcoming releases: stuff you were used to by now. You smiled when you were supposed to. You answered like you’d practiced. Always mindful of the camera.

But then the interviewer tilted their head, eyes flicking between you and Megan with a smile too curious for comfort, and you suddenly felt the creeping suspicion that everything was about to go downhill from here, “Megan and Y/N. You two are seated together today, a pairing we don’t usually see. Have you gotten closer recently? The fans are really curious.”

It was the kind of question meant to be harmless. We’ve always been close. Everyone is like family. Easy. Done. Perfectly on brand. But for you, it detonated on impact.

“Uh—no, not really,” you blurted, too fast, too honest. You winced. Great start. Management was going to be real happy about this one.

Megan straightened beside you, already in PR mode. “No—well, yes, actually,” she rushed to clarify. “I mean, we’re all close. Everyone in Katseye is like family. We’ve been spending time together after practices… and stuff.”

“Oh—right, yes,” you stammered, hoping desperately you could salvage your answer, “We are friends. I didn’t mean ‘not’ as in ‘not.’ We hang out. I go to Megan’s room all the time!”

You paused. Just a moment. Your brain caught up.

“Or—actually, not all the time. Just… sometimes. A normal amount. Like anyone would. Definitely nothing weird—no sharing beds or anything!” Haha. Why did you say that?

You were fumbling this. Bad. You knew it. And judging by the way Megan’s head whipped toward you, mouth falling open in pure horror, so did she.

“We don’t share a bed!” she blurted, alarmed. “That’s not—we just talk! After practice. About choreography. And… group things. Completely normal, totally platonic group things.”

From the other end of the couch, Lara let out a noise that might’ve been a snort or a cough or both. Daniela’s smile twitched, eyes flicking toward you.

You and Megan tried to talk at the same time. Jumbled sentences. Overlapping excuses. Too many words and not enough sense.

“Just—like—” “It’s not—”

The interviewer laughed and moved on, but the damage was done. You could already feel it: that clip was going to haunt you forever.

And sure enough, when the video went live, the internet did what the internet always does. It latched on and refused to let go. The clip of you and Megan babbling about not sharing a bed? Instantly viral. Set to every soft-focus romantic audio known to humankind. #MegY/N trending within the hour.

And the captions? Absolutely ruthless.

“They’re so bad at hiding it. I’m obsessed.” “Why did she even bring up sharing a bed unprompted? Suspicious!” “This is either a romance or the world’s most awkward friendship. Either way, I’m here for it.”

You turned off your phone. Buried yourself under your blanket. Tried not to scream into your pillows.

Everything was fine. Totally fine. Just a crush you hadn’t gotten over and a ship name you didn’t ask for.

Perfect.

—

As expected, management was all over it the next day. It was almost laughably predictable: pulled aside after rehearsal, muscles sore and clothes still damp with sweat, you and Megan were ushered into the small “quick chat” room like kids being sent to the principal’s office.

You exchanged a glance, hers tight-lipped and yours halfway between apology and panic, before following one of your managers inside.

He was already beaming, practically vibrating with excitement. “So, that little moment in the interview,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Fans are obsessed. You two are trending everywhere. It’s perfect for the group.”

You shifted uncomfortably, sweat cooling on your back. “Right,” you said, trying to sound casual. “We noticed.”

Megan gave a single, clipped nod, eyes fixed on the loose thread she was now aggressively unraveling on her sleeve. It was a miracle that the sweatshirt didn’t fall apart on the spot.

“Here’s the idea,” the manager continued, voice too chipper for your taste. ��Obviously, nothing you’re uncomfortable with. But you two? You’ve got this natural dynamic. We want to lean into that.”

You blinked. Natural. Right. “Lean into it how?”

“Nothing scripted,” he said. “Just... hang out. Get coffee. Wander around. Be friends in public. If fans spot you, great. If not, no big deal. Just... be yourselves, but maybe with a little extra awareness of the cameras. That cool?”

Your stomach gave a nervous twist, not liking where this was going, “So... you want us to play into the ship.”

“Exactly!” he said, hands clapping together like he’d just solved climate change, and not like he was suggesting borderline queerbaiting, “No pressure. Just visibility.”

You nodded, more in acknowledgement than anything. You did not want to do this. You really, really did not want to — “Yeah. Okay.” You heard yourself say, anyway.

Your manager gave you a satisfied grin. He turned to Megan. “And you?”

She hesitated, a beat longer than you had, before nodding. “Sure,” she finally said, voice level but far away. “That’s… fine.”

“Perfect!” You were pretty certain the man had never looked happier, watching as he all but skipped out of the room. “Can’t wait to see how it plays! And remember, you’re just selling the idea!” He was gone before you could get another word in.

You and Megan lingered behind for a second, neither of you quite believing what just happened. You turned towards the girl, hoping to catch her expression, but she simply gave you her signature tight, unreadable smile and a shrug, one that felt entirely too ingenuine.

“We… can figure something out later.” She muttered, low and rushed, before turning away and leaving.

You wanted to ask if she was really okay with this PR stunt, but the question caught somewhere behind your tongue and never made it out. The only thing you could do was sigh.

—

Later that night, you found yourself in Lara’s room again, flopped on her bed while she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone. Almost like you being here hadn’t been the cause of your current predicament—well, that and your own big mouth.

“Wow,” Lara said, smirking without looking up. “If I’d known fans would go this crazy for a sapphic relationship, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”

You shot her a flat look, not understanding how she could joke in a time like this, “This is serious, Lara. How could they ship me with Megan? We barely talk!”

“Well, the two of you certainly had a lot to say during that interview.” Lara responded, snickering as she came across yet another fan edit of MegY/N.

“I think my manifestation went wrong. It’s the wrong dancer, universe. It’s supposed to be me and Daniela, please. Me and Daniela.”

Lara cackled, tossing a pillow at your face. “Well, you didn’t exactly help with that ‘not sharing a bed’ comment.”

You groaned, muffling your face against the pillow with renewed conviction. “I swear, Megan probably thinks I’m an idiot. And worst of all, I might never have a chance with Daniela now.”

Lara raised an eyebrow. “Mmm, yes. I’m sure that’s why. Not, say... because Daniela’s straight.”

You shot her a dirty look. “I don’t know why I even come to you for help.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Because I’m the only one who’ll listen to your gay panic and still think you’re not a total loser? Because I’m wise beyond comparison? Who else would you even go to about your gay problems? Daniela—oh wait.”

You threw the pillow back at her. She caught it easily, one-handed, grinning.

“Oh come on, it could be worse.”

Your muffled ‘not really’ was met with a dip in the bed as Lara climbed in with you. “I mean, think of it this way. Maybe you and Megan actually get along. Maybe Daniela might even get a little jealous.”

The idea made your ears perk and you sat up a little. “You think?”

Lara immediately burst out laughing. “No! She’s straight.”

You collapsed back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “I’M TRYING TO FORGET THAT.”

Yeah. You were in deep.

—

You had half hoped the whole MegY/N situation would blow over before management decided to chase you down for more content. But it was funny how long a 20-second clip of you and Megan babbling about not sharing a bed could keep the gay eyekons fed. And it wasn’t long before management sent both of you a “reminder” to hang out (code for give us something to work with). Not explicit, but heavily implied.

And with your luck, the “hang out” immediately started on the wrong foot. You’d mixed up the meeting time and ended up arriving at the café a full half hour late. For ten minutes, you’d paced outside, pretending you weren’t checking your phone every two seconds. Meanwhile, Megan had been there early, sitting inside, convinced you’d stood her up. When you finally rushed in, flushed and apologetic, she gave you a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Now you were perched on a rickety stool in a coffee shop, staring at Megan across the wobbly table. You wondered if it was possible for a coffee shop to be too curated. Everything looked like it had been picked out of a Pinterest board: tiny succulents in mason jars, handwritten chalkboard menus, and baristas who looked like they had deep thoughts about oat milk.

Megan looked like she was part of a magazine spread herself. Perfectly straight posture, hair tucked behind her ear, expression calm and polite. Too polite. You couldn’t tell if she was genuinely uncomfortable or just very good at pretending she wasn’t.

“So,” you said, grasping for anything to keep the conversation alive. “This place is… cute, right?”

She glanced around, her eyes flicking over the hanging Edison bulbs and carefully distressed furniture. “Sure,” she said, her voice so neutral it could have been a compliment or a eulogy.

You tried again. “I read somewhere they roast their own beans. Or something. I don’t really get coffee stuff, but it’s supposed to be fancy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, just slightly. “You don’t get coffee stuff?” she repeated.

“I’m more of a ‘whatever’s cheapest’ kind of person,” you admitted, heat rising in your cheeks. That did not sound cool. “But I thought it would be a good place for… you know. The whole PR thing.”

She was quiet for a beat, fingers idly fidgeting with the cardboard sleeve on her cup. “Do you come here a lot, or did you just find it on some blog?”

You let out a relieved laugh. “Definitely a blog. My entire knowledge of ‘cool places’ is secondhand from other people’s Instagram stories.”

A small, genuine laugh escaped her then. It was soft, but it cracked the careful politeness she’d been wearing like armor. “At least you’re honest,” she said.

“Yeah, well, honesty’s the only thing I’m good at,” you responded, half joking but mostly sincere.

She looked at you for a long moment, her gaze steady and a little too intense. Then she took a breath. “You’re good at a lot of things,” she said quietly, so softly you almost didn’t catch it.

Your heart did a weird little flip, but before you could figure out what to say, she straightened up and the moment was gone. Silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy.

You cleared your throat. “So… I read somewhere that silence between people who don’t know each other is more awkward than between people who do. Does that mean we’re not friends, or…?”

Her lips curved, like she was trying not to laugh. “Are you really trying to turn this into a social experiment?”

You threw your hands up. “I’m desperate here! I don’t want management to think we’re hostages in a coffee shop. They might make us redo this whole thing.”

That got a real laugh out of her, one that brightened her eyes and made you feel like maybe you weren’t completely failing. “Alright,” she said. “Maybe we should change the setting.”

“Change of scenery?” you asked, hopeful.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here before I end up memorizing the entire chalkboard menu,” she said, finally pushing her cup away.

You jumped up like you’d been waiting for permission. “Arcade? There’s one a few blocks away. More neon, less… quiet.”

She gave you a small nod. “Let’s go.”

The arcade was everything the coffee shop wasn’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetically alive. The air buzzed with the scent of popcorn and electricity, neon lights blinking like they were trying to communicate in Morse code, and some ancient pop song pounded through blown-out speakers. It was the kind of overstimulation that felt, oddly, like peace. Here, silence wasn’t expected, and small talk didn’t matter.

Megan’s shoulders eased, just a little, as she watched you flit from machine to machine like a kid on too much sugar. There was something quietly fond about the way she trailed after you. Like she was letting herself get pulled into your orbit.

“Look at this one,” you said, stopping in front of a claw machine. Inside, a small lion plush was pressed tragically against the glass, its stitched eyes wide with betrayal. It was the kind of thing you knew Daniela would love. You pointed dramatically. “I have to win this.”

Megan raised an eyebrow, amused. Clearly not as captivated by the lion as you were, “Seriously? That thing? You’re really going to spend all your money on that?”

“Absolutely,” you said, already digging through your pockets for change like a woman possessed.

Megan just hummed, clearly filing that little fact away somewhere deep in her mental archives. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

You did not, in fact, have anything.

Your first attempt was a disaster. The claw swerved dramatically to the left, missed the plush by a full plushie-length, and slammed into the bottom of the machine with a metallic thud.

“Wow,” Megan deadpanned. “Inspiring.”

“I was testing the calibration!” you insisted. “That was a warm-up round.”

It didn’t get better. Try after try, the claw juked away from the lion like it was in a rom-com and the timing just wasn’t right.

After the fifth failed attempt, you groaned in despair and handed Megan the last few coins. “I’m cursed. You do it.”

She looked skeptical. “You really want me to waste your money too?”

“Maybe you’re secretly a claw machine prodigy,” you said, already stepping back with a flourish. “Let’s see what you’ve got, champ.”

She rolled her eyes, but took the coins. Her fingers brushed yours for just a second—barely enough to register, but still enough to make your stomach do a dumb little flip.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m blaming you when this goes horribly wrong.”

“I’ll take full financial responsibility,” you said solemnly.

As she lined up the claw, your phone buzzed. One glance at the screen made your stomach clench.

Dani: Where are you? We’re supposed to be going over the new routine.

You winced. Crap.

You: Sorry! I forgot. PR assignment. I’ll catch you up later.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, guilt gnawing at your chest. You didn’t know how you had even let the rehearsal slip your mind: not when it was you and Daniela’s thing. But the morning had been so hectic with trying to meet up with Megan that you’d gotten lost in the chaos.

Daniela would understand. Right?

You shook the thought off and looked back to Megan—who was now engaged in what could only be described as psychological warfare with the claw machine.

Her jaw was set, her brows knit together in intense concentration. She muttered to herself like she was casting a spell and jabbed the joystick like she was ready to pick a fight. You watched as her claw missed the lion, and she smacked the side of the machine hard enough to make it groan.

“This piece of trash,” she growled, shoving in another coin. “Come on, you useless tin can.”

You blinked. Had she just growled?

“Whoever built this thing deserves to be haunted by every plush it’s ever eaten,” she muttered. “I will curse your bloodline. I will end your legacy. I will make you pay.”

You watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated. You’d never seen Megan like this: so alive, so real. So far away from the awkward, always impersonal Megan she was around you. It was… kind of adorable.

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “This machine is rigged, and I will burn it down with my mind.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, Megan almost looked embarrassed. Almost. But the fire in her eyes didn’t dim.

“You’re really… passionate about this aren’t you,” you said, hands raised. “It’s kind of cute.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, you wanted to crawl into the claw machine and live there forever. It wasn’t like Megan could you drag you out of there, anyways.

Megan flushed. Her cheeks actually turned pink. You half expected her to ignore your comment, or maybe roll her eyes in response. But to your surprise, she didn’t look away.

“You’re weird,” she finally said, quietly.

You smiled, not apologetic, just honest, “Well. Takes one to know one, I guess,”

And for the first time that day, she cracked a real smile—really smiled. Not the polite, press-trained half-curve, but something warm and real and almost shy.

You pulled out your phone and snapped a photo before you could overthink it: the two of you standing in front of the cursed claw machine, Megan still a little pink-faced, you grinning like a maniac, and the lion still tragically out of reach.

You sent it to the team group chat with the caption: $70 and no lion, but at least we didn’t kill each other.

Megan looked at the photo, then at you. “Think that’s enough to keep management happy?”

You grinned. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you think we look like idiots in that photo?”

“Yes, we absolutely do.”

And for the second time that day, Megan smiled back, no polite pretense, no carefully practiced grin. Just a real smile. And you thought, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

—

You returned to your room that evening, feeling a strange mix of relief and giddiness humming under your skin. Your cheeks still ached from laughing too hard, your stomach from too much terrible pizza and even worse soda. The day had started with you wanting to melt into the floor, but somehow, against all odds, you and Megan had clawed (literally) your way into something almost… fun.

You were still turning that thought over in your head when you stepped inside to find Daniela sitting cross-legged on her bed, her laptop perched on her knees.She looked up immediately, eyes sharp with mischief.

“Well, well,” she said, her grin downright devilish. “There’s the cheater.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Cheat on you? Never.”

Daniela rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t budge. “You sure about that? Because according to the internet, you and Megan are in a very committed relationship.”

She spun the laptop around.

You crossed the room, curiosity getting the better of you, and leaned in to see. Sure enough, there they were: blurry photos of you and Megan at the café, the arcade, even a few of you walking in the park afterwards, all carefully captioned with things like “MegY/N in the wild?” and “soft couple vibes???”

There were even a few that made you laugh.

“Y/N touching grass?” “Rare shut in spotted.”

Those not so much.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God. How do they even find us?” You and Megan hadn’t seen a single fan the whole day, and you’d been trying. Turns out, you didn’t have to.

Daniela chuckled, low and amused. “You’re famous, remember? Our fans have eyes.” She glanced back at the screen. “You two looked like you were having fun, though.”

“Yeah,” you paused. “It actually… wasn’t too bad. Megan wasn’t how I expected.”

“Oh?” Daniela’s voice was light, but you thought you heard something else, something just below the surface. She tilted her head, studying you like she was trying to see past your words. “That’s good.”

But there was something in the way she said it that made you pause. Just a slight shift in her tone. A note you couldn’t name. You looked up at her. Her expression was still open, still warm, but suddenly you couldn’t quite read her. If there was anything else there, it was buried under that easy smile.

You leaned in a little, still peering at the laptop, and didn’t realize how close you’d gotten until your arms were braced on either side of her legs. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin and for a second the world felt very small and very warm, just the two of you pressed close together, breathing in the same pocket of air.

And then Daniela spoke, breaking the spell with a soft smile. “So the date went well?”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, the tension slipping away like water. “Gods, no. It started as a complete disaster,” you said, shaking your head. “Like, I was late, and Megan was there all early and composed and just… totally not impressed. I thought she was going to kill me.”

Daniela laughed, a bright, familiar sound that always made the air feel lighter. “I can’t even picture Megan wanting to murder anyone. She seems so… calm.”

“You’d think,” you said, grinning now. “But then we got to the arcade and something snapped. She went full gremlin mode over this claw machine. Like—threat-level. I thought she was going to break the glass.”

Daniela tilted her head, eyes dancing. “A gremlin?”

“She cursed at it. Threatened the inventor’s bloodline. I was honestly afraid for my life.”

Daniela shook her head, still smiling. “Sounds like you had an eventful day.”

“Yeah.” You glanced at her, softer this time. “It was… a day.”

For a moment, the room settled into a gentle quiet. Not awkward, not tense. Just still. You watched her, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she was always so unapologetically her. It was easy, being around Daniela. Even when everything else was loud and confusing, she wasn’t.

But you knew better than to say anything. You weren’t here to blur the lines. You weren’t going to be that person. Not now. Not when she was still looking at you with that familiar, easy affection and no idea how badly you wanted it to mean something more, “What about you? Any major developments while I was out playing claw machine therapist?”

She rolled her eyes and shut her laptop with a click. “Just practice. Nothing exciting.”

“Sorry for missing our rehearsal.”

“It’s okay.” Her voice was light, but not dismissive. “You can make it up to me some other time.”

You gave her a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed, and for a moment, you let yourself have this—just the sound of it, just the feeling of her next to you, just the impossible, ridiculous hope curling somewhere low in your chest.

Even if it didn’t mean anything to Daniela.

—

The weeks after that day blurred together. Management had seen the fan frenzy from that first outing and decided to run with it. Every live stream seating chart seemed to get suspiciously shuffled until you and Megan were always next to each other. In group pictures, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder, and you had a sneaking suspicion that every “team-building exercise” was really just an excuse to get more MegY/N moments on camera.

But you didn’t mind. Not really. Because somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a PR stunt and started feeling… easy.

At first, it was just the little things. Like how Megan would lean in a little closer than she had to when you showed her something on your phone, her head tilting in that curious way that made your breath catch for no good reason. Or how she’d laugh at your dumb jokes, not the polite, clipped laugh she gave strangers, but the real kind that made her shoulders shake and her eyes squint shut.

You discovered that Megan was so much more than the polite, reserved girl you’d thought. She was spontaneous in the weirdest, best ways. She’d drag you out of the dorm on a rainy night just because she had a sudden craving for convenience store ramen, and you’d end up in a cramped little shop at midnight, eating noodles straight out of the cup and trying not to wake the sleeping neighborhood with your laughter. She’d burst out laughing at the worst times, her giggles turning into tears like you’d unlocked some secret level of her. She’d turn group practice breaks into impromptu karaoke contests, belting out songs in a voice that was way better than yours but somehow didn’t make you feel small.

And in those moments, it struck you how different it felt from Daniela.

Daniela was all warmth and quiet reassurance. The kind of person whose laughter was like a promise: bright, steady, soft around the edges. With Daniela, you felt grounded, safe. Like no matter how badly you stumbled, she’d be there to catch you with a smile and a gentle hand.

Megan was different. She was loud in all the ways that counted, and she pulled you along with her. She was unafraid to be ridiculous, to be too much. She made you feel alive, like you were burning bright and fast and somehow it was okay to let the world see you that way.

And you loved it. You loved how she didn’t look at you like you were weird when you started rambling about the conspiracy theories you’d read online. You loved how she didn’t care if you babbled about random facts or threw out terrible puns, instead choosing to match you word for word, joke for joke, always a willing accomplice in your nonsense.

It got to the point where you couldn’t even remember why you’d been scared of her. Megan wasn’t intimidating or distant; she was a puppy in human form, all bright eyes and wagging tail. She was so full of life it made your chest ache in the best way.

But it wasn’t always like that. Megan had her quiet moments too. There were days when the light in her eyes dimmed, when she’d retreat into herself like she was drawing her energy inward to keep from burning out completely. She never said anything was wrong, but you could feel it in the way her shoulders curled inward, in the way she’d let her phone sit silent and forgotten beside her.

At first, you didn’t know what to do with those moments. With Daniela, quiet moments were natural, comforting. But with Megan, it felt like a puzzle. You’d crack another joke, try to fill the quiet like you always did, but it didn’t always land. So you learned to stop pushing. You’d sit with her, shoulders pressed together, your own chatter quieting to a gentle hum. Sometimes you’d hand her your phone and let her swipe through memes in silence. Sometimes you’d just sit there, your foot nudging hers every so often to remind her you were still there.

One night after a group live, you both ended up on the practice room floor, backs pressed against the mirrored wall. Megan had her head tipped back, eyes closed, and for a long while neither of you said a word.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice careful.

She cracked one eye open and smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

You didn’t push. You just offered her a quiet smile and let the moment sit between you.

It became a rhythm. Loud and soft. Bright laughter and quiet spaces. You’d match her giggles with your own when she was on, and you’d match her stillness with your own when she was off.

And it was in those moments that you realized how much you’d started to care.

It had been after an impromptu photoshoot at the park (complete with management’s not-so-subtle “just look natural” stage directions), you found yourselves sprawled out on a patch of grass, the late afternoon sun turning Megan’s hair into gold. She was quiet again, her fingers absently tracing patterns in the grass.

You reached over and plucked a blade of grass from her hair. “You’ve got a whole ecosystem in there,” you teased, “I think I saw a ladybug crawl in.”

She cracked a smile, small but real. “I’m going to pretend you’re kidding, for my own sake.” she said, her voice warm but tired.

You just grinned and let your hand rest there for a second, fingers brushing her hair before you pulled back. “Don’t worry, I redirected all the insects away.”

It was silly. And dumb. And ridiculous. And it didn’t matter.

Megan laughed, eyes squinting and teeth showing, her whisker dimples appearing. And your own smile was inevitable.

You knew it in that moment and every other after: you were so, incredibly screwed.

The universe was laughing at you now.

two direction for this story to go, pick your poison

Read the Supplements:

⁺ Daniela is not in love

⁺ Megan is not in love

+ Part 2

listen to. n/a. wrote this with a can of Celsius and a dream

#katseye x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #charwritez

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