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whoevenisjavier · 2 months ago

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a prize i’d cheat to win

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.

part 2 here

a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.

w/c: 9k

Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.

That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.

But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.

The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.

The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.

You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.

Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.

And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.

Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.

Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?

The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”

He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.

Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood — on the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.

It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. They gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.

In the end, he liked it. You know he did.

Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.

So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.

Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.

He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.

“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”

And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.

But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.

Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.

“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”

“Yeah? Did you like it?”

You nod, excited.

“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”

Harry gives a quiet grunt.

“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”

“Just a moment.”

You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.

“I can go.”

“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”

You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:

“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”

He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.

“Thank you. And I know.”

He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.

And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.

The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.

“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.

“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”

You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”

“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”

The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:

“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”

By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.

The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.

You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.

Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.

“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”

Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.

Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.

Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:

“Harry, I’m not—”

“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.

You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.

Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.

The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:

“So?”

And the show begins.

The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.

The chain’s administrator, a short man in a tight suit, is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.

The man immediately falls silent.

“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”

The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.

“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”

“Mr. Castillo…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”

The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:

“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”

“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.

The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:

“Yes, we are.”

You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.

“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”

Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.

“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.

A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.

“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”

More silence.

Harry concludes:

“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”

Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.

It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.

Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.

Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.

“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”

“They sent it late?”

“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”

Harry plays along, whispering back:

“A corporate scandal.”

The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.

“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”

The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.

“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”

He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:

“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”

“Rare.”

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Obviously.”

Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.

Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.

You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.

“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”

“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”

“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”

Your brows lift.

“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”

You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.

She fires back:

“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”

You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.

“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”

She hangs up on him.

You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.

“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.

“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”

Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.

“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”

It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.

“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.

He shuts that down quickly.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“What about him?”

Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.

“Is he okay sharing you with me?”

Your hands freeze mid-motion.

“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”

“Of course.”

The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.

“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”

Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.

“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”

You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.

“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”

“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”

“With who?”

“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”

“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”

“I will.”

You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.

Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.

“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.

“I know you can.”

“Why not take a vacation?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”

“Really? Why?”

“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”

“Definitely not. Waste of money.”

You snap your fingers and point at him.

“Exactly what I said!”

“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”

Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.

“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”

You do the math.

“Three years and two months.”

“Has he proposed?”

Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:

“Can I grab a ginger ale?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:

“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”

“Can I ask why?”

You shrug.

“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”

“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”

“You love your wife.”

“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.

“I do.”

“Okay, but?”

“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”

Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.

“Harry.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”

“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”

“Maybe.”

Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.

“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”

You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.

“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”

He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Not your fault.”

As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.

“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”

Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:

“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”

“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.

There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.

His muscles are rock solid.

“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”

Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.

“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”

You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.

“This okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Keep going.”

You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.

“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“And it still feels fucking incredible.”

He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.

Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.

“There should be an engagement ring here.”

“Maybe.”

“If you get married, would you still work with me?”

“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”

“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”

“You are.”

God. His scent is going to kill you.

“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”

“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”

“What? Why?”

Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.

“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”

“You don’t care?”

“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”

Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.

“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”

“So when we stay late working together—”

“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”

Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.

“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”

“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”

The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:

“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”

He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:

“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”

“You just got a 10% pay cut.”

You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.

The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.

“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”

“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”

You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.

Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.

“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”

As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.

The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.

There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.

You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.

“I sent it,” you say.

“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”

“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”

“I might not answer.”

“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”

Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“People talk.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”

That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.

“I don’t” you say finally.

He laughs, incredulous.

“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”

“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.

Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.

“I have my morals,” he says.

“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”

God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.

“Makes? Present tense?”

His quiet laugh is almost bitter.

“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”

You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:

“Even on nights like this one?”

He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Don’t do this.”

That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.

That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.

“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”

You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.

But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.

“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.

“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”

“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be.”

At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.

“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”

“Is that a command?” you challenge.

Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.

His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.

“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”

You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.

But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.

“I want a kiss first.”

Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.

You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.

But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.

Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.

He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.

The curse he whispers makes you smile.

“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”

Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.

You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.

Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.

His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.

With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.

Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.

That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.

It earns you a low, guttural curse.

Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.

And then just one question slices through the haze:

“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”

You narrow your eyes.

There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.

But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.

You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:

“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”

Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.

“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”

“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”

“Do you want to?”

He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.

That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.

Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”

“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”

He gets it.

“Can I?”

“You can.”

Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.

“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”

“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”

You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I want details.”

“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”

“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”

When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.

“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”

You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.

“And…” you press.

“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:

“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”

“While thinking of me.”

Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:

“While thinking of you.”

Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.

You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.

Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.

“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”

Well. Okay.

Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."

“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.

“Please.”

He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.

“Harry, I need to—”

“I know.”

You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.

You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.

“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”

He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.

It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.

You look down at him and say:

“We’re going to hell.”

He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.

“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”

“Okay.”

“And now?”

“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”

Harry sighs your name.

“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”

You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.

The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.

As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:

“It’s only nine-forty.”

“Hm?”

“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”

You look up at him, and he adds:

“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”

You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.

You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.

Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.

“I’ll wait for you in the garage,” you tell him.

#harry castillo x reader #harry castillo #harry castillo imagine #harry castillo fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfiction #mine

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buckiverse · 5 months ago

Text

☆ warnings: mdni, this is literally just a cock analysis for sylus, zayne, and caleb

☆ a/n: SYLUS HOLD MY HAND—CALEB IS ABOUT TO DRAG ME AWAY!

rafayel and xavier ver.

S8GSBTV - #b0685a

As we all know, Sylus is tall, with a broad, muscular frame and an imposing set of shoulders. He’s strong—insanely strong. The man boxes, for god’s sake. I would hate to take a liver shot from him; he might accidentally send me straight to the afterlife. He’s in phenomenal shape, with stamina to match—because, of course, it’s a requirement for his sport.

And his cock? Well, it follows suit. A solid eight inches (20.32 cm), and yes, he’s a shower. I mean, have you seen that perfect print in his pants??? He doesn’t even know where to put all that. It’s big—long, thick, girthy. No wonder he has a size kink. And let’s be real, so do you. The stretch is delicious, always leaving you working to take him all the way.

The head? A deep, rich brown (go look at the hex code <3). His pubic hair? Trimmed, but left a little longer—just how he likes it. And side note? He loves when you do the same. Says he wants to "explore the jungle." Oh, and let’s not forget: it’s straight and a slightly darker gray than his hair. Perfection.

And the veins—the veins. His cock is thick with them, pulsing, prominent. The most sensitive part? That sweet little slit. Run your tongue along it, and he will hiss, grip your hair, and growl something like, “Don’t do that unless you want me to come in your mouth, kitten.”

And, of course, you’ll keep doing it anyway. Hehehe.

Z7LSLCGBPLT - #9C524F

As we all know, Zayne is tall, with a lean yet well-built frame and broad shoulders. He’s strong—moderately muscular—but more refined in his strength. Being a doctor, he has a natural responsibility to stay in shape and take excellent care of himself.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven point three inches (18.542 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might be deceiving at first, but don’t be fooled—it’s big. Not just long, but with an ideal girth. The best part? It leans slightly to the left, and when he’s inside you, he knows how to move his hips just right, angling to hit that perfect, sensitive spot.

The head? A beautiful brownish pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low—because he understands the importance of keeping some. He’ll never go completely bare, and honestly? He prefers when you don’t either. And yes, it’s perfectly straight.

Unlike some, his cock isn’t overly veined—but what it lacks in texture, it more than makes up for in sensitivity. The head? Insanely responsive. Pull back his foreskin, drag your tongue along his frenulum, and just like that, he might lose control—maybe even come all over your face.

C7GGPTV - #DF9796

As we all know, Caleb is tall, with a lean yet powerfully built frame. He’s easily the most muscular of the bunch—his body honed to perfection. Being a fighter pilot demands peak physical fitness, not just for endurance but for absolute control in the cockpit.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven inches (17.78 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might not always give it away, but trust—it’s big. Long, with just a bit more girth than average, making every inch of it something to savor.

The head? A gorgeous pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low for convenience, though he’ll go completely bare if that’s what you prefer. Naturally, though, he keeps it neat, with a slight, loose curl to it.

And let’s talk about that vein. A single, prominent one that runs up the length of his pretty shaft—one he loves when you trace with your tongue. Oh, and let’s be clear—he’s uncut. Don’t care, won’t argue on that point <33

☆

btw this is what the codes mean (excuse my behavior because now that I actually typed it out i realize how crazy i look rn):

S8GSBTV: sylus-8inch-girthy-shower-brown-trimed-veiny

Z7LSLCGBPLT: zayne-7inch-left slant-long cock-grower-brownish pink-light trim

C7GGPTV: caleb-7inch-grithy-grower-pink-trimed-veiny

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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

Text

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. “Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

2K notes · View notes

atomicami · 3 months ago

Text

while my heart heals…

ceo!sevika x fem!reader

- summary: you’re in a whirlwind when you and your boss catch your boyfriend with her fiancée in the act together. the heartbreak starts to affect your performance at work, and as a result, you decide to take a leave of absence so you can heal properly. but when your boss catches you handing the letter onto her desk, she ends up giving you some unexpected comfort—followed by a proper farewell.

- content: smut MDNI, modern au, corporate setting, NYC living (for now), reader works in sales, reader is dating jayce (only in the beginning), mel and sevika are engaged, age gap (reader is early-mid 20s, sevika is early-mid 40s), secret love affairs, infidelity/cheating followed by breaking up, hurt/comfort, porn with plot, fingering (r!receiving), semi-public sex (they do it in the office!), sevika being a tease and talking you through it, cockblocking, and also everyone is filthy rich in this

- author’s note: can’t stop thinking about getting with rich ceo sevika so i decided to write this out. i hope y’all like it!

“sometimes i don’t even know where i’m going but i’ll never forget where i come from i know who i am and who i will be and that’s why i have faith in myself”

(this fic is crossposted on ao3)

The rain hasn’t let up all day.

Thick, gray clouds spread across the sky, the city being consumed by the downpour. You barely notice it, though—your mind is still at the office, stuck between unfinished paperwork and the weight of another long day.

You’d expect to be home after your shift, and you did…only to end up getting ready to leave the house again later that evening.

It was for some corporate event. A birthday celebration for an executive, or was it a fundraiser? You hadn’t paid much attention to it when it was brought up in last week’s meeting. Frankly, it was the last thing you’d want to be doing after a long workday like this.

And yet, here you are—back home, standing in front of the mirror, completely unaware of what the night has in store.

You’ve lost count of the outfit changes you’ve given yourself in the past hour. No one really specified what the dress code was for the event—so in the end, you simply resorted to a crimson piece that hung in your closet, blended in with the rest of your outfits.

The dress hugs your figure beautifully. It was sleek and elegant, but you barely feel like yourself in it. It’s not like you don’t like dressing up—on the contrary, you actually enjoy it, especially given that your clothes have now taken up space on your boyfriend’s side of the closet as well. But with the weight of today and this entire week overall, the exhaustion consuming you was making it harder to pretend that you want to be at this party at all.

Your phone buzzes beside you, the text message from Jayce lighting up the screen indicating that he was here.

You exhale through your nose, finishing the touches on your makeup before smoothing down the fabric of your dress. It’s not that anything’s wrong. Jayce has been nothing but kind and thoughtful to you. He’s said all the right things and treated you like royalty for the past two years of your relationship with him. But lately, there’s been something…off. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You shake the thought of it away, grabbing your coat and clutch before heading out the door. It’s just one night, right?

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘

It was only a ten minute ride to the hotel, but for some reason you felt like the ride dragged out longer. Maybe it was because of the downpour of rain, or the evening traffic, as it always is in New York—or maybe it was just your lingering anxieties about showing up to an event like this. As the top saleswoman in Hexcorp, and now the girlfriend to one of the CEOs, you can’t help but feel the pressure of having to make the best impression all the time.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the valet opens the car door for you, and Jayce steps out first, immediately offering you his hand as if he’s effortlessly playing the part of a perfect gentleman. You force a small smile and take his hand, stepping carefully onto the slick pavement as the two of you walk through the revolving door.

The inside of the hotel is a stark contrast to the gloom outside. It was elegant, with warm golden lights, crystal chandeliers, and the soft hum of music on the piano surrounding you the moment you entered. The air is thick with chatter and laughter as well dressed attendees mingle around with cocktails in hand.

Jayce keeps a steady hand on the small of your back as you both make your way deeper into the crowd, guiding you toward familiar faces. His touch is warm, but something about it feels…off. Too careful. Too practiced.

“Should we grab a drink?” he asks, yet he is already steering you towards the bar. You nod at his offer anyway, but your eyes wander.

And then you see her—your other boss.

Sevika.

Tall, broad, and impossible to miss, even in a room full of elites. She’s right across the bar, her suit tailored to perfection—coincidentally, it also was crimson, the same shade as your dress. The deep red fabric molds to her muscular frame, sharp lines hugging her body in all the right places. The top button of her shirt is undone, just enough to tease what lies underneath, and her posture is relaxed as ever, radiating effortless control. Her prosthetic arm gleams under the soft light, the intricate metal plating a sharp contrast to the rich fabric of her suit.

But she’s not alone.

Standing beside her is her fiancée, Mel Medarda.

But she doesn’t just stand there—she owns the space around her. A beautiful vision draped in a sleek, skin tight white gown that hugs her curves as if it were painted on. Gold jewelry glitters around her neck, and her perfectly manicured fingers rest lightly on Sevika’s arm in primal possession. And she sure doesn’t fail to show off the ring—a massive, dazzling marquise cut diamond perched proudly on her ring finger, glistening under the lights. Her skin glows alongside it, her rich brown complexion flawless, and her signature smirk tugs at the corners of her lips as if she knows every single person in the room is looking at her. As if she knows you’re looking at her.

That’s Mel Medarda for you. International supermodel. A walking fantasy who managed to get engaged with Sevika.

Your stomach twists, and you force yourself to look away before either of them can catch you staring. But your eyes betray you.

Because they find their way back to Sevika and Mel.

And Sevika?

She’s already looking at you.

You’re quick to pull your gaze away from Sevika’s, heart pounding a little harder than it should be. You’re not sure how long you’ve been staring, but the tension lingers in the air long after you look away.

A familiar hand wraps around yours, fully pulling you out of your thoughts as you look back up to see Jayce nudging a glass of champagne into your hand. “Come on, let’s make the rounds.” he urges gently.

You nod with a distracted smile as you take the glass of champagne and follow alongside him, but the memory of Sevika’s striking gray eyes on you stays in the back of your mind.

An hour passes, but you feel like you’ve been here for an eternity already. You’re forcing yourself to smile as one of your coworkers goes on about the latest sales report. You’ve been hearing about it for the past hour, but you’re barely listening. Your mind keeps drifting back to when you first saw Sevika and Mel at the bar. Something about the way Sevika’s eyes lingered on you still makes your heart race.

“Great numbers this quarter,” your coworker continues, pulling you back to reality. “You’ve really outdone yourself with the new client investment. They’re already asking about you by name.”

You nod absently, pretending to care as your eyes scan the around room for any sign of Jayce. He’d been glued to your side all evening, but now you can’t seem to find him at all.

“Thank you,” you say, shaking them off politely. “I’ll follow up with the clients about it tomorrow.”

They simply smile back before walking off to engage with another coworker. You take another sip of your champagne as your eyes continue to search the room. Your attention shifts as you overhear another conversation between two other coworkers near the bar, talking about next quarter’s sales targets. As the company’s top saleswoman, you’re used to these conversations being centered around you. They look over at you with admiration, always taking mental notes on your strategies and approach.

“She really knows how to close a deal.” one of them says. “She’s a shark.”

The compliment barely registers in your head. All you could do was smile, too distracted by the fact that Jayce was nowhere to be seen.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, sliding past them as you start to brush through the crowd.

The search feels longer than it actually is. You weave through the crowd, giving polite smiles and dodging conversations as you slip through groups of colleagues and executives. The music and laughter fill the air, but none of it gets to you. Your mind is fixated on one thing—finding where the hell your boyfriend is.

You try to be in denial about it, telling yourself that you’re just overreacting. Maybe Jayce just stepped outside to take a call or grabbed another drink at the bar. But deep down, that unsettling feeling refuses to leave your system. You finally reach the bar, but there’s no sign of him there.

“Have you seen Jayce?” you ask over to the coworker who sat there.

They blink, looking around before shaking their head. “Uh, no…not for a while. Maybe he stepped out?”

You give them a quick nod, muttering a quiet thanks before moving on, the knot in your stomach tightening even more. Your heels click faster against the marble floor as you move toward the quieter area of the venue, the noise and chatter slowly fading away with each step you take. Down the hall, a row of private rooms stretches ahead, each of them closed except for the very last one at the end of the hallway. You walk slower now, feeling the air get thicker with each step. You shouldn’t be anxious about this.

And yet…you are.

Your fingers brush against the smooth surface of the champagne glass in your hand, your grip tightening instinctively around the flute. You tell yourself to relax, but the words do nothing to alleviate you from the uneasiness that was settling into your bones.

And that’s when you hear it—muffled voices in a low and urgent tone. At first, you think it’s just another couple hidden away in the room for privacy. But something about these voices feels…familiar. Too familiar.

You take another step forward, your pulse pounding louder in your ears with each beat. Your stomach twists once more when you see the familiar head of jet black hair in your eyeline. The door is slightly ajar, and a warm light spills into the hallway. You hesitate, your grip getting tighter on the glass as you listen.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jayce mutters, his voice rough and raw. His head moves slightly, just enough for you to see a glimpse of her—a glimpse of Mel.

“And yet…” Mel replies, her voice soft and sultry as she pauses. “You keep coming back.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him, followed by his hand shifting through the open slit on Mel’s dress as he moves closer to her. “I can’t help myself,” Jayce murmurs, his voice lower now, filled with a kind of desire you’ve never heard from him. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Is that so?” Mel muses back, her voice laced with pure seduction. “Then why do you keep wasting time?”

Your heart sinks down to your stomach, body going rigid as the pieces fall into place. The way Jayce had been acting around you, all those ‘late nights’ he’d spend in the office—it all made sense now.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Jayce’s confession lingers in the air, his voice filled with desperation. “Even when I’m with her…all I think about is you.”

Your eyes widen in shock, your heart shattering as the champagne class trembles in your hand. It wasn’t just what Jayce had said, it was how he said it—straightforward, no hesitation whatsoever. There was no guilt. Just raw, unfiltered honesty, spoken so easily it feels like the knife was plunging deeper into your chest.

Like he never even cared.

You feel your fingers going numb on the glass as the wave of realization crashes over you. The love, the trust, the loyalty—it makes you wonder if it had meant anything to him.

Or were you just convenient?

The thought burns in your brain, leaving an ache so deep that it makes it hard to breathe.

And yet, he doesn’t even notice.

“Jayce…we really shouldn’t…” Mel reminds him, her voice softer now.

He simply scoffs at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “Come on, Mel…you want this just as bad as I do.” he breathes out, and you hear the rustle of fabric between them—their clothes shifting as their bodies press closer.

And then—the kiss hits between them. It was slow, deep and desperate. Your vision blurs at the corners of your eyes, and you don’t even register the champagne flute slipping from your fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud shatter that echoes throughout the hallway. Tiny shards of glass surround your stiletto-covered feet, but you’re too frozen, too numb to even notice.

However, the shatter startles them both, causing them to freeze instantly, their lips pulling apart as the sharp echo rang through the room. Their bodies go rigid as they slowly turn their heads toward the doorway. Mel’s eyes widen, a panicked expression crossing her face. Jayce’s breathing quickens, his heart rate rising once he sees you. His hands, which had been all over Mel just moments ago, twitch slightly at his sides as he steps back, his eyes still not taking off of you.

“Jayce?”

Your voice was soft and shaky as his name escaped your lips, but it was enough to make them freeze as the realization hit them. His lips part, but no words come out at first. Mel’s eyes flicker between the two of you, her body shifting towards Jayce in hopes of hiding away.

“It’s…it’s not what it looks like,” he finally breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper, panic and guilt filling his tone. The words hang in the air, completely meaningless to you—but you don’t respond, you just can’t.

Because even as he said it—you know he’s clearly lying.

Mel hasn’t said a word. She’s too busy avoiding your gaze, her lips slightly parted as if she’s trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out. For a woman who’s career relies on confidence, she’s sure failing to show it at this exact moment.

You don’t move. Don’t blink. In fact, your mind doesn’t register anything else besides the scene that had unfolded in front of you. You don’t even notice the door now fully swung open beside you, or the sudden warmth that lingered right behind you. But you do see the shift in their faces—especially Mel’s—as the panic flashes deeper in her eyes.

“Mel?”

The name cuts through the air like a blade, and your stomach drops. That voice—deep, low, and now laced with pure fury—comes from behind you. Slowly, you turn around.

Sevika stands in the doorway now, her broad frame blocking out most of the light coming from the hall. Her expression is unreadable at first, but you can see how tightly her jaw is clenched as she tries, but fails to stay calm.

“Sevika…” Mel’s voice trembles, almost at the same level as Jayce.

But Sevika doesn’t respond. Not at first. Her eyes don’t leave Mel, dark with rage—as if she were a storm on the verge of breaking. Her presence looms behind you, grounding you in the chaos swarming around.

“What the fuck is this?” Sevika growls, her voice low and cold. Her eyes flicker between Mel and Jayce, taking in the way their bodies are still too close to each other. The way Mel’s hand lingered on Jayce’s chest before dropping down only heated the anger inside her even more.

It was her fiancée and her colleague—together, behind her back.

The room suddenly feels smaller to you now, almost suffocating. Your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curling into fists as an emotional mix of heartbreak and rage bubbles inside you. But your eyes stay locked on Jayce.

“How long?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it was loud enough to cut through the tension. Jayce’s jaw clenches anxiously. His eyes are widened in a mix of desperation and cowardice, pleading silently for your mercy. “Babe…” he murmurs softly, as if that name could fix what was already beyond repair.

“How long, Jayce?” you repeat. Your voice is louder the second time, more stern and forceful. Jayce’s mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. He hesitates, his eyes flickering over to Mel for a split second. Big mistake.

You see it, and so did Sevika.

“Answer her fucking question, Jayce.” Sevika growls behind you, her tone low, almost threatening. “Don’t make her ask again.”

Jayce stiffens, swallowing hard, and finally looks back at you, letting out an exhale of defeat before responding. “A…a year.”

Your stomach drops.

You force out a breath, still in shock and disbelief over what you had just heard. “A year?” you shake your head, letting out a humorless laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around with her for a year, and you have the fucking nerve to tell me that it’s not what it looks like?”

The tears start to build in your eyes, and Jayce steps forward, but you take a quick step back. “Don’t.” you snap, your hands shaking. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Sevika exhales sharply beside you, her arms crossed, trying to hold herself back. “This is fucking unbelievable,” she mutters, her eyes not leaving Jayce. “You’ve been lying to her for a year? And you…” her gaze snaps over to Mel. “What do you even have to say for yourself?”

Mel’s lips part, but no words come out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sevika lets out a laugh that was just as cold as yours. “I put a damn ring on your finger.”

Mel takes a step closer to her, a weak attempt in trying to redeem herself. “I-I had wanted to tell you—”

“Oh yeah?” Sevika scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “And when exactly were you going to tell me? After we got married?”

Mel’s lips part again, but the only sound that comes out is a shaky breath.

“What a fucking joke,” she mutters her gaze shifting between the two. “You’re both pathetic.”

Another shaky breath slips from Mel’s lips. “Sevika, darling please—”

“Save it.”

Sevika takes another step forward, her presence commanding the room. But this time, she doesn’t stop. Mel instinctively moves back, accidentally bumping into Jayce’s chest. His hands instinctively grab her shoulders to steady her, giving her a look of reassurance to make sure she was okay.

And that was the final straw for you.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head as the realization crashes down harder. This was never just a mistake.

You glance at Sevika, and when your eyes meet with hers, there’s a newfound connection between you both. Without another word, you turn on your heel, your chest still tight as you pass by the three of them and leave the room. Sevika follows right after, her heavy footsteps matching yours as you step over the shattered glass and out of the room, leaving them both in the mess of their own betrayal.

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The days that followed from the incident felt like a blur.

You throw yourself into work, burying yourself in reports, emails, and endless meetings. You figured it’d be easier that way—keeping busy. If your mind is constantly occupied, then there wouldn’t be any time to think about him, right?

But regardless, it was impossible to ignore.

Jayce keeps his distance from you, both inside and outside of work. He’s been staying somewhere else in the meantime, you’re not sure if it’s with Mel, or back in his large family estate, but frankly, you couldn’t care less about his whereabouts. As for the office, he doesn’t try to talk to you. No apologies. No explanations. Just…silence.

You didn’t want to admit it, but that alone hurts more than if he had tried.

Of course, you’ve still maintained your position in Hexcorp as top saleswoman, but even that feels empty to you now. Your numbers are still flawless, but the passion, the drive that used to push you forward in your career—it was gone. It honestly even makes you question why you’re still here in this building, or even New York as a whole. Deep down, it makes you wish that you could find yourself an escape from this.

And that sign was given to you just a couple of days ago.

You had broken the news to your parents over the phone. It was quite the shock to them—they’d mostly see you together with Jayce on holidays, but given how he always carried himself and the way he treated you, this was the last thing they ever expected.

But what hurt them the most was hearing just how broken you sounded when you told them.

“I just…I don’t get it,” your voice cracked, and you blinked back tears as your grip tightened on your phone. “How could he do this to me?”

“Oh, mija…I’m so sorry.” your mom’s voice had been soft when you told her, but it had the kind of heaviness that only came from a mother hearing her child in pain. You tried to keep your words to a minimum, tried to hold yourself together, but the more you tried to speak, the harder it was to keep you from breaking.

Your dad was silent for a moment before his voice came through the phone, steady but laced with a subtle hint of anger. “You know, I never liked that Talis boy to begin with.”

You can hear the soft tsk your mom gives to your dad, but you can hear the frustration in her voice too.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he grumbled, his tone softening after a second. “You deserve better, kid. So much better.”

There’s a quick pause before your mother speaks again. “Why don’t you go stay over at the beach house for a while?” your mom suggested gently, her voice warm and comforting. “Spend some time in Miami, clear your head. “Your relatives are close by if you need anything, and I’m sure your abuela would love to see you too.”

You pause for a moment to think over your mother’s suggestion. The beach house was your childhood escape—sitting along the Miami shore where the sun was always warmer and the waves would effortlessly wash your worries away. It was nothing like New York, where the chilly, heavy atmosphere was harder to breathe in.

However, you couldn’t risk the chances of losing your job for being gone for so long. But deep down, maybe this was what you really needed—a sweet escape, a place where you can truly heal your heart and ground yourself back to your roots.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You take a deep breath, nodding to yourself as your grip now relaxes on your phone. “You’re right,” you murmur softly, the words leaving your lips before you even realize it. “I could really use something like that right now.”

Your mother’s relieved sigh comes through the line, and your father’s quiet agreement follows right after. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she says gently. “You deserve a break from this, mija.”

“Hey, get some rest, alright?” your dad chimes. “And call us as soon as you get there.”

“I will,” you promise, voice barely above a whisper now.

The call ends with quiet goodbyes, leaving you now sitting in the dim, quiet space of the house you once shared with Jayce. The silence feels heavier here—every room still holds traces of the life you built together, yet it all feels so distant now.

You take a deep breath, reaching over for your laptop before bringing it onto your lap, and without a second thought, you book yourself a one-way ticket to Miami—far away from the chaos that was suffocating you in New York.

And once that’s done, there’s only one thing left to do—write out your leave of absence letter and leave it on Sevika’s desk first thing tomorrow morning.

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The next morning, the familiar buzz of the office surrounds you, but it all feels like background noise. You’re at your desk, staring blankly at your computer screen as you zone out into the unfinished spreadsheet on the screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Sevika step out of their shared office and head toward the conference room down the hall. You couldn’t help but keep your gaze on Sevika for a little longer. She looks composed on the outside, but you can see it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the quiet exhaustion in her eyes—she’s holding it together just like you. You look away before she notices you, swallowing down the ache in your chest as they leave.

Once you made sure they were gone, you clutch the letter into your hand as you push back your chair and stand. Your footsteps are quiet as you pass by your busy coworkers and make your way toward their shared office, the door left slightly ajar enough for you to slip inside. Your eyes land on Sevika’s side of the office, the dark wood of her desk reflecting the soft light filtering in through the windows. You take a step toward it, unfolding the letter in front of you to place it on her desk. However, you couldn’t help but notice the soft, navy velvet box quietly sitting on the surface. Your heart skips a beat, knowing exactly what it is without even having to open it.

The engagement ring.

Mel had already given it back.

The box is closed, yet the weight of what it holds feels heavy in the air. Your mind flashes back to that night, to the look on Sevika’s face when she saw Mel with Jayce together. The devastation in her eyes, masked by fury—seeing her hurt you more than when you had seen them. You let out a shaky breath, fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the edge of your letter, but before you can set it down—

“Leaving something for me?”

The deep, unmistakable voice sends a chill down your spine. You freeze, eyes widening as your body goes rigid. Your heart pounds in your chest as panic starts to settle into your bones.

Slowly, you turn around. Sevika stands in the doorway, her tall frame effortlessly filling the space around her. Her expression is unreadable, but her sharp eyes are locked on the letter in your hand.

“Sevika, I-I was just—”

Her brow arches slightly as she shuts the door and steps further into the office, her gaze not leaving yours.

“What’s that?”

Her voice is calm, but you couldn’t ignore the tension behind it. The panic continues to fill up inside you as you instinctively pull the letter closer to your chest, as if that was going to shield it away from her. “It’s…it’s nothing,” you murmur, but the crack in your voice betrays you. Her eyes narrow down to the paper in your hand, and before you can move her hand reaches out, flesh fingers brushing over yours as she gently but firmly takes the letter from your grip.

“Sevika, wait—”

But it’s too late. Her eyes scan the words on the page, her brows furrowing deeper with each passing second as she reads through the letter. You see her jaw tighten, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. “Leave of absence?” she asks, slowly setting the letter down and bringing her gaze back up to you. “You’re…you’re leaving?”

Your throat tightens, unsure of what else to say. “I was going to tell you,” you murmur softly, looking down at your feet, unable to meet her gaze. “I just…I need some time.”

“Why?”

You can hear the concern in her voice—a hint of vulnerability that you’ve never heard from her before. You finally look up, your eyes meeting hers. “Because I can’t do this anymore.”

Her eyes darken with uncertainty. “Do what?”

You swallow, heart painfully thrumming against your ribs. “Be here. Pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you don’t notice Sevika’s gaze softening when you look over to Jayce’s side of the office. “Jayce and I...We built a life together. And now, it’s gone.” Your voice cracks, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay as you look back at her. “Every corner of this place reminds me of what I just lost. I just…I need to get away. To breathe. To heal.”

Her jaw clenches, her eyes flickering away from yours for a moment. “It’s just…” She hesitates, running a hand down her face before exhaling a breath that sounds heavier than it should. “You’re my best saleswoman.” Her voice is quieter now, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

But it was never about the numbers. Not when it came to you. You know there’s more to it—something deeper. You can feel it in the way her gaze lingers on you, in the way her body gets just a little too tense, as if she’s holding something back.

“I’m not…” Your voice trails off to a sigh as you shake your head. “I’m not quitting, Sevika. I just need some time. Please.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you is heavy, the silence in the room stretching longer than it should.

“How long?” she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your blouse. “But I…I need this.”

Sevika doesn’t speak right away. Her expression is unreadable as she looks at you, but before you can process it—before you can say anything else—she moves toward you. Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into a firm but careful embrace.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sevika has never been the type of person to do gestures like this. She’s never been the comforting, reassuring presence in someone’s life—at least, not in this way. But right now, she holds you close to her like she’s afraid to let you go, like she knows how much you need this more than you do. Your eyes squeeze shut as you clutch the fabric of her suit jacket, your fingers curling into the cotton tightly to keep you grounded.

“I get it,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “Believe me, I do.”

Her words send another shiver down your spine, because she does get it.

Mel. The woman she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.

You exhale shakily, pressing your forehead against her shoulder. “Then you of all people should know why I have to go.”

Sevika’s arms tighten around you just for a second before she finally releases you, stepping back just enough to meet your gaze. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her jaw tight as she watches you carefully. “I know.”

But that doesn’t mean that she wants you to go. Her eyes still linger on yours, and something shifts between you. Sevika looks at you like she’s fighting a battle within herself—like she’s trying to hold herself back from doing something that she may—or may not regret.

“Sevika…” you whisper, your voice quiet enough to break the silence between you.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But her eyes—they tell you everything. You feel it before you see it—the way she leans in, her body instinctively drawn to yours like a magnet. It’s slow, almost hesitant, as if she's giving you an open chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hand drifts up, brushing lightly over her jaw. She tilts her head towards your palm, melting into your touch. Her eyes flutter shut for a brief movement before they open again—darker, filled with something you can’t describe.

And then, the distance between you two disappears. Her lips meet yours, and the world seems to fall away. The kiss is tentative at first, making you both afraid to take too much from each other. But the tension is quick to snap, and suddenly, the kiss deepens. Her flesh hand slides around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as she pulls you closer. The cool metal of her prosthetic rests against your waist, grounding you in the moment. Your body presses into hers, and you feel like this should be wrong, but it doesn’t. On the contrary, it feels…right. Like this is where you’re meant to be instead. It’s nothing compared to how you’ve felt with Jayce. You absolutely lose yourself in her—her touch, her taste, the way she holds you like you’re something precious. Like you’re exactly where she wants to be."

She finally pulls back, breathless and dazed, her forehead resting gently against yours. “I really don’t want you to go…” Sevika murmurs, the desperation in her voice tugging at your heart. Your thumb brushes along her jaw again, a bittersweet smile spread on your lips. “I know,” you whisper, eyes searching hers. “But I have to.”

“Well, in that case…” Sevika replies, her thumb lightly brushing over your bottom lip as her eyes darken with intent. Her lips curl into a sly smirk, her gaze burning into yours. “Let me give you a proper goodbye.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even think, her lips crash into yours again. Unlike the last one, this kiss is more desperate, filled with everything the both of you have been holding back for far too long. Her flesh hand grips your waist firmly, pulling you flush against her, while the hard press of her prosthetic along your hip sends a shiver through you. Her lips move with a hunger that makes your knees weak. But you couldn’t give in like this.

“Sevika…” you manage to breathe out her name between heated kisses, your lips barely parting from hers. But she hears it.

And as much as it kills you, you pull back. Your eyes meet hers—her pupils dilated with desire, but there’s hesitation filling in yours. “We…we can’t.” Your voice is shaky and uncertain. “Jayce and Mel…it isn’t right…”

Sevika doesn’t respond right away. Her forehead simply rests against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “No…” she murmurs softly, her voice low but firm. “They’re the ones who threw it all away. It’s their loss, not ours.”

Your eyes widen slightly as her words sink in, but she doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. Her gaze is more intense now, searching yours for any sense of doubt. But there’s something else in her eyes—something raw, vulnerable, and aching for you just as much as you ache for her. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, but there’s so much behind her words.

And in that moment, you know she’s right. The weight of the heartbreak, betrayal, and confusion still lingers, but now it all fades away with you being in her arms. Her lips claim yours once more, and the heat inside you ignites all over again. Her hands slide down your back, guiding you as she walks you backward across the room. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you don’t stop her. Not this time.

The edge of the desk presses against the backs of your thighs, and her hands are already pushing everything aside, sending papers and pens scattering to the floor. Sevika lifts you up effortlessly in one smooth motion, placing you on the desk as her lips refuse to leave yours.

However, neither of you realize where you’ve really ended up—Jayce’s desk.

But at this moment, with Sevika’s hands all over you and her lips claiming yours…none of it matters.

Sevika presses her body against yours, pinning you to the desk as she stands between your parted legs. You can feel every hard inch of her muscular frame, the heat of her skin radiating through her suit. Sevika pulls back slightly, her lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. You tilt your head back to give her better access, and a soft moan slips from your mouth once she nips at your pulse point, her teeth grazing your soft skin before she soothes the sting with her tongue.

You’re barely able to keep your balance on the desk, your breath shallow as her touch stirs something deep inside you. Your eyes dart to the closed blinds, the faint silhouettes of your coworkers just outside, completely unaware of what’s happening behind them. Your heart starts to race—not from desire, but from the undeniable risk of it all. It feels like you’re playing with fire, and yet…you can’t help but take the heat.

“S-Sevika,” you murmur, trying to steady your breathing. “We—someone could see—”

Sevika cuts your sentence off instantly with a hushed, teasing whisper. “Shh…” she breathes, her voice low. “If you stay quiet…then no one will know.”

She leans in, kissing you hard while her hand works quickly to unbutton your slacks, pushing them down to your ankles. “You need this, baby, I know you do.” Her voice is a low rasp, sending shivers down your spine that makes her see right through you. "Stop overthinking, and just let me take care of you.”

To emphasize her point, her flesh hand shifts from your slacks to underneath your blouse, her warm fingertips brushing over your stomach as it moves up north. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin lace of your bra. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching into her touch. Sevika takes advantage of this and trails kisses down your chest, pushing your blouse up as she goes. She tugs your bra down, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the office. Then, in an instant, she leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking and biting at the sensitive bud, eliciting a whine from your lips over the sensation. Her hand slides back down your stomach, fingers now toying with the waistband of your underwear. She looks up at you, waiting for your permission to continue, to which you nod in approval.

With that, she hooks her fingers and shifts your underwear to the side, exposing your pussy to her. She leans back, using two fingers to part open your puffy folds only to be taken aback by how wet you were. “God, baby…you’re this wet for me already?” she mutters, gently sliding her fingers through your wet slit. You reply to her with a whiny nod, gently rutting your hips against the pads of her fingers for more. She simply chuckles at your desperate pleas, gently inserting a finger into your hole but only to be surprised when she sees how you resist her single finger. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” she pants out, carefully trying to push more of her finger in. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the truth weighs heavier than the silence between you. “Too long…” you finally breathe, your voice barely a whisper. Your eyes trail away from her, a flash of frustration and sadness crossing your face. “Jayce…he hasn’t—” your words falter with a sudden gasp when Sevika pushes her finger farther inside you. She brings her metal hand up to your jaw, the smooth yet unyielding grip making you face her. “His loss,” she mutters, lips brushing against yours again. “How about you let me remind you how it’s supposed to feel, yeah?"

Sevika doesn't falter just yet, she starts to work her finger in and out of your tight cunt, slowly at first but gradually increasing force once you become used to the resistance. Her thumb meets with your clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub as she continues to pump her finger in and out of your pussy. You whine and begin to squirm and shake at the sensation, but Sevika is quick to slide her prosthetic hand on your waist, keeping you grounded onto the desk as the cool wooden surface presses against your skin. She then adds another finger in, scissoring them inside you as her thumb continues its assault on your clit. You whine at the stretch, unable to take it, but your body starts to betray you by giving the opposite response—sucking Sevika’s fingers further inside rather than resisting. The wet squelching sounds of her fingers plunging into your soaked cunt fill the office, mixing with your restrained whines and the harsh pants of her own breathing.

“S-Sevika,” you whine, trying to wriggle yourself away. “I-I can’t…t-too much…”

“Too much?” Sevika chuckles against your skin, her fingers still working into your cunt. “Then why’s your greedy little cunt begging me for more?” Her gaze drops down to your pussy, admiring at how your desperate hole continues to suck her fingers in while your arousal drips around them. “Needy girl, taking in my fingers like this,” her gaze flickers back up to you. “I’m gonna need these back, you know. Can’t keep them forever, sweetheart.”

All you can do is whine and whimper, your chest and stomach tightening as you try to keep yourself quiet so as to not startle your coworkers outside. But Sevika doesn’t make it any easier for you once she speeds up the pace, the desk shifting slightly beneath you as if it was imitating the consequences of what you’re doing. The thought of Jayce sitting here tomorrow, completely unaware of what happened on his desk today, makes a dangerous thrill pulse through your veins. Jayce might have carried your past, but Sevika was putting herself into your present, claiming you as hers with every deep curl of her fingers, making sure your body never forgets the feeling of her.

She looks back up at you, her eyes darkening as she watches your face twist in pleasure. Your cunt begins to clench tighter around her fingers, along with the coil that's been winding deep in your stomach, you were getting close, and Sevika could tell. Her fingers never stop their relentless pace, pumping in and out of your clenching heat, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. She glances back up at you just to admire the drunk look on your face. “Look at you, so desperate to cum already, yeah?” she muses, her prosthetic shifting from your waist to push down on your lower stomach, only making it worse for you to restrain yourself. “Go on, sweetheart, cum for me. But remember…” she trails off, jerking her head over to the closed blinds. “They don’t need to know what’s going on.”

Her words are filthy, but they only serve to turn you on more, pushing you closer to your impending release. Your hand grips tightly onto the edge of the desk while the other claws at Sevika’s forearm in desperation, which does nothing but spur her on with her words. At this point, she’s practically begging for you to cum now, just so she can see you fall apart for her. “That’s it, baby—don’t hold back. Let me feel it. Come for me, sweetheart.”

Her words, combined with the relentless pace of her fingers, finally push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt clamps down around her fingers like a vice. Your mouth parts open, body giving in as you’re tempted to scream her name, but Sevika is quick to lean in and attach her lips back to yours, muffling your cries of pleasure as your release gushes into her fingers and onto the desk. But she doesn’t let up just yet, working you through your orgasm with her fingers until you’re a shaking, mewling mess beneath her.

Once the aftershocks start to subside, she finally slows down, gently withdrawing her flesh fingers out of your sensitive cunt. She brings her hand up to her lips, making a show of licking your juices from her fingers, her eyes closing in bliss as she savors your taste. “Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,” she murmurs, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face. “I should’ve used my mouth on you instead if I knew you were going to taste this sweet.”

You chuckle lazily, looking up at her with heavy eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Well, you can go for seconds if you’d like, Sev.” you tease, kicking off your heels and bunched up slacks from your feet before spreading your legs farther out to her, leaving your fucked out cunt on full display to her gaze. Sevika’s eyes darken at your newfound position, getting nothing but more turned on at the sight of you spread out on her colleague’s desk. She glances down to your cunt, her smirk spreading wider as she sees your release pooling underneath you, darkening the wood of the desk. “You’ve sure made a mess, pretty girl,” she says, her voice almost accusatory as if she wasn’t the one who made you cum like that. “Luckily, I’m willing to clean that up for you.”

In an instant, Sevika drops to her knees in front of you, hooking her flesh arm beneath your thigh while her prosthetic grips the other, pulling you closer. Your breath hitches as Sevika lowers herself in front of you, her hold firm—one soft and warm, the other cold and unrelenting. Her lips tease their way back up to your pussy, ready to satisfy you once more, until—

“Where’s Sevika?”

Jayce’s words echo faintly from the hallway, distant but close enough to send a jolt of panic through your veins. Sevika freezes for just a second before quickly getting back up on her feet. The two of you scramble around—adjusting clothes, fixing hair, cleaning down the surface and scattering papers in your desperate attempt to make it look like nothing happened on this desk.

But Sevika already moves before you can think of a backup plan. With full precision, she snatches up the paperwork she was originally looking for, strides across the office, and yanks the door open right before Jayce can.

“You were supposed to wait in the conference room,” she growls, her tone now back to cold as she shoves the paperwork into his chest.

Jayce blinks, caught off guard by her appearance. “I—I was just—”

“Don’t.” Her jaw clenches, eyes narrowing down at him. “Go. Now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. As Jayce turns, footsteps retreating down the hall, Sevika lingers for just a second before glancing back inside—her eyes meeting yours. The heat from moments ago still lingers between you, but with one last knowing smirk, she follows after Jayce before closing the door shut, as if nothing had happened.

And you?

You’re still gripping the edge of his desk, breath unsteady, pulse still racing. Even as you slip your clothes back on, even as you straighten up Jayce’s desk—you can still feel the heat from Sevika on your body. Your lips are still slightly swollen from her kisses, your skin tingling in places that haven’t felt alive in…well, longer than you’d care to admit. You swallow hard, your mind replaying every breathless second. Your cheeks flush again, and your hands tremble slightly as you reposition Jayce’s things—only to realize it’s still out of place.

Get it together.

Your hands work quickly, smoothing out the papers, straightening the chair, making sure there’s no trace of what just happened. The last thing you need is Jayce walking in and sensing something.

No one can know.

Your fingers graze your pulse point, still feeling the phantom pressure of her lips there. You swallow down the feeling, force your hands to stay busy—tidying the last of the evidence, pressing a shaky hand to your chest, forcing a deep breath—before you finally slip out of the office, your head spinning.

And yet, as you settle back at your desk, pretending like nothing happened, you can still feel her on you.

But what’s even worse than feeling her…is wanting it to happen a second time.

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The sun barely peeks through your curtains when your alarm blasts through the silence. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding as you fumble to shut it off. You squint over at the time on your phone, only for your eyes to quickly widen in panic. You were supposed to be up an hour ago.

In an instant, you throw off the covers, the chill of the morning air making your skin prickle with goosebumps as you rush to get ready. As you take a quick shower and get dressed, your mind is still foggy from everything that happened yesterday—leaving the office, Sevika, the kiss, and the overwhelming decision to leave. But there’s no time to think about that now.

Your suitcase is already half-packed from last night, so you grab the last of your things and shove them into your bag without thinking twice. You barely glance in the mirror before you’re out the door, heart pounding in your ears. The taxi sits on the curb, waiting for God knows how long—and you rush into it, not even bothering to comfortably put your suitcase in the trunk and squeezing it alongside you instead. The city itself is still waking up as you slide into the backseat.

“Kennedy Airport,” you mumble, barely able to catch your breath as the driver nods and pulls into traffic.

Rain taps lightly against the window as you stare outside, the familiar skyline of New York blurred by streaks of water. This is it. You were getting away from the city that had been your home for years—where you built a career and nurtured a relationship, only to watch it all fall apart in the blink of an eye. You lean back against the seat, your eyes drifting shut for just a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. But her face still flashes in your mind.

Sevika.

The memory of her kiss, her touch—heated, desperate, and impossible to forget—continues to linger in your mind. But nonetheless you shake your head, forcing the thought away as you tell yourself that it’s not what you need right now.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it’s nothing but chaos. You navigate through the sea of travelers, heart pounding as you sprint toward your gate. Your boarding pass feels like it’s burning in your hand as you rush through security, your pulse racing with every step.

Until you finally make it to Gate 17, departing to Miami.

You make it just as they begin the final boarding call, breathless and slightly disoriented. The agent barely glances up as they scan your ticket, giving you a quick nod to proceed. Your pace is calmer now as you walk through the ramp, the relief extending into peace the moment you enter the plane. As you set your carry-on into the overhead compartment and settle into your window seat, a shaky exhale slips from your mouth as your body finally relaxes. Your pulse slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you finally let yourself breathe.

You’re even blessed to have an empty seat beside you, thank God.

You close your eyes, head resting lightly against the head cushion of the seat. The distant hum of the engines vibrates through you, lulling your body into a sense of calm. A sense of peace. You don’t even register the measured footsteps approaching, growing heavier until they stop beside you. You don’t open your eyes right away, too caught up in the quiet you were finally starting to enjoy. But then—

Your name is called. And the familiar voice makes your heart stop. Your eyes flutter back open, head tilting to your left only for the calm in your body to be replaced by an element of surprise and shock once you see the familiar broad frame that stood in the narrow space alongside you.

“Sevika?”

Her name leaves your lips barely above a breath, but it’s enough to make her eyes darken. Her expression is unreadable, but the subtle flicker of surprise in her gaze says enough.

She didn’t know. You didn’t tell her where you were going.

And yet… she’s here.

And in that moment, as she finally lowers herself into the seat beside you, you know—

This changes everything.

But maybe, just maybe…some change is exactly what you needed.

- a/n: i need to stop making my fics so damn long omg 😭 i’m not sure if y’all fw ceo sevika like i do, but i could try to write out a part 2 if it catches any interest, we’ll see…

1K notes · View notes

motorsportbarbie13 · 4 months ago

Text

Post It - LN4

when lando stumbles upon a random tiktok of a pretty american influencer, he can't stop himself from sliding into her DMs. what happens next is more than both of them ever bargained for.

warnings: THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONE SHOT. (spoiler alert, it's not) (i blame @lestapiastrisgirl. She’s a bad influence 🤭) no warnings really, i just needed to have some soft boyfriend coded lando in my life again after how dirty i did him in 'aftermath'. ENJOY THE NEW SERIES MY BABIES! 🫶🏻 pairing: lando norris x influencer!reader word count: 3.7k words (plus SMAU posts)

Lando should have been paying attention. He should have been paying attention to Jack Whitehall standing up on stage, making jokes at Max and George’s expense. He absolutely should not have been using the down time between livery reveals to stalk your social media profiles but here he was. It wasn’t his fault trying to figure you out was way more interesting than anything the FIA and this stupidly awkward night had to offer.

He had been scrolling his FYP earlier in the day while McLaren comms staff had bustled around the Hilton conference room, his attention pulled away from the boring media briefing Zak and Andrea were trying to get him to care about, when you had popped up on his screen. It was an innocent video, one that he usually would have flipped right on by but something had his thumb pausing, hovering over the screen instead of swiping away.

You were in well lit hallway, lip syncing to that new Gracie Abrams song that was all over the place looking like you didn’t have a care in the world. Your smile was infectious as you held eye contact with the camera, arms thrown to your sides as you sang your heart out. It looked like you were about to go somewhere, a gray woolen overcoat tugged over your shoulders as a pink and white knit jumper peaked out from underneath.

It was only when Oscar had asked him how many times he was going to listen to that thirty seconds of song that Lando realized he’d been watching your video for an embarrassing length of time. Turning crimson, Lando had quickly favorited the video to come back to later and closed out the app.

He’d been caught up in preparations for this stupid F1 75 event for the rest of the evening but the moment he’d had a break, he was back stalking your socials. Your Instagram was conveniently linked to your TikTok account so it wasn't hard and the moment Lando started scrolling, he was hooked.

yourusername posted

909,102 likes liked by lando, yourbff, hannahstjohn, and others yourusername lots to catch up on... user0298 body is teeeeeea user1112 that gray dress tho! where is it from??? >>>yourusername @/aritzia!!! lando 🔥🔥🔥 (liked by author) >>>user0200 landooooo what are you doing here??? >>>user555 first in the likes too. he was QUICK

The Monegasque sun was blindingly bright, reflecting off the pristine white of Lando’s apartment balcony. He was trying to enjoy a rare moment of peace, something that he’d miss when the season started up in two weeks. Right now though, he had been back from testing in Bahrain for a few days and was leaving for Australia sometime next week. This was the last weekend of peace and quiet he’d have until summer break.

An insistent buzz shatters the quiet calm that he’d cocooned himself in, his phone blinking to life. He glanced at the screen. Rich. His personal PR manager that he’d hired after his last messy breakup to help with his image.

“What is it, Rich?” Lando sighs.

“Lando, we need to talk about this weekend.” Rich’s voice was sharp, a glaring contrast to the relaxed atmosphere of Lando’s apartment.

“What about this weekend?” He asks, a knot forming in his stomach. Lando knew where this was going.

“Allegra.” Rich says, his voice bright with faux enthusiasm. “She’s coming to Monaco this weekend. We need some content before the start of the season. Really amp up the exposure before you get too busy.”

Allegra. Or Allie as she insisted Lando call her in private, but always Allegra in public. She was also managed by Rich, who was the one that had introduced them last year with the sole purpose of having them hit it off and start dating. When that hadn’t materialized, Rich had started meddling, sending her to events that he knew Lando would be at, having her come to Monaco and follow him around like a lost puppy.

It had worked though. The rumors started swirling and before he knew it, Lando and Allie were rumored to be dating. He had never confirmed the relationship, always insisting that he was single and Allie had followed suit, coyly grinning in interviews when the model had been asked specifically about him. He hadn’t fought it though. Maybe he was a coward or maybe he just liked the attention, but it had certainly brought a certain degree of recognition to his name in the months that he had been linked to her. He never confirmed it but he never denied it either.

And then he had met you.

“No.” Lando says flatly, cutting him off. “Nope. I’m done with this.”

“Done?” On the other end of the line, Rich sputters. “What do you mean, ‘done’? Think of your brand, your image! You have a merch drop happening in a few weeks and a rebrand with Quadrant! You need this attention.”

“I don’t need her to bring me attention.” Lando scoffs. “I’m tired of playing this game. I’m tired of Allie. She’s…she’s weird, Rich. And this whole thing is a joke. I know you’ve seen the gossip pages laughing at me. Laughing at her. I’ve had enough.”

“Lando.” Rich tuts, his tone taking on that of someone scolding a small child. The heat rises in Lando’s cheeks as he stands, pacing the balcony. “She’s a social media powerhouse. She brings in millions of impressions. People love talking about her, speculating about if she’s with you or not. This is a business.”

“Business?” Lando laughs, cold and bitter. “This is a manufactured relationship, Rich. It’s fake and it’s draining. I don’t want her here. I don’t want her anywhere near me anymore. Either you tell her I’m done or I will, you choose.”

“You’re being irrational. This is a PR strategy and it’s working! We’re getting the numbers, the attention! It’s everything you hired me to do!”

Lando drags his hand over his face, scrubbing at the migraine that he feels forming behind his eyes. “I don’t care about the numbers.” He says tightly, his mind flickering to you and the way you’ve been a bit distant this week. “I care about my sanity. I care about being genuine and this? This thing with her? That is the opposite of genuine.”

“You’re throwing away a huge opportunity.” Rich warns, frustration sneaking into his voice. “This is so unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional?” Lando shouts, his anger getting the better of him. “You’re the one being unprofessional. You’re treating me like a product, not a person. The only thing you care about is your fucking paycheck, nothing else.” Lando’s chest heaves, his breath coming in short spurts.

“Lando, calm down -”

“No.” Lando spits. “No, I won’t calm down. I’m done with this. I’m done with you and I’m done with Allie. This whole charade is over.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, trying to control his rage. “You’re fired, Rich.”

He slams the phone down, not even giving Rich the opportunity to respond. The abrupt silence amplifies the sound of his pounding heart as he sits down again. He stares out at the glittering expanse of the Mediterranean, the anger still simmering within him. He feels a strange mix of relief and anxiety. He had just burned a big bridge but it was a bridge he had never wanted to cross in the first place. He knew there would be consequences but for the first time in a long time, Lando felt like he was in control.

Now, if only he could get you to return his calls.

You thought you’d been prepared for the activity of the paddock. Hannah had spent enough time during the flight over telling you what to expect but the crowds in Shanghai were nothing short of overwhelming. The smell of engine oil and popcorn permeated the air, a strange mixture that tickled your nose in a slightly unpleasant way. You tried to calm the anxiety that was settling deep in your chest, the tight constricting feeling pulling at your ribs in a way that had you desperately wanting to go back to the hotel room.

You knew it was strange, someone with as much anxiety and issues with crowds being an influencer like you were but most of the time you had control over it. You had asked Hannah so many questions about what to expect but nothing could have prepared you for the way the crowds crushed in on you even in the paddock.

Liam had come to the track early to meet with his engineers before the practice and sprint qualifying. and Hannah had been left to your own devices. The crowds were one thing, you knew you’d get used to them eventually and that you just had to work your way through the panic but there was something else causing your shoulders to hitch up tightly towards your ears and your jaw tighten with every flash of orange you saw: Lando.

It had been a few months since he slid into your DMs and at first is had been fun. He was charming, texting you nearly all day with all sorts of questions and banter, FaceTiming you while you were curled up in bed in your Boston apartment, talking about the fast lives you both lived. It was intoxicating getting attention from someone like Lando. His attention felt like the sun, all warm and welcoming. You knew there was chemistry there but you lived in Boston and he split is time between London and Monaco. You had expected him to invite you out to see him soon or at least bring up meeting somewhere half way.

But then the pictures had surfaced online.

Lando walking around the busiest part of Monaco with his best friend Max, Max’s girlfriend Pietra and a blonde model named Allegra. It was so painfully clear he was with her from the shots of him driving her around in one of his many cars three weekends in a row.

You felt so stupid. Getting with a guy that was clearly comfortable being publicly seen on a double date was a hard no, you had more respect for yourself and Allegra to even touch that kind of drama. Of course, there was an endless debate on if they were even together or not, it didn’t take much to find the online gossip pages that spent a lot of time trying to figure out if they were an item. Lando had never publicly confirmed the relationship and neither had Allegra, both insisting they were just friend and Lando was single.

But the pictures were hard to deny.

So you had ghosted him.

You didn’t want to be drug into the drama that seemed to surround the model, not with how well your content was doing lately. You had a huge following in the states and were starting to get attention internationally. You knew the last thing your PR manager would want to see was stories about you plastered all over the gossip pages. You had worked too hard to cultivate a wholesome reputation to be drug into a love triangle controversy, even if it ended up being manufactured by the press. You walked a fine line between wanting to be talked about and wanting to avoid being laughed at.

So when Hannah, one of your best friends from the influencer world, had invited you to tag along with her to the Chinese Grand Prix in April, you had hesitated. No one knew about you and Lando talking, not even your best friends. Sure, Lando had followed you and commented on a few of your posts but everyone chalked that up to you being friends with Hannah and Lando’s reputation to hit on pretty girls whenever he was active on social media. It hadn’t gained a ton of attention so you were able to pretty much ignore it.

But you couldn’t turn down Hannah’s invitation without raising some sort of suspicion. China had been on your bucket list of places to visit since you were little and you had enough miles saved up this year to be able make the long flight in a lie-flat first class seat with to your group of friends. You really had no excuse, so in the end you had agreed.

But now that you were here, the possibility of running into Lando in the flesh after you had ghosted him hanging heavy over your head and the crowds pressing in, you were totally regretting your life choices.

“You okay?” Hannah’s voice breaks through your racing thoughts, pulling you back to the present.

“What?” You stutter, trying to bring your focus back to where you were in the moment.

“Are you okay?” Your friend asks softly, eyeing you like she knows something is going on but can’t figure out what. “You just seem a little…tense.”

You reach up to pull your hair off your neck, suddenly feeling like your skin is just a little too tight for the rest of your body. “I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed. This place is a lot.”

Hannah’s eyes soften. She’s well aware of your anxiety and how you sometimes struggle with crowds. While she doesn’t struggle with the same issues, if there’s one thing you appreciate about your friend its that she has an uncanny ability to read your moods and empathize with you when it matters most.

“I know, but you get used to it quick. Liam has some engineering meetings before practice so he’s busy for another hour or so. Do you want to go hang out in hospitality? Get cooled down before practice?”

You adjust your sunglasses on your nose before nodding, “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m sorry, you don’t have to stick around with me all day, I know you want to be with Liam.”

Hannah waves a hand, dismissing your concern with one movement, “Stop that. That man gets so locked in before he gets into the car, he probably forgets I exist. I told him I’d be in the garage for practice but we’re free until then. Come on, we can get some content for TikTok. Didn’t you say you wanted to do a Chinese travel vlog?”

Suddenly, a blur of green and yellow catches your attention from on your left. A scooter, driven by a distracted man in a green racing suit, was flying down the sidewalk at breakneck speed headed straight for you. He was going so fast you didn’t have enough time to react once you registered what was about to happen.

You shut your eyes, bracing for impact, as a startled gasp tumbles off your lips. But the impact doesn’t come when you expect it as a strong set of hands pulls you out of the path of the scooter. The man on the scooter continues on, zipping down the sidewalk without so much as an apology as you stumble back, straight into the arms of the person that just saved you from being paddock road kill. The body is warm, muscled and the set of hands go straight to your hips, steadying you when you fight to maintain your balance.

“Oh my god!” Hannah shrieks as you struggle out of the person’s embrace, spinning around to see who you had just collapsed into.

“Jesus Christ, thank…” The words die in the back of your throat when you see the papaya and black race suit of your savior.

“You.” The British accent that you’d spent the last few weeks trying to forget sends shivers down your spine.

Shit.

“Oh. Hi, Lando.” You say sheepishly, lifting your sunglasses off your face so you can make eye contact with the driver.

“Oh hi Lando?” Hannah sputters, clearly confused. “Do you two know each other?”

“No.” You reply at the same time Lando says “Yes.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to figure out if it would be bad for your reputation if you punched him. Hannah’s eyes bounce back and forth between you and Lando, who is standing there looking just as confused as she is. If you’re not mistaken, there’s also a touch of hurt that flickers in his eyes as he looks you up and down.

“Are you okay?” Lando asks, breaking the tension.

Your eyes dip to your waist, where Lando’s hand still rests heavily on your hip. When he notices he’s still holding you, he pulls his arm back quickly, running it through his curls trying to look casual while his brows dip together, confusion still clearly settled on his handsome features.

“Um. Yeah, I am. Thank you, I was almost roadkill.” You laugh, but it comes out too shaky to be taken seriously.

Hannah crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowed as she tries to figure out the weird tension that has settled over the two of you.

“So, ‘yes' you two know each other but ‘no’ you don’t?” Hannah raises an eyebrow, clearly not willing to let this go.

You shoot Lando a look that could curdle milk. “It’s…complicated.” You mumble, avoiding Hannah’s gaze.

“Complicated how?” Hanna presses, her curiosity piqued.

Lando shits his weight, a nervous energy radiating off of him. “We were talking for a bit.”

“Talking? Like, flirting talking?” Hannah turns to you and you swear you see a bit of hurt in her eyes. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Guilt washes over you. You hadn’t really meant not to tell your friend, it just had never come up. “It was nothing.” You say quickly. Out of the corner of your eye you see Lando wince and your heart catches. “Just some DMs, it fizzled out after a while.”

“Fizzled out?” Lando scoffs, his frown deepening. “You ghosted me.”

“I’m sure you had your hands full with that other blonde to miss me that much, Lan.” You bite back, voice sharp.

Lando’s brows furrow, “Other bl…" He pauses, the dots seemingly connecting in hsi mind suddenly. "You mean Allie? What does she have to do with you and me?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” You say with a shrug. “You looked pretty busy with her in Monaco before the season started. I just assumed you didn’t have time for me.” You try your best to sound as nonchalant as possible but you can’t keep the anger from slipping into your voice. The fact that he has a cute little nickname for her burrows under your skin more than it should.

Deep down you know you had zero claim over him, so being this angry feels over the top. You know you’re overreacting. You had never even met Lando in person before this moment, so why was the jealousy burning through your bloodstream so intense?

Hannah’s eyes dart between you and Lando, her expression a mix of confusion something else you couldn’t place. “Okay, so this is a bit more intense than I expected.” She raises her hands in surrender. “You know what? I think I’m going to go check on Liam. He’s probably wondering where I am.”

She gives you a knowing look, a look that says ‘I’ll let you sort this out but I expect a full rundown of what the fuck just happened here later tonight.’.

“Maybe you two should talk, alone. Just try not to kill each other.”

With that, Hannah turns on her heel and disappears towards the Red Bull garages, leaving you and Lando standing awkwardly in the middle of the bustling paddock. The noise of the crowd presses in on you, amping up your already high anxiety and filling the silence that stretches between you.

Lando looks at you, his expression a mixture of confusion and frustration. He digs his hands deep into his pockets, unsure of where to go from here. The absolute last person he’d expected to see here today was you. Finding out you were mad at him just when he had made the decision that you wanted nothing to do with him and he needed to move on was a little overwhelming. He’d been hurt when you’d stopped returning his messages and answering his calls. Frustrated that you hadn’t given him an answer when he asked you what was wrong. And then the season had started and he couldn't handle it all. It still ate at him at night, the fact that he had allowed you to slip out of his fingers, especially since firing Rich and ending things with Allie.

So maybe this was the universe giving him a second chance.

“So,” He starts, voice low. “We’re just going to pretend like nothing happened?”

You throw your arms out to your side, exasperated sigh falling from your lips. “What was I supposed to think, Lando? I open up my Instagram one morning to see a shit ton of pap photos of you and her, the day after you and I spent almost five hours on FaceTime together!”

Lando cards his fingers through his curls, “I can explain that.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you can.”

Deep in Lando’s pocket, his phone chimes. Reluctantly he pulls it out, checking the new text message from Sophie, his press officer. “Fuck. I’ve got to go get in the car.” He sighs, scrubbing his large hand over his face. “Listen, can you please give me a chance to explain?”

You cross your arms over your chest, mirroring Hannah’s stance from just minutes before. Your first instinct is to tell him to fuck all the way off, you’ve been too careful with your reputation to be drug into any sort of drama that that girl seems to bring. Lando gives you a look though, his green blue eyes pleading with you and you’re all but powerless against it.

“Come on.” He coaxes, reaching out to brush his fingertips against your bare arm. You ignore the riot of goosebumps he leaves in his wake. “You’re going to look at me and tell me you didn’t come all the way to China, to a place where you knew I would absolutely be, not hoping to at least run into me?”

“Bold of you to assume that you even cross my mind anymore, Norris.” You snip back but your words hold no bite to them and you both know it.

Now it’s Lando’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, baby.” Your traitorous heart stammers but you mange an indignant look as a reaction to the nickname. “I’m done with race stuff around dinner time, let me take you out somewhere nice and we can talk. Please?”

Again with the puppy eyes. This was going to be a problem.

“Fine.” You huff after a moment. “But don’t make me regret this, Lan.”

The biggest smile you’ve ever seen crosses Lando’s face at your agreement. He reaches out, catching your waist in his hands, pulling you in for a hug. Neither of you notice the cameras pointed in your direction.

“You won’t. I promise.” He murmurs in your ear before dropping a chaste kiss on your cheek.

You don’t wipe if off.

Grinning like a fool, Lando spins on his heel before bustling off towards the McLaren garages. He’s about 30 feet away when his head swivels back, his gaze instantly finding yours. He grins again, liking that you’d been watching him go.

yourusername posted

602,928 likes liked by lando, hannahstjohn, redbullracing, and others yourusername Boston >>> Shanghai LETS GO hannahstjohn pretty girl! so glad you made the trip with meeeee user0029 my fave influencer and my fave sport?! YES PLEASE user928 i wish these brands would stop inviting random influencers to races and get some REAL FANS there instead >>>user9299 she's there with hannah, liam's girlfriend. just say you're jealous next time. user0299 ok but i need to know...is she a mclaren girlie or red bull??? >>>user454 she gives me ferrari vibes user223 lando in the likes again, huhhhhhh

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