#without moving the deadline

[blue-eyed-giant]

damn i cannot wait to go back home from uni and spend time with the same friends i had when i was 16, play the games used to be obsessed with when i was 16 and read the mangas/comics i would read until 4 am when i was 16 while working the exact internship i had when i was 16 only more advanced

[scholarhect]

one reason i can’t have kids is i would so be the “baaaabe when are their doctor’s appointments again?” parent. the “yeah i’ll pack their suitcase but can you look through it and make sure i didn’t forget anything?” parent. very bad, but also, feminist? except i’d be doing it to a woman, so, not feminist? basically what this says is that i could never be married to a man. and i also can never have kids

[vanishintoyou]

no i genuinely dont even know how i (or *anyone* in general) could go without any sleep for 3 days. or sleep 2 hours a day maximum for one whole week. at the end your brain gets so mushy and dead like what even is the point of forcing someone to do that

[annaraksta]

who would have thought that sometimes when you ask for help, people help you. what a concept!

[chaos-storm]

Oh my gods I love my friends so much 😭

[redrrem]

BREAK IN?? NAH BREAK HER!!

cw: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, consensual sex, gun kink, creampies, slight breeding kink, panty thief, slight choking, age-gap hinted between toji and reader, modern au, f! reader, all characters are 18+, MDNI, not proofread

a/n: thank you guys for 2k, love you all <3 here's the toji burglar fic I promised! enjoy <3

burglar!toji who stumbles upon you, a broke and tired college student, with the only thing you can offer him is student debt and deadlines

burglar!toji who curses shiu under his breath for giving him the wrong address, working fast to find something, anything, valuable

burglar!toji who walks around the apartment, shoes creaking against the old wood flooring as he checks all the rooms

burglar!toji who finds himself walking down the hallway towards the kitchen, the soft yellow glow from kitchen lighting up the dingy apartment

burglar!toji who finds you, in all your glory—messy hair and all—standing in the kitchen, dressed in a baggy t-shirt and pink panties, unaware of the stranger in your house

burglar!toji who feels like a teenage boy all over again, bulge straining against the zipper of his jeans as he watches you bend over, trying to grab something that fell on the floor, giving him the perfect view of your pink panties snug against your pussy lips

burglar!toji who sneaks up behind you, bulge pressed against your perky ass, hand covering your mouth and his hot breath fanning your exposed neck, breathing in your intoxicating scent

burglar!toji who ends up folding you over the kitchen counter, pretty pink panties tucked in his pocket for later, as he makes you take him from behind

burglar!toji who's the biggest you've ever taken, fucking your tight little pussy with his thick cock better than any college boy your age without any protest

burglar!toji who's kissing your cervix with his thick mushroom tip, a hand on your head, keeping your drooling face against the cold counter while he fucks his experienced cock into your hole

burglar!toji who makes you work for it, watching your plump ass ripple as you try to grind against his thick cock, sniffles coming from you as you beg for him to move

burglar!toji who has to keep you quiet by stuffing his fingers between your sobbing lips, keeping them busy as you suck on them, not wanting you to wake up the neighbours with your lewd moans

burglar!toji who cums deep inside your pussy, watching your legs quiver as you release around his girthy cock, coating him in your cum as you lay limp on the counter

burglar!toji who keeps your hole stuffed with his gun, not letting you waste a single drop, before leaving with your number in his phone and a pair of soiled panties in his pockets

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[emisluvr]

‎ AFTER HOURS ˎˊ˗ teaser

✶ SYNOPSIS ── your coworker, jake, is the shameless office slut. he’s cocky, lazy, and infamous for fucking every girl in the office until they’re obsessed. you’re the opposite: organized, driven, and sick of his shit. your best friend heeseung keeps teasing you about the “sexual tension,” but you deny it every time.. until one night, you and jake end up staying after hours at the office.

✶ STARRING ── office fuckboy!jake, fem!reader, bsf!heeseung

✶ CAUTION! ── sexual content, enemies to lovers, lots of cursing, office au, y/n overhears boss and jake getting freaky, eventual smut scenes, teasing, heavy tension, mentions of gossip, jake is an absolute menace. warnings will update in the final fic.

✶ DURATION ── teaser is 1.1k words. oneshot is currently at 4.2k, estimated to finish at 8k-10k.

EMI ✉️ rahhh first long fic in the making !! i've been pretty consistent with writing this so far.. hopefully i don’t lose the motivation /j there’s no deadline for this tbh, but i predict it’ll be out nearing the end of this month, or earlier, but we’ll see! if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this fic, comment on this post or send me an ask.

‎

‎

Jake’s the type of guy everyone loves, even though there’s not a single good trait about him. Except for the fact that he shows up to work looking hot with zero effort. In the bathroom, girls constantly gossip about him. There’s never a time you can pee, let alone wash your hands, without overhearing some girl rave about how good he made her feel.

“He made me cum in under five minutes.”

“He secretly edged me at my desk.”

“I still dream about how his fingers felt inside me.”

“He fucked me in the lounge room.”

These are just a few of the things you hear about him on the daily. And it’s usually a different girl every time. That’s what made him such a whore in your eyes. And sure, everyone knew about it, but no one cared. A guy as good-looking, probably big, and charming as Sim Jaeyun could get away with just about anything.

To say it pissed you off was an understatement. He showed up late almost every day—today being a rare exception. He flirted with HR and practically skated by with minimal effort, all because he was hot and somehow everyone’s type.

Yes, he does actually do his work on rare occasions just to avoid getting fired, but most of the time he coasts on charm. It’s the only fucking thing he knows how to do with that pretty face.

What everyone knows best about him, though, is his reputation for fucking his female coworkers and leaving them obsessed. The thought made you partially disgusted. But at most, all he is to you is just a guy with an insane face card who’s using it to his advantage and getting exactly what he wants in return: pussy.

And as if that didn’t already paint the perfect picture of him being an asshole, he always made it a point to specifically tease, flirt, and annoy you. The one person in the office he hadn’t gotten the chance to fuck. If you gave him that chance, he would absolutely take it. But since he’s your arch-nemesis, you promised yourself you’d never let him touch you, let alone lay a finger on you.

──

You didn’t know why it was still lingering in your head—like you didn’t already know that he’s done this to nearly every girl in the office. It doesn’t matter. It’s just Jake. He’s a sleaze, a whore, and the very reason your days feel ten times longer than they should.

And yet, you can’t stop thinking about what you heard. The way she moaned, the way he groaned and talked so dirty to her, the infamously cocky tone in his voice like he knew he was ruining her.

You squeeze your thighs together under your pencil skirt, looking away from the screen, utterly disgusted with yourself for letting your thoughts wander.

You keep clicking away at your mouse, moving tabs around, trying to look productive—like you’re doing something—but you can’t focus on anything. You type random words that float around in your noggin that don’t relate at all to what you have to write about, delete them, type again, until you eventually give up and roll your chair away from your desk, now facing the entrance and trying to take a breather.

Your thoughts still creep in your head. They’re almost impossible to push out.

“He fucks like that just for a raise?”

“She sounded so dumb for him.. Was it that good?”

“Is he that big?”

“Why the fuck do I care?”

Fuck it, you need another cup of coffee.

You step out of your cubicle, running a hand through your hair as you notice Jake walking out of the office. His hair is messier, shirt untucked, sleeves still rolled to the elbow—he looks even more disheveled now. But he still looked so good, even post-fuck.

You really didn’t want to cross paths with him again, not after hearing him railing your boss in real time, when he didn’t think anyone could hear.

The minute he walks by you, your eyes meet, and he winks. “Slut,” you mutter under your breath, heart skipping in frustration. You blink, your heels clinking against the floor louder as you walk faster toward the lounge room, desperate to get away from everything and anything, even if that meant through another dose of caffeine.

You and Heeseung planned to meet at a small café in the lobby of your office building during a quick break. Since the workday had already started, the café was pretty quiet—soft music played in the background and just a few coworkers were scattered around. It was the perfect spot to catch your breath before heading back.. and to tell your friend what you had just heard not long ago.

“You look like you saw something you weren’t supposed to,” Heeseung says, noticing how you look down in your lap and stay oddly silent. Normally, if you were going to complain about Jake or your never-ending workload, it would’ve spilled out by now.

“Close enough..” You look up from your lap and at your friend’s bambi-like expression, and reluctantly tell him what you overheard just an hour ago.

“You heard it? Like.. full-on?” His eyes slightly widen—not that he was surprised or anything. He was only shocked that you had finally got a taste of it yourself, meaning you heard everything.

You nod, lips pressed together. “Gosh, she sounded like a pornstar..” you say, before cringing at your own words.

“Was he all like ‘who’s your boss now’?” Heeseung smirks, about to laugh at his own dirty comment.

“You’re disgusting,” you say, before realizing that’s one of the many insults you threw at Jake today.

“I’m just saying.. guess the real promotion was inside her all along.” He cracks another stupid joke.

“Heeseung!” Your tone goes higher.

“Jeez, sorry,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Bet you couldn’t even focus on your work after hearing that.”

You can’t even make eye contact with him anymore. Because it’s true—you couldn’t. The sole thought and memory of it was consuming you, and you hated it.

Jake’s high-pitched groans, his breathy filthy talk, the way she was moaning like it was the best sex she’s ever had—all lingered in your brain more than they should. It’s almost as if the second you heard it go down, the sound stuck with you for the rest of the day, clinging onto you like a reminder that the man who teases you every day, the man you despise, is willing to go as far as fucking his boss for a raise.

He doesn't even deserve one. Never did. But again, who says no to a face like his?

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 19: June 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Pascale: Arthur, darling, don’t forget to pack your jacket for Montreal. It’s still chilly in the evenings.

Charles: It’s Canada, not the North Pole.

Arthur: I HAVE a jacket. You think I’m five?

Pascale: You never pack socks. I am allowed to worry.

Charles: Speaking of packing, who stole my hoodie?

Arthur: You left it at my place. 

Charles: Anyone want to do dinner after the race weekend? I think I’m staying a few extra days.

Arthur: Yes! Let’s do something simple. Pizza night?

Lorenzo: I’m in.

Arthur: I’m not paying.

Charles: No one asked you to.

Pascale: Isabelle, do you still have that panna cotta recipe from Mémé?

***

If her family noticed she was avoiding them, Belle didn’t care.

She wasn’t answering texts. She wasn’t returning calls. She wasn’t engaging in their attempts to “check in.” Because checking in should’ve meant something before they forgot her birthday. Before she had to celebrate Charles’ win while pretending that it didn’t sting that not a single one of them had thought of her.

So she ignored them.

Instead, she focused on work, throwing herself into her projects with meticulous precision. Deadlines were met early, site visits were scheduled without hesitation, and her inbox was clear before lunch. 

And when she wasn’t working, she was at the stables.

Her horse—her horse—was the one thing she allowed herself to fully indulge in. She spent hours at the barn, grooming Fleur, talking to her like she could understand every word. In some ways, Belle thought he did. Fleur huffed at her when she was tense, nudged at her pockets when she forgot treats, stood steady beneath her hands when she just needed a moment to breathe.

She could feel the foal kick against her hands when she brushed her, nudging her like he or she was already telling Belle, Hey, I am here!. 

The quiet routine of it soothed her. Mornings spent at the barn, afternoons dedicated to architecture plans, evenings curled up with Max.

Belle had always been the one to reach out first. The one who swallowed her pride, who made the first move, who convinced herself that things didn’t hurt as much as they did. She had spent years pretending that being forgotten, being an afterthought, didn’t matter.

She wasn’t pretending anymore.

Max was watching her, concern evident in the way he leaned against the counter, arms crossed but not in frustration—just waiting. Because he knew she wasn’t okay. And Belle hated that she couldn’t just brush it off, hated that the words I’m fine stuck in her throat like splinters.

So she said nothing.

“Belle.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

She let out a humorless laugh, setting her bag down with more force than necessary. “I’ve spent my whole life being easy to ignore. Why should it be any different now?”

Max frowned. “That’s not—”

“They forgot my birthday, Max.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharp and raw. “All of them. My brothers. My mother. They were so busy celebrating Charles that not a single one of them thought about me. Not for a second.”

He stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I was standing right there,” she continued, voice shaking. “Smiling, hugging them, celebrating with them—and not one of them realized.”

Max’s jaw tensed. He had realized. He had held her that night, had felt the way she trembled when the weight of it all became too much.

“I kept thinking—this is it. This is the moment one of them is going to remember. But they never did.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “And now they’re texting me like nothing happened, like I’m just supposed to let it go because that’s what I always do.”

Max stepped closer, reaching for her hand. “You don’t have to let it go.”

Her fingers curled around his, gripping tight. “I don’t know how to talk to them without feeling like I’m screaming into a void.”

He squeezed her hand, grounding her. “Then don’t talk to them. Not until you’re ready. Not until you want to.”

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Charlotte: Okay. We never actually solved the Isabelle dating mystery.

Alexandra: Because it’s unsolvable. She’s a vault. I think even Charles doesn’t know.

Charlotte: Especially Charles doesn’t know. That man wouldn’t notice if she got married in front of him unless she handed him the bouquet and told him to hold it.

Alexandra: He’d probably ask why she was dressed up and where the catering came from.

Charlotte: Anyway. New tactic. We include everyone. Even the cursed options.

Alexandra: This is going to end in slander.

Charlotte: And that’s why we’re friends.

Charlotte: Charles – her brother. Illegal. Next.

Alexandra: Carlos – Has a girlfriend. Also I feel like he treats her like he treats his baby sister. 

Charlotte: Lando – is single. But is also too loud and too twitchy…

Alexandra: Put him on the list of possibilities regardless. 

Alexandra: Oscar – too sweet. He’d ask for permission to hold her hand. Also has a girlfriend. And Belle and Lily are friends. That would go against every girlcode. 

Charlotte: George – Carmen would kill her. 

Alexandra: Lewis – strong contender. They’re both calm. They like dogs. She could thrive in that quiet glam lifestyle.

Charlotte: And he has major “treat her like a queen in private, say nothing in public” energy. She’d eat that UP.

Charlotte: Okay. Now. Are you ready?

Alexandra: Oh no.

Charlotte: Fernando.

Alexandra: CHARLOTTE.

Charlotte: Think about it. Dominant. Mysterious. Daddy issues magnet. She likes men who speak softly but could ruin you.

Alexandra: And he would call her “bella” and offer her an espresso without saying a word. That’s dangerous.

Charlotte: She’d pretend to be annoyed by the attention and then buy a silk robe for his apartment.

Charlotte: I’m just saying. He has retired situationship energy. She’d never admit it, but she'd love it.

Alexandra: Lance Stroll -No.

Charlotte: Why not?

Alexandra: She’d get whiplash from how inconsistent his energy is. One day he’s moody spa dad, the next day he’s a TikTok e-boy in tactical fleece.

Charlotte: She’d spend half her life trying to figure out if he’s okay and the other half hiding his outfits.

Alexandra: Agreed. Logan Sargeant…Honestly I don’t think she ever even talked three words with him? 

Charlotte: Can’t see it either.  Alex Albon - also has a girlfriend. Isabelle doesn’t poach. She’s got morals.

Charlotte: Max Verstappen- …I mean it’s Max Verstappen. Power couple. Silent and intense. They’d communicate via eyebrow raises and telepathy.

Alexandra: Too risky. She would never do that. Also, Charles would die. Like actually. His soul would leave his body. And doesn’t he also have a girlfriend?

Charlotte: But isn’t Isabelle weirdly close with his sister?!

Alexandra: I think that’s only because they understand how it feels to have a brother in F1, right?

Charlotte: Sergio Pérez - too married. 

Charlotte: Daniel Ricciardo -  Too loud. Too chaotic. Too… Daniel.

Alexandra:  Agreed. 

Alexandra: Yuki Tsunoda– she’s too introverted for that kind of chaos. She’d cry trying to keep up with his snack schedule.

Alexandra: Zhou Guanyu – also a real option. They’re both elegant, soft-spoken, and I’ve seen her actually laugh at something he said. A real laugh.

Charlotte: That’s practically a proposal in Isabelle language.

Alexandra: And he’s calm enough not to flinch when she’s in her “I will disappear to the mountains with a book” era.

Charlotte: I want this one to be real. I could live with Zhou as my unofficial brother-in-law.

Charlotte: Valtteri Bottas -  He has a mullet and a calendar of his own butt. It’s not happening.

Charlotte: Nico Hülkenberg – too tall, too German. Married. 

Charlotte: Kevin Magnussen– Also married. 

Alexandra: Pierre Gasly – Charles would actually kill him. And Kika would fight Belle for even trying to flirt with him. 

Charlotte: Esteban – Also has a girlfriend, no way. 

Alexandra: Okay. Final contenders:

Zhou

Lewis

Lando

Fernando “surprise daddy issues” Alonso

Charlotte: Do you think she’d go that rogue?

Alexandra: Honestly? Apparently she once dated a sculptor in university who thought emotions were “bourgeois illusions,” so… yes.

Charlotte: God, she would be Alonso’s beautiful mystery woman.

Alexandra: She’d show up to a race weekend in his Aston Martin hoodie and say it was a gift from a friend and never elaborate.

Charlotte: And Charles would just go, “I didn’t know you liked green.”

***

“I got married.”

Simone blinked once. “That’s a strong opener.”

Belle smiled faintly. “Surprise.”

Simone leaned forward just a little, resting her notebook on her lap. “Want to walk me through that one?”

Belle exhaled, tilting her head back against the cushion. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

“It wasn’t planned,” she said. “Well, not by me. I mean, Max proposed. And we’d talked about getting married, eventually. But then after everything with my birthday and the race and… all of it, I just didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Simone nodded, quiet and listening.

Belle picked at the label on the water bottle. “So we got married at city hall. The next day. Just our closest people. No announcement. No drama. No press. Just… us.”

“And how did that feel?” Simone asked gently.

“Like peace,” Belle said. “Like a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I didn’t feel invisible. Not for one second.”

Simone smiled softly. “That sounds like something worth holding onto.”

“It was,” Belle said. Then, after a pause, “It is.”

She sat in the quiet for a while, her gaze drifting to the window. A breeze moved the curtain like an exhale.

“But it came right after…” She hesitated. “They forgot my birthday. All of them. Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. I was in the garage all day, and not one person remembered.”

Simone’s expression didn’t change, but Belle could feel her listening more intently.

“I didn’t want to be upset about it. It was Charles’ race—his first win in Monaco. I didn’t want to make it about me. But I stood there, in Ferrari red, and I felt like I didn’t exist.”

Her voice stayed even, but there was a rawness beneath it. “Carlos remembered. He asked me if he should tell them. I said no. Because if you have to remind people you exist, what’s the point?”

Simone waited a beat before responding. “That’s a very old wound, Belle.”

Belle looked down. “Yeah.”

“And how do you feel about marrying Max right after that?”

Belle gave a soft huff of breath. “Grateful. He reminded me I mattered. That I was seen. And it wasn’t because I asked for it. He just… knew.”

Simone nodded, watching her closely.

Belle was quiet for a beat. Then she blinked, shook her head a little, and murmured, “Sorry. I feel weird. Lightheaded.”

Simone straightened slightly. “How long have you felt like that?”

“I don’t know.” Belle pressed the water bottle to her cheek. “Since yesterday? Maybe the day before. Just a little dizzy. I figured it was stress or adrenaline. But it’s not going away.”

Simone raised a brow. “Are you eating? Sleeping?”

Belle nodded. “Yeah. Not perfectly, but enough. I had an iron deficiency a few years ago. Anemia. Maybe it’s that again.”

“I think it would be a good idea to get it checked,” Simone said gently. “Sooner rather than later.”

Belle nodded slowly. “I will. I promise.”

Simone smiled. “Good. You don’t need to power through everything, Belle. Not alone.”

Belle looked down at her hands.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she said softly. “That’s the part I forget.”

And for once, saying it out loud didn’t feel like tempting fate.

It felt like the truth.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos: it’s been A WEEK ONE. WHOLE. WEEK.

George: You’re kidding.

George: I thought for sure someone would realise by now??

Oscar: They haven’t. Max said she hasn’t heard a single thing from any of them.

Daniel: I’m starting to believe they genuinely think Belle sprang fully formed into existence.

Lando: like Athena but in heels and with perfect emotional regulation

Carlos: I’m losing my mind. HIS OWN SISTER??? he FORGOT??

Alex: That’s actually unbelievable. I’m offended on her behalf.

Daniel: What do you MEAN the entire Leclerc family has just… ghosted her birthday like it never happened???

Carlos: No text. No call. No retroactive Instagram story with a cupcake emoji. NOTHING.

Sebastian: I can feel my blood pressure rising.

Nico R.: I am this close to sending Pascale an anonymous calendar.

Sebastian: Have they ever remembered without her prompting?

Oscar: Nope. Historically, Isabelle Leclerc was the family reminder system.

George: So now that she’s gone radio silent…

Lando: They’re just drifting through life like brainless goldfish.

David: The woman literally held that family together with calendar invites and emotionally intelligent sighs.

Fernando: They have lost their lighthouse. They are adrift in darkness.

Nico R.: Honestly, it’s kind of poetic.

Carlos: no. it’s INFURIATING. i saw her that day. she was STANDING THERE. in the garage. in red. 

Carlos: And she told me not to say anything. Said she “didn’t want a pity cupcake.” I think about that sentence every night before I sleep. 😠

Daniel: My blood pressure rises every time I remember this.

Oscar: She’s being so graceful about it and I hate that for her.

Sebastian: She deserves better. I hope Max gives her the world.

Lando: He gave her a horse and a wedding. He did okay.

Lewis: I think we need a plan. A coordinated operation.

Oscar: Operation: Make Charles Realise He’s a Disaster?

Alex: That might take longer than we have.

George: Can we start a countdown clock?

Alex: How long do we wait before Charles realises?

George: End of the season. Final race. Then we riot.

Fernando: Or we leave clues like a scavenger hunt. See how long it takes him to get to: “YOU FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY.”

Lewis: And when they finally do remember?

Oscar: Too late. She already married the only man who actually treats her like she matters.

Carlos: damn right she did.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had been through a lot with Max Verstappen—championship battles, rain-soaked qualifying sessions, angry radio rants, and more tire compound debates than he cared to remember—but nothing could’ve prepared him for this.

The meeting was already running five minutes behind schedule, which—by Red Bull standards—meant it was practically a full-blown rebellion. Christian was flipping through his notes with a sense of purpose usually reserved for press briefings and budget cap discussions. Helmut was sipping black coffee like it owed him money. Checo was leaning back in his chair; and poor Gemma from PR was already clutching her notepad like it was a life raft.

GP sat with his tablet open, notes prepped. 

Max was… Max. Legs kicked out under the table, hoodie on, the faintest hint of smugness clinging to him like tire rubber after a street race.

They made it through power unit updates and marketing commitments before Christian asked, “Anything else we should know before we head to Canada?”

Max sipped his coffee. “Yeah, actually. I got married.”

Silence.

Utter, complete, stunned silence.

Gemma dropped her pen. Christian choked on his coffee. Checo looked like he’d just been told the sky was blue—zero reaction. Helmut blinked so slowly GP briefly considered calling a medic.

GP didn’t flinch.

Because, of course, he already knew.

Christian blinked. “You… what?”

Max nodded. “Married. Last week.”

“To whom?” Christian asked slowly, voice rising like a man realizing he’s stepped into a minefield.

“Isabelle Leclerc,” Max added, like he was announcing a new cat.

Gemma made a noise that GP could only describe as deeply managerial despair.

The room exploded.

“CHARLES’ SISTER?!” Christian yelped, almost standing.

Helmut Marko didn’t speak. He just turned his head, very slowly, and stared at Max like he was an alien.“You’re telling me… you married Charles Leclerc’s sister?”

Max nodded like they were discussing tire strategy. “Mhm.”

Gemma actually put her head down on the table.

“To clarify,” GP said calmly, “he’s not joking.”

“YOU knew?” Christian turned to him, utterly betrayed.

“I’m his race engineer,” GP replied, deadpan. “He tells me everything. Whether I like it or not. And I was the best man.”

Gemma made a small, distressed noise and began frantically flipping through her calendar. “Do we—do we have photos? An announcement plan? A press strategy?! Oh my God, do they even know in Maranello?”

“No,” Max said calmly. “We haven’t told anyone outside a few people. We like our privacy.”

GP didn’t even flinch.

Checo raised a hand. “I knew.”

Christian whirled. “You also knew and didn’t tell me?”

Checo shrugged. “I like my life. Also Belle looked beautiful in white.”

Helmut still hadn’t blinked. “And Charles?”

Max smiled, utterly unbothered. “He has no idea.”

Christian looked like he was about to combust. “You MARRIED Isabelle Leclerc, and Charles doesn’t know?!”

GP finally looked up. “You should’ve seen the garage in Monaco. She was invisible to them all weekend.”

That shut the room up.

Gemma put her head in her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Max said, far too cheerfully. “We’re going to post something soon. We just wanted it to be ours first.”

Christian sat back down like his soul had left his body.

Helmut finally spoke, voice low. “Just make sure we beat Ferrari in Canada.”

“Obviously,” Max said.

“I’m adding a press briefing to the schedule,” Gemma muttered, already reaching for her iPad. “And a PR damage control plan. And possibly a defibrillator for when Charles finds out.”

“I’ll bring snacks,” Checo offered.

Christian slumped back in his chair. “Next time, just send a memo.”

GP simply took another sip of his coffee and updated his notes:

Action Items:

Tire compounds

Charles may attempt murder – suggest more security in hospitality

Of all the chaos they’d weathered over the years, this might’ve been the most entertaining.

And somehow, exactly what he expected from Max.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Mum just sent me this video of a duck in a raincoat.

Charles: I love that duck.

Lorenzo: Wait send it here.

Charles: He’s precious. His name is Biscotte.

Lorenzo: I’d die for Biscotte.

Arthur: We should get a duck.

Lorenzo: We cannot get a duck.

Charles: You sound just like Isabelle.

Arthur: Where is she, anyway? Haven’t seen her in like, weeks.

Lorenzo: She’s probably fine. You know how she is. Independent.

Charles: Yeah. Classic Isabelle.

***

The examination room was cool, almost too quiet, and Belle’s fingers twisted together in her lap as the doctor tapped something into the computer.

It had started as a check-up. Just routine. She hadn’t even told Max she was going—he had left for Canada, and she didn’t want him worrying over what she was sure was just her old anemia flaring up again.

The dizziness had crept up slowly—barely-there lightheaded spells, then the bone-deep fatigue, the occasional shortness of breath that made her pause halfway through brushing her hair. All things she’d felt before, years ago, when the iron levels had dropped low enough to make walking up a flight of stairs feel like climbing Everest.

She wasn’t worried about the dizzy spells. Not really.

She chalked them up to everything else: exhaustion, stress, not enough proper meals, the emotional fallout of a birthday that had quietly broken something inside her, and—most likely—a return of her old anemia. That had always been the explanation before.

Until the doctor, a middle-aged woman with a kind voice and gentle hands, glanced at her latest blood test results and hummed quietly to herself.

Belle shifted in her seat. “Is it bad?”

“No, not bad,” the doctor said, clicking through a few more pages. “Your iron is a little low again, but there’s something else. These hormone levels…” She looked up with a smile. “Have you taken a pregnancy test recently?”

Belle blinked. “A what?”

The doctor laughed softly. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“I came in because I thought I needed more iron.”

“You might,” the doctor said gently. “But these levels are more consistent with someone in the early second trimester. I’d like to do a quick ultrasound, just to check.”

Belle was still frozen when the nurse came in and helped her onto the examination bed. Still blinking in disbelief when the gel hit her skin. And completely silent when the screen next to her flickered to life with soft static… and then, suddenly, a tiny form.

And a heartbeat.

A heartbeat.

The doctor smiled again, reassuring and calm. “Well,” she said, adjusting the probe slightly, “there’s your explanation.”

Belle stared at the screen. The curve of a head. The flicker of movement. A little person, whole and real and—God—already so much bigger than she would’ve thought.

“You’re measuring right around twelve weeks,” the doctor continued. “Healthy heartbeat. Everything looks very good.”

Belle’s hand drifted hovered just above her own stomach like she was trying to connect the dots between what she was seeing and what her body had kept quiet for nearly three months.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I had no idea.”

“It happens,” the doctor said, kind. “Especially when the signs are subtle or easily mistaken. You’ve been under a lot of stress?”

Belle let out a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

“Well,” the doctor said, pulling off the gloves, “Congratulations, Mrs. Verstappen.”

Belle just stared at the screen, the tiniest flicker of a heartbeat echoing through the room like a secret being whispered for the first time.

Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks of carrying a life she hadn’t even known was there.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So she did neither.

She just pressed a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

Twelve weeks.

Her heart was still racing, her brain still catching up—but even through the shock, something bloomed warm and steady in her chest.

A heartbeat. 

A beginning.

A family.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Can you come over tonight?

Emilie: Of course. Do I need wine, sugar, firewood, or to hide a body?

Belle: Just you. Maybe chocolate. But mostly you.

Emilie: 👀 I’m bringing brownies and a hug and zero questions until you’re ready.

Belle: Thank you. I just… yeah. I need you.

Emilie: On my way as soon as I finish work. And I swear I won’t interrogate you (until at least the second brownie).

Belle: Fair.

***

Belle sat on the couch, knees drawn up beneath her, a soft throw blanket pooled in her lap despite the mild spring air drifting in from the open window. Her fingers twisted the corner of the fabric absently. Across from her, Emilie sat cross-legged, a steaming mug of rooibos tea cradled in both hands, watching her with quiet concern.

Belle didn’t look up.

Didn’t breathe in a different way.

Didn’t preface it with a sigh or a story.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

The words hung in the air, crisp and absolute, like the crack of thunder before the rain.

Emilie blinked. “I—wait. What?”

Belle raised her eyes, slow and steady. “Twelve weeks.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“Twelve weeks?!” Emilie nearly dropped her mug. “Belle! How—?”

“I thought it was anemia again,” Belle said, voice steady, almost clinical in its explanation. “I’ve been tired. Dizzy. It’s happened before. I booked a check-up just to be cautious, and then…” Her breath hitched. “The doctor said it was normal in pregnancy. And then there was… an ultrasound.”

Emilie’s face softened, mouth falling open slightly. “Oh.”

“I saw everything,” Belle whispered. “There was a heartbeat. Just… fluttering away. A baby.” She paused. “My baby. Ours.”

Gently, Emilie placed her mug on the coffee table and reached over, her hand brushing over Belle’s in quiet support.

“Have you told Max?”

Belle shook her head. “He’s in Canada. I couldn’t tell him over the phone. Not this. It’s too… big.”

Emilie nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s not a FaceTime conversation.”

“He’ll be back in a few days,” Belle murmured. “I keep thinking I’ll feel ready by then.”

“And do you?”

“No.” A pause. Then: “Yes. A little.” She smiled faintly. “We talked about it, before. Not in any serious planning way. Just… someday. After everything settled. But we weren’t trying.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to rest over her stomach. “I think part of me always hoped it would happen anyway.”

Emilie’s thumb moved gently over Belle’s hand. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Belle nodded. “And now it’s here. And I don’t know if I’m terrified or just… in awe.”

“You’re both,” Emilie said softly. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be.”

“I just needed someone else to know,” Belle admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Before him. Just… someone who could sit with me in this and not panic.”

Emilie’s smile was wobbly, but warm. “I’m doing my very best not to burst into tears or scream into a pillow, so you’re welcome.”

Belle laughed—a soft, wet sound—and wiped at her eyes. “You’re doing great.”

“You’re going to be a great mum, Belle.” Emilie’s voice didn’t waver. “And Max… Max is going to be ridiculous about it. Protective. Soft. Maybe a little panicked. But happy.”

Belle leaned into her, resting her head on Emilie’s shoulder. “I hope so.”

“He loves you,” Emilie said. “He’ll love this, too. It’s you. It’s his. That man would rebuild the planet if you asked.”

Belle closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

She wasn’t alone.

She never had been.

And when Max came home, she’d tell him.

The rest?

They’d figure it out together.

***

Instagram Post: @/f1hq

Comments: 

@/f1girlie: imagine marrying max and not telling the world. 

@/paddocktea: red bull pr team needs a drink and a nap IMMEDIATELY

@/f1lore: sooooo is this the soft launch or the chaos launch??

@/weheartgp: somewhere GP is just sipping his tea like he’s known for months. because he HAS.

***

Nico Hülkenberg was halfway through his second espresso when he spotted Kevin Magnussen exiting the Haas hospitality with his usual determined stride and a very distracted-looking PR intern trailing behind him.

Nico grinned.

“Hey, by the way,” he said cheerfully. “Did you know Max is one of us now?”

Kevin paused, raising an eyebrow. “Us?”

Nico tilted his head innocently. “The married ones. He got hitched.”

Kevin blinked. “Wait—Max Verstappen is married?”

“Yep,” Nico said, popping the “p” with far too much glee. “Secret wedding in Monaco. City hall. Small guest list. Lando dropped the photos like a grenade on the group chat. I’m still emotionally recovering.”

Kevin stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about matrimony, Kevin.” Nico leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like they were conspiring in a back alley. “It gets better. Wanna guess who he married?”

Kevin gave him a look. “Some model I’ve never heard of?”

Nico beamed. “Charles Leclerc’s little sister.”

Kevin actually stopped walking. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Nico said. “Apparently she’s been dating Max in total secrecy for over a year. Nobody knew. Not even Charles. Especially not Charles.”

Kevin blinked. “So Charles doesn’t know his colleague is now his brother-in-law?”

“Correct,” Nico said, clearly delighted.

Kevin ran a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

Nico sipped his espresso. “Welcome to Canada. The drama is international.”

Kevin exhaled. “I need a drink.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Nico said, already walking again. “The next group chat explosion is just hours away. I can feel it.”

And with that, they disappeared into the paddock chaos—two dads, too much gossip, and a rapidly approaching press session neither of them were emotionally prepared for.

***

Press Conference Transcript – Canadian GP

 Participants: Max Verstappen (Red Bull), Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), Nico Hülkenberg (Haas), Lance Stroll (Aston Martin), Pierre Gasly (Alpine), Oscar Piastri (McLaren) Moderator: Tom Clarkson

Tom Clarkson: Okay, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. Let's get started. First question comes from Emily Zhang at The Race.

Emily: Hi everyone. This question is for Max—there’s been a lot of buzz this week because people spotted you wearing a ring. Are congratulations in order?

(Max looks up calmly, shifts slightly in his seat. Oscar stares straight ahead like he’s seen this movie before. Lewis bites back a smirk. Nico Hülkenberg snorts into his water bottle.)

Max: Uh… yeah. I got married.

(Pause. Lance blinks. Pierre visibly chokes on air.)

Pierre: You what?

Lance: Wait, seriously? Like, married married?

Max: Married married.

Lewis: (grinning) About time someone noticed.

Tom: Okay, wow—so this is breaking news?

Oscar: Not for all of us.

Tom: Right. Okay, so… Max, who’s the lucky person?

(Max raises an eyebrow and doesn’t answer. Lewis covers a laugh with a cough.)

Nico: I mean, should I tell them? I feel like I should tell them.

Pierre: Wait, wait—you knew too?!

Oscar: I was at the wedding.

(Lance audibly gasps.)

Pierre: Oh my God. What is happening.

Max: I just like to keep my private life private. That’s all.

Tom: Okay, okay, I have to ask—do you plan to make a formal announcement?

Max: Eventually. Maybe. Depends how nosey you all get.

Lewis: Don’t look at me. I kept the secret. Like a vault.

Nico: I, on the other hand, told Kevin Magnussen immediately. Because this is cultural.

Tom: …Cultural?

Nico: We, the Married Drivers™, must stick together.

Max: I didn’t realize this came with a club membership.

Nico: There’s a newsletter. You’ll love it.

Pierre: Wait wait wait—who did you even marry??

Max: Next question?

(The whole room erupts into chaos.)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1teaaccount: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID "YEAH I GOT MARRIED" IN THE MOST CASUAL WAY POSSIBLE. DURING A PRESS CONFERENCE. OSCAR WAS AT THE WEDDING. PIERRE IS HAVING A LIVE MELTDOWN. I NEED A MINUTE. 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

@/f1files: Max Verstappen casually breaking the internet mid-press conference and then saying “Next question” like it’s someone else’s problem is the most Verstappen thing I’ve ever seen.

@/chaosinthepits: Lewis Hamilton being smug. Nico Hülkenberg declaring a Married Drivers™ club. Oscar sipping his coffee like this is season 6 of a show he binged in one night. And Max? Max is just sitting there like he didn’t cause a media earthquake. Peak F1.

@/ferns_and_flags: me: trying to work max verstappen: married married also me: clears my schedule to investigate who tf the mystery spouse is

@/leclercsbiceps: pierre gasly's descent into madness upon hearing "i was at the wedding" from oscar deserves an emmy this is theatrical cinema #f1 #canadiangp

@/tifosipanic: Not Lance Stroll gasping like someone just spoiled the end of Titanic 😭😭😭 I love this sport.

@/formulawtf1: max: "I got married." lewis: grinning like a proud older cousin nico: "there’s a newsletter." oscar: "not for all of us." pierre: actively combusting this press conference has more plot twists than Drive to Survive #F1

@/wagsanonymous: me at 3am putting together a suspect board of all women max verstappen has ever spoken to in the past five years 🧵🧵🧵

@/journaldupitlane: MAX VERSTAPPEN IS MARRIED AND WE DON’T KNOW TO WHO F1 TWITTER IS ON FIRE I REPEAT 🔥🔥🔥

@/slowpitstop: “Max: Married married” “Pierre: WHO” “Max: Next question?” AND THEN HE JUST MOVES ON?? sir this is not a soft launch this is a strategic war tactic

@/oscarstanclub: Oscar Piastri has officially become the F1 Gossip Bestie™ he KNEW. he ATTENDED. he’s just sipping tea and watching chaos unfold like a pro

@/beyondthegrid: dear @F1 release the wedding photos. or the drivers' group chat logs. ideally both. sincerely, everyone

@/vettelismyco-pilot:

Lewis Hamilton saying “I kept the secret like a vault” with a grin should be illegal. I’ve never trusted a man more.

@/estebanoconstan: Pierre: “Who did you even marry?” Max: “Next question.” ME: screaming, crying, throwing the entire WDC leaderboard.

@/wheelsequalfeelings:  Okay but what if Mrs. Verstappen is Isabelle Leclerc. Just hear me out.

Private ✅

Gorgeous ✅

Speaks French✅

Likes Horses ✅ Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

@/gridgossipgirl:  Theories so far on who Max Verstappen married:

Isabelle Leclerc

A secret childhood friend who lives off the grid

A Red Bull engineer who’s been hiding in plain sight

That girl he looked at for 0.5 seconds in Austria 2023

Himself, for tax reasons

@/piastrivision: Oscar “I was at the wedding” Piastri refusing to elaborate is the most powerful move I’ve seen this year.

He knows. He’s watching the chaos. He’s THRIVING.

@/gridwivesanonymous: Okay but Max wearing a wedding ring, dropping “I got married,” and then pulling a Next question? is a level of chaos we were not prepared for.

It’s giving: she’s untouchable. 

@/itsyasminmf: My favorite part is Max being so calm. Like, “yeah I’m married.” No further explanation. No photos. No name. No vibe check.

Who is she??

Where did she come from??

Does she know the power she holds??

***

Charles Leclerc had been weirded out since he arrived in Montreal.

It wasn’t anything obvious—no one was throwing punches or shouting across the paddock—but there was a definite chill in the air. People were polite, yes. Just… distant.

Carlos barely nodded at him that morning in the garage. Alex made a joke during the drivers’ briefing, but his eyes hadn’t flicked toward Charles once. Even Lewis had given him a smile that felt more strained than usual.

And Daniel? Daniel Ricciardo, who normally greeted everyone like a long-lost relative, had given him a thumbs-up from a distance and then walked off like he had somewhere better to be.

It made Charles feel like he’d walked into a conversation halfway through and everyone had forgotten to tell him the plot.

“You’ve noticed it too, right?” he asked Pierre later, in the Alpine hospitality.

Pierre looked up from his espresso. “The weird vibes?”

“Yes! Everyone’s being so—so strange.”

Pierre squinted. “Maybe they’re just grumpy. Travel hangover or something.”

“Carlos barely spoke to me,” Charles said. “Carlos. He gave me a nod.”

Pierre raised a brow. “Okay, yeah. That’s definitely weird. Did you say something dumb in a press conference again?”

“I—non! I have no idea. Everyone’s being all secretive. Like I missed a group chat.”

Pierre leaned back in his chair. “You think it’s about you?”

Charles gave him a look.

Pierre nodded. “Okay, fair.”

There was a pause, the sound of engines in the background, mechanics shouting somewhere beyond the fence.

“Oh, also,” Pierre added, like an afterthought, “did you hear Max got married?”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Pierre sipped his coffee. “Yeah. Quietly. No media. I think only a few drivers were invited. No one knows who the girl is, though.”

Charles frowned. “Max? Married?”

“Mhm.”

“And no one knows who to?”

Pierre shrugged. “Some say it’s someone he met through racing. Others think it’s someone from his childhood? I don’t know. It’s weird how no one’s said anything.”

Charles rubbed his temple. “Why is everyone suddenly getting married and giving me the cold shoulder at the same time?”

Pierre grinned. “Maybe it’s karma. Did you forget someone’s birthday or something?”

Charles scoffed. “No!”

***

Esteban Ocon had absolutely no intention of eavesdropping.

In his defense, Charles and Pierre weren’t exactly whispering. They were sitting two tables over in the Alpine hospitality area, sipping espresso like it was a wine tasting, and talking with that animated, slightly too-loud energy that came from a mix of jet lag and general Ferrari drama. Esteban was halfway through a protein bar and minding his own business when Charles’ voice shot up in pitch like he’d just been electrocuted.

“Max? Married?”

Esteban blinked.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tilt his head slightly, but something in Pierre’s very casual, very smug, “Yeah. Quietly. No media. No one knows who the girl is though,” caught his attention.

Max Verstappen. Married.

And apparently to someone so top-secret that even Pierre Gasly didn’t have a name? That was either the most carefully managed PR move in Formula 1 history—or something else entirely.

Esteban took another bite of his bar and stored the information in the mental folder marked “Paddock Chaos,” which was currently bursting at the seams.

Later, in the Aston Martin hospitality—peaceful, air-conditioned, and full of cucumber water—Esteban leaned toward Lance Stroll and casually said, “So, apparently Max Verstappen got married. I overheard Charles and Pierre talking. Charles looked like he’d swallowed a wasp.”

Lance paused mid-scroll through his phone. “I heard,” he whispered, sounding like he had seen an alien. “Max admitted it in the press conference. No one knows to whom.”

There was a long pause.

Then a voice behind them: “Yes, we do.”

Esteban turned—and immediately felt like he was twelve again and caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Fernando Alonso stood there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like he’d been waiting his entire career for this moment.

“You do?” Esteban asked, cautiously.

Fernando just nodded. “Max married Isabelle Leclerc.”

The silence was immediate. Lance’s mouth fell open. Esteban blinked like someone had slapped him.

“Isabelle?” Lance said, voice almost cracking. “Charles’ sister Isabelle?”

“Mm,” Fernando said, looking entirely too satisfied. “The quiet one. The one who brings Charles coffee and vanishes into walls.”

Esteban just stared. “Does Charles know?”

Fernando tilted his head. “Do you think we’d be having this conversation if he did?”

“Oh my god,” Lance muttered.

Esteban could feel the chaos building like a weather system. “Wait—so Max married Charles’ sister, and no one told Charles?”

Fernando smirked. “Let’s just say… the Canada GP is going to be memorable.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving Esteban and Lance to sit there in stunned silence as the paddock spun on without them.

Esteban blinked. “I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop this hard today.”

***

Zhou Guanyu had seen a lot in Formula 1.

 Petty rivalries. Heated debriefs. Drivers throwing silent tantrums in hospitality. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the strange, simmering weirdness between Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz on the Thursday of the Canadian Grand Prix.

He’d noticed it in the paddock first.

 Carlos, standing stiff near the Ferrari motorhome, arms crossed, chewing through a conversation with his engineer like it personally offended him. Charles, twenty feet away, pretending to be very absorbed in his phone, except his jaw was tight and his responses to the press were… terse.

Too terse.

 Even for Charles.

Zhou didn’t consider himself nosy. But he was a driver, and therefore professionally attuned to weird vibes.

So when he found himself beside Oscar Piastri and Logan Sargeant near the McLaren espresso bar a few hours later, he didn’t waste time.

“Okay,” Zhou said, keeping his voice low. “What the hell is going on between Charles and Carlos?”

Oscar glanced up from his coffee. Logan nearly choked on his protein bar.

“What?” Oscar asked, too casually.

“They’re being weird,” Zhou said. “Weirder than usual. Did they fight? Did Charles forget Carlos’ birthday? Did someone dent the other’s scooter?”

Oscar sighed and looked over both shoulders. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

Zhou raised an eyebrow. “So you know something.”

Oscar hesitated. “It’s… not public.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Logan added helpfully.

Oscar gave him a look. Then, under his breath, he said:  “Charles forgot Belle’s birthday.”

Zhou blinked. “What?”

Oscar lowered his voice even more. “Like. Fully. Forgot. The whole family did. On race day. In Monaco.”

Zhou stared. “He forgot his sister’s birthday… at his home race?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “She was in the garage. Literally standing there in Ferrari red. And they didn’t say a word. Carlos was the only one who remembered. And he didn’t even say anything until after the race because Belle told him not to.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait—then why’s Carlos mad now?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because it’s been over a week and they still haven’t remembered. Not one of them.”

Logan muttered, “That explains the ice vibes.”

Zhou dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, but… why do you know all of this?”

Oscar coughed into his coffee. “I… may be in a group chat.”

Logan stared. “A group chat?

Zhou’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of group chat?”

“A support group for emotionally traumatized drivers who’ve witnessed Belle’s family be completely unaware that she exists,” Oscar deadpanned. “It’s also basically an emotional early-warning system for when Charles is about to get throttled.”

Zhou stared at them. “You people need hobbies.”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “We have one. It’s watching Max Verstappen become the most unproblematic romantic lead of 2025.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait. Max is dating Belle?”

Oscar grimaced. “No, he married her.”

“Oh no,” Zhou muttered. “Oh, no.”

And just like that, Zhou understood:

 Something deeply unhinged was happening under the surface of the paddock—and he had officially fallen headfirst into the softest, most dramatic subplot of the season.

Logan looked like he’d just been hit by a rogue space hopper. “That’s… that’s insane.”

“Everyone else knows,” Oscar added. “Lewis. Checo. Even Fernando.”

Logan buried his face in his hands. “No wonder Carlos looks like he wants to strangle someone.”

Zhou leaned back, stunned. “So Charles forgot his sister’s birthday and has no idea she’s married to Max Verstappen?”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “Correct.”

“Jesus,” Logan muttered. “This is like… F1: The Soap Opera.”

***

Oliver Bearman wasn’t technically supposed to be paying attention to the drama.

He was here as a reserve. A professional. Focused. Ready.

But also? He was eighteen, observant, and currently watching what felt like a Cold War being waged in broad daylight between two of the most recognizable drivers on the grid.

Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz were not speaking.

Oh, they technically were. There were nods. Professional exchanges. Brief, clipped updates in front of the engineers. But no banter. No inside jokes. No calm debriefs over espresso machines.

It was like someone had taken a blowtorch to their famously chill teammate chemistry and then just… walked away.

Oliver couldn’t stop watching it unfold.

And he also couldn’t stop talking about it. 

Kimi Antonelli was his newest victim, while they were both in hospitality rinking whatever disgusting protein shakes their trainer thought they should down. 

“Hey,” Oliver whispered, “Have you seen this?”

Kimi blinked. “Seen what?”

Oliver gestured subtly. “Them. Carlos and Charles. They haven’t smiled at each other once today. That���s not normal.”

Kimi squinted, as if only now registering the frosty atmosphere. “Maybe Carlos is angry that Lewis took his seat?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. They’d be more dramatic if it was about contracts. This is personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Maybe Charles forgot Carlos’ birthday?”

“Carlos’s birthday was in September.”

“Maybe it’s delayed rage.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “No. This is fresher. I’ve been watching. This started in Monaco.”

“You studied it?” Kimi said, raising an eyebrow.

“I observed it,” Oliver corrected, because he was a responsible adult and definitely not gossiping like a paddock housewife.

Kimi tilted his head. “Okay, so what’s your theory?”

Oliver took a deep breath, eyes darting toward where Charles was pretending to read a telemetry report while Carlos muttered something to an engineer without so much as glancing in his direction.

“Alright,” Oliver said. “Theory one: Charles borrowed something from Carlos and never gave it back. Like… his espresso machine.”

“Espresso theft is serious,” Kimi acknowledged.

“Right?” Oliver nodded. “Or maybe—maybe Charles spoiled the ending of Drive to Survive before Carlos got to watch it.”

“That’s unforgivable.”

“Exactly. Or—and this is my strongest theory so far—Charles forgot something important.”

“Like what?”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “A birthday. An anniversary. A godchild’s christening. Something personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Or maybe Carlos just found out Charles uses oat milk.”

“Now that would cause a meltdown.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the two Ferrari drivers pass each other like ships in the night—professional, poised, and ice cold.

Finally, Kimi said, “You know what this reminds me of?”

Oliver turned to him, intrigued. “What?”

“That one time in karting when I called my teammate’s sister hot and he didn’t speak to me for two weeks.”

Oliver froze. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Kimi.”

“What?”

“WHAT IF THAT’S IT?” Oliver hissed. “What if this is about a sister?”

Kimi blinked. “Wait… Charles has a sister, right?”

Oliver nodded slowly, his eyes wide. “Isabelle.”

They stared at each other, the full conspiracy blooming in their minds.

“Oh my God,” Oliver whispered. “What if Carlos has a crush on Belle? And Charles just found out.”

“Or worse—what if someone else does, and Charles blamed Carlos?!”

“Holy shit.”

They stared back out at the garage where Charles and Carlos now stood side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other, arms crossed in near-perfect symmetry.

“This is better than a Netflix doc,” Oliver muttered.

Kimi popped his gum. “Think we’ll ever find out what actually happened?”

Oliver shook his head. “Nope. But I’m gonna keep guessing until I die.”

***

Belle pushed open the door to the boutique, the delicate chime above it greeting her like an old friend. The shop was quiet, tucked into a sun-drenched corner of the Rue Grimaldi, all pastel walls and honeyed wood. The kind of place that didn’t advertise but always had exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

She took off her sunglasses and slipped them into her bag, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap.

This was supposed to be simple.

 A gift for Victoria.

Victoria’s baby girl was due any day now. And Belle had promised herself she’d find something special. Something lovely and thoughtful, because of course Victoria’s daughter would be surrounded by love, but Belle wanted her to have a gift that came from her aunt—not just from "Max’s wife."

She found a dress first—a pale pink with hand-stitched flowers at the collar. Classic. Sweet. Then a matching blanket, soft as clouds, and hat with the same hand-stitched flowers. 

She set it gently in her basket together with a and a plush teddy bear so soft it felt like clouds in her palm.

Belle wandered slowly through the narrow aisles of the baby boutique, her fingers trailing over soft fabrics and pastel cotton. The shelves were filled with impossibly tiny clothes and lullaby-colored blankets, everything arranged just so, with little signs in looping handwriting that read “organic muslin” and “hand-knit in Provence.”

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was in here.

A shelf of plush toys caught her eyes:  Stacked in a neat row: lambs, bears, bunnies…

And one lion.

It wasn’t particularly large, or fancy. Just soft and golden, with a slightly crooked smile and a fuzzy mane. There was something in its face—warmth, maybe. Bravery. A kind of quiet fierceness.

Belle stepped closer, hand reaching out before she even realized what she was doing.

Her fingers curled around the lion’s little paw, and something inside her chest ached.

She hadn’t meant to buy anything for herself today. Or rather—for the tiny secret she was carrying. The one Max didn’t know about yet.

Belle pressed her palm against the curve of her stomach, still small, still subtle, hidden beneath a loose linen blouse. She wasn’t showing yet—not really—but she felt it now that she knew. The flutter of exhaustion that settled in her bones, the faint nausea in the morning, the warmth that bloomed behind her ribs when she thought about what was coming.

Max was still in Canada. Still flying around corners at 300 km/h like gravity didn’t apply to him. And this… this wasn’t news she wanted to deliver over FaceTime, with a lagging signal and the sound of tire guns in the background. She wanted to watch his face when she told him. Wanted to see the softness break across it. The quiet awe. The love.

Twelve weeks.

 She hadn’t told him. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she did. 

Desperately. Properly. Face to face.

She’d imagined it already. A hundred times. Max, sitting across from her, some ordinary evening in Monaco. A quiet smile, a hand on her belly, eyes gone wide and soft. Maybe he wouldn’t say much at first. Maybe he’d just hold her. Maybe he’d cry.

He’d be terrified. He’d be overjoyed. He’d be Max.

The lion toy was still in her hand.

Belle looked down at it and smiled. “You’ll be ours,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “You’ll keep the little one safe.”

She added it to the pile at the register without a word. The shop assistant didn’t ask—just wrapped the plush in soft tissue and placed it in a separate bag.

Two bags.

She left the boutique with two bags.

One for a niece Max already loved.

And one for a child he didn’t even know existed yet.

But he would.

Soon.

When the moment was right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: You really said “I got married” like you were ordering lunch.

Max: Was it too casual?

Belle: You caused a paddock-wide meltdown in under 10 seconds. Pierre choked on air. Lance gasped.

Max: Oscar didn’t blink.

Belle: Oscar’s soul left his body at the wedding, he hasn’t blinked since.

Max: Lewis was proud of me. Nico welcomed me to the Married Men Club™. Apparently there’s a newsletter.

Belle: What’s in the newsletter?

Max: Tips on DIY crib assembly and how to hide sim rig receipts, probably. 

Belle: I should’ve seen that coming.

Belle: You handled it well.

Max: Thanks. I miss you.

Belle: I miss you too. But I did something today. Thought of you.

Max: Hmm?

Belle: Went shopping. Picked up a gift for Victoria’s little one.

Max: You didn’t have to do that, Schatje. 

Belle: I wanted to. It’s a little dress and a swaddle. Very soft. Very pink.She’s going to look like a marshmallow.

Max: She’s going to love it. Vic and the baby.

Max:Few more days and I’m home.

Belle: Bring yourself. And a trophy.

Max: Bringing all of it. And coming home to you.

Belle: We’ll be here waiting ❤️

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos: it’s been 12 DAYS.

Carlos: AND CHARLES STILL HASN’T REALISED. 

Lewis: I’m genuinely losing my mind. 

George: At this point it’s not forgetfulness. It’s performance art. 

Daniel: Has anyone told him yet?? 

Carlos: NO. SHE SAID NOT TO. 

Alex: we made a pact. 

Oscar: I made a pact. and i’m regretting it. 

Nico H: update: i told Kevin. 

Carlos: WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT 

Nico H: Seemed fair. 

Lando: ...fair tbh. 

Daniel: ADD HIM 

Nico Hulkenberg has added Kevin Magnussen to the chat.

Kevin: what the fuck did I just walk into 

George: emotional support group 

Alex: for max & belle truthers 

Lewis: and leclerc accountability 

Kevin: cool cool. carry on

Oscar: ...i may have also told Zhou and Logan. 

Lando: YOU WHAT.

Oscar: They were there. They asked. I panicked.

Daniel: OH MY GOD 

Oscar Piastri has added Zhou Guanyu to the chat

Oscar Piastri has added Logan Sergeant to the chat

Zhou: hi. very honoured to be here. 

Lando: legend.

Logan: I’ve made popcorn. This is better than any paddock drama I’ve ever seen.

Fernando: I also may have mentioned it to Esteban and Lance.

Checo: So we’ve just abandoned secrecy entirely. Dios mío. 

Fernando Alonso has added Esteban Ocon to the chat. 

Fernando Alonso has added Lance Stroll to the chat

Esteban: hello chaos

Lance: why are there this many people here 

Carlos: because Belle deserves a small country’s worth of defenders

George: we are the UN now 

Sebastian: united in silent rage

Lewis: should we… start a betting pool? 

Oscar: on when charles remembers?? 

Carlos: yes. i’m taking “not before summer break” 

Nico R: i’m taking “not until their first baby is born” 

David: CHARLES IS GOING TO FIND OUT FROM TWITTER 

Lando: it’s what he deserves. 

Mark: belle’s not saying anything. max isn’t saying anything. and none of us are allowed to say anything. 

Zhou: so we just watch. 

Daniel: and judge. silently. supportively.

Kevin: this is better than Drive to Survive

Lance: you people are terrifying 

Esteban: and yet i feel comforted

George: long live the chaos

Lewis: I am going to tell Valtteri. 

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Valtteri Bottas

Lewis: Valtteri. You up?

Valtteri: I’m in a ice tub with a beer, so yes.

Lewis: You’re gonna want to sit down for this. …Or float. I guess.

Valtteri: Alright, hit me.

Lewis: Max Verstappen got married.

Valtteri: I know. 

Lewis: To Charles Leclerc’s sister.

Valtteri: Isabelle?

Lewis: Yep. Belle.

Valtteri: does Charles know

Lewis: No.

Valtteri: oh my god. oh my GOD

Lewis: He forgot her birthday. The whole family did. She was in the garage. No one said a word.

Valtteri: i need to be in this group chat immediately

Lewis: I got you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon and Lance Stroll)

 Lewis Hamilton has added Valtteri Bottas to the chat.

Valtteri: hello i have arrived this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me

Carlos: Welcome. We suffer here.

George: We scream in lowercase.

Daniel: You missed the “Oscar accidentally told Zhou and Logan” arc.

Oscar: IT WASN’T AN ARC IT WAS A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS

Valtteri: do i get to place a bet

Checo: Please. The pool is open.

Valtteri: i’m taking “charles finds out from a post-race interview when someone asks how he feels about being a brother-in-law to max verstappen”

Lando: OH THAT’S A GOOD ONE

Kevin: I’m taking “Belle shows up to Silverstone with a baby bump and he still doesn’t get it.”

Valtteri: this is the best chat i’ve ever been in

***

Fred Vasseur was many things—an engineer by trade, a strategist by necessity, and a reluctant babysitter of million-dollar egos by circumstance. But above all, he prided himself on reading people.

That was why the current state of the Ferrari garage was driving him mad.

The tension was unmistakable.

Carlos was stalking around with that sharp, clipped energy he usually reserved for backmarkers who didn’t move out of the way. He wasn’t being unprofessional—no, that would’ve been easier to handle. He was being polite. Controlled. Cordial. The worst kind of angry.

And Charles?

Charles seemed... confused. Like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but suspected the crime was high treason. He greeted Carlos like nothing had happened, and in return got a nod that could freeze the Tiber.

Fred watched it all from the corner of the garage with the growing sense that he was trapped in the middle of a drama he hadn’t been invited to.

Eventually, he'd had enough.

He cornered Carlos near the espresso machine, away from the engineers and the endless telemetry screens.

“Carlos,” he said, voice low and sharp, “is there something I need to know about?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared into his tiny paper cup like it had personally betrayed him.

“Because if this is about strategy or some setup disagreement—”

“It’s not,” Carlos interrupted.

Fred blinked. “Then what is it?”

Carlos exhaled through his nose. “It’s Charles.”

Fred folded his arms. “Yes. I noticed.”

“He forgot her birthday,” Carlos said, eyes tight. “Not just him. The whole family. But him especially. She was in the garage. Right there. And he didn’t say a single word.”

Fred blinked. “Whose?”

Carlos looked up, jaw clenched. “His sister’s. Belle.”

Fred stilled. “She was in the Monaco garage. Quiet, like always. Wearing red. Not one of us said a word. And Charles—her own brother—walked past her like she was invisible.”

Fred’s throat tightened. “It’s been two weeks.”

Carlos nodded. “And he still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t realized.”

Fred sat slowly in the chair across from him, face unreadable.

He liked Isabelle. Always had. She’d been around for years—gracious, observant, unfailingly kind. She never asked for anything. Never wanted attention. And yet she had always been there.

Fred remembered when she was a teenager, sitting quietly at the back of the motorhome with a sketchbook in one hand and race notes in the other. How she brought pastries to the engineers during triple headers. How she remembered everyone's birthdays.

And no one—not one of them—had remembered hers.

Not even Charles.

“She deserved better,” Fred muttered.

Carlos hesitated. “She has better now.”

Fred looked up. “What do you mean?”

Carlos went still. And then—realizing too late—he winced. “Oh. That wasn’t supposed to—"

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Carlos.”

“She’s with Max,” Carlos said, resigned. “They’ve been together for over a year. No one knew. It was private. But now? They got married. After Monaco.”

Fred blinked. “Max Verstappen.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah.”

Fred stared at him.

Carlos winced. “...And Charles has no idea.”

***

Ten minutes after Carlos had dropped the truth on him like a live grenade, Frédéric Vasseur was walking—no, storming—across the paddock with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for breaking up fistfights or walking into meetings with Ferrari’s board.

The anger in him wasn’t loud. It was cold. Controlled. A heavy thing sitting low in his chest.

He didn’t bother knocking. Just swept through the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality like he owned it. No one stopped him.

Of course they didn’t. Everyone knew better when a man looked like that.

Christian Horner glanced up from his table, mid-sip of some expensive-looking sparkling water. The look that bloomed across his face wasn’t surprise. It was familiarity. Expectation. Like he’d been waiting for this confrontation.

“Fred,” Christian said, all false calm and executive charm. “Everything alright?”

Fred didn’t sit. Didn’t smile. Didn’t play the game.

His voice was low and razor-sharp.

“Why has your golden boy married my golden boy’s sister?”

There was the smallest flicker in Christian’s eyes—like a spark caught in glass. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips curling into that infuriating little smirk he always wore when things went exactly as planned.

“Ah,” Christian said lightly. “So it’s out.”

Fred’s jaw tensed. His hands clenched at his sides, itching for something to hold onto—control, maybe. Or the version of this reality where someone, anyone, had thought to tell him what was coming.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Christian raised an eyebrow.

“Because it wasn’t our secret to share,” he said simply. “Max and Isabelle wanted privacy. You know how Max is—he keeps what’s important close. And Isabelle?” He paused. “She didn’t want the attention. Didn’t want the headlines. Didn’t want to be part of the circus.”

Fred opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. Because he knew that about her. Always had.

Isabelle Leclerc had never courted the spotlight. Not like Charles, with his fanbase and flashes of brilliance. Not like Arthur, clinging to the family legacy. She was the quiet one. The one who stayed in the background. The one who did the work, remembered people’s birthdays, brought homemade pastries into the garage because “the people deserve it.”

And they’d forgotten her.

All of them.

His shoulders sagged.

“I always liked her,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “She is smart. Steady. She helps with setups in hospitality  sometimes. Not even on payroll. She didn’t need credit. She just… cares.”

Christian’s smirk softened, just slightly. “I know.”

Fred looked at him, his expression somewhere between fury and shame.

“She stood in the Monaco garage,” Fred said, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Wearing Ferrari red. On her birthday. And no one said a word. Not Charles. Not the team. Not even me.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. He felt old. Tired.

“Charles has no idea,” he added. “No idea what he missed. What he keeps missing. He’s going to find out the wrong way—through gossip, or a headline, or worse—and he’s going to implode.”

Christian didn’t argue. Just watched him, cool and quiet.

“And when he does,” he said finally, “I hope he understands something.”

Fred looked up. “What?”

Christian’s voice was steady. Not smug now. Just… resolved.

“It’s not Max he should be angry with.  It’s everyone else who made her feel like she didn’t matter.” A pause. “Including him.”

The words landed like bricks.

Fred stood there for a long time, letting the weight of it all settle on his shoulders.

The truth was this: Isabelle Leclerc had given them grace, patience, loyalty. She’d loved this team, and this team had forgotten her.

And Max? Max Verstappen, of all people, had seen her. Held her close. Protected what mattered to her. Not for the cameras. Not for the brand. But because he chose her.

Finally, Fred exhaled. It wasn’t anger in his chest anymore. It was grief. It was guilt.

“We failed her,” he murmured.

Christian nodded once. “You did.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, and said—almost gently:

“Look,” he said, “you and I have dealt with our fair share of driver drama. But this? This isn’t about racing. This is about someone who was ignored by the very people she’s always stood up for. And Max… say what you want about him, but he saw her. Chose her. Cherishes her.”

Fred said nothing. He didn’t have to. The truth was sitting in his gut like a stone.

Christian smiled again—wider now, but not cruel.

“We take care of our own, Fred.”

And somehow, that—that—was the final blow.

***

Interview Transcript – Post Canadian GP 

Karun Chandhok: Charles, congratulations again on your Monaco GP win! That must have been an incredible moment for you.

Charles: grinning Yes, thank you! It was a very special race for me. Winning at home, in front of my family and the fans, was an unbelievable feeling.

Karun: And it happened on your sister Isabelle’s birthday too, right? That must have made the celebrations even more special!

Charles: smiling automatically Yes, it was— pauses —wait.

Karun: laughs lightly A birthday and a race win on the same day, that’s pretty memorable!

Charles: eyes darting to the side, like he's mentally calculating ...That was— his expression suddenly shifts, his smile faltering

Karun: noticing Charles?

Charles: blinking rapidly No way.

Karun: chuckles, confused

Charles: quietly, more to himself We forgot.

Karun: hesitates

Charles: more urgently We forgot her birthday.

Karun: awkwardly I mean, I’m sure—

Charles: shaking his head, visibly spiraling No, no, no. We were all celebrating, but not her. Not for her. We didn’t say anything.

Karun: off-camera crew shifting nervously

Charles: running a hand down his face Oh my god.

Karun: Um—

Charles: turning toward someone off-camera Do you have my phone? I need to— shaking his head, exhaling sharply I need to fix this.

***

[eclipsaria]

Took You Long Enough

Summary // In which a workaholic CEO finds his calm in the form of his respected senior’s daughter.

Pairing:

CEO! Seungcheol x reader

Warnings:

Fluff, slow-burn, romance, engaged, age gap(10 years), mentioned of kids, married, food, cologne and watch brand names, sugar daddy! Seungcheol if you squint, lmk if i miss out any

Side characters:

SVT members

W/C:

12 671

Rating: [ 13+ SFW ]

Note:

@nerdycheol , you are the one that suggested the watch brand and Hermés cologne brand🤣 and you as a cheol's wife, i take anything you said🫡

Song:

Main Masterlist

Seventeen Masterlist

Taglist

Âme Sœur Masterlist

The office buzzed to life every morning by 8:00 a.m. A polished world of swift elevator dings, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the faint scent of espresso lingering near the breakroom. Floors were lined with pristine glass partitions, and employees moved with a subtle urgency, well aware of the silent clock that ticked behind every deadline.

On the top floor, behind a sleek black door embossed with silver letters, was the corner office of Choi Seungcheol, the man who built the company from the ground up. He wasn’t just the CEO, he was the presence. Charismatic, sharp, and composed, Seungcheol was known for walking into a room and changing its air pressure with just a glance. Rumor had it that he could read a financial report faster than most people could skim a menu, and no one ever left a meeting with him without either a promotion, a plan, or a panic attack.

But beneath his tailored suits and impenetrable gaze was a man with a past no one dared to ask about, and a reputation he carried like armor.

Today, as sunlight spilled through the towering windows of his office, Seungcheol stood facing the city skyline, coffee in hand, unaware that the day ahead would shift everything he thought he had under control.

At just 30 years old, Choi Seungcheol had already climbed the summit most people only dreamed of. It was hard to believe he started as a low-level assistant at the age of 20. No connections, no shortcuts, just a relentless work ethic and a vision that burned behind his sharp eyes. He wasn’t born into wealth, nor did he inherit the company. Every step upward was carved with grit and sleepless nights.

Now serving his second year as CEO, there wasn’t a single person in the company who questioned his leadership. Titles didn't need to be old to command respect, not when every project under his lead launched with flawless execution, crushing expectations and setting new industry standards. His name echoed in boardrooms across the city as a young prodigy, the kind of leader who didn't just manage—but rewrote—the playbook.

What made him even more admired, or perhaps feared, was how calm he remained in the face of chaos. Seungcheol didn’t just make decisions; he made the right ones and fast. He listened more than he spoke, observed more than he intervened, and when he did speak, the room listened.

He turned back from the window now, placing his coffee on the desk as his assistant knocked twice on the door.

“Come in,” he said coolly, buttoning his suit jacket.

In a world where soulmates were real, love was less of a question and more of a certainty. The rule was simple. When you meet your soulmate, just one look into their eyes, and you’ll hear wedding bells. Not a metaphor—actual bells. Ringing in your ears like a celebration only you two could hear. After that, everything seemed to fall into place, like the universe giving you a neatly wrapped ending: soulmates meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after.

Well… everyone except Choi Seungcheol.

His friends, his closest circle, were either happily married, halfway through wedding plans, or sending him pictures of their toddlers with captions like “Uncle Cheol, when’s your turn?” The world was moving fast, and for someone like him, who always caught up quickly, this was the one race he couldn’t outrun.

He wasn’t single because he hated love. He just didn’t want to gamble with emotions. Exes and soulmates don’t mix well. What if he fell in love with someone who wasn’t the one? What if he broke someone’s heart only to meet his true soulmate later, and it all came crumbling down? So he stayed away from flings, from love, from anything that could mess with the balance of his life.

Still, it didn’t stop the slow crawl of anxiety. He wasn’t worried about getting married late, he was worried about his parents.

At 27, his mother had set him up on a blind date with someone’s daughter, he showed up out of respect, but came home early with a headache.

At 28, his father mailed out carefully written profiles of Seungcheol to other families with daughters, practically advertising him like some limited-edition luxury product.

By 29, they dropped all pretense and started pushing for an arranged marriage. “Just meet her, see if your eyes ring,” they said. He didn’t.

Now at 30, Seungcheol didn’t know what plan his parents were cooking up, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

But what could he do? Nothing. And so, as always, he chose the routine that never disappointed him: Wake up. Go to the office. Handle meetings. Review reports. Sign approvals. Go home. Sleep.

It was safe. Predictable and efficient.

It was just another day at work. The usual hum of morning emails and the faint buzz of distant phones filled the air, when Seungcheol’s secretary knocked once before entering, arms full with neatly stacked document files.

She placed them on his desk without a word at first, as he flipped through the last few pages of a report. But then, came a rare request.

“Mr. Shin from Jeonghwa Group has extended an invitation. It’s a masquerade party,” she said, tone light but respectful. “Held by his wife. They’re hoping for your attendance.”

The name made Seungcheol look up, pausing mid-page. “…Mr. Shin?”

She nodded. “Yes. He personally requested your presence.”

Choi Seungcheol blinked once, then leaned back in his chair. Mr. Shin wasn’t just anyone, he was a veteran in the business world, one of the few people Seungcheol looked up to when he first entered the corporate jungle at twenty. Sharp, poised, but known for his warm charisma, Mr. Shin had once told Seungcheol over lunch: “Success is important, but relationships will carry you further than numbers ever will.”

Unfortunately, Seungcheol never quite grasped the latter.

He was never a party type. In his mind, parties disrupted efficiency. Hours wasted in polite conversation, standing under chandeliers, sipping drinks he didn’t care for. He didn’t hate people, he just… preferred structure.

But this invitation wasn’t something he could brush off. Not when it came from Mr. Shin. Refusing could send the wrong message, and disappointing both Mr. Shin and his wife was out of the question.

A soft sigh escaped his lips.

“…Tell them I’ll attend,” he said finally, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Clear the schedule for that night. If there are any clashes, push them back. And set a time for shopping. Something formal. Masked.”

“Understood,” his secretary replied with a slight smile, already tapping notes into her tablet as she turned to leave.

The door clicked shut behind her, and then silence returned. Seungcheol sat there for a moment longer, staring blankly at the papers in front of him before removing his glasses and slowly pinching the bridge of his nose. A heavy sigh followed.

“A masquerade party, huh…” he muttered.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The night of the masquerade arrived with a velvet sky draped in soft stars, the city skyline glowing beneath it like scattered jewels. Seungcheol’s black car pulled up to the venue. An opulent estate on the outskirts of the city owned by the Shin family, known for hosting only the most exclusive circles.

From the very first step inside, the masquerade felt like stepping into another world.

The entrance hall was grand. High arched ceilings adorned with delicate gold filigree, with glittering chandeliers casting warm light across the polished marble floors. Elegant floral arrangements stood tall in glass vases, the soft scent of fresh orchids and lilies lingering in the air. Staff in crisp uniforms glided past with trays of champagne and wine, offering delicate glasses that sparkled like the guests themselves.

And the guests. Each one hidden behind ornate masks, dressed in tailored suits and flowing gowns, laughter muffled by polite conversation and the occasional clink of crystal. The entire ballroom shimmered with motion and elegance, the air alive with quiet prestige.

At the far end of the room, an orchestra played a soft, haunting melody. A waltz that wound through the evening like silk. Violins harmonized with cellos as couples swayed gently across the dance floor, their silhouettes graceful under golden lights. The music didn’t demand attention; it wove through the space, letting elegance speak for itself.

Seungcheol stood at the entrance for a moment longer, absorbing the scene. Dressed in a deep charcoal tuxedo, his mask was sleek, made of brushed silver, perfectly fitted and simple. Just like him.

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit with quiet precision and took a slow breath.

Seungcheol moved through the grand hall with quiet grace, the soft shuffle of his polished shoes drowned by the music and conversation. His eyes scanned the crowd until he spotted a familiar figure near the center of the ballroom. Mr. Shin, dressed in a regal navy suit, silver embroidery trimming the collar of his jacket. Standing beside him, equally elegant, was Mrs. Shin, her mask adorned with pearls that shimmered with every turn of her head.

With his posture poised and his mask adjusted, Seungcheol approached them and gave a respectful bow.

“Mr. Shin, Mrs. Shin,” he greeted formally, voice steady. “Thank you for the kind invitation.”

Mr. Shin turned, a pleased smile stretching under his mask. “Seungcheol! I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show. I’m glad you came.”

Mrs. Shin offered a soft nod, “You look dashing tonight, dear. As always.”

“I wouldn’t miss this, not when it comes from the both of you,” he said with a light smile, still formal in tone. “The venue is breathtaking.”

They shared a few pleasantries, light jokes exchanged beneath crystal chandeliers. Seungcheol tried his best to blend into the moment, smiling at the passing comments, laughing politely, sipping wine when handed a glass, but the stiffness in his shoulders never quite faded.

And then, as expected, his conversation naturally veered back to what he knew best.

“Actually, just before coming here, we finalized the restructuring proposal for the third branch’s distribution-”

He stopped himself, but the Shin couple only smiled knowingly.

Mrs. Shin tilted her head with a gentle chuckle, “Oh, darling. You can talk about work all you like if it helps you feel at home. No masks are needed for that.”

Her words, though playful, pierced the tension in him like a warm knife through ice. Seungcheol let out a soft exhale, barely realizing he had been holding his breath.

And so, he spoke. About the company. About numbers. About staff growth. About challenges and solutions.

And strangely enough, the conversation didn’t feel out of place. Mr. Shin offered insights, Mrs. Shin listened intently, nodding with that gentle, matronly glow she always carried. The air grew lighter around them, the laughter more genuine, the pressure in Seungcheol’s chest slowly easing.

Then, Mr. Shin placed a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder with a proud smile.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said. “My daughter just returned home after her studies abroad. I think the two of you will get along.”

Seungcheol turned just in time to see her approach.

You wore a pale lavender gown, subtle and elegant, flowing like morning mist. Your mask was delicate, silver trimmed with lace, soft feathers curling at the edges. You moved with the grace of someone raised in soft-spoken confidence, eyes quietly scanning the room until they landed on him.

The moment your eyes met, everything fell silent, except for the sound of wedding bells. Clear and unmistakable. Ringing only in your ears, like the universe had struck a chord, and fate had written the first line of a new story.

Both stood still for a moment too long, unsure whether to speak or breathe. And in the corner of his eye, Seungcheol saw Mrs. Shin’s knowing smile.

The bells still echoed faintly in Seungcheol’s ears, even as the rest of the ballroom returned to its natural soundscape. Soft music, low chatter, the clinking of glasses.

But for Seungcheol, the world had slowed.

His soulmate. He had finally found you. He should have felt relief, even joy. This was the moment most people spent their lives yearning for. The ache he had carried silently for years, the lingering worry behind every family dinner and silent commute, had finally found an answer.

But fate, it seemed, wasn’t going to make it easy.

You are twenty. Young, bright-eyed, and still new to the world. Ten years younger. And worse, you are Mr. Shin’s daughter, the Mr. Shin he had admired for over a decade, the very man who shaped the path Seungcheol now walked. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel allowed.

This couldn’t be happening… could it?

Just as he was grounding himself, still locking eyes with the girl whose existence had just turned his world upside down, Mr. Shin’s voice cut in again, calm and casual.

He reached out, gently patting his daughter’s head as he looked at you with a father’s pride.

“I’ve been preparing for retirement,” he said, almost wistfully, “but before I can step back, I need to make sure she’s ready for what comes next.”

Seungcheol turned to him slowly, blinking.

“I need someone to teach her how to face the working world. Someone sharp, experienced… someone I trust more than anyone else in this industry.”

He turned fully to Seungcheol now, smile warm, eyes firm.

“So before I retire, Seungcheol… can I pass her to you? For mentorship, or practical training. Nothing prepares someone better than real experience.”

The room suddenly felt too warm.

Seungcheol’s grip on his champagne glass tightened slightly, his composed expression slipping just barely for a breath of a second.

Not only had he just discovered his soulmate, he was also being asked on the same night to personally guide you into the working world, into the very fire he had spent ten years learning to survive.

And you would be close every day. His soulmate. His senior’s daughter. His future trainee. His knees almost gave out, but he smiled faintly and nodded, because what else could he do?

“…Of course, sir,” he said, voice steady despite the quiet chaos behind it. “I’d be honored.”

But in his mind, there was only one thought: this is going to be a problem.

As if sensing the moment had grown too full, Mr. and Mrs. Shin politely excused themselves to greet other guests, leaving Seungcheol standing face-to-face with the person who had just unknowingly disrupted the stability he had clung to for years, you.

He watched you for a second longer, trying to find the right words, or any words at all.

You looked up at him too, unsure yet calm. Composed, despite the thunderous sound that only the two of you had heard. And then, gently, your voice slipped out from behind your mask.

“So… I guess we heard it too,” you said quietly, referring to the wedding bells.

Seungcheol let out a short breath, a dry chuckle escaping him. “Yeah. We did.”

A pause hung between you. Heavy, but not uncomfortable, more like the silence that comes when something profound has settled in the space.

“I’m Choi Seungcheol,” he said, dipping his head politely. “But I assume you already knew that.”

You gave a polite little curtsy, unable to suppress a small smile. “And I’m Shin Y/N.” You tilted your head a bit. That earned a faint, genuine smile from him.

The orchestra shifted to a softer tune, one that made the chandeliers shimmer with each drawn note. Around you, the world moved on—guests swayed on the dance floor, laughter floated in waves—but between you and Seungcheol, the air remained still. Electric.

“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “Tonight, or… you.”

You let out a small laugh. “You mean you didn’t expect your soulmate to be twenty years old?”

His eyes widened a little, surprised by your boldness, before he shook his head slowly with the ghost of amusement on his face. “Was I that obvious?”

“Just a little,” you teased. “But it’s alright. I didn’t expect my soulmate to be someone my parents literally worship either. So I think we’re even.”

He looked at you, really looked, and saw more than just his senior’s daughter. He saw someone with her own mind, her own spark. Not just someone being pushed into his world, but someone who could make space in it.

“If this gets overwhelming,” he said suddenly, voice a little softer, a little more real, “just say so. I won’t rush into anything. I know this is… a lot.”

You raised a brow, your gaze gentle. “Why do you sound like you’re the one overwhelmed?”

He paused, as if your words peeled away a layer of him.

“…Because I’ve spent years building a life I could control,” he said quietly.

You smiled behind your mask. “Then maybe I’m here to teach you how to let go. Just a little.”

That caught him off guard. A breath of silence passed… and then, he laughed, low and genuine, maybe for the first time all week.

“…I think you might be,” he murmured. And just like that, under the soft music, crystal chandeliers, and masks that hid just enough but revealed just as much. The world had quietly started to change for Choi Seungcheol.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The next day arrived with polished shoes, pressed suits, and a strangely quickened heartbeat that Seungcheol couldn’t quite explain, not until his office door was knocked on, sharp and polite.

His secretary peeked in with a gentle smile, then stepped aside. “Young Miss Shin has arrived, sir.” And then you stepped in behind her.

For a moment, just a moment, Choi Seungcheol forgot how to breathe.

At the masquerade, your mask had hidden part of your face, letting only your voice and eyes do the talking. But now, standing there in the light of his office, dressed professionally yet effortlessly graceful, you looked nothing short of a princess sent straight from a fairytale.

Your features were delicate, your posture refined, and your smile-

God, that smile.

You bowed deeply, a full 90-degree gesture of respect. “It’s an honor to work under you, Mr. Choi.”

That broke something in him, just for a second. He almost gulped, throat tightening as he tried to suppress the warmth crawling up his neck. His jaw clenched lightly, keeping his face composed as always, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him for a heartbeat too long.

His soulmate was bowing to him like a subordinate, like he wasn’t losing his grip on the damn air in the room.

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice still firm but quieter than usual. “You may begin today.”

He cleared his throat and quickly looked away, standing up and adjusting his cufflinks just to buy time. “You may return to your tasks,” he told his secretary, who gave a small nod and closed the door behind her.

Now, it was just the two of you.

The air shifted again. Quiet, but not cold, just full.

You stepped forward softly, hands tucked behind your back, walking with a quiet elegance that echoed across the floor of his office. You stopped just short of his desk, leaned forward a little, and smiled.

“I wish for a happy time working with you, Mr. Choi.”

His heart skipped a full beat. He blinked once, then twice. He internally cursed himself for how fast his chest reacted, how your presence so effortlessly chipped away at the steel mask he had worn for years.

“…Don’t get too comfortable,” he muttered under his breath, turning slightly away as he pretended to check something on his desk.

He picked up a pen, but forgot what document it was for. Clearing his throat again, he motioned for you to sit on the chair in front of his desk.

“Take out a pen and a notebook,” he said briskly, avoiding your eyes. “If you want to be the next CEO of your father’s company, you’ll need to start by remembering a few things.”

Still smiling, you sat down and pulled out your notebook obediently.

“Rule number one,” he continued, finally looking at you again, but carefully now, like one wrong glance would unravel him. “No one cares about your title. Earn their respect with competence, not your last name.”

You nodded, scribbling it down.

“Rule two,” he said, watching the way your hair fell slightly as you wrote. “Always know more than you speak. And listen more than you think.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze and softly replied, “That sounds exactly like you, Mr. Choi.”

His pen almost slipped from his hand. He coughed once more, this time trying to suppress the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Rule three,” he said sharply, eyes back on your notebook. “Stop charming your mentor. It’s distracting.”

You giggled, quiet, warm, and knowing.

He didn’t say it out loud, but deep down, he already knew that this was going to be a long, dangerous, beautiful mentorship.

The first few hours of your mentorship under Choi Seungcheol moved swiftly, on the surface.

He kept his instructions sharp, his tone professional, walking you through key departments, introducing the core team, and pointing out what made his company function like a well-oiled machine. To any outsider, it looked like another day of excellence from the CEO.

But the staff, sharp-eyed and always quietly observant, noticed something was off. It wasn’t something loud. There were no smiles stretched too far, no extravagant gestures. It was the way he stood a little too close.

The way his voice dropped just slightly whenever he spoke to you. The way he’d glance at you longer than he intended when you weren’t looking. And above all, the strange, rare gentleness in his expression when he watched you scribble notes or tilt your head in concentration.

To them, he was different today.

Seungcheol didn’t think so. He was just… doing his job. Guiding you, as Mr. Shin had asked, offering knowledge and sharing insight. So why did standing next to you feel like the only part of his day that wasn’t suffocating?

Every time your shoulder brushed his as you walked beside him, his chest felt lighter, like the years of pressure he’d buried beneath routine and deadlines were slowly peeling away.

He blamed it on the soulmate bond. That had to be it.

Still, it didn’t explain how you made silence feel so comforting. Even when neither of you were talking, your presence carried a calm aura—quiet but grounding.

And for someone like Seungcheol, a man who lived and breathed pressure, your calm was unfamiliar… and unsettling.

Not in a bad way, but in a foreign, “how-do-I-function-while-feeling-peace” kind of way.

He was in the middle of explaining their operations team structure when he noticed you looking up at him with that same unwavering gaze. Focused, soft, and admiring, as if he wasn’t just your mentor, but someone you deeply trusted already.

That was when he blanked out. He literally forgot the point he was going to make.

“-and that department handles… uh…” His brows furrowed, staring at the floor plan pinned on the wall like it had betrayed him. “The, um…”

You tilted your head. “The logistics team?”

He cleared his throat, nodding once. “Right. Logistics.”

His voice returned to its usual pace, but internally, panic echoed like an alarm.

Thankfully, a familiar knock on the glass broke the moment. His secretary peeked in again.

“Sir, your meeting is in fifteen minutes.”

A lifeline.

He straightened quickly. “Right. Thank you.”

He turned to you, voice brisk but not cold. “I’ll need to prepare. My secretary will guide you around the rest of the office.”

You nodded politely. “Of course, Mr. Choi.”

And just like that, he walked away, maybe a little too quickly, and stepped into his office, letting the door close behind him.

Only when the lock clicked into place did he exhale. Running a hand through his hair, he leaned against his desk for a second, glaring at nothing in particular before muttering under his breath: “…Wake up, Choi Seungcheol.”

He scowled at his own reflection in the black monitor, then sat down and opened the meeting files, anything to distract himself from the echo of your smile in his mind.

The meeting room was sleek and quiet, filled with department heads and key project managers all seated in neat rows around the long conference table. On the wall, the quarterly projections were being presented by one of the finance leads: charts, graphs, bullet points ticking forward one by one.

From the outside, Choi Seungcheol looked the same as always. Sharp suit, steady gaze, and the calm posture as he sat at the head of the table.

But his fingers betrayed him.

They tapped quietly against the table’s surface, then began twirling his pen between them. An unconscious habit. Over and over, the silver pen spun in rhythm, not once slipping, not once faltering. Precision, yes, but not focus.

His eyes stayed forward, directed at the slides, but his mind wasn’t in the room.

It was still in the hallway. Back where you walked beside him, soft footsteps echoing alongside his. It was stuck on the memory of the way you tilted your head, smiling gently. The way your voice sounded when you said, “I wish for a happy time working with you, Mr. Choi.”

His heartbeat picked up again.

He subtly loosened the top button of his collar with one hand, hoping no one noticed. A deep breath filled his lungs, but did nothing to cool the sudden warmth behind his ears.

Get a grip, Seungcheol.

One of the department leads directed a question toward him. He caught it, answered professionally and concisely. The pause before he spoke was half a second too long, but not enough to cause alarm.

His pen spun again, even faster now, almost mechanical.

Why was this happening?

He had handled crises, led multi-million-dollar negotiations, turned failing branches into flagship models. He had faced rooms full of foreign investors and government officials. But now, here he was, fidgeting with a pen like some college intern, thinking about a girl with calm eyes and a presence that made his carefully structured world feel… quiet.

Not empty, just quiet. And Seungcheol didn’t know if that was comforting—or terrifying.

Someone called out his name again, snapping him out of his trance.

“Yes?” he responded, blinking back into the present.

All eyes turned to him, waiting. He cleared his throat and nodded slowly. “I agree with the previous point. Let’s move forward with scenario B, but add a contingency plan for client-side delays. I’ll review the proposed schedule by Friday.”

Everyone nodded. The meeting continued.

But even as the presentation resumed, Seungcheol’s hand never stopped spinning the pen. And under the table, where no one could see, his leg bounced just slightly.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling, just barely.

The meeting ended without incident, at least from an outside perspective. Everyone filed out of the room with their notes and laptops, chatting quietly, discussing next steps. Seungcheol stayed seated for a few seconds longer than usual, pretending to review the printed schedule, though his eyes barely read the lines.

When he finally stood, he adjusted his jacket, gave his usual nod to his assistant, and made his way back to his office.

The walk down the hallway was normal. The familiar click of his shoes on polished floors. A few passing greetings from staff. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until he opened his office door. And you were there, seated on the leather guest chair in front of his desk, legs crossed, notebook in hand. You looked up immediately as the door opened, offering him that same disarming smile, the one that had singlehandedly ruined his focus for the past two hours.

“Oh,” you said softly, “welcome back, Mr. Choi.”

His steps faltered, but only for a second. He walked inside with his usual calm, closing the door behind him. “Did my secretary bring you back here?”

“She did,” you replied, standing up as a gesture of respect. “I didn’t want to wander around too long without you.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly at that sentence.

Without me, huh?

He made his way around the desk, taking his seat while pretending not to notice the way your presence shifted the air in the room. He placed his notes down, but didn’t look at them.

You stood there quietly, notebook still in hand, waiting—always respectful, always composed. He hated how much he liked that.

“Did you find the rest of the office tour informative?” he asked, finally meeting your gaze.

You nodded, stepping forward again, calm and graceful. “Yes. Everyone was kind. But…”

You paused for a beat, then gave a teasing tilt of your head. “It’s a little boring without you.”

His pen rolled slightly across the desk from how fast his fingers froze.

You quickly added, “I meant that you explain things better. That’s all.”

“…Right,” he replied, clearing his throat, gaze darting briefly to the side before grounding himself again. “Let’s resume where we left off then. Sit down.”

You obeyed, smiling faintly as you opened your notebook again. Seungcheol forced himself to focus—not on you, not on your expression, not on the soft perfume that somehow lingered between the pages of your notes—but on his words. Yet, as he began speaking again about corporate hierarchy and strategic positioning, his voice betrayed him. It was softer now, gentler.

He wasn’t sure when that started happening. He only knew it never sounded like that before you arrived.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The sun dipped lower behind the skyline, casting a golden hue across the city buildings outside his office window. The office had begun to empty, lights switching off one by one as employees finished their tasks and bid each other goodnight.

Seungcheol was still at his desk, organizing a few final documents, when your voice cut through the stillness.

“Mr. Choi?” you asked, standing by the doorway, bag slung over your shoulder. “I think my driver forgot to come. I’ve been trying to call, but… nothing.”

He looked up immediately, brows tugging together. “Didn’t your father assign someone?”

You shook your head, looking only slightly bothered. “Both of my parents are working late today. The housekeeper said she can’t leave either. I can wait, it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment longer before instinct kicked in. He grabbed his phone and stood up, dialing Mr. Shin with practiced fingers.

The call connected quickly. “Mr. Shin,” Seungcheol said with crisp professionalism. “This is Seungcheol. I wanted to ask if I should assign one of my drivers to send Y/N-”

“Why do you fetch my daughter back home?” Mr. Shin’s voice cut in, amused. “You know where my house is, and I’m sure my daughter trusts you.”

Seungcheol’s brain momentarily stalled.

“I- uh…” His voice cracked before he caught himself. “Yes, sir. Of course. If that’s what you prefer.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mr. Shin said cheerfully, “Good luck,” and then promptly hung up.

The silence in his office was sudden, sharp. Seungcheol lowered his phone slowly, blinking at it like it had betrayed him.

And then, your voice.

“So?” you asked, leaning slightly into the doorway now, your tone light, your smile just a touch too innocent to be unintentional. “What did he say?”

Seungcheol sighed, head tilting back briefly toward the ceiling. A soft groan escaped him, one of defeat rather than irritation. He looked at you, one brow slightly raised.

“Grab your things,” he muttered, already reaching for his coat. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you home.”

You let out a delighted hum, following close behind as he flicked off the lights and walked toward the elevator.

Inside, the air was calm and comfortable, yet Seungcheol’s heart thudded just a little faster. Not because of the weight of responsibility, but because you were beside him again, walking into the kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward.

This day was spiraling far faster than he’d planned… and he hadn’t even started the car yet.

The car ride started in silence.

You sat beside him in the passenger seat, hands resting neatly on your lap, your bag tucked by your feet. Seungcheol, behind the wheel, exhaled slowly as he adjusted the rearview mirror, not because it needed adjusting, but because he needed something to do other than look at you.

He wasn’t used to this.

His soulmate, sitting this close, beside him, inside his car. A space that had always been quiet, strictly for thinking or decompressing. Now? It felt like you were too close, and your presence was too warm. His hands tightened around the steering wheel, and then your voice came. Soft, teasing, and sweet.

“You don’t talk much when you’re driving, huh?”

His knuckles went white on the wheel. “I’m focused.”

You chuckled. “Focused on not crashing? Or focused on ignoring me?”

His jaw clenched.

God, your voice.

Light and lilting, floating straight into his ears, sitting there like it belonged. It curled around him slowly, teasing the edges of his control. He prayed to every higher being in the sky that the red light wouldn’t last long, or else he’d melt into the driver’s seat. And then you had to go and say it.

“By the way… I know I didn’t ask earlier, but is it okay that I sit here? In the front?”

He nearly choked on air. What was he supposed to say to that? No, please sit at the back so I don’t lose my mind?

“It’s fine,” he muttered under his breath, eyes locked firmly on the road ahead. “You’re my passenger. Of course you sit there.”

But you weren’t just his passenger, you were his soulmate, and you were looking at him like you could see every thought written on his skin.

He was barely holding it together. His grip on the steering wheel never eased. His heart was pounding in a very unsafe rhythm, and he had no idea what expression you were wearing because he didn’t dare glance your way.

Not until you touched him.

It was gentle, a brush of your fingers over his knuckles, maybe meant to comfort him. But the warmth that surged through his entire arm?

The way your touch somehow seeped into his skin and calmed every frantic part of him?

Too much, his heart skipped a beat, and that was when he almost crashed.

“-Shit,” he hissed as the car veered just slightly toward another lane. Someone honked loudly. Seungcheol reacted fast, jerking the steering wheel just enough to swerve back, crossing briefly into an open lane before easing to the side of the road.

He came to a slow, shaky stop. Only then did he realize, he’d been holding his breath. The exhale that left him was heavy, his hands still frozen on the steering wheel. His eyes wide, jaw clenched, adrenaline coursing through him, and beside him, you were giggling. Not just giggling, you were laughing.

He turned his head slowly, lifting one eyebrow in disbelief.

Your laughter only got louder, trying, but failing, to look apologetic as your shoulders shook.

“Y-You almost-” you hiccuped in the middle of your laugh, “-crashed because I touched your hand? Really?”

He should have been mad, or embarrassed. But instead… he found himself smiling, leaning back against his seat as the tension slowly bled out of him.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, half amused, half exasperated. “Too dangerous.”

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still breathless. “Sorry! I really didn’t think it’d throw you off that much.”

He clicked his tongue, finally letting out a small laugh of his own. “Don’t touch me when I’m driving, or I might not just almost crash next time.”

You placed a hand over your chest, playfully solemn. “Got it. Hands off the CEO while he’s behind the wheel.”

With a final, lingering look, and a sigh that carried a secret smile, he started the engine again. This time, the drive was calmer, still quiet. But the silence now? Laced with warmth.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The next day, Choi Seungcheol arrived at the office ten minutes earlier than usual. Hair styled neatly, tie perfectly knotted, suit crisp. A plan already mapped in his head.

Today, he told himself, he would not lose focus, he would be composed and professional. Distant, even.

He was a CEO, not some college boy crushing on his lab partner.

And then you walked in. Calm as ever, radiating soft energy like it was stitched into your aura. You greeted everyone with a polite bow, a warm smile that reached your eyes, and when your gaze met his across the hallway, you smiled wider.

He blinked once.

Not today, he reminded himself, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer. Stay sharp, Choi Seungcheol.

You followed behind him into his office, as per usual. You placed your notebook on the desk neatly, your voice as honeyed as it was yesterday. “Good morning, Mr. Choi.”

His heartbeat betrayed him again, but he forced a nod.

“Morning. Let’s begin the schedule,” he said, already opening his laptop to avoid your eyes.

But you weren’t done. You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing with playful curiosity. “You slept well after your near-death experience yesterday?”

He stiffened.

You were teasing him, again.

His jaw clenched, and he sighed through his nose. “It wasn’t near-death.”

“It was slightly near,” you said with a soft giggle. “You looked like you were about to write your will in that parking lane.”

He closed his laptop slowly, eyes finally meeting yours. “Are you done?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

He clicked his pen once, and twice. Trying to stay unbothered and ignore the way your laughter from the day before still echoed in his ears like a favorite song.

“Right,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Let’s move on to today’s shadowing.”

But you weren’t going to let him off that easily. You had plans. You stayed close, just close enough to keep him aware of your presence, but never inappropriate. You asked thoughtful questions, tilted your head as you listened, eyes always fixed on him with that same soft admiration.

Your voice? Still sweet.

Your tone? Still respectful, but never flat.

He was drowning quietly. And the worst part? He knew you were doing it on purpose.

He tried keeping distance. Told you to observe from the corner during a department discussion. You obeyed, then proceeded to thank him afterward, calling his approach “insightful and clean-cut.”

He told you to grab coffee for a break, hoping you’d step away. You returned ten minutes later with a second cup for him. His favorite, somehow.

He froze when you handed it to him. “How did you know this is what I drink?”

You tilted your head again, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “You mentioned it once. Thought I’d remember.”

He had no words, just sipped silently, while the heat of the coffee failed to cover the warmth spreading in his chest.

By lunch, he was cornered—emotionally, mentally, completely. And then came the final blow.

You peeked into his office again after a quick team session, hands behind your back like a child with a secret. “I finished organizing the files from the budget review. Do you want me to bring them now, Mr. Choi?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’ll do.”

You stepped inside, but instead of placing the files on his desk, you walked closer, slower, and set them gently right beside him, leaning just a bit forward. Then, you whispered, voice like silk, “You're doing great, you know.”

He turned his head so fast it startled even himself.

You stepped back immediately, that same sweet expression never leaving your face. “Just thought someone should tell you.”

He stared at you, absolutely blindsided.

You smiled again. “I’ll get back to my desk now.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, like you hadn’t just sent his heart sprinting through his ribcage.

He leaned back in his chair slowly, dragging a hand over his face, muttering under his breath: “…I’m doomed.”

Per Mr. Shin’s earlier request, Seungcheol knew that as part of your mentorship, you needed to start observing internal meetings, especially the ones that mattered. And this one, definitely mattered.

The conference room was filled with tension the moment it began. You sat beside Seungcheol, with his secretary just one seat away. The opposing company’s team stood at the other end of the long, glass table—well-dressed, well-prepared, and, unfortunately, woefully out of touch.

At first, the presentation was tolerable. Numbers were clean, projections stable, but as soon as they reached the slide titled Strategic Timeline for Implementation, everything changed.

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed.

The speaker on the opposing side continued confidently, explaining outdated timelines and collaborations with partners Seungcheol had long since flagged as liabilities.

He raised a hand, slowly, but firmly.

“Hold it,” he said.

The speaker paused. Seungcheol gestured toward the screen. “This segment. You need to revise this strategy. We’ve already seen instability in those markets. Collaborating there puts the project at risk.”

The man across the table gave a tight smile. “We understand your concern, Mr. Choi, but altering the current timeline may damage our relationship with the local representatives. A shift might send the wrong message.”

Seungcheol’s expression hardened.

“I said it needs to change.”

The tension escalated. His voice was still level, but underneath it was a warning. You could feel the air grow heavier around the table. The other attendees exchanged subtle glances. His secretary lowered her gaze.

You sat there, watching him. His knuckles were turning white, hand clenched against the table. His shoulders stiff, jaw set, clearly holding back the frustration simmering inside.

Should you do something? You hesitated. You’d never seen him this serious before. This cold. It was a side of him you hadn’t met: CEO Choi in full form. Intimidating, sharp, commanding.

But something in you… moved.

Even if he’s your boss. Even if you’re scared. You didn’t want him to be swallowed by the storm he was holding back.

So, gently—barely noticeable to anyone else—you reached out beneath the table, and touched his knuckles.

The tension left his hand almost instantly. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look at you, but he felt it, and it grounded him.

His eyes flicked back to the presenter. His shoulders lowered slightly. And then—calm, steady, dangerous—he spoke again.

“I said the cons of not changing. If you can’t change,” he began, voice slow and clear, “I can already see your company failing, and dragging mine down with it.”

The room froze.

“So I suggest you change it,” he continued, folding his hands neatly in front of him, “or I’ll stop collaborating with you altogether.”

He leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping a notch.

“It’s not a question. It’s a statement.”

Dead silence followed.

The opposing speaker faltered, swallowed hard, and eventually nodded. “Understood… We’ll revise it.”

Seungcheol nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

The rest of the meeting passed with no further resistance. Everyone suddenly became a lot more agreeable. When it ended, people stood slowly, gathering their notes and trying to pretend they hadn’t just witnessed the CEO version of a guillotine.

You, meanwhile, were still seated, glancing at him quietly.

As soon as the door shut behind the last guest, Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath. Not loud, but deep. Then he finally looked at you. Not cold, not intimidating, just… aware.

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “For what?”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just offered a small, dry smile. “For keeping me from flipping the table.”

You giggled softly. “Glad I could stop a potential lawsuit.”

He laughed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re sneaky, you know that?”

You tilted your head. “Me? I just touched your hand.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, eyeing you. “That’s the problem.”

The heavy oak doors to the meeting room closed with a muted click, sealing away the tension that had filled the space just moments ago. The silence that followed was a welcome relief, wrapping around the room like a comforting blanket.

Seungcheol remained seated at the head of the table, shoulders finally relaxed, jaw no longer set, but he didn’t move, not yet.

He glanced toward you, and then his gaze dropped to your hands.

They were resting gently in your lap, fingers slightly curled, relaxed. The same hands that had grounded him just minutes earlier with nothing more than a simple touch.

His eyes lingered there longer than he should have and you noticed.

A soft giggle slipped past your lips, making his eyes flicker up to your face in mild panic, but you weren’t teasing. Your smile was warm, as if you already understood what he was thinking without needing him to say it aloud.

You shift your seat closer to his, and without asking, without hesitation, you reached out and gently cupped his hands, both of them.

Your palms were warm. Your grip wasn’t delicate, it was steady and secure, like you weren’t just touching him, you were anchoring him.

He stiffened at first, not used to being handled like that. But when he looked up and met your eyes, something cracked inside him. Something quiet.

You smiled at him again, sweet and sure, and then said with the calmest voice he’d ever heard: “Hold onto mine if you want. I’m always here beside you.”

The words weren’t loud, they weren’t dramatic, but God, did they hit hard. His breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers, usually firm and commanding, hesitated, and then slowly, tentatively, curled around yours.

The pressure in his chest eased, the sharp edge of his thoughts dulled, and in its place was only your warmth, quietly settling in his bloodstream, pushing out the last remnants of the anger and disappointment that had clouded him just minutes ago.

It felt dangerous and addictive, but more than anything, it felt right.

He said nothing, still lost in your gaze.

And you? You didn’t ask for anything in return, you simply stood there, smiling as if you had all the time in the world to wait for him to breathe again.

And finally, he did.

“…You’re trouble,” he whispered, lips barely moving.

You laughed, soft and silvery. “You’ve said that before.”

He shook his head slightly. “I meant it even more now.”

But he didn’t let go, not yet.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The day had finally drawn to a close. The last of the lights at the office flickered off, and staff began to disappear one by one. Choi Seungcheol stepped out of the elevator, jacket draped over his arm, briefcase in hand, ready to head home.

That was until his secretary caught him in the lobby.

“Mr. Choi,�� she said with a small nod toward you, waiting quietly near the front entrance. “Ms. Y/N doesn’t have a ride.”

He blinked once.

Again?

His eyes drifted toward you. You were scrolling on your phone, humming lightly under your breath, completely unbothered. Just like yesterday.

Suspicious.

You looked up at him at just the right moment, smiling, and all his suspicion melted into a sigh.

“...She’s doing this on purpose,” he mumbled to himself, but louder than he meant to. Still, he nodded toward the car. “Let’s go.”

You fell into step beside him, cheerful and bright even in the evening glow. Once inside the car, you didn’t even hesitate, you walked straight to the passenger seat and slid in smoothly, as if it were your assigned spot.

Seungcheol sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and began to drive.

Silence filled the space again, peaceful, but electric in its own way.

He kept his eyes forward, focused, or trying to be. Then your voice—soft, laced with mischief—cut into the quiet.

“Do you want to get late supper?”

The car didn’t swerve this time, but Seungcheol’s grip on the wheel definitely stiffened. He glanced at you briefly.

Late supper? That was not in the schedule.

His routine was sacred. Home, shower, towel-dry hair for two minutes exactly, collapse onto bed, wake up, work, and repeat.

He did not do it spontaneously yet here you were, blinking at him innocently.

At the next red light, he turned his head fully to look at you.

“Late supper?” he repeated, like the phrase was foreign.

You nodded. “I know there are some places still open for people like me.”

People like you? What did that mean? Were you just… casual about life like that? Wandering the streets at midnight, hunting for warm broth and rice with no plan whatsoever?

That was chaos, and dangerous… but oddly tempting. And while his mind absolutely panicked over the idea of shifting his routine by even an inch, his heart was already halfway to the restaurant.

He stared at you. You stared back, innocently and unassuming, completely unaware of the inner breakdown he was having. Or… maybe fully aware.

He sighed heavily, eyes closing for a second. “Key in the address.”

You beamed, tapping in the location into his GPS. He drove through the green light with a defeated grunt. He glanced sideways, catching the teasing glint in your eyes. and for once in his life, he didn’t hate the idea of change.

The city lights shimmered against the night sky, and neon signs flickered above street corners, glowing softly like stars fallen to the ground. The GPS guided Seungcheol through a few narrow turns before slowing to a stop beside a quiet cluster of food stalls tucked between two buildings.

The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, fried batter, and warm soup broth.

It wasn’t flashy or pristine, it wasn’t anything remotely close to what CEO Choi Seungcheol was used to.

And yet… he was here.

You stepped out of the car with a bright grin, your shoes softly clicking on the pavement. You turned back to face him as he closed the car door slowly, taking in the unfamiliar scene like a foreign landscape.

“First time?” you asked, eyes twinkling under the streetlight.

“…Yeah,” he admitted, adjusting his sleeves. “Very first.”

You giggled, hugging your arms to yourself. “Same. But I wanted to explore, and I figured... food like this probably tastes better when you’re not worried about etiquette.”

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “That’s what everyone says before they get food poisoning.”

You shot him a mock glare. “You’re such a corporate man.”

“And you’re reckless,” he muttered, but followed you anyway.

You led him to one of the stalls with a steaming pot of tteokbokki, skewers glistening beside it. The ahjumma running the stall gave you a kind smile and gestured for you to sit.

The two of you took seats on worn plastic stools under a flickering lightbulb, the table in front of you scratched with time, marked with memories. And somehow, to Seungcheol, it felt weirdly peaceful.

You handed him a pair of chopsticks and smiled. “Let’s try not to act like we just left a board meeting.”

Seungcheol stared down at the food. No plated silverware, no polished wine glasses, just bubbling spicy sauce and steam against the cool air.

It was chaotic and… warm.

He picked up a piece of rice cake, blew on it once, then tasted it. His eyebrows rose.

“...That’s not bad.”

You laughed. “Not bad? That’s it? That’s your review?”

He nodded, eyes focused on the next bite. “Spicy. A little sweet. Soft texture. Good balance.”

“God,” you groaned, “you’re reviewing it like a Michelin judge.”

“You invited a CEO. What did you expect?”

You laughed again, and the sound danced through the night air, making his chest feel far lighter than it had all day.

As you both ate, conversation flowed more freely. You talked about small things: food preferences, random bucket list items, silly high school moments. Seungcheol found himself leaning forward more, laughing softly, even forgetting to check the time.

He didn’t even realize how relaxed he looked. Tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, chopsticks clumsily trying to balance a fish cake skewer.

At one point, you handed him a tissue as he dabbed the edge of his mouth, cheeks slightly red from the heat of the spice.

“Next time,” you said between bites, “we should try grilled skewers by the river. I heard they open till 3AM.”

He stared at you.

Next time?

A part of him panicked again, knowing this was starting to become a habit. But the other part? The one quietly folding inside his chest, heartbeat slow and warm? That part didn’t mind at all.

After the last bite was eaten and the food stall cleared, you both stood up from your stools, stomachs full and spirits even fuller. You reached into your bag for your wallet, already fishing out a few bills to pay, but before you could even lift your hand to the stall owner, Seungcheol moved faster. With practiced ease, he gently pushed your hand aside—not harshly, but firm enough to make you blink in surprise—and handed over the exact cash to the ahjumma behind the stall.

He didn’t even look at you as he accepted the change with a polite nod.

You, on the other hand, were left blinking in quiet disbelief.

No words were exchanged in that moment.

The two of you returned to the car under the soft night sky, sliding into your seats once again. The car’s interior greeted you with its usual scent, clean leather and something that faintly smelled like cedarwood and coffee. As the engine rumbled to life, you turned your head toward him, curious.

“How did you have cash money in you?”

He glanced sideways, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the air conditioning. His lips curled into a lazy smile.

“I’m not always a card guy, okay?”

You let out a playful scoff. “Right. A card and cash money guy who doesn’t know how to relax.”

That made him laugh this time, a sound that was deep and rich and a little too attractive for your heart to handle. But it didn’t stop there.

He turned to say something else, only to realize you hadn’t buckled in yet. His eyes lowered to the strap by your side, then back at you.

“Seatbelt,” he muttered softly, but instead of waiting for you to fix it, he leaned in.

You froze.

The air felt thinner suddenly.

Seungcheol reached across you, one arm brushing past your shoulder, fingers catching the seatbelt smoothly as he clicked it into place. His scent surrounded you, something expensive and warm. He didn’t notice how close he was. He didn’t see the way your breath hitched, or how your lashes fluttered like they were trying to compose themselves.

To him, it was just another responsible act.

To you? It was too close. Too sudden and overwhelming.

He leaned back into his seat like nothing happened, shot you a relaxed smile as his hand returned to the wheel.

“Ready to head back?” he asked, as if your heart wasn’t thundering like a drum in your ears.

You stared at him for a moment longer, lips parting, unsure if you should thank him or scream internally. But eventually, you just gave a small nod, tucking your hands on your lap.

“Yeah…” you said quietly. “Ready.”

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The morning sun seeped gently through the sheer curtains of Seungcheol’s penthouse, casting warm light across his pristine walk-in closet. Rows of crisp shirts, tailored blazers, perfectly ironed trousers, and a curated collection of designer watches lined the walls like an exhibition.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror, a clean white shirt buttoned to the collar, his charcoal grey blazer slung loosely over one arm. His hair was still slightly damp, falling in soft waves over his forehead.

And yet, he frowned.

Something was… off.

His hands moved on their own, slipping off the blazer and replacing it with a navy one. He buttoned the cuffs, stared into the mirror and tilted his head.

No, too stiff.

He tried again. Swapped the navy for a muted sand-colored jacket, loosened the collar slightly, and he looked at himself.

Too soft.

A sigh escaped his lips. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.

There was no event today, no company gala, no board of directors flying in from overseas. It was just a regular day at work. But then again… you would be there.

That alone was enough to make his entire closet suddenly feel insufficient.

He wasn’t even sure when it started, this strange habit of wanting to look just a little better each morning, starting from today. All he knew was that your eyes, so bright and attentive, always lingered a little longer than necessary. And the way you smiled at him, as if he was someone worth admiring…

He wanted to live up to that look.

He tried on three different watches before settling on a Piaget brand Polo Date watch. Switched out his usual thin-framed glasses for a bolder pair. Dabbed on a Creed brand cologne. Then he stood back, observing himself fully.

Blazer sharp, tie slightly loosened, hair perfectly imperfect, and a hint of confidence in his smirk, just enough to keep him grounded. Still, he chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

“Choi Seungcheol...”

But he didn’t change.

With one last glance in the mirror and a small breath to steady the fluttering inside his chest, he grabbed his keys and headed out.

The automatic doors of the building slid open with a soft whoosh, letting in a gentle gust of morning air. Seungcheol stepped into the familiar lobby, polished floors reflecting the low sunlight spilling through the glass walls. The day had just begun. Staff were slowly trickling in, exchanging greetings and organizing the day’s start.

And then he saw you, standing near the entrance, chatting lightly with the front desk assistant, smiling just enough to make time slow down.

You looked simple—fresh-faced, your hair styled neatly, blouse tucked into a modest skirt—but to Seungcheol, you were breathtaking.

Maybe it was the light hitting you just right, or the soft sound of your laugh, or maybe, it was just you being you. Whatever it was, he was gone the moment your eyes lifted to meet his.

You turned fully toward him, a little surprise in your gaze, followed quickly by something warmer, something curious as your eyes slowly drifted from his face to… his clothes.

You blinked once, and then twice before your lips curled up knowingly.

“Oh?” you said with an arch of your brow, arms crossing lightly over your chest. “New look today, Mr. Choi?”

He tried to act unaffected, adjusting the strap of his watch as if it wasn’t planned, as if he hadn’t spent twenty minutes debating between jackets this morning.

“I just picked whatever was clean,” he said flatly.

You giggled softly, stepping closer, eyes never leaving his figure.

“Well, whatever was clean looks really, really good today.”

He froze, not obviously, but just enough for his breath to catch for half a second.

You looked back up at his face, tilting your head, clearly amused at how his ears turned ever so slightly pink.

“Are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” he deadpanned.

“You are.”

“Y/N,” he warned lightly, though the corners of his lips gave away the smile threatening to break free.

You stepped beside him, walking toward the elevator as he followed. “You know,” you said, glancing at him sideways, “if dressing up makes you this charming in the morning, I might start asking you to do it more often.”

He scoffed gently, pressing the elevator button. “Don’t get used to it.”

“But you did it for me, didn’t you?” you teased, voice low and sweet.

The elevator dinged, and he walked in without responding. You followed closely behind, the space inside suddenly smaller than you remembered. He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. You looked up at him with a soft smile. You already knew the answer. And when he caught your reflection in the elevator door, still staring at him with that quiet affection, you saw it: that small smile, breaking through.

The morning had passed quietly. Well, as quiet as it could be when your mentor happened to be the CEO and also your soulmate.

You sat at your desk just outside Seungcheol’s office, sorting through case studies he had handed you earlier. You were almost done highlighting key points when your phone buzzed softly beside your notebook.

It was a message from your mother.

《Mom: Your father and I were wondering if Seungcheol is free for lunch today. Just something casual. We’d love to see the two of you together. I made a reservation already, just in case.》

Your eyes widened slightly at the abruptness. You sighed softly. Of course your mom didn’t wait for confirmation before booking a spot. After re-reading it twice, you got up from your desk, lightly knocking on Seungcheol’s office door before pushing it open.

He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his blazer draped over his chair, sleeves rolled up as he reviewed a report. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of your knock.

“Yes?”

You stepped in, holding up your phone. “My parents messaged. They want to have lunch with you today. Apparently they already made a reservation.”

He turned fully to face you, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Today?”

You nodded, showing him the text.

He didn’t react much on the surface, but you could tell he wasn’t the type who took surprises well. Still, his expression remained composed, only betraying a flicker of hesitation before he walked back to his desk and pressed a button on his intercom.

“Cancel the team check-in for 1PM. And block a lunch schedule under the Shin family.”

“Understood,” his secretary replied promptly.

He turned to you, expression unreadable but his tone even.

“I assume they picked a restaurant already?”

You nodded. “They did. I’ll send you the location.”

He gave a slow blink, then looked down at the stack of work on his desk, clearly adjusting his internal clock again.

You smiled faintly. “You don’t have to look so serious. It’s not a shareholders meeting.”

He gave a short sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ve met your parents, right? Do they seem like the type to keep things ‘casual’?”

You laughed. “Touché.”

He watched you quietly for a moment, eyes softening. “Are you nervous?”

You paused. “…Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re… you,” you said honestly. “And I know how much they respect you, likewise to you.”

He held your gaze a beat longer, before his lips curved, just slightly. “You make it sound like I’m meeting them for the first time.” then he cleared his throat and reached for his watch.

“I’ll pick you up from your desk at twelve-thirty.”

You nodded, turning to leave, but not before tossing him a cheeky smile over your shoulder.

“You better dress handsomely again, Mr. Choi.”

The only reply you got was the sound of a pen clicking behind you, and a quiet, amused exhale.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The restaurant was elegantly quiet, the kind of place where even the clink of silverware was softened by velvet-covered walls and subtle classical music. The hostess led you and Seungcheol to a private room, where your parents were already seated. Your mother in her pearls, your father sharp in a navy suit, as dignified as ever.

“Seungcheol,” your father greeted first, standing to shake his hand. Seungcheol gave a slight bow, professional but respectful.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Shin.”

“Likewise. Please, sit.”

You quietly slipped into the seat beside Seungcheol, across from your parents, your hands folded politely on your lap.

The first few minutes were expected. Business as usual. Your father inquired about company expansion, potential collaborations, the trajectory of your training under Seungcheol’s wing. You listened attentively, occasionally stealing glances at your mentor, who answered every question with calm poise and clean, articulate responses.

It was going perfectly. Then the food arrived, and with it, your mother’s sudden ambush.

“So,” she said lightly, reaching for her soup spoon. “How is my daughter in your company?”

Seungcheol dabbed his lips with a napkin before answering.

“She’s attentive. Observant. Quick to adapt. Not many would have the initiative she’s shown in just a few days.”

You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest. The compliment made you sit just a little straighter. But your mother wasn't finished.

“And how is she…” she said, stirring her soup slowly, “…as your soulmate?”

The spoon Seungcheol had just brought to his mouth halted halfway. Then-

Choke.

Not a polite cough or a dignified clear of the throat, no. A full-on choke. You nearly dropped your own spoon as you rushed to grab his glass of water and held it out to him with both hands. He took it immediately, eyes watering as he tried to recover, sipping fast, gulping once, then twice.

“M-Mom!” you cried, cheeks flushing. “Seriously?!”

Across the table, your mother wore the most innocent smile imaginable. “What? I’m just curious.”

Your father turned to her slowly, eyebrows raised. “Soulmates?”

Your mother nodded, sipping calmly from her tea. “I noticed at the masquerade party. They were staring at each other for far too long. I had a feeling something happened. So I made a few… connections.”

You and Seungcheol froze.

Her eyes flicked between the two of you. Him still trying to swallow down the last of his panic, and you patting his back while staring wide-eyed at her like she’d just exposed your deepest secret.

Then she tilted her head. “Am I wrong?”

Silence.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You were too stunned to deny it. Beside you, Seungcheol finally lowered the glass, setting it down slowly on the table.

But he didn’t look up. Not at your mother, and especially not at your father.

His fingers curled slightly in his lap.

You could see the gears in his head… what would they think? A man ten years their daughter, their trusted work partner… now tied to her by something unbreakable, fated.

He was terrified of your father’s judgment, terrified of how this would change everything.

You saw it all in the way his shoulders tensed, and how his eyes remained fixed on the tablecloth. For a moment, the air was still. Then your father set down his spoon with a soft clink and leaned back in his seat.

“…Choi Seungcheol,” he said.

Seungcheol immediately straightened in his chair, gaze still lowered. “Yes, sir.”

Your father’s voice was unreadable. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Seungcheol hesitated. “…Because I didn’t want to risk complicating anything. With your daughter… or with you.”

Your mother looked between the two men, eyes narrowing slightly. You bit your bottom lip, and your father was quiet again. Then, after a moment that stretched painfully long, he spoke.

“…You’re an honorable man, Seungcheol.” Both you and Seungcheol blinked. Your father continued. “I’ve known that since the first time you sat across from me in a boardroom. That hasn’t changed. But now…” He looked directly at Seungcheol. “That honor means something more. It means you’ll protect her.”

Seungcheol finally looked up, stunned.

Your father gave a small nod. “You didn’t choose this, neither did she. But if fate tied you together, then all I ask is that you treat her well, not as your intern, not as your subordinate, but as your equal.”

You stared at your father, lips parted in surprise. And beside you, you heard the breath Seungcheol finally let out. Quiet, shaky, and filled with quiet relief.

“…I will,” he said, voice low but clear. “I promise you. I’ll protect her, sir.”

Your father nodded again, then returned to his soup like he hadn’t just shaken the tension off the entire table. Your mother, watching everything with that quiet knowing glint in her eyes, simply smirked behind her teacup.

“Well,” she said, “now that that’s out of the way, let’s enjoy lunch properly.”

The quiet click of the car doors closing echoed softly in the air, muffled only by the cocoon of silence surrounding the two of you. The engine remained untouched. Seungcheol sat in the driver’s seat, his hands resting lightly on the wheel, gaze fixed on the windshield.

But he wasn’t seeing the road.

He was reliving the moment, the conversation over lunch, the weight of your father’s words, the softness in your mother’s knowing smile. He had braced himself for resistance, for disapproval, for that slight pause before your father might say “But she’s still too young.” Instead, what he got… was a blessing. Permission to be selfish with his heart, to love you out loud.

He swallowed hard, feeling the words echo in his chest like they had carved out space just for you. You didn’t choose this, but if fate tied you together... treat her as your equal.

And god, he would.

He would treat you like a queen. He’d spoil you relentlessly, shamelessly. He’d plan every date to perfection. He’d get you that charm bracelet you’d once said you liked, and for every monsary you celebrated together, he’d add a charm. One for each memory.

The pressure of restraint melted off his shoulders like winter snow beneath the sun. And in its place, something even warmer bloomed: freedom. Freedom to love you.

And so, without starting the car, without breaking the moment, he turned his head, and saw you already watching him.

Lovingly. Softly.

As if your gaze could read the chaos of emotions unraveling in his chest.

You smiled, a small, sweet curl of your lips. “Hi,” you whispered.

That single word, just one syllable, was enough to make his head spin.

He laughed. A real one. Not the tight-lipped CEO chuckle he gave in meetings, no. This one was open, light, carefree. His teeth showed, his eyes crinkled, and you, caught in his joy, joined him with a soft chuckle of your own.

Then the laughter faded into something quieter, heavier, something that made the air between you two spark.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“Mind if I do something,” he said slowly, voice low and a little breathless, “that’s normal for a thirty-year-old me... but might be embarrassing for you?”

You blinked once, head tilted like a curious kitten, but you nodded, without hesitation. And with that, he leaned in.

One hand lifted, fingers brushing past your hair to cradle the back of your head gently. His touch was steady and certain, like he had waited long enough.

And then, he kissed you soft and warm, eyes closed. No rush, no pressure, just him letting everything he had been holding in for days spill into that single, quiet kiss.

You melted against him almost instinctively, lips moving in sync with his—tender, slow, meaningful.

And in that kiss, Seungcheol thought: so this is what peace tastes like, this is what fate feels like.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads brushed, breaths mixing in the small space between. You opened your eyes slowly, cheeks flushed, lips parted. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it trembled with something sincere.

“I’ve been waiting to do that since the masquerade.”

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The hum of conversation filled the large, sunlit private room in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Laughter echoed off the walls, glasses clinked, and the smell of food already filled the air, even though not everyone had arrived yet.

The door creaked open, and in walked Seungcheol, dressed in a sleek black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his watch and veins. Beside him, you entered quietly, but not subtly, your fingers gently laced with his.

Heads turned, every conversation stopped. Then-

“Woooooahhhh- what do we have here?!”

“Wait, is that her?!”

“Cheol brought someone?! Willingly?!”

A wave of chaotic excitement crashed over the room as all of Seungcheol’s friends—his closest circle, the ones he called his brothers—immediately swarmed you with bright eyes and louder voices. Mingyu clapped Seungcheol on the back so hard he nearly stumbled. Soonyoung practically bounced on his heels. Seokmin gave you the biggest, warmest grin.

They were chaos, but they were warm.

You didn’t even have time to respond before Jeonghan looped an arm around your shoulders like you were already part of the family.

“So you’re the one who melted our stone-faced CEO, huh?” he teased, eyes glinting. “God, we’ve been hearing about you without even hearing your name. It’s an honor.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes but let out a small, amused chuckle as everyone finally settled into their seats.

The chaos didn’t stop there, though. Once the appetizers were cleared and laughter quieted to occasional giggles between sips of wine, Jeonghan leaned forward with a grin that screamed mischief.

“You know what’s crazy?” he said, pointing a lazy finger at Seungcheol. “This guy’s been dating her for two years and still didn’t bag her. Me? I dated my soulmate for three months. Three. Months. I couldn't bear waiting. A father now, remember those past times?” He flashed his ring proudly.

The others chuckled, some shaking their heads, others rolling their eyes at Jeonghan’s dramatics, even Seungcheol cracked a wide grin. But he didn’t say anything, not yet, because the best part hadn’t come.

After the main course, when desserts were being served and the wine glasses were half-full, Seungcheol stood up slowly, lifting his glass.

“I have two pieces of news,” he said, his voice calm but his smile soft.

Everyone quieted, eyes turned.

He looked at you briefly, then back at the group. “First- Y/N will be officially stepping in as CEO of her father’s company starting this year.”

A round of cheers, whistles, and applause erupted from the table.

“Yah! That’s huge!”

“A power couple, oh my god.”

“Don’t forget us little people when you both own half the country!”

You bashfully lowered your gaze, cheeks warm, mouthing a soft thank you as Seungcheol gently placed a hand on your back.

“And the second piece of news…” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “-is that she said yes.”

Silence with confused blinks, then-

“Wait- wait- WAIT- WHAT?!”

“SAID YES TO WHAT?!”

“Oh my GOD!”

“You’re LYING!”

The table exploded.

Mingyu stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. Soonyoung dropped his fork. Jeonghan’s jaw dropped open like something out of a drama. Seungcheol just smirked, then gently reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He didn’t even need to open it. The moment the box was visible, the screaming got worse.

You held up your hand, heart racing, showing the sparkling ring on your finger with a small smile.

“I’m his fiancée,” you said, voice shy but filled with certainty.

“No. Freaking. Way.”

“Since WHEN?!”

“DID YOU DO IT AT WORK?! Was it a boardroom proposal?! TELL ME EVERYTHING!”

The group erupted again, voices overlapping, hands reaching for the ring, while Seungcheol calmly sat down next to you, sipping his drink like he hadn’t just broken the minds of every single person at the table. And in the midst of all the shouting and disbelief, he leaned in close to whisper just for you to hear: “You're mine now. Officially.”

Your heart fluttered. And in the chaos of friends and laughter, you never felt more sure. Of him. Of you. Of forever.

Tagging: @stvrrylove @sol3chu @firstclassjaylee @ateez-atiny380 @reiofsuns2001 @thetjtales @metaphorandmoonlight

[pucksandpower]

Lost and Found

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: one minute Lando Norris is speeding through the streets of New York City — the world at his fingertips in the days leading up to the United States Grand Prix — and the next his world is spinning out of control, leaving him with nothing except for blank memories and the concerned attention of a stranger who takes him in when he has no one and nothing else

Warnings: descriptions of a car crash and memory loss

The night is cold, and the sharp October wind slips under your jacket as you tug it tighter around you. Your boots slap against the pavement, the rhythm a steady beat on the nearly deserted street. Columbia’s library closed an hour ago, but you stayed later than you should have. Deadlines don’t wait. Law school doesn't wait. Life doesn’t wait.

You tuck your phone into your pocket, your eyes fixed on the glowing windows of the apartment building a few blocks ahead. Almost home. Almost there.

And then-

A car rips past, tires screeching loud enough to make you flinch. It’s moving too fast, way too fast, the engine growling like an animal barely kept on a leash. You freeze for a second as it flies down the street, headlights smearing into long streaks of white. Your breath catches-

It spins. A brutal, violent twist as the car skids into a corner it shouldn’t be taking. The rear fishtails wildly. For a heartbeat, it looks like it might recover. Then it slams straight into a lamp post with a sickening crunch. Metal screams. Glass explodes. The lamp shudders, flickers, and dies.

For a moment, everything is still. Silent, even.

“Shit,” you whisper, your pulse spiking hard and fast.

You stand there, frozen in the chilly air, your brain catching up to what you just saw. The street is deserted — of course it is. This isn’t exactly rush hour. There’s no one around. No witnesses. No help.

Without thinking, you yank your phone out of your pocket and dial. The ringing in your ear seems to go on forever.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asks briskly.

“A car crash,” you say, already moving toward the wreck. Your feet hit the pavement harder now, the soles of your boots slapping in quick bursts. “Corner of … uh, 116th and Riverside. It’s bad — the car’s totaled. I think someone’s still inside.”

“Are you with the driver now?”

“Not yet. I’m — I’m crossing the street.” You dodge between two parked cars and jog to the other side. The car sits under the broken streetlamp, its front end wrapped around the post like it lost a fight it never stood a chance of winning. The glossy surface is crumpled and shattered, shards of glass glittering on the asphalt like broken stars.

“Ma’am, do not approach the vehicle if it’s unsafe.”

You ignore that. “I think the guy’s still in there,” you mutter, holding the phone tight between your ear and shoulder. You grip the door handle and pull hard, but it’s jammed. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your weight into it until it finally groans open.

The first thing you notice is the smell — leather, gasoline, and the acrid tang of burned rubber. Your heart pounds in your throat. You glance at the man slumped in the driver’s seat, and the breath catches in your chest.

“Hello?” You ask, bending down, peering closer. “Can you hear me?”

He groans, shifting a little, but his eyes remain half-closed. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, carving a red path down the side of his face.

“Hey! Are you okay?” You try again, louder this time. No answer — just a sluggish movement of his head, like he's fighting to stay conscious.

“What's your name?” You keep your voice firm but gentle, the way you imagine an EMT might sound.

The man mumbles something, his voice thick and slurred. You lean closer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“What? I need your name.”

“Lando,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible, more breath than word.

You frown. The name sounds familiar, but that’s not important right now. “Okay, Lando. Do you know where you are?”

His eyelids flutter, and for a second, it looks like he might pass out entirely. Then he forces them open again, just barely.

“Crash,” he mutters. “Crashed the car.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. You glance around the street again, hoping for flashing lights in the distance. Nothing. Just you, him, and the wreckage.

“Can you tell me what hurts?” You ask, trying to keep him talking. Concussions are dangerous — keeping him conscious feels important.

Lando’s head lolls against the seat. “Feels like … everything.”

His voice is thick, heavy with exhaustion. He sounds like someone who’s been through the wringer, someone who desperately needs sleep but can’t afford to close their eyes.

“You hit your head pretty hard,” you say, scanning him for any other obvious injuries. Blood stains the collar of his jacket, but nothing looks life-threatening. Yet.

“Race car driver,” Lando slurs suddenly, like the thought just stumbled out of his brain without permission.

You blink. “What?”

“Race … car driver,” he repeats, slower this time. His accent drags on the vowels, a little British, a little something else.

You raise an eyebrow, convinced now that he’s concussed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

He gives a small, incoherent laugh, like your joke made perfect sense in his scrambled mind.

“You're not supposed to be funny,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You glance back at the wreck, taking in the sleek lines and bright logo on the hood ��� McLaren. Expensive. Stupidly expensive. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Jesus, you’re one of those guys,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. Rich kid, fast car, bad decisions. You’ve seen this movie before, and it usually ends with someone like him getting bailed out by daddy’s lawyer.

Lando stirs again, his head rolling toward you. “Not … like that,” he mumbles. “I am a race car driver.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. He’s barely coherent — humoring him feels kinder than arguing. “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are.”

He squints at you, his expression dazed but oddly sincere, like he’s genuinely offended you don’t believe him. “I am,” he insists, as if that settles the matter.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s absurd — this whole situation is absurd. You crouch lower, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Just stay awake, okay? Ambulance is on the way.”

Lando hums something that might be agreement, though it sounds more like a sigh. His eyes droop again, dangerously close to shutting.

“Hey.” You give his arm a small shake. “No sleeping. Talk to me.”

“‘Bout what?” He murmurs, his head lolling to the side.

“Anything. Tell me …“ You scramble for something. “What’s your favorite color?”

He blinks slowly, like it’s the most confusing question anyone’s ever asked him. “Blue. No, wait … orange.”

You snort. “Make up your mind, race car driver.”

Lando makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Can’t.”

“That concussion is doing wonders for your decision-making skills,” you say dryly, glancing toward the street again. Still no lights. You tap your foot anxiously.

Lando shifts in his seat, his hand twitching like he’s trying to move but can’t quite manage it. “You’re … bossy,” he mumbles, his accent thicker now.

“Yeah, well, you crashed your car, so you don’t get to complain.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he murmurs, “… Thanks for stopping.”

Something about the way he says it catches you off guard — soft, almost vulnerable. You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze his arm gently.

“Don’t mention it, Lando.”

And then, finally, in the distance — a flash of red and blue lights.

***

The wail of sirens grows louder, slicing through the quiet night like a razor. Red and blue lights bounce off the buildings, streaking across shattered glass and twisted metal. Relief washes over you, making your knees feel a little shaky.

Finally.

Two ambulances come to a screeching halt. EMTs spill out, moving with practiced urgency. One of them, a tall woman with her hair yanked into a messy bun, jogs toward you.

“Are you hurt?” She asks, already looking you up and down for signs of injury.

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine — it’s the driver. He’s … he’s pretty out of it.” You glance back at Lando, slumped in his seat. “I think he hit his head. He’s not making much sense.”

The EMT follows your gaze, nodding sharply. “Okay, step back for me.” She waves another EMT over. “We’ve got one male, early twenties, possible head trauma.”

You move back as instructed, but not far — just enough to give them space to work while still close enough to watch. One of the EMTs wedges a tool into the doorframe to force it open wider, and the crunch of metal makes you wince.

“Hey, buddy,” the EMT says, leaning in toward Lando. “Can you hear me?”

Lando stirs slightly, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and the EMT exchanges a look with his partner.

“Pupils look uneven,” the first EMT mutters, shining a small flashlight into Lando’s eyes. “Definitely concussed.”

The other EMT secures a neck brace around Lando’s head, locking it into place with quick, efficient movements. Lando groans at the pressure, his face twisted in confusion.

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” The EMT says in a loud, clear voice. “Just stay still for me, mate. We’re gonna lift you.”

They maneuver him onto a backboard with a series of coordinated moves, careful to keep his neck stabilized. Lando lets out a soft groan but doesn’t resist — it’s like his body is on autopilot.

You cross your arms against the cold, biting your lower lip. They make it look so smooth, so clinical, but there’s something unsettling about watching someone get hauled out of a wreck like that, limp and helpless.

“Is he your boyfriend?” The EMT asks you, not looking up as they strap Lando to the board.

You blink, caught off guard. “What? No. I-I just saw the crash happen. I came over to help.”

The EMT nods once, focused on the task at hand. “All right. Appreciate you staying with him.”

They lift Lando, sliding the backboard onto a waiting gurney. He lets out a weak noise of discomfort, but his eyes remain half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness.

As they wheel him toward the ambulance, you follow instinctively, your heart thrumming with worry. You can’t just leave now — not when he looks like that.

“Hey,” you call after them, your voice tight. “Can I … can I ride with him?”

One of the EMTs looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Are you family?”

“No. I just-“ You pause, unsure how to explain it. “I don’t feel right leaving him alone.”

The EMTs exchange glances. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse, but the woman in charge sighs and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “Fine. Get in. Just stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you.

You climb into the back of the ambulance as they lift Lando’s gurney inside. The doors slam shut behind you, sealing you in with the hum of medical equipment and the faint smell of antiseptic.

The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.

The EMT sitting across from you pulls on a pair of gloves, leaning over Lando. “Let’s see how we’re doing, champ.”

Lando’s eyes flicker, heavy and unfocused. The EMT checks his pulse, then takes a penlight and shines it directly into Lando’s pupils. He winces, groaning low in his throat.

“Sir, can you hear me?” The EMT asks loudly, as if trying to shake him awake with sound alone.

Lando blinks sluggishly, his brow furrowing. “… Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. His accent makes the word sound more like yeh.

The EMT hums, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Good. Do you know where you are?”

Lando’s face twists in confusion. “Uh … car … crash?”

“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”

Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.

The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.

“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”

You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.

“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”

He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”

“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”

“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.

“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”

The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”

Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.

The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”

You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.

“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”

The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.

You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.

The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.

You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.

“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”

Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.

The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.

The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”

The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

***

The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.

You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.

It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.

A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.

You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.

You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”

The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”

The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”

“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”

The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”

You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”

“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”

You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was �� it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”

The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”

You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”

The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”

The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”

Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.

The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.

You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”

Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”

You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”

Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”

“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.

“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”

Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”

You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”

He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.

For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.

“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”

You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.

“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.

***

You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.

You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.

“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.

You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”

The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”

You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.

The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”

You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”

The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”

Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.

“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”

Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.

“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”

“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”

The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”

Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.

The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”

Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”

The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”

Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”

The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.

Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.

“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”

The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”

You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”

Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”

Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”

He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”

“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.

The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”

Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.

The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”

You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”

The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”

You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”

Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”

You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.

***

The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.

He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”

“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”

Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”

You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”

He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.

When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”

Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.

You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”

Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.

When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.

“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.

Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.

“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”

He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.

“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.

You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”

He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”

Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”

“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”

Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”

You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”

You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”

Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”

You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”

He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”

“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”

Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”

“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”

He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”

“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”

Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”

“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”

He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”

Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”

You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.

“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”

Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”

“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.

As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.

***

Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.

Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”

He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.

“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”

The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.

You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.

“Lando?” You say softly.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.

“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”

Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.

“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”

You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“

“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”

Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”

The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.

You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”

Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”

“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”

He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”

The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.

You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.

“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”

Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.

“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”

You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”

“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”

Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”

You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”

Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.

You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.

“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”

You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”

Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”

“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”

You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”

Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”

You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”

And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

***

In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.

Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.

“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”

Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.

Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”

Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Apparently, the worst did happen.

Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”

Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”

Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.

“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.

“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”

“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.

“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”

Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”

The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.

***

In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.

“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”

“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”

Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”

Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”

“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”

Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”

Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”

There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.

Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”

“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.

But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”

Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.

Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”

“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”

Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”

Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.

“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”

“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.

Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”

Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.

They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.

***

The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.

“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”

You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”

Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”

“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”

Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”

You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”

“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”

You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”

He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?

“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”

Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.

“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.

“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.

But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.

Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”

You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.

“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”

Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”

“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”

Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”

You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”

He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”

You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”

Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

***

The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.

Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.

You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.

“Yes, you are.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.

You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”

“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”

You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”

Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.

The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”

“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.

But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”

Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.

“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”

A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.

The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.

“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”

You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.

Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”

A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.

The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”

The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”

“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.

“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”

More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”

“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”

The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”

You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.

“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”

Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.

The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.

“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”

“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.

Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”

“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”

“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”

You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”

“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.

“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”

You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”

But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”

You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.

Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”

You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”

Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

***

The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.

“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.

“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.

“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”

When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.

“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.

You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”

He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.

As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”

You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”

He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”

You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”

Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.

Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”

“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”

Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”

For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.

He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”

You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”

Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”

He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”

You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.

When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”

Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

You arch a brow. “Always?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”

Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”

You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”

With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.

***

The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.

“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”

You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”

“Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”

For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.

And then it happens.

“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”

The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.

Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”

The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”

Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”

“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”

Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.

You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?

“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”

The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.

The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.

You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”

Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”

You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”

Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”

You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”

Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”

The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”

Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”

You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”

Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”

You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”

Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”

You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”

You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.

“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”

Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“

You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”

He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”

You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.

And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.

***

The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.

In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.

“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”

“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”

The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”

Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”

“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”

Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”

The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-

“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”

Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”

You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”

There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.

“Hi.”

The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.

“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”

“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”

“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”

“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.

“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”

Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”

A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”

You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”

“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”

There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”

Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”

You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”

Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.

“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”

Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”

“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”

Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”

Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”

You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.

“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”

There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”

“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”

Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.

“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.

The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”

“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”

You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”

Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”

You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”

And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.

***

It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.

You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”

Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”

You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”

There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.

Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.

“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”

Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.

“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.

Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”

Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”

Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”

Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”

Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”

Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”

Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”

Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”

Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”

Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.

You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.

“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”

“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.

Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.

Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”

Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.

Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”

Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.

Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”

Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.

“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.

Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”

Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”

The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.

Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.

When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.

Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”

Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”

Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.

***

The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.

Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”

The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”

Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”

Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.

When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.

There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.

Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.

Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”

Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”

Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”

He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.

“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.

Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.

“Lando?”

A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.

Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.

“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.

The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”

Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.

“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.

Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.

Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”

Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”

Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.

Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”

Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.

“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.

When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”

Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”

Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”

Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”

Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.

***

Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.

In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.

“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.

Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.

But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”

“Lando.”

He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”

He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”

“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”

Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”

Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.

The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”

Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.

And just like that, something shifts.

The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.

Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”

Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”

Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.

You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”

“Details,” you say with a grin.

One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”

Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.

It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.

The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.

“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”

Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.

“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”

For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.

“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.

You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.

“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.

You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.

“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”

You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”

As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.

***

Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.

Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.

But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.

“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”

“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.

The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.

The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.

“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”

He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.

And then, it happens.

The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.

He remembers everything.

“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”

“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”

“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”

And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.

The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.

“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”

Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”

The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.

He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.

“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.

Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.

You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”

When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”

You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”

His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”

Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”

He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.

All that matters is that Lando is back.

***

The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.

The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.

When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”

Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”

“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.

You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”

Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.

Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”

You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”

Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”

His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”

Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”

“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”

Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”

There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”

You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.

Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”

You snort. “Good luck? You didn���t even get a podium today.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”

His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.

But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”

Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”

***

The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.

Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.

He wins.

The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.

“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.

In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.

He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-

He’s moving toward you.

The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.

It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.

You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.

And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.

Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“

You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.

“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.

Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.

His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.

It’s just you and Lando.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”

He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”

“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.

“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”

Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”

You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

And, as you watch him climb onto the top step of the podium, spraying champagne over everyone, you realize that the whirlwind you’ve been caught in with Lando Norris isn’t slowing down anytime soon. And honestly? You’re okay with that.

[shotmrmiller]

the tale of how simon got himself a gf without stepping a foot outside of base.

anyone can tell you that alcohol reduces the ability to use logic. to see reason. it lowers inhibitions and blurs the boundary lines you've drawn in the sand.

but indulging in drink tonight is justified. you're in need of reprieve after this shit week: broke up with your boyfriend, deadlines at work appearing out of thin air, a flat tire on your morning commute. you even stepped on the end of your cat's tail.

miserable. (she's okay, just giving you the cold shoulder. you'll buy her some tasty snacks tomorrow.)

but for tonight, you're wallowing in your own misery. some uninteresting show is playing on the television, you're cradled by the cushions of your couch, a fluffy sherpa throw over your socked feet.

if only there was a way to melt this week's accumulated stress away even further.

cue the drunk texting your ex cliché.

anyone can tell you that it's detrimental to moving on. it's akin to reopening a wound that's already begun to heal. a step back when you should only be moving forward. your friends would drag you by your hair for being so dumb.

but there's an incessant throb in between your legs that's only getting stronger with every glass of wine you toss back. you're wound tight, violin strings stretched to the brink. a couple of bow strokes away from snapping.

you'll deal with the consequences tomorrow, along with your hangover.

typing in his (deleted in a fit of heartbroken rage) number with fumbling fingers and send a picture of you with the hem of your sleeping shirt between your teeth, the swell of your bare breasts on full display with a cheeky little missing you <3

he responds in minutes even though it's 2:30am.

send a vid and show me how much you miss me.

it makes your pussy clench around nothing, already slick, drooling, begging to be filled. you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as you bring up the camera.

when simon first gets the text, he's on edge, gripping his phone hard enough to crack. no one should have this number except for price, johnny and kyle. he's made sure of it-- had laswell pull strings to give him a secure line. no scam likely's, no cold calls, nothing.

but then some silly little bird dials his number by mistake and the sweet cherry on top is that you've sent a nude. breasts on full display-- soft looking, hard peaked. it makes his mouth water, his gums itch. he'd love to sink his teeth into them, into you, hard enough to bruise. mark. claim.

but that's for later, once he finds you.

he texts back and what you send him in response fattens his cock. a small hand tucked beneath the waistband of your flimsy knickers, gusset dampened with warm arousal. you lick your bottom lip, leaving it glossy with spit. your chest heaves with the sharp gasps of breath you're drawing.

but there's a problem. he can barely see what you're doing. he doesn't have x-ray vision, your knickers are in the way. while he can understand the allure, he himself doesn't have the patience for it. either you let him see your bare cunt or don't waste his time.

he wasn't expecting you to agree this fast. maybe a bit of push back, a little snapping of teeth until you relent but no. you're an obedient thing. submissive. just how he likes 'em. (if he wants to break someone in, that's what johnny's for.)

soft, inviting thighs spread wide, a couple of fingers curling inside your glistening cunt. (duly noticing how your 2 fingers are the size of 1 of his.) your moans spill from your lips unreservedly when you roll your pearl in tight, precise little circles. he spits on his hand, heavy length resting in his calloused palm and tugs himself at the pace you've set: jerky, quick, messy.

you come with a whimper, eyes shut and pliant body coiled tight. a frothy, sticky cream coats your fingers, dripping down to your arse, pooling on your couch.

you miss me too? sent 3:27 am

(he decides to keep you. simon can't remember the last time he's had a climax that spine stiffening in a while.)

[wileys-russo]

filling the void (11) || a.putellas

latest installment in fresa's filling the void universe ft some sol @girlgenius1111 filling the void (11) || a.putellas

“mija! ¿necesitas algo?” you sighed as suddenly the paragraph you’d been furiously scribbling down disappeared from memory at the interruption. “to be left alone.” you mumbled under your breath with a roll of your eyes.

“no mami, gracias!” you called back within earshot now for the tenth time in an hour, finally allowed to study in your room, however the door had to be open and you may as well have been anywhere else with how often you were interrupted and the lack of any privacy.

you knew your mami meant well but every time she yelled for you your concentration was broken, and you’d barely made a dent into this report which was supposed to be submitted in a few days and counted quite significantly toward your overall grade for the semester. 

you knew if you asked for an extension you’d be granted one, but with nothing else to do (not allowed to do anything else with your ankle really) you were determined to get it done by the deadline. especially with the champions league final this coming weekend you wanted to have it submitted and out of mind before you all packed up and headed to bilbao.

frankly you were shocked you were even being permitted to go with your boot and crutches. you could get around just fine having somewhat gotten the hang of it, even with the purple bruises beneath your arms which were starting to be spottled with green and yellow. 

you knew alexia had her opinions on the matter given it was all the pair of you had gone back and forth about at dinner last night, until eli stepped in and firmly put a cork in the matter, banning the topic all together. 

that hadn’t stopped you however from threatening to stab your eldest sister in the hand yet again, and alba very subtly moving your cutlery out of reach now that dinner was done. but come this morning it seemed there was some finality, your ticket on the bus secured and the itinerary your uncle made for everyone for the weekend sat in your email inbox.

spying your airpods case sat on your bed you used your good foot to push away from the desk, the roller chair you were sat on gliding across your carpet with ease causing you to grin, having found a few new ways to get around without assistance the last couple of days.

your attention was diverted by the repeated pinging of your phone, airpods in hand and once again using your good foot to push off your bed and go spinning back toward your desk, you pulled yourself back into position in front of your open laptop. 

your eyebrows furrowed seeing a flurry of texts from the last person you’d guess to be responsible for them, the grumpy norwegian who despite your firm protests almost carried you back up to the front door after dropping you home post study session earlier this week.

‘hey peg leg’ your eyes rolled reading the first one, knowing she would have found the nickname hilarious despite how lame and unfunny you found it. ‘how is the boot?’was she asking how you were? ‘heavy. itchy. ugly. aren’t you in class?’

you realised the time and frowned a little, realising it wasn’t quite midday on a week day and solstrale should have been in school.

‘i skipped’‘

“to study. before you get on my ass about it.’

of course she skipped, your eyes almost rolled out of your head but before you could respond your phone pinged again with another two messages.

‘this book is missing the last two pages’ *picture attached*

a tiny smile graced your features looking at the all too familiar faded yellow cover, and maybe a little at the fact that for all her protests solstrale was actually reading the childrens books you’d instructed her to, but only a tiny bit.

‘so does the puppy make it home?’ the frown returned at that, eyebrows furrowed curiously as a few little dots appeared and you waited for another message, only as you started to type your reply, they disappeared.

‘puppy? did you even read it engen.’ you replied, leaning back in the roller chair and tucking your good leg up to your chest, wincing a little as you tried to roll your other foot that was cramping, encased in the stuffy itchy horrible awful boot with no sense of relief. 

‘yes? its about a dog that runs away. i’m not stupid dr putellas’ the smallest puff of air left your nose at that, potentially mistaken for a snicker at the other much more familiar nickname.

‘...are you sure? did you mix the books up? are you colour blind?’ you fired off the questions in a few short texts, smiling at yourself as the three little dots appeared again and you could almost see the look of annoyance etched into the norwegians features on the other end of the line.

‘no. this is red, right?’ *picture attached*

a involuntary bark of laughter left your lips at the picture of the very green book, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth at the joke. exiting out of the text thread your smile grew, eventually sending back an image of your own.

*picture attached*

you smirked as the dots popped up and went away again, having sent her a messily photoshopped screenshot of a booked in fake eye test, fingers drumming your desk as you awaited her reply. 

slightly offended she hadn’t found your joke as funny as you did, with a soured mood you put your phone down and exhaled, focus locking back into the half completed report, your curser blinking at you obnoxiously.

you fingered through the stack of papers to your right, trying to find a particular case study you remember seeing when you’d organised these last night. though that hadn’t lasted long and they were entirely out of order again.

your eyes darted back to your phone as it pinged, tapping the screen and leaning across to unlock it with your face, the text thread open again now with a new addition.

‘ha ha. i’ll leave that to you, four eyes.’

then it dawned on you just who you were actually texting and you mumbled something less than complimentary under your breath, huffing and picking your phone up again, paper once more abandoned in front of you.

‘you know the book is about a rabbit. not a dog, idiota.’

‘coneja = rabbit’

the reply came right away and your eyes almost rolled back into your head once they read it.

‘i thought the dogs name was coneja. its about a rabbit? why would a rabbit run away from home? thats dumb.’

“she’s dumb.” you mumbled to yourself, the norwegian seemingly able to get on your nerves from all the way across town.

‘its for ages 3-5, clearly too advanced for you.’

your attention was redirected by your stomach grumbling loudly. deciding you’d pick this back up after some brain food you reached over to close your laptop, placing your phone back down on the stack of papers you made a mental note to reorganise later.

with a grunt you stretched to grab your crutches, twisting around in the roller chair and pushing off, using the crutches like makeshift oars to propel the chair forward, out of your room and making your way down the hallway.

“fresa.” your mami sighed with a shake of her head as you came into view, coming to investigate the strange noise as you clunked and rolled your way toward the kitchen. “easier than walking.” you shrugged, stabbing at the sofa with one of your crutches and grinning as your chair spun around and flew backwards. 

wheels almost catching on the small lipped edge of the tiled kitchen floor and tipping backwards, you were already bracing to fall but jolted with surprise as hands steadied the back of your chair, quickly saving you from toppling over.

“¿qué haces? ¡estúpido!” you whined as one of those hands smacked the back of your head, sheltering yourself as your crutches went cluttering to the floor and green eyes glared down at you as you spun around. 

“mami she hit me!” you protested, still protecting your head as alba raised her hand again, eli clicking her tongue in warning as she lowered it, your older sister settling for flicking you sharply in the forehead instead and stepping back as you tried to swing back at her.

you heard the front door open and more footsteps enter, quiet murmur of a hushed conversation floating into the room. trying to grab one of your crutches to stab alba she quickly kicked them out of reach and shot you a smug smile.

rolling your chair now carefully over the bump in the tiles you stopped in the pantry, grabbing a bag of popcorn and pushing backwards out of the pantry, scooting yourself out of the kitchen as alba watched on with a weird look.

“pequeña why are-” alexia started with a sigh as she dropped her keys on the bookshelf and eyed you up in the roller chair, olga wandering in not long afterwards. “ale she hit me!” you immediately piped up, finger pointing accusingly at your other sister whose eyes rolled.

“such a baby.” alba mumbled, alexia moving to collect your crutches for you, eyes narrowed toward her younger sister who hurried to practically hide behind eli as olga hugged her hello. “no! estoy bien.” you smacked away the blondes hands who tried to manhandle you up and out of the chair.

“the idiota came flying in here and almost hit her head on the tiles.” alba now snitched you in as once again a hand smacked the back of your head and you hissed, sheltering yourself again and scoffing as alexia moved to kiss eli’s cheek.

“if you push me closer i will send you two photos of ale from the folder.” you whispered to olga whose hand squeezed your shoulder in hello, the older girl quirking an eyebrow curiously as you nodded. the little locked folder in your phone hardly a secret, filled with all sorts of unflattering and embarrassing photos of both your sisters you’d collected over the years for blackmail purposes.

hand moving to the back of the chair olga subtly rolled you a little closer as you gripped one of your crutches like a baseball bat, swinging it as soon as you were in striking distance and collecting alba across the back of her legs with a slap that echoed around the room.

your sister yelped in pain and spun toward you with venom in her eyes and curses dropping from her lips aimed at you, your own gaze narrowed at her challengingly with the crutch held up defensively like a sword, daring her to come any closer.

“oye! you, leave your hermana alone she is already in a boot. and you, stop using it as a weapon or i will take it away.” your mami raised her voice, staring the pair of you down as you huffed, lowering the crutch to lay across your lap.

“sí take them away, make the little worm crawl its way around.” alba taunted, flicking your ear as she passed and eli wasn’t looking, a smirk settling on your lips as alexias foot shot out from where she’d settled at the dining room table, leaving alba to stumble and almost fall flat on her face.

“why are you here? tienes casas?” you accused your sisters, alba moving to make herself comfortable on the sofa and flicking on the tv. “mami has work and you need supervision.” alexia answered, attention captured by her phone as you groaned loudly, head thumping back against the chair.

“you do not want to hang out?” alexia scoffed in offence as you mocked her under your breath. “not with you, olga can stay.” you shrugged honestly as your sisters girlfriend grinned. “pequeña!” alexia huffed as again you only shrugged.

“i need to study. so leave me alone, por favor!” you all but begged, alba already engrossed in some trashy reality show you’d probably join her watching if you didn’t wish to avoid yet another night of being fussed over and babied.

“but hermanita-” “i am rolling away.” you announced, using one of your crutches again like an oar to propel your rolling chair back out of the room, ignoring alexias calls after you. 

“oh mami woke up with an ache in her chest today, and would not call the doctor.” you poked your head around the hall and announced loudly, diverting the attention off yourself as sure enough both of your sisters pounced, an argument errupting that for once you were not apart of as you quietly closed your door with a small sigh of relief.

rolling yourself back into your desk you grabbed your phone and opened your laptop, eyes scanning the incoming texts from solstrale that you’d missed while out of your room.

‘yeah i prefer picture books, no words.’

‘so does the rabbit make it home?’

‘you know since you, little miss intelligent, gave me a book…missing the last two pages.’

‘???’

‘im sorry for saying your book is dumb (it is)’

‘but i do have to know what happened to the rabbit. did it die?’

‘good life lessons for kids; the cycle of life, your pet will eventually die.’

‘except for scout, scout will never die.’

‘did you happen to take AP history, dr putellas?’

a small snort left your mouth and you shook your head, nails you noted desperately needed a new manicure tapping against the screen as you chalked up another mental note to con alba into taking you to the salon before bilbao.

‘yes. the rabbit dies. good job engen, very perceptive.’

‘you better take care of those books or the next thing you study will be my sisters fist in your face, they are hers’

‘what is a scout?’

‘i did. why?’

you placed your phone down and your gaze switched back to the laptop screen in front of you, cursor still blinking mockingly at you, eyes flickering down to your phone every few seconds awaiting a reply. 

you huffed when you realised you were doing so, grabbing your phone and tossing it onto your bed with a thud, shaking your head and shifting in your seat, grabbing the case study you needed and flicking open your airpods.

connecting them to your laptop you clicked shuffle on your study playlist, finally finding a rhythm as the sound of typing filled the room, missing the repeated knocks on your door and squealing as a pillow hit the back of your head.

“he dicho que me dejes en paz!” you huffed as alexia leant in the doorway and you pulled out one of your airpods. “come watch a movie nena, alba wants to watch love island and i need another vote.” your sister nodded behind her pulling a face of disgust as you rolled your eyes.

“what about olga?” “she left, pilates.”

“well i’m busy. go away!” you retorted, spinning back around and ignoring the huffs and grumbles of your sister as she retreated, though not before asking about five questions about your foot and pain levels and stretches and blah blah. 

“alexia, the door!” you yelled after her when she left it open. “stays open.” the older girl called back as you silently screamed up at the roof. “i will be back in ten for your stretches fres. mami said you have to walk around and you can’t use the chair all day!” rolling yourself over to the bed you very ungracefully flopped yourself out of the chair, burying your face in a pillow and yelling.

your previous motivation now gone you winced as you realised your phone was tucked under you, awkwardly pushing up with your good foot to grab it, seeing solstrale had replied and a few of your friends had also reached out to see how you were doing and that they missed you at work.

with a smile you replied to those first before clicking into your thread with the older girl and scanning her texts.

‘your sister doesn’t scare me’

‘but yes your precious books are safe putellas, dead rabits and all’

‘scout is not a what, he is a who’

‘are you busy today?’

“a who?” you mumbled to yourself as you quickly typed your own messages back, eyebrows creased with confusion.

‘WHO is scout?’

‘yes me and my one foot on house arrest are very very busy.’

‘again, why?’

you didn’t need to wait as the three dots appeared again, calling out you were fine as alba yelled if you needed anything, barely five minutes having passed since alexia had come to bother you and you sighed realising you had hours of this to look forward to.

‘this is scout. he is an angel. (and he is very offended you forgot about him)’

*picture attached*

‘sorry peg leg i forgot your social calendar is jammed.’

you watched as the three dots popped up, and went away, and popped up, and went away again, the girl on the other side of the line taking her time as you started to write a reply to her previous messages. 

the photo was of a scruffy but adorable black and white cattle dog beaming at the camera and caused a smile to tug at your lips. you’d admittedly forgotten solstråle had a dog, or that his name was scout, but she had indeed shown you a photo of him before when she’d driven you to the library.

‘i have an exam tomorrow. would you be free for like an hour to help me study?’

‘if you can’t its fine.’

‘you probably have your own stuff to do.’

‘sorry forget i asked.’

or, maybe you wouldn’t be imprisoned here for hours after all, erasing your previous message and immediately clicking send on a new one.

‘pick me up in ten.’

you didn’t wait for a reply, instead spending the next few minutes trying to change out of the fluffy pyjama pants you’d lounged about in all day, determined not to ask for anyones help, especially either of your sisters.

“fresita! ven a ayudar con la cena.” you heard alexia call out for you, a little shocked she hadn’t just come and rolled you there herself, grabbing your crutches once you’d wrestled a sneaker onto your free foot.

your laptop and papers neatly stacked in your bag you awkwardly slung it over your shoulder best you could, tilting your body so it wouldn’t slide off as you very audibly crutched your way out of the room and down the hall.

alexia motioned you over as soon as you were within sight, alba still sprawled out on the couch glued to her reality show which given her shocked gasps every few seconds must have been good.

“i’m going out.” you announced, both of your sisters heads snapping up and eyes training on you, tv paused and alexia staring you down with a knife in hand, stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables.

“no, you are going to cut these. your ankle is broken, your hands work.” your eldest sister ordered gesturing to a few peppers sat on a cutting board on the dining room table. “no. i’m going out.” you held firm, straightening up slightly and jutting your chin out with a small huff.

“to do what? estás roto.” albas foot lightly tapped against one of your crutches as she passed you, disappearing into the pantry and ignoring alexias warnings not to eat anything before dinner, her motherly tone having you roll your eyes.

“to study with solstrale. you wanted me to help her ale, ¿sí?” you reminded with raised eyebrows, your sisters own eyes narrowing as she hummed, clearly displeased to have her own words used against her.

“sí, bien. alba will drive you then!” alexia announced, your other sisters head popping out of the pantry with a scowl, hand disappeared in a bag of popcorn as alexia told her off and threw a chunk of carrot at the younger girl which bounced harmlessly off her shoulder.

“solstrale is picking me up.” you informed, quickly checking your phone and noting the two new messages that the norwegian was in fact already here from a few minutes ago, eyes widening slightly. 

“save me some food!” you ordered pointing sternly at your eldest sister who couldn’t help but snicker at the demand, agreeing with a curt nod of her head. but before anyone else could say a word there was a knock at the door and you turned, starting to hobble your way there and groaning as a blur of blonde shot past you on two good feet.

clearly the norwegian wasn’t expecting alexia as you watched surprise fill her face, your sister glaring down at the younger girl who greeted her awkwardly. “¡muévete!” you elbowed alexia out of the way with a huff and a glare of your own shot toward her. 

“she cannot walk without the crutches. she must be home before dark. she cannot lift anything heavy. she cannot-” your sister started to rattle off stern warnings to solstrale who nodded along, grabbing your bag for you despite your assurances you had it.

“i know. your mami told me last time, i’ll make sure she is safe, stays off her ankle, and home on time.” solstrale promised, the confidence in her voice wiping the scowl temporarily off your sisters face and causing a slight smile to flicker across yours, alexia clearly shocked she hadn’t terrified the girl as much as she was clearly trying.

“solstrale no-” you started to protest but before you could even finish the sentence the girl had effortlessly lifted you, hands on your hips and carefully making her way down the front steps as you sighed.

“have fun pequeña.” alexia snickered and you turned your head to shoot her a dirty look as the norwegian gently placed you down. “i can walk!” you huffed the moment your feet touched the ground again, crutching away from her down the driveway toward your car. “you’re welcome.” the older girl muttered with a roll of her eyes.

“i can-” you started defensively as she hurried to catch up, leaning over to open your door for you. “you can open the door, i know putellas. but i have the keys to unlock it!” solstrale chuckled, pushing the key in the door and twisting, gesturing for you to open it yourself.

“do you need help?” the brunette mocked with a smile of amusement, watching you struggle to bend over and slide into the car with your crutches. “no! your car is just…too low.” you huffed, giving up and abandoning your crutches which clattered onto the cement, sliding in as sol ducked down to pick them up.

“well you’re low to the ground too.” she commented dryly, opening the back door and placing your crutches on the backseat before making her way around to the drivers seat as you scoffed. “was that a short joke?” you accused with raised eyebrows as she settled in and started up the car.

“sí, lo era.” “oh now you speak spanish?”

~

“oh por dios!” you groaned in disbelief, stopping in front of the double doors to the library and seeing the bright yellow closed for cleaning sign on the front. “what do they need to clean in a library?” solstrale commented from behind you with a frown and you gave her an annoyed look, turning around and starting to crutch your way back to the car.

“like do the books get dirty?” the girl continued to question as you rolled your eyes. “they are probably cleaning the carpets idiota, not the books! how would you clean a book eh? it is made of paper.” you scoffed, not protesting this time as solstrale took your crutches and opened the passenger door for you.

“well you obviously don’t use water. aren’t you supposed to be smart, dr putellas?” the norwegian accused as she slid into her own seat and you mocked her under your breath. “i liked it better when you were quiet.” you grumbled, but if the girl across from you heard she made no move to acknowledge it.

“are you hungry?” solstrale asked suddenly, car roaring to life as you gave her an odd look. “did you not want to study? your exam solstrale?” you reminded as the taller girl shrugged. “well i’m hungry. i can’t study on an empty stomach.” the brunette shoved her keys into the ignition as the engine spluttered to life.

“this is…eh how do you say it? kidnapping!” you struggled for a moment before finding the right word in english, solstrale rolling her eyes and you grimaced as her arm shot behind your seat so she could lean across and look over her shoulder while she backed out.

“you asked me to come and get you. so maybe you kidnapped me?” the girl mused, turning back to face the road as she pulled out of the library parking lot. “you are the one driving!” you scoffed with an annoyed scowl, the often stoic girl beside you seemingly well out of character today as she snickered.

“well i could just take you home to your sisters and-” “no! its fine. take a left, i know somewhere good to eat.”

~

“do you know the answer yet?” solstrale asked impatiently causing you to lose your place in the book, slowly lifting your eyes and narrowing them in her direction. “you ask me two minutes ago engen!” you accused, grabbing a fry and throwing it at her with a huff, the girl insisting on getting burgers despite your protests there were plenty of other good places around for more local tastes.

she won out when yet again she threatened to just take you home, causing you to slump into the passenger seat with a silent but simmering anger that she’d so easily figured out a way to manipulate you, hating that she seemed to have the upper hand.

“you said you read fast.” the norwegian defended herself with a grumble, busying herself finishing off your burger when you’d taken your attention off of it for a few seconds and she’d deemed you were finished.

which you were, but you wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that as you’d still yelled at her for it in spanish, knowing she understood most of what you said even if she pretended not to as she took a large bite and returned her attention to her phone.

you were interrupted from scanning her history textbook when solstrale let out a noise of disgust, spitting out a mouthful of food causing your face to scrunch up in disdain at the action. “you got pickles on yours?” the norwegian asked in disbelief, quickly opening the leftover burger and flicking the remaining two off as if they were an active bomb.

“¿sí? son la mejor parte.” you defended, dropping the pickles into your mouth as solstrale faked a gag. “i hate pickles.” the brunette shook her head, shoveling the last bite of burger in her mouth and wiping her hands on her pants. 

“vale! this chapter, read it and take notes.” you finally found what you were looking for, nails tapping on the page as you turned the book back around and slid it across the table. you were expecting pushback or for her to ask you to read and answer it for her, but to your surprise solstrale actually did what you asked.

you were pulled from your thoughts by your phone chiming a few times, rolling your eyes when it was alexia checking in for easily the fifteenth time since you left the house. you’d think you’d gone international and weren’t about twenty minutes away.

“alexia?” solstrale guessed at the sour look on your face as you only hummed, ignoring your eldest sisters request that you share your location with her and exiting out of your message thread. “puta!” you swore suddenly as your eyes scanned the texts from alba, eyebrows furrowing angrily as your nails clacked furiously against your phone screen.

“what engen?” you could feel her eyes piercing into your forehead as you stopped and looked up, solstrales cheeks flushing slightly pink as your gaze locked momentarily. “what solstrale?” you asked a little less aggressively and with a sigh, picking up that clearly she wanted to ask something.

“do you not understand or-” you motioned to the textbook as the norwegian shook her head. “no i just-don’t worry.” she shook her head and dropped her eyes down to the page as you didn’t bother to press her for it, resuming your very sharp tongued message to your older sister.

“what?” you felt her eyes on you once again as you clicked send and dropped your phone to the table, raising an eyebrow as her mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “those.” she nodded down to your nails with a slight frown.

“those…” you repeated as you weren’t quite following what she was getting at. “they’re kinda sharp? or like…long? how do you…” she made a few hand gestures as your eyes widened finally clicking what it was she was trying to say. “wipe my ass? like a normal person does sol! i do not stick them up there, dios mío!” you cringed at the insinuation as it went quiet.

then all of a sudden you heard some strange noises, glancing up and seeing the girl across from you bite down hard on her bottom lip, clearly trying to suppress herself from laughing. But it must have been contagious as then you felt your own lip twitch, a hand coming to cover your mouth but a slight snicker leaving it before you could.

within seconds the pair of you gave up on that, solstrale breaking first and you joining in right away, your laughter echoing around the small park you were sat at in the sun, books and food sprawled across a picnic table you’d commandeered. 

“i knew you had a stick up your ass putellas.” solstrale smirked once you both got a little more control over yourselves. “shut up and do your homework engen.” you snarked back but there wasn’t any bite behind it, tossing a cold fry at her head as she batted it away and looked back to her textbook still with a small smile.

you sat in a comfortable silence for awhile, eyes closed and head tilted backward, soaking up the last of the mid afternoon sun while you rolled your boot encased ankle and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, knowing the moment you got home alexia would be on you in a millisecond about your rehab exercises you’d not yet done today.

“so why is alexia a puta?” you were pulled from your thoughts, cracking an eye open and shielding your face from the sun. “not alexia, my other hermana alba. we watch a show and normally we sit and watch together but she watched ahead without me!” you puffed air from your nose with annoyance, your sister texting you the spoilers for the last two episodes you had been waiting for her to watch with you.

“then she texted me spoilers and i have been avoiding them all week but they are everywhere. so now i know anita cheated on montoya and i will have to catch up alone because alba will not watch it again with me!” you huffed, crossing your arms and glaring off into the distance.

“temptation island?” solstrale spoke without realising, colour filling her cheeks again as your head whipped toward her like lightning. “la isla de las tentaciones. you watch it?” you gasped, solstrale scoffing and shaking her head no immediately.

“no! ingrid and mapi watch it.” she rolled her eyes as you looked on unconvinced. “but you know the contestant names?” you asked with a small smile as the norwegian mocked you under her breath. “you so watch it. admítelo engen!” you grinned as she shot you a glare, snapping her textbook closed and starting to hastily shove her things into her backpack.

“vamos, you are throwing a tantrum?” you mocked with a pout, solstrale again shooting you a dirty look as she slung her backpack over her shoulder and rounded the table. “no. its almost your curfew, peg leg.” the older girl grumbled, a slight squeal leaving your mouth as she grabbed your hands and hauled you up, steadying you on your crutches which almost slipped.

“so which couple do you think will last?” you asked as she took off and you crutched after her across the park toward the car, loving that this was clearly getting under her skin and she was obviously trying to hide the fact she enjoyed spanish reality shows.

you asked a few more questions teasingly but all remained unanswered as solstrale stayed silent, opening the door and helping you into the car without a word, tossing your crutches in the back as you did up your seatbelt.

your opportunity to annoy her further was smothered as solstrale plugged her phone in and turned the volume of the sound system right up, having you wince slightly as the car engine roared and she pushed the hand brake down.

you were shocked that a few of the songs which played during the ride home you actually knew, a couple you even liked enough that they already sat on rotation in some of your playlists, but you wouldn’t let her know that.

you took the chance where there was a break in between songs and you were almost back home, leaning forward and turning down the sound as solstrale gave you a look and reached to turn it back up, surprise flickering across her face as you smacked her hand away when she tried.

“my car. my music. don’t touch putellas!” but again when she tried to turn it up you slapped at her hand. “i need to ask you something. it is important.” you warned seriously, solstrale turning onto your street and nodding slowly for you to continue, intrigued by whatever it was you had to say.

you let out a sigh as if collecting yourself for a moment, the norwegian pulling into the driveway and if you’d been looking you’d have seen your eldest sisters head pop through the curtains like a guard dog at the sound of the engine.

“well?” solstrale waved for you to speak as you turned to look at her, inhaling deeply as her eyebrows furrowed together with slight concern. “do you think montoya will cheat on anita for revenge?” you asked seriously, solstrales face morphing into a scowl as yours perked up into an innocent smile.

“get out.” the norwegian sighed with a roll of her eyes as your smile grew, sufficiently satisfied you’d gotten under her skin again. “do not help me! i have it.” your smile dropped as you heard her unbuckle herself to get out, huffing in determination and though it took a minute or two managing to shuffle out of your seat.

balancing on your good foot you hopped a couple paces to the left, opening the back door and reaching in for your crutches, steadying yourself on them and kicking the door closed again with your good foot.

“well…adiós.” you spoke a little awkwardly, unsure quite what to say as solstrale simply gave you a small salute, you crutching your way down the driveway before she could have had the chance to say anything, watching to make sure you got inside okay before she took off home.

the front door was already open and alexia leant across the frame the moment you got out of the car, sending your sister a fierce glare when she stepped forward to help you up the stairs once you were closer. “i will stab you with them alexia.” you warned seriously when your first look went ignored.

“la actitud.” the older girl muttered with an unapproving shake of her head, but of course still ignoring you, an arm wrapping around your torso and practically carrying you up the stairs and back into the house.

“a la mierda!” your sister cried out when she let go of you and true to your word you suddenly jabbed her in the ribs with the end of one of your crutches, alba laughing from the sofa behind you as you turned and held up your crutch threateningly, your sister ooohing sarcastically.

though before you could launch the crutch at alba like a javelin it was snatched from your grasp, causing you to lose your balance and lurch to the side, collapsing into your eldest sisters awaiting grasp as she helped you slowly make your way around to sit down.

“you can have these back later.” the blonde warned seriously, confiscating your crutches you muttered something less than kind under your breath as she took them away. “boot off pequeña! do your exercises!” her voice echoed in from the kitchen as you groaned, body sliding down the sofa until you were slumped over in a weird angle, well aware you had maybe two or three minutes to do so of your own free will before it was done for you.

“how was your study date diablillo?” alba questioned from the other end of the sofa, eyebrows raised curiously as you scoffed. “it was not a date!” you emphasized, pulling a face that had your sisters lips curling up into a smirk.

“i did not mean it was a date.” your sister started, turning around a little more to look you over as you rolled your eyes, reaching for the remote which sat between you and scowling as her foot kicked out to knock it away and out of reach.

“did you want it to be a date?” your older sister continued to question with a teasing tone, crossing her arms and grinning as you chose to ignore her, pushing your torso up to grab your phone from your back pocket.

“are you going to text your date hermanita?” aba pouted mockingly as you gave her a filthy look. “date? who went on a date? you went on a date? when? where? with who?” alexia practically flew into the room as you exhaled heavily, dropping your phone onto your stomach and sliding even further down the sofa.

“no. la idiota is talking about solstrale, ingrids sister.” alexia seemed to relax at that, telling off your other sister for teasing you and smacking her legs out of the way, occupying the empty seat between you. “ale!” you protested as she grabbed your legs, manhandling them into her lap and unlacing your sneaker and starting to undo the velcro clasps of your moon boot.

but your protests fell on deaf ears as sure enough your sister expertly started to roll and rotate your broken ankle, knowing your rehab plan like the back of her hand as you gave in with another deep sigh, reporting back how the pain was out of ten after each exercise.

“oye! ¿para qué era eso?” alba accused with a groan as you grabbed your now unlaced sneaker from your good foot and threw it over alexias shoulder, smacking your sister perfectly in the side of the head with a satisfied nod.

“for spoiling la isla de las tentaciones, puta!”

[hobiologist]

busan blues | jeon jungkook

[part one]

summary: south korea's most notorious drug king pin lived life as a ghost; never seen, yet never to be crossed. never in your face, but never too far away. never in the room, but always listening.

by day, he lived life as a shadow with a reputation -- ruthless, unforgiving, impatient.

at night? well, at night he was something just a little bit softer.

pairing: jeon jungkook x (f) reader; jeon jungkook x (f) oc.

rating: mature, 18+; mdni.

word count: 5.2k

warnings: drugdealer!jungkook, drug references, violence, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), guns, pregnancy.

masterpost

available on ao3

—————————————————————————-

It was rare that there was anything Jeon Jungkook couldn’t obtain. Money, drugs, women, upper class luxuries. Ever since he had been introduced to the world that put the term ‘sin’ to shame, it had bowed down at the mention of his name. Never his actual name, of course. To the world of guilty pleasures and intoxicated misfortunes, he was simply known as The Ghost. Never seen, never heard; yet somehow possessing the ability to make moves no one saw coming from miles away. Tilt the world on its axis without leaving a trace.

He had acquired the business from his uncle who had been in his late 50s and looking to retire; put aside the life of living in the shadows and enjoy what he had left of it. Jungkook had been 22 and searching for his path in life — the timing was perfect, the moment inevitable.

He was now 27 and had mastered the business like an art form — at least mostly. He oversaw nearly every drug import and export that occurred in South Korea, with his base being in the heart of Busan. The city wasn’t nearly as busy as Seoul; less potential eyes on him and his operation. But he was close enough where he could catch an hour plane ride to the capital if he needed to.

“He knows the shipment is supposed to arrive an hour after the confirmation time. This is his last job, he was already on thin fucking ice.”

The words he muttered to himself had been nearly the first spoken by Jungkook in the past hour. Rarely ever out of his office, he now stood underneath the familiar pier, looking out into the clear sea before him. The night sky made it nearly impossible to see, illuminated only by the slivers of light from the moon. 

The businessman was accompanied by two muscular guards about 8 inches his stature, both sporting black hair with fitted black t-shirts and slacks. They stood silently and watchful, more silent than the gentle waves around them. Each sported simple pistols near their waist, unafraid to use them if necessary.

When the sun rose, Jungkook owned a security company. It was how he had become acquainted with the guards who followed him around most of the day. They were quiet and loyal men — had been since Jungkook started the business. 

Truthfully, his security business mostly ran itself. He had an old friend, Park Jimin, who had gone to college for accounting. He ran the books and formed schedules; he mostly worked remotely but he’d visit the office a couple days out of the week. It was fairly simple — clients who needed security paid in cash, Jungkook would supply the workers and Jimin handled anything inbetween. He was compensated well for it. 

Jungkook did his best to make sure the finances for both his endeavors never clashed. The last thing he desired was to put his classmate, who knew nothing of his second life, in harms way. His personal guards were on payroll like everyone else the company hired — however, any overtime they received was directly from Jungkook, off the books. He paid them handsomely for their silence and loyalty. 

Contemplating, Jungkook began to pace back and forth in the thinning sand, hands shoved deeply in the pockets of his dark grey, Giorgio Armani suit. His black tie was rather unruly—loosened thirty minutes prior when his patience had started to run dry. 

In his line of business, structure was vital — deadlines, organization, punctuality. All of which were currently being violated.

Twenty minutes passed before the sound of rougher waves drew his attention. An hour later than expected, the small boat could be seen off in the distance, closing in on the drop off location. They never traveled large or in anything flashy; never wanting to stick out, operating in the shadows. Fairly content now that he laid his eyes on the boat in the distance, Jungkook turned his feet in the sand, looking at the body guard that stood to his right. 

“When he drops off the load, please make sure all $50,000 is there and the inventory matches the order. Lock it all in the safe, then you’re free to go. I’ll handle distribution in the morning.”

The day had been much longer than expected. 

On average, Jungkook was home around 9pm. However, he was beginning to encounter the issue of delayed shipments and logistical errors he had to fix. He wasn’t a fan of having to come out of the shadows — it put everything he worked hard for at risk.

One of his oldest workers, Jihun, was a friend of his uncle’s who had originally stayed on to make sure Jungkook easily acclimated himself to the business. He was a major part of the operation — performing background checks to make sure sellers were credible, scheduling meetings to perform trades and drop offs . What was suppose to be a couple years turned into five years and he was finally ready to retire. Jungkook couldn’t help but oblige. However, finding a replacement for him proved to be difficult. Jungkook had been attempting to do it remotely with the help of a few workers who had only ever communicated with him over email and had never seen his face. It was sloppy, but he was working every day to tighten it up.

The hum of gentle music on the radio settled him in for the 45 minute drive home. He relaxed in the seat of his black Mercedes truck, reaching for his personal cellphone he rarely ever used unless the sun had set. A warm smile spread across his lips as he looked down at the phone, clicking on the message thread titled ‘babygirl 💗’.

jungkook:

missing you, thinking about you. home soon, baby. 00:13 

babygirl 💗:

missing you too, baby. 00:14

The message came with a photo attachment Jungkook immediately opened, halfway keeping his eyes on the highway as he drove through the night.

The attachment displayed a picture of a woman in a pink silk nightgown that hugged her curves, black lace v-line exposing the plump of her breasts just enough to leave something for the imagination. He muttered curses under his breath, quickly typing back a response while keeping his eyes ahead. He felt the zipper on his pants struggle to expand as he attempted (failed) to keep his wild thoughts at bay. 

jungkook:

you’re fucking beautiful. be at the door when i get there. 00:16

The 45 minute drive home was a breeze, city lights flashing in the distance, loafer clad shoe pressed hard to the gas. His eyes played over the photo what felt like a million times, desire running through his veins like a river. 

She had the garage door open for him when he arrived, liked clockwork. She made everything function and flow behind closed doors for him; where as he was in charge and structured in his daily life, she kept their home life in order. She always had a meal cooked, his clothes pressed, the house clean, their appointments in order, the groceries stocked. He cherished her; more than anything else in his life — in his world that was black and white during the day, she filled it with her radiant colors at night. 

He parked his car, fingers slipping into the glove compartment to grab the golden band that waited for him. A soft smile on his lips, he slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand. Unlocking the door of his home, Jungkook took in the smell of washing powder, accompanied by her sweet scent of vanilla and spring that filled the air, garage door closing behind him. His eyes immediately glared towards the dimly lit entry way, seeing the woman standing in the same pink silk nightgown she wore in the sultry picture.

A low groan emitted from his lips, dark brown eyes pooling with shades of lust that the woman found all too familiar. She gave him a teasing smile, softly curled hair pooling over her shoulders in a way that made her look angelic. He removed his suit jacket, laying it over the couch next to them.

“Strip.”

Keeping eye contact with Jungkook, the woman slowly began to shred her gown as she had been told. She was always a good listener when he spoke. 

His daze followed her fingers as she removed the straps of her nightgown one by one. The fabric slipped easily from her fingers, catching ever so slightly as it slipped past the plump of her breasts. Jungkook’s breath hitched, causing him to loosen his tie, followed by the belt. He stepped closer to her with calculated steps, almost as if he was scared to touch her — scared to ruin the perfect image that stood before him.

The cold air sent shivers down her spine as she gently teased her hair, watching him stare at her in amazement.

“….You’re a work of art. You know that?”

Stepping closer towards her, Jungkook gently cupped her face, thumbs rubbing her warm cheeks. She smelled of vanilla body wash and ecstasy, drawing every inch of sanity he had left to the brink. She shivered as she felt his clothed body press against her skin, the bulge in his pants growing larger as he held her.

Catching the glow of her eyes in the dim light, he smiled at her briefly before meeting her perfect lips with his own. Their lips danced in a familiar, yet electrifying rhythm that sent sparks through his body. In 5 years they had kissed what felt like a million times but kisses like this never got old. She nearly melted into his touch, feeling her knees begin to weaken. He was so warm, so handsome, so hers. He smelled of amber and sandalwood, skin of his hands as soft as it had been when he left that morning. Good, she thought. He was unharmed.

Her fingers entwined in his pristinely cut hair, four carat diamond ring never catching on the gentle strands. It had been three years since they had gotten married. As with most things in Jungkook’s world, the proposal had been in the dead of night.  He woke her up from her sleep, chanting about a surprise that couldn’t wait. With tired eyes she held out her arms as he slipped on her robe and carried her to his truck. She fell asleep nearly instantly in the Mercedes, the soft human of jazz music luring her to sleep once he hit the highway. When she woke up, Jungkook was kissing her cheek, luring her out of the vehicle and into a park that had the perfect view of the stars in the sky. He had walked her around the park for a little while, going over memories from their past and professing his love in a way only Jungkook could — calculated, perfect and with beautiful imagery. Once they had reached the end of the park, there was a picnic table next to the river in their sight. The table was covered in glowing candles, a small meal he prepared and 24 bouquets of the deepest red roses combined to make one large bouquet. One for every month they had been together. 

He got down on one knee in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, asking her to be his forever. And she couldn’t have said yes faster. It was the proposal she had asked him for, back when their one year anniversary came around and he asked her if she ever considered forever with him. She told him ‘of course’, thinking he couldn’t have asked a sillier question. But she requested that her proposal not be anything flashy; just simple, meaningful and when she least expected it. And he had delivered in every aspect.  

“So perfect like this. Look at you, baby.”

The wide palm of Jungkook’s hands groped the plush of her ass, kneading it ever so slightly as her eyes locked on his — sultry innocence and uncharted passion; he lived for it, breathed it even.

Locking in on her eyes, Jungkook slowly dropped to his knees, hands pressing into her hips and caressing her pelvic bone. She wore a small lace thong that kept nearly nothing to the imagination with its slit in the middle. He pressed a gentle kiss to her stomach, then to her clit. The moan she swore was gentle echoed through the walls of the mansion. It was way too big for just the two of them and their dog, Bam, asleep upstairs — but they called it home. 

“You’re so sensitive. Been waiting for me to come eat you all day, haven’t you?”

She moaned a hasty ‘yes’, fingers gripping his hair as his tongue began to gently lick her wet folds, slit in her thong providing him perfect access. The familiar taste of her arousal earned a moan of appreciation from him. He had thought it was insane to say she tasted like home but he knew no word greater to describe the taste of her on his lips. She tighten her grip in his hair as she held back her gentle cries, lost in the way his eyes lazily met hers as he took his time devouring her.

In this space, time stood still. In this home, they were in their own world. 

The cool touch of his wedding band against her pelvis made her smile, head dipping back in ecstasy as his lips began to softly suck her sensitive clit. As her orgasm neared, the touch of his ring brought back a distant memory. 

“I’m not a good person.”

It was their second month together, his eighth month in the business. They stood in the middle of a crowded club, neither of their style but they made an amusing commitment to start trying new things together. They had both been dancing, smiles on their faces as the music ran through their veins. The freedom he had felt as they danced, the way his heart pulled at him like he knew what this was becoming — or what it already was. He found himself no longer being able to looking into her eyes and promise her a world with no faults. As she stared back at him her eyes sparked of something Jungkook couldn’t quite place. She gave him a gentle smile, tightening her grip on his hand that rested in hers.

It wasn’t the smartest conversation to have in a room full of people, Jungkook knew better than that. He was a ghost in his work life and he never allowed himself to be seen out in public during working hours. 

“Good is subjective, Kook. Do you hurt people?”

There was a small furrow of his eyebrows that he prayed she didn’t see. He stared down at her eyes, looking back at him as if he controlled the stars. He’d never get over that, the way she looked at him. He was convinced he wanted to see that look for the rest of his life. Hold that trust close to his heart like a prayer.  

“Sometimes. Not unless I have to.” He firmly spoke, fingers never letting go of hers. By now the song had changed but the people around them continued to dance, paying them no mind.

“Do you actually own a security company?”

“I do.”

“Is that where you go when you tell me you’re going to work?” 

“That’s usually where my day starts.”

“If I ever ask you what you mean — all this saying you’re not a good person. Will you be honest with me?” 

Jungkook answered without hesitation, taking himself partly by surprise.

“I will. You have my word.”

“Then stop talking and keep dancing with me.” 

She gripped the couch behind her, feeble feeling arms being the only thing holding her up.  

“You’re so wet for me, baby. Been waiting all day to taste you.”

“God, Jungkook.” Whimpers escaped her lips as her fingers tightened in his hair in an effort to brace herself. He used one hand to hold her hip while the other began unbuttoning his dress shirt that had become far too hot. 

In the rush of feverish kisses and passionate touches, they found themselves moving from the living room to the california king with her cheek pressed to the mattress, his hips driving her to the brink of insanity and pleasure. He kissed the arch of her back as he thrusted his hips, the recoil of her ass making him feel dizzy. 

“Who do you belong to, baby.” His growled his words like less of a question, more of statement. Tears of pleasure welled in her eyes and she melted into his steady pace, lips parting as she struggled to breathe out an answer. She felt so full, so complete — mind so empty, bliss unmeasured.

“You, Kook. I belong to you.”

“And this pussy?” He kept a hand on her waist as the other wrapped her curly strands around his palm, pulling her hair ever so lightly to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Yours, Kook. God, harder.” She gripped the sheets, fingertips shaking with impending arousal. He always did this. Fucked her to the point where she felt insatiable and nearly incoherent; craving him so much it made her entire soul shake. Like an addict breaking sobriety. 

“You’re going to cum again for me? So fucking greedy. Go ahead, cum.”

Her orgasm arrived shortly after, her fingers clutching the sheets as she cried out his name. The pump of his hips stilled abruptly as he pressed his head against her back, hands gripping her breasts as he released inside of her. He moaned in a way that rung in the woman’s ears, sex heavy in his tone and her name breathless on his tongue, heightening her climax beneath him. The ragged sounds of their breathing clung to walls of the bedroom. Jungkook pressed gentle kisses down the woman’s spine, savoring the feeling of being inside of her for just a little longer — safe, peaceful, perfect.

“Rough day at work?” She spoke after they had finished cleaning themselves briefly, lying in their afterglow and catching their breath. Her head rested on his chest, tracing his abs with gentle and familiar intrigue. 

“Frustrating to say the least.” 

“I could tell. You fucked a little harder than usual tonight.”

With her head against his chest, she listened as his heartbeat sped up. “Harder? Was I too rough today, baby?”

“No, never, Kook. I don’t think you could be rough with me if you tried.”

His finger pressed against her chin, tilting it just enough so that her lips met his in a warm kiss. It was lazy, thankful, still a little hungry — he always did a great job of that; expressing what he didn’t say with kisses. She relished at the taste of herself still left on his lips.

His fingers gentle brushed hair from her face, stroking the plump of her cheeks as he pulled her closer. 

The sound of the central air slowly pulled them towards sleep, dinner long forgotten at the table in exchange for serotonin and coitus. 

“I’ll be leaving early in the morning, around 6.” Jungkook lazily mumbled, arms around the woman’s body pulling her impossibly closer. She hummed in response, eyes heavy with sleep and satisfaction.

“If I’m not up, wake me when you get up?”

“I promise, beautiful.”

When the sun set, Jungkook was a husband.

She had been his secret. In the life full of drugs, money and evil he lead, he had somehow managed to keep her hidden away. It started off when they met 5 years ago during a charity event. Ironic, probably. She was an advocate for the development of cancer research and therapy for patients and families affected by the disease. Jungkook was an anonymous donor. He sat in the crowd but donated virtually under a pseudo name, assuring that he was always one of the highest donors. 

They first locked eyes when she gave a speech at the end of the event. She had been wearing a light pink dress with bows that fell on her shoulders. She wore soft white heels and a smile that showed how passionate she was about the cause. Her eyes scanned the crowd as she spoke, clearly having obtained training in engaging an audience. He sat in nearly the furthest row but their eyes still met. Immediately, there was something curious yet familiar that hung in the air between them — something they couldn’t quite place their hands on. Her eyes hovered over him a few seconds too long before finishing her speech, engaging the crowd and thanking everyone for their volunteer efforts.

He was a man of stealth but he was a man of opportunity.

So he waited until the crowd dwindled and the donors said their farewell before walking up to her, watching her begin to clear her speech material from the podium. He had suavely introduced himself — confident, with a sweet smile and eyes that hoped she’d give him a few minutes of her time. She shook his extended hand, introducing herself with a playful glimmer in her gaze that he longed to know more about. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jeon. Have we met before?”

Jungkook woke up around 5:30 am. The smell of eggs and toast was the first thing to fill his nostrils. She had gotten up before him after all. She always did. As he came to, he felt the gentle presence of warm lips pressed against his neck, smooth hands sliding across his bare chest in a way that made his soul smile. 

“Good morning to you too, baby.”

She echoed a hum of appreciation at his words as she continued to kiss his neck, hands sliding down until they reached the bulge in his boxers, caressing it softly.

“You drive me insane, do you know that?” Jungkook continued to keep his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of her touch all over his body. She kissed her way down to the hem of his boxers, toying with the fabric. She pulled them down ever so slowly, cock springing out to brush against the plump of her cheeks. She hummed in desire, beginning to press soft kisses to the head.

“If we had more time, I’d ride you.”

He twitched in her mouth, a groan for what could have been leaving his lips. A sleepy laugh slipped from both of their mouths. She gripped the girth in her hands as she began to alternate between slowly tracing her tongue over the head and taking what length she could into her mouth, eyes hypnotized in pleasure as she savored the weight of him on her tongue.

The guttural moan he released sounded throughout the bedroom, precum sucked from his head as soon as it appeared. 

“Tonight, then. For right now, keep sucking baby.”

When they finished, the couple showered together and both indulged in the breakfast she had prepared. She helped him get dressed in another dark suit that occupied his closet, pressed to perfection just the way he liked it. She prepared an iced coffee for him and a protein drink for the drive. 

She had mastered the art of Jeon Jungkook to a science. She knew his routine like the back of her hand; knew what he would say sometimes before he said it.

Soulmates.

Before she knew it, she was watching Jungkook seat himself in the drivers side seat, practically pulling her in the car as he covered her face with gentle kisses. If his crew could see him now — tucked into the shadows of his own home, bathed in the glow of the woman who made his heart sing — they’d never believe he was the same person they knew.

“Don’t worry your mind too much today, okay? I’m feeling a little tension in your shoulders.” Jungkook playfully massaged the woman’s shoulders, getting a lazy but fond smile from her in return. 

“Can I make a request for the masseuse to do a home visit for you? Or would you rather go in person?”

“A home appointment sounds great, Kook. Thank you for thinking of me.” She traced random lines on his chest as he held her close, eyes scanning her face in search of what she wasn’t saying.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She loved that about him; his ability to know something bothered her without the need to pry. 

“Nothing’s bothering me, I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.” She hated to lie to him. He always knew, without fail. But he never pressed. It wasn’t in his nature — with her, at least.

“I’ll make the call but if this massage doesn’t work, we’re seeing a doctor.” 

She loved the way he spoke. So sure, so steady. He never left room for confusion or uncertainty, but he always took her into consideration.

He wanted to tell her that when she was ready to really tell him what was plaguing her mind, he’d be there. But he let her have it for now, not wanting to push her before she was ready.

“That sounds fine baby.” She gave him a soft grin, kissing his lips and stroking his cheek. She took a few seconds to admire him — the rosy tone of his cheeks that spread just a little as she stared at him — his big brown eyes that she never regretted getting lost in. He was everything she ever needed, she had been thoroughly convinced a million and one times. 

“Be safe. Eyes on the road and head on a swivel.”

“I promise, my love.”

Soon she was waving goodbye to Jungkook as he pulled away from the home and onto the road. She waited until he was far in the distance to close the garage door. Once he did, she double checked that the doors in the house were locked and that the security system was armed. She closed all the curtains and headed to the kitchen, opening a bottom drawer she knew Jungkook would never check. Inside the drawer laid two pistols she quickly checked to make sure were still fully loaded with bullets. Seeing that they were, she closed the drawer contently, heading to her office. 

Her office was her personal sanctuary. Having one at his place of work, Jungkook understood how important it was to have your own space to relax and work on your ideas, so he never entered without her permission. That’s why she had been able to leave the positive pregnancy tests on her desk for the past few days without him finding out. 

She was only about a few weeks along, nowhere near close to showing. She figured she had a couple of months before she had to break the news. This had never exactly been in their plan. It was somewhat an unspoken assumption that they’d never have children — with the lifestyle that Jungkook lived and how busy he always was, it never seemed in the cards. They had used the family planning method for years without difficulty. She had recently recovered from being under the weather and she suspected that threw the cycle of things off somewhere along the lines. 

For now, she tucked the four tests in her top draw, lying next to yet another black pistol. Tears welled in her eyes and she held her cellphone in her hands, contemplating if she should just call him and tell him. 

Her excuse ended up being that he was likely driving and she didn’t want to distract him. 

When she thought it about later, her excuse was that he must be busy at work and she wanted him to focus.

Her excuse when he came home that night, earlier than expected and in a much better mood than the previous day, was that he deserved to relax and she didn’t want to ruin his good day with news she was sure would devastate him.

It hadn’t been something they talked about, even when they got married. He never brought it up, so neither did she. She just loved him almost blindly, a blessing and a curse she was aware of. 

As she held him that night, listening to his soft snores and stroking his hair as he slept, her mind raced and she contemplated what life could look like for them if she confessed and continued the pregnancy. Would he have to give up what made him Jungkook? Would she be stuck at home to care for the child while he continued to place himself in whatever situations he dealt with on a day-to-day basis? She couldn’t fathom that. 

Staring at his sleeping face, she sighed and put her thoughts to rest, enjoying the weight of his body in her arms and eventually drifting off to sleep. 

She wasn’t completely oblivious to everything.

She had long known that Jungkook only wore his wedding band at home. Through some snooping, she found out that he always kept it in the truck, safely tucked away as the only thing in his glove compartment. He thought she didn’t know that he took it off the second he got in the truck to leave for work. Or that he put it back on as soon as he parked in the garage every night. She found out after they had been married for about 3 months, noticing the lack of lines on his finger whenever he washed dishes.

She didn’t think he was throwing himself at women when she wasn’t around. But she did worry that they’d throw themselves at him. She did believe he portrayed himself as single once he left their home. What she didn’t believe was that he was doing it for some adulterous reason. At least that was her prayer. 

She knew more about him than he thought. But she’d never ask him about it.

In 5 years together she hadn’t figured out exactly what he did outside of his security job.

She knew it likely wasn’t legal and that his daily life was surely more dangerous than he let on. She held his promise close to her heart every day; the promise he made to tell her his true occupation — the one that paid for the house, the cars, the suits, the lifestyle — if she ever asked. Truth was, she found herself a little too scared to ask. It’s better to be unaware, she convinced herself. She somehow told herself that it was better to sit at home and be unaware of if her husband would come every night than deal with the fact that the man she loved could be the devil himself.

Ultimatums, definites — two widely different sides of the spectrum.

His love was all consuming like that; thoughtful, selfless, inciting, promising. She had never feared him, not for a single second. But what scared her the most was that she knew she could find out he was the reincarnation of sin himself and she’d still never turn away. He treated her too good, loved her too hard, fucked her too perfect, knew her too well. She’d make any excuse in the world for him and sometimes that terrified her.

So she let him keep his secrets for now. She had hers too. 

authors note: i haven’t written anything in years so any form of feedback is appreciated. thank you for reading! :)

[luna-azzurra]

5 Ways to Actually Get Writing Done Without Selling Your Soul (or Crying into Your Keyboard… Again)

» Set Specific Goals

Sitting down with the vague idea of “I’m gonna write something” is a trap. It’s like walking into a grocery store without a list—you’ll leave with five snacks, zero dinner, and a sense of moral failure. Set a goal. A real one. Like...

“I’m going to write 500 words.”

“I’m going to finally fix that scene where my MC argues like a confused raccoon.”

“I will name the horse in chapter 3 and stop calling it ‘Equine Placeholder.’”

Specific = focus. And when your brain knows the mission, it’s much less likely to yeet you into Instagram for 45 minutes.

» Make Your Writing Cave Cozy (But Not Too Cozy, You’re Still Supposed to Be Working)

You don’t need a Pinterest-worthy office to write, you just need a space where your brain doesn’t go, “Ah yes, this is where we rot.” That means:

Get rid of the chaos pile on your desk.

Turn off your phone notifications (no, you do not need to reply to that meme right now).

Put on music if it helps—lo-fi beats, rain sounds, dungeon ambiance, whatever makes your creative brain purr.

And listen, if your writing setup is literally “half my bed, one sad candle, and a playlist titled ‘angst in the moonlight’”—same. Make it work.

» Trick Yourself Into a Routine (Because Discipline is a Scam and We're Just Goblins With Deadlines)

Look, “routine” sounds boring and adult, but hear me out: it doesn’t have to be rigid. You don’t need to write at 5am with green juice in hand like a productivity cultist. You just need consistency.

Write after you brush your teeth.

Write before bed with your laptop balancing on your stomach like a raccoon with a diary.

Write for ten minutes during lunch, just to prove to yourself you’re still a writer.

The goal is to make writing so normal, your brain goes, “Oh, this again. I guess we’re doing this.” Momentum is magic.

» Use Productivity Hacks (Or: Outsmart Your Own Gremlin Brain)

Your brain? It’s crafty. It will try to distract you with snacks, existential dread, and seventeen Wikipedia tabs. So: outwit it.

Try the Pomodoro Technique:

25 minutes of writing.

5 minutes of pretending to stretch but actually scrolling.

Repeat until your story is slightly less of a hot mess.

Or time block. Or sprint with a friend. Or lie to yourself and say you’ll just write for five minutes—then trick yourself into staying because now you’re in the zone and your villain is being so deliciously cruel.

Whatever works. Bribe your brain. No shame here.

» Stop Editing Mid-Damn-Sentence

Nothing kills momentum faster than rewriting the same paragraph eleven times before moving on. This is your permission slip to write badly. Like, aggressively mediocre. Like, "this dialogue sounds like a soap opera performed by raccoons" badly. Because you can’t fix what you didn’t write. First drafts are for getting the clay on the table. You’ll sculpt it later. Probably while crying and muttering “why did I make this character so emotionally repressed.”

[redmountain]

they are probably rushing the official remake out the door just to release it ahead of skyblivion b/c i think they know once the comparison videos are up nobody's gonna shell out $70 for the remake when skyblivion is Free and Better in all conceivable ways

skyblivion is gonna be so good y'all

[emisluvr]

‎ 𝗦𝗧𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗘𝗗   ✶  𝗦.𝗝𝗬  

‎ ♡ 【 𝒅ésir. 】 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖿 !

✿ 𓈒 𝒇.𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋  1210.  ───  𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 , 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 , 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 , 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾

‎ ꒰◞ ˕ ◟୨୧꒱ REBLOG FOR CUDDLES !

one thing you and jake have never tried was cockwarming. but when you heard about the concept somewhere online, it sounded hot and you knew you wanted to try it.

what you didn't take into account, however, was how much your boyfriend would struggle with it.

he's sitting at his desk, manspreading as his glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, his slim and veiny fingers typing away at his keyboard as he's trying to finish up his assignment before the deadline.

you quietly creep into his room, trying to think of how you can bring it up to him without sounding too awkward or timid. "baby," you call, and jake's eyes that were once glued to his screen immediately dart toward you.

"hi, love," he smiles at you, turning his chair to face you as you slowly walk over. when you're standing in front of him, his hands interlock with yours as he stares up at you with his hazy, puppy eyes.

"what's wrong, baby?" he asks, noticing your awfully shy state. "uhm, i just.. wanna try something different with you," you admit. his thumbs caress your hands as the rest of his fingers stay intertwined with yours. "oh yeah? what is it?" he says, exhilaration and anxiety washing over him.

"i wanna try, uhm.. cockwarming." the words finally slip from your lips, your cheeks flushing as you break eye contact with him, instead staring at the floor. "hm? what's cockwarming, princess?" he asks, genuinely confused like he's never heard of the term before.

oh gosh. you seriously have to explain what it is to him? the word 'cockwarming' alone was even too much for you to say. "well, we just sit there.. while, y'know.. your cock is inside me." you say, trying to maintain eye contact with him but it's far too embarrassing.

"so i just stay inside you? that's it?" he says, delight laced in his voice. a wave of relief washes over you as you're glad he didn’t ridicule your idea, but instead wanted to go through with it. "yeah, no moving.. just sit still and feel me." you say, feeling a little more at ease now.

jake's eyes flick at his laptop screen for a moment, scanning the report he hasn't yet finished, and looks back at you, his hands slipping away from yours. "yeah, let's try it. i have to finish this by 12pm.. think you can cockwarm me while i try to get it done?" he asks, saying the term you just taught him like he knew all about it.

you softly nod, watching him open his legs a little more and tug his sweatpants down, cock springing up. you slip your panties to the side that were covered by his oversized tee that you were wearing, before positioning yourself to sit in front of him. you sit, lowering yourself down more until his entire cock slides inside.

you gasp at the deliberate stretch, feeling it brush right before your cervix. "fuck, baby.." he softly groans, relishing the way your warm walls clamp around his length, before he remembers he can't move at all. he lets you take a moment to adjust before his hands move past your waist to type again, resting his head on your shoulder.

his breathing is slightly heavy, the tension in the room thick as he occasionally looks down at his lap just to see his oversized tee tied back so it wouldn’t get in the way, your plush ass pressed against his pelvis while his cock is buried deep in your pussy.

his typing becomes slower now, less focused, constantly hitting the backspace button and pausing as he begins to write nonsense, not at all relating to what his report is about.

he’s trying so hard to distract himself from the building pressure in his cock, but it’s nearly impossible. your pussy feels just too good wrapped around him, even without any movement.

"baby.. this is torture," he says, voice breathy as his focus is completely taken off his assignment, eyes darting to the back of your head as he waits for you to respond or even give in and do something. "jakey, just wanna try.. please," you softly say, turning your head back to look at him with slightly furrowed brows.

sure, his cock felt so good inside you at the moment, hitting your deepest spot and just burying itself inside you, big and warm. and yes, you were tempted and a good fuck right then and there would've been nice, but you wanted to go through with the idea.

at this very moment, you realized just how hard this was for him, just how impatient he was, just how desperate he was.

he sighs, fighting the urge to jerk his hips up, and diverts his attention back to his laptop screen.

he stares at the words he has previously written, trying to read over them, trying to see if they make sense—anything to distract him from moving. but it’s impossible.

unintentionally, his hips jolt up to readjust his position, and the minute he does, a soft moan escapes your lips and a groan leaves his.

his cock hits even deeper inside you, bumping at your cervix. "j-jake!" you scold, the temptation to move yourself now becoming harder to resist. "fuck, princess, m'sorry.. i can't." he says, voice shaky and laced with desperation.

he squirms under you, the urge of despair killing him as he just wants to fuck you, so bad. you give up, grinding your hips against his pelvis as you feel his cock brush against your sweet spot.

"nghh.. shit," you whimper, feeling his hands move to your hips to guide your movements back and forth. your walls tighten around his length with each roll, making his head throw back and mouth part.

"fuck—baby, ride me please.. i'll be good." he begs, voice laced with need as he can’t handle it anymore. the friction isn't enough.

you oblige, now beginning to bounce up and down, your hands clawing at the desk in front of him, back arching as he gets the best view possible.

he watches the way your flesh bounces against his pelvis, your slick that came from your failed cockwarming attempt stringing with each thrust. "that’s it.. use me, princess. fuck yourself on my cock."

"f-uck, jakey!" you cry out, head falling down as your arms on the table support you up. his cock twitches inside you, your pussy sucking him in so perfectly.

"mmhh, shit, gonna cum.." he softly groans, more whimpers leaving his lips as he pulls out just in time to let out his warm spurts on your ass, your bouncing slowing to a stop as your cum seeps out onto his sweatpants, creating a wet and sticky patch on the light grey fabric.

after you both take a moment to breathe and calm down from your highs, you look back to meet eyes with him as you both giggle at your horribly failed attempt at 'trying something different.' "next time, let’s see if you can stay still, yeah?" he mocks, smiling at you as you look away from him, cheeks flushing.

his assignment was long forgotten all because of you, but it was so worth it.

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