#yeah... another anecdote: | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cressidagrey · 23 days ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 31: September 2024 - Part 2

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

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Belle Verstappen

Alexandra:

Hey Belle! We were thinking of doing a little shopping on Saturday — nothing serious, just wandering and coffee. Charlotte, Pascale and I. Thought you might want to come with?

I saw the cutest new baby boutique near Place d’Armes and I thought of you We could make a day of it? Lunch, tea, little outfits?

Belle:

That sounds really lovely But I’m going to have to pass this time Still healing from my impromptu dive through the shower door 🙃

Alexandra:

Wait—are you okay?? Charles mentioned something but he was vague and grumpy and I couldn’t tell if it was real or guilt-induced hallucination

Belle:

Real 😅 Slipped in the shower earlier this week Sprained my wrist, bruised my knees Nothing serious, but not exactly in boutique-ready shape

Alexandra:

Oh my god Belle We really need to teach your family how to communicate I’m glad you’re okay — that sounds terrifying

Belle:

It was a little scary, yeah But I’m okay. The baby’s okay. And Max has already ordered approximately seventeen non-slip mats and now refers to the bathroom as a “hazard zone”

Alexandra:

I love that for him And by “love” I mean he’s the only man I know who’d install childproofing six months early

Belle:

It makes him feel better

Alexandra:

When you’re up for it, let me know I’ll bribe you with pastries and matching lion onesies

Belle:

Deal Just give me a few more days until my knees don’t scream when I wear pants

Alexandra:

I’ll start assembling a pastry lineup And if you need anything, let me know. I mean it. Anything.

***

Alexandra reached for another croissant and laughed at something Lorenzo said about Arthur’s latest failed attempt to cook risotto. The late sun poured in through the windows, the kitchen full of warmth and weekend ease.

“…anyway, Belle sounded fine when I talked to her,” Alexandra said, casually. “Still bruised, but she said the baby’s doing great and Max is being sweet about it.”

There was a sudden beat of silence.

Pascale slowly set down her espresso cup.

“…bruise?” she asked. “What bruise?”

Alexandra blinked. “Oh—Belle’s knees. And her wrist. From the fall.”

Pascale’s brows pulled together. “Fall?”

And just like that, the air in the room changed.

Lorenzo stiffened slightly beside her.

Alexandra faltered. “Oh—sorry, I thought… I assumed you knew. It happened last week? She slipped in the shower. Sprained her wrist. Charles took her to the hospital.”

Pascale stared at her, expression rapidly shifting from confusion to alarm. “Hospital?”

“Yes, but she and the baby are fine—”

“She went to the hospital and nobody told me?”

Alexandra’s eyes went wide. “I—God, I really thought someone would’ve said something—”

“She’s pregnant,” Pascale snapped, standing abruptly. “She fell, she was injured, and I had to hear it from you over brunch like it’s some passing anecdote?”

“Maman,” Lorenzo said cautiously, “calm down—”

“No! Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. My daughter ends up in a hospital and I’m the last to know?!”

Alexandra looked mortified. “I’m so sorry, Pascale. I didn’t mean—”

Lorenzo sighed heavily. “She asked us not to tell you. She didn’t want to worry you.”

“Oh, now she’s protecting me?” Pascale snapped, voice cracking with emotion. “Is that what I am now? Too fragile to know my own daughter’s hurt?”

Alexandra murmured, “She really is okay. She said the baby’s heartbeat was strong. That Max was with her—”

“She fell in the shower,” Pascale repeated, voice rising. “Sprained her wrist. Bruised her knees. And none of you thought I deserved to know?!”

Charles winced from his place on the arm of the couch, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Maman, please—”

“Don’t ‘Maman, please’ me, Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc,” Pascale snapped, whipping around to glare at him.

Lorenzo let out a low whistle from behind his glass of wine. “Full name. That’s it. We’re done for.”

Arthur, stretched across the other couch like a teenager on parole, muttered, “We’ve hit DEFCON 3.”

Pascale rounded on them next. “You all lied to me.”

“We omitted,” Lorenzo offered weakly. “That’s different.”

Arthur propped his head up on one hand. “Because we knew you’d do this.”

“What is this? Concern?” she demanded, voice cracking. “She’s pregnant. She fell. She could’ve hit her head. What if she’d been alone longer? What if she’d blacked out? What if something had happened to the baby?”

“She’s okay,” Charles said, trying to soothe, though his voice was hoarse. “I took her to the hospital. The doctor said—”

“The doctor said,” Pascale repeated mockingly, tears shining in her eyes. “You think that’s the point?”

Silence fell like a hammer.

“You know,” she continued, quieter now but no less furious, “every time one of you gets hurt, I go insane. Every single time.”

“Oh, trust me,” Arthur muttered, “we know.”

“Remember when I had the flu and you called the ambulance?” Lorenzo added.

“Or when I twisted my ankle karting and you made soup for three weeks?” Arthur said.

“Because I care!” Pascale cried. “Because I’m your mother!”

“Exactly!” Charles snapped. “That’s why she didn’t want to tell you!”

Pascale went still. Her chest rose and fell, sharp with emotion.

“She didn’t want to tell me?” she repeated, quieter now. “Why?”

Arthur sat up straighter, finally looking serious. “It wasn’t about you. She just... she didn’t want it to be a thing.”

“She’s had a hard time. Because of us,” Lorenzo said gently. “And she’s trying to handle it. On her own terms.”

“She’s still figuring out how to let us in again,” Charles added, voice rough. “She didn’t want to be fussed over.”

Pascale’s eyes filled again. She stood in the center of the room like something fragile pretending to be furious.

“I would’ve helped,” she said softly. “I want to help.”

Charles stepped forward. “Then call her. Ask how she is. Not what happened. Just... how she is.”

Pascale hesitated, then nodded once. She turned, walked into the kitchen, and quietly dialed.

***

Belle’s phone lit up on the bedside table, buzzing once with a call.

MAMAN.

She stared at it. Sighed.

From the other side of the room, Max looked up from where he was folding one of the soft little onesies Belle had already started nesting with.

“Did you do something?” he asked.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Apparently.”

“Should I leave the room?”

She stared at the phone a second longer, then picked it up and slid her thumb across the screen.

“No,” she said, already bringing it to her ear. “But you might want to take cover.”

“Belle?” Pascale’s voice came through the phone, already too tender. Too heavy.

Belle leaned her head back against the pillows, letting her eyes close. “Hi, Maman.”

“I just heard,” Pascale said, and Belle could hear it — the unshed tears, the guilt, the panic clamped down behind manners. “Chéri, why didn’t you tell me?”

Belle paused. “Because I knew you’d sound exactly like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’d died,” Belle said, not unkindly.

A breath caught on the other end of the line.

“I slipped,” Belle added. “The tiles were wet. It’s not a crime.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m also not made of glass.”

Pascale was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m your mother.”

“I know.”

“I want to help.”

Belle hesitated, eyes flicking across the room to where Max was still folding tiny socks, very deliberately pretending not to listen. His eyes flicked to hers. Steady. Warm. A silent I’m here.

“You can,” Belle said at last. “But only if it’s actually about me. Not about how bad you feel. Not about how guilty everyone else should be. Just me. Just now.”

The silence that followed was thick with understanding.

Then Pascale said, “Okay.”

It wasn’t much. But it was real.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, gentler now. “Truly.”

Belle exhaled. “Sore. Tired. My knees look like I lost a fight with a staircase. And Max has started hiding the cleaning supplies like I’m a safety hazard.”

Pascale let out a soft, wet laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“I sprained my wrist,” Belle added. “But the baby’s fine. He kicked my cereal bowl of the bump this morning.”

Pascale choked out another laugh. “A boy.”

“Yeah,” Belle said. “A boy.”

There was a beat. A silence that hummed with everything they hadn’t said.

Then Pascale whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Belle didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften either. She just let it sit.

“Okay,” she said.

And for once, Pascale didn’t try to fill the space. Didn’t try to fix it with noise or fuss. She just let the words be enough.

“I’ll let you rest,” she said after a moment. “But… I’ll check in again. If that’s alright?”

“It is,” Belle said. “Goodnight, Maman.”

“Goodnight, ma chérie.”

Belle ended the call.

Max looked up from across the room, holding a baby sock between two fingers. “So?”

Belle didn’t move. Just tilted her head slightly. “She’s trying.”

“And you?”

She gave a tired half-smile. “Trying to let her.”

Max crossed the room and dropped onto the bed beside her. He placed the sock on her belly like it was sacred.

“Well,” he said. “One step at a time.”

Belle reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “Yeah. One step at a time.” ***

Belle sat on the end of the couch, one hand resting lightly on her belly, the other clutched around a bottle of water she hadn’t opened yet.

Across from her, Pascale sat upright, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together through sheer posture. Her rings caught the light every time she fidgeted. Her eyes, however, didn’t leave Belle.

Arthur and Lorenzo were to her left, silent for once. Charles was on her right, elbow on his knee, head low. Nobody looked comfortable.

Camille glanced down at her notes, then gently said, “Belle, let’s talk about your fall. You didn’t tell your mother immediately. Would you like to talk about why?”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

She traced a thumb over the cap of her water bottle and said, after a moment, “Because I knew she’d spiral.”

Pascale flinched. “I was worried—”

“You always spiral,” Belle said, not cruelly. Just plainly. “You make everything bigger. More dramatic. And this time… I didn’t have space for that. I just wanted to be okay. Quietly.”

The room went still. Then—

“I didn’t know it had gotten this bad,” Pascale said, voice low.

Belle looked at her. “It didn’t get bad. You just didn’t notice when it stopped being good.”

That landed like a crack through glass. Not loud, but irreversible.

Camille shifted gently. “Can you give examples, Belle?”

Belle hesitated.

Then: “You went shopping with Alexandra and Charlotte.”

Pascale blinked. “When?”

“Back in December,” Belle said. “We ran into each other, you remember? You had lunch with both of them. You said it was just a last-minute thing. You didn’t invite me. Charlotte said you didn’t think I’d be interested.”

Pascale opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Belle exhaled. “It’s little things like that. Always. You expect me to be the one who remembers birthdays, who buys the Christmas gifts, who arranges the dinner reservations. You never check in. Not unless I remind you.”

Arthur looked sideways at Pascale. “She’s not wrong.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Belle’s been the one holding everything together since Papa died.”

And there it was. The air shifted again.

Pascale’s throat bobbed. “Your father… When he died you were all so young,” Pascale continued, almost to herself. “And I was trying to hold everything up. Everything felt like it was slipping. If one of you so much as sneezed, I panicked. I thought if I kept everything perfect, nothing else would fall apart.”

“You couldn’t keep it perfect,” Belle said. “So you just… kept trying to control what you could. And I became part of that.”

Pascale looked like she might cry.

“You think I don’t love you?”

“I know you love me. In your own way” Belle said tiredly. “But you don’t see me. Not really. I’m the one you turn to when things need fixing. But you don’t turn to me when things are good. You don’t invite me to the fun stuff. You just assume I’ll handle everything else.”

There was a long pause. Nobody moved.

Belle took a breath.

“And you forgot my birthday.”

Pascale looked up, stricken. “I—”

“You told me you accidentally sent Charles a message instead,” Belle continued, voice like cut glass. “You lied to make me feel better. Or maybe yourself. But you forgot. And I had to sit there pretending it was okay. Because I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

Tears welled in Pascale’s eyes. “I was ashamed.”

Belle nodded. “I know. That’s why you lied. But it didn’t help. It made it worse.”

Charles shifted beside her, visibly crumbling. “Isabelle…”

She shook her head. “I’m not saying this to hurt anyone. But you need to know how it felt. How it feels.”

Camille gave a small nod. “And Pascale, can you reflect on what Belle’s sharing?”

Pascale looked at her daughter. And for once, didn’t deflect. Didn’t argue.

“I didn’t want to admit how badly I’ve handled things,” she said quietly. “How much I put on you. I thought you were coping. That you liked being the one who kept things running.”

“I didn’t like it,” Belle said. “I just thought that was the only way I’d be needed.”

Pascale’s face crumpled.

“I don’t want to be needed like that anymore,” Belle said, softer. “I want to be wanted. To be included. Without having to earn it.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Pascale reached across the arm of her chair — hesitant, trembling — and placed her hand near Belle’s on the couch. Not touching. Just there.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll try.”

Belle looked down at the hand. And after a long pause, she placed her own on top of it.

Just once.

Then pulled away.

One step at a time.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So? How was it? Did Charles cry? Did Arthur get kicked out? Did Pascale throw a chair?

Belle: No chairs were harmed in the making of this session And Arthur looked like he was trapped in a hostage situation.

Emilie: Growth. We love to see it. And your mom?

Belle: She cried. Admitted some things. Apologized. Didn’t try to fix it all in one breath for once.

Emilie: …are you okay?

Belle: Weirdly, yes. It was hard. But it felt real. Like she finally heard me instead of just reacting.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. You said everything you needed to say?

Belle: I did. She knows about the birthday. The lying. The shopping trip. All of it.

Emilie: Did she cry about the birthday?

Belle: You would’ve LOVED the face she made. Like she’d stepped on a Lego made of guilt.

Emilie: chef’s kiss I wish I’d been in the room with popcorn.

Belle: Honestly, you’d have made Arthur laugh and ruined the fragile emotional progress. So thank you for staying home 😘

Emilie: Rude but fair. And Max?

Belle: He waited outside. Said he didn’t want to interrupt a Leclerc-specific reckoning. When I came out he just held my hand and asked, “One step?”

Emilie: God I love that man. You got a good one.

Belle: I know. I really, really do.

Emilie: Come over later. I’ll feed you something that isn’t Max’s obsessive soup rotation. And we can watch that baby lion documentary again. For research purposes.

Belle: You just want to cry over baby animals again.

Emilie: And you don’t? 👀

Belle: …I’ll bring tissues.

Emilie: I’ll bring cake. Love you.

Belle: Love you more. 🧡

***

They sat curled on the couch in the soft light of early evening — Belle with her legs stretched over Max’s lap, a mug of mint tea balanced on her bump, and his hand absently tracing patterns on her shin.

Her wrist was still wrapped. Her knees still ached if she moved too fast. But the worst had passed.

“Have you thought more about the nursery?” she asked, voice quiet.

Max looked up from the iPad resting on the armrest beside him. “I figured you were already designing it in your head.”

“I was,” she admitted. “But now… I don’t want it to just be my vision. I want it to be ours.”

His brows furrowed slightly, like she’d said something backwards. “You know I’m fine with whatever you want, schatje.”

“I know,” she said gently. “You said that when we did the penthouse. You said, ‘whatever you want, I’ll love it because you made it.’ And I appreciated that. But this is different.”

She shifted, nudging her foot against his hip. “This isn’t just a room. It’s his room. And he’s your son too.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then he set the iPad aside and rested both hands on her legs. “What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Belle smiled. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

He looked thoughtful. “Okay. So what don’t we want? No racing theme?”

She snorted. “Absolutely not. No miniature Red Bull helmets.”

“Not even one?” he teased.

“Maybe a soft toy car. But if you hang a framed replica of your first pole position above the crib, I’ll personally replace it with a print of a duck in a bowtie.”

Max grinned. “Fair.”

She reached for her phone and pulled up the notes app. “I was thinking something more… warm. Calm. Nature-themed, maybe.”

He was quiet for a second, then said, “I was thinking jungle animals.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“I saw this wallpaper once,” he said, suddenly serious. “In a hotel in Malaysia. There were giraffes and elephants and trees everywhere. I remember thinking it looked like a story you could live inside.”

Belle’s heart twisted — soft and sweet. “A story.”

Max nodded. “Not just a room.”

She shifted, her head on his shoulder now. “That actually sounds kind of perfect.”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We could do greens and golds. Maybe a little lion plush in the corner. Monkeys on the light fixture.”

“Are you saying our son is going to be chaotic?”

“I’m saying it’s genetic,” he said dryly.

Belle laughed, the sound small but real. “Okay. Jungle theme it is.”

“Jungle,” he agreed. “But cozy. Peaceful. Not too loud.”

“And no wallpaper that peels.”

“Obviously.”

They fell quiet again, and Belle let herself imagine it — sunlight through linen curtains, soft green walls, bookshelves filled with Max’s childhood favorites, a little wooden mobile spinning lazily over the crib. A room that felt alive and safe. A room their son would grow into. Would come home to.

Max rested a hand gently on her belly. The baby kicked — just once, but strong — like he approved.

Belle smiled. “He’s on board.”

Max leaned over and kissed her knee. “We’ll make it perfect. Together.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Hey, do you have a minute? I need nursery help. Professional-to-professional. Sister-to-sister. Desperate-pregnant-woman-to-mother-of-three. 😅

Victoria: Always 💁🏼‍♀️ What’s going on? Colours? Layout? Toy storage apocalypse?

Belle: Yes. All of the above. Also: Max has OPINIONS now.

Victoria: Oh no. Did he say “jungle animals”?

Belle: …how did you know that?

Victoria: Because when we were kids he used to draw Formula 1 cars racing through jungles. He once made our dad hang up a poster of a tiger holding a steering wheel. He was seven. And apparently it stuck.

Belle: That is both deeply concerning and very on brand.

Victoria: So what are we thinking? Jungle but make it tasteful?

Belle: Jungle but cozy. He said “a story you can live inside” and now I’m emotionally compromised.

Victoria: Omg Is Max nesting????

Belle: …he denies it But he also bookmarked a giraffe lamp and said we needed “calm jungle vibes” So yes. Yes he is.

Victoria: Iconic.

Belle: I was hoping maybe you could come over sometime and help me mock up a few ideas?

Victoria: Of course. You helped me with all three of mine — I owe you for that race car wallpaper alone. I’ll bring samples. And cake. And maybe a toddler or two, if you don’t mind chaos.

Belle: Yes please 🙏 Also… would you maybe want to help me brainstorm a layout? You know, professional interior architect panic and all Suddenly nothing I draw feels right for this space and I designed the whole damn penthouse

Victoria: Would it be crazy if we did Max’s birthday that weekend too? Low-key. Everyone’s already around. Cake, coffee, chaos.

Belle: YES That’s brilliant

Victoria: I’ll bring the cake. And chaos. You just focus on keeping your ankles elevated and Max emotionally stable

Belle: I’ll try. No promises on the second one 😅

Victoria:I’ll handle logistics. Also: giraffe lamp is a strong choice. Proud of Maxie.

Belle: He said it was “tasteful.” With a straight face.

***

Belle was curled sideways on the couch, her knees tucked under her, a paperback in one hand and a bowl of cut-up peaches balanced precariously on the armrest beside her. She hadn’t touched them. Max noticed.

He was sitting opposite her, laptop open on the coffee table, trying to concentrate on back-to-back track walks, tire compound charts, and whatever new nonsense FIA had dreamed up since Zandvoort. But his eyes kept drifting to her.

Her wrist was still wrapped. The bruises on her knees had turned yellow around the edges. Her hair was clean and twisted up, and she was wearing one of his shirts again — the really soft one that always made his chest feel too tight when he saw her in it.

But she was quiet. More than usual. And Max didn’t like it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, breaking the silence.

Belle glanced up without lifting her head. “Dangerous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He huffed, nudged his laptop shut. “Come with me.”

She blinked. “To where?”

“Baku. Singapore. The double header.”

Belle sat up slightly. “Max—”

“I know it’s a long trip. I know the flights suck and you hate hotel pillows and your feet are already swelling when you stand too long.” His voice softened. “But I’d feel better.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

At the tension in his jaw. The worry in his eyes that never quite went away — not since the fall. Not since he’d walked into that hospital room and nearly lost his mind at the sight of her in a hospital gown.

He didn’t say because I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re alone. He didn’t say because I keep seeing your bruises when I close my eyes.

He just said: “I’d feel better.”

Belle’s hand drifted to her belly, absently.

“You’ve got media,” she said gently. “Track walks. Strategy briefings. You can’t be glued to your phone worrying about if I slipped on the tile again.”

“Exactly,” Max said. “So don’t stay here.”

She hesitated. “Baku’s chaotic. And Singapore’s—”

“Hot. Loud. Long.” He nodded. “But we’ll make it work. You stay in the drivers rooms. I’ll sneak you into engineering debriefs so the baby can start learning telemetry.”

She snorted. “Max—”

“I already checked with the team. Everyone’s on board.” His tone turned softer. “Please, Schatje. Come with me.”

She looked at him again — and it was all there.

His fear. His love. His need to know she’d be safe, even if that meant carrying her through customs himself.

And maybe Belle had spent too long trying to be independent, trying to prove she could handle things on her own. But just this once, she let herself lean into him.

“Alright,” she said, quiet but firm. “We’ll go.”

Max’s shoulders dropped an inch. He reached across the couch and took her hand gently.

“We’ll bring the soft pillows,” she added, smirking slightly. “And the magnesium foot soak.”

“And the peach gummies,” Max said, already smiling like it was a podium finish.

Belle squeezed his hand. “And noise-cancelling headphones for when Baku makes me hate everyone.”

“Done,” he promised. “You and me. And the baby.”

She looked down at her belly, then back up at him.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.

“And you’re coming to Baku,” Max said, already leaning in to kiss her forehead.

And that was that.

Because Belle might’ve been tough as hell on her own — but even she could admit that sometimes, love looked like aisle seats, hotel footstools, and letting someone else carry the weight for a while.

***

It started with rustling.

Not dramatic rustling, not panic-rustling. Just a quiet, persistent shuffle from the other side of the bed. Max blinked awake, one hand already reaching across the mattress by instinct.

Belle was sitting up, barely illuminated by the soft glow of her phone screen. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulder in sleepy waves, and she had that deeply suspicious expression she only wore when she was trying not to wake him on purpose.

He squinted at her, voice still gravel-thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

Belle looked at him, guiltily frozen like she’d just been caught stealing state secrets.

“I want…” she paused, then said it all in one breath. “Fries. Like the proper trashy kind. With the fake cheese sauce. And chicken nuggets. And a cheeseburger. And a milkshake.”

Now he really stared.

Because Belle—his Belle—ate steel-cut oats and roasted vegetables and things with seeds in them. She actually liked quinoa. She’d once told him, dead serious, that she didn’t understand the appeal of vending machine snacks.

He blinked again. “You… what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, almost distressed. “I woke up and thought about it and now I can smell it and if I don’t have fries in the next fifteen minutes I’m going to cry.”

Max was already swinging his legs out of bed. “Okay. Fries, Nuggets. Cheeseburger. Milkshake. Got it.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Wait — where are you going?”

Max grabbed his hoodie from the chair. “To get my very pregnant wife her midnight fries before she cries and then sues me for emotional negligence.”

She let out a soft laugh, surprised and grateful. “Max, I wasn’t ordering you. I just— I didn’t expect you to get up.”

Max leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Belle. The woman who meal-preps chia pudding just asked me for fries. I will sprint to McDonald’s if I have to.”

She laughed, sleepy and fond. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Fully aware,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Back in twenty. Text me if you think of anything else.

Belle beamed. “I love you.”

Max pointed at the bump. “You, kleine man, better appreciate this.”

And with that, he was out the door, hoodie pulled up, wallet in hand, ready to face the night like a man on a mission.

Max Verstappen: three-time world champion, 1AM fry retriever.

Twenty-five minutes later, Max returned with two paper bags, a milkshake, and the distinct smell of judgment from the drive-thru worker who clearly recognized him. He didn’t care.

Belle was waiting on the couch in one of his hoodies, hair messy, blanket draped over her legs. She looked up with pure adoration when he walked in.

“Oh my god,” she said reverently, taking the bag. “I love you.”

Max sat down beside her, watching her take her first bite like it was the answer to world peace.

“Worth it?” he asked.

Belle moaned. “I want to marry this fry.”

“Little late for that,” Max murmured, placing a hand over her bump. “You already married me.”

She smiled mid-chew, leaning into his side. “Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite.”

Max kissed her temple, then reached into the bag for a fry. “Good. But I’m stealing one anyway.”

“Touch the milkshake and you die.”

Max grinned, settling in.

He used to think happiness was trophies. Laps. A perfect quali.

Now?

It tasted a lot like midnight fries and Belle’s sleepy smile in his hoodie.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

***

Somewhere over Eastern Europe, on the long-haul flight to Baku, Lando twisted around in his seat and stared down the aisle.

“Mate,” he whispered, nudging Oscar with the toe of his shoe. “Look at Max.”

Oscar, half-asleep and curled into his hoodie, cracked one eye open. “What?”

“Look. Just—look.”

Oscar followed his gaze, squinting toward the front of the cabin. And there he was: Max Verstappen. Reigning world champion. Deadliest late-braker in the sport. Currently holding a neck pillow like it was a newborn lamb, adjusting it behind Belle’s head with the concentration of a neurosurgeon.

She was fast asleep. Hoodie pulled over her belly. One hand tucked under her cheek. Max crouched beside her seat like some kind of loyal retriever, gently tugging the blanket higher over her legs.

Oscar blinked. “Oh my god.”

Lando grinned. “He fluffed the blanket. Did you see that? He fluffed.”

Oscar choked back a laugh. “You think he knows we’re watching?”

As if summoned, Max glanced their way. Didn’t even look sheepish.

“What,” he said flatly.

Lando gestured dramatically. “I’m just saying. You used to fall asleep with your face in a telemetry spreadsheet. Now you’re out here fluffing blankets and hand-feeding gummy bears.”

Max arched a brow. “She’s carrying my baby.”

Oscar, wheezing now: “You didn’t even blink.”

Max stood, completely unfazed. “She gets uncomfortable on long flights. And the neck pillow is shit.”

Lando looked between him and Belle. “You’re already a dad. Like, fully. Diaper bag energy. I bet you have snacks in your pocket.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Ginger chews. For nausea.”

Oscar slumped into his seat, choking with laughter. “This is incredible. You’ve turned into her emotional support Dutchman.”

Max folded his arms. “She’s literally growing a human. You’d all be lucky if anyone ever loved you enough to fluff your blanket.”

Lando held a hand to his heart. “Ouch.”

Oscar held up a hand. “Let him have this. It’s majestic.”

Belle stirred slightly, and all three of them froze. Max was immediately at her side again, smoothing her hair back, whispering something too soft to catch.

Lando leaned back, watching.

“Honestly,” he murmured. “It’s kind of terrifying.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. But also kind of goals?”

“Definitely goals.”

And somewhere in the front of the cabin, Max tucked the blanket just a little tighter around Belle’s legs and didn’t care one bit that they were watching.

***

Belle wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened.

One moment she’d been minding her business near the Red Bull hospitality, sipping a mango smoothie and trying to stay in the shade — and the next, Nicole Piastri had looped an arm around her like they’d been close family friends for years.

“Come on,” Nicole said cheerfully, steering her with all the gentle force of someone who’d wrangled toddlers, teenagers, and F1 drivers alike. “You need proper shade. And maybe a cold compress. I told Oscar to start carrying one, but he just gave me a funny look.”

Belle blinked, half-laughing, half-bewildered. “I’m okay, really—”

“You’re pregnant,” Nicole said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not allowed to be ‘okay.’ You’re only allowed to be ‘looked after.’"

And just like that, Belle found herself seated in the VIP shade of the McLaren hospitality tent, a cold bottle of water in her hand, a gentle fan pointed in her direction like she was a national treasure instead of a slightly overheated Verstappen. Nicole was fussing gently, adjusting the umbrella angle like she was personally in charge of UV exposure. Belle didn’t even bother resisting.

“This feels like overkill,” she murmured.

“This,” Nicole said, adjusting Belle’s sunglasses like a stage mom, “is called community care.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar wandered over looking mildly suspicious and very confused. “Mum, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of Belle,” Nicole replied serenely, patting Belle’s knee. “She’s part of the family now.”

Belle nearly choked on her water.

Oscar blinked. “Did we… adopt her?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on her when Max is off sweating in the garage,” Nicole said. “And besides—” she turned to Belle, her eyes twinkling “—I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

Belle tilted her head. “For what?”

“Oscar’s apartment,” Nicole said. “He won’t admit it, but I know you helped. You saved him from a lifetime of grayscale walls and furniture that looked like it was ordered by accident.”

Belle snorted. “All I did was drag him into one store and convince him that color wouldn’t kill him.”

“That’s more than I managed in twenty years,” Nicole said, mock-dramatic.

“I’m literally standing right here,” Oscar mumbled, sipping his own smoothie like it might save him.

Nicole ignored him completely. “Now, tell me — do you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?”

Belle hesitated, the moment stretching just slightly. Then she smiled, soft and a little shy. “A boy.”

Nicole gasped, delighted. “A little Max!”

Oscar’s eyes widened. “Wait—seriously? It’s a boy?”

Belle blinked at him, amused. “You didn’t know?”

“No!” Oscar exclaimed, flailing a bit. “Why am I the last to find out everything? Does everyone else know? Does Lando know?”

“Emilie knows…so I am pretty sure that Lando knows,” Belle said helpfully.

Nicole looked far too entertained. “Oscar, sweetheart, you really need to spend more time in the gossip loop.”

“Or less,” Oscar muttered. “I don’t even know what loop I’m in anymore.”

Nicole leaned back, pleased as punch. “A baby boy. That’s going to be so fun. You just wait. Boys are chaos.”

Belle sipped her water and gave a wry little smile. “Don’t remind me.”

Across the paddock, Max had finally clocked what was happening. He was standing with GP, glancing over every few seconds — his brows drawn together like he was debating whether to intervene or let it happen.

Belle waved at him.

He gave her a little waveback and then narrowed his eyes at Oscar, clearly clocking his proximity to Belle and his mother in one go.

Nicole followed her gaze. “Does Max know I’ve claimed you yet?”

“Not officially,” Belle said dryly. “Do you want to break the news?”

Nicole shrugged. “He’ll survive.”

Belle laughed — really laughed — and leaned back in her chair as the fan gently whirred, her free hand resting lightly on the bump beneath her dress. For once, she wasn’t planning. Wasn’t navigating. Wasn’t managing how everyone else felt about her. She was just… being. And Nicole, for all her sass and maternal might, somehow made it easy.

Oscar looked between the two of them and sighed. “This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it?”

Nicole beamed. “Oh, absolutely.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1paddocktea: Belle Verstappen and Nicole Piastri spotted together in the McLaren hospitality at Baku. Fan spotted them laughing over smoothies with Oscar looking helpless nearby.

@/oscarpiasteabag: Nicole: claims Belle as another daughter Oscar: “I’m literally right here.” I NEED THIS DYNAMIC FOREVER

@/mclaren: Would it be unprofessional to post “Belle Verstappen is now an honorary Piastri”? Asking for a friend. (and by friend we mean Nicole)

@/beebeehive: Give Nicole and Belle a YouTube series. Just them drinking tea and discussing how to force Oscar and Max to eat vegetables.

@/f1stepmomenergy: Nicole Piastri adopting Belle is not the crossover I expected from Baku but it’s the one I deserved

@/formulaloveletter: There’s something so wholesome about Belle accidentally becoming the paddock’s collective little sister/pseudo daughter/wife/chaos magnet. Like. She was just vibing. And now she’s got godparents lined up, a fan, and probably Nicole Piastri plotting baby shower themes.

@/f1chaoticneutral BREAKING: Nicole Piastri has officially adopted Belle Verstappen. Oscar was not consulted. Max is concerned. I am THRIVING.

@/gridgossipqueen: Nicole Piastri commandeering Belle from Red Bull hospitality like “you’re mine now” is the kind of paddock power move I live for.

@/mclarenhomewives: Nicole Piastri claiming Belle as “part of the family now” and dragging her into the McLaren tent??

Oscar is now Belle’s younger brother

Max is going to be so confused when he picks up his wife and she’s in papaya merch

@/charlesshoes: every time i see belle getting casually adopted by someone new on the grid i gain a year of life

@/mclarenverse: Nicole Piastri claiming Belle like a prized collectible and Oscar just going “I’m literally right here” is so sibling-coded it’s actually hilarious

@/maxielarchives: Max: why is Belle in McLaren hospitality Nicole Piastri: she’s mine now Oscar: same Belle: eats a papaya macaron like nothing happened

***

They were sitting on one of the low outdoor couches near the back of the paddock hospitality area — just Oscar and his Mum, the sun beginning to dip behind the skyline.

It was quiet except for the soft rustle of Nicole flipping through the tea selection like she was deciding the fate of nations.

“I still don’t know how you always end up hijacking people,” he said eventually, watching her settle on a peppermint sachet like it had personally offended her.

Nicole looked unbothered. “I didn’t hijack Belle. I gently redirected her to a more appropriate location.”

“You stole her from Red Bull hospitality.”

“She was overheating,” Nicole said, clearly satisfied with her maternal diplomacy. “And alone. Honestly, I should’ve swooped in sooner. If you’d seen yourself standing there — all confused, drinking a sad smoothie while she wilted under an umbrella.”

Oscar sighed and slumped back against the cushions. “It’s just funny how you do this. You see someone once and you’re like, ‘You’re mine now.’”

Nicole gave him a look over the rim of her tea cup. “Sweetheart, I raised four children and half your karting team. I know the signs. She needed someone.”

He snorted, then sighed. “You really like her, huh?”

Nicole didn’t even hesitate. “I adore her.”

Oscar picked at the label of his bottle for a moment. “You know her family forgot her birthday?”

Nicole blinked. “Her birthday?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Didn’t even text her. Not one of them. Not her mum. Not her brothers. Nothing.”

Nicole was quiet now, the kind of quiet that meant she was carefully tamping down a volcano of maternal rage.

Oscar kept going, like the words had been stewing for a while. “And it’s not just that. They forget stuff all the time. Important stuff. She used to plan all their holidays, always checked in on everyone else. And no one ever asked if she was okay. No one made the effort for her.”

Nicole exhaled slowly, steady. “If I had ever seen you treat Hattie or Edie or Mae like that… if I’d seen you treat one of your sisters the way Belle’s been treated—”

“You’d have driven a wooden spoon into my skull,” Oscar muttered.

“Correct,” Nicole said, no hesitation.

Oscar smiled faintly. “I think that’s why I get so… prickly about it. I keep thinking about them. My sisters. If they’d gone through what Belle has. If they’d hidden how much it hurt.”

Nicole looked at him then — really looked. And whatever mischief had lived in her smile earlier had been replaced by something quieter. Something sharper.

“She deserves more,” she said simply.

Oscar nodded. “She’s finally getting it. With Max. With Emilie. Even Lando, weirdly.”

Nicole smiled again at that. “And now with us.”

Oscar blinked. “Mum—”

“I don’t care how famous her brothers are. If they won’t show up for her, then she gets me. She gets the whole damn Piastri family. I’ll knit her ugly baby blankets and text her reminders to drink water. That girl is mine now.”

Oscar stared at her, half-horrified and half-delighted.

“She’s going to think we are all insane,” he said.

Nicole smiled serenely. “Then she’ll fit right in.”

Oscar grinned.

And deep down, something in him relaxed — knowing Belle had one more person in her corner now.

***

The paddock was a blur of movement — media crews, mechanics in half-unzipped race suits, engineers pulling headsets off and already dissecting data. Baku’s sticky heat clung to everything like a second skin, even in the growing twilight. Belle adjusted the loose linen shirt knotted above her bump over the dress she wore and threaded her way past the Red Bull garage, careful of her steps. Her knees still ached when she walked too long.

Max was doing media rounds. He’d finished P5 — a hard-fought recovery, all things considered. But she wasn’t here for him right now. Or even for Oscar who had driven to a win in Baku that was everything Hungary hadn’t been.

Ferrari red came into view just as the celebratory chaos began to ebb. There were still photographers trailing Carlos, and team members buzzing around the pit wall, but the man she was looking for stood half-turned toward the back of the garage, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite left his system yet.

Charles.

She hadn’t planned to come.

She’d meant to stay near Max, stay out of sight, stay neutral.

But then she saw the replay of the overtake. The fight. The fact that Charles had driven his heart out. That he'd earned that podium. And despite everything — the weight of all their unspoken hurts, the therapy sessions, the missed birthdays — she still felt proud of him.

“Charles,” she called softly as she stepped just inside the boundary line.

He turned.

Surprise flickered across his face. “Belle?”

She smiled. “P2,” she said, her voice warm and sincere. “You drove beautifully.”

His gaze dropped to her belly, then back to her eyes. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod and stepped closer. “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not awkward — just… delicate.

“You really mean it?” he asked, quieter now.

Belle met his eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

Something in his shoulders loosened. Just a little.

Then he surprised her — reaching out and resting a hand gently on her arm, careful and featherlight.

“I’m trying, you know,” he said. “With all of it. I know I’ve been... slow. Selfish. But I’m trying.”

“I know,” Belle said. “So am I.”

Charles looked at her again — properly this time — and for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like a minefield between them. Just two people standing in the wreckage, trying to rebuild something.

Not what it used to be. But maybe something new.

“Do you want water or something?” he asked suddenly, glancing around the garage. “We have those fancy Italian fizzy ones—”

Belle laughed. “I’m okay. Max is about to come looking for me anyway.”

Charles smiled crookedly. “He was glaring at me through the cooldown lap, by the way.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “He always glares.”

“That one felt extra.”

She bumped his arm with her elbow. “Be nice.”

“I’m trying.”

They stood there a beat longer.

“Congrats again,” she said, stepping back. “You earned it.”

He gave a soft nod. “Thank you, Belle.”

And this time, when she turned to go, it didn’t feel like a goodbye. Just a pause.

Something gentler.

Something that might, one day, be whole again.

***

996 notes · View notes

tsuyalovebot · 5 months ago

Text

don't make me wait forever.

pairing: xia yi zhou / caleb x reader (love and deepspace)

cw: sfw. semi-prominent reader characterization (spoiled, occasional use of she/her pronouns, referred to as a "little sister" once). kisses. casual touches. throat holding (both by reader and by caleb). use of "older brother" to address caleb (not by reader). pipsqueak as a term of endearment. reader wears makeup. some spoilers from tender moments, memoria, and bond story. caleb typical warnings (manipulation if you squint).

wc: roughly 3-4k words. unnecessary word vomit.

author's note: a man who yearns is a man who EARNS. hi, it's me again! i had an idea and had to bring it to life. enjoy! ( ^ -. ^ )

Caleb wasn't lying when he said he spoiled you too much as children.

You didn't quite get it at first—he was nothing but sweet with the occasional menace during childhood, sure, but he didn't spoil you spoil you.

You were leaning into his chest, eyes closed while listening to the TV in the background as his large arm wraps itself around your waist. Tucking you against him, feeling his lips against the crown of your head.

"I baby you too much," he sighed, a mellow cheeriness beneath his words.

"And yet, you sound so happy over it," you grumbled. Sleep is so close yet so far, and you'd been squirming around in search of the closest boarding gate. His touch delicate as he pulled you onto his lap.

You snuggled closer on instinct. Picking up on the faint smell of sandalwood and something finer, richer. There was movement on your back, Caleb's palm stroking up and down, while the other held you by the back of your neck like an infant.

"I spoiled you, too."

You frowned, looked at him blearily. "Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh." He pushed your head back onto his shoulder. "Go to sleep."

Sure, Caleb took extensive measures to ensure your comfortable upbringing with him. But you weren't spoiled.

Right?

But you go on your first date with someone that isn't him, and it kind of hits. Making an offhanded comment about how the water temperature was more cold than warm—you asked for room temp—doesn't result in your date immediately requesting another glass or them buying you bottled water from the convenience store across the restaurant.

Instead, you're told, "they probably forgot, it's fine" and the date continues. You watch the condensation form on your glass quietly. Every rational droplet is speaking to your acrid gut feeling—it's just water. It'll be room temperature eventually.

Later on, your date messages you. They asked if you got home safely, all the while you'd been drinking a glass of lukewarm water in Caleb's dining room. You pressed block once you heard his familiar, curious voice asking how the date went.

"It was meh." And you asked for another glass.

Another time, you'd been hanging out with old high school friends as a simple gathering. Though, you hadn't expected that it would lead to seemingly endless anecdotes in relation to you. Over fruit smoothies and café pastries, they'd all been exchanging stories once the conversation turns over to yourself in high school.

"Remember when she would always ask us to do stuff?" One girl laughed, cutting into her french toast.

Another cleared her throat, exaggerating her voice into a falsetto, "hey, can you get me a bun from the cafeteria? Oh, there's no more? Then, a banana milk and whatever pastry they have."

It earned a crackle of laughter along the table of five people. You, the object of discussion, smiling at the head of the table. Rather awkwardly, too, as you sipped on your drink.

"You forgot to add on the "you can do that at least, right?" at the end!"

"Oh, oh, the sulking too, if you don't do it!"

"She'd always complain about our fans, too."

"Oh my God, yeah. "Why does your fan battery run out so quickly? Did you not charge it?" Like, hello?"

One of the girls face you amidst the active exchange, grinning. Despite the recollection of your nature in the past, they weren't mad. Simply taking the entertainment value in it.

"Don't worry," and she said your name, placing a hand over yours on the table.

"You've got an older brother, right? It may have been annoying, but we're friends. You were like, our little sister."

A muscle in your jaw ticked. His face popped up in your face and you wanna punch him, despite him being nowhere near you at the time of this event. But, you laughed and nodded; acquiescing to her reassurance was easier this way.

It slipped out once more when you go out for movies with Tara. It's the same theater you and Caleb always frequented before. You already swiped your card for payment of movie food, and had besn walking to the screening room.

"Tara, can you check the bucket? Make sure it has enough butter on it?"

"Hm? Okay," she replied. While you scrolled on your phone, you heard the plastic lid of the bucket pop open.

"Seems good to me. You check."

When you move your attention over to the bucket, you're met with mediocre-looking buttered popcorn. The golden syrup of butter scattered over the pieces. You frowned. Since when were they so shy about buttering literal corn?

You stopped walking, brows furrowed. "It's so... pale. Let's go back and ask for more, I didn't pay for that."

"Huh? Oh, okay?" You didn't really register Tara's confused tone of voice until after you had a spat with the person at the popcorn station.

It was some moody teen probably working minimum wage. He was scowling while you talked about the butter portioning.

He sneered, "over some popcorn? Really? Were you that spoiled as a kid?"

It winded you. Tara was pulling at your arm, seeming to try and hold you back despite you being frozen. The manager came out once the commotion seems to stop, only because you were gobsmacked.

He'd been apologizing profusely to you and Tara upon recognizing you both as hunters; his eyes had landed on you with so much familiarity. He's probably been working here for a decade or so. Long enough to have previously seen you and Caleb at movie screenings.

Tara's at the butter dispenser of the self-service station—something they closed over half a decade ago apparently, but frantically opened for today, coincidentally—with you behind her when she finally spoke

She was a bit bewildered, but it was easy to pick up the lighthearted tone. "I didn't take you for the pampered type. That was the normal amount of butter on popcorn for most places."

You shook your head. "No, it wasn't. I was a regular here in the past. Every time we got a bucket of popcorn, they were always so generous with the salted butter."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my friend."

There'd been a pause between you two. She pressed the lid back into place and begun shaking it, the popcorn rattling. Then, she turned to you, like she knew something that you didn't.

"And you never once thought this friend scared the employees into putting extra butter for you back then?"

It always went back to him.

Whenever you'd go to a colleague's place and bore holes into the crooked cuts of the apple slices on a plate, you found yourself recalling Caleb's expert cuts. These ones weren't even red delicious apples.

You're a bit peeved when the food from the monthly catering service at the Association doesn't taste the same way that Caleb makes it, even though the food is the same kind and recipe.

Your next trip to Skyhaven is definitely highly anticipated. You're been exhausted and haggard for the past few days. It only amplifies as the day stretches on, grimacing when Caleb opens the door. He's surprised to see you, panting and sweaty in his white tanktop. Fresh from a workout, most likely. It makes you a bit, a tiny bit, mad.

"Pipsqueak? What's the occasion?"

"You," you hiss, releasing your hold on your suitcases. You kick off your shoes as you push your way into his place, pointing an accusing finger to his chest.

Caleb's confused. It's clear in the furrow of his brow and frantic blinking that his synapses are doing rapid fire checking of what today is, what he's said or done recently, what stores are on sale, and what snacks you need.

Despite being the one who said he himself spoiled you, he clearly has no idea how it's manifested in your life, and it pisses you off even more.

"I'm the occasion?" He squawks, confused. "It's too early for my birthday—"

"You and your stupid past self. I should have your head on a stake," you bark, slamming your fists onto his pecs, pushing him further into his own home.

He laughs a bit, still completely in the dark, but his voice gets a bit more pitchy.

He leans down, cranes his gargantuan ass down to your height. It's polite. You know this, he's done it countless times. But your gut speaks to you. You're going to throttle him.

"Huh? What did I do?"

"You piss me off!"

His face softens with concern. His hands come up, ghosting over yours. He murmurs your name—

Then you're gripping him by the neck. You get to drink in the way his eyes widen to saucers as your fingers delicately wrap around his throat, palms on either side. You don't squeeze, and instead, aggressively shake him. "Pipsqueak?"

"You spoiled me!" You shriek, voice shrill with accusation.

Frustration, the buildup from the past couple of weeks comes to full fruition in this very moment. It's only for a split second that you see realization dawn on Caleb's face before you continue yelling.

"I relied on others to get me snacks because of you, I complain over batteries because of you, now I want specific water temperatures, I can't stand pale popcorn because you demanded extra butter, I'm picky over food—"

"Hey—"

"Don't you hey me, mister!" You jut your finger up at his face, and he shuts his mouth instantly. "I'm like this, because of you!"

You don't miss the glitter of mirth in those stupidly ethereal eyes of his, and it's wholly unreal how your anger amplifies when you notice his twitching lips. He found this funny.

"You're laughing?" You whisper, low and indignant. You squeeze his throat, feel his breath pass under the skin. Adrenaline riveting and real in the low thrum of your heartbeat.

"I'm here, devastated over the effect of your stupid actions on my life, and you're laughing?"

"Devastated?" Caleb echoes. The idiot sounded delighted over this. Like he was finding a great deal of validation in your admission.

A grin quirks his lips into its signature, charming curve, and he's leaning down into you some more. One of his hands sliding over yours with a gentleness only he could emulate. Your resolve stutters, and he's quick to take advantage of that.

"Oh, please, pipsqueak." He chuckles. "That's not true and you know it."

His fingers gently slide between the gaps of yours, making room for himself and filling the emptiness. Effectively peeling them away from his throat, and doing the same to the other hand. You relent, letting your arms hang loosely at your sides.

Caleb's still smiling when he takes a step forward, crowding your space now. It doesn't register that he's cornered you until your back is flat to the closed door and you're surrounded by him and everything about him.

The very man who's fed you every granule, acquainted you with the taste of having the world at your every whim. A charged zap runs up the base of your spine when he lifts your chin.

"If you were really devastated, you'd have come here cryin' instead. You'd be on your knees, weepin' over how I've ruined you. Not yelling and screaming and accusing me," he coos, sickly sweet. His thumb rubbing below your lower lip.

"Are you done? Do you feel better after getting it all off your chest?"

His gaze feels abysmal. Two pools of an oceanic depth, spatial and intergalactic and beyond your comprehension. Hungry.

Something darker lurks there. That one look that flickers in and out of conversations whenever you're close to him, or when the topic tilts into something that you know you shouldn't be touching. Like he's satiated, but still craving more and more. You feel small under it every time.

"Even a kid knows how to manipulate their guardian into givin' them what they want."

The double meaning, one of comparing you to an immature brat, isn't lost on you. Heat crawls up your skin as your cheeks round with the scrunch of your nose. Ready to retaliate with equal venom, even if his words weren't inherently insulting.

But, before you even could, the expression on his face stops you in your tracks.

It's like looking at the colonel. Caleb cocks his head to the side, expression clinically cold. "When someone is speaking, we?"

He stares. He's waiting for a response, you realize.

You finish his sentence, pacified. "We listen."

"Good. Seems you still have the manners I taught you."

Your face heats up.

That stupidly patient smile on his lips was grating on your nerves, far more than any revelation of his ingrained presence in your every action, thought, word, and emotion.

His thumb is soon pressed flush to your lips. He isn't prying it open like he did before, instead rubbing the pad of his thumb along your lips, caressing the divot of your cupid's bow. He's playing with the glossy texture and film of your lippie, smearing it past the corner of your lips.

The first thing you want to do is push him away. Shove him, hard, and make space between the two of you so that your train of thought could return. Yet, the softness that decorates his grape-colored irises was making you hesitate. He's an annoying guy, someone who gets on your nerves, with featherlight caresses and an admiration so sincere.

Rouge stains the pad of his digit when he draws it back. He's curious, his gaze thoughtful as he examines the pigment. Then, you're watching as he lifts it to his mouth with a deliberate kiss. Lashes fluttering over his cheekbones.

When he drops his hand, the scarlet pigment is smeared over his lips like a brand.

You're burning alive. You reach up, immediately trying to wipe it from his lips. "You—"

"Weirdo? I know." Caleb catches your hand with ease, beaming with half-lidded eyes. "Buuut, you're just as weird as me for lettin' me do that, y'know."

He's making a point. You're going to gut him alive, you think to yourself. In stealing an indirect kiss from you, he's replicating every scenario you've ever bared yourself to him. How easy it is, to melt in one's earnest wonder and affection, unable to say no.

In an attempt to regain your composure, you scowl with all the feigned vitriol you could muster. "You're even weirder for condoning my every action."

He cocks his head, like he was reloading a couple memories from the past. The countless times he let you get away with things.

"It's... not that easy for me, pipsqueak."

"Yes, it is." You huff and free your hand from his grip. Settling your palms flat over his chest, fingers curling into the stretchy fabric. "Telling me no couldn't have been that hard."

"Yeah?" He teases. "You think it's that simple for me?"

"Grandma could handle me."

Caleb deadpans at your mention of her, his face relaxing into something like bemusement.

"If Gran or I took away your stuffed animal to clean it, you'd kick and scream and cry. If I denied you of your favorite food or a candy apple, you'd say you hate me."

You blink. That wasn't the response you were expecting. All of a sudden, you feel like someone's wiped your mind of everything you've ever known, and redefined your recollections of childhood. Embarrassment crawls up your face in burning streaks.

"Gran could handle you?" He repeats, shakes his head with a sad look.

There's a pained aspect to his current physiognomy, the furrow of his brow, the deepened set of his mouth. "That's because it's her. Of course, she wouldn't mind your cries. But I did."

He crouches, and for a moment, it was as if he was falling. The sunlight filtered in through the glass of the door behind your head, catching on the nutty brown strands of his hair. Cradling his head against the junction of your neck and shoulder, hiding away his face.

"I didn't want you to hate me." He admits, the words fanned over your throat. You inhale deeply, and his familiar scent invades your senses. You hope that stupid central organ wasn't too loud, or else he'd hear the beating of your pulse working double time.

Caleb's a constant in your life. He was a pillar, from youth 'til now, that never failed to offer you assistance regardless of the circumstances. You knew him to be reliable, persistent, generous. Perhaps it plays into the way he's coated your teeth in sugar, nipping at your enamel in a thick film that tastes of sweetness.

Yet seeing him like this, frustrated and amused and annoyed—it was unfounded.

"I didn't know much." The vulnerability was low yet blaring. "I just knew I didn't want you to hate me. I knew I loved seeing you happy. And if I denied you, you weren't happy."

It's too black and white. So childish and simplified. It's an easygoing description of his feelings toward you during early youth, one that could easily be swallowed up and consumed by the nasty nature of the world.

Yet, you card your fingers through his hair. Press your lips to his temple all the same, and listen to his utterances.

Your bottom lip is jutting out before you can stop yourself. And in spite of his own admissions, the uncomfortable nakedness that comes with it, you mumble a pointed, "you made me high maintenance."

"You're only figurin' that out now?" He snickers against your skin and the subsequent vibrations make you jump. "Pipsqueak, everyone's known you're high maintenance."

You protest, "that's not true."

"Yes," he says, amused. "It is."

Peeling away from your neck, Caleb's face is less grave now. Relief floods your senses and you cup his face, smoothing over the corners of his lip to wipe away the frowns. There's a weight behind you that isn't the door, his palm a welcome touch as his fingers splay over the small of your back.

His other hand resting on the side of your throat, fingers resting on your nape and thumb rubbing the ridge of your jaw. The motion is soothing, and you close your eyes to memorize its rhythm.

"Even if you're high maintenance, I'm the one who caused it. Allegedly."

You bristle and your eyes fly open, "allegedly? There's proof—"

"Ah-ah."

Caleb's brows are raised on his forehead as you pipe down, amused by how quick you were to correct your behavior.

"Much better. As I was saying."

Despite the extra firmness to his voice, his touch on you was nothing short of gentle. Like your body was carved from marble, reinforced by a fragile porcelain, he does that thing where he tilts your head with the hand on your neck. His thumb rubbing your earlobe.

But the most violating part had to be those intense, smoldering eyes that beheld you with utmost priority. How did you ever think he didn't care for you?

Caleb's tone of voice is chiding. "You're high maintenance because of me, and that makes you mine to maintain."

He's talking down to you. Treating you like one would to a child learning how to tie their shoelaces, his voice chiseled with the vines of condescension. Heartbeat speeding in your chest, distinguishing your heartbeat from your rampant thoughts became far more difficult.

The little smile that's on his lips seems manic. Far away, distant, as you slide your hands over his pecs. A shudder ripples over your skin.

"After all, it's my fault for making sure you're comfortable. It's my fault for prioritizing you above all else, as children and as adults." He starts, chillingly calm. He shakes his head to himself with a deep sigh, and tilts your head back against the door. Examining you with an unblinking, almost detached visage. Yet, his words were anything but, thick with emotion.

You breathe slow, torturous inhales and exhales, feeling Caleb's hand wrap itself around your throat. Alarms ring out in the back of your mind—loud, incessant, disturbing, yet you close your eyes and let him hold you there.

He won't hurt you. He never would, intentionally.

Quietly, like a forbidden fruit to not be consumed or heard, he mutters, "it's my fault for wantin' nothing but the best for you, because it's what you deserve. Nothing less."

Oh, you breathe out.

There's absolutely no pressure to the way he holds your neck. His palm wasn't against the column of your throat, instead, the pads of his thick digits were clasping the skin with a touch so invisible it almost felt nonexistent. When you swallow, the flexed skin presses itself up to his touch.

"Do you really want me to take it back?" Caleb asks, breaking the momentary silence and taking you out of your thoughts.

You blank out for a moment too long. "What?"

"You came over to let me know I've spoiled you beyond reversing repair, without wantin' me to change?"

Why did you come over? Why did you decide to come up to Skyhaven one day, literally days away from your regular times of visiting him? Over something like this? Literal outdated information that you've only recently discovered.

Why? You don't know, but you're rushing to speak, holding onto his top. "That's not what I—"

"It's not what you what?"

He tilts his head down toward you and every coherent thought exits your headspace instantly. God, his eyes. They're darker now. Frustration brimming in the burning fuchscia, the indigo of his irises all-consuming.

"I can stop pamperin' you starting today." He offers.

The surfacing ache in your chest is abrupt, disruptive.

"Starting today, I won't buy your favorite snacks. I won't ever pat your head again. I'll leave you to fend for yourself in every fast food line, and you can get your own stuff when we go shopping. You can even do your shopping alone. Is that what you want?"

No. No, it's not what you want, but how do you express that? An entity, so puissant and arresting, is crawling up your esophagus, scraping at the backs of your teeth, trying to pry your mouth open, and wail its truth into the minimal distance between you and Caleb. It's an ugly feeling, one stripping you down to your base needs.

Pain bleeds into his expression, his eyes only softening as a thought crosses his mind. "Are you gonna tell me you don't need me again?"

"Caleb, no," you manage.

"If not, then what's the problem? It's too late. If I've ruined you, you've destroyed me."

You destroyed him? When? You've never... When have you ever—?

Your chagrin spikes in time with your bewilderment. "I never did anything like that."

Caleb peered into your eyes. Your soul. Questioning, a bit disbelieving. Like he can't really believe your own blindness. An incredulous laugh slipping through his nose when he realizes you weren't lying.

He takes a step forward. You're fully sandwiched between him and the door now, and one of his arms come up to rest above you on the surface. "Caleb–"

"I can't go through the grocery store without thinking of what you want for dinner." He admits, the revelation so tender and tied with candor. Your words die on your tongue and dissolve.

"I can't do my laundry anymore unless it's with your brand of fabric softener, since it reminds me of you. Every time I try on a new jacket, I wonder how it would look good on you."

The information comes pouring out of him like a geyser. And his voice is full of nothing but love. You press your hands to his chest with more force, but he won't budge. Your ears are scalding and you're avoiding his gaze now, his face.

"You dedicated a journal to me. You came to every basketball game." Caleb laughs, breathless. A little in awe of you, so full of adoration. "You always visited Skyhaven when I moved out. You pretended to be my girlfriend. You didn't want me to get a girlfriend. You kissed me at my graduation."

He stutters over himself at the end, sighing deeply and it's making your stomach do flips. "God, you kissed me."

Really? You're burning. Did he have to bring that up?

He's pulling you out of your thoughts yet again, using his hold on your yielding neck to find your gaze once more. You could crumble into ashes right now. In fact, you hoped the floor underneath you would just swallow you whole and leave nothing behind for Caleb to dissect.

"You're think you're spoiled, pipsqueak?" Another laugh, and it's mixed with raspy agony and disbelief, shining in his stare. "I'm rotten."

In Caleb's home, you never really heard much commotion. Simply the low hum of the television in the background, the living room a few paces away. Yet, your heartbeat was the soundtrack to his life, and he's made it his favorite ringtone.

You could feel his own racing heart under your palm. He looks defeated now, conflicted. Oh, Caleb.

"You never wanted me to take it back." He says it to himself. Like he's trying to get himself to believe it.

"You just wanted reassurance that I'd never leave you, no matter how coddled you are."

The heart that's thudding rapidly against your ribcage was so fickle, so naïve. It might jump out of your throat at this rate—God, Caleb could probably feel your pulse like this.

Your mind's racing. There's only one way you could resolve this rift formed from these series of revelations and confessions. You weren't going to lose him again. He has no right to leave after this.

"You're so quiet now. Don't tell me you're thinkin' of runnin' away, pipsqueak." His voice is lighter, more in jest now. The first sign of distance, denial.

You clasp his wrist, and whisper, "I'll take responsibility."

"What?"

"I'll take responsibility. For ruining you. In exchange, take responsibility for me too." You declare, louder. You sound more sure.

He's blinking at you now. Then, his brows furrow and a bewildered laugh leaves him. Before he could reply, you push forward, not allowing him any time to recover.

"I'm in your hands now, aren't I? You said so yourself. You did this to me. I did this to you. I'm yours to deal with."

You wind your arms around his neck, hearing how his breaths stutter and feeling his hand leave your throat. You're on your tippy toes, pulling him down so you could settle back against the door, feeling his grip settle over your waist. It's a lovely sensation. One so right. It cements your resolve.

"The only ones who can handle us are each other. Nobody else."

You don't know what you're saying anymore.

But you know you like the rising determination, you like whatever this is. You like the hope that swims in his gaze. The fear that's within them, terrified of this being one of your pranks. It wasn't; you'll prove it to hom.

"You can't make all these promises and leave me alone," You speak in a hushed tone, finality thick in the waver of your voice. You're leaning in before you can stop yourself and whispering, "I won't let you."

You can't help but feel like whatever game you two are playing now, you've lost. He's won yet again. Yet it doesn't quite feel like a loss this time around, not when Caleb's face is smoothing out into one of relief. One of contentment as he closes the distance.

The breath that fans over your mouth is hot and his voice is full of yearning, "I never planned on it."

#𐙚 ; bǎo bèi.#mimi.writes #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #lnd #lnd x reader #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace caleb x reader #lads caleb #lads caleb x reader #lnds caleb #caleb x reader #caleb fluff

1K notes · View notes