#yes this is judge he's just humanized | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kaiser1ns · 19 days ago

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#. 매니저님, 감사합니다 ! PART 2

featuring 𝘀𝗮𝗷𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

fluff. being the babysitter manager of five grown men who act like toddlers with microphones. it's fun being the team’s mvp, therapist, emergency contact, fashion consultant, personal chef, and part-time hostage.

CHECK OUT THE SERIES MASTERLIST

PRINCE CHARMING IS A JERK everyone is falling for jinu, and it's not even surprising. he is the charismatic leader, the golden boy, the idol with perfect visuals, vocals, and vibes.

yeah, prince charming, he is perfect. perfect at being the bane of your existence.

because behind that angelic smile is a certified jerk who’s been messing with you all week. and what does he decide to do now? he has the audacity to ask you, wait no, demand you to dance with the group.

“let's welcome our amazing manager, (name)-ssi!”

oh, he’s evil. pure demonic evil. on national tv, during a variety show in front of actual cameras. as if your career hasn’t suffered enough.

first, it was your outfit. he looked you up and down and went,

“really? you’re wearing that in the 21st century?”

excuse you, king of fashion from the joseon dynasty. who are you to judge? it’s not like he time-traveled from a palace to start critiquing your finds from a sale.

second, he kept putting your things out of reach. your phone? suddenly on the top shelf. your clipboard? behind the couch. your pencil? under his chair, on purpose. you swear he's testing your limits, or plotting your downfall.

then came the tripping. oh, you needed to walk across the room? not on his watch. his legs are everywhere, strategically stretched out like some runway trap. you tripped so many times you started checking for banana peels, ghosts, lasers. nope, just jinu, smirking like the devil.

but the fourth incident? that was the final straw, cherry on top, icing on the cake.

lunch time with the boys, as you sat down, thinking today would be normal. wrong. a food war broke out like it was a birthday party for feral children. you tried your best to restore peace, to be the mature one.

what did jinu do? used you as a human shield.

abby hurled a chunk of chocolate cake aimed at jinu’s face and…it landed squarely on yours. full facial coverage, no need for foundation or setting powder. you were cake, you became cake.

the room fell silent, dead silent and suddenly the temperature dropped drastically.

“uh-oh…” “uh-oh? i’ll show you uh-oh.”

scolding them so hard, they cleaned the room faster than soda pop climbed the charts. but not before you casually wiped a thick streak of icing off your cheek… and smeared it across jinu’s expensive jacket.

revenge is really best served sweet.

ABS, LIPSTICK AND YOUR SOUL so today it was just you and abby, because he had a solo photoshoot scheduled for a magazine. and since you’re technically his manager, also part-time stylist and personal chef, you had to tag along in case anything went wrong.

what actually went wrong was the photographer taking one look at you and deciding:

"yes, her. she’s a star, i want her too."

the man went full runway visionary on the spot, saying things like “match made in heaven”, “too hot to handle”, “this is a renaissance in the modeling world”.

you blinked, abby blinked, and before you knew it, boom, he was unbuttoning his see through white shirt like he did every day.

he didn’t even hesitate. just popped it open, revealing his abs like a smooth criminal. the makeup artists, who you swear were too excited, rushed in to dust glitter on his stomach for more angelic effect. meanwhile, someone shoved you into a beautiful white dress that honestly made you feel like a fairy about to get tricked into marriage.

lights, camera, action!

the first pose was quite intimate. abby’s sitting on the floor, legs bent, slightly leaning back and you’re straddling one of his legs, sitting upright, facing him. your hand’s on his shoulder. it’s giving soft launch, but also someone help me, i didn’t sign up for this.

for pose two the photographer himself wanted you to wrap an arm around his neck. okay, sure. your other hand rests on his chest. he’s standing beside you now, arm around your waist like it belongs there.

then the final shot. one word: scandalous.

you lean in with a bright red lipstick, pressing a kiss to his cheek. abby’s standing shirtless, tie loosened, covered in lipstick marks you just left, like a walking crime scene. he’s smirking, you’re literally dying.

after the last shutter clicks, you finally exhale. it’s over. it’s finally over. you glance at abby, and—oh no.

he’s already looking at you. soft, playful, with daring eyes glowing just a little too golden under the lights.

you look away, cheeks heating up like someone turned the studio into a hot sauna. this was not on your job description, but if viral couple shoots boost popularity, so be it.

“do i… have something on my face?” “no, you’re just pretty.”

manager-nim.exe has stopped working. please restart the system.

and then, oh god no, he brushes his thumb over your lip, gentle, casual, almost like a husband to a bride on their honeymoon. your stomach does an olympic-level backflip. why is he like this? why are his eyes so shiny? why do you feel like you’re being hypnotized?

but just like that, everything goes back to normal.

“can you move, princess?” “abby, you’re the one who wrapped your hands around my waist.” “yeah, but i want to change now.”

spoiler alert: he does not change. he just wanted to see if you’d let go first, which you didn't.

PINK SWEATER HEART MOUNTAIN you have gone through every circle of hell at this point, and it’s only monday. just because you’re technically responsible for them doesn’t mean you’re responsible for everything. or so you told yourself, before you ended up in the middle of someone’s personal closet apocalypse.

how did you get here? good question, you want to know as well.

one moment you were helping sort outfits in romance’s room, like the helpful little assistant you are, and the next, you were buried alive under a landslide of pastel cardigans, suspiciously sparkly pants, and a very aggressive pink sweater with a heart knitted on the front.

you tried to fight for survival, you really did. you kicked, but flailed. screamed once and eventually accepted your fate. your body now belonged to the great pink void. you would be remembered only by the faint echo of your last sigh and the perfume cloud left behind.

what’s the point of living anyway? you were gone. this was it. this was how it ends. goodbye cruel world. goodbye daylight. goodbye life outside of knitwear. merging with the universe, consumed by fashion.

until, hallelujah, a light shone upon your face.

“angel? where did you go?”

a voice. a very sweet voice. could it be... heaven? have you become an angel already? yes, that must be it. the light was warm, comforting, like a divine flame. this was surely heaven’s gate, or maybe it was just romance standing above you like some celestial being sent by the coco chanel gods.

“oh, there you are! you really got yourself buried under sweater mountain, huh?”

he was grinning down at you, you blink at him slowly. is he real? is this a hallucination?

to test this, he leans down and pinches your cheeks. not hard, just soft enough to make you mildly regret ever helping him organize his closet.

then, he offered you a hand. you took it, obviously, because one, he was literally your only way out, and two, you’re not immune to how annoyingly pretty he is.

“i think you’ve suffered enough for one day.”

you mumble something, still spiritually disoriented, because after all, you just came back from the dead.

“we’re going out,” “is it a date?” “depends. are you paying?” “no?” “then yeah, it’s a date. my treat.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he was already leading you toward the door like some prince rescuing a very confused damsel. you’re still not totally sure what’s happening, but you’re upright, and he’s holding your hand, and that’s a win in your book.

also, he smells really nice. like strawberries and vanilla. honestly, you might let the sweaters bury you again if it means he’ll save you like that.

GOSSIP, CUDDLES AND NAP TIME secretly, mystery was your favorite of the saja boys. not that you’d ever admit it out loud. but it’s just with him, you could finally have a moment of peace and quiet. no screaming, no cake aimed at your face, no wardrobe meltdowns, or someone trying to turn your life into a k-drama.

no abs, no jinu. especially no jinu.

“i swear, if jinu makes one more comment about my outfit, i’m going to wear a potato sack to the next shoot on purpose,”

pacing back and forth across the room like a lawyer waiting for the final verdict awarded to the criminals that are your boys.

“like, i'm sorry, not all of us wake up with perfect hair and tons of designer clothes.”

mystery is sitting quietly on the couch, half-focused on a random magazine that was on the small table, when he was about to say something supportive. maybe something wise, or one of his usual gentle one-liners—

“and don’t even get me started on abby! my lips are still tinted red from that photoshoot. my soul is sparkling from glitter clothes. i sneezed and it looked like a unicorn and a fairy vomited on me.”

he closes his mouth. okay, not the right time.

“romance buried me in sweaters this morning! i almost didn’t make it back alive…also i’m officially traumatized from the color pink.”

you keep pacing. mystery's not surprised, because you do this often when you're overwhelmed. but today’s energy is especially chaotic and exhausting.

finally, you collapse next to him with a dramatic sigh, like the weight of everyone's ridiculousness has finally drained you to the max.

“why are they like this? why am i like this? why are you not like this? actually, don’t answer that.”

mumbling, leaning back and looking at the ceiling like it holds answers to what causes your spiritual pain. the long haired boy just smiles a little, that soft, curve of his lip reassuring you that everything is okay.

you start talking again, softer now. still half-ranting, half-reflecting. something about shoes, cake fights, and jinu’s long legs. then, the words start to come out slowly from you, the energy dips. your voice fades into soft hums and sleepy murmurs. eventually, there’s nothing at all.

he glances down and sees your head gently resting on his shoulder.

oh, you’ve fallen asleep mid-rant again.

he shifts slightly, careful not to wake you, and reaches for the thin blanket draped over the side of the couch. he lays it over your body, tucking it just enough to keep you warm.

mystery leans back, magazine forgotten, letting you rest. peace and quiet, just the two of you. honestly, it’s kind of perfect.

“sleep well, (name)-ssi…”

THE TIKTOK INCIDENT messing around after hours in the practice room with the camera propped on a chair, shirt falling off your shoulder, no makeup, and doing the soda pop choreo like some broke university student who’s had 3 hours of sleep and 5 iced coffees. you weren't even trying to look good for the video, just wanted to test the lighting and have fun like a normal human being. it was meant to stay in your drafts.

except, someone got a hold of your phone because you accidentally left it unlocked.

you should’ve known something was up when baby was too quiet for too long and then started giggling in the corner like a gremlin. you didn’t think much of it until a few hours later when your phone blew up with notifications, mentions, edits, even fanpages. and a trending hashtag.

#SodaPop_Challenge

#SajaPrincess_Challenge

“you did what?” “oops~” “baby i'm going to—” “love and spoil me? I know.”

the video went viral with people starting to learn your version of the choreo. performing it with the boys on live stages as not part of the plans on your schedule. fans said you danced better than half the idols debuting this year.

but the maknae didn’t stop there. no, no. he dug deeper and went through all your drafts.

and there it was, one video that caught his eye. you in a fitted dress, heels, makeup, hair done. looking drop-dead stunning, like a princess.

he blinked, stared, panicked. who was this goddess and what did she do with his manager?

so naturally, he did what he does best: tell lies.

“jinu said you need to dress formally for an event tomorrow.” “why didn’t jinu tell me himself?” “he's busy. something about…non-functional soda pop from the vending machine” “okay…”

so imagine the chaos when you walk into the practice room in heels and a short dress, looking like you’re about to attend the met gala red carpet.

saja boys turned into frozen boys.

romance drops his water bottle, abby walks into a wall, jinu nearly chokes, mystery mutters under his breath, and baby is smug. mission accomplished.

“wait… why aren’t you dressed up?” “dress up for what?”

the anger you had inside you when you looked at baby and he immediately hid behind abby. he was very lucky that he was cute.

taglist: @seneon @y2kuromi @maruflix @napbatata

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bunbun007 · 23 days ago

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One Hell Of a Trip - Saja Boys x Reader

Wanings: Demon pacts I suppose? Not explicitly explained. Word Count: 1.3k Pairings: Saga Boys x Reader

Master List | Next Chapter ->

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You should’ve never made a pact with a demon. Multiple demons, apparently.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, you knew that personally contacting the reins of Hell was a stupid, crazy idea. But then again, you were only human.

And humans needed to eat.

Didn’t they?

“I'll die if I don't do this,” you murmured, voice ever so soft, echoing in the dimly lit room. “Or maybe I will if I do. Heavens, this is so stupid… Lady, are you sure this will work?”

★

It had all started on a quiet street. You’d been walking with no real purpose, when you encountered an old lady — a beggar, by the looks of it.

You’d offered her kindness.

It was the only thing you could offer, realistically. You had nothing on you. Nothing at home, either. In fact, in a few days, you might not even have a home.

The lady seemed enamored by your sweetness and handed you a little flyer.

“The man who gave me this was very sure of its usefulness,” she said. “Maybe it'll help you. You seem like you need it.”

Ouch.

Even if she meant well. Ouch.

Still, desperate, you unfolded the flyer and read it. It was a crumpled old piece of paper — photoshopped and funny-looking, like it was made by middle schoolers promoting their DnD club.

Not judging, tho.

You held it in your hand and almost laughed at the absurdity. What if?

Realistically, what could go wrong?

It’s not like demons actually existed.

And if they did… maybe they’d pity you. In your sleepless, starved state, this seemed like a genuinely great idea.

Which is what brought you to this very moment —Sitting on the floor of your tiny apartment, placing candles in a circle like some cursed Pinterest board. “First time summoning a demon… hope you don’t mind the mess, Hell Lord,” you giggled to yourself at the pitiful joke and sat in the middle of the room.

What should you even say?

“Oh… hear ye, hear ye, demons,” you tried awkwardly. “Help me progress in my job… um, I really need it to live. I’ll return the favor if you let me live a decent life. "You looked around. “I’ll be bound to you…?”

Right.

What were you even expecting?

Candles bursting into flames?

A thunderclap?

The Hell Lord himself popping in through the wall?

“Well, would you look at that.”

A voice. Low and raspy, but with a slight youthful ring to it.

“Our plan keeps getting easier, doesn’t it, boys?” A series of soft laughs filled the room.

Your entire body tensed — and froze.

“Now, little one. We appreciate your help. We’ll gladly take you as ours.”Your neck almost snapped from how fast you turned toward the voice. You saw a tall figure — and before you could think, you grabbed the closest candle and threw it at them.

“THE HELL?!”

You kept throwing the lit candles like your life depended on it. And well… it kind of did. The entrance was blocked by figures.

Shadowed, unmoving.

“Who are you?! All of you?! I swear, I’ll break your necks if you come any closer!” You grabbed a nearby pillow and held it up with both arms.Your gaze flicked from figure to figure. They were tilting their heads forward… until they all slowly raised their chins.

They were men.

Attractive. Scary-looking. Men.

Still men, tho.

“Who are you?! How did you break in?!”

The man in the center took a step forward, flashing a smirk in your direction. His skin shimmered in a purple hue, tattoos spiraling across his collarbones. “Hello, human. We are your saviors—”

He flinched. “HEY! Did you just smack me with a pillow?!”

“Stay away!”

“Stop, human. I’m warning you. Quiet.”

Suddenly, your voice was gone. You tried to speak — to scream — to whisper, even. But nothing came out. It was as if your own body betrayed you, forced to obey this man’s words. And the men began to walk forward.

Each one was different in height and build — but all of them shared that same violet skin.

“We are the demons you contacted. Your saviors. Your new responsibility.”

The shortest of them — one with blue hair and an irritatingly smug face — held the crumpled flyer right up to your nose. “The owners of your soul…” They stood in front of you, forming a perfect line. And all you could do was stare.

“We are the Saja Boys."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course. Demons apparently existed. And you were now bound to five of them. They had you at their mercy. ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘You work as a manager, don’t you?’ 'Yes…’ ‘Then make us famous.’ ‘Unforgettable.’ ‘Desired.’ ‘Envied.’ The man in the center smirked. “Make us be loved by everyone."

Did I stay until 12 am stressing over the format and this little fix? Yes, yes I did. I've never posted but seeing how this movie has gained popularity and how loved the boys are, I wanted to write for them.

We barely see anything from them in the movie, so I'll probably take creative liberty to write their personalities. This might work as the starter for individual series (for each member) but it all depends if you guys actually like the idea or not Jajaja.

Which reminds me!

The original prompt belong to @soldmygenderforglitter and I took some liberty to develop it! I hope you like it!!

Ppl who also liked the idea: @arieslucy @lylian333 @silverklaus

#k pop demon hunters #kpdh #jinu kpdh #Kpdh #saja boys #x reader #saja boys x reader #jinu x reader #kpdh x reader #boy bands #baby x reader #netflix movie #netflix kpop demon hunters #im sleep deprived #i need coffee #This looks like I write smut but I don't??#tried my best at gender neutral #gender neutral reader

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devswritingcornerorsmth · 25 days ago

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Dorian Relationship Headcanons

binge playing tf outta this game and found out some stuff bout our favorite door. as someone who also dated a manipulator no wonder our poor boy is hesitant to love until you find every door and show him you'll always be there

also havent finished the game fully BUT i love my boy too much and now very much hate keith. yes i saw the content warning but forgot about it which is how they get you wwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

these are just my personal headcanons, if you don't like them or agree, make your own :D

spoilers! and door puns

= Dorian was very hesitant to let someone into his heart after what happened in his last relationship. He's smart, but sadly, someone will always be smarter. He keeps his more affectionate emotions closed off, hidden deep within him, while putting on his professional front. Despite this, you still flirt, pursue, and visit him when you can. Dorian ends conversations quickly, only giving a quick 'hi' or 'hello' before leaving, even if it does hurt when he sees the upset expression on your face.

= He's surprised when you keep coming back. Dorian already told you who was in the bathroom, bedroom, office, etc. You even found his horizontal form after a few days of searching. You had a genuine smile on your face when greeting his many forms, asking him how he was, or just saying hi when in a hurry. It was a completely different feeling when he was with Keith.

= You didn't force him to open up, respected his boundaries, and surprisingly didn't get mad when he didn't let you into the attic. You also didn't tell everyone about Trap Dorian, which he greatly appreciated. (under the rug in the boiler room btw).

= Dorian became a little hesitant when you brought Keith to open him up, but figured the key had changed and no longer lied or used their past relationship to get him to open up about things or do things he was uncomfortable with. He knew that was a lie as soon as he saw Keith manipulating you, lying to your face with such confidence, and even trying to get you to earn SPECS points to Realize him first.

= You looked so happy when you found the last Dorian, running to your favorite one the next day (we all picked trap dorian when we fell in love let's be honest babes) and proclaiming you had found all of him. He was... happy. Genuinely. You had taken the time out of your days just to look for him, to spend time with him. After all of that, Dorian was finally ready to open up.

+ It was slow at first, little hugs here and there, warm smiles, and greetings. Dorian gave you a little peek inside his life, about his drawbridge days, how he learned nine languages, and his tattoos. Opening up slowly but surely.

+ He was now a little more playful, opening up with the word 'squeak' to make you smile and giggle. 'Cheeky,' he says while opening the bathroom door as you go to take a shower or use the restroom.

+ 'Sweet dreams,' Dorian murmurs when you enter your bedroom to sleep for the night. He wishes he could join you, cuddle up next to you, and hold you in his arms to protect you from the outside world... but Skylar could only do so much. And he didn't even want to think about what Betty would try.

+ Dorian doesn't get jealous, trusting you entirely not to date another human. He doesn't mind you dating the objects. But, he is very protective, looking at people who come to your door, up and down, judging them heavily. Both Bedroom Dorian's lock up when you fall asleep, along with Front and Back Dorian, knowing that the only way to you was through them now.

+ If you try to make him jealous, he gets upset more than anything. Dorian will ask you not to do that again, knowing exactly what you're trying to do. Apologizing and avoiding trying to make Dorian jealous is the best thing to do. If you do try again, he'll be done with you. He had boundaries for a reason.

+ Dorian knows he's handsome, and so do most of the objects in the house. He assures you that he only has eyes for you, rejecting everyone if they try anything. Reggie teases Dorian about it from time to time.

+ He doesn't like cars and gets nervous when you leave in yours or someone picks you up. Dorian knows the damage they can cause, cringing at the feelings his car door selves might have gone through.

+ He doesn't really like music either, finding it to be distracting and annoying when he's trying to work. Bathroom Dorian does not complain when he hears you singing in the shower though.

+ Dorian has been through a lot due to being a door, but that also means he's very smart. Listening and learning throughout the ages have only gotten easier for the door. He helps you when he can or if you just wanna learn something.

+ He will give you the most bombastic side eye if you make fun of his accent or the fact that he's British. Will give you a whole history lesson about how the British people did something. It's honestly fun watching Stefan and Tiny Dorian bicker about food while both know damn well most British food is terrible.

+ Will listen to you talk for hours about your favorite subject or hyperfixation at the moment. He may not understand a lot of things from it, but keeps them in mind. He'll ask Mar or Lyric to look up the subjects when he doesn't understand fully. Dorian would also ask Mac and Phoenicia to keep an eye on your socials and DM's just in case. He needs to protect you everywhere he can.

+ (quick note! at the time of writing, i have not realized dorian yet so apologies if this is incorrect and i will fix anything when i do realize him). Dorian is ecstatic when you Realize him, finally being able to properly hug and kiss you without those glasses. He doesn't leave like the others, staying with you until you're ready to Realize Skylar or everyone else. No, he's staying with you until the end, just like you did with him.

----

once again, these are my personal headcanons and if you don't like them, make your own :)

apologies for any mistakes or errors the time I'm publishing this is 6am and I'm running on boba and a chicken sandwich.

i will most likely make a part two cuz i have so many thoughts and ideas on our boy

#devv's writings #date everything #date everything game #dorian date everything #date everything dorian #date everything x reader #date everything dorian x reader #dorian x reader #dorian date everything x reader

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himasgod · 28 days ago

Note

PLEASE DO MORE OF MALLEUS JUDGING OUR TASTE IN MENNN

This time people he'd approve?

(or lilia muhuhaahh)

Malleus and Reader

Where he complains about the boys you like

APPROVED ONES EDITION!

FIRST PART HERE

SECOND PART HERE

How would Malleus complain when you told him about the boy you like?

With Deuce, Jack, Epel, Trey, Silver and Sebek.

“I think Deuce is actually really sweet. Kind of… boyfriend material, y’know?”

“Hmmm.”

Pause. A full ten seconds of silence. He’s not judging you. He’s assessing Deuce.

“Spade. The one who brought you tea when you were ill and then spilled it on himself, the floor, and Grim?”

“It’s the effort that counts!”

“...Indeed.”

He folds his arms behind his back and paces in a slow half-circle around you, thinking.

“He’s earnest. Loyal. Respects you. Fixed Lilia's tamagotchi's....”

“Exactly! And he’s really trying to improve himself, you know? He’s got this whole reformed-delinquent-turned-good-boy arc and—”

“He once punched a student because he ate his sandwich.”

“But he did eat it! He stole his sandwich and ate it!”

“And then he apologized to the student and bought him another one.”

Malleus’s lips twitch. Is he amused? Approving??

“...He reminds me of a young Silver. Clumsy. Noble. Likely to trip while confessing his feelings.”

He gives a nod.

“Very well. If you were to give your heart to Spade I would only ask one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Please do not allow him to name your future children. I overheard him once say he’d name a son ‘Axel Deuce Jr.’ That… must not happen.”

Malleus Draconia approves!

“Honestly, I think Jack is kind of perfect. Strong, loyal, responsible—”

“Ah. Now that… is a name I respect.”

You blink. Malleus actually smiles.

“He has a strong will. He is not easily swayed by others. And he has never once insulted you even in jest. A rare trait in this school.”

“Yeah! He’s so grounded. And respectful. He doesn’t even flirt, he just—exists, and I’m like: yes.”

Malleus nods gravely.

“He reminds me of the wolves in the Briar Valley highlands. Stoic. Proud. Dedicated to their pack.”

He pauses, expression sobering.

“If he were to court you, he would do so with his whole soul. No games. No manipulation. Just earnest intent.”

“So… you’d be cool with that?”

“I would bless the union with thunder.”

“Wait—what?”

“He would take care of you. If he hurt you, I would end him. In the spirit of diplomacy, of course.”

“...Uh-huh.”

Malleus closes his eyes in approval.

“Jack Howl. Acceptable.”

Malleus Draconia approves!

“I think Epel’s actually kinda hot. He’s cute, but he’s also got that whole secret rage thing going on.”

Malleus, staring at you like you just said you’re into carnivorous pixies:

“...Felmier”

“Yeah! He’s, like, fierce but still shy! Rough edges! Anger issues! Country boy charm!”

“You’re describing a feral cat. You’re in love with a barn cat in a human body.”

“He’s just passionate! Like, he doesn’t want to be seen as soft—he wants to be strong!”

“And so he tried to punch a pumpkin in Halloween. He sprained his wrist. That is not strength. That is unprocessed rage and calcium deficiency.”

“He’s fighting for his identity!”

“He fought Hunt for the last piece of steak. With a butter knife.”

“Listen. He’s got spirit.”

Malleus leans back, his arms crossed, exhaling.

“He would love you fiercely. Violently, perhaps. But fiercely.”

“So you approve?”

“I fear for your furniture. And your safety. But I also acknowledge… he's a good boy, more or less.”

He squints at the horizon, as if seeing your future already.

“Just… don’t let him carve your initials into a tree with a switchblade. I suspect he’d try.”

Malleus Draconia approves...! more or less...

“What about Trey? I think he's charming”“…The one with the glasses.”

“He’s sweet! Responsible. The mom friend. Cooks really well. Totally husband material, right?”

“Ah yes. The one who made a pie so suspicious that even the ghosts refused to eat it.”

“That was one time! He apologized!”

“He smiled while doing it. The way humans smile before adding mysterious ingredients to tea.”

“He’s just composed! You’re overthinking it.”

“What is he hiding?… secrets...?”

“Malleus. He made me homemade matcha roll cake for my birthday.”

“And yet you fell asleep immediately after eating it.”

“It was a nap!!”

“He once said ‘I only bake with love’ and then threatened Trappola with a rolling pin for touching his flour stash. Is that love… or culinary tyranny?”

Malleus closes his eyes, hands folded.

“He would be a devoted partner. Warm. Reliable. But if he ever turns on you… no one would suspect it until it was too late.”

“You would disappear and your name would be carved into the crust of a farewell tart.”

“MALLEUS.”

“I did not say he was unworthy. I said he was concerningly efficient.”

Malleus Draconia approves...! ermh...

“So… I might have a thing for Silver.” Malleus: goes completely still

“Silver. My Silver.”

"Okay that phrasing was weird but—yeah.”

“The quiet, sleepy, sword-wielding child..?”

“Exactly! He’s calm, thoughtful, protects others, makes me feel safe—”

“He falls asleep in hallways.”

“Yeah, but cute!”

“He falls asleep mid-conversation.”

“He’s a knight, Malleus, let him nap.”

“He would never hurt you.”

“So you approve?”

“I also once watched him sleep through an earthquake. You must understand the risk you're accepting.”

“He's endearing!”

“You would have to carry him. Often.”

“That’s fine!”

“You would be dating a man who forgets to blink.”

“Again. Fine.”

“...He would cherish you deeply. But if you perish in battle because he took a nap at the wrong moment, do not haunt me.”

Malleus Draconia approves!

“Also… don’t be mad but I think Sebek is kind of—y’know.”

“No. You don’t mean that.”

“He’s passionate! Devoted! Loyal to a fault—”

"Sebek... my pure-hearted Sebek. He yells when the tea is too hot"

“Because he wants you to have the perfect temperature for you!”

“He corrects your posture. While smirking about the honor of my name.”

“He’s intense!”

“He once screamed for twenty straight minutes because Silver was three minutes late to sparring.”

“He’s just emotional!”

“He called a squirrel a ‘treacherous beast’ for stealing one of your snacks.”

“And?? I was gonna eat that snack!”

“He attempted to knight himself in my name with a broomstick.”

“...kind of hot.”

Malleus just stares at you.

“You truly find him attractive...”

“He’s strong! Passionate! And deep down, I think he’d be really soft in a relationship.”

Malleus folds his arms, lips pressed thin on a little smile.

“He would shout his love for you across a battlefield.”

“Romantic.”

“He would duel someone over your honor if they merely sneezed too close to you.”

“Chivalrous!”

“He would scream your name into the abyss every night until the abyss screamed back.”

“…We all want someone like that deep down.”

“If you truly believe your ears can endure such a bond, then… I give my blessing. But I refuse to attend your wedding unless earplugs are provided.”

Malleus Draconia approves!

LITTLE BONUS

THANKS TO @lulu--lala19 FOR THIS IMAGE CUZ SHE MADE IT HERSLEF

THIS SO COOOL

1K notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 2 months ago

Text

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

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

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

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

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

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

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

You blink. He grins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

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

You stare.

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

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

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

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

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

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

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

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

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

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

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

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

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

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

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

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

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

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

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

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

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

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

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

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

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

You snort. “Are you high?”

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

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

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

“I do both with style.”

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

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

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

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

***

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

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

You argue over playlists constantly.

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

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

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

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

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

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

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

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

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

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

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

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

“That’s not productive.”

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

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

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

“I'm just better.”

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

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

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

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

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

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” You ask.

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

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

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

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

He looks over.

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

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

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

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

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

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

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

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

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

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

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

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you serious?” You call.

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

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

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

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

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

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

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

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

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

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

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

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

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

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

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

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

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

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

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

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

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

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

“That part is tempting.”

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

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

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

“You wouldn’t.”

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

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

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

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

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

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

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

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

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

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

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

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

“You okay?” He asks.

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

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

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

“Is it laminated?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

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

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

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

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

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

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

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

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

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

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

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

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

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

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

You wince. “You okay?”

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

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

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

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

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

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

“What?”

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

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

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

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

You freeze.

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

“Lando-”

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

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

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

He looks crushed.

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

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

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

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

You’re already it.

***

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

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

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

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

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

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

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

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

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

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

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

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

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

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

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

You nod.

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

***

The villa shifts.

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

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

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

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

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

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

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

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

“You?”

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

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

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

***

The party is terrible.

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

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

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

Nothing.

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

That’s where he finds you.

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

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

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

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

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

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

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

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

You bury your face in your hands.

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

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

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

You cry harder.

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

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

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

He’s quiet for a long time.

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

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

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

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

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

You don’t.

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

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

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

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

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

You sip your coffee.

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

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

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

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

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

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

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

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

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

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

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

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

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

“This is my girlfriend.”

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

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

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

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

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

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

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

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

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

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

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

You did.

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

***

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

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

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

You kick him.

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

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

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

Lando chokes on his milk.

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

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

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

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

“What did you do?”

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

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

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

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

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

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

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

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

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

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

He grins. “Can do.”

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

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

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

***

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

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

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

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

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

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

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

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

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

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

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

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

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

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

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

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

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

Or so he thinks.

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

***

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

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

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

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

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

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

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

Carlos glares.

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

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

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

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

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

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

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

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

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

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

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

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

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

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

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

***

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

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

2K notes · View notes

lowrisemiller · 10 days ago

Text

ʜɪꜱ ᴛʏᴘᴇ, ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏɴᴛ

harry castillo x book editor!fem!reader

imagining fem!reader in her thirties & harry is 45-50 but you can make up whatever you’d like :)

giving harry the rom com romance he deserves

masterlist | 9.4k words | i listened to this playlist while writing 📖 MINOR Materialists spoilers | the pics don’t depict what reader looks like | reader has hair long enough for a bun | I gave reader a last name & y/n is NOT used | used this "—" in a human way not an ai way | harry in a henley (yes that’s a real warning), multiple rounds of sex, oral (both receiving), aftercare:)

You came to Iceland alone, not because you were running from anything, but because you finally could.

The freelance contracts were stable. The email backlog was manageable. Your rent was paid through next month. It had been a year since you last went looking for someone who wasn’t looking for you. A nice milestone if you will.

So you booked a flight. Reykjavík, Iceland. Last-minute, no itinerary and no agenda. Just a carry-on, a reading list, and the jacket you’d meant to return twice.

The first few days were all adjustments. The light of day that never really left, the water tasted like minerals, and the quiet that slowly creeps in and rests inside you. No sirens and no upstairs neighbor dropping weights at 2am. Just you, your doc martens, your thermos, and enough space in your brain to hear yourself think again.

You hiked trails with names you couldn’t pronounce, you bathed in sulfuric water that stung your skin in the best way, you had lamb stew in a restaurant carved into the side of a hill, and when the server brought you a second slice of rye bread with butter so soft it melted before it hit your tongue, you almost cried. You didn’t. But you almost did.

You reread Giovanni’s Room in a crater. Hunger Games on a black sand beach. And Persuasion in the lobby of your hotel, sipping coffee that tastes like smoke and people watching like you’re being paid to do so.

You didn’t speak to anyone really. You wanted that.

You missed New York in the way a body misses caffeine, shaky and fond but knowing you’re better off without it, at least for a little while.

And now, it’s your last morning.

You get to the airport early. Not for the reasons most people do. You weren’t stressed at all. You just enjoy the stillness that happens between gate calls, when everyone’s pretending they’re not judging and one-upping each other. You like airport coffee, even when it’s terrible. Especially when it’s terrible.

You find a café with wide windows and a view of the grey sky swallowing the tarmac. There’s a table near the corner. Two seats. You take one and drop your bag in the other, claiming space you don’t need but don’t feel guilty about.

You order a black coffee and pull out a paperback from your coat pocket, something used and marked up, with a name that isn’t yours on the inside cover.

You’re half a page in when a man asks,

“You think this book is any good?”

You don’t look up right away. You clock the voice first: American and crisp. Manhattan maybe, old money, maybe, or the kind of boarding school vowels that only break when they’re drunk or heartbroken.

Then you glance over.

He’s tall, dark-haired and looks like he shaved two days ago but hasn’t cared since. There’s a jacket slung over one arm and a bruise-like tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him ugly. It just makes him real.

You nod toward his hands before you speak.

“Depends. Are you reading it or just holding it like an accessory?”

He blinks. A pause. Then the ghost of a smirk.

“Reading it.”

You glance down at the cover he’s holding, you recognize it immediately.

“Funny. I edited that one.”

His eyes lift, sharp with interest now. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You sip your coffee. “Didn’t expect to see it outside Park Slope or a first date.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Which one do you think this is?”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t answer yet.

You let the silence hang, sip your coffee, and let him look at you.

Not stare exactly. More like observing, as if he’s trying to pin you down and failing, and finding that a little thrilling.

“So you’re from New York?” he asks.

You glance at him over your cup. “What gave it away?”

“I can hear a little accent,” he says, smiling. “And you mentioned Park Slope. Not just anyone knows that.”

You chuckle under your breath. “True. Most tourists don’t go there.”

You pause just long enough to make him wonder if you’ll return the question. Then:

“What part are you from?”

He shifts, leans forward slightly like he’s letting you in on something personal but not too precious.

“Tribeca.”

Your eyes widen, just barely. A flicker. Most people wouldn’t notice. He does.

You school your expression, take another sip of coffee, and say,

“Hm. Then I’ll have to keep you extra close.”

He smirks. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m okay with you being really close.”

You tilt your head at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “Is that okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You look down at your book, the one he interrupted. Your thumb slides against the pages. You pretend to read a line, but your eyes aren’t moving. Then you close it.

“Sure,” you say. “It’s okay.”

You both settle back into your seats like you’ve earned something. Not exactly comfort. But permission.

He lifts the book he was reading again and says,

“So, you do this full-time?”

“Yeah. I used to work in-house. Left a while ago. Too many men in Patagonia vests who think they’re publishing gods.” You shrug. “Now I freelance.”

“Sounds like the right move.”

You nod once. “You?”

He hesitates. You can see him weighing what to say, how to say it. There’s something performative about rich men when they don’t want to seem like rich men.

“Private equity.”

You let out a dry breath. “Ah. So you’re the one who keeps buying up independent bookstores and turning them into juice bars.”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Guilty by association, maybe.”

“What kind of stuff?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Used to be startups. Tech, mostly. Now it’s... portfolios, scaling, strategy. The kind of things people pretend to care about on LinkedIn.”

You smile. “Sexy.”

“It’s not. But I’m good at it.”

There’s no brag in his tone. Just a quiet resignation. A man who knows his lane but isn’t in love with it.

“So,” you ask, folding your hands around the cup, “what brought you here? Iceland, I mean.”

He exhales, eyes tracking the window for a second.

“I was supposed to come here with someone. Lucy. We broke up about a week before the flight.”

You nod slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. She booked everything. I figured, might as well go. I already paid for the room.”

You hum in understanding. “Did you stay in it alone?”

“Yeah. Her perfume lingered on some of my clothes for the first couple nights.”

That hits something in your chest soft, familiar. You don’t ask more.

He shifts again. “What about you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I wasn’t dumped, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean—what brought you out here?”

You lean back in your chair, watching steam curl off what’s left of your coffee.

“I promised myself I’d take one solo trip a year. This was the first time I actually followed through with it. No laptop, no phone calls, just me and a stack of books I’ve read already.”

He smiles.

“And no heartbreaks?”

You smirk faintly. “I mean… not recent. Nothing fresh. But yeah. There was someone. Awhile back. He never really showed up for me. Not in the ways that matter.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “I learned a lot about myself.”

“Like what?”

You look at him then, hold his gaze just a second longer than you should.

“I’m not giving my time to guys who only want me when it’s convenient.”

That knocks the smirk right off his face. But not in a bad way. More like he’s been seen. It hits him somewhere behind the chest, in that place where the echo of Lucy still lives.

“Noted,” he says quietly.

The conversation drifts.

Not in that small-talk, filler way but back and forth. You both tread water comfortably.

You talk about how Reykjavík air tastes like snow and metal. He tells you he ordered something called fermented shark at a bar near the harbor and immediately regretted it.

You talk about the subway and the best place in Queens to get a late-night pastry.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, eyes flicking up as if he could see the city from here.

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I don’t want to miss it all the time. I wanted to miss myself first.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“That’s a good answer.”

You glance at the clock. The boarding call is coming. You can feel it. The shift in the café’s atmosphere. People are rising and putting jackets on. The brief return of gravity.

You both stand.

“Flying coach?” he asks, not in a judgmental way. Just… cataloging.

“Always,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not that classy yet.”

“I am,” he says, smirking. “First class.”

You grin. “Figures.”

At the gate, he hesitates before walking into the priority lane.

“I could have them upgrade you,” he offers. “There’s room.”

You shake your head, a little amused, a little flattered. “Nah. Coach builds character.”

He grins, but there's something underneath it, something quieter. “At least let me send a car. I’ve got one waiting at JFK. It’d be easy.”

You meet his eyes, soften your tone just a little.

“I appreciate it. But I like the way the city feels when I come back in a taxi. Grime on the window, everything ugly and alive again. I like that moment.”

He watches you for a long breath. He doesn’t press.

Instead, you pull a card from your wallet, just a simple one. Name. Email. Phone number. A line that says freelance editor in cursive and nothing else. You hand it to him like it’s a folded note in school. Casually.

“In case you want a better book next time,” you say.

He takes it, carefully. Like it might smudge if he touches it wrong.

“I’ll read in the margins,” he says. “Swear it.”

You nod once. “Safe flight, Harry.”

“You too,” he replies, and then tucks the card into the inside pocket of his blazer—pressed flat, precise, like he’s not letting it out of his sight.

You board a few minutes later. You're in a middle seat in the back half of the plane, next to someone who keeps snoring through takeoff. But it doesn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a long time, you’re not dreading what’s waiting for you back home.

A Week Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The sun is already dipping behind the skyline by the time you close your laptop. It’s been a long day. Quiet, manageable edits for a debut memoir that won’t get half the press it deserves. You liked the voice, though. Witty. Tired in the way only New Yorkers romanticize about the rot and decay around them.

You stretch your arms above your head, spine popping as you glance out of your apartment window. A kid is biking the wrong way down the block and someone is burning incense out on their fire escape again. It smells like patchouli and sage.

You finish your tea, let your eyes drift to your phone.

Three texts from a client, one from your cousin, and a missed call from an unknown number.

Weird.

You barely finish blinking before it rings again. It's the same number.

You hesitate, thumb hovering, then swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then a voice you absolutely recognize says:

“Hi. I- It’s Harry. Castillo. From uh well Iceland. The airport café.”

You don’t answer right away. Just smile into the silence like he can see it.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. You don’t seem like the kind of guy people forget.”

He laughs, and it sounds a little boyish.

“I’ve been meaning to call. The whole week’s been insane. I flew straight into a mess at work, deals falling through, someone quitting without notice, my inbox looks like an emergency room. But I’ve been thinking about you. I swear I have.”

You lean back in your chair, let the words settle in.

“I figured you were busy,” you say, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “You’re important. Tribeca-important.”

He groans. “God. Please don’t say that.”

You laugh. “Fine. I won’t.”

“But seriously,” he says, “I’ve been… wanting to talk to you again. In, like, a non-airport setting.”

You raise an eyebrow, voice teasing. “Are you asking me out, Harry Castillo?”

He hesitates, and you can almost hear the way he runs his hand through his hair. You picture him in a glass-walled office, tie undone, coat slung over a chair, pacing.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I mean. If that’s okay. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve security lines or boarding passes.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm.

Then

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He sounds almost surprised.

“Yeah. Just don’t try to send a car for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab it to Queens.”

“Damn right you will.”

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The night air is warm and heavy with city sounds, muffled music from an open window, someone dragging a trash can across concrete, a group of friends laughing on the sidewalk with half-finished drinks in hand.

You’re early, but just barely. The restaurant you picked is familiar. You've come here with friends, exes, and even alone with a book. It has no Instagram presence and still uses paper menus. That’s the charm. It’s a test.

You're in a soft black slip dress that falls just below your knees, layered with a light denim jacket and scuffed up white sneakers. The kind of outfit that says, I'm effortless, even though you tried on three different jackets before settling. Hair down, your favorite small silver hoops, a touch of mascara and lip tint. You didn’t overthink it. Not really. Just enough.

He rounds the corner like he’s been here a hundred times before, though you know he hasn’t. There’s that same easy walk, confident but never cocky, and he spots you before you see him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “Right on time.”

He’s dressed in dark denim jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that fits just right. No watch tonight. No flash. Just a quiet show of expense. A beige coat is folded over one arm. His hair’s a little neater than it was in Iceland, but not too neat. He looks rested and sharp. But you still remember the version of him leaning back in that plastic airport chair, talking like the world had finally gone quiet for once.

“This place is great,” he says, glancing up at the worn awning and exposed brick. “Very you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me.”

He smirks. “No. But I’m trying.”

You’re seated at a table near the front window, the kind of table made for long talks and longer looks. There’s no tablecloth, just a flickering plastic candle in a chipped glass holder.

The server brought you wine, he asked what you liked, and when you said white but not too sweet, he remembered.

“So,” he says after the first sip, leaning forward, “how many manuscripts have you torn to shreds since we spoke?”

You grin. “Two. But gently. I only tear with care.”

“That sounds like it should be on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll make merch.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “God, I missed this.”

You look at him. “You say that like we’ve known each other longer than the airport and a phone call.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t take long to know when someone’s different.”

You feel the words settle under your ribs. Warm. Unrushed. He doesn’t follow it with a compliment. Doesn’t pivot to flirting right away. He just lets it sit there, honest, unornamented.

Later, between bites of pasta and bread dipped in olive oil, you ask him what his week was really like. He tells you about a last-minute investor call that nearly tanked a merger, and you try not to fall asleep. He teases you about zoning out, and you tease him right back for trying to impress you with balance sheets.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you say with a smirk.

“Oh?” he leans back, hand cradling his wine glass. “You think I’m hot?”

You deadpan. “I think you’re decent looking. In dim lighting.”

He grins, eyes twinkling. “I’ll take it.”

By the time you leave, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The walk back to your apartment is short, only a few blocks, and he doesn’t ask to come up. You don’t offer. Not this time.

But when you stop outside your building, he lingers.

“This was…” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “God, this was exactly what I needed.”

You smile softly. “Me too.”

He hesitates, then, “can I see you again?”

You reach for the door. “Sure,” you say over your shoulder. “I’ll pick a place with better chairs.”

He grins. “Deal.”

Before you step inside, you turn and add, “and I’m still not letting you send a car.”

“Even if I ask really nicely?”

You arch a brow. “Especially if you ask nicely.”

He watches you go like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. And that’s what makes it better.

You step out of the café where you just finished catching up with one of your longtime authors, a smart, sweet nonfiction guy who’s somehow always three years late with a manuscript. It’s warm out, not hot, and you’ve decided to walk the long way back just for the hell of it. Phone in hand, sunglasses on. You’re halfway through typing a text when your phone starts ringing.

Unknown Number.

Except you know who it is by now. You really need to put his name in your phone.

You answer with a smirk already in your voice. “You again.”

“Guilty,” Harry says. His voice is all low charm, like a secret he’s letting you in on. “I’m on lunch. Want to join me?”

You snort. “I’m a little far from Tribeca, and I walked, so—”

“Where are you?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

You tell him. There's a pause on the other end.

“Okay… don’t get mad at me, but I sent a car.”

You stop walking.

“…You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You’re about to launch into a scolding monologue when a sleek black vehicle rolls to a stop in front of you. Windows tinted. Polished to perfection.

You press a hand to your face and burst out laughing. “You are insufferable.”

“Get in the car,” he says, grinning audibly. “You can reprimand me over oysters.”

The place he’s picked is one of those restaurants. Small, tucked behind a street of gallery spaces, with a menu that changes every week and never bothers to explain itself. The table’s already set when you arrive. He stands to greet you, jacket off, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a watch that probably costs more than your rent.

“You look very summery,” he says, holding your chair out.

You sit. “You look like you paid someone to make you look like you’re not a billionaire..”

He grins. “I did. Her name is my assistant.”

The restaurant is cool and quiet inside, with sunlight spilling across the marble bar. The server brings you fresh bread, olive oil with shaved fennel, and menus printed on textured paper.

You let Harry order, he insists, so you end up sharing:

Burrata with charred peaches, basil oil, and crushed pistachios Hand-cut pasta in a lemony brown butter sauce with crispy sage A chilled rosé that tastes like it was bottled by gods with good taste in music

You’re halfway through your second bite when he says:

“Okay. Important question. Childhood crush.”

You blink. “That’s your big lunch question?”

“It reveals a lot about someone.”

You pause, then say, “Captain America.”

He stares. “The super hero?”

You nod. “When I was younger it was the crappy cartoon version. This new guy though, Chris Evans? I love his accent and the presence he gives as Captain America. It’s called taste.”

He laughs, nearly choking. “Okay. Wow. I was not prepared for that.”

You raise a brow. “Yours better be good.”

“Liv Tyler. Armageddon. I was convinced she was waiting for me, specifically.”

You tilt your head. “That’s very classy of you.”

“I was an emotionally repressed child with a lot of money and no real outlet.”

He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the faint weight under his voice.

You lean back in your chair, taking a sip of wine. “So what were your parents like?”

“Oh,” he says, “we’re going there.”

“Briefly,” you say, “and only because I told you about my super serum kink.”

He laughs again, a warm one, and then shrugs.

"My mom’s a powerhouse, super passionate about social issues, but always with reasons behind it. My dad was more business-minded. Tougher. We haven’t talked since my brother’s wedding. Things were complicated between us, but I think, in the end, we kind of understood each other."

You nod, letting the moment rest.

“What about you?” he asks.

“My parents are still in New York now in Long Island,” you say. “Still together. They always hoped I’d go corporate. Something stable. I said ‘no thanks’ and started making barely enough to live off books.”

“And now you make slightly more than barely enough?”

You smile. “Something like that.”

By the end of the meal, your plates are cleared, you’re still smiling, and Harry is sitting just a little closer than he was when you started. Not touching. Not pushing. Just near. Warm. Present.

“Thank you,” you say as you stand.

“For the car?”

“For lunch and the laughs..”

“Anytime,” he says, eyes not leaving yours. “But next time, I’m picking you up on foot. Like a man of the people.”

You’ve just turned off the lamp.

The apartment is quiet. You can hear someone’s music faintly through the wall, and a car alarm hiccuping somewhere blocks away before slowly stopping. You’re in bed, finally. Bare-faced, sleep shirt on, book half-open next to you. Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

You don’t expect it to ring.

But it does, just as you’re sliding deeper into sleep. A soft vibration, and a light across your cheek.

Harry Castillo.

You blink at the name; it's still strange to see it there, tucked between texts from spam and a random DoorDash update.

You hesitate, then answer.

“Hello?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket under your chin. “Not really. I was pretending to sleep but mostly just realizing how cold my feet are right now.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You can hear a drawer opening. Something soft shuffling.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm. Financial guilt?”

“God. That’s terrifyingly accurate.”

You smile into the dark. “So what happened?”

"Work went off the rails after lunch, endless calls, two people threatening to quit, and I somehow offended a potential partner by describing his margins as ‘borderline invisible.’”

You snort. “That does sound like you.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause while he moves again—maybe into another room. His voice shifts slightly as if he’s brushing his teeth or pulling off a shirt.

“I didn’t want to be alone in my head tonight. That okay?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

You hear the sound of a faucet. A clink of glass on marble.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly.

“Night routine. Trying to forget about my job. You?”

You glance around the room.

“Lying here. Wearing a shirt that says ‘I love books more than people.’ Left sock halfway off.”

“Hot.”

You grin. “I tried.”

“I wish I could see you.”

You freeze for half a second and recover quickly.

“I look like a raccoon that's reading Murakami.”

“I think that’s exactly my type.”

You talk.

Not about anything important, not really. Just… things.

Favorite words. “I like ‘luminous,’” you say. “I like ‘ruin,’” he replies. You talk about what you’d re-name each dog breed, about how weird it is to feel exhausted and overstimulated at the same time and about how sometimes the city feels like it’s chewing on you, but in a good way.

He tells you he’s in bed now. That he’s staring up at the ceiling. That there’s a crack in the plaster shaped like an ampersand (&).

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he says.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something to come or that I should become a book editor too.”

An hour passes.

Then another.

Your voice gets lower. You laugh less but not because he’s not funny. Just because you’re sinking into something heavier. Softer.

There’s a pause where neither of you speak. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then he murmurs,

“This feels intimate.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. Just… It’s been awhile.”

You exhale slowly. “Same.”

You roll onto your back, phone resting against your ear. Staring at your own ceiling. No cracks shaped like ampersands, just a water stain and the faint shadow of an old dream.

“Feels dangerously domestic,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “God forbid.”

“I mean, we’ve passed ‘what’s your favorite pasta shape.’”

“I’ll try not to get too earnest, then.”

“Too late.”

He’s quiet. Then, “you’re not hanging up, though.”

“Neither are you.”

Eventually, your voices start trailing off. He gets quieter. You feel the words before they form:

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Don’t forget me by morning.”

You don’t answer. Just smile into the dark and let the silence stretch between you like a thread that won’t break.

The late-night phone call is still swimming around in your head when you wake up.

You slept better than you expected, despite your brain playing his voice on repeat like a lullaby.

You have an interview this morning. One of your more polished authors. Midlist, legacy type. He wears cufflinks and uses the word “zeitgeist” unironically.

So, in a rare move, you reach for your version of a professional editor outfit, something you haven’t done in years.

Chestnut colored low-waisted trousers that fit like they were made for you. Crisp cream blouse, just slightly undone at the collar. A slim leather belt. A dark red lip that says I will criticize your work out loud, and you’ll enjoy it. Hair pinned back in a clean low bun, a few soft pieces left out. Kitten heels and your favorite silver hoops.

You look like the version of yourself that used to walk into publishing houses and command rooms full of men who thought they were smarter than you.

You haven’t worked in an office in years, but this version still lives somewhere in you. And today? She came to play.

As you’re passing through your building’s small, scuffed lobby, coffee in hand, tote bag over your shoulder. Then the building manager flags you down.

“Hey, uh… someone left this for you.”

He gestures to a sleek black envelope with your name printed in elegant script, leaning against a tall white box on the mail desk.

You frown, glancing at it. You’re not expecting anything. Not from a client. Not from anyone.

You open the box.

Inside: flowers.

But not just any flowers. Something rare. Something lush, strange, and stunning. Delicate cream and rust-colored juliet garden roses, pale orchids folded like paper secrets, and spidery accents of chocolate cosmos the kind that smell faintly like vanilla and firewood.

You blink.

You've never seen a bouquet like this.

Tucked between the stems is a small card, handwritten in blocky, careful print.

You reminded me of summer yesterday. So I thought I would bring summer to you. – H

You’re still staring when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Harry Castillo calling.

You answer. “Okay, you’re actually a menace.”

“So you got them.”

His voice is warm, smug, but just a little uncertain beneath it. Like he’s waiting to see if he went too far.

“You didn’t think they were too much?”

You glance back at the bouquet, still cradled in your arms.

“Harry, I didn’t even know flowers like this existed.”

“That’s why I picked them. They reminded me of you. Unusual, gorgeous and slightly intimidating in the best way.”

You snort, flustered and weirdly breathless. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s not the goal. I just… wanted you to know last night meant something.”

Your fingers tighten on the phone.

“Me too.”

You're halfway out the door again when you stop, pivot on your heel, and mutter, “Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Harry’s voice comes through your phone, still tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“The flowers,” you say, rushing back inside.

You head straight for the kitchen, set your bag down, and rummage through the cabinet above the fridge. Your “vase” selection consists of a chipped pitcher, a pasta jar, and something you once used to make sangria. You choose the pitcher, it’s wide enough, and besides, the cream glaze makes the florals pop.

You set the bouquet down gently on the island, like you’re afraid it’ll bruise.

“Are you arranging them?” he asks, his voice low and amused. You can picture him: still in bed, hair a little messy, coffee half-drunk on his nightstand.

“Of course I’m arranging them. These are insane. I should charge for admission.”

“Send me a picture.”

You pluck a dead leaf from a petal and sigh. “You really know how to mess with someone’s head, you know that?”

“Just yours. And only in the nicest way.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just bite your lip and step back, checking the vase’s angle from across the kitchen. It’s perfect. They’re perfect. It’s all too much, and yet… not enough.

“I have to go,” you say eventually. “Client time.”

“Kill it.”

“I always do.”

“I’ll call you later?”

You hesitate just a second before saying, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You hang up, grab your bag, and try not to look back at the flowers. You fail.

You're still somehow early.

Either your client is late, or you’ve inherited your father’s compulsive punctuality. You’re sitting in the second-floor lounge of a midtown publishing house, a place that smells like over-air-conditioned paper and expensive hand soap. A wall of glass gives you a view of the city. Cranes in the distance, clouds bruising the sky, and the taxis below like yellow fish in a steel aquarium.

You’ve got your phone out, pretending to scroll through notes.

But really?

You’re thinking about Harry.

You’re thinking about the sound of his voice last night, the slight rasp like he was stretched too thin but letting himself unravel just for you. You’re thinking about the way he said “they reminded me of you” and how you didn’t flinch at it, how you wanted to believe it.

“Ms. Elliot?”

You look up.

Your client is here. Finally.

The interview starts slow, he talks a lot. He’s proud of his book. You nod, you smile, you ask the right questions. You’re good at this. Still, some part of your brain keeps echoing Harry’s laugh, the flowers on your counter, the heat in your face when he said I wish I could see you.

But you redirect. You’re a pro.

You circle back to theme, structure, tone.

“Do you think your work is more political or personal?”

“Both,” the author says, “but I’d argue that good writing always is.”

That gets a real smile from you. The kind you’d usually savor.

But even now, even now, you wish you could tell Harry about that line. You wish he could see you in this moment, sharp and engaged and glowing with capability.

You finish the interview on schedule, exchange a handshake and a thank-you, and step out onto the street again, wind in your hair, sun hitting your skin like a reward.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry Castillo:

Tell me how it went. And tell me what you’re doing tonight.

You type back slowly, thumbs and cheeks suddenly warm.

You:

Went well. Crushed it. And tonight… why? Are you planning something?

Three dots. Then:

Harry Castillo:

Maybe. You ever had mediocre ramen on your rooftop?

Your heart kicks once.

And suddenly, the rest of your day has a direction.

You wait a beat before replying to Harry’s text.

You don’t want to look eager, even though you’ve already mentally rearranged your whole evening at the idea of him. You reread his message and smirk.

Then you type back:

You:

I’ve got ramen in the back of my pantry and a rooftop of my own. But I’m warning you, it’s Queens, not Kyoto.

He replies a minute later.

Harry Castillo:

I’ll risk it. What time?

You glance at the sun dragging its way toward the horizon.

you:

Seven. Bring your own chopsticks.

He shows up right on time.

Not that you were waiting at the window or anything.

You buzz him in and open your apartment door barefoot, your hair is still in a messy knot. The air smells like toasted sesame and garlic, and you cheated and added an egg along with a handful of scallions to the instant ramen to make it look slightly more presentable.

“Hey,” Harry says when you open the door. “Wow. You really went all out.”

He’s in loose black jeans and a slate-colored henley, sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t look like he works for Wall-Street tonight and more like the boy-next-door who happens to have a portfolio. His hair’s a little damp like he showered before coming over, and you hate that you notice. You really hate it.

You step aside, letting him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

He glances around your apartment, books stacked in messy piles, a print of a Matisse sketch by the record player, a candle that smells like amber, old paper and vanilla.

“Feels very you.” He lifts a brow. “It’s warm and a little intimidating.”

You grin. “Again, just like me.”

You move toward the kitchen to grab the bowls, one slightly chipped, one a gift from an ex fling you barely remember and gesture with your elbow.

“Rooftop’s this way. Don’t get lost.”

He follows without question. You lead him out your front door, up the narrow stairwell that always smells like warm brick and weed. You push open the old metal door with your elbow and your hip, and just like that, you’re above the city.

It’s not glamorous. The rooftop has a warped picnic table, a few plastic chairs stolen from someone’s backyard, and an ancient milk crate you use as a step stool when the neighbors don’t return theirs. But the view?

The view makes up for everything.

Queens spread wide below you, glittering and unpretentious. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline cuts sharp against the violet sky, scattered windows still glowing like someone left the light on just for you.

Harry exhales behind you.

“God. This is…” he trails off.

You set the bowls down on the blanket you laid out earlier and glance over your shoulder. “Still willing to risk it?”

“Absolutely.”

He sits beside you, knees bent, arms draped over them in a way that makes him look accidentally posed. You pass him a bowl, then settle cross-legged beside him, your foot barely brushing his.

You both eat for a few minutes in a comfortable quiet. It’s easy. It’s not nothing.

He slurps a noodle and winces. “Okay, that’s criminally good. What did you do?”

You shrug. “Doctoring ramen is a sacred art. I could teach you, but I’d have to ask for your soul.”

“Your soul already owns most of mine, so... What’s one more piece?”

You snort. “You’re really laying it on tonight.”

“Only ‘cause I mean it,” he says while shrugging.

You side-eye him, spoon pausing near your mouth. “You always seem to mean it. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

He grins, but doesn’t argue.

The wind picks up just a little, and you hug your knees for warmth. A second later, without comment, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.

You let it happen. Don’t say a word.

“So,” he says after a beat. “Still not a date?”

You smirk. “No.”

“Right. Got it.”

A pause.

“If it was, though, I’d be blowing it. I didn’t even bring wine.”

You lean back on your hands, glancing sideways. “You showed up, you’re eating my ramen, and you sent me flowers. That’s enough.”

“And you’re wearing my jacket.”

You look down at it like you just noticed.

“I guess I am.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just thick. Heavy with everything you’re not saying. Your arms brush. His knee shifts a little closer.

You clear your throat. “So. When’s your next big deal or billion-dollar merger or whatever?”

He chuckles. “I actually pushed everything back for the rest of the night. This is it.”

You blink. “This?”

“You.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You just sit there with the city stretched out around you, a bowl of ramen cooling in your lap, and Harry beside you, warm, still, and impossibly present.

You shift slightly, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air between you. The city noises below, the distant hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, fade into the background, like they belong to another world. Up here, it’s just the two of you.

You meet his eyes, searching for a sign. Instead, he offers a small, almost shy smile. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m trying, but I don’t want to rush this.

You fold your arms loosely around your knees, pretending to study the skyline but secretly memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his brown eyes catch the last light.

“You’re full of surprises, Harry Castillo,” you say, voice low.

He leans back on his hands, gaze drifting over the rooftops. “I could say the same about you.”

A comfortable silence stretches. Neither of you wants to break it, but neither wants to disappear either.

“I like this,” he finally says. “No pretenses. No pressure.”

You nod, your heart beating a little faster than it should. “Yeah. Me too.”

He glances at his watch. “I should probably get going soon. I have an early day tomorrow.”

You rise, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “Me too.”

He stands as well, hesitating for a moment as if weighing something unspoken.

“Can I walk you down?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. It feels like the right thing to do, even if you’re not sure why.

“Sure,” you say.

The metal stairs creak under your steps as you descend together, closer now than before. In the hallway, he stops just outside your door, fingers lightly touching the frame.

“Tonight was… nice,” he says, voice soft.

You smile, heart fluttering. “It really was.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then adds, “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He finally steps back, the distance between you settling like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Night, Harry.”

You close the door, leaning against it with a smile that lingers long after he’s gone.

You wake up slowly, blinking into the late morning light that slips past the curtains. There’s a moment, maybe two, where the dream still lingers.

It was him.

Of course it was.

Not a sexy dream, not exactly. Just one of those oddly tender ones. His hand brushing your lower back in a crowd. His laugh echoing in your apartment like it belonged there. You two reading in silence, feet tangled, breathing in sync. Comfortable. Easy.

You turn onto your side, eyes half-lidded, trying to hold onto it.

It’s been a long time since a man’s made it into your dreams without breaking something first.

Harry was dreaming too. Only he’s not really sleeping anymore, just lying still in bed, sheets tangled around his waist, laptop abandoned on the far corner. He’s staring at the ceiling and thinking about you.

Not the rooftop or the ramen, specifically, but the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t push or pull. Just let him be.

He’s thinking about how different that is from what he had with Lucy.

Lucy had been... fine. Beautiful. Sharp. But every conversation felt like a contract, every touch like a negotiation. He used to think that was normal.

But then there was you, barefoot, sarcastic, eating cheap noodles on a Queens rooftop, and suddenly, everything felt different.

He exhales hard, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Question.

Do you like beautiful old bookstores that smell like ink and with secrets?

You sit up, already grinning.

You:

I’m not a monster. Why?

Harry 💼:

Because there’s one in SoHo I used to walk past and think, “one day I’ll have a reason to go in there.”

And I think you might be my reason.

You stare at the message, heart thudding in your chest.

This man.

You type back:

You:

Okay. I’m intrigued. Time?

Harry 💼:

1 p.m. I’ll meet you there. Casual as hell, I promise.

The bookstore is tucked between two designer boutiques, a tall narrow building with sun-bleached windows and a brass bell that jingles when the door opens.

You get there early. Not on purpose, just… eager, despite yourself. You keep it casual, black t-shirt tucked into jeans, boots, your tote slung over your shoulder. You wander through the first floor while you wait. It smells like old paper, cedar, something faintly floral.

You’re halfway through flipping through a dog-eared collection of letters between two 20th-century poets when you hear the bell above the door.

You don’t even need to turn.

“I was hoping you’d beat me here,” he says behind you.

You look over your shoulder. He’s in dark jeans, a white tee under a navy jacket, sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Effortless. But it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s been thinking about this all morning, that sends something skittering beneath your ribs.

You smirk. “You remembered this place just for me?”

“Technically, I remembered it for myself. But it only became important once you existed in my life.”

You raise a brow. “Careful. You’re gonna make me blush in public.”

“That’s the goal.”

You spend the next hour wandering.

You pull a collection of translated poetry off the shelf. He skims the back cover of a book on finance and laughs. You sit together on a creaky leather couch on the mezzanine, flipping through coffee table books and making snide commentary about overly abstract art.

But something in the air has shifted.

It’s quieter now. Closer.

You catch him watching you a few times, when you tuck your hair behind your ear, when you underline a line of prose with your finger, and when you laugh with your whole mouth open.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you.

And you don’t hide the way it shakes you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, a book open in his lap, eyes still on you.

You glance over. “That sounds like a compliment and a threat.”

“It’s just the truth. You make everything feel a little different now. Better.”

You look away quickly. Pulse thumping in your ears. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

“Good. You should.”

You close your book, suddenly unable to focus. “Lets check out.”

At the register, you both buy something. He picks a first edition he insists on getting for you despite your protest and when he hands the clerk his card, you catch him glancing sideways at you. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to hold it in.

Outside the bookstore, sunlight spills over the sidewalk in soft white-gold. The street buzzes faintly with city noise, horns, bike bells, someone on a Bluetooth call arguing in Italian.

You both linger near the corner, the edge of something unspoken tightening around your ankles like ribbon.

“You hungry?” he asks, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, leaning a little closer.

You nod. “Starving.”

“Let me call a car. There’s a spot I’ve been meaning to try. It’s close.”

You open your mouth, already halfway to saying no, I’ll walk—but then you pause. He’s looking at you like he’s not just suggesting lunch. Like he’s asking you to let him care for you in his quiet, expensive way.

And for once, you let him.

“Okay,” you say. “But just this once.”

“Deal.”

The car is sleek, dark, and unreasonably quiet inside. He opens the door for you without saying anything, just a glance that makes your pulse jump. You slide in, legs crossed, arms folded loosely across your stomach like you’re trying not to look like you care.

A few minutes into the ride, his phone buzzes.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head. “Go ahead.”

He taps to accept. “Yeah, this is Harry.”

And then he’s off, voice low and measured, all clipped sentences and layered confidence. You sit beside him, pretending to look out the window.

But you’re not really listening to the call.

You’re watching him.

The way his jaw flexes ever so slightly when he listens. The little lines that appear at the corners of his mouth when something doesn’t go the way he wants. The way he gestures with two fingers, like he’s conducting the air. The way he leans forward when he says something decisive.

You shouldn’t find this hot.

You definitely do.

And when he says “I’ll review the deck by seven, but loop me in on the legal first” like he’s wrapping a bow around someone else’s fire drill, you feel it low in your stomach. That quiet ache of watching a man who’s not just smart but capable.

He ends the call with a quick “I’ve gotta go,” drops his phone in his lap, and glances over.

“Sorry. Work.”

You raise an eyebrow, carefully neutral. “That was... extremely corporate of you.”

“Don’t lie, you were into it.”

You snort. “I plead the fifth.”

He takes you to a small corner place with wide windows and zero branding. One of those ungoogleable restaurants that only exists by word of mouth. Inside, the vibe is stripped-down: pale wood tables, worn-in leather seats, white wine chilling in ceramic buckets, and a chalkboard menu that changes weekly.

It’s nothing like ramen on a rooftop late at night.

It’s quieter. Slower. Cozier.

The hostess knows Harry by name. “It’s been a while,” she says with a wink.

“Trying to change that,” he replies, glancing at you.

You’re seated in a back corner by the window. The table’s small. You could stretch your foot out and touch his ankle. You don’t. But you think about it.

“They do this roasted fish with pickled something-or-other,” he says, handing you the menu. “It sounds weird. It isn’t.”

You scan it. “I trust you. Mostly.”

“I’ll take that.”

You both order. He gets the fish. You get something with farro and beets and citrus vinaigrette. He orders two glasses of wine before you can stop him.

“Wine? At lunch?” you ask, lifting a brow.

“What else are you supposed to do on a fake date in the middle of a workday?”

You grin. “So it’s a date now?”

“I didn’t say a real date.”

“Right. Casual. Just two friends getting tipsy on a Tuesday.”

“Exactly. Two friends who almost held hands in a bookstore.”

You kick him under the table.

He kicks you back, gentler.

The wine comes. The food follows. And somewhere between laughing over a bite of his fish and him dabbing a drip of vinaigrette off the corner of your lip with his thumb like it means nothing, you realize you’re in trouble.

You like him. Too much.

And he’s looking at you like maybe, just maybe, he does too.

The table is quieter now.

Your plates have been cleared, wine glasses half-full, the sun shifting low through the window and casting shadows across the tabletop. Outside, the city keeps moving, horns, heels, soft static from a passing bus, but here it’s all muted.

You swirl the stem of your glass between your fingers, lazily.

Harry’s been quiet for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just... hesitant.

He leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, eyes steady on yours.

“So—” he starts, and then pauses.

You look up. “So?”

His voice drops. A little rough.

“There’s a gala Friday night. Work-adjacent. Black tie, too many speeches, probably bad shrimp.”

You nod, amused. “Sounds exciting.”

“Every year my assistant sets me up with some woman I’ve never met to make me look... normal. Taken.”

“You really love living the fantasy, huh?”

“I declined this year.”

You tilt your head. “Oh?”

“Because I was hoping you’d come with me instead.”

You blink. It’s not that you didn’t think this could happen, it’s that hearing him say it like that, so plainly, knocks something loose inside your chest.

He watches you carefully and quietly, like he’s trying not to chase your answer out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he adds. “You really don’t. It’s just... I’d rather go with you than sit next to someone who calls Tribeca ‘Truh-beekah’ all night.”

You press your lips together, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That’s fair.”

“So?” he says, trying to sound casual, but you can tell, you can tell, he’s not.

You lean back in your chair, eyes scanning him like you’re solving a riddle. Because part of you wants to say yes right now. And the other part, the smaller and sharper part wants to savor it. To make him wait just a little.

You lift your wine, take a sip, set it down gently.

“You’ll send a car?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“And you’ll make sure the shrimp’s not actually bad?”

“I’ll pull strings.”

You tap your finger on the rim of your glass once. Twice.

“Okay,” you say finally. Soft. But solid.

“I’ll go with you.”

His shoulders relax like you just gave him oxygen.

“Yeah?” he says, his smile tugging. “Really?”

You nod. “But I swear to God, if I end up next to someone talking about NFTs or their yacht for three hours, I’m leaving with a waiter.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “But only if I get visitation rights.”

You laugh too. It’s easy again. Warm.

Then, after a pause, he adds, more cautious now, but still hopeful:

“One more thing.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Here we go.”

“I want to send you something. A dress.”

You blink. “Harry…”

“No pressure to wear it,” he says quickly. “But I saw one and thought of you. I already have it saved. My assistant owes me a favor. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something elegant and sharp.”

“You’re describing a Bond girl.”

“No,” he says, his gaze soft. “I’m describing you.”

Your stomach flips.

You reach for your wine again, just to do something with your hands. “You know I can dress myself, right?”

“Of course you can. But I also know how it feels to want to look a certain way when you walk into a room like that. And I want you to have exactly that feeling.”

You go quiet. You weren’t expecting that answer. You weren’t expecting how much it would hit.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. “But only if it’s actually my size. And nothing overly sparkly.”

“Promise. No sparkles. Just something you’ll look delicious in.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts.

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

2:14 p.m.

You’re half-editing a paragraph and half-re-reading the same sentence for the third time when your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Hey

Don’t yell at me

I need your measurements

You blink. Pause. Then type back.

You:

…for what exactly?

Harry 💼:

The dress

I told you I wanted to send you one

I mean unless you want me to guess. But then I can’t be held responsible for the fit

You roll your eyes, already smirking.

You:

So what are we talking ballpark sizing? Height? Waist? How scandalous is this thing?

Harry 💼:

Depends Do you consider “strapless” scandalous?

Your mouth drops open. You swallow a smile.

You:

Oh we’re playing like that ? Strapless, huh?

Harry 💼:

I figured if I’m going to show up with the most captivating woman in the room, she shouldn’t have to tug on sleeves

Or think about shoulder seams. Just her confidence

You stare at that one a little too long.

You:

You talk like that to all your dates?

Harry 💼:

I don’t have dates Not lately Just you

Your heart makes a very unprofessional move in your chest.

You:

You realize you’re making it very hard for me to concentrate on work right now

Harry 💼:

Good. Send me your numbers

Let me do the rest

You hesitate for all of one second before sending him your measurements. And once you do, he doesn’t respond right away.

Two minutes later:

Harry 💼:

Perfect

Thank you

I’ll have it sent directly to you. No peeking until tomorrow.

You:

You’re not the boss of me

Harry 💼:

Not yet.

You nearly drop your phone.

The Next Morning 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You don’t expect to see him. You’re halfway to your mailbox, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the door buzzes.

“Package for you,” says the manager behind the desk. “Real fancy.”

You raise an eyebrow just as the glass doors slide open.

Harry Castillo steps through them holding a black garment bag.

You stop walking.

He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Good morning,” he says. “I had something to drop off.”

“Most billionaires use couriers,” you reply, crossing your arms, trying not to grin. “Is this what they call a personal touch?”

“Something like that.” He eyes your outfit with amusement. “Should I have brought coffee too?”

“I would’ve liked a croissant.”

“Noted.”

He steps closer, handing the garment bag over like it’s a sacred artifact.

“No pressure to wear it,” he says, lowering his voice. “But as I said,I saw it, and I thought of you.”

From the desk, the manager clears his throat loudly, but with restraint.

You glance sideways at him, then back at Harry. “You always this charming?”

Asking as if you don’t already know the answer.

“Only in Queens.”

You try not to blush. You fail.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he adds, voice dropping half an octave as his eyes flick over your face.

You nod. “Yeah. You will.”

He’s gone two seconds later, out the door like he didn’t just drop a bomb and walk away.

Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You unzip the garment bag slowly, like it might whisper if you move too fast.

Inside is the dress.

A vintage charcoal grey gown, smooth and liquid in your hands. It’s strapless, with a refined, statuesque shape that skims the length of your body. The fabric catches the light in a quiet, expensive way. Nothing too flashy.

There’s embroidery stitched delicately along the bodice and fine silver-threaded detail that curves like vines framing your collarbones. Elegant. Minimal. Dangerous.

You slip it on with care.

No tugging, no adjusting. It fits perfectly. The way it hugs your waist, the slight flare of the hem, the way the bodice presses close without suffocating it feels like it was made for you. Like he really looked.

You twist to check your reflection in the mirror.

You don’t look like the woman who edits manuscripts on her couch in a hoodie and glasses. You look like the woman who walks into a room and makes people turn. The kind of woman who deserves to be watched.

You pin your hair into a soft, low updo, leaving a few pieces loose at the nape of your neck. Subtle makeup, your favorite brick-red lipstick, a little liner, highlighter so faint it only shows when you turn your head.

Then the finishing touch: your baby blue heels.

They shouldn’t work with the dress. But somehow, they do.

They spark against the grey. A wink of color.

You glance at the clock. 6:57.

And then—your buzzer goes off.

You check your appearance one last time in the mirror by the door, fingers smoothing the fabric at your hips. The heels are just high enough. The updo stays pinned. You breathe in once, twice, and grab your clutch.

Then you head downstairs.

The moment you step into the lobby, the room hushes. The manager behind the desk nearly drops his clipboard. The elevator chimes shut behind you. But you don’t see any of them.

Because at the far end of the lobby, waiting by the glass doors in a crisp, black tux and a perfectly tied bow tie, is Harry.

He turns when he hears your heels click against the tile.

And for a full, suspended moment, he forgets how to breathe.

His eyes sweep over you from head to toe, slowly, reverent, and utterly still.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Your smile curves, shy and wicked all at once. “Nice tux.”

“I don’t— Jesus.” He closes the space between you, eyes still wide. “You look... devastatingly beautiful.”

Your hand is already in his before you even realize you reached for him.

“Ready?” he asks, like his voice just came back online.

You nod, fingers tightening slightly around his. “Let’s go.”

The car is sleek and low-lit as usual, the partition already raised for privacy. You sit beside him, knees angled together, clutch held tight in your lap.

But your other hand?

Still tangled with his.

You don’t speak much. Don’t need to.

His thumb traces your knuckle slowly, and you feel it everywhere. The soft city blur outside the window fades beneath the weight of his attention.

“The gala’s at The Frick,” he murmurs, gazing at your profile. “They rent it out once a year for this foundation thing. Mostly donors, trustees, people who pretend to read art journals.”

You smirk. “Sounds awful.”

“It will be. But you’ll be there soooo—”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too tight, too warm

The car glides to a stop outside the stately mansion-turned-museum on the Upper East Side. Lights wash the limestone facade in a golden glow. A crowd is gathered beneath the archway, camera flashes starting up like clockwork.

You grip your clutch tighter as the door opens.

But then he’s there offering his hand, not just to help you out, but to anchor you.

You take it.

The moment your heels touch the cobblestone, voices ripple.

“Who is that?” “She’s stunning—look at that dress.” “Is that Harry Castillo’s date?” “God, the two of them—”

You don’t hear all of it. But you hear enough.

Still, your eyes only find one pair.

Harry’s.

And the way he looks at you?

Like he likes the attention. Because they see you the way he already does.

part two —>

divider by @kodaswrld other one by me:) 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @inbred-eater @millersdoll @grayandthyme @saturnyo @littlejoels @millersgirl44 @mybvalentine @mysticalgalaxysalad @wayward-dreamer @starstriker027 @untitledgoat @erinlovesyou @katssecretdiary @strangeangelflapsuitcase @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @perfectpoetrybluebird @inept-the-magnificent @throttlepascal @readingiskeepingmegoing @noteriii @needz1nk @foggymoonbanana @belleofthewickedteaparty @axshadows

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onskepa · 1 year ago

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Hi how are you? If you want, could you tell us what your headcanons would be for what the Sully children's relationship would be like with a human/avatar mother who was mated with Jake and Neytiri? Thank you very much, have a great day!

I can see a lot of possible outcomes for this one! So here ya go! Enjoy!

P.S: Reader will not be given a name in this one, instead she will be called "small mama"

Pinnacle protection

-------------------------------

Pinnacle motherhood

Right off the bat, the whole family loves their third mother, second mate. Jake sully couldn't ask for a better family, and better mates. Especially his little human mate. Neytiri will agree with him, while yes she has her children to hug, her little mate is just what she needs. Something small yet full of love just for her.

Now like any trio, there is a balance between the parents. Jake is the head of the family, the brains with his clever ideas. Neytiri at times can be the brains but most muscle due to her skills in fighting and hunting. And their beloved human is the heart of the family. Keeping everyone together.

And like any child, the sully kids will have favorites. And their favorite is their amazing human mother. She is the most fun, loving parent any child could ever ask for. Are they not getting their way with Jake or neytiri? To mama it is! And mama will always fold by the simple look of her kids.

Another thing about their favorite mama, they all believe she has the power to read their minds. How else would it explain she knows their next move?

Lo’ak and tuk can recall so many instances where they were barely forming an idea only for their mama to say “dont even think about it” or “it is not worth the trouble”.

For neteyam, as he is the oldest he does try to be a good example for his mischievous siblings, along with holding so many responsibilities, but he can always count on his small mama for anything. Small mama consoles him, talking about anything neteyam has his mind about.

Unlike Jake or neytiri who neteyam has to put up a strong warrior face, with a small mama he can revert back to being a baby with her. He feels safe and be a kid again with her. And small mama always called him her “little baby boy”. Neteyam won't admit it but he likes it when she calls him that.

For kiri, she definitely adores her small mama. She is closer to her third parent than she is with neytiri. Not to be mean or anything. But with Jake, Kiri can talk about what odd things happen around her, ask her about her mother and stuff but with her small mama. Well, she can express far more with her, be free to say anything not be judged upon. Kiri can dare say small mama understands her more than anyone in the world.

With tuk, the baby of the family. Why, she loves to be the taller one, it makes her happy. Of course she would never tease her small mama that she is taller, but small mama would call her “tiny tuk”. A name tuk loves and will glady flex it for some reason.

If tuk can't go somewhere with her older siblings, small mama would personally take her anywhere she wants to go. As long as it is safe. With small mama, everything is fun and never boring. Tuk loves the times where her hair is braided or she braids small mama’s hair.

Now, if small mama would use her avatar, nothing much would change. Except that now the kids will demand piggy back rides. Tuk or lo’ak would be front of the line for that.

Hunting would be easier and much more fun with jake and neytiri, running, riding their ikrans, less risk overall.

Even with her avatar, she is still short compared to her two mates. She is smaller than Neytiri by 9 ½ inches. Not something she is super thrilled about. No matter what body, she is still small mama through and through.

Small mama is forever grateful to live her best life with her family, loving them and saying her thanks to Eywa for blessing her to be the best of her two worlds. Through hardships, through trials, small mama has a mighty heart and a roar of an ikran. Yes sometimes she might be stressed or frustrated but life is not perfect. Small mama knows that all too well. But there is nothing better than what she has.

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rad-batson · 1 year ago

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I’m like 99% sure the Gotham Elite’s social customs are fucked up because Autism-in-Human-Form Bruce Wayne was just so fucking tired of high society’s weird and incomprehensible (and frankly ableist) social etiquette that he went full Virgin Mary About-to-Invent-a-Major-World-Religion, said “oh haven’t you heard?” and just started making his own random social rules. Like who’s going to stop him? The other elites? The dinosaur CEO’s? He’s richer. He hosts the better parties. He could tank your business in a weekend. So when he says “Weird passive aggressive fork language is out. Having a different utensil for every different food texture is in,” you use a different utensil for every food texture. Now when foreign elites visit Gotham, they have to learn a completely new set of social customs to fit in. It’s like a cult, but the cult is run by the most influential man in the world and Gotham’s personal Jesus. The followers are more likely than not mafia bosses named after a bird. You will be judged. There’s a test. Yes, you do get brownie points for being nice to the servers. For the love of god, stop making so much eye contact. The cloth napkins are folded into little ducks. Welcome to Gotham.

#autistic bruce wayne #bruce wayne #dc universe #dc #batman #batfam #batfamily #gotham #only in gotham #gotham city

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kaiser1ns · 29 days ago

Text

#. (NOT) MY NUMBER ONE FAN

featuring 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ıllı. itoshi sae, michael kaiser, bunny iglesias

fluff. dating him was easy, until he found out you support the enemy. sometimes true love is complicated.

characters may be ooc , but nothing to worry about

ITOSHI SAE

It’s a peaceful afternoon in Madrid, or rather, it was before Sae stirred in his sleep, blinking slowly as his fingers reached out instinctively, expecting to feel the soft warmth of your skin, the weight of your body wrapped around him from your usual post-lunch nap routine.

But there was nothing, just an empty space on the bed. Grumbling under his breath, his brows furrowed as he pushed himself up on one elbow, and he didn’t need to see himself in the mirror to know how messy his hair probably looked. “Where the hell did you go?” Muttering to no one but himself, voice still hoarse with sleep, eyes still half-lidded, and then like a curse upon his soul, a sound echoed faintly from the living room.

The anthem.

Not just any anthem, the one that was banned from this household. It was a particular, pride-swollen orchestral swell that only belonged to the bane of his existence.

Sae stared at the doorway, unimpressed, perhaps annoyed from the way he woke up and had to sacrifice his hearing. Rubbing his face, he got up and padded into the hallway, silent as a ghost, the kind that haunts with judgment and witty remarks. And there you were, sitting pretty on the couch, blanket around your legs, eyes glued to the TV, and probably smiling more than you should, because you are a traitor who allowed yourself to watch an FC Barcha match.

You were so enthralled you didn’t even notice the tall figure looming behind you, didn’t feel the silent anger that lurked behind you.

Click. The TV screen went black.

You shrieked. “WHAT THE HELL—LAVINHO WAS ABOUT TO SCORE!”

His deadpan voice followed. “I’m taking your TV remote privileges.”

Whipping your head around and there he stood: hair messy, shirtless in grey sweats, arms crossed over his chest like he was judging all your life choices at once, because let's be real, he was. Teal eyes full of betrayal, pain, and minutes taken from his afternoon nap. “You were supposed to be asleep...”

“I would’ve stayed asleep if my girlfriend didn’t ditch our nap to commit crimes against humanity.”

You huffed, slightly offended because you did nothing wrong. “Sae, it’s just a match.” He stepped closer, now sitting next to you. “It’s Barcha. And you’re in my living room, in my house, rooting for them.”

“Don’t be so sensitive.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, tugging the blanket closer because suddenly it’s so chilly here, and wonder why, probably not from your boyfriend who plays for Re Al.

“I’m not sensitive,” he said coldly, trying his absolute best not to throw some insult at his rival team. “I just play for the better team.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t use your Barcha jersey to wipe the floor.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, hands going to cover your mouth. “No, you didn't.”

He didn’t deny it; instead, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, smug kiss that made your heart stutter and your irritation melt. When he pulled back, he looked somehow satisfied, not to the fullest, but that should do.

“Next time you leave my arms for them, I’ll make you wear white for a week.”

“White is boring.”

“I’m boring now?”

“Emotionally, yes.”

He kissed you again just to shut you up. So it happened that he fell asleep on the sofa, and you’d watch the rest of the match on your phone, with the volume off. Sae didn’t need to know, but he already knew by the way your fingers stopped caressing his hair.

MICHAEL KAISER

You came home with two bags of groceries, earbuds in, humming some song as you slipped into the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, which is not that unusual, but not normal either. The smell of Kaiser’s cologne lingered, as he was probably in his room, reviewing footage, hating on his teammates, or doing shirtless yoga, who knows.

Halfway through stacking cold drinks in the fridge, it’s when you felt it, the presence that sought nothing but control … or your kisses, because you were gone for so long, a whole fifteen minutes to go to the store and buy food so you won’t end up hungry.

Turning to see him leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, smug, tattoo on full display, arms crossed, that usual glint in his blue eyes that screamed I know something you don’t.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” you said casually, focusing again on arranging things until you were completely done.

“Oh, whatever you make, liebe,” he replied, observing you like a hawk, and you were the little mouse who didn’t know it was going to be struck with its doom. “By the way… I was looking for my hoodie earlier.”

“Yeah?” You raised a brow, because really very useful information, life saving, and no, it's not because you keep borrowing his clothes (stealing them).

“Yeah. Ended up finding something else instead.”

You've never been caught doing anything wrong, but he... that pathetic, arrogant, and super hot boyfriend of yours will always be able to break through your lack of defence and strike when you least expect it.

“I must ask… since when do we collect BVB Dortmund jerseys in my apartment? Especially ones signed by Lewandowski from 2012?” he asked, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “A true crime scene, if you ask me.”

“You were snooping through my side?” Blinking, averting your gaze from his because you don’t want to look him in the eyes.

“It accidentally opened when I was grabbing something,” he said, stepping closer, making a little no space for you to escape. “Adeyemi? Reus? Meine Engel… you got a whole BVB museum in there.”

You turned away, pretending to care deeply about the onion in your hands. Kaiser wasn’t done. Oh no, he was just starting.

“So…” he drawled, touching the blue rose on his neck, on purpose. “Thoughts on the Bundesliga season so far? Bastard Munchen’s been solid, especially that one match… four-nil against Dortmund. I heard their tears tasted amazing.”

Grabbing the nearest object, which was a plastic measuring cup, and threw it at his chest. He dodged, chuckling at your awful attempts to defend yourself from the truth that hurts so much.

“Oh, touchy subject?” he teased, now having the nerve to smirk at you with that shit-eating grin. “Fine!” you snapped. “I’ve supported Dortmund since I was twelve. My dad used to take me to games before I even knew your name, so yeah, I do still love the team.”

He's glad he got a response, but he didn't expect it exactly this way. “So you’re saying you love them more than me?”

“I’m saying football existed before you strutted into my life with your rockstar ego.” His mouth fell open in mock betrayal. “Excuse me? You’re living in Munich, sleeping in my bed, and you’re secretly cheering when Dortmund scores against us?”

“I’m not secretly cheering, I’m respectfully celebrating while you are not here to judge me.”

“Oh, respectfully? Liebling, you’re one step away from painting your face yellow.”

You glared, ready to open the fridge and pour the ice-cold drinks on him, but there were better ways to “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“What?! You’re banning me from my own bed?” He might act like an emperor who has all the control and power, but he's actually a pretty princess, and it's hilarious to watch him when the game turns against him.

“You’re calling me a traitor over some merch. You can enjoy your dinner with a side of regret.”

Kaiser opened his mouth, closed it, and then smirked. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.

Next time “Der Klassiker” rolled around, he scored a hat-trick, pulled off his shirt, held it to the crowd, and guess who got a brand new KAISER 10 jersey in place of that yellow nonsense that night? Personalized, with a little note: For my favorite traitor.

BUNNY IGLESIAS

It wasn’t unusual for a footballer to have someone in the stands cheering him on. Wives, girlfriends, families… stadiums were full of them. What was unusual, surprising even, was when the said girlfriend, the love of his life, the woman who made his empty apartment feel like a home, turned out to be something she was not.

Bunny didn’t notice right away, not during the match, not during the interview, not even during the long, silent car ride home. But when he stepped out of the shower that night, towel hanging low on his hips, damp curls tousled over his forehead, he knew something was off.

You weren’t giving him your usual soft smile, praises, or attention. You weren’t curled up waiting to review his goals like you always did. Instead, you were sitting on the bed, glued to your phone, not even sparing him a glance.

Man of the Match and not even a kiss? So he did what any wronged man in a towel would do: he walked over, leaned down, and snatched your phone straight out of your hand.

“Bunny—!” you yelped, scrambling up after him. He held it up high, out of reach. “Mmm, let’s see what stole the attention of my princess,” he murmured, voice smooth, and mildly amused with that familiar, detached tone like he was watching a slow-motion car crash.

You leapt to grab it, but he took a step back. “Not fair,” you muttered. “Why are you so damn tall?”

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He scrolled, and his brows lifted slightly. "Clothes... new series arrivals… Re Al funny moments… Re Al match highlights…” The air grew quiet. “Re Al this. Re Al that. Oh—Itoshi Sae, too? That’s a name.”

Deathly silence. Your boyfriend looked at you, then at the phone, and back at you.

He wasn’t angry, not at all, but his eyes held the disappointment, like he'd stumbled into a memory that didn’t belong to him. A memory you hid from him, and he understands why. That melancholy undercurrent to his voice came back when he said, “This is worse than cheating.”

He turned your phone off, set it aside gently, and sat on the edge of the bed, towel barely clinging to his hips. “All this time, I thought you were shaking during El Clásico because you were happy for me.”

You turned out to be a Re Al fan, not a casual one either. No. You were the walking archive of team stats and league positions, quoting matches from 2014 and arguing formation choices like your life depended on it. A nerdy fan, and apparently, a pretty traitor.

“But I am happy for you, and I will always love you more than anything in this world!”

Bunny blinked slowly, thinking whether he should believe you or not, even if you proved your love for him every second. “I remember you screamed when Kroos scored last year.”

You sighed because you hate it when he does this; you don’t know if he is serious or just messing with you for fun. “Baby…” He ran a hand through his hair, the faintest bitter smile forming. “You know, I don’t even care that much about this sport half the time. But you support them. ”

“It’s not like that,” you tried to explain, now playing with your hands as you feel his gaze on you. “I’ve supported Re Al since I was a kid. It’s my entire childhood.”

He nodded once, “So what does that make me, the villain who kidnapped the princess from the white knights?”

“No,” you whispered, now holding both of his hands in yours. “You’re the dragon who gatekeeps me from escaping.” He laughed under his breath, not cold or joyful, just incredibly soft and loving.

“It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think?” he said finally, and the smile you adored so much reappeared on his face. “Wearing my Barcha jersey on your back, while there’s another team in your heart. You are a very bad bunny~”

“So you’re not mad?” leaning closer, trying to tease him or get a reaction out of him, because was he hotter when he was half naked? Yes, yes, he was.

“I’ll live,” he said, brushing your cheek with his fingers. “But next time you’re watching match highlights, at least pretend to be distracted by me.” It was your turn to smile as you pressed your lips to his. “Only if you don’t score again next weekend.”

He smirked. “Oh, I will score, just for you and especially if Sae’s playing.” Yeah, he is still the menace you love.

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