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thinkingboute · 21 days ago

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You Only Want To Kiss By The Pool

summary: a sultry, aching summer entanglement unfolds between two people tangled in history, habit, and hurt.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, angst, emotionally unavailable!charles, p in v, protected and unprotected sex, dry humping, more angst, emotional vulnerability, toxic intimacy, unresolved tension, messy feelings, blood/injury mention, longing, self-loathing, summer heartbreak, EVEN MORE ANGST, my personal vendetta against the cicadas in this story turning into a stylised thing lol word count: 10k

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader a thought: soooo 10k words huh 😭 I swear this wasn’t on purpose… or maybe it was, who knows at this point. I’m not even sure if this turned out how I originally imagined it, but I really hope you enjoy it!! i uploaded a bit eralier then usual bc of the race today a´s masterlist

You arrive right at golden hour, when everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey, too soft, too golden, too damn familiar.

The light slants through the cypress trees lining the gravel driveway, casting long, flickering shadows across the hood of the car like fingers you don’t want to name.

The air smells like rosemary and sunscreen residue, like heat baked into old stones and that same vanilla-sweet cigarette someone always smokes down the hill, burning slow, never gone.

The wheels of your suitcase stutter against the gravel in a rhythm your body remembers even if your brain tries not to. It’s the same sound every summer since you were eight: uneven, jarring, too loud in the stillness. It sounds like memory. It sounds like a warning you never listen to.

Laughter rises from behind the house, bright, breathless, edged with wine and the kind of joy that makes you feel at home before you’ve even walked in. You stop at the gate. Not ready to see everyone. Not him. Not yet or not again. You breathe in sharp, like maybe oxygen will smooth out the tremor in your hands. It doesn’t.

The house is exactly the same. Of course it is. That’s the part that knocks you off balance. The terracotta tiles still dip unevenly toward the front steps, like they might collapse if you step too hard. The shutters still creak, lazy with age. The olive trees are overgrown, thick with shadows that look too much like last year. You already know the cicadas will start screaming right before dusk like they always do. You already know the kitchen door sticks unless you lift it gently. You already know this place too well. You already know how the next weeks will go.

Inside, the floor is cool beneath your sandals, a sudden relief against skin too warm from the drive. You don’t call out. Don’t let anyone know you’ve arrived. Instead, you slip up the stairs without a sound, like the house might swallow you whole if you move gently enough.

The door to your usual room opens with the same soft resistance. It still smells faintly of the linen detergent his mother always used, dried lavender and something older, something dustier. Nostalgia, maybe. Or the ache of something that never was.

The closet door creaks like it remembers you. You shove your suitcase inside without even pretending you’ll unpack it tonight. The zip catches on the edge of the frame and you yank harder than you mean to. The thud echoes. Too loud for a room this quiet.

It smells the same in here. Wood polish and sun-warmed fabric, the ghost of old perfume clinging to the curtains. You feel it settle around you, this too-familiar hush. As if the walls remember every version of you that’s ever stood here. Eight, twelve, seventeen. Laughing, crying, pretending. There are layers of you folded into the linens. Some you’ve outgrown. Some that still fit a little too well. You don't look in the mirror.

You pull off your shoes and cross to the balcony, bare feet whispering across cool tile. The small iron door sticks before it gives, then opens wide to the same view you’ve looked at a hundred times before, maybe more. And still, it stuns.

The hills roll out in ribbons of gold and green, draped over each other like sleep-warmed limbs. Light bleeds across them in waves, hazy with heat and distance. It’s a landscape built for remembering: soft-edged, sun-split, too beautiful to feel safe. Below, the pool lies still, catching the last of the sun like it’s trying to bottle the moment. Its surface trembles in the breeze, glinting and nervous. Like a mirror about to crack. Like it knows things. Like it sees you.

And then—just like that—the silence breaks.

Laughter rides the wind, faint at first, then clearer. Voices carry up from the patio, sun-drenched and wine-loose. You recognize them even before you parse the words: your mother’s high, bright tone; Charles’ mother, always elegant even when she’s too loud; the boys, deep-voiced and jostling each other as they pass around olives or wine or stories no one’s finished telling. It’s a soundscape of summer, unchanged and unbothered by time.

Your mother sees you first. Of course she does. She stands and waves both arms overhead, graceless and joyful, like a child who’s been given a second dessert. “There you are!” she calls, as if you’ve been lost for days, not delayed for hours. “You’re so late! Come down—we’ve started without you!”

They act like nothing’s changed. Like you’ve never left. Like you’re not bracing yourself in a doorway two floors above them, body gone still.

You scan the crowd, breath held tight. He’s not there.

For a flicker of a moment—so quick you almost miss it—you let yourself hope. Maybe he’s not here this year. Maybe he’s in Monaco, like he would usually be. Or Spain, or Italy, or anywhere other than this sliver of hillside where everything feels one second away from breaking open. The thought slides in cold and fast: maybe you won’t see him at all.

Relief blooms. Clean. Bright. A burst of something dangerously close to joy. You hold onto it like a secret. You let yourself believe it.

But then you open your bedroom door again.

And the house, ancient and alive in the ways that matter most, seems to punish you for the thought.

Because he’s right there.

You don’t hear him until he’s too close, until it’s too late to step aside, too late to pull the door shut and breathe. You turn and collide, your chest hitting bare skin, solid and warm and real in a way that steals your breath more than the impact. You gasp. His hands are already on your arms, firm but unhurried, grounding you before you stumble.

His grip is confident, muscle and memory and the cruel exactness of someone who still remembers the shape of you. It’s the way he always used to touch you: like you were his, like you’d never been anything else.

And of course he’s not wearing a shirt.

The hallway is narrow and the air between you shrinks until it feels nonexistent. You can smell him: salt and sun, a trace of cologne he never wears in the city and something else, maybe the ghost of last summer or the one before. He leans in just slightly, not enough to threaten, just enough to take up all your space.

“Bonjour, chérie,” he says, voice wrapped in silk and sunshine, rough at the edges from sleep or wine or both. The words slip out like they belong here, like you still belong to each other. His smile is slow and sharp, all teeth and nostalgia. “Seems like you missed me.”

The sound of him is a whole summer unto itself. Familiar in a way that hurts. The vowels curl lazy in his throat, lower than you remember, but not strange. Never strange.

Then his face tilts, just slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s too soft. Too slow. Like the kind of thing that should come after everything else, not before it. It lingers longer than it should, like punctuation that doesn’t quite fit the sentence.

You don’t move. You don’t return it. You just pull back a fraction, barely enough to register, and meet his gaze without offering much of anything. “Yeah. Hi.”

The moment breaks like glass underfoot.

You walk down toward the backyard together. Side by side. Not touching, but too close not to feel it. The air has thickened, the late heat curling under your collar, sweat at the nape of your neck now tinged with the weight of memory. You can feel it building around you, this ache you didn’t plan to carry.

You step through the open patio doors just as someone uncorks another bottle of wine. The pop cuts through the twilight like a held breath finally let go.

Your mother sees you first—again—and claps her hands together like she’s been waiting days instead of hours. “There she is!” she says, already half out of her chair. “I thought we’d have to send Charles up with a search party.”

Someone laughs, Arthur, that same easy snort he’s had since he was thirteen. His mother is already pouring you a glass of white, humming something tuneless as she gestures you toward the table.

The scent of grilled peaches and rosemary chicken curls through the warm air. The citronella candles flicker. There’s a stack of mismatched plates on the table, a bowl of cherries passed around like currency, laughter rising in messy waves between bites.

They pull you into it easily, like you never left, like nothing cracked or shifted or nearly unraveled. Your father ruffles your hair like you're still the same girl who wore bandaids on her knees and sulked through dinners. One of the Leclercs tells you you look different, then immediately backpedals with a compliment that feels rehearsed but sweet.

You smile at all the right moments. Sip your wine. Let the warmth of their welcome soak through your skin.

But even as you laugh, even as you settle into your old seat and pass the salad bowl like muscle memory, you feel him across the table, his gaze, the orbit of his presence, quiet and magnetic.

You don’t look at him again. At least you try.

Later, the sun is long gone. The last streaks of lavender have faded from the sky. The pool lights blink on one by one, casting the water in a pale blue glow that ripples against the stone like soft electricity. It looks otherworldly now, like a portal instead of a pool.

You sit at the deep end, feet in the water, your drink sweating onto the flagstone beside you. The chill of the pool creeps up your calves, grounding, but it’s not enough to cool the fire crawling under your skin.

Then Charles is there.

He doesn’t speak. Just slides down beside you, as easy as anything, his thigh brushing yours in a way that feels accidental and entirely intentional. You don’t move away. You don’t lean in. The closeness settles, thick and quiet.

“I missed this,” he murmurs, gaze out over the water. The words land soft, but they burn anyway.

You don’t ask him what he means. You already know. You’ve always known. He means this, this moment, this version of you, this curated slice of late summer nostalgia. Not you in your real life. Not you with complications and context. Just here. Just now. Just like this.

You turn toward him. His face is turned slightly down, lit from beneath by the water’s shimmer. Half-shadow, half-memory. His mouth is parted. His expression open, soft. That look he only ever wears after too much wine and too little caution.

He leans in.

Of course he does. It’s written in his bones, the way he moves toward you. Like there’s only one ending this scene has ever had.

His mouth hovers, inches from yours. The space between you hums.

But you don’t close it.

You turn your head, slow and deliberate. His breath skims your cheek instead of your lips.

You look ahead, toward the water, and say, quiet but steady, “Yeah. You missed this.”

Silence folds around you like thick night air, humid, clinging, full of everything unsaid. It presses in where words should go, settling between your collarbones, behind your ribs, in the hollows of your throat.

He doesn’t speak. Just lingers there, breath still shallow from the space you didn’t close. His face is close enough that you can see the shift in his eyes, the flicker of something wounded, or worse, surprised. As if he’d forgotten you had the power to say no. The will to say no.

He pulls back, slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment entirely. Like he’s still hoping it might rewind if he moves carefully enough. But you’re already somewhere else.

You slide your feet out of the pool, water dripping off your calves, leaving small dark prints across the stone. You don’t glance back. You just rise, smooth your dress down with damp fingers, and walk away—deliberate, quiet, unhurried. The echo of what almost happened follows you. It stays with him, hovering in the charged space where your lips didn’t meet, suspended between the low hum of the pool filter and the ache curling just under the sound of summer.

You didn’t always hate the sound of the cicadas.

But now, you hear them for what they are: a warning, not a song.

Every July, someone herded you into this house like clockwork, since you were seven. Like tradition was a story you could rehearse. “Let the kids bond,” the adults always said, raising glasses full of ice and wine. As if summer could be assigned. As if affection could be grown like tomatoes in clay pots.

But it worked. At least in the way those things sometimes do. Not because anyone forced it, but because the days were long and the rules were soft and kids will always find each other in the absence of supervision.

Within hours of arrival, all kids would be side-by-side again, running barefoot through the dusty village streets, staging makeshift pool parties with chipped speakers and melting popsicles, choreographing elaborate games that never needed to be explained, only remembered.

They’d pile into one bedroom for sleepovers that turned into late-night whisper wars, the kind that made your cheeks ache from laughing. They shared bikes and towels and secrets that only made sense under July skies. Together they discovered the hidden parts of the town, abandoned stone barns at the edge of the vineyard, an old cemetery you all swore was haunted, a bakery that gave free pastries if Charles asked in his charming Monegasque way.

No one really missed their parents. The adults were background noise: clinking glasses, sun hats, lazy arguments about where to buy the best olives. They lived on the terrace, in the wine-soaked air of adult summers, while you lived in the dirt and chlorine and wonder of your own little kingdom.

The friendships were real in the way summer friendships are. Bright. Uncomplicated. Built on nothing but shared time.

Every year, you slipped into it like a costume that still fit. Every year, you tried not to notice how it didn’t quite feel the same as it did the year before.

Every year, you and Charles always found your way back to each other, too—but that was a different kind of bond.

That night, the grown-ups were inside, already drunk on rosé and charred sea bass and the weightlessness of the season. Laughter leaked out through the open windows, mingling with the too loud cicadas and the low hum of the pool filter. Someone had lit the fire pit too early. It sputtered in the wind, more smoke than flame.

You were sitting cross-legged near the edge of the glow, arms wrapped around your knees, half-listening to the night. And then he sat beside you.

He smelled like chlorine and something expensive. A trace of bonfire clung to him, warm and sharp.

He leaned in close, eyes gleaming with something just on the edge of mischief.

“T’as encore peur de moi, hein?” he asked, teasing. Still scared of me, huh?

You shook your head, but the word no barely made it out, more breath than voice.

He watched your face like it was something he could easily figure out how to read. His thumb brushed your cheek, a slow, deliberate touch, like he was waiting for permission you didn’t know how to give.

Then: “Have you ever kissed someone?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait.

The kiss was soft. Clumsy. Your teeth knocked once. He laughed, low, unbothered and leaned in again. This time it was smoother, warmer, his hand slipping behind your neck. You felt it all the way down your spine.

Behind you, the fire cracked like punctuation.

That was the first kiss. But not the last.

That summer unfolded in stolen moments and shared towels, too-long glances and too-short goodnights. Kisses in the shade. Fingers brushed beneath the table. A closeness that grew like ivy—tender, quiet, climbing fast.

Then it was the next summer and the same house. The same pool, shimmering. The same voices floated from the kitchen, wine-loose and full of soft arguments about apricot jam and whether anyone remembered to buy more cheese.

But the quiet between you had changed.

You were older. Not by much, but enough. Enough to know what you wanted, or at least to want wanting. And enough to notice that he looked at you differently now, less like a childhood friend, more like a secret.

You were by the pool again. Of course you were. That’s where it always started.

You sat beside him, legs dangling in the warm water, the tiles still hot against your palms. The sun had just slipped behind the hills, leaving the sky dusted with gold. Your skin buzzed with heat and the residual hum of too many hours in the sun.

He leaned back on his elbows, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, hair still wet from the pool. He didn’t say much. Neither did you. The silence between you was thick with memory and something newer, something heavier.

Eventually, you ended up stretched out on one of the lounge chairs, side by side, barely touching.

You turned onto your side to face him, chin propped on your hand. He was watching the stars begin to appear, like he could read something in their flicker. You watched him instead. The lines of his jaw. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The curve of his mouth, parted like he was about to speak but hadn’t yet decided how.

His fingers found your stomach—light at first. A single brush. Then again, slower. He was tracing the edge of your bikini bottoms like he was learning it.

“Tu veux que je continue?” You want me to keep going?

You didn’t know what yes looked like yet. But you didn’t say no.

He pulled you into his lap, tentative at first, but then firmer, like he knew what he was doing and wanted you to know it too. His hands settled on your hips, guiding. Grounding.

You were grinding into him in soft, uncertain rolls, your breath catching every time you felt the friction hit just right. His mouth dropped open. A low groan escaped him, half-swallowed by the night.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The pressure built, slowly at first, then all at once. And even though you were both still dressed—your bikini clinging wetly to you, his swim trunks low on his hips—it didn’t matter.

You came like that. Both of you. Quietly. Urgently. In the dark, with the stars blinking overhead and the pool lights flickering like underwater fireflies.

It wasn’t the last time that summer.

You did it again. And again. In the shallow end, half-hidden behind the pool float. In your bed with the shutters open. In his, early in the morning when no one else was awake. On the sun-warmed couch the afternoon the parents went grocery shopping and left you behind “just to relax.”

That summer was a secret, pressed between kisses and the hush of wet skin, held like breath, never spoken aloud. You never talked about what it meant.

You just kept doing it.

Another year passed. And again, it was the same house, the same pool, the same slant of light across the water like time didn’t matter at all. But this time, it did. This time, you noticed how the air felt heavier, slower, like it was dragging you toward something inevitable.

He was already in the water when you came out, doing lazy laps in the deep end. The surface broke around his shoulders as he swam, broad now, stronger. You could see it immediately. The difference. His chest was fuller. His jaw more carved. There was a shadow of stubble across his cheek and it caught the late light like it was meant to be there.

He’d changed. Not in a way that made you uncertain, no, in a way that made your stomach flip. Grown into himself. Grown into the way he watched you now, more direct, more aware of the way your body had changed too. It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about it was.

The others were inside again, predictably tipsy—someone had made sangria this evening and you could hear the sound of glass clinking, soft laughter echoing through the windows.

And again, it was just the two of you.

You sat at the edge of the pool, again, feet in the water, again, arms wrapped loosely around your knees, again. You didn’t say much. You didn’t have to.

He pulled himself out of the pool, water dripping off him in steady rivulets. He didn’t towel off. Just came over and stood behind you for a second, close enough to make you shiver even in the heat.

When he leaned down, his voice was rough in your ear. “Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where.

You followed him to the pool house, one hand brushing against his, pretending it was an accident.

Inside, the air was thick. He kissed you against the door. No buildup. No hesitation. His mouth was hungry and open and wet with want.

You let him push your swimsuit straps down slowly, almost reverently, like he was unwrapping something delicate. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to believe he cared. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then lower, tracing your skin in a line so feather-light it made you hold your breath.

He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, like he was trying to anchor the moment in your chest. Like it meant something.

You wanted to believe it did.

You didn’t say anything when he lay you down on the old chaise lounge in the pool house. It groaned under your weight, too narrow and too soft in all the wrong places, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did except the way he looked at you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, gaze dragging down your body like it held some secret he wanted to memorize. Like you were something rare.

And maybe you were. For a second, you let yourself believe you were.

His hand traced the edge of your ribs, slow and deliberate, before slipping down to your waist. He stopped there—fingers hovering at the dip of your skin like a question. Not forceful, not impatient. Just waiting. For breath. For permission. Or maybe just to make the moment stretch—so it would feel like more than it was.

“Cha—Charles, I’ve never…”

“Je sais,” I know he said softly, then, switching to English, “I’ll show you.”

He didn’t smile. But there was a quiet curve to his mouth, something settled and self-assured, like he already knew you’d say yes. Like he’d been waiting for this moment—not because it meant something, but because he wanted to feel it. To feel you.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Not rushed. Not greedy. His lips dragged over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like he was mapping you for his own satisfaction. He whispered something into your skin—your name maybe, or just breath. You nodded anyway, body already giving in.

He slipped your swimsuit bottoms down, inch by inch, his knuckles brushing your thighs. You tried not to squirm, not to notice how awkward it felt—your skin damp and sticky, your legs trembling. But his touch didn’t waver. He wasn’t embarrassed. If anything, he liked it. The unraveling of you. The way you softened under him.

The condom came out of his pocket with practiced ease. He tore the wrapper open with his teeth, grinning faintly like it was a joke he’d told before. His hands were steady, his breath even. When he rolled it on, you could feel the heat of him against your leg—solid, certain.

And then he looked at you. Just for a second.

“Ready?” he murmured, more serious now. Almost soft.

You nodded.

When he pushed in, it hurt—a sharp, blooming stretch that made you gasp. He paused, exhaled against your throat, one hand gripping your hip. Not possessive. Not protective. Just...grounding. Measured. His other hand skimmed your ribs, coaxing your body open like he wanted you to feel it, really feel it, and remember that it was him.

“Just breathe,” he said, low and calm. And you did. You let him move.

It wasn’t rushed. Every stroke was deliberate, built for tension, for pleasure. He was focused—not on himself, but on you. The way your back arched. The way your breath caught. He studied you like it mattered. Like your pleasure was the goal, not the side effect. And somehow, that made it worse. Because it was good. He was good. And you knew that’s all he ever intended to be.

It didn’t last long, but it felt long enough. He stayed with you the whole time, hands steady, pace unhurried. He kissed you through it—not your mouth, but everywhere else. The curve of your collarbone. The place just below your ear. Your shoulder.

And when it was over, he didn’t roll away immediately. He hovered, catching his breath, his palm resting flat on your stomach like he was claiming something. Or just appreciating it.

He kissed your shoulder again, soft and absentminded.

And still, you pretended it meant something. That maybe he felt something too.

But his body was already cooling. Sliding away from yours like tide pulling back from sand. And you were left aching, not from the stretch, not from the sex, but from the quiet understanding settling in your chest.

He was never going to stay.

That should’ve been your first or last lesson: Summer isn’t about what you remember. It’s about what you let yourself forget.

Every summer after that, it was just the same again.

It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many months crawled by in between. When you returned to the house, the pool, everything clicked back into place like muscle memory. Like a scene you both knew too well to forget.

It always started at the pool.

You’d be lying out on one of the sun-warmed loungers, a book forgotten on your lap, the heat humming under your skin. He’d appear like he always did, barefoot, tanned, hair longer or shorter depending on the year, but always smug with familiarity. He’d grin like no time had passed and sit beside you like he’d never left.

“Missed me?” Always that. Or something like it. A joke. A flirt. An echo.

And just like that, the rhythm began again.

He knew your body by then. Where to touch. How to kiss you soft at first, then deeper, just rough enough to make you forget how temporary it all was. You always let him. You always wanted him to.

Each year, he found new ways to make you feel like you mattered, at least here, at least now. He’d rest his head on your stomach while you played with his hair. He’d trace shapes along your thigh with fingers gone lazy from sun and sex. He’d steal your sunglasses and lie in the shade with his head in your lap, talking nonsense while your heart thudded like it still didn’t know better.

Once, the summer you turned nineteen, you both swam out to the middle of the pool just before midnight. The water was warm, moonlit. He held your waist beneath the surface and whispered something soft and slurred into your ear. You didn’t catch it all, just the word “belle” and the breathy way he said your name like it hurt him to say it. He kissed your collarbone underwater. You held your breath until it ached.

That night, you fell asleep in his bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like summer and him. When you woke up, he was already outside, playing cards with your siblings like nothing had changed. He didn’t look at you until you passed behind his chair and even then it was just a wink. Like the night didn’t live inside you now. Like it wasn’t something you’d carry.

By your twenty-first summer, it was almost funny, how predictable it all was. The pool. The silence after. The space between what you hoped for and what he gave. You started to expect it: the way he’d vanish for whole afternoons without explanation, then reappear at sunset with wet hair and some joke about paddleboarding. The way he always kissed you like it was the last time, but never said goodbye.

Then months of nothing.

Until the next year. Until the next return. Until the next version of the same old story.

You learned to live for the moments and to let go of the rest.

You told yourself it was okay. That it didn’t mean anything if you didn’t let it. That summer was just summer, and he was just a boy you knew how to miss.

But some nights, back in your apartment, deep in the middle of winter, you’d dream of him. Of chlorine and starlight and the way he once held your wrist like it was something precious. You’d wake up breathless, your mouth still shaped around his name.

And every summer, you’d go back.

Back in the present, you lie awake in the same bed you’ve had him in almost every night. For years.

Different sheets now, soft hotel-cotton ones your mother picked up in some end-of-season sale, but the same creaky mattress, the same half-stuck window that never quite lets in enough air. The same fan above you, still clicking faintly with every lazy rotation like it’s keeping time for a memory you can’t outrun.

You stare at the ceiling and imagine him still outside. Poolside. Beer bottle sweating in his hand, gaze fixed on the horizon like it holds answers. Maybe he’s wondering why you didn’t let him kiss you. He propably isn’t. You never know how deep his thoughts go when you’re not in the room. And you’re not sure which version hurts more.

You close your eyes. Try not to think about the answer.

You wake up to too much light. The kind of light that doesn’t soften—it sharpens. It cuts. It pours through the shutters like judgment, golden and brutal. You hate how the sun here always feels like it’s watching you. Like it knows.

You make it downstairs still half-asleep, barefoot, wearing a too-big T-shirt that isn’t his but might as well be. Faded navy, soft with years of wash. You wore it in the summers before. He once said it made you look like summer personified. You pretended it didn’t make your stomach twist when he said things like that.

At the breakfast table, your mother presses a mug into your hand. “Drink, ma chérie. You look pale.”

You mumble a merci, too tired to fake much warmth. The smell of coffee is grounding, almost. Until someone laughs and makes a joke about the playlist. Something about how it's still full of the same French indie tracks from five years ago. Still Charles’s. Still yours in ways you try not to think about.

You chew your toast slowly. You laugh when you’re supposed to. You answer questions about work, about London, about whether or not you’re seeing anyone. You lie easily. You’ve had practice. Everyone’s too sun-drunk to notice the cracks.

But the weight of past summers clings to you like wet linen, heavy, clinging, impossible to shake. It’s in the way your skin prickles under his name, even when you don’t hear it. In the way you keep checking the patio door without meaning to.

And for a second, for just a blink, you let yourself wonder if maybe this year will be different. Maybe he won’t behave the same way. Maybe, just maybe, this is the summer where the pattern finally breaks.

But of course he does.

He shows up just past noon, towel slung low around his neck like it’s a movie prop, sunglasses in his hair, his skin bronzed from the early sun. His grin is all practiced ease, sun-warmed confidence. He walks like the lawn belongs to him. Like you do.

Your stomach twists. Not in hate. Not in longing. Something murkier. Something like resignation.

He looks right at you.

“What you looking at, chérie?” he says, the lilt of his voice just teasing enough to make it sting.

Your eyes meet. Just for a second too long.

Then he drops into the chair across from you, legs spread, posture loose and open like you’re already in his lap. He sips from a drink someone handed him and then slides his foot under the table. It nudges yours once. Then again. Then trails just a bit higher up your shin.

You shift your leg away like it burns.

He notices. His eyebrows pull in slightly, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. He doesn’t say anything.

Later, it’s just the two of you again. The house is quiet, naps and errands, people scattered. You’re in the kitchen refilling water bottles, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a swim you took alone.

He walks in like he owns the walls. Leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching you.

“Pourquoi tu m’évites?” Why are you avoiding me?

You screw the cap on too tightly. You feel the twist in your wrist. “I’m not.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something colder beneath it now. “Didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t even look at me.”

You raise your gaze to the window. “You didn’t say anything worth replying to.”

He blinks, once. A slow reaction, like he’s recalibrating. You can feel the moment his confidence falters, but just slightly.

“You mad at me?” he asks, softer now.

You finally look at him, and it lands heavy. Your voice is steady. “No.”

He pushes off the counter. Takes a slow step forward. Then another. He’s close now. Closer than he should be.

You take a step back. Barely. Reflex.

And that’s when the smile falls.

“You didn’t used to do that,” he says. His voice is quieter. Not a whisper, but something near it.

You shrug. “I didn’t used to think about things too much.”

The silence between you feels electric. Not like desire, like static. Like the storm that builds just before something snaps.

He stares at you for a beat. Then two.

And for the first time, maybe ever, he doesn’t have something slick to say back.

You end up by the pool again that evening. Of course you do.

It’s muscle memory by now, the tug in your chest when the sun dips low and the damn cicadas start up again, loud and constant like they’ve never stopped screaming since the first time. The water shimmers in the half-light, dappled gold giving way to deeper blue. It smells like chlorine and dusk and the faint curl of someone’s forgotten cologne in the air.

The others are gone, upstairs, passed out in the humid lull of too much rosé, or maybe out driving to the village for dessert or cigarettes or something else that doesn’t matter. The point is: it’s just the two of you.

Like always.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, feet skimming the surface, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. Again. Just as always. Again and again and again. The concrete is still warm beneath your thighs, and the silence buzzes, close and thick and unspoken.

He joins you without asking. Drops into the space beside you like he belongs there, like there was never a version of this where he didn’t. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t move it.

You feel the tension gather in your chest like a fist. It wraps around your ribs, slow and quiet and cruel. You breathe carefully, like exhaling too loudly might shatter the delicate balance of pretending you’re unaffected.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. Just lets the silence stretch, the way he always does when he wants you to come to him. When he’s too sure you will.

Then: “You remember that storm summer?” His voice is soft, nostalgic. Easy. That tone he uses when he wants you to forget what he’s done, what he hasn’t said.

You nod. Slowly.

He smiles, crooked and fond. “You were so scared, you crawled into my bed in the middle of the night.”

You remember.

You weren’t scared. Not really. You just wanted an excuse. You needed a reason to cross the hallway. Something you could say later that made it sound innocent.

You say, “I wasn’t scared.”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Sure you weren’t.”

And then he reaches for you.

It’s not rushed. Not aggressive. Just smooth, confident, the way it always is with him. Like he knows what your body wants even when your mouth says nothing. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.

His hand finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. His mouth hovers, breath warm against your skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet. He doesn’t have to.

“You want this,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. It´s not a question.

And maybe, maybe, a part of you does.

But not like this.

Not again. Not in this cycle of silence and sunburn and pretending. Not when you know how it ends. Not when he never stays.

Because what you want—really want—is for it to mean something. To be more than a summer reflex. More than a postcard memory you both abandon when September comes.

And this—his hand, his grin, his whisper—it isn’t more.

Not to him.

You pull back.

Just slightly. But enough.

His fingers fall away like he’s been burned. He blinks, slow, like the moment broke too fast for him to catch it.

“What?” he says, like it genuinely baffles him.

You swallow, throat dry. You keep your voice even. “I don´t want this. I don’t want to be your vacation habit anymore.”

His brows draw together. He leans back a little, his weight shifting. “It’s not like that.”

You laugh. But there’s no humor in it. Just sharpness. Just air escaping through something cracked.

“Of course it is,” you say. And then you stand.

You leave him there, pool lights flickering across his skin, hand still half-curled in the air like he doesn’t understand how this didn’t go the way it always does.

You don’t look back.

That night, even in sleep, it’s him.

Of course it is.

Your dreams pull you under like warm water, heavy, thick, familiar. And in them, it’s always Charles. Always that night, that specific summer, like your brain’s built a shrine to it in the back of your mind. A flickering reel of skin and salt and him, always him, undoing you in soft shadows.

You’d had sex before. Lots of it, if you’re being honest. Familiar, habitual, sometimes even fun. You knew each other’s rhythms, the little cues, a hand at the base of your spine meant he wanted it slow, a kiss to your jaw meant he wanted it now. You could read each other in darkness better than most people could in daylight.

But that night was different.

It was slower. Hungrier. Like you both knew the clock was ticking on the end of summer and neither of you could afford to waste what was left. He touched you like you were something rare. Something that might vanish if he moved too fast.

You remember the way he found you, on the balcony, legs tucked beneath you, curled in a sweatshirt that wasn’t yours. It was hisYou remember the feel of it: oversized, sun-warmed, smelling faintly of detergent.

He leaned against the balcony door, watching you for a long time before he said anything. Eyes heavy, hair a little damp, arms crossed casually like he didn’t know he was already in your bloodstream.

“Tu penses à moi?” Are you thinking about me?

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because then he crossed the space and kissed you like it was the first time all over again. Like he hadn’t already had you a dozen different ways in every spare corner of this house. His mouth was warm, coaxing, so slow it hurt. His hands gripped your thighs, tugged you closer, and you didn’t resist. You never did.

He didn’t say much. Charles never needed to. His hands said enough, sliding under his shirt on your body, over your ribs, up to your chest. He palmed you gently, thumbs grazing over skin until your breath hitched. You melted into him, easy, too easy.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You always wanted him. Even when you shouldn’t.

Inside, the house was empty. Or quiet enough to pretend it was. The others were gone, out late or asleep or too drunk to notice. The air buzzed with possibility. With risk. With heat.

He laid you down on the mattress like he was offering you to the night. Peeled your clothes off piece by piece. He looked at you like he wanted to memorize everything—every curve, every mark, the way your stomach fluttered when his fingers ghosted across your skin.

And then his mouth was on you.

You’d made a sound, sharp, startled, like something broken. He looked up at you, lips wet, hair falling into his eyes. Smirked like the devil himself.

“Tu l’aimes comme ça, hein?” You like it like that, huh?

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

He reached toward the nightstand, already moving for the drawer. But your hand caught his wrist.

You shook your head.

Soft. Certain.

His eyes flicked to yours, caught something there he hadn’t expected. Surprise bloomed into something darker, sharper.

He swore under his breath in French. “Putain…” Then louder, brow furrowed: “You serious ?”

You nodded, just once, barely.

He swore again, rougher this time, almost frustrated, but not with you. With himself. With the weight of what this meant.

And when he finally pushed into you—bare, careful, deep—you gasped, and he stilled. For one suspended second, you both just breathed, your bodies locked together like an answer to a question neither of you had been ready to ask.

You wrapped your legs around him—not from reflex, but from want. From something deeper. Like if you could just hold him close enough, if you stayed joined like this long enough, maybe something would shift. Maybe he’d stay.

And for a moment, it felt like he might.

Because this time, it wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t distant. He moved slowly, deliberately, each thrust thick with heat and something that almost felt like care. He kissed you between breaths—your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth—and each one felt less like routine, more like instinct. More like he needed you.

He moaned your name, more than once. Said it like a truth he couldn’t swallow. Like it meant something now.

And you let yourself answer—soft noises, whispered pleas, arms wrapped tight around him as if to keep him from unraveling out of your life.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, breath tangled with yours. Then his hand slipped behind your neck, fingers warm and tender, and he kissed you.

Really kissed you.

Like it mattered.

And the worst part?

You let yourself believe it did.

Again.

You told yourself this time was different. That maybe all the years of almost could turn into something solid. That maybe the ache in your chest meant he felt it too.

But even as he held you, even as his mouth lingered on yours—your heart knew better.

Because even care, when it isn’t followed by clarity, still ends in confusion.

And when he fell asleep, arm wrapped around you, heavy and warm, like something that belonged, you didn’t move.

He was pressed so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath soft and steady on the curve of your neck. It should not have been comforting. Should not have made you feel wanted.

But the worst part? It was.

So you lay there, still and wide awake, your heart thudding against the silence, your body sore in places you wanted to pretend meant something. And all you could hear, through the window, through the ache, were the fucking cicadas.

You wake up drenched in sweat. The kind that feels cold even in the heat. Your shirt sticks to your back, your shorts twisted around your waist, limbs tangled in the sheets like you fought something in your sleep and lost.

Your heart pounds.

Hard. Too hard. Like he never left your body. Like he’s still in you, mouth on your skin, hands between your legs, voice in your ear. Your thighs clench involuntarily. You hate the way it makes your stomach twist.

It disgusts you.

Not the memory. Not exactly. It’s the clarity of it. The precision. The way your body betrays you with perfect recall. The way the ghost of him still clings, under your nails, behind your knees, at the hollow of your throat.

You roll over too fast, kicking the sheets away. The pillow slips, flops off the side of the bed and knocks over the half-empty glass of water. You hear it before you see it.

The shatter.

Loud in the quiet.

“Fuck,” you mutter, louder than you meant. The word sticks in the humid air like smoke.

You sit up too quickly, swing your legs over the edge and try to stand. A jagged sting slices through your heel. A hot, immediate pain.

You hiss, sharper this time, “Fuck—”

You freeze mid-step, breathing through your teeth. Blood pools beneath your arch, ruby-red on white tile. It drips from you steadily, and you don’t move. Just glare at the floor like it offended you.

Then: a knock at the door.

“Chérie?”

Of course.

Charles.

“You okay?”

His voice is soft, concerned, but not panicked. You know that tone. It’s his gentle act. His default charm. You almost say “go away,” but the words never make it out.

He steps in like it’s still his place to. Like this is still routine. Like he didn’t unravel you in your sleep and leave the seams exposed.

“I heard something brea—” He stops mid-sentence. Eyes drop to your foot. To the blood. “Oh. Did you hurt yourself?”

You don’t answer right away. Your jaw is too tight. “I stepped on glass,” you say finally. “Be careful—it’s everywhere.”

He glances down. “I’m wearing shoes,” he says with a small shrug. “Don’t worry.”

You want to snap at him for it, for the casualness, the ease. But then he’s moving. Crunching glass underfoot like it’s nothing. And then suddenly he’s close—too close—and before you can protest, he’s lifting you.

Strong arms under your knees, a hand steady at your back. He carries you a few steps and sets you down gently, away from the mess, onto the other side of the bed.

“Wait here,” he says, already turning away.

And for some reason, you do.

He disappears into the bathroom without another word. You hear the familiar creak of the cabinet door, the rattle of the first-aid kit as he digs through it, the splash of water in the sink. He moves like someone who’s done this before—like someone who’s been taught to fix what he breaks, but not to stop breaking it.

When he returns, his sleeves are rolled up, and he’s carrying a damp towel, the antiseptic, tweezers, and gauze. He kneels in front of you without asking. He doesn’t sit. He kneels. And it’s stupid, but something about that posture makes your throat catch. Like penance. Like prayer.

He sets everything carefully on the edge of the bed beside your thigh, glancing up once. His eyes are unreadable. Not soft, exactly, but focused. Present.

His fingers hover over your foot.

“Don’t move,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You try not to.

But when he touches the first shard, you jolt, sharp and involuntary. Pain flares, quick and bright. You suck in a breath through your teeth. Tears burn before you can stop them. One escapes, streaking hot down your cheek.

“Fuck,” you whisper, trembling.

His hands still. “Sorry,” he says, this time with real quiet behind it. “Just a little longer.”

You nod, eyes shut tight.

He goes back in, slow now, precise. The tweezers move delicately, and his other hand steadies your ankle. His thumb rubs absent circles on your skin, maybe without realizing it. Maybe on purpose. You don’t know which would be worse.

You need something to hold onto. Anything. Your hand finds his shoulder, fingers curling into the warm fabric of his shirt, gripping harder than you mean to. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comment.

The last shard comes free, and you feel the pressure ease. He presses the towel to your foot, then tapes the gauze gently in place, wrapping it secure, snug—but not tight.

Then, just when you think it’s over, he does something unexpected.

He leans down.

And kisses your ankle.

Light. Warm. Unforgivable.

Your breath catches. You stare at him, but he doesn’t look up right away. He brushes his fingers once more along your calf, and finally speaks, voice low, coaxing:

“You’re good now.”

But he doesn’t move away.

He lingers, still holding your leg, thumb brushing slow arcs against your skin.

“I can make you forget the pain,” he murmurs, as his lips press higher, just a little. A kiss to the curve of your calf. Then another, slow, deliberate, just below your knee.

“Charles…” It’s barely a breath. A warning with no teeth.

But he keeps going.

His mouth moves up your leg with agonizing care, each kiss another spark in the dark. Your hand stays on his shoulder, palm flat now, a soft push. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to ask.

He pauses.

Lifts his head. His breath skims your thigh. His eyes find yours—dark, wide, a flicker of something earnest or maybe just expertly disguised want.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

The question is simple. The silence that follows is not.

You look at him. His hair is a mess, sticking out in soft, familiar directions. His expression is almost boyish. Expectant. You hate that you can’t tell if it’s real. If any of this is.

You should say yes.

You should scream it.

But you don’t.

You say nothing.

And he smirks—small, knowing. That same smirk from every summer before.

You lie there wondering how the hell you got here again.

Wondering when wanting stopped being a choice, and just became something your body did, on cue, on instinct, like muscle memory carved too deep to unlearn.

Because it isn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not like guilt twisted up in your gut. Not like shame blooming in your chest before he’s even touched you properly.

But he does. Touch you, that is. Slowly. With precision, with purpose. His mouth drags higher along the inside of your thigh, teasing you, coaxing you open. Your breath stutters. Your legs part like a reflex, and that’s when it happens, he slips a hand under your shorts and pushes your panties aside with a confidence that makes your stomach curl.

You should stop him. You’re thinking it, you know you are.

But then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Open. Patient.

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, and your hips twitch helplessly toward him. His hand presses gently to your stomach, grounding you like he knows what you need even before you do. You feel the press of his palm, firm and familiar, the faint scrape of his stubble against the inside of your thigh. It makes you shiver.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

What are you doing?

But then he moans softly into you, like the taste of you is something he's missed, like it's the only thing that matters. And your thoughts splinter, because the thing about Charles is, he doesn’t need much to undo you. One sound, one breath, one flick of his tongue, and you’re unraveling like you never learned how to hold yourself together.

His mouth moves with a purpose now—slow but relentless, teasing you open, licking you soft and wet and dizzy until your hands scramble for something—anything—to hold onto. The sheets. His shoulders. The edge of the mattress.

You feel yourself slipping under, pulled into the tide of him again. You gasp, his name breaks from your lips unbidden, and you hate how natural it feels, how familiar.

He doesn’t stop.

He never does.

He keeps going like he wants to wring every shiver from your bones, every gasp from your lungs. And when you come, sharp and loud and trembling, he hums like he’s satisfied, like he owns it.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth glistens and his eyes are blown wide, dark with want. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and climbs over you without a word, sliding into the space between your thighs like it was carved out for him.

Your body reaches for him before you can stop it. Your fingers find his jaw, your mouth parts for his kiss. You want to push him away, but you’re already pulling him closer.

He kisses you slow, like he’s trying to make you forget the ache, the history, the truth. His hand finds your chest, warm and heavy, palm pressing into your skin until you gasp into his mouth. He drinks it down greedily.

“Want you,” he murmurs into your throat. “Right now.”

You close your eyes. It’s too late. You’re already here.

“You already have me,” you say. And it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all summer.

He exhales, shaky. You feel his body stutter for a second, like your words land somewhere deep in him, a hit he didn’t expect. You don’t know if it’s guilt or triumph that flashes across his face.

Then everything unravels.

He pushes his pants down, yours follow, and it happens in a blur, like your bodies are moving faster than your minds can keep up. You’re already wet, already open, and when he pushes into you, slow and full and unbearably deep, both of you make a sound like it hurts.

Maybe it does.

You wrap around him without thinking. Like instinct. Like gravity. He fucks you slow at first, deliberate, like he’s trying to savor it. And for a moment, it almost feels real.

Almost tender. But there's a wall there, always has been something unreachable behind his eyes.

Still, your hand finds his. Fingers lace tight. Foreheads press together.

Your name breaks from his lips again, softer this time—like a question, like a prayer. His pace falters. His jaw tightens. And then something in him gives. He pushes deeper, harder, with that desperate edge—like he’s trying to reach the parts of you he never could. Like he wants to leave something behind in you, something only he can claim.

You come again, your body wrung out, face turned into the pillow to muffle the sound. You bite down so hard you taste copper. This one is different. It burns. It's grief threaded through pleasure—like mourning disguised as release. A goodbye, dressed up in want.

He finishes seconds later, his face pressed into your neck, breath short and uneven. He doesn't say your name this time.

He just breathes, still buried in you.

Then, quietly, he says, “That’s what I missed.”

You feel it like a blade. The tears sting instantly, blurring the edges of the room. He kisses your shoulder—soft, almost reverent—and asks, “Do you want me to stay?”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

When you do, it’s a whisper: “No.”

He’s still for a second. Then he kisses your cheek, almost like a thank-you, and stands.

"See you tomorrow, chérie."

Just like that.

No apology. No fight. No closing of the space he just carved open.

You hear the rustle of fabric, the zipper. He doesn’t look back. He’s already halfway dressed before you even sit up.

Your skin is sticky with sweat, with him. The sheets twisted around your legs. The silence.

Except it isn’t silent.

The goddamn cicadas are screaming outside.

You wake with the taste of him still lingering on your tongue—salt and sweat and the bitter afterburn of regret. You haven’t even opened your eyes yet and already you feel it, clawing up your throat: the self-loathing, the ache, the heavy hush of shame that no shower can scrub away.

You feel hollow. Stupid. Bruised in places no one can see.

You don’t cry. You’re past crying. Past pleading. There’s nothing left in your chest but the slow, dull throb of disappointment.

Mostly at yourself.

By the time the sun finds its angle across the pool deck, you’ve already been sitting out there for hours. Skin hot, eyes dry, limbs leaden with the weight of what you’re about to say. You've gone over it a hundred times, every word, every beat, every possible way to get through it without shaking.

You hear him before you see him. Flip-flops against tile. A yawn, too casual. Then the creak of the lounge chair as he lowers himself beside you, like nothing’s changed. Like you didn't break open under him last night and wake up full of splinters.

He stretches, scratches the back of his neck. Glances at you sideways.

“Sleep okay?”

His voice is easy. Too easy. Like you’re strangers playing house. Like he didn’t kiss you with shaking hands. Like he didn’t leave without saying a word.

You don’t answer the question. You just say it.

“I meant what I said yesterday.”

He pauses. “What?”

“That I don’t want to be your summer vacation habit.”

“Didn’t feel like that last night.”

And there it is.

You turn to him, slow. Eyes burning. Voice steady.

“You only wanna kiss by the pool,” you say, the words landing heavier than you expected. “When you’re in the mood. When the sky’s pink and the water’s warm and no one else is looking.”

He shifts but doesn’t speak. The silence between you buzzes — thick with the motherfucking cicadas, thick with every version of you that said yes when she should’ve said nothing.

“You want me to talk like your maman in French,” you go on, “soft and sweet and half-wrapped in fantasy. Like I’m something you can visit, not someone you choose.”

His jaw clenches.

“And you just wanna vibe—sometimes. Not all the time. God forbid you actually have to keep me in your mind when I’m not right in front of you.”

The hurt flashes across his face this time. Brief, but real. But you’re already past it.

His voice comes soft, defensive: “C’est pas vrai…” It’s not true

But it is. God, it is.

“You were calling me to your room,” you say. “I always answered right away.”

You pause, then say it plain:

“But you never made me stay.”

He reaches for your name like it’s a solution. Like if he says it soft enough, it’ll stitch something back together.

But you shake your head.

“Don’t.”

And this time, he listens.

You stand. Not with hope. Not with heartbreak. But with the aching stillness of someone finally done romanticizing their own loneliness.

You leave him there. In the blue-glow hush of a memory too fragile to carry. In a summer you won’t write poems about anymore. With the soft chirps of cicadas arround him.

general tag list

@mara1999 @random-movie

#beautiful and devestating #l'angoisse parfaite de l'été #charles leclerc

579 notes · View notes

thinkingboute · 8 months ago

Text

would you? | harry styles x model!oc

summary: The show goes off without a hitch, but Lina's interaction with Harry before clouds her mind. At the after party, she takes one for the team when Gigi tries to get in with other One Direction member, Zayn Malik. Ironic meetings lead to a first date. Part 3 of the Masks series.

part 1 here! part 2 here!

warnings: mentions of drugs, disordered eating, vomit, anxiety, alcohol, allusions to sex

a/n: This one was so much fun to write! The parts are getting longer from here.I hope you like it!

word count: about 2.4k

Holy shit these were some high heels.

Lina danced in place, shaking the nerves that wracked her body as she prepared to walk the stage. Sweat accumulated beneath the bra and underwear---if you could even call them that. Gilded Angels was the theme this year and, goddamn, did Lina feel absolutely gilded.

The set she wore was less fabric and more faux metal. It appeared that gold had been molded to cup her breasts, pushing them up beyond what she ever thought possible. Her wings were white, like Biblical angel wings, with gold dusted tips. Gold heels wove their way up her calves like Greek sandals. She felt holy. And really fucking hot---in both ways.

Taylor Hill, who was opening the show, shimmied behind the curtains, lost in the heavy fabric. It was clearly go time, which usually spurred Lina to focus and quit her nervous movement. Today, she couldn’t calm herself down. Pictures of that messy haired Brit flooded her mind. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little excited to walk past him in this outfit.

You look good.

That’s what he said to her just an hour ago. Her head was covered in curlers, robe disheveled, eyes closed. She was giddy at the thought of him seeing her all done up. I look better than good now.

Lina squealed as two strong hands shook her shoulders from behind. “Let’s fucking go, Li!” Gigi shrieked, smacking a kiss to her cheek. The girls laughed, jumping up and down. Gigi had a way of making everything seem like just a game.

“Don’t fuck up my hair, Gi,” Lina said, giggling. Gigi’s hands spun Lina to face her.

Ignoring her comment, Gigi grabbed her face. “I don’t walk until Taylor’s on stage,” she said, clearly excited to walk while her friend performed. Lina had become quite used to being surrounded by stars, but she was a little too excited at the thought of talking to Taylor Swift. She and Gigi had become close since the Oscars earlier that year, and Lina was hoping that would give her and in.

“I walk in…” Lina searched the room for a clock. “Four minutes.”

“I saw you talking to Harry Styles earlier,” Gigi whispered, wiggling her brows. “You seemed to be laughinggg and smilinggg and…” she lowered her voice even more, “flirtinggg…”

“Ugh, leave me alone,” Lina rolled her eyes. “We met at that masquerade thing in October.” Gigi covered her mouth with a hand.

“Why didn’t you te---”

“Because there’s nothing to tell.” Gigi started again but Lina put a hand up. “Really, it wasn’t my best moment. He was just teasing me about it earlier.” Gigi wiggled her brows again. “I was puking in the men’s bathroom, Gi. If there was ever a chance in hell he would be into me, it’s long gone.”

“I’m going to pretend that’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard today,” Gigi said, a crease appearing between her brows. “Anyway, if he really thought you were that weird, he probably would’ve stayed far away from you today. But he didn’t.” Her laugh was more of a hehe.

“I can barely look him in the eye. God, that was terrible, I---” Lina was interrupted by her name being called by the show’s producers. “Time to go. I talk to you later, baby.”

Lina’s hand was pulled towards the curtains. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to center herself as hand flew all around her, adjusting her wings, tousling her hair, and freshening her gloss.

Lina recognized the song she was set to walk out to. Rock Me. She didn’t think One Direction would have songs that would fit a VS show. They were so…teenage girl. But this song was a bit dirtier, and it had a nice beat. She put on her super sexy and poised model mask and stepped out from behind the curtain.

The band members were scattered about the runway. Her eyes found Harry at the end immediately. Her shoulders thrown back, she began her walk, smiling and winking at the boys she passed by. She thought one of her wings may have wacked Niall in the face, but she tried not to think much about it.

She reached Harry after what seemed like a decade of walking. She was too nervous to look him in the eye. She wondered if, when he looked at her now, he still saw the puking corpse he saw a few months ago.

Harry was certainly not hurting for confidence. He grabbed her hand and spun her around, leading her to walk back down the runway. Lina, as hard as it was, kept up her flirty persona, looking back over her shoulder to wink at him before slowly letting go of his hand. The walk back felt a bit like flying.

The rest of the show went by in a blur. It was Gigi’s first time walking the show, but no one would’ve been able to tell. Her confidence oozed through every pore of her perfect face. When she got off the stage, she was bouncing off the walls, ready to find some sort of shit food to consume ASAP.

But there was an after party to attend. Lina peeled herself out of her outfit, carefully handing it to the women who surrounded her, ready to rip it from her hands. It wasn’t strange to be naked in front of so many people anymore. She’d been doing it since she was 16. She tried not to think about that part too much.

Her new outfit consisted of a vintage VS slip, of course, with some artfully ripped tights, and heeled boots that cut off just below the knee. With her hair thrown back loosely into a pony, she felt sufficiently prepared to face her first celebrity party since the ball.

Darren congratulated her on (his words) another fantastic show. She smiled, mind elsewhere, and got into the car, whose door he held open.

The ride to the venue was not more than 15 minutes, but for all Lina knew, it could’ve been hours. Her mind was set on exactly what she would say to Harry when she saw him, because she knew she’d see him. His band was full of a bunch of 20 something boys. They would not pass up the opportunity to go to a party full of drinks and models.

Darren noticed her not-quite-on-Earth-ness and waved a hand in front of her face. She swatted at it, rolling her eyes.

“Thinking about that One Way kid?” he asked.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Darren?” Lina snorted.

“Whatever, the British kid with the hair. I don’t care to know more about him that I have to.”

“You don’t have to know anything.”

“When he comes to your room tonight, or you go to his, it will be my job to know about him.”

Lina blushed and buried her face in her hands. “Darren, you perv!”

“Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to think about these things. But I saw him leaning on that table earlier, like he’s some sort of Elvis. It was embarrassing how hard he was trying, honestly.”

“I told you about our…run in in October, right? He was just making fun of me,” She said still not looking at him. “And, not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t make it a habit of going to any guys room before I’ve been taken on a proper date.”

It was Darren’s turn to cover his face. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can we please stop talking about this? It feels like discussing my sex life with my father.”

Darren winced. “I’d love nothing more.”

The car pulled up to the hotel the party was taking place in. Although it was dark, it was hard not to spot it. A massive crowd of paparazzi was piled on the steps to the entrance.

“Fucking perfect.”

Darren slid out of the car, opening the door for Lina. She stepped out, careful not to let any of them snap a picture underneath her dress. She smiled and waved, but didn’t stop for pictures. Darren cut through the crowd, leading her to the door.

The bar and room surrounding it was strangely reminiscent of the hall that held the masquerade ball. This time, thankfully, Lina was sure she was not going to puke on anyone. She was sure to stop Darren from grabbing her bag before she stepped closer to the bar. She wanted a Cosmo.

“Liiiiinaaaaaa,” a singsong voice called from behind her. Gigi appeared at her side, face flushed. She seemed to be a few drinks in already. Lina was excited to catch up. “We’re gonna be sisters-in-law!”

Lina’s eyes widened at that. “My brother is 14, Gi. That’s a little gross.”

Gigi snorted, limply swatting at her shoulder. “I didn’t even know you had a brother, idiot. I mean that I have my eye,” she used two fingers to gesture at her eyes, “on tall, dark, and handsome.” She pointed at Zayn Malik, who chatted with a couple guys across the room.

Lina laughed, “Oh, do you?”

“Yes, I do. And you’re gonna get with the other one, right? Then, we’ll be sisters! Metaphorically, anyway.” Lina didn’t bother dismissing Gigi’s suggestion; she just laughed. “C’mon, c’mon!”

“My drink---” Gigi pulled Lina across the room before she could finish her protest, not too close to Zayn, but near enough that they could see him. They leaned against the corner of a wall, observing. “Do you plan to summon him with your mind?”

“No, no, I’m just waiting for my moment,” Gigi whispered. Lina laughed, glancing around the other corner of the wall. There were a few doors lining the walls, but it was otherwise pretty empty. A gasp had her turning her head back to her friend. “He’s walking this way! Go, go, go!” Gigi pushed Lina around the other side of the wall and followed her. “Wait, wait, you can’t be here! Get in there, just for a minute before I get him to come with me somewhere else.” Lina didn’t have a second to say anything before she was shoved into one of the rooms.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

Lina turned around, taking in the room around her, her eyes catching on the pearly urinals.

Harry was looking at her, paper towel clasped in his hands as he dried them. He laughed at Lina’s widened eyes.

“Are you planning to keep your head out of the toilet,” he asked, tossing the paper towel into the bin. “The sink too, I supposed.”

Lina groaned turning to brace herself on the cool, wooden door. “I swear, this was not my idea.”

Harry laughed from behind her. “I should hope not.” He made to move towards the door to leave, but Lina whipped around, placing a hand on his chest.

“We can’t leave,” she whispered.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, this isn’t the most sanitary place, and I don’t have a condom but---”

Lina made an ‘ack’ sound before lightly pushing him away from her. “Don’t be weird.” Harry put his hands up in defense. “My friend is out there…with your friend.”

“I’m sure we can come up with a reason other than sex to explain us leaving the bathroom together.”

“Harry, I’m being serious!” Lina said, exasperated. “She pushed me in here because she wants to…talk to your friend.”

“Which friend?”

“Zayn.”

“He doesn’t say much, so that conversation should be over now.” He moved towards the door once again, but Lina grabbed his wrist this time. “She’s pretty drunk, and she’d be pretty pissed if I interrupted her shot. She said she’ll try to get him to go somewhere else as soon as she can.” Harry stifled a laugh. “We can leave soon. Just, I don’t know, be quiet and don’t, like, do anything weird.”

“Me? Do something weird?” he exclaimed, faux defensiveness causing Lina to roll her eyes. “I’m not sure I’m the one to worry about here, woman in the men’s bathroom.”

Lina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Not on purpose.”

“Last time, sure it wasn’t,” Harry said lowly. Lina was keenly aware of her grip that remained on Harry’s wrist. “This time…I think you just wanted to get me alone.” He was closer now, breath fanning her face, alcohol and mint filling her nose.

“I could get you alone in a less…strange way if I wanted to.” Lina couldn’t look at him, so she examined the holes in her tights.

“Would you, though?” His voice lowered even more. She wasn’t sure how much lower it could get before it was more of a growl.

Wow, these tights really were artfully ripped. The perfect place for a tear really is just above the knee. She liked her knees, she supposed, but knees were a little weird overall---

“Carolina.”

“Lina.”

“What?”

“I prefer Lina.”

“Alright, Lina. Wanna answer my question?”

Lina’s breath hitched in her throat. She didn’t know what to say. She would not sleep with him tonight, especially not in this bathroom. But that didn’t stop her from thinking about it. She was starting to feel a little warm.

Harry made to ask her again, but the door banged open, causing the both of them to stumble back and away from one another. Gigi’s eyes widened before she smiled mischievously.

“I am leeeaving, LiLi!”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Gi.” She was maybe a little too drunk to go anywhere with any man.

“No, no, I don’t mean like that,” she giggled. “Zayn said that if I got some rest tonight, he would see me tomorrow.” Lina was a bit surprised at that. “So! I’m leaving!”

“Why don’t I go with you? Just to be sure you’re alright,” Lina asked, hopeful it would get her out of answering anymore questions tonight.

She felt Harry’s eyes on her as Gigi replied, “Oh, sure. Only…” her eyes flitted between the two of them, “If you want to.”

“It’s no problem, really, honey.” Lina felt a little guilty for leaving like this, but really, she was nervous. She’d had a few flings here and there after her rise to fame, but she never had the time to pursue them further. She was a bit rusty, now.

“Alright!” Gigi turned to leave the bathroom as Lina looked in the opposite direction, towards the man behind her.

“I’ll answer your question after dinner, Styles.”

He smiled a small, amused smile. “It’s a date.”

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