.·´¯`·.·*.✧ 𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒍 ✧.*·.·`¯´·.

“you're so romantic when you don't need to be,” you reply, lifting your finger. his turns to look at you, brown eyes finding yours.

“why'd you stop?”

“i don't know,” you shrug. “felt like i was disturbing your peace.”

vernon takes your hand and places it on his chest. you feel his heart under your fingers. steady. constant.

“that's weird. because you're...”

you know it's too much. he knows it's too much. but you wait for him to continue.

and he does.

“you're my peace.”

you can't help the startled laugh you let out. it's a statement so unlike vernon, but it's exactly what he'd say to make you laugh. and it's worked like a charm.

he winces. “too much?”

you nod. “a little. i don't mind hearing it again, though.”

“hm. i'll consider it.”

you roll your eyes and cuddle closer to him, peeking at whatever he had been doing before you started your little game.

watching a cat video. of course.

“that's us,” he says, pointing to the pair of cats that are intertwined with each other, one's head nestled into the other's neck.

“you say that about everything, though,” you complain jokingly, your heart beating a little faster. “last week you sent me a picture of two socks and said it was us.”

“that's because it was us,” he says, scrolling to the next video. “we're always together. just like how you tie them together when you do the laundry.”

“but...they're socks.”

“exactly. we don't need to match to be a pair, babe. you could be the craziest, coolest christmas-style sock and i could be a plain grey sock and we'd still work. because it's us.”

“oh,” you say, tears stinging your eyes. vernon looks up at the tremble in your voice, dropping his phone to hold your face in your hand.

“are you cr—”

“no!” you exclaim, a little shrill. “just...dust.”

“oh. right.”

“allergies, you know?”

“all of a sudden? come on,” he says, kissing your forehead. “you know i'd never make fun of you for crying.”

“stop being so romantic when i'm not ready for it,” you say, trying to wipe the lone tear straying down your face.

vernon is faster; he wipes it off with his thumb and kisses the spot. “noted. i'll warn you five seconds before i become the cheesiest person you know.”

“thank you,” you sniff, burrowing yourself in his side. “and, hey, vern?”

“yeah?”

🤎

Vernon’s eyes opened way too early. Earlier than he wanted them to, at least. He groaned and tried to roll over, but something stopped him.

You.

He let his eyes stay open for a moment longer, just catching a glimpse of you, and then he intended to bury his head in your pillow and go back to sleep.

He really intended to.

But your face danced through the dark, the warmth of your shoulder pressed against his, and he cracked his eyes back open.

Your eyes glittered at him, even in the dim light peeking around the edges of the curtains. You smiled. How long had you been awake? How long had you been watching him?

“Good morning,” you whispered as he stared. Your nose bumped his. He blinked. You giggled. “You still sleepy?”

He just nodded, mute. How did you look so good in the morning? You were glowing. (Maybe it was just his tired brain.) But you definitely looked amazing. Maybe he liked you better this way, even better than last night in your dress and makeup and everything. This was nice. Really nice. You in his old white tee, loose on your shoulders, stained with tomato sauce that he never could get out. Somehow you made it look good. It reminded him of your lipstick. Of your lips. Of your…

Everything dipped to black for a moment.

“You’re adorable.”

His eyes snapped back open. “What?” he tried to ask, but only a strangled mumble came out. Your smile widened, fuzzy as he tried to focus.

“You’re so sleepy,” you cooed, fingers tickling at his cheek. He wasn’t awake enough to protest. He didn’t think he could even move his face – except for his eyelids, which kept trying to close, and he had to force them back open. You giggled again. “You don’t have to stay awake,” you said softly. You cupped his cheek, palm warm and fingertips cold, and he almost faded back into sleep at how comfortable it was. How relaxing.

But he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to stay awake. So he forced his eyes open and just looked at you, because he didn’t trust his mouth to work right just yet.

Your smile grew. “Oh. Look at you. Adorable.” Your thumb rubbed against the apple of his cheek, and he worried for a moment that his eyes might roll back in his head, but your quiet hum brought him back. “Seriously, Nonie, you can just sleep, though,” you murmured, a little smile on your pretty lips. “It’s okay. We’ve got a slow morning.”

But I like you, he wanted to say. I love you. I wanna look at you. Touch you. Feel you. I want you. I’m just… sleepy. But I want you.

Instead, he just frowned as well as he could with the fog in his brain.

The most dazzling expression of pure love blossomed in your eyes, and you squished his cheek, pressing him gently into his pillow. He could’ve stayed there forever, with his vision half obscured but your love for him still so overwhelmingly tangible that he could see it and feel it and drown in it.

“Here, what about a compromise, since you can barely keep your eyes open?” You pulled your hand away, and he blinked in protest, but you just shifted the blankets around your legs and inched closer. Your knees bumped his as you propped yourself up on one elbow and smiled down at him, and he thought that if you were the sun, he wouldn’t really mind the morning.

As it was, he was starting to not mind the morning at all.

“Just close your eyes, baby; you can rest,” you whispered, leaning closer. Vernon didn’t want to. He wanted to stay awake and stare at you for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of his life.

Then your lips brushed against his skin, just next to his eye, and the last ounce of resistance faded. His eyes drifted shut.

You kissed him again, soft kisses, peppering all over. His cheek. His nose. His chin. Once, his eyelid; one feather-light kiss that would have made him flinch if he was any less drowsy.

“Back,” you murmured, lips brushing the base of his ear, and a single finger against his shoulder was all it took for him to roll onto his back, arms falling open against the mattress. The sounds of shifting blankets filled his ears, but your breath stayed warm and light against his cheek, so he didn’t bother looking. He trusted you. He’d wait. (Not to mention that he still couldn’t muster the strength to open his eyes.)

The sudden pressure of your weight across his hips, your knees pressing into his waist, was almost enough to lend him the strength, but then your lips captured his, and whatever strength he had melted away.

You kissed him sweetly, lovingly, like a sunrise over the water or whipped cream on french toast. (Somehow that made sense in Vernon’s sleep-addled brain. Or kiss-drunk brain. Possibly both.) Your lips were a little chapped, but only a little, and Vernon could swear he felt them softening as you pulled away and kissed him again.

Gentle fingers brushed his cheek, threading up into his hair, as your weight settled more heavily onto his stomach. He didn’t mind. He’d take your weight any day, as long as it meant you were there with him. It was worth it. All worth it. So worth it.

“Is this okay?” you murmured into his mouth, and his lips parted but he couldn’t make words come. He just nodded, your fingers tangled in his hair, his nose and lips bumping into yours. He couldn’t do much else. Sleep still tugged at him, pulling his eyes into darkness, and with the last of his functionality, he tilted his chin up in search of your lips. He was met with a breathy chuckle that pulsed over his cheek. “Alright, alright; relax,” you said, soothing, nails scratching gentle circles against his scalp. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You can just rest, okay? Just rest. Let me love you.”

Any last semblance of tension or effort drained from his body with a shaky sigh (not a whine) that you met with a kiss. A gentle kiss, just like the last one; tender and quiet and caressing, accentuated with a hum that made his whole mouth buzz.

Wow, he loved you. So much. So unbelievably much.

When you finally broke away, he just… breathed. Shakily, he knew; but there wasn’t much else he could do. Not with you, like this, when you’d just kissed the life out of him and were coming back for more –

He faded into the mattress, his world shrinking to the sleep behind his eyes and the warm press of your lips. You shifted your weight and cupped both his cheeks in your hands, and he fell further into this stupor, drifting somewhere in the middle of everything – awake, asleep; alive, ascended. It didn’t matter anymore.

You broke away. Your thumb swept against his lower lip, wiggling it back and forth playfully, and he tried to laugh but really only got as far as a shaky exhale. You giggled. He tried to crack a heavy eye open, but then your lips were on his cheek, and he couldn’t.

“You’re adorable,” you whispered, and then you kissed his other cheek. “Handsome.” The corner of his mouth. “Funny. You always know just when to make me laugh.” The tip of his nose, as warmth crawled up his neck. He didn’t quite want to open his eyes now, even if he could; seeing the love he knew was in your eyes might just make him combust.

“I love how you’re always ready to help me cook, even though you hate it.”

Just above his eyebrow.

“I love how willing you are to play along when I’m being silly. Like this.”

The corner of his eye.

“I love how caring you are. Even if you don’t seem like it, you notice everything. And you help,” you murmured, lips brushing along his jaw. “You always bring a jacket everywhere, but you never wear it. It’s just for me. And it’s the sweetest. Thing. Ever.” Three kisses to the underside of his jaw. Maybe it was the darkness, the fact that his eyes were nearly glued shut, but everything felt… more. His skin tingled. Almost tickled.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered into his ear, your cheek flush against his. Your fingers toyed with his ears, slipped into his hair, and he had to do something. He couldn’t just lie here, silent and half asleep, letting you compliment him and kiss him and love him without doing anything in return.

But Vernon was half asleep. And probably kiss-drunk, or something like that. He wasn’t entirely sure anymore that he wasn’t dreaming.

He did it, though. It took far too much effort. But he did it.

He lifted his hand, his heavy leaden hand, and caught hold of your hip. Your waist. Just enough to rest there, as you giggled into his ear, fingers slipping from his hair to grip his bicep. His fingers twitched at your waist. Then, a few thoughts later, he squeezed intentionally, just strong enough to say thank you. I love you. Well – he hoped.

[ ɢɪʟᴍᴏʀᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ ] ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ | @magewritesstories

ᝰ Jess Mariano

Night visitor | @sourcherryandsprinkles

pumpkin spice drinks | @/sourcherryandsprinkles

Fluff | @mirclealignr

Belle of the Ball | @leossmoonn

jess surprises you by taking you to a starts hallow event

Sweet on Her | @thegettingbyp2

A Matter of Time | @/thegettingbyp2

We’re Not Friends | @/thegettingbyp2

jess mariano headcanons | @pprettypinkprincesss

i can fix him (no really i can) | @wordsarelife

jess got into another fight and you’re about to clean his wounds, but he has other plans, tired of always answering your questions

fem!doose!reader

Bibliophile | @merlieve

Jess says something about how it’s a shame that people arent as beautiful and interesting as books, but he looks at [Name] and realizes that she could be the only person who could be compared to the books he loves.

she’s my collar : | @/merlieve

good looking | @greyyson-but-no

The look of love | @aribluedreams

Jess decided it was a good idea to give you a gift... even if that makes him look like a soft boy infront of you.

Everyone Place Your Bets | @awriterinthenight

You and Jess were just friends, right? Even though everyone was constantly betting on when you'd get together

i heard you were sick | @iamgonnagetyouback

not naïve | @/iamgonnagetyouback

ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ | @/magewritesstories

jess moves back to stars hollow to open a new branch of truncheon books in his hometown, and tries not to murder the girl living in the apartment above him and the town enjoys watching another grumpy business owner fall in love with a bubbly inn manager.

Confessions Between the Pages | @ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes

History Repeats Itself | @corrodedcoffins-blog

Being a teen mom is hard but without any help it’s even harder, after saving up enough she can finally move to Stars Hollow to be closer to her baby’s father

NOT A GAME | @iwritefandomimagines

the playful banter was fun at first, but the line had blurred so long ago that you were starting to get sick of wondering how jess really felt. luckily for you, he’s been thinking the same thing.

MISTLETOE | @/iwritefandomimagines

when lorelai gilmore insists on hosting a christmas party, you might just catch yourself under the mistletoe with the boy you, like, totally don’t have a crush on or anything.

ROMANTIC GESTURE | @/iwritefandomimagines

jess wasn’t going to buy your easter basket and risk the embarrassment of his potentially unrequited feelings. so instead, he pays kirk to buy it so he can steal you away.

NOTES | @/iwritefandomimagines

after months of mutual pining, jess arrives at luke’s having read your favourite novel. oh, and he has some notes.

“Are you cold?” | @eminems-skittles

The library | @graysnetwork

Jess is turning into a great student and Luke not lorelai can think of a reason he’s become an amazing kid all of a sudden.

Kiss it to make it better | @hisathingwfeathers

when you accidentally hurt yourself, your boyfriend is there to worry, and patch you up.

these are the days …  | @lovings4turn

a couple of days in the life with your boyfriend

POISON | @hyunjin1e

jess has always kept to himself. never cared to like a girl since it “wasted his time,” but when he meets her…

Pop of Colour | @fandoms--fluff

Jess asks you paint his nails

a change in attitude  | @wasabidottie

"don't go on that date"  | @eminems-skittles

ᝰ Logan Huntzberger

“The Other Gilmore Girl” | @sabrinajenre96

Logan Huntzberger x Gilmore reader

THE GREAT HALL.  | @oncasette

fake dating that turns into guy falls first.

Time will pass, but our love won’t | @leaawrites

When Logan asks Y/n the one question that could ruin their future together or make it last forever.

Maroon | @inej-ruination-ghafa

the three times you said no to his marriage proposal and the one time you didn't

ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ | @/magewritesstories

logan is in your business economics class and he absolutly does not work in class—except when you’re involved of course ;)

older!logan x reader hcs | @fbfh

receiver gets an object that the sender is asking for | @/leossmoonn

confessing his feelings | @ongaku-ato-kakikomi

Logan x reader | @/ongaku-ato-kakikomi

ᝰ Tristin Dugray

Headaches | @writerluca

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆, i can see you. | @a-aexotic

Tristin Dugray relationship and intimacy hcs | @/fbfh

tristin dugray relationship and intimacy hcs pt 2 | @/fbfh

“𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞?” | @angeldiarybook

𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧

“𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐈'𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰” | @/angeldiarybook

Tristan annoying his girlfriend at school

“Stop moving , your only making this worse” | @/leossmoonn

Pda | @moonlitmeeks

next, thank you to all my mutuals! thank you to zanna ( @slytherinshua ), skye ( @etherealyoungk ), rachel ( @bananabubble ) for being some of the people who have lent me their shoulder and showered me with love and support. thank you to my other mutuals, new and old, who have treated me with nothing but kindness and welcoming arms. you all are so endlessly talented and i know you all will accomplish amazing things in the future. i hope i can interact more with all of you in this new upcoming year <3

But as his nose catches that familiar whiff of microwaved leftovers from the kitchen𑁋one of his favourites: this curry stew he made the night before, likely reheated with care𑁋he can’t help the smile spreading across his face. 

He’s home. But more importantly, you’re home, too. And that’s all that matters. 

As he abandons his shoes by the doorway, he heads deeper into your shared apartment. It’s a place the two of you have lived in together for the past three years of marriage. And every single time he crosses into that threshold, his heart never fails to flutter when he spots the scattered signs of you throughout. The refrigerator is painted with photos of your countless trips to other countries. There’s a specific corner of the living room reserved just for you and your recent addiction in becoming a certified plant mom, with his guitar propped right next to it. 

When you both first got the place, he remembers you insisting that every room needs to have at least a splash of one unique colour. So, the blanket draped over the couch is this soft pistachio colour, the accent pillows themselves this dusty rose pink. The plates and bowls in the kitchen are a mixture of white and sage green𑁋a set you picked out during a random lazy Sunday morning visit to the home goods store, and Joshua couldn’t resist the light in your eyes as he had watched you sort them into the cupboards. 

He pads softly down the small hallway and towards your shared bedroom. He catches the sounds of some lo-fi music humming in the background from behind the door, the type of music you would always play during the night to wind down.

The door is slightly ajar when he approaches. Joshua nudges the door open slightly, golden light streaking out onto the hallway when he opens it almost fully. When he spots you standing in front of the mirror, his breath catches in his throat, and he can’t help but let his stare linger on you for a moment.

You’re clad in a silky wine red robe he had gifted you two years ago on your anniversary𑁋the same robe that always seems to short-circuit his brain a little.

Because as much as he loves it on you𑁋as selfish as it may seem𑁋he loves it when it’s off you as well. Preferably somewhere on the floor. 

But for right now, it’s on you, and damn does it always render him completely dumbfounded. Your hair is still a little damp from a shower, the small lamp on the bedside table twinkling a small sparkle to your moisturised cheekbone. Yet aside from all that, what catches his eye the most is the uncertain expression on your face as you’re gazing at your reflection in the mirror. 

Your brows are crinkled together in contemplation as you’re toying with the sash around your waist. Loosening in, tightening it, all with that defeated look to your features that finally makes Joshua step into the room fully. 

“Sweetheart?”

You jump at the voice, and you finally turn your head to see your husband coming up to you. His sleeves are halfway rolled up his arms, his shirt half-undone, revealing just the slightest glimpse of his collarbones and a hint of chest. You feel his eyes drink you in slowly the closer he approaches, and you hear your breath hitch when he settles himself right behind you.

“Hey, honey,” You mutter quietly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

A pair of large arms wrap around you from behind, your back pressing up against the ungodly warmth of his chest. Your eyes trail back to the mirror, watching as Joshua rests his head on top of your shoulder, one of his hands travelling down your waist until it stops right at where the sash is tied near your abdomen. He doesn’t tug it open. Not yet.

“It’s okay.” He sucks in a deep inhale, allowing himself to bask into your presence for a few quiet moments. “Mmmh, you smell like my lotion.”

You chuckle lightly. “I ran out of mine.”

“Good,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse and rough from earlier today. He presses a sweet kiss to your nape, smirking against your skin when he feels you tense from the contact. “Love it when my wife uses my things. Whatever’s mine is yours, anyway.”

Your cheeks burn from his words, even after all this time together. Joshua pulls back slightly to meet your eyes in the mirror, and it’s the pure softness and adoration stagnated in them that makes your stomach jump. Maybe there’s want there too𑁋yes, there’s definitely want𑁋but it isn’t demanding, or rushed. He never rushes when it comes to you. 

“Penny for your thoughts, love?” he asks, rubbing small, soothing circles into the silk at your hips. 

Your gaze lowers down to the floor in guilt. “I… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you ever say is stupid.” A kiss lands on your bare shoulder, where the robe has slid down a bit. 

You let out a sigh, shaking your head a little. “I just… I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t really… didn’t really like what I saw, I guess.” You feel his grip tighten around you as you say that. “And I know we’ve, you know, done things…”

Joshua grins devillishly. “Like, sex?”

Your face immediately flames. “Shua, you𑁋!”

“What?” He presses another kiss right below your ear, a particular spot that always makes you squirmy. “We’re married, my love. I’m unapologetically shameless to say I’ve seen all of you in every way possible.”

You groan into your hands, but you feel Joshua take one of your hands into his, placing a few apologetic kisses to your knuckles. You feel yourself melt at his affection.

“Okay, yes, I know that we’ve… made love many times.” Heat creeps up your neck at your own words. “But recently, I don’t… I don’t feel like the same woman you married years ago.”

Joshua grows quiet for a moment, but it isn’t in a way that makes you feel like you’ve said something wrong. No, it’s more like the kind of silence that settles beneath your bones. The kind of silence that only happens with him and no one else. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks lightly, breath warmth against your ear. 

You give a small nod in response. A soft, grateful smile crosses his face. 

“My love, there hasn’t been a moment since the day I met you where I thought you weren’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he continues thoughtfully. “And look where we are now, hm? We’ve grown together, we’ve changed together. The woman I married was incredible, of course. But the woman she became now? God, she’s stronger, softer, intelligent, and I thank the universe every day that she’s the one I get to come home to. I thank the world that I took my chances to ask out the beautiful barista at the cafe.” 

A fond chuckle leaves you at the memory. You remember the cute college boy who had shyly asked you for your number at the counter on a day where it had been particularly bad. God, you remember it all. When you meet his eyes in the mirror again, you feel the uncertainty that’s been sitting on your chest gradually become lighter. 

“And I’ll love every single version of you,” Joshua tells you firmly, kissing your shoulder once again. “Whether it’s five years, ten years, or fifty years from now. I’ll remind each version of you of this, too, and I will never get tired of it.”

A shiver runs down your spine, a weak laugh tumbling out of your throat. “Jeez, why are you so good at this?”

Joshua merely hums in response, bringing you more flush against him. “Perks of studying you for years.” You watch his hand in the mirror wander back to the sash on your robe, tugging on it slightly, but not to fully untie it. Not yet. “I know what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, what makes you fall apart… and what makes you come back together.” 

Your breath stutters at that. You close your eyes for a minute, allowing yourself to simply feel him. Feel his hands, feel the way his love fills your heart, and every single crevice of doubt in your body. 

You hardly register the way he spins you around to face him now. Because the second your open your eyes, you’re met with him𑁋in his full, glorious self𑁋and it steals all the air from your lungs. The smile on his face isn’t smug; it’s absolutely, irrevocably, radiant.

Joshua presses a kiss to your forehead. “Hi, beautiful.”

You blink up at him dazedly, a shy grin of your own caressing across your face when you momentarily glance down at his lips. “Hi.”

Then he dips his head down to kiss you this time. It starts off soft at first, like a gentle reminder that I’m here, always, before deepening ever so slightly. Your fingers curl into his shirt, wandering up to fumble with the remaining buttons, each one undone revealing more of the familiar planes of his chest. 

He keeps kissing you like this until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed behind, and the low hum he releases into your mouth when you sigh against him makes your knees weak. After some time, he pulls away, and his hand travels back down to the sash of your robe.

“Okay?” he asks quietly. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

Joshua takes his time untying the knot of your robe. When it’s fully loosened, he watches the way it opens like water, revealing more of the skin underneath. But he doesn’t pounce, doesn’t grope, doesn’t even let his eyes flicker down until you give him another reassuring nod. Even then, there’s only complete awe when the robe falls to the floor and he drinks you in like it’s the very first time. 

“Beautiful, every single time…” he whispers, sucking in a deep breath. “...every single damn time, love.”

As his lips meet yours once again, you find your back meeting the sheets below, his mouth never leaving yours once as he climbs up on the bed right above you. 

“I love you,” he mutters against your neck, one of his legs slotting in between yours. “Now, before, always.”

taglist (open) ʚɞ @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @eternalgyu

@lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @ryuwonieebae @wonwooz1

@planetkiimchi @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @aaniag @wootify @carlesscat-thinklogic23

@phenomenalgirl9 @mirxzii @bookyeom @parkjennykim @melodicrabbit

@bewoyewo @honglynights @bananabubble @treehouse-mouse @starshuas

@totomoshi @armycarat2612 @etherealyoungk @gigification @ahuiahoe

@svtficsarchive @lllucere @reiofsuns2001 @ppyopulii @smiileflower

But as his nose catches that familiar whiff of microwaved leftovers from the kitchen𑁋one of his favourites: this curry stew he made the night before, likely reheated with care𑁋he can’t help the smile spreading across his face. 

He’s home. But more importantly, you’re home, too. And that’s all that matters. 

As he abandons his shoes by the doorway, he heads deeper into your shared apartment. It’s a place the two of you have lived in together for the past three years of marriage. And every single time he crosses into that threshold, his heart never fails to flutter when he spots the scattered signs of you throughout. The refrigerator is painted with photos of your countless trips to other countries. There’s a specific corner of the living room reserved just for you and your recent addiction in becoming a certified plant mom, with his guitar propped right next to it. 

When you both first got the place, he remembers you insisting that every room needs to have at least a splash of one unique colour. So, the blanket draped over the couch is this soft pistachio colour, the accent pillows themselves this dusty rose pink. The plates and bowls in the kitchen are a mixture of white and sage green𑁋a set you picked out during a random lazy Sunday morning visit to the home goods store, and Joshua couldn’t resist the light in your eyes as he had watched you sort them into the cupboards. 

He pads softly down the small hallway and towards your shared bedroom. He catches the sounds of some lo-fi music humming in the background from behind the door, the type of music you would always play during the night to wind down.

The door is slightly ajar when he approaches. Joshua nudges the door open slightly, golden light streaking out onto the hallway when he opens it almost fully. When he spots you standing in front of the mirror, his breath catches in his throat, and he can’t help but let his stare linger on you for a moment.

You’re clad in a silky wine red robe he had gifted you two years ago on your anniversary𑁋the same robe that always seems to short-circuit his brain a little.

Because as much as he loves it on you𑁋as selfish as it may seem𑁋he loves it when it’s off you as well. Preferably somewhere on the floor. 

But for right now, it’s on you, and damn does it always render him completely dumbfounded. Your hair is still a little damp from a shower, the small lamp on the bedside table twinkling a small sparkle to your moisturised cheekbone. Yet aside from all that, what catches his eye the most is the uncertain expression on your face as you’re gazing at your reflection in the mirror. 

Your brows are crinkled together in contemplation as you’re toying with the sash around your waist. Loosening in, tightening it, all with that defeated look to your features that finally makes Joshua step into the room fully. 

“Sweetheart?”

You jump at the voice, and you finally turn your head to see your husband coming up to you. His sleeves are halfway rolled up his arms, his shirt half-undone, revealing just the slightest glimpse of his collarbones and a hint of chest. You feel his eyes drink you in slowly the closer he approaches, and you hear your breath hitch when he settles himself right behind you.

“Hey, honey,” You mutter quietly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

A pair of large arms wrap around you from behind, your back pressing up against the ungodly warmth of his chest. Your eyes trail back to the mirror, watching as Joshua rests his head on top of your shoulder, one of his hands travelling down your waist until it stops right at where the sash is tied near your abdomen. He doesn’t tug it open. Not yet.

“It’s okay.” He sucks in a deep inhale, allowing himself to bask into your presence for a few quiet moments. “Mmmh, you smell like my lotion.”

You chuckle lightly. “I ran out of mine.”

“Good,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse and rough from earlier today. He presses a sweet kiss to your nape, smirking against your skin when he feels you tense from the contact. “Love it when my wife uses my things. Whatever’s mine is yours, anyway.”

Your cheeks burn from his words, even after all this time together. Joshua pulls back slightly to meet your eyes in the mirror, and it’s the pure softness and adoration stagnated in them that makes your stomach jump. Maybe there’s want there too𑁋yes, there’s definitely want𑁋but it isn’t demanding, or rushed. He never rushes when it comes to you. 

“Penny for your thoughts, love?” he asks, rubbing small, soothing circles into the silk at your hips. 

Your gaze lowers down to the floor in guilt. “I… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you ever say is stupid.” A kiss lands on your bare shoulder, where the robe has slid down a bit. 

You let out a sigh, shaking your head a little. “I just… I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t really… didn’t really like what I saw, I guess.” You feel his grip tighten around you as you say that. “And I know we’ve, you know, done things…”

Joshua grins devillishly. “Like, sex?”

Your face immediately flames. “Shua, you𑁋!”

“What?” He presses another kiss right below your ear, a particular spot that always makes you squirmy. “We’re married, my love. I’m unapologetically shameless to say I’ve seen all of you in every way possible.”

You groan into your hands, but you feel Joshua take one of your hands into his, placing a few apologetic kisses to your knuckles. You feel yourself melt at his affection.

“Okay, yes, I know that we’ve… made love many times.” Heat creeps up your neck at your own words. “But recently, I don’t… I don’t feel like the same woman you married years ago.”

Joshua grows quiet for a moment, but it isn’t in a way that makes you feel like you’ve said something wrong. No, it’s more like the kind of silence that settles beneath your bones. The kind of silence that only happens with him and no one else. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks lightly, breath warmth against your ear. 

You give a small nod in response. A soft, grateful smile crosses his face. 

“My love, there hasn’t been a moment since the day I met you where I thought you weren’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he continues thoughtfully. “And look where we are now, hm? We’ve grown together, we’ve changed together. The woman I married was incredible, of course. But the woman she became now? God, she’s stronger, softer, intelligent, and I thank the universe every day that she’s the one I get to come home to. I thank the world that I took my chances to ask out the beautiful barista at the cafe.” 

A fond chuckle leaves you at the memory. You remember the cute college boy who had shyly asked you for your number at the counter on a day where it had been particularly bad. God, you remember it all. When you meet his eyes in the mirror again, you feel the uncertainty that’s been sitting on your chest gradually become lighter. 

“And I’ll love every single version of you,” Joshua tells you firmly, kissing your shoulder once again. “Whether it’s five years, ten years, or fifty years from now. I’ll remind each version of you of this, too, and I will never get tired of it.”

A shiver runs down your spine, a weak laugh tumbling out of your throat. “Jeez, why are you so good at this?”

Joshua merely hums in response, bringing you more flush against him. “Perks of studying you for years.” You watch his hand in the mirror wander back to the sash on your robe, tugging on it slightly, but not to fully untie it. Not yet. “I know what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, what makes you fall apart… and what makes you come back together.” 

Your breath stutters at that. You close your eyes for a minute, allowing yourself to simply feel him. Feel his hands, feel the way his love fills your heart, and every single crevice of doubt in your body. 

You hardly register the way he spins you around to face him now. Because the second your open your eyes, you’re met with him𑁋in his full, glorious self𑁋and it steals all the air from your lungs. The smile on his face isn’t smug; it’s absolutely, irrevocably, radiant.

Joshua presses a kiss to your forehead. “Hi, beautiful.”

You blink up at him dazedly, a shy grin of your own caressing across your face when you momentarily glance down at his lips. “Hi.”

Then he dips his head down to kiss you this time. It starts off soft at first, like a gentle reminder that I’m here, always, before deepening ever so slightly. Your fingers curl into his shirt, wandering up to fumble with the remaining buttons, each one undone revealing more of the familiar planes of his chest. 

He keeps kissing you like this until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed behind, and the low hum he releases into your mouth when you sigh against him makes your knees weak. After some time, he pulls away, and his hand travels back down to the sash of your robe.

“Okay?” he asks quietly. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

Joshua takes his time untying the knot of your robe. When it’s fully loosened, he watches the way it opens like water, revealing more of the skin underneath. But he doesn’t pounce, doesn’t grope, doesn’t even let his eyes flicker down until you give him another reassuring nod. Even then, there’s only complete awe when the robe falls to the floor and he drinks you in like it’s the very first time. 

“Beautiful, every single time…” he whispers, sucking in a deep breath. “...every single damn time, love.”

As his lips meet yours once again, you find your back meeting the sheets below, his mouth never leaving yours once as he climbs up on the bed right above you. 

“I love you,” he mutters against your neck, one of his legs slotting in between yours. “Now, before, always.”

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the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses resounded throughout your new house, and you studied your husband (wow, that felt unreal to even think) and his friends as they laughed at old stories they were sharing with each other.

you had spent all day today preparing the new house for the housewarming party you and joshua were throwing to celebrate the next big step after marriage─finding a home to start a family in. joshua had been so excited for this moment.

even though you were nervous about the future of your and joshua's new marriage, you couldn't help but be happy too. joshua had such a big dream for you and him to fulfill, and you were excited to see the future for both of you─it was nerve-wracking, but beautiful at the same time.

"i think we need more wine." jeonghan says to joshua as he follows him into the kitchen, where you're currently cutting more strawberries to add to the charcuterie board.

joshua chuckles dryly, his rich voice like honey as he shakes his head. "more wine is asking for more trouble, i think."

jeonghan gives a lazy smile, the one he always does when teasing or messing around with someone, and he slides his way over to you, knowing you wouldn't deny him. "i think we need more wine."

"do we? i can get some more if you want. just hold on." you say with a smile on your face, knowing good and well joshua's eyes are on your back. jeonghan gives you a quick hug, giggling in triumph as he returns to the bustling living room.

with jeonghan's teasing out of the kitchen, it's a lot calmer than the chaos happening over charades in the living room. the hum of the refrigerator blends in with the jazz music playing over the speakers. you focus on finishing up the strawberries, relaxing instantly as you feel strong arms slinking around your waist.

"i'm assuming you heard me tell jeonghan no more wine, sweetie." joshua smiles against your skin, already pressing a warm kiss to your neck. you nod, sighing as you finish cutting the fruit.

"i did, but he's like my honorary brother-in-law. am i supposed to say no?" you laugh, and joshua matches your energy, laughing too as he shakes his head. "no, no, you're fine."

the two of you sigh, falling silent as he presses against you. joshua is warm, and smells of vanilla, something you think you could never get tired of. his presence instantly brings calmness to your tense body, and you arrange the fruits on the board, focusing in on them before joshua softly grabs your arm.

"darling, is something wrong?" joshua turns you around to face him, doe-like eyes staring worriedly at you as he studies your face. you had been tense all night and hadn't looked like you had been having fun.

"i'm fine, joshua," the smile you give him with your response is forced, and you and he both know it. obviously, joshua doesn't fall for it, cupping your cheek in his hand as he brushes your hair from your face.

"darling, please. i know this isn't like you. you've been excited for this event all week, and now that it's here, you.." joshua pauses, searching for the right words. "you look like you don't want it."

it breaks your heart to see joshua say something like that: you do want this housewarming party. you want this marriage. you didn't want to seem unappreciative or uninterested. if that's how you truly looked, you couldn't help it. there was just so much worry and uncertainty clouding your mind you didn't know what to feel.

"joshua, no. i─i do want this. i want all of it." you say softly, a cheer mixing into your quiet voice.

"i'm just overwhelmed, shua. worried about what's to come. marriage is a wonderful thing, and it's even more wonderful since it's with you, but...i'm scared. i don't even know what i'm scared of." you heave a sigh, and joshua shakes his head, holding your hands in his.

"it's okay to be scared, darling. i'm here for everything─you can be scared. it's okay to feel nervous about what's to come." joshua smiles, eyes soft as he studies you.

"just know we're in it together. when i asked you to be my other half, i meant it. one isn't complete without the other─whatever stress, nervousness, or worry you feel doesn't have to be one-sided. we can share it, just like we share our dreams and weaknesses with each other."

joshua's closer to you now, his warm hand cupping your cheek as he catches the tears welling at the corner of your sparkling eyes. "i'm here. i always will be─i made that promise."

nodding, you smile up at him, wiping the tears from your face as joshua takes your hands in his one more time, kissing each knuckle as he looks down at you. his vanilla perfume is permeating your space, and it's instantly calming, bringing a sense of peace to you faster than anything would.

"thank you, josh. i needed that, more than you know." you sigh, raising up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to joshua's lips. they're soft, hints of wine leftover on them as he chuckles. "of course, sweetie."

"oh, and─tell jeonghan he can just take a bottle home for later. i don't think he needs it right now." you laugh, hearing jeonghan's slurred speech from the living room.

"you and me both, sweetie." joshua glances over his shoulder, giving you a wink and mouthing "i love you" before he disappears back into the living room.

You’ve been telling yourself a lot of stuff lately. But recently, long hours have been bleeding into nothing, your work feeling just as much as a chore than something you put all your passions towards, and you reached for the bottle again. 

With a groan, you peel yourself off the couch, a dull ache pounding in your head as you somehow manage to straighten your posture up. Your apartment smells faintly of leftover Chinese takeout and something more acrid𑁋cigarette smoke, perhaps. Your camera seems just as dead as your laptop on the coffee table, but your phone buzzes to life the second you reach over to grab it, almost as if it’s sensed that you’re finally awake. 

You tap it on and immediately find a stream of notifications from one of your close photographer friends: Jeongyeon. 

[09:28am | jeongyeon 🐶] girl wake uppppp you need to check your email like ASAP [09:30am | jeongyeon 🐶] like. RIGHT NOW. don’t tell me you had another breakdown. oh god [09:34am | jeongyeon 🐶] i promise it’s good news. like, swear on my dead goldfish type shit. they personally requested you by NAME

You blink blearily at the screen, your vision still not fully adjusting, head pounding furiously enough to blur the words of her frantic texts. It isn’t unusual for Jeongyeon to be this dramatic in the morning, but your curiosities linger on the last part of her text: they personally requested you by NAME. 

Something sharp snags in your throat𑁋maybe anxiety, or maybe you’re just still drunk𑁋and you swipe out of your messages and directly into your inbox. All you see are the usual junk of spam, yet as you scroll a little lower, you see it. 

An email. Timestamped from two hours ago. In the subject line, it read: 

F1 Media Project - Exclusive Commission Offer

A shiver that’s certainly not from your bipolar air conditioning unit creeps up your arms. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull as you collapse back on the couch, staring at the email as if it was some hallucination playing tricks on your mind. 

Taking a deep breath, you open the email.

To Y/N L/N, We are reaching out an exclusive photographer commission opportunity on behalf of the Formula One Management for an upcoming behind-the-scenes media project. This project includes capturing life in the paddock across circuits for the approaching triple header, which will be released to the media. Your portfolio and unique approach to motorsport documentation has been personally recommended by industry contacts…

You let out a weak laugh at industry contacts, because who the hell𑁋

If anything, your portfolio has been garnering nothing but dust as of lately. Back then was when your focus was entirely photographing various motorsport campaigns. Back then, your hands didn’t tremble holding your camera and your fingers didn’t smell of nicotine and rum. Back then, your name still floated through the industry instead of merely a passing afterthought. 

Back then, he was still in your life. 

You almost want to comically laugh about how the universe decided to drop this in your lap now out of all days𑁋now when you’ve been feeling as if you’ve been holding on by a thread and could barely convince yourself to get off your stupid couch. 

You force yourself to continue reading.

The project will begin at the Bahrain Grand Prix, proceed to the Singapore Grand Prix, and end at the Italian Grand Prix, with travel and accommodation expenses fully compensated. Rates are negotiable, with an added bonus incentive for exclusive driver coverage. Should you accept, please reply within the next 48 hours. 

Bahrain. That’s in… shit, that’s in three weeks. You could be on a flight in three weeks, reuniting with old connections, walking the paddock again with your eye to the viewfinder and capturing moments behind your lens like you used to. 

And you could see him again. 

God, you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t keep tabs. You always kept tabs. Jeon Wonwoo’s name is impossible to ignore these days. The media promoted him everywhere𑁋showcasing his quiet and sharp focus on the track, ruthless behind the wheel, calm and collected during press conferences. Even now, he still had the same damn jawline, same deadpan look in interviews, same damn hands that used to trace lines on your bare back in half-lit hotel rooms after races. 

You shoot a contemplative glance at your abandoned camera on the table, then at your barely functioning laptop, and you think about the creative void that’s been sinking down onto you like quicksand. And you can’t even believe yourself that you’re remotely considering this.

Because you could ignore him𑁋pretend that the past five years wasn’t spent washing away his fingerprints off your heart. You could keep it professional, right? Fly out, take shots, do your job, rebuild your portfolio, and secure the commission. You didn’t have to cross paths with him; at least, not directly. You could stay behind your lens, tucked away in the shadows of the paddock, like always. 

But that’s easier said than done, isn’t it?

A ping from your phone sends you out of your thoughts. It’s from Jeongyeon again.

[10:17am | jeongyeon 🐶] you better be answering this. i’m coming over in 30 if you haven’t

You chuckle lightly at the text, already imagining her barging in through your door, messy ponytail and a bag full of convenience store remedies. You suck in a deep breath, rub a hand over your face, and sigh. 

Another glance at your camera. Another glance at the unanswered email. 

Then, you tap Reply, and your fingers move as if your brain has decided to act faster than your own heart. 

Dear F1 Media Team, Thank you so much for reaching out. I would be honoured to be a part of this project. I am available to discuss further details. Best regards, Y/N L/N

The second you hit send, your phone explodes into a call. 

“Bitch!” Jeongyeon screeches into the phone before you can mutter out a greeting. “Did you read the email? I swear to God if I have to come over and𑁋”

“I said yes,” You mumble groggily, rubbing at your temples. “Jesus, babe, lower your voice, I’m already dying.”

A dramatic gasp rings through your ears, making you hold the phone away for a second. “You said yes? Holy shit, you said yes.”

“Yeah,” You mutter back. “Don’t know why I did. But Jeong, I haven’t shot motorsports in two years. God, this is gonna be a disaster…”

“You said yes,” Jeongyeon repeats again, a bit softer this time. “That’s all that matters.”

Silence drifts over the call for a few moments, your thumb tracing over the cracked edges of your phone case. It feels like you just accepted a deal with your past self𑁋the one who used to wake up early, map and plan out photo concepts, who could survive off adrenaline and the high that came from doing something you love.

Yet, it seems all far away now. 

“Okay, okay,” Jeongyeon chimes back in. “I want you to shower right now, take some ibuprofen, and I’m going to come over and help you make a game plan, okay? We need to initiate damage control immediately.”

“I𑁋Jeong, I’m not being shipped off to war!” 

“No, but I can’t have you back in the paddock looking like a disgruntled raccoon!” Jeongyeon barks back passionately. But when she senses your silence on the other side, you hear a sigh on the other end of the line. “But seriously, are… are you okay?” 

You press your lips together, staring up at the cracked plaster in your ceiling and the faint mark of water damage hidden away in the corner that you probably should have reported months ago. 

“I don’t know,” You answer unsurely. “I want to be, but I’m scared.”

Jeongyeon doesn’t respond right away, and for a second, you think the call might have ended. But then she says, “It’s okay to be scared. Girl, I’m honestly scared with you. But babe, you’ve worked your literal ass off for this. Maybe you’re not the same girl you were years ago, but you’re still you, you know? You just need to find that spark again.”

Exhaustion burns through your eyelids, but something about her words lightens up your chest slightly. “But what if this just proves I’m not meant to do this anymore?”

Jeongyeon blesses you with another quiet moment of stillness. Then her voice returns, plagued in that soft, yet serious tone that you rarely ever hear. 

“You owe it to the girl who used to wait until sunrise to take B-roll shots at six in the morning,” she says. “You owe it to her to at least try.”

Your throat tightens. God, you hate how right she is. You hate how her words crawl right under your skin and poke at the vulnerable parts you’ve attempted to mask away with nicotine and alcohol while pretending that everything is fine. 

“Okay,” You finally let out. “I’ll try, Jeong. I’ll try.”

“Good!” Jeongyeon squeaks back. “Now go take a shower! And some ibuprofen!”

“I’ll take the fucking ibuprofen!” You groan, already pushing yourself off the couch, nearly wobbling back down just from standing for a singular second. 

Despite the dull ache that still resonates in your bones and the nagging pressure behind your eyes, you find it easier to breathe for a moment, because for once, someone else is able to remind you how to. 

Maybe the ghost of your past self is still there. Breathing, maybe bruised, but there, and she’s waiting for you. 

The flight is long. 

You’re seated closest to the window, draped in a thin blanket that was provided in the seat-back pockets. The cabin is cold and painfully quiet, the overhead lights dim as the plane settles into its evening hush. You’re wearing your pair of noise-cancelling headphones, but it isn’t playing anything. The hum of the plane is enough. White noise. 

Your camera is tucked securely in your lap. Jeongyeon had given you very specific instructions with it: “Reacquaint yourself with it, touch it, kiss it, breathe with it, make it your damn therapy dog if you have to.” 

The memory makes your lips twitch upwards, and you click the camera on. The screen flickers, then the menu screen pops up. You click into the image review mode and start scrolling.

Most of the recent shots near the top are ones you’d taken the past few weeks𑁋morning light streaming in through a café window, city reflections off puddles on imperfect roads, some shaky street shots taken while walking to the grocery store. Some turned out better than expected. Others not so much. But you kept them all anyway, because maybe even the garbage ones still serve as proof that you’re trying. 

You continue clicking through photos idly. No real destination in mind. Just this faint, pulsing ache of nostalgia in your chest that keeps your thumb moving. A flicker of light there, a stranger’s silhouette in another. There’s even some where you take a moment to pause with promise, thinking maybe I could adjust the lighting in this one or this one would look better with a graduated filter, but you don’t let yourself linger. Like if you stop for too long, you think the plane might fall out of the sky𑁋or worse, you might cry.

You’re just about to power off the camera when a folder name is quick to jump out of you.

It’s titled “W”. 

You forgot about the folder. Or maybe you do remember. Maybe just burying it deep in your mind with the many other things you weren’t ready to grieve. 

Your thumb hovers frozen over the button, and you suck in a quiet breath through your teeth.

Then, you press. 

A shot of Wonwoo fills the screen. He’s half-smiling, half-looking at the camera in the afternoon light. The date in the corner shoots something through your heart𑁋five years ago. He’s wearing a black racing suit, collar slightly undone, hair tousled, and his hands comfortably in his pockets. There’s a smudge at the corner of the lens, a tiny fleck of dust catching a ray of the sun𑁋but the shot is still beautiful. He’s… still beautiful. 

Your thumb hesitates, a heavy exhale leaving you.

Yet you keep going. 

The next is a shot of Wonwoo leaning against the pit wall, his racing suit peeled halfway down his body, a pair of sunglasses sat atop his head, and his smile𑁋that smile𑁋seemingly brightens the picture in an instant. You remembered how he’d reminded you that he doesn’t like other people taking pictures of him, except you. He told you that you saw the world in a more beautiful lens than anyone else. 

You click into the next shot. It’s a slightly tilted, off-centre picture of him mid-laugh while he was talking to you. He had cracked some sort of funny joke and teased you. You had a pout on your face, and he melted at your cuteness. It’s the kind of shot that you don’t plan, but the kind of shot that just happens. 

The next ones are more intimate. 

Your breath stutters, finding a photo that makes your heart jump. He’s half-naked in bed, the sheets draped over his waist. He’s reaching for the camera as if he’s about to pull it out of your grip𑁋or pull you in. 

You remembered you loved the mornings after an intense race, when it was just the two of you alone letting your guard down together after the adrenaline of the day before. You can almost hear his deep and quiet morning voice, can almost imagine the terrible bedhead he would have, and can almost feel his skin pressed against yours. 

You tug the airplane blanket even tighter around you.

You know you shouldn’t have opened this folder. But now here you are, scrolling through photos that showed the version of him you haven’t seen in years, and the version of yourself who used to be happy. 

A particular one sends a lump down your throat. 

This time, it’s a picture of you. Wonwoo had loved photography just as much as you do, but perhaps in a different way. He was less about technicalities, and more about capturing feelings. The one you’re looking at was one he took of you when you weren’t paying attention, instead you were locked on taking a picture of the sunset on your own phone. Strands of your hair were windblown from the wind coming in from the open car window, only a sliver of your face exposed to the camera yet your skin glowed from the golden hour light. 

The next few ones are of you too. 

You, in bed with your bare shoulder silhouetted by morning sunlight streaming in through the window of his place. You, setting up your equipment in the paddock with your brows crunched in concentration. You, standing in the middle of your bathroom with his arm draped around your waist as if it always belonged there. 

When it becomes too much for your heart to take, you shut the camera off. 

You stare at your faint reflection in the plane window, your hand pressed against the camera as if it would somehow lock all the memories back in while blinking back the heat in your eyes. It’s so stupid to cry over something that happened a lifetime ago. But that’s the problem, right? It was a lifetime ago. A different lifetime with a different you, a different Wonwoo, a different everything. 

The plane rattles softly, hitting a turbulence bump here and there, yet you barely notice𑁋too focused on the distant stars blinking in the window. You force your eyes shut, mentally reminding yourself to focus. Focus on what’s ahead: the noise of the paddock, the click of a shutter. The reason you said yes to this in the first place. Not for him, but for you. For the you that still dreams, the you that used to feel alive when the world will go still for a singular second in your hands. 

One shot at a time. The words bounce off the walls of your brain.

One shot at a time.

– BAHRAIN. 

Even in the early hours of the day, the sun is merciless. You forget just how small being in the middle of the desert makes you. 

The humidity grazes upon your skin and sticks to your nape like a second layer of sweat. Your camera bag is slung over your shoulders, your press badge with your credentials hanging around your neck as you slowly slip back into what you can call your old life. You keep your head down while heading towards the paddock.

When you approach, the paddock is already humming with chaos, as you expected. It’s a familiar sight, and it sends a flurry of emotions and memories that are quick to almost overwhelm you all in a few seconds. You spot race engineers from various teams chatting in the garages and tires being wheeled past you in stacks. The unmistakable smell of petrol and burnt rubber hangs thick in the air. 

Your shoes scruff against the asphalt as you walk towards the tent reserved for media personnel, trying to give yourself a moment to breathe and remember that you’ve done this before, and that you can do it again. That all you have to focus on right now is taking pictures and securing the damn commission. 

It’s fine. You can do this. Maybe it’ll all come back to you like riding a bike after a decade. You know… if the bike goes over 375 km/h and can run over you with a shit ton of memories if you’re not careful. 

A grateful gust of cold air from the AC blasts your face when you duck into the tent. A few photographers and other media broadcasters are here as well, some that look vaguely familiar who you’ve probably seen online from other motorsport campaigns in the past, and some that look new and young and way more eager than you do right now. 

You greet them with passing smiles as you settle yourself in one of the corners, placing your bag down to begin taking out your equipment. The muscle memory kicks in before you can even process it𑁋lens, body, spare memory cards, and more𑁋and that in itself feels a little like healing on its own. A little like forgiveness. 

“Y/N? Is that you?”

A sudden, somewhat surprised voice snaps you out of your focus. You lift your head up, and you’re met with a pair of wide eyes𑁋eyes that you haven’t seen in years but recognise instantly.

“Seungkwan?” You say, your own eyes blinking in disbelief.

Boo Seungkwan. He looks exactly how you remember him, and also nothing like that at all. He’s a little more tanner, older, more bulked up in the shoulders, a lanyard around his neck proudly displaying one of the biggest broadcast outlets for F1. Yet his eyes𑁋which were always too sharp and a little too honest for his own good𑁋has stayed the same.

The two of you used to be a part of the same crew back when you were both younger. You had both started off as nobodies: him with a microphone, and you with your camera, helping each other build up your portfolios back in college. And now here he is, in the middle of the Bahrain paddock, staring at you as if he’s seen a ghost. 

Seungkwan just stands there, practically gawking at you for a few seconds, then a grin stretches all the way up to his cheeks. “Holy shit. It is you.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before he’s taking three large steps and wrapping his arms around you in a quick hug. You freeze for a moment, unsure of what to do with your own arms, but then your body remembers this. It remembers the way Seungkwan gave hugs like he meant it, like the years you’ve disappeared off the scene didn’t matter, and you let yourself relax. 

“What the hell? I thought you were out for good,” Seungkwan says, voice slightly muffled in your shoulder. “God, I knew I wasn’t hallucinating when I saw your name on the press list! It’s been like, two, three years? You’re here for media day? Wait, wait𑁋how long are you going to be here for?”

“Just for the triple header, but if I wanted the extra money, you know...” A faint smile spreads across your features when you hear him practically sob in your hold.. “It’s good to see you too, Kwan.” 

Seungkwan pulls back to look at you, gripping your shoulders. You feel the way his eyes scan over you. It doesn’t feel invasive, not at all. He reads over the exhaustion under your eyes, the soft lines at the corners of your mouth that weren’t there before, the way your posture seems a bit guarded. There’s a still moment where you think he’s going to ask the big question𑁋why did you leave?𑁋but instead, he lets out a chuckle.

“You look… good, you know,” he says eventually, though his brows are knitted together like he doesn’t quite believe his own words either. “A tad bit like you just crawled out of bed, but good, nonetheless.”

“That’s what jetlag does to you.” You sigh while putting the strap over your shoulder. “Haven’t gone international in years, so… this is me, I guess. Back on track and whatnot.”

Seungkwan elicits a low whistle and shakes his head. “Well, for one, I’m glad that you’re back. And if you want, we can meet up for drinks Saturday night after qualifying, because you owe me an almost three year long catch up.”

You simply chuckle. “It’s a deal, Kwan.”

“Great!” Seungkwan quips proudly, and before he can say anything more, a woman appears from behind to mutter something indistinguishable in his ear. You watch as he gives a calm nod and turns back to you with a frown. “I gotta go, but text me later, yeah?”

Solemnly, you give a nod, feeling a sudden weight settle behind your ribs. “Sounds good.”

But Seungkwan doesn’t budge just yet, and takes one last moment to take in your slightly tense form.

“You gonna be okay?”

Your lips part at the question, but nothing comes out, as the words decide to hopelessly stick to the ends of your tongue. I don’t know, you want to answer. I don’t know if coming here was the right decision or not.  

Instead, you manage a faint shrug. “I’ll survive.”

Seungkwan gives you a few reassuring pats on the back, enough to simply convey I’m here if you need me. You watch him speak to a few more media representatives with that familiar giddy smile of his. A woman hands him his microphone pack, and then he disappears outside of the tent, completely swallowed by the currents that come with media day. 

Media day, as deftly described, is a day where media representatives all scurry around the paddock like kids raiding a candy store𑁋if the candy in question happened to be world-famous media-trained drivers and every word they say can become a popular headline. 

For a photographer, though, words are supposed to be the least of your worries. Because it’s not about what they say; it’s about catching the exact frame where the facade slips just enough to betray what they’re really feeling. To capture the sunlight of happiness that comes from a win, or the lines of worry that come from anticipation. It’s the kind of shot that you live for, that you were known for back then. 

When you emerge back into the paddock, you already see a multitude of interviewers, photographers, and journalists all crowding around the colourful garages of the different teams. You spot the papaya orange of McLaren, the deep green of Aston Martin, the sleek blue of Williams…

…the royal red of Ferrari. 

Taking a deep breath, you bring your camera up, attempting to line up your lens to capture a candid photo of the F1 garages. But as you manually adjust the focus ring on the camera, and the world becomes a little more clearer, a blur of movement into the frame makes your stomach drop straight through the ground. 

Wonwoo. 

As you zoom in a little more, you can see him more sharper now. His red race suit is tied firmly around his waist, sporting nothing but a crisp white tee over his body that shows off his forearms. Your breath stutters as you take in his features after so many years𑁋his hair a little longer and showering over his eyes and glasses, his frame more broader and stronger. Gosh, he practically appears untouchable now, like he’s the epitome of the perfect poster boy of F1. 

No wonder the entire world adores him. 

Right next to him stands Choi Seungcheol, his teammate in Ferrari. You know vaguely of the man𑁋just that his competitiveness fuels his ego just as much as the thrill of the race fuels his unbearable need to win. And honestly? The same can easily be applied to Wonwoo. 

The two of them are speaking into the crowd of interviewers and journalists, wearing their practiced grins and answering questions like muscle memory. You can’t hear any of what they are saying, and you hardly realise the ache in your knuckles with the tightened grip you have around the camera body. 

You also don’t realise how much you’ve stepped closer as well. 

In the camera, the frame is perfect: Ferrari’s two golden boys, bathed in the sunlight coming down from the Bahrain skies. The image practically screams victory, and you know this is exactly the kind of photo that the commission needs. 

Before you let a sliver of doubt cross your mind, you hold your breath and click the shutter. 

You just took the first photo of your career in a very long time.

And God help you, it’s a photo of him. 

When you lower the camera down and click into the photo, you fight the urge to delete it altogether. One press, and you erase it entirely, but damn it, of course the photo had to come out good. It’s the kind of photo that social media would devour. The kind of photo that you wish you hadn’t taken. 

You force yourself to take more photos of the surrounding area, attempting to snap your thoughts away from him. You capture one of McLaren Garage, where you spot the two young drivers Vernon Chwe and Lee Chan sharing easy camaraderie. Chan’s head is tipped back mid-laughter, with Vernon’s hand resting on his shoulder that shows their tight bond. It comes out well, candid even𑁋something that might play well in an article about their team chemistry and rising stars in the grind. 

The way you move around with your camera is like coming back to choreography you haven’t practiced in years. Click. Adjust. Click. It comes to you almost naturally now you can even feel yourself relaxing. And throughout all of those shots, not a single thought of Wonwoo is able to stray you away, because for once, you believe that you’re back in your element. 

As the noise of media day begins to fade away, you find yourself standing in the media tent clicking through all the photos you’ve taken in the past few hours. The AC unit sends your hair flying, cooling down your hot skin. 

You become too lost in going through the photos and deciding which ones to keep and delete that you don’t hear. You barely glance up𑁋people consistently come in and leave all the time𑁋but the low murmur of voices makes you pause. 

“...yeah, we just need to swap the microphone and𑁋”

The rest of the sentence dies in your ears when you finally look up. 

And you see Wonwoo standing there. 

Not across the paddock this time, or cornered by a wall of reporters, journalists, and other media experts. No, he’s standing by the flap of the tent, just a mere few metres away from you, and speaking to a media officer of Ferrari, wearing that polite crease to his brow from nights where you two used to edit photos side-by-side. 

When you peer a little harder, though, a particular flicker of gold that catches the light briefly sends your skin abuzz. 

No way. There’s no damn way that he’s still wearing it. No damn way he has the audacity to wear the necklace you gifted him during your trip in Paris when your relationship has been over for five years. 

Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you’re prepared for the possibility of this moment. You’d already seen him earlier, snapped the damn photo, and said that you’d be fine if walked past you at any given time. But seeing him now in the flesh, you know damn well you’re not prepared at all, and it’s so hard to look away when he’s right there. 

And as though he has a sixth sense as well, Wonwoo turns as well. 

Suddenly, the air in the tent becomes suffocating. 

Wonwoo opens his mouth as if to say something first, but nothing comes out. Then his eyes roam over you like he’s studying you𑁋really studying you𑁋like he’s struggling to process the image in front of him. His gaze flickers to the camera around your neck, to your hands, and then back up to your face. 

For a moment, the self-consciousness creeps in, because you know he’s spotting every little detail to you that wasn’t there before. Like the bags under your eyes, the subtle sag to your shoulders, the stress lines to your forehead. Every piece of evidence on you that manifested from the past years of burnout and heartbreak. 

The moment is interrupted when the media officer taps lightly on his shoulder, causing him to jerk his head away from you. You force yourself to glance back down to your camera as well. 

Even though the two of you didn’t say any words, a conversation was there, and the depths of your mind is telling you that it’s far from over. 

Seungcheol is snickering. Like, actually snickering. Wonwoo already feels the irritation brimming beneath his skin. 

“What?” Wonwoo deadpans, not bothering to look up to where Seungcheol is cruising around the middle of his hotel room like he owns the damn place. 

He watches the older man plop down in the armchair across the room. Seungcheol carelessly drapes his arms like he’s lounging in his own little suite. There’s an infuriating smirk crossing over his features, which gives Wonwoo almost all the reason to kick him out. 

Choi Seungcheol is𑁋to put it lightly𑁋quite the asshole when he smells any signs of weakness. And the worst part? He’s got the kind of face that makes you want to punch and respect his lap times at the same time. His competitiveness is a worldwide fact, at this point. Occasionally, Seungcheol has his good moments, but he has been driving for Ferrari with Wonwoo long enough to know which button to push, and the bastard is about to press as many as he can. 

“You’ve been in your head all evening,” Seungcheol comments amusedly, stretching his legs out as if he has nowhere else to be. “Something bothering you?”

Wonwoo chuckles lightly to himself, running a dry towel over his face and to the damp skin at his nape. He doesn’t bother to answer, doesn’t bother to bite. That’s what Seungcheol wants, and the last thing Wonwoo is going to give him is the satisfaction of watching him lose his cool in real time. 

Unfortunately, the silence is just enough to encourage Seungcheol on. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Seungcheol presses, leaning in to rest his elbow on his knee. “She’s going to make you lose, you know.”

That’s what makes Wonwoo’s jaw tighten. “What the hell did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You think I’m going to lose because my ex-girlfriend is here?” Wonwoo asks while tossing the towel aside, the absurdity of his teammate’s words circling around him like a flea. “God, you’re delusional.”

A wolfish grin curves at Seungcheol’s lips. “Podium’s a mental game as much as it is skill. This season has been tight between us so far, don’t you think? And plus, as your teammate, I think I have the right to tell you to put your head back in the game.”

Wonwoo scoffs, dragging his palm over his face as if he’s trying to physically wipe this conversation away. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, hyung,” he mutters lowly. “If you beat me, it’s not because of her.”

Seungcheol tilts his head innocently. “Oh, so you admit she’s in your head.”

Wonwoo exhales heavily through his nose, drawing his gaze toward the open window of his hotel room. It’s past lights out at this point, a few streetlights outside flickering against the curtains. He usually doesn’t let anything get beneath his skin so easily, but this is different. He hates how Seungcheol is right, because he has been thinking about you. 

Not in the way Seungcheol is trying to prove, or as some fatal distraction that’ll make him misjudge a crucial braking point, but in a way that has been gnawing at him since the second he saw you in the paddock. A way that he can barely understand himself.

It isn’t just nostalgia, or about missing you, either.

It’s about how you were simply there𑁋camera around your neck, your posture small like you’re unsure of your own presence𑁋and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel untouchable, and it’s been replaying in his mind like an overplayed race replay. 

He remembers the days back then where you used to stand at the edge of the pit lane with your camera pressed up to your face, snapping photos of moments no one else thought to look for. He remembers that bright smile you’d wear when you showed him the pictures later, animatedly pointing out the nitty-gritty details one wouldn’t notice. 

You had this ability to make the noise of the sport fade away, of stripping it down until it was just people and their quiet, unguarded truths. 

And now, here you are again, yet you’re not smiling at him this time.

You looked at him as if he was a complete stranger.

Maybe that’s what the two of you are now. 

“And if you want any relationship advice, don’t,” Seungcheol quips, standing up from the chair. “I’m terrible at it.”

Wonwoo levels him with a firm look. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Like a cat with a laser pointer,” Seungcheol admits shamelessly.

“Go back to your room, hyung.”

Seungcheol’s smirk only deepens, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants as he slowly strolls towards the door. He doesn’t leave immediately, simply giving Wonwoo a few pats on the back as if to reassure him. 

“I’ll see you out there, lover boy,” the older man mutters cheekily before heading out of the room.

When the door finally clicks shut, Wonwoo doesn’t move for a while. He stays perched at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, droplets of water dripping down his hair from the shower he took earlier, his eyes staring down at the floor like it held all the answers to the universe. 

He sucks in a deep breath, one of his hands coming to unconsciously toy with the golden necklace around his neck. It’s for luck, his mind whispers𑁋the same excuse he’d use for every single race he’s been in.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it?

He doesn’t wear it for luck. Not entirely, anyway. He wears it because he never could bring himself to take it off. Even in the seasons or nights after races where he tried to convince himself he was fully over you𑁋when podiums came and went, when strangers filled the empty space in his bed𑁋it stayed branded on him. 

The two of you tried to keep the breakup quiet, but the world didn’t care about quiet. It was the kind of split that never made headlines but still remained as a thorn in the corner of the paddock. 

Now he feels that thorn digging even deeper into his skin. 

Qualifying is as intense as it gets. 

Q2 had just concluded, and the circuit is practically vibrating underneath your feet to the point you can feel it crawling up to your ribcage. You’re wedged in between two other media photographers at the edge of the pit lane, elbows brushing against one another, silently fighting to snap the cleanest shots. 

The frenzied roar of engines rips through the air, the sounds muffled through the pair of headphones that are jammed in your ears. You capture a few photos of Joshua Hong of Mercedes just as he dives into the braking zone, dust kicking up behind the sleek silver colour of his car which flashes from the Bahrain sun. You click more when you spot Xu Minghao of Alpine battling for track space against one of the Red Bull cars. 

Loud gasps from the crowd makes you lower your camera. 

A streak of red flies down the straight like a bullet. The red of Ferrari, but not just any Ferrari𑁋it’s Wonwoo. 

You snap your lens back up in a flash. 

Through the viewfinder, you track car number #6 as it slices through the desert air. You can even tell from here that he’s pushing as hard as he can. Not too much to be overkill or angry, but just enough flirt with the edge of determination. Enough for the public to hold their breath in anticipation. 

“He’s going to make P2!” a voice from somewhere behind you shouts. “P2! P2!”

Your heart stutters.

Wonwoo had been trailing around P4 for most of Q3, but as time trickles down and the final lap became tight, he pulls it off.

At the corner of your eye, you glance up at the large screen displaying all the drivers and their times. 

JEON - 1:24:38.521 - P2.

And above his name?

CHOI - 1:24:35.729 - P1.

Fans shout. Reporters scramble. The staccato click-click-click of photos surrounds you so loudly you can hardly think. 

“What a tremendous finish! Choi Seungcheol has secured his fourth qualifying pole position of the season, an especially monumental moment for this season’s triple header,” the announcer’s voice crackles through the air. “Ferrari lock out the front row once again for qualifying𑁋but wow, what a battle!” 

Wonwoo doesn’t celebrate when he steps out of the car in the parc fermé, the rich Ferrari red of his racing suit clinging to his frame and shimmering from the light. Interviewers swarm him almost immediately. He removes his helmet slowly, wiping away the beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead, as if he’s trying not to allow the frustration to bleed through. Because the second position, for someone like him, doesn’t exactly taste sweet on his tongue. 

On the other hand, Seungcheol has his fists raised to the air like a champion, flashing every single camera that signature grin of his that makes the world adore him. He walks the paddock like he owns it, like he was made for it. 

“We’re back at the top!” Seungcheol exclaims victoriously. “Let’s keep it going for tomorrow!”

And beside him, Wonwoo is only a few steps beside, quiet and guarded. He always did wear silence like armour. 

You catch him in your lens again, and what you see makes a lump form in your throat. Because as he stands there with Seungcheol still basking in the glory of securing the pole position, you swear his gaze flits to you momentarily, even if you’re hidden behind your camera. 

The iciness in his eyes softens into something else the second he meets yours. 

And somehow, that hurts more. 

Flashes from cameras go off as Seungcheol wraps an arm around Wonwoo’s shoulders, tugging him in for a classic Ferrari teammate photo. You take the shot, because that’s your job. You don’t know what else to do anymore except freeze the moment and deal with it later. 

Later that evening, you’re stuffing all your gear back in your bag. It’s late, the paddock is bathed in calmness. The hotel is only a quick ten-minute shuttle ride away. You could be back in your room now, going over all your photos and editing them, go to bed and prepare for the race tomorrow. 

So, you find yourself waiting at the shuttle area with your backpack slung over one shoulder, your fingers anxiously toying at one another. The heat of the day still lingers on your skin, but the coolness of the night is now beginning to settle. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s a message from one of the media officers about you sending some selects by tomorrow, and a few from Jeongyeon that you weren’t able to answer earlier as you were so busy. 

As you send a quick you got it, you barely notice the second shadow looming by your feet, and you feel yourself instinctively stiffen. 

“Y/N.”

Your heart drops in your chest, your feet suddenly sinking down into the ground like quicksand. 

“Wonwoo.”

He’s standing beside you𑁋waiting, perhaps, just like you𑁋though there’s a fair amount of distance between you. A low cap covers his eyes, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatpants. The breeze kisses your face a little harder as nothing but silence stretches over the two of you. 

You swallow thickly. “Did you need something?”

Wonwoo doesn’t respond for a few moments, his expression unreadable underneath his cap. You hate this. God, you hate this. You should’ve gone back to the hotel earlier with everyone else, but you had gotten stubbornly wrapped up in taking photos of the empty circuit to gain some ounce of clarity.

He shifts slightly. Just barely, but noticeably. 

“I didn’t know you came back,” he says quietly. 

A humourless huff leaves you. “I don’t know why I did.”

Another round of silence falls at that. 

“Haven’t touched motorsports in God knows how long,” You mutter to yourself, burning holes through the ground with your eyes. “But I guess the universe just loves to mess with me.” 

Wonwoo lifts his head up just enough to peer at you through the corner of his eye. You aren’t looking at him back. You refuse to. You can’t.

“How… how long are you here for?” he asks hesitantly.

You sigh through your nose, jaw clenched. “Just until the triple header ends. Or maybe less.”

Wonwoo’s brow twitches beneath the shadow of his cap. “...So, only three race weekends?”

“Does it matter?”

He flinches imperceptibly from the tone of your voice. It’s not anger, but moreso full of just… exhaustion. Because he has seen you mad before. He’s seen you curse the world out when someone disrespected your work, among many other things, like the night you two fell apart in Monza. But this quiet, flat exhaustion that plagues your voice?

It makes his throat go dry.

“I didn’t come back for you,” You finally say.

Wonwoo’s mouth opens defensively. “That’s not what I𑁋”

“It doesn’t matter, okay?” You press firmly, interrupting his words. “I came back for me. I came because I spent the last five years of my life holding onto this hope𑁋this hope that all the shit I’ve done to be where I am today is still worth it. That maybe if I pointed my camera at something, I’d feel… I don’t know, just anything.” 

You finally glance up at him, and you wish you hadn’t. The sounds of the shuttle rumbling in your direction takes away some of the heaviness settling on your heart, even for just a moment. When the vehicle stills in front of you and the doors swing open, a sigh leaves you. 

“I’m just here for work,” You finish, your tone final, and you place one foot inside the shuttle. “Good luck on the race tomorrow, Wonwoo.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t step in after you. He watches as the doors remain open for a few moments before hissing to a close, your figure making its way to the back of the shuttle into the last row closest to the window. You don’t bother looking back at him as the shuttle carries you away, but𑁋God help him𑁋his eyes remain on you until you’re completely out of sight. 

– RACE DAY: BAHRAIN GRAND PRIX. 

“It’s lights out and away we go! The heat is blazing here in Bahrain. All eyes are on Ferrari today𑁋Choi Seungcheol at pole position, and Jeon Wonwoo right behind him…”

You’ve moved positions from the paddock onto the trackside, snapping as many shots as you can. Heat dances off the asphalt and sends a slight distortion to your viewfinder. You already had to swap out your lens two other times today due the amount of dust accumulating under your casing. 

After capturing a few shots of the Williams and Haas pit crew waiting in anticipation, a water bottle suddenly appears in your viewfinder. When you lower the camera, you see Seungkwan hovering above you, with his clipboard in hand and microphone pack set off, grinning down at you with a sympathetic twist at his lips. 

“You do know you’re allowed to breathe, right?” he remarks teasingly, crouching down right next to you. 

You snatch the water bottle from his hand with a grateful smile. “Thanks.” 

“Jeez, woman, you’re holding your camera like a damn sniper,” Seungkwan points out, brushing invisible dust off his pants as he takes a quick sip of his own water. He’s already sweating through his polo, using his clipboard as a makeshift fan to cool himself off. 

You shoot him a side-glance, all while still holding your camera up. “Did you forget my life used to practically revolve around this sport?”

Seungkwan’s expression beams at your retort. “Now that’s the Y/N I know and love.” Then he offers a small smile. “It’s good to see you back where you belong, you know.”

A beat of silence passes. You feel your shoulders relax slightly from his words. 

“Yeah,” You mumble under your breath, the tip of your finger caressing over the shutter button on the camera. “It… does feel nice to be back.”

Ahead of you, the big screen is capturing the tension between the two scarlet cars of Ferrari.

LAP 17/57 – RADIO #6: JEON WONWOO 🔊: “Current gap to Choi is 0.7. Mode push in Sector 2, confirm?” Wonwoo: “Confirmed. Tyres in check. If he leaves the door open, that’s the cue.” 🔊: “Copy. Mode push in S2. Remember, clean DRS window. No contact.” Wonwoo: “Tell him to back the fuck off.”

LAP 18/57 - RADIO #1: CHOI SEUNGCHEOL 🔊: “You have a half-second gap with Jeon behind you. Expect possible lunge at Turn 12.” Seungcheol: “He grows more impatient with each race, doesn’t he?” 🔊: “Watch your mirrors. Just continue to maintain your line and pace.” Seungcheol: “This isn’t a fucking playground.”

“You didn’t come by for drinks the other night,” Seungkwan’s voice pops in the moment the camera on the big screen switches from a POV shot in Wonwoo’s car back to showcasing off the large crowds watching the race unfurl before their eyes. “I wanted to introduce you to some other colleagues, and you know, kind of wanted to welcome you back into this hell.” 

The camera in your hands lowers in guilt. Your shoulders slump from his words. It’s true𑁋you had mentally promised to show up to get drinks with Seungkwan after qualifying, but between seeing Wonwoo at the shuttle and questioning your entire life’s existence for even coming back here, you could barely stomach the idea of trying to be social and wearing fake smiles for the rest of the night. Nothing felt right. You didn’t feel right.

“I’m sorry, Boo,” You say softly, fingering curling tighter around your camera. “I just… I wasn’t in the right headspace.” 

Seungkwan gives you a knowing look and leans back, shaking his head lightheartedly. “Don’t worry, dude, I’m not offended or anything. But like… was it, uh… because of him?” 

You stiffen at that. Seungkwan doesn’t even need to say his name to know who exactly he’s talking about. He’s always been able to read in between the lines better than other people, which probably explains how he’s lasted this long in this sport𑁋not just as an interviewer, but as someone who actually gives a shit about those around him. He’s bringing up a sensitive topic, sure, but maybe that’s what you need right now. 

“I know that it’s been years, and you both didn’t exactly end on great terms,” Seungkwan continues, treading his words carefully. “But I could tell it’s been getting to you, or rather… both of you.”

You lift a brow. “Both of us?”

“Yeah. Look, I’ve been reporting for this sport long enough now that I get muscle cramps from holding a stupid microphone,” Seungkwan says. “But if there’s something I’ve learned from being here, it’s that these drivers are either racing for something, or away from something. And sometimes, maybe both.”

You grow quiet from that.

Because for fuck’s sake, Seungkwan has always known what to say and make it feel as if a bullet had tore your heart apart. 

At the corner of your eye, the overheard replay of a McLaren car overtaking and nearly colliding with Wonwoo takes the crowd by storm.

LAP 29/57 – RADIO #6: JEON WONWOO Wonwoo: “Fuck! What the hell just happened?” 🔊: “You’re P3 now. 2.7 gap with McLaren. Regain pace.” Wonwoo: “Chwe didn’t even give me space, where was the goddamn warning?” 🔊: “We called it late. That’s on us. Focus forward𑁋twenty-eight laps to go.” Wonwoo: “...” 🔊: “Jeon?” Wonwoo: “...copy.”

Currently, Ferrari holds first and third, with Vernon Chwe from McLaren sandwiched in between them, trying to cling onto the second position with admirable grit. The temperature of the air is still brutal even with the sun lowering in the sky, the heat waves above the asphalt simmering. You can hear the cheers and hollers as the crowd watches, and feel the sticky, yet focused grip you have on your camera.

Still, you only continue to shoot, and your heart races𑁋because there’s something in the air, and you can feel it. You know what Wonwoo looks like when he’s desperate to win. Or when he’s about to do something completely reckless and stupid. You’ve memorised every part of him, your stubborn brain holding onto the last lap of hope you swore you buried years ago. 

You’re watching the man you once loved race like the devil has a leash around his heart. 

And once𑁋a long, long time ago𑁋he told you that he only ever races this when he knows you’re watching. 

Waves of noise from the crowd erupt from the pit wall. The big screen anticipatingly tracks Wonwoo’s Ferrari approaching Vernon’s McLaren at a speed one would consider humanly incapable. 

But that’s the beauty of this sport𑁋it makes you believe in even the most impossible things. It makes you realise that even a tenth of a second changes everything. It makes you think that one clean overtake can possibly rewrite five years of silence. 

At Turn 11, the left tyre of Wonwoo’s car nearly caresses Vernon’s rear end, merely a whisper of threat between rivals. It’s dangerously close, but it’s enough to make stewards twitch and for the crowd to hold their breath all at once. The nose of Wonwoo’s car scrapes briefly against the inside line and the loud screech of the engines sends a buzz beneath your ribs. 

And then, it happens.

It tethers at the edge of smooth, but it still works. Wonwoo adjusts the car to the outside of Vernon’s, who tries to defend as best as he can, desperate to shut the door. For a few seconds, the two cars drive side-by-side to each other, sparks spitting from underneath as their tyres scrape harshly against the ground. 

But Wonwoo manages to hold his position.

The Ferrari grips the asphalt like it was made for this exact moment, tyres screaming into the hot air. The McLaren wobbles slightly under the pressure, but it’s not enough, and ultimately forces Vernon to widen the space to regain balance. The crowd roars as Wonwoo muscles his way into second position𑁋a flawless play from him. 

LAP 36/57 – RADIO #6: JEON WONWOO 🔊: “P2, P2. Good job, Jeon. Gap to Choi is 3.8 seconds. Manage tyre temps.” Wonwoo: “Understood.” 🔊: “Keep the pressure on. Focus forward.” Wonwoo: “...was she watching?” 🔊: “Repeat that?” Wonwoo: “...nevermind, sorry. Let’s proceed.”

LAP 44/57 – RADIO #1: CHOI SEUNGCHEOL 🔊: “Gap to Jeon has closed to 2.6. Repeat, 2.6.” Seungcheol: “He’ll burn himself out before he gets to me.”

“The stakes are high between the Ferrari boys, with both vying for that precious P1 position!” the commentator’s voice booms over the speakers. “Can Jeon Wonwoo take on his teammate before the chequered flag? Or will Choi Seungcheol hold him back long enough to score another victory for this season? We’re heading into the final ten laps of the race, and tensions are hotter than the sun today!” 

From where you are, you catch the two scarlet Ferraris hurtling down the main straight together, the cheers around you growing louder. It’s almost as if they’re orbiting each other, drawn like magnets by something larger than pride or team strategies. It’s the kind of rivalry that comes from knowing someone too well, from sharing garages and countless podiums with bitter silence. 

They may wear the same iconic red, but only one name can come out on top in the end, after all.

LAP 49/57 – RADIO #6: JEON WONWOO 🔊: “You’re 1.2 behind, Jeon. He’s vulnerable in Turn 10. Keep your eyes peeled.” Wonwoo: “Copy. Going all in.” 🔊: “Make it count.” Wonwoo: “Hope you’re looking in your mirrors, hyung.” 

The big screen flickers between a cockpit shot in Wonwoo, to a shot on Seungcheol’s wing view mirror. Wonwoo is directly behind him. 

Wonwoo pulls into the inside line, the engine roaring underneath him like it knows that everything is on the line. The nose of his car approaches closer and closer by the millisecond, until it’s nearly kissing Seungcheol’s diffuser. For a second, you spot it𑁋the opportunity for an overtake. You don’t even need to see Wonwoo’s face to feel the determination brimming under his helmet. 

But then, Seungcheol goes on full-defense mode. A late brake. No room. No mercy. Wonwoo has to force the car to back off immediately to avoid a risky contact. The front wing trembles with strain as he takes a moment to regain his space. 

They dance like this for the next five laps. 

Wonwoo lunges; Seungcheol covers. 

Wonwoo widens the line; Seungcheol narrows it down. 

Wonwoo tries to force an error, but Seungcheol doesn’t crack. Not that easily. 

LAP 55/57 – RADIO #6: JEON WONWOO 🔊: “You’re within DRS window. If you want it, now’s the time.” Wonwoo: “Fuck it.”

With no hesitation, he moves again, diving clean and fast and sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in two. Gasps float through the crowd, people rising on their feet to get a better glimpse of the two Ferraris wrestling for the first position. 

The rubber of the tyres scorches harshly against the asphalt, smoke and sparks spitting from underneath the cars as the two of them. The circuit has never felt smaller until now. The space between them is practically nonexistent, and right beside you, Seungkwan flinches when their cars almost graze each other.

But Seungcheol refuses to budge. 

And Wonwoo is forced out of the racing line again, his tyres locking up and costing him two-tenths of time. 

LAP 57/57 – RADIO #1: CHOI SEUNGCHEOL 🔊: “Jeon’s lost momentum. Clear track ahead. Let’s bring it home, Choi.” Seungcheol: “He put up a good fight.”

LAP 57/57 – RADIO #6: JEON WONWOO 🔊: “2.5 seconds back. Settle in with P2, Jeon. You did great.” Wonwoo: “...It’s over, huh?” 🔊: “You gave it everything you could.” Wonwoo: “Yeah… Yeah, I did.” 🔊: “How are you feeling?” Wonwoo: “I don’t know. I hope I did enough.”

The chequered flag waves. The crowd explodes in cheers. 

“And Ferrari scores 1-2 at the Bahrain Grand Prix! With Choi Seungcheol in P1, and Jeon Wonwoo in P2! Vernon Chwe successfully secured a position in P3 for McLaren! What an amazing race, everybody!” 

At the podium ceremony, champagne bottles pop and fireworks crackle overhead. Seungcheol basks in the first place position, flashing a cocky grin to the cameras while holding the trophy high up into the sky. Right next to him, Vernon throws an arm over his shoulder, and the media swarms in with their cameras flashing, fighting to capture the monumental victory.

On the other hand, as you’re snapping photos of the various teams packing up equipment and preparing to end the day, your lens drifts back up to the podium. You zoom in a little, and you find yourself lingering on Wonwoo. 

His champagne bottle is raised as prompted, and he still smiles to the cameras like muscle memory, but you can see it. That quiet, tiny flicker of disappointment in his eyes𑁋just for a split second𑁋before he catches himself.

You’ve photographed many drivers over the years. You think you can recognise the look of defeat better than anyone. 

And maybe, it’s not because he didn’t win P1.

Maybe it’s because he wanted you to see him win. 

The sunrise reflects off the completely empty track, the colours of orange and purple washing over the circuit. The chaos from the day before now lies utter silence in its wake, stripped down to the bones of the asphalt and ghosts of empty stands. You find yourself standing in the grandstand, where all the noise from spectators has shrunk now down to only the click of your shutter. 

You flick the ashes off your cigarette onto the ground, watching the thin smoke curl and vanish into the cool morning air. You really shouldn’t be smoking this close to the paddock, but no one is there to stop you. The only people who are awake are crew members strolling around with yawns and heavy eyelids while carrying out crates and containers. And more importantly, you feel desperate just to feel something to dull the ache that has been settling in your chest since the day you got here. 

Your flight to the next circuit is scheduled later that day. Second race of the triple header. You’ve been up since before the sun rose, mainly because you couldn’t sleep𑁋your thoughts have been racing in complete circles with no intention of shutting the hell up𑁋so you decided to leave your hotel room and take some candid shots of the circuit to start your day. 

Through the lens, the world makes more sense. Through the lens, you’re able to compartmentalise. 

Click. An image of the empty podium platform. 

Click. An image of the faint scruff marks of tyres from yesterday’s race.

Click. An image of a solitary figure walking along the track. 

You hardly register the sounds of footsteps coming up from behind, not until the hairs on the back of your neck stand. They aren’t loud or hurried either𑁋you can tell who it is without needing to turn around. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

The voice is low and deep, plagued with some signs of exhaustion, as if the words themselves are dragging heavy chains behind them. 

You lower the camera, twiddling the cigarette between your fingers. For a moment, you keep your gaze trained on the empty track ahead, still glowing and bathed in the lazy sunrise. 

“Yeah,” You finally say, the word catching a little in your throat. “Something like that.”

A beat of silence, then some movement𑁋he stands right beside you, close enough you can feel the warmth radiating off him, yet far enough that it almost aches.

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Instead, you bring the cigarette up to your lips, inhaling a slow drag as you lean against the railing, the nicotine buzzing beneath your veins as if it’s some temporary substitute for courage. That’s what you’ve been good at these days, though, hasn’t it? Using distraction as a shield. Nicotine to quiet the ache. Distance and silence to bury the closure you never got. 

Wonwoo shifts his weight between his feet, like he’s unsure of his presence right now. Then he mirrors your position, folding his arms over the railing, clasping his hands together and staring out at the circuit.

“You always did this,” he mutters quietly. 

You shoot him a side-glance. “What?”

“Wake up before everyone else.” A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Take photographs of the sunrise.” 

You huff out a soft breath, a wisp of smoke curling between your lips. “Photographs have never lied to me.”

The sound of a low chuckle finally makes you turn your head. There’s still a small smile at his lips as he shakes his head, the brim of his Ferrari cap concealing most of his features. He pushes his glasses up his nose, and allows himself to look at you as well, his head tilted ever so slightly to the horizon. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” You say, words not bitter, or exactly sweet. Just… bittersweet. “P2. Still impressive.”

Wonwoo lets his head fall a little, jaw clenching slightly. “You think so?”

“You made the podium.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t win.”

“That’s racing,” You point out flatly. “Or life. I don’t know.”

His grip on the railing tightens, then loosens. 

“I just…” he starts, then stops, shaking his head. “Forget it.” 

The breeze picks up lightly, carrying away a few strands from your face. You jab at the ash around the bud of the cigarette, crunching the remains under your shoe. It’s almost burnt out now. 

The ache in your chest flutters again, because fuck, if you were both standing at this exact spot five years ago𑁋if he was still yours, and you were still his𑁋you would’ve kissed him right here just to shut him up. Just to show him how proud you are of him, how proud you still are of him to this day. But you can’t do that. 

So instead, you go with the next best thing.

“You were incredible out there,” You tell him quietly. “Fought like hell, you know.”

Wonwoo’s shoulders rise and dip lightly, as if he’s holding something in. He lets out a shaky breath𑁋somewhere between a sigh and a laugh𑁋and runs a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe away a ghost trying to crawl up his body. 

“I wanted to win,” he murmurs. “Thought that being the fastest on the track could outrun the guilt, I guess.”

The ache pulses in your chest. “Wonwoo𑁋”

“I know, I know,” he cuts in softly. “I shouldn’t say that. I’ve changed, you’ve changed. We’ve both changed.”

You draw another hopeless drag from the cigarette, the taste dull and acrid now, sticking to your tongue even after all the smoke clears. The two of you stay quiet for a minute or two, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you, flicking from your face and down to the camera hanging around your neck. 

You meet his eyes halfway as well. He’s definitely changed. You both have. A little older, obviously. More tired, perhaps. 

Then, as if some ghost of nostalgia has possessed you, you bring the cigarette up, pointing the end towards his face. It’s close enough for Wonwoo to feel the faint heat coming from it𑁋or maybe that’s from you, he doesn’t know𑁋and he watches as you shut one eye and slowly trace the air over his features. Slowly, patiently, methodically. 

Like you’re drawing him. Remembering him. All over again. 

Wonwoo doesn’t dare move. Or even breathes. He lets you do it𑁋lets you sketch him out in invisible lines.

As you do, your eyes drag over the slight arch to his brow. The tiny mole sitting under his eye. The sharp slope of his nose. The angle of his jaw. The softness of his lips, which is usually so unreadable but now it’s bare and vulnerable and pressed together with exhaustion. When you reach down to his shoulders, you lower down the burnt out cigarette and toss it to the ground, squishing the ashes under your shoe. 

Finally, Wonwoo allows himself to blink. 

“Do I look different?” he asks.

“You look like shit.”

A deep laugh tumbles out of him briefly, the sound cutting through the heaviness of the early morning air. It catches you off-guard for a moment, though the twitch at your lips doesn’t go unnoticed by him. 

“Thanks,” he says, voice a touch lighter and playful. “You look like shit too.”

“Well, that’s what years of burnout does to you,” You deadpan with a shrug, tugging the strap of your camera a little higher over your shoulder. “No one makes it out of this world pretty.”

“You always made the world look pretty.”

That makes you freeze in place. You look at him. Not as the version you’ve taken pictures from afar, not from across the paddock, or even behind your lens. Nope, as the man whose face you’ve caressed and admired up close during early mornings in his bed. No distance. No zoom. Just him. 

Wonwoo clears his throat. “I’ll be seeing you in Singapore, right?”

You give a slow nod. “Yeah.”

A quiet exhale leaves him. Something like relief. Gratitude. 

A vibration interrupts the silence. Wonwoo reaches into the pocket of his pants to take out his phone, the screen lighting up his face. He purses his lips together, types rapidly with his fingers, before tucking his phone away with a heavy sigh.

“I, uh… I gotta go,” he whispers, voice barely audible. 

You nod once again. “Okay.”

But he doesn’t move yet. He hesitates for a minute, his feet seemingly still anchored to the space right next to you. You both don’t know what to say now. There’s really not much to say. 

Then he starts moving, shooting you a quick look before turning around and heading towards the steps of the grandstand. Yet, he pauses again, lingering, and glances at you over his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” Wonwoo begins, gold washing over his features from the sun. “I’m glad you’re back.” 

He shifts back around and wordlessly steps down the stairs. You stand still as the rising sun casts a warm glow over his figure as he walks away, across the paddock and out of the area back in the direction of the hotel. You turn back towards the circuit, fingers brushing contemplatively over your camera. 

You bring it back up to your eye.

Click. An image of a sunbeam caressing over the empty circuit.

Click. An image of a crew vehicle pulling into the paddock.

Click. An image of the space where he stood.

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the night sky is clear as you and vernon sit on a bench, staring up at the starlit sky with a comfortable quietness between the two of you. in the month that you and vernon have been together, moments like this were often, moments where you and him would just bask in each other's presence without mumbling a word.

"you know, i'm so glad i met someone who thinks looking at the night sky is fun." you break the silence first, and vernon nods, spreading his legs just a little bit as he pushes his beanie further down on his head.

"people who don't think looking at the night sky is fun are boring people." vernon says simply, and you laugh, allowing yourself to lean your head on vernon's shoulder. you feel him go still for a moment, as if trying to rehearses what he's supposed to do. it's cute, seeing him so shy.

vernon lets his hand fall open, silently pleading for you to take it. you do as he wants, intertwining your fingers with his as he bounces your joined hands on his knee.

"what are you thinking about?" you ask softly. vernon just shrugs, shaking his head as he speaks again.

"i'm not very good at voicing my thoughts, but you...you make me want to try and get better at it." vernon says without warning, and your cheeks flare up as you let your eyes meet his. he looks at you with all the seriousness in the world, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile as he kisses the top of your forehead.

"vern, i...i love you." your heart says it before your head can think, and your eyes widen as your heart drops to your toes. vernon freezes mid-blink, the tips of his ears warming to a light red.