Callsign Mirage

Garrett is shoved backward as a swarm of people in scrubs and high-visibility jackets descends on the back of the ambulance. He trips over his own heavy boots, his shoulder colliding hard with the metal frame of the door, but he barely feels the impact.

He is completely numb.

He watches, trapped in a terrifying, out-of-body disassociation, as they pull the stretcher out into the freezing night.

You are entirely swallowed by the chaos. The yellow backboard, the rigid plastic brace locked around your neck, the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires — it all looks so incredibly wrong. You are small. You are fragile. You are supposed to be safe in his kitchen, laughing at Dean and stealing Logan’s hoodies.

You are not supposed to be bleeding out on a gurney.

“Sir, step back!” A voice yells, but it sounds like it’s underwater.

Garrett stumbles out of the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement of the ambulance bay. He blindly follows the chaotic rush of medical personnel pushing your stretcher through the automatic sliding glass doors.

The emergency room is a madhouse. Phones are ringing, people are shouting, monitors are beeping in a discordant, terrifying symphony.

“Trauma Bay One is prepped!” A male nurse shouts, jogging backward as he helps guide your stretcher down the wide linoleum hallway. “What’s her status?”

“She’s tachycardic, GCS is a seven and dropping,” the paramedic barks, practically running to keep up with the rolling bed. “She briefly regained consciousness on the scene but she’s been unresponsive for the last eight minutes.”

They wheel you past the triage desk. They wheel you past the crowded waiting room.

And then, it happens.

A young nurse, wearing the same standard-issue hospital blue scrubs you usually hate, is walking out of a supply closet with a stack of clean towels. She glances casually at the incoming trauma rushing past her.

Her eyes lock onto the stretcher.

The stack of towels slips from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft, muffled thud.

“Oh my god,” the young nurse gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go completely wide, pure, unadulterated horror stripping the color from her face. “Is that … is that Y/N?”

The question cuts through the noise of the ER like a knife.

The male nurse pushing the foot of your stretcher looks down. He really looks. The heavy blood, the swelling, the terrifying distortion of your features makes it hard, but underneath the violence, the recognition clicks into place.

“Fuck,” the male nurse curses loudly, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s Y/N! Hey! It’s one of ours! It’s Y/N!”

The shift in the room is instantaneous and absolute.

A hospital emergency room is trained to handle trauma. They deal with tragedy objectively, separating their emotions from the physical mechanics of saving a life.

But not this time.

The objective professionalism shatters into a million pieces. The name echoes down the hallway, passed from nurse to doctor to orderly like a devastating electric shock.

It’s Y/N. The pediatric nurse. The girl with the patterned scrubs who stays late to hold the preemie babies.

“Get Dr. Gardner down here right fucking now!” A voice screams from down the hall.

“Page trauma surgery! Page neuro!”

Garrett trails behind the stretcher like a ghost. People are running past him, sprinting toward Trauma Bay One. The urgency has multiplied tenfold. This isn’t just a patient anymore. This is their family.

They push the stretcher into the large, glass-walled room of Trauma Bay One. The doors slide shut, but the chaos inside only amplifies.

Garrett hits the glass.

He slaps both of his hands flat against the cold pane, his face pressing close, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he watches them transfer you from the stretcher to the hospital bed.

There are at least ten people crowded around you.

“On my count!” Dr. Gardner, the same doctor who stitched Garrett’s forehead a month ago, yells over the din. He looks completely frantic, his usual calm demeanor entirely gone. “One, two, three!”

They lift the backboard and slide you over. Your arm flops limply off the side of the bed. A nurse immediately catches it, her own hands shaking as she secures the IV line.

“Someone get me the portable ultrasound!” Dr. Gardner barks, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from the counter. “We need to check for internal bleeding. Her abdomen is rigid. I need two units of O-negative blood, stat!”

Garrett presses his forehead against the glass. He is trapped on the outside, a helpless, useless spectator to the most terrifying moment of his entire life.

He feels a heavy hand land firmly on his shoulder.

Garrett flinches violently, spinning around with his fists instantly raised, ready to fight, ready to destroy whoever is touching him.

But it’s not a threat.

Standing in front of him is a short, stocky older woman in dark blue scrubs. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her name tag reads Helen - Charge Nurse. Her face is lined with years of exhaustion and ER stress, but right now, her eyes are blazing with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

“Lower your hands, son,” Helen says. Her voice is calm, gravelly, and brooks absolute zero argument.

Garrett slowly lowers his fists, his chest heaving as he fights for air that doesn’t seem to exist. “I-I have to …”

“You have to stay out of their way,” Helen says firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her instead of the bloody scene behind the glass. “They are doing everything they can. You being in there will only distract them, and she needs every single ounce of their focus right now.”

Garrett’s jaw trembles. He looks down at his hands.

They are coated in your blood. It has dried into the creases of his knuckles, stained the cuffs of his black Henley, and smeared across his palms. The sight of it sends a fresh, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Come here,” Helen murmurs, her tone softening marginally.

She grabs him by the bicep. For a woman half his size, she has a grip like a vise. She pulls him a few feet away from the glass window, steering him toward a small alcove near the nurses’ station that offers a sliver of privacy.

She pushes him down into a plastic chair.

“Sit,” she orders.

Garrett collapses into the chair, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his bloodstained hands, a ragged, broken sob tearing its way up his throat. He can’t hold it back anymore. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind nothing but the agonizing, crushing reality of what just happened.

Helen doesn’t offer him empty platitudes. She doesn’t pat his back or tell him everything is going to be okay. She’s an ER nurse; she knows better than to make promises she can’t keep.

Instead, she turns to a nearby sink, wets a thick stack of brown paper towels with warm water, and walks back over to him.

“Give me your hands,” Helen says.

Garrett slowly lifts his head. He drops his hands to his lap.

Helen kneels in front of him, entirely uncaring about the linoleum floor. She takes his massive, shaking hands in her own and begins to methodically wipe the drying blood from his skin.

“You were in here a month ago,” Helen says quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the task of cleaning his knuckles. “I remember you. The hockey player with the concussion.”

“Yeah,” Garrett rasps, his throat burning.

“She was terrified that night,” Helen continues, scrubbing a stubborn patch of crimson from his palm. “I’ve been a nurse for forty years. I know what a victim of domestic abuse looks like. I knew what she was going home to. I tried to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t. She protected him.”

Garrett closes his eyes, the memory of that night in the exam room flashing vividly behind his eyelids.

“She left with you,” Helen says, tossing the bloody paper towels into a nearby biohazard bin and grabbing a fresh, wet stack. “I watched her walk out of those sliding doors with you, and for the first time since she started working here, she looked like she had a sliver of hope.”

“I told her I’d protect her,” Garrett chokes out, the guilt a physical, crushing weight on his chest. “I promised her she was safe. I moved her into my house. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.”

“Careful doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with a monster,” Helen says bluntly.

She finishes wiping his hands, tossing the last of the towels away. She doesn’t stand up. She stays kneeling in front of him, forcing him to meet her steely, hardened gaze.

“What’s the story?” Helen asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Who did this to my girl?”

Garrett looks at her. He sees the absolute, uncompromising love this woman has for you. He sees the fury vibrating in her jaw.

“My father,” Garrett says, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. “Phil Graham.”

Helen’s eyebrows twitch, a brief flash of recognition crossing her face, but she doesn’t seem to care that the man is a famous athlete. She only cares that he is a monster.

“He tracked her down,” Garrett continues, the words pouring out of him in a disjointed, frantic rush. “She went to the grocery store after her shift. He must have been waiting. He must have followed her. We found her in the alley out back. He beat her, Helen. He beat her until she couldn’t stand, and then he just left her there to die.”

Helen’s expression hardens into something akin to carved stone. She slowly stands up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs.

“The police are already on their way,” Helen says, her voice cold and absolute. “Protocol for assault victims. They’ll be here any minute to take a statement.”

She steps closer to him, leaning down slightly so her face is inches from his.

“You tell them everything,” Helen orders, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “You tell them about tonight. You tell them about the bruises you saw a month ago. You give them his name, his address, and the make of his car if you know it.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Garrett whispers, the terrifying, homicidal calm returning to his blood. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

“No, you are not,” Helen snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “You are not going to throw your life away for a piece of garbage like that. You are going to let the police arrest him, and you are going to make damn sure that whoever did this to sweet Y/N never sees the light of day again. You bury him with the law. You don’t let him ruin your life too.”

Garrett stares at her, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue.

“I need to get back to my floor,” Helen says, stepping back. Her eyes flick toward the glass window of Trauma Bay One, a flash of profound sadness breaking through her tough exterior. “You sit right here. You don’t move until the doctors come out to speak with you.”

“Is she …” Garrett swallows hard, terrified to even ask the question. “Is she going to make it?”

Helen looks at him, her eyes softening with a deep, tragic sympathy. “She’s young. She’s strong. And she has the best trauma team in the state working on her right now. But Garrett … it’s bad. Prepare yourself.”

Helen turns and walks away, disappearing back into the chaotic flow of the emergency room.

Garrett is left alone in the plastic chair.

He turns his head, his eyes immediately locking back onto the glass wall of the trauma bay.

It looks like a warzone inside.

Dr. Gardner is standing on one side of the bed, his white coat stained with your blood, shouting orders. Two nurses are frantically hanging bags of blood and clear fluids, the plastic lines tangling together in their rush.

Someone is cutting away your dark jeans, exposing the pale skin of your legs.

“We have fluid in the abdomen!” Dr. Gardner yells, staring at the screen of a portable ultrasound machine. “She’s bleeding internally. We need an OR prepped right now! Call the surgical team, tell them we’re coming up!”

Garrett stands up, drawn magnetically toward the glass.

He watches as a respiratory therapist pushes through the crowd, holding a terrifying array of plastic tubes and a metal laryngoscope.

“Her airway is swelling!” The therapist shouts. “She’s not getting enough oxygen. I need to intubate!”

“Do it!” Dr. Gardner barks. “Push the propofol and rocuronium. Get her under.”

Garrett presses his hands against the glass again. He watches in pure, unadulterated agony as they tilt your head back. He watches them slip the metal blade into your mouth, forcing your jaw open, slipping a plastic tube down your throat to breathe for you because your broken body can no longer do it on its own.

It is the most violated, terrifying thing he has ever witnessed.

He feels like his heart is being slowly, methodically crushed in a vise. Every time the monitor beeps — a frantic, irregular sound — he flinches. Every time a new drop of blood hits the white hospital floor, a piece of his soul breaks off.

This is his fault.

The thought is a toxic, pervasive cancer in his mind. He brought you into his world. He challenged a man he knew was a volatile, violent psychopath, and he arrogant enough to believe he could just walk away. He thought a locked door and three college hockey players were enough to stop a monster with decades of experience in terrorizing people.

He underestimated Phil. And you are paying the ultimate, agonizing price for his mistake.

“Garrett!”

The frantic shout cuts through the noise of the ER.

Garrett turns his head.

Bursting through the main sliding glass doors are Logan, Dean, and Tucker. They look entirely unhinged. Dean’s face is stained with tears, Logan’s eyes are wild and frantic, and Tucker is deathly pale, his jaw locked tight.

They spot him standing by the glass and immediately sprint across the waiting room, completely ignoring the protests of the security guard at the desk.

“Where is she?” Logan demands, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Is she okay? What are they saying?”

Garrett doesn’t answer. He just turns his head back toward the glass window.

The boys follow his gaze.

They freeze. All three of them, these massive, imposing athletes who fear absolutely nothing on the ice, stop dead in their tracks.

Dean lets out a broken, horrifying sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He turns away instantly, unable to look at you with the tube down your throat, your face a swollen, bloody mess. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking violently.

Tucker closes his eyes, a tear escaping to run down his cheek. He reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder, a silent, desperate attempt at grounding them both in a reality that feels completely surreal.

Logan doesn’t look away. He stares through the glass, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of the doctors, the blood on the floor, the terrifying array of machines keeping you alive.

“He’s dead,” Logan whispers. The words are utterly devoid of emotion. They are a statement of fact. “Phil Graham is a dead man.”

“Get in line,” Garrett rasps, his voice hollow.

Suddenly, the doors to Trauma Bay One slide violently open.

“Move! We’re moving!” Dr. Gardner yells, running alongside the bed as two orderlies push the stretcher out into the hallway. “Clear a path to the elevators! OR 4 is waiting!”

Garrett steps forward automatically, trying to get to you, trying to grab your hand one more time.

“Stay back!” Dr. Gardner shouts, not unkindly, but with absolute urgency. “She’s bleeding internally. Her spleen is ruptured and we suspect a severe traumatic brain injury. We are taking her to surgery right now.”

“Can I …” Garrett chokes on the words. “Can I come up?”

“You wait in the surgical waiting room on the third floor,” Dr. Gardner says, the stretcher already moving rapidly down the hall. “We will find you when we know more. Just pray, boys. Just pray.”

And then, they are gone.

The stretcher rounds the corner toward the surgical elevators, disappearing from sight, leaving behind nothing but a smeared trail of blood on the linoleum floor and a terrifying, ringing silence in Garrett’s ears.

Garrett stands in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were. He feels completely hollowed out. There is nothing left inside him but a cold, desolate wasteland of terror and guilt.

“Garrett Graham?”

A deep, authoritative voice echoes from behind them.

Garrett turns slowly.

Standing a few feet away are two uniformed police officers. They look grim, their hands resting on their utility belts, their eyes scanning the four massive hockey players standing in the middle of the trauma wing.

“I’m Garrett,” he says, his voice flat.

The older of the two officers, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy mustache, steps forward and pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“I’m Officer Miller, this is Officer Davis,” he says, his tone strictly professional but carrying a weight of understanding. “We were called in regarding the assault victim that just came through here. Y/N. The charge nurse said you were the one who found her.”

“I found her,” Garrett confirms.

“We need to ask you some questions, son,” Officer Miller says gently. “Can you tell us exactly what happened tonight? And do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”

Garrett looks at the officer. He thinks about Helen’s words. You bury him with the law. You make damn sure he never sees the light of day again.

He thinks about the way you looked in that alleyway, curled into a ball, apologizing to him while your face bled onto the asphalt. He thinks about the violent, terrifying reality of his father.

Logan steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrett, a silent, imposing wall of support. Tucker moves to his other side. Dean wipes his face and steps up right behind them.

They are a united front. They are your family.

“I don’t just have an idea,” Garrett says, his voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute clarity that echoes in the quiet emergency room. He locks eyes with the police officer. “I know exactly who did it.”

Officer Miller clicks his pen. “Who?”

“Phil Graham,” Garrett says, the name echoing like a death sentence. “He’s my father. And I want him put in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”

***

“I want to make sure I have this entirely straight, son,” Officer Miller says, his pen hovering over the small spiral notebook. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway cast deep, exhausted shadows under the cop’s eyes. “You are accusing your father, Philip Graham, former professional hockey player, of this assault.”

“I’m not just accusing him,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously calm. He sits rigidly in the plastic waiting room chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m telling you it was him.”

Officer Davis, the younger cop, shifts his weight. “And you said you witnessed him abuse her previously?”

“Thanksgiving,” Garrett answers without missing a beat. “I went to his house in Connecticut for dinner. It was the first time I met her. She reached across the table, and her sleeve slid up. She had finger-shaped bruises all over her bicep. The exact same size and shape as the bruises I just saw on her arm in the ambulance.”

Officer Miller frowns, jotting down the notes rapidly. “Did you report the abuse then?”

“No,” Garrett grits out, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “She begged me not to. She was terrified. She told me it was her fault for dropping a glass. I got in my face with him, told her to run, and I left. But three weeks later, she ended up in this ER as my nurse. He had beaten her again because my exit embarrassed him. So I took her home with me.”

“She’s been living with us for almost a month,” Tucker interjects. He is standing right behind Garrett’s chair, a solid, immovable presence. “In our off-campus house. We’ve been keeping the doors locked. She bought a burner phone so he couldn’t track her GPS. She was terrified he would find her.”

“But he did,” Logan adds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes hard as ice. “She texted us at 6:05 PM that she was clocking out and going to the Market Basket down the street. When she wasn’t home by 7:15, Garrett tried to call. It went to voicemail. So we tracked her Life360 location to the parking lot.”

Officer Davis looks up from his own notepad. “You found the car first?”

“Row G,” Dean says. His voice is shaky, completely lacking its usual arrogant bravado. He looks sick to his stomach. “Driver’s side door was wide open. Groceries all over the ground. Her phone was smashed on the pavement. Garrett told us to split up.”

“I took the back alley,” Garrett takes over, staring blankly at the far wall. “Behind the hardware store and the loading docks. That’s where I found her.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alley?” Miller asks. “A vehicle leaving the scene? Anyone fleeing on foot?”

“No,” Garrett says. “It was empty. He was already gone. But I’m telling you, it was him. Check the security cameras at the grocery store. Check the traffic cams at the intersection. You’ll see his car. He drives a black BMW.”

Officer Miller closes his notebook with a definitive snap. “We have units at the Market Basket securing the scene right now. They’re pulling the surveillance footage as we speak. We’re also dispatching state troopers to Phil Graham’s residence to bring him in for questioning.”

“Questioning isn’t going to be enough,” Garrett says, finally looking up to meet the officer’s eyes. The dark, lethal promise in Garrett’s gaze makes the older cop pause. “He nearly beat her to death. He left her in an alley to die. If you don’t lock him up, I will handle him myself.”

“Garrett,” Tucker warns quietly, his hand squeezing Garrett’s shoulder.

Officer Miller exhales a long, heavy breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, son. Let us do our jobs. If what you’re saying lines up with the evidence at the scene, Philip Graham won’t be seeing the outside of a jail cell for a very, very long time. Attempted murder is a heavy charge.”

The words ring in the air, echoing violently in Garrett’s skull.

“We’ll be in touch,” Officer Davis says gently. “Don’t leave the hospital without letting the front desk know. We might need a formal written statement later tonight.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Logan says flatly.

The two officers turn and walk away, their heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.

As soon as they are out of earshot, the last of Garrett’s adrenaline completely evaporates. It leaves behind a crushing, suffocating exhaustion that makes his bones ache. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands, his fingers tangling roughly in his dark hair.

“This is my fault,” Dean whispers from a few feet away.

Garrett lifts his head. Dean is pacing a tight circle near the vending machines, his hands tugging at the roots of his blonde hair.

“Dean, stop,” Logan says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

“No, think about it,” Dean insists, his voice cracking. He looks at the three of them, completely devastated. “She asked if we needed anything. I asked for the damn Bagel Bites. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would have driven straight home. She wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have caught her.”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says firmly, stepping away from Garrett’s chair to intercept Dean. He grabs Dean by the shoulders, forcing the pacing to stop. “Listen to me. Do not do that. Phil Graham is a predator. If he found her at the grocery store, it means he was already watching her. He probably followed her from the hospital. If she hadn’t stopped at the store, he might have tried to pull her out of her car at a stoplight, or ambushed her in our driveway.”

“Tuck’s right,” Logan agrees, stepping up beside them. “This isn’t on you, Dean. It’s on Phil. And we are going to make sure he pays for it.”

Garrett listens to his friends, but the words just wash over him. Dean can blame himself for the grocery list all he wants, but Garrett knows the real truth.

It’s his fault.

He is the one who dragged you into this mess. He is the one who provoked Phil. He is the one who arrogantly assumed he could play the hero and save you from the dragon, without realizing the dragon would simply burn the whole castle down in retaliation.

The waiting room clock ticks loudly on the wall.

It’s 11:42 PM.

You have been in surgery for over three hours.

The surgical waiting room on the third floor is suffocatingly quiet. The ER was loud, chaotic, and terrifying. But this room is worse. It’s just beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines, and the agonizing, stretching silence of not knowing.

“I’m getting coffee,” Logan announces, pushing himself up from the stiff couch. “Garrett? You want anything?”

Garrett shakes his head silently. He hasn’t moved from his chair in hours. He hasn’t washed his hands again. There is still a faint smear of your blood on his left cuff. He can’t bring himself to scrub it out. It feels like throwing away a piece of you.

“Get him a black coffee,” Tucker tells Logan. “And get Dean some water.”

Logan nods and slips out the door.

Dean drops onto the couch across from Garrett, staring blankly at his phone screen. “How long does a surgery take? It’s been hours.”

“As long as she needs,” Tucker says softly, taking the seat next to Garrett.

Silence falls over the room again.

Garrett closes his eyes. Every time he does, he is trapped in a horrific highlight reel.

He sees your open car door. He sees the shattered marinara sauce. He sees you lying in the dirt, curled into a ball, your face beaten beyond recognition.

He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.

Your weak, agonizing whisper tears through his mind, shredding his sanity.

Garrett leans his head back against the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. He doesn’t just want you to survive. He needs you to survive. He needs you to wake up so he can look you in the eyes and tell you everything he’s been too cowardly to say for the last month.

He wants to tell you that the house feels empty when you aren’t in it. That he purposefully sits on the edge of the couch just so his leg can brush against yours. That the sound of your laugh when Dean makes a stupid joke is the only thing that actually settles the dark, anxious noise in his brain.

He is falling in love with you.

He knows it with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He has been falling since the night you walked into his exam room in those ridiculous pink scrubs and touched his face with hands so gentle they made him want to cry.

“Garrett Graham?”

Garrett’s eyes snap open.

Standing in the doorway of the waiting room is Dr. Gardner.

The surgeon looks entirely exhausted. He has changed out of his blood-stained white coat and is wearing fresh green surgical scrubs. A blue surgical cap is still tied around his head, and his face is deeply lined with fatigue.

Garrett shoots up from his chair so fast it tips backward, crashing loudly against the floor.

Tucker and Dean are on their feet a split second later. Logan jogs back into the room, holding a cardboard tray of coffees, freezing in his tracks at the sight of the doctor.

None of them speak. The air is completely sucked out of the room. Garrett feels his heart climb directly into his throat, beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm.

Dr. Gardner looks at the four massive hockey players. He lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Before I say anything,” Dr. Gardner starts, his voice low and serious, “I need you to understand that legally, I am not supposed to give you this information. You aren’t family. You aren’t her emergency contacts.”

Garrett’s chest caves in. “Please.”

It’s the only word he can manage. It’s a broken, desperate plea.

Dr. Gardner holds up a hand, his expression softening into profound empathy. “However. I have worked with her for over a year. And for the last three and a half weeks, she has not shut up about the four hockey players she lives with. She talks about how Tucker cooks better than a five-star chef. How Dean is a menace but means well. How Logan is secretly a giant softie.”

The doctor turns his gaze directly to Garrett.

“And she talks about you,” Dr. Gardner says softly. “She talks about how you saved her life. So, as far as I’m concerned, you boys are her family. And you deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Is she alive?” Garrett asks, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognizes it.

“She is alive,” Dr. Gardner confirms immediately.

The collective exhale in the room is staggering. Dean literally sags against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Tucker grips the back of a chair, his eyes dropping to the ceiling in silent prayer. Logan sets the tray of coffees down on a side table with shaking hands.

Garrett feels his knees threaten to buckle, but he forces himself to stay standing. “What happened? How bad is it?”

Dr. Gardner rubs the back of his neck, shifting into his clinical, professional mode. “It’s bad, Garrett. I won’t sugarcoat it. The blunt force trauma she sustained was severe.”

Garrett braces himself. “Tell me.”

“When she arrived, her blood pressure was plummeting due to internal bleeding,” Dr. Gardner explains, keeping his voice steady. “We rushed her into surgery and discovered a Grade 4 laceration to her spleen. It was ruptured beyond repair. We had to perform a full splenectomy to stop the bleeding. She’ll have a compromised immune system moving forward, but she can live a full life without it.”

“Okay,” Garrett nods rapidly, processing the information. “Okay, what else?”

“She has three broken ribs on her left side, and two cracked on the right,” the surgeon continues. “The defensive bruising on her forearms is extensive, but luckily, there are no fractures in her arms or wrists.”

“And her face?” Logan asks, his voice thick with anger. “She was completely unrecognizable.”

Dr. Gardner’s jaw tightens. “The facial trauma was significant. She has a severe orbital blowout fracture on her left side — the bone underneath the eye socket was crushed. We had an oral and maxillofacial surgeon come in to set a titanium plate to rebuild the floor of the socket and save her vision. Her nose is broken in two places, we reset it in the OR.”

Garrett feels a fresh wave of violent nausea wash over him. The visual of his father taking his massive, heavy fists and crushing the delicate bones of your face is enough to make him want to put his fist through the waiting room drywall.

“What about her brain?” Tucker asks gently. “She was unconscious when the paramedics took her.”

“That is our primary concern right now,” Dr. Gardner says, his expression turning grave. “She suffered a severe concussion. We did a CT scan before taking her up to the OR. There is no active brain bleed, which is a massive relief, but there is significant swelling. A traumatic brain injury.”

“So what does that mean?” Garrett demands, stepping closer to the doctor. “When does she wake up?”

“Right now, she is heavily sedated and intubated in the ICU,” Dr. Gardner explains. “We are keeping her on a ventilator to protect her airway while the facial swelling goes down, and to keep her brain resting. We will slowly wean her off the paralytics and sedation over the next twenty-four hours to see how she responds.”

“But she’s stable?” Garrett pleads.

“She is in critical but stable condition,” Dr. Gardner corrects carefully. “She made it through the surgery. That was the hardest part. Now, we just have to wait for her body to heal.”

“Can I see her?” Garrett asks instantly. He doesn’t care about ICU rules or visiting hours. If Dr. Gardner tells him no, he will tear this hospital apart barehanded to find you.

Dr. Gardner looks at Garrett, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the wild, desperate exhaustion in his dark eyes.

“ICU protocol says immediate family only,” Dr. Gardner says quietly. He reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a visitor pass. “But like I said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. Just you, Garrett. The rest of the boys can come in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Garrett breathes, taking the pass. “Doc, I … thank you.”

“Room 219,” Dr. Gardner says. “She looks worse than she did down in the alley, Garrett. The swelling from the surgery is peaking. Brace yourself.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the guys.

“Go home,” Garrett tells them. “Get some sleep. Bring some fresh clothes tomorrow.”

“We’re not leaving, G,” Logan says firmly, already walking over to the waiting room couch and throwing his jacket down like a blanket. “We’ll sleep right here.”

“I’m not leaving without seeing her,” Dean adds stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Garrett looks at his best friends. He doesn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, knowing they are right outside the ICU doors brings him a strange sort of comfort.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers.

He turns and walks out of the waiting room.

The Intensive Care Unit is a completely different world from the emergency room. The lights are dimmed, casting a quiet, clinical hush over the wide hallways. There is no shouting, no running. Just the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady beeping of heart monitors and the mechanical whoosh of ventilators keeping people alive.

Garrett walks down the hall, his boots silent against the floor.

He stops outside Room 219.

The door is made of heavy glass. He can see right inside.

He puts his hand on the metal handle, but for a second, he can’t bring himself to push it down. Dr. Gardner warned him. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing you like this.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The room is freezing cold, designed to keep bacteria at bay. It smells like sharp antiseptic and iodine.

You are lying in the center of the room, completely surrounded by machines.

Garrett walks slowly to the side of your bed, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.

You look incredibly small. The heavy hospital blankets are pulled up to your chest, hiding the bandages from your surgery and the wrap around your broken ribs. But he can’t hide from your face.

Dr. Gardner was right. The swelling is horrific. Your entire face is bruised, puffed, and distorted. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, covered by a white sterile patch protecting the newly placed titanium plate. A heavy plastic brace encompasses your neck, keeping your spine perfectly still.

And sticking out of your mouth, taped securely to your cheek, is the thick, ribbed plastic tube of the ventilator.

The machine beside your bed hisses and clicks, forcing air into your lungs, making your chest rise and fall in a harsh, mechanical rhythm.

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers.

He reaches the side of the bed. He wants to touch your face, to stroke your hair, but he is terrified of hurting you. He is terrified of adding even a fraction of an ounce of pain to what you are already enduring.

He looks down at your right hand. It rests on top of the blue hospital blanket. There is an IV port taped to the back of your hand, wires running from your fingertips to the monitor above your head.

But your palm is open.

Garrett sinks into the hard plastic chair beside your bed. He slowly, carefully reaches out and slides his large, calloused hand under yours.

Your skin is cold. The contrast to the vibrant, warm girl who was teasing him about grocery shopping just six hours ago is devastating.

He gently wraps his fingers around yours, securing your small hand safely within his grip. He avoids the IV lines, mindful of the bruises painting your forearm.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and brings your knuckles to his lips.

He presses a long, agonizingly gentle kiss to your bruised skin.

He closes his eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. They slip down his cheeks and soak into the fabric of the hospital blanket.

“I’m so sorry,” Garrett cries softly, his voice breaking in the quiet room. “I should have gone with you. I should have made sure you were safe. I promised you he wouldn’t get near you again, and I broke my promise.”

The ventilator hisses. The heart monitor beeps. You don’t respond.

Garrett keeps your hand pressed tightly against his mouth. He breathes in the faint scent of the surgical soap they used to wash you, desperate to find even a trace of the vanilla shampoo he knows so well.

“But I’m making a new promise,” Garrett whispers into the quiet room. He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto your battered face.

The homicidal rage from the alleyway is still there, burning like a low, hot coal in his chest, but right now, it is entirely eclipsed by his love for you.

“I’m not leaving,” Garrett vows, his voice steadying, hardening with absolute resolve. “I am going to sit in this chair until you wake up. I don’t care if it takes a day, or a week, or a month. I’m right here.”

He gently runs his thumb over the unbruised patch of skin on the back of your hand.

“And when you wake up,” Garrett says, fresh tears filling his eyes, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never look over your shoulder again. You hear me? You’re mine now. And nobody touches what’s mine.”

He leans forward again, pressing another soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Just come back to me,” he pleads. “Please, Y/N. Just come back.”

Garrett settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin, his eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Outside the glass doors, the hospital continues its chaotic rush. Outside the building, the police are hunting down the monster who did this.

But inside Room 219, there is only the quiet, desperate vigil of a boy who finally realizes what he has to lose, and the slow, mechanical breathing of the girl he intends to save.

***

Time in the Intensive Care Unit does not exist.

There is no day, no night. There is only the harsh, unnatural glow of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic, hissing plunge of the ventilator, and the agonizingly slow crawl of the digital clock on the wall.

It has been forty-eight hours since the paramedics wheeled you through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room.

Garrett has not left the hard plastic chair beside your bed.

He is a ghost of himself. The charismatic, untouchable captain of the Briar Hawks is gone, replaced by a terrified, hollowed-out boy. His dark hair is wild and greasy. A thick, dark layer of stubble covers his jaw. He is wearing the same black t-shirt and dark jeans, though Tucker managed to sneak a clean Briar Hockey hoodie over his shoulders at some point during the first night.

The boys have been a constant, rotating presence. Logan slept on the waiting room floor the first night. Dean spent yesterday pacing a groove into the linoleum hallway outside the ICU doors. Tucker has been acting as a ruthless gatekeeper, bringing Garrett black coffee and forcing him to eat half a stale hospital sandwich every twelve hours.

But none of them can reach him.

Garrett’s entire world has shrunk to the three feet of space between his chair and your bed. His eyes are perpetually locked on the steady, artificial rise and fall of your chest. His large hand remains wrapped tightly around your cold, limp fingers, a desperate physical tether keeping you grounded to the earth.

“Garrett.”

The soft voice comes from the doorway.

Garrett doesn’t turn his head. He just blinks, his red-rimmed eyes burning with exhaustion.

Dr. Gardner steps into the quiet room, holding a tablet. He looks slightly more rested than he did two nights ago, but his professional demeanor is still laced with deep concern.

“We need to talk about the sedation,” Dr. Gardner says quietly, moving to the foot of your bed.

Garrett finally looks up. His chest tightens. “Is something wrong? Did the swelling get worse?”

“No,” the doctor reassures him immediately. “Actually, the swelling in her brain has stabilized. Her intracranial pressure is holding at a safe level. Her vitals are strong. She’s fighting, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a ragged, trembling exhale, closing his eyes for a split second. “Okay. That’s good. Right?”

“It’s very good,” Dr. Gardner nods. “Which means it’s time to take her off the paralytics and lower the propofol. We need to see if she can breathe on her own. We need to extubate her.”

Garrett grips your hand a fraction tighter. “Will it hurt?”

“Taking the tube out is uncomfortable,” the surgeon admits honestly. “Her throat is going to be incredibly raw, and waking up with a broken ribs and a shattered orbital floor is going to be a shock to her system. We have her on a heavy morphine drip for the pain, but the disorientation is going to be severe. She might panic.”

“I’ll keep her calm,” Garrett says instantly. His voice leaves absolutely zero room for doubt. “Just do whatever you have to do to get that thing out of her throat.”

“Alright,” Dr. Gardner says. He turns to the cluster of machines. “I’m going to dial back the drip. A respiratory therapist will be in shortly. Once the tube is out, it might still take a few hours for her to fully wake up. Be patient.”

The doctor adjusts the monitors, checks your chart one last time, and quietly leaves the room.

Garrett turns his attention entirely back to you.

The wait is excruciating. The respiratory therapist comes in, performs the awful, gag-inducing procedure of pulling the thick plastic tube from your airway, and replaces it with a simple oxygen cannula resting under your broken nose.

You cough weakly during the process, a terrible, wet sound that makes Garrett want to put his fist through the wall, but you don’t open your eyes. You just slip right back into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

So, Garrett waits.

Another three hours pass.

The silence in the room is different now. The mechanical hissing of the ventilator is gone, replaced by the soft, shallow sound of your own natural breathing.

Garrett leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of your mattress. His thumb traces a slow, methodical circle over the back of your hand.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers into the quiet room, his voice cracking with raw desperation. “Please. Just open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes.”

And then, a miracle happens.

Your fingers twitch.

It’s a tiny movement, barely a flutter against his palm, but Garrett feels it like a lightning strike.

His head snaps up.

“Y/N?” He breathes, his heart launching into a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.

He stands up, hovering over the side of the bed.

You groan. It’s a low, raspy, agonizing sound that scrapes against the rawness of your throat. Your head shifts a fraction of an inch against the

pillow, immediately halted by the rigid plastic of the cervical collar locked around your neck.

“Don’t move,” Garrett says instantly, his free hand flying up to hover gently over your shoulder, terrified to actually touch you and cause you pain. “Don’t try to move. You’re in a neck brace. You’re safe.”

Your uninjured right eye flutters. The eyelashes tremble against your swollen cheek.

It takes an agonizingly long minute, but slowly, fighting against the heavy weight of the sedatives, your eye opens.

The world is a blurry, confusing mess.

The light is too bright. The room is too cold. A localized, blinding agony radiates from the left side of your face, completely shielded by a thick white patch. Your chest feels like someone dropped an anvil on it, every shallow breath sparking a sharp, stabbing fire in your ribs.

Panic, thick and immediate, begins to claw its way up your throat.

Where are you? Why can’t you move your neck? Why is it so hard to breathe?

The heart monitor by your bed begins to beep faster, matching the sudden, terrified spike of your pulse.

“Hey,” a voice says.

A shadow blocks the harsh overhead light.

You blink, trying to force your single open eye to focus. The blurry shape above you slowly sharpens into recognizable features.

Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes so impossibly warm that they anchor you to the earth.

Garrett.

He is leaning over you. He looks terrible. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw covered in scruff, his face pale and tight with an anxiety so profound it practically vibrates off him.

But he is here.

“I’m right here,” Garrett whispers. His voice is a rough, gravelly rasp, trembling with unshed tears. “I’ve got you. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

You try to swallow, but your throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass. You let out a small, pained whimper.

Garrett’s face crumbles. “I know. I know it hurts. God, I know. You had a breathing tube in. Don’t try to talk.”

You look at him. You really look at him.

The panic slowly begins to recede, beaten back by the heavy, comforting weight of his hand wrapped around yours.

The memories hit you in disjointed, terrifying flashes.

The dark alleyway behind the Market Basket. The blinding pain. The suffocating terror of Phil’s massive hands. The feeling of the cold asphalt pressing into your cheek as you waited to die.

You squeeze your eye shut as a tear escapes, hot and stinging against your battered skin.

“Hey, look at me,” Garrett pleads softly. He reaches up with a trembling hand and gently, so incredibly gently, wipes the tear away with his thumb. “He’s gone. The police arrested him at his house in Connecticut yesterday morning. He’s locked up, Y/N. He can never, ever hurt you again.”

You open your eye, staring up at the beautiful, broken boy standing beside your bed.

He caught the monster. He kept his promise.

Garrett lets out a shuddering breath, his broad shoulders suddenly caving inward as if the structural integrity of his entire body has just failed.

He drops to his knees beside your bed.

He presses his forehead against the mattress, right next to your hip. He doesn’t let go of your hand; he brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles over and over again, completely uncaring that his tears are soaking into your skin.

“I am so sorry,” Garrett chokes out. The words are a broken, ragged sob, torn from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul. “I am so fucking sorry.”

You frown, confusion cutting through the heavy haze of the morphine.

Why is he apologizing?

“Garrett,” you try to say.

It comes out as a harsh, breathless croak. It hurts. It burns your throat and pulls at the muscles in your neck.

Garrett’s head snaps up. “Don’t talk. Please, baby, save your strength.”

He just called you baby. Not in the casual, teasing way the college guys at Briar throw the word around. He said it with a devastating, reverent kind of love.

“I did this to you,” Garrett cries, the guilt pouring out of him like blood from a severed artery. He shakes his head frantically, his dark eyes wide and tortured. “This is my fault. I brought you into my mess. I thought I could just walk into his house, scream in his face, and walk away. I thought I was protecting you by taking you to my house, but all I did was paint a target on your back.”

You stare at him, completely horrified by the words coming out of his mouth.

He actually believes this. He has been sitting in this miserable, freezing hospital room for two days, convincing himself that he is the villain. Convincing himself that Phil’s violence is a direct result of his own actions.

“If I had just kept my mouth shut,” Garrett spirals, the tears tracking freely down his face, cutting paths through the exhaustion. “If I hadn’t humiliated him in front of you. If I had driven you home myself instead of letting you go to the store alone. I promised you were safe, and I left you alone.”

He drops his head back to the mattress, a harsh, guttural sound of pure self-hatred tearing from his throat.

“I’m a monster,” Garrett whispers into the blankets. “I’m just like him. I destroy everything I touch.”

The words hit you harder than any physical blow Phil landed in that alleyway.

The physical pain radiating through your body is excruciating. Your ribs scream every time you breathe, your head is pounding with a blinding, concussive pressure, and your throat is on fire.

But none of that matters right now.

What matters is the man weeping beside your bed. The man who gave up his bedroom for you. The man who stood between you and his teammates like a human shield. The man who is currently drowning in a sea of toxic, misplaced guilt.

You tighten your grip on his hand. You don’t have much strength, but you squeeze his fingers as hard as you possibly can.

Garrett lifts his head, his eyes immediately searching your face. “What? Does something hurt? Should I press the call button?”

You slowly, painstakingly, shake your head. The movement jostles the neck brace, sending a fresh spike of pain down your spine, but you ignore it.

You look him dead in the eye.

“Not,” you whisper.

The single word tears at your raw vocal cords. It sounds terrible. But you don’t stop. You force the breath from your bruised lungs, pushing past the agonizing pain in your ribs.

“Your,” you croak, your voice shaking with effort.

Garrett stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. “Y/N, stop. Please.”

“Fault,” you finish.

The three words hang in the quiet air of the ICU, heavier than gravity, louder than a gunshot.

Garrett freezes. He completely stops breathing.

He looks at you, taking in the horrific swelling of your face, the white patch over your eye, the thick plastic collar, the wires snaking across your chest. You have been beaten to within an inch of your life. You have had an organ removed. Your face has been rebuilt with titanium.

And the very first thing you do when you wake up is comfort him.

You don’t ask for pain medicine. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t complain about the agony you are in.

You look at the boy who thinks he ruined your life, and you use your incredibly limited, agonizing strength to absolve him.

The absolute, uncompromising selflessness of it shatters the very last defense mechanism Garrett possesses.

The wall he has spent twenty-one years building — the wall that survived his father’s fists, the wall that survived his mother’s death, the wall that made him the ruthless, untouchable hockey captain — crumbles into dust.

Garrett breaks. He completely falls apart.

A sob rips its way out of his throat. He practically collapses against the side of your bed. He buries his face in the space between your arm and your ribcage, mindful not to put any weight on your actual injuries, but needing to be as close to you as physically possible.

His massive shoulders shake violently. He weeps. Hard, ugly, breath-stealing sobs that wrack his entire frame.

“God,” Garrett cries, his voice muffled by the hospital blankets. “God, I love you. I love you so much it feels like I’m dying.”

Your single open eye widens slightly.

He loves you.

The confession is messy, desperate, and completely lacking any sort of romantic, cinematic polish. It is delivered in a freezing ICU room, smelling of iodine and fear, by a boy who is actively having an emotional breakdown against your arm.

And it is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.

You can’t move much. Your left arm is restricted by the IV lines, and your ribs scream in protest when you try to shift your torso.

But you manage to lift your right hand.

Your fingers are shaking, weak and uncoordinated from the sedatives. But you slowly guide your hand up, past the heavy blankets, until your palm finds the back of his neck.

Your fingers tangle in the dark, greasy hair at his nape.

Garrett gasps at the touch. He shudders violently, leaning heavily into your weak caress as if your hand is the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the earth.

“Shh,” you manage to whisper. The sound is barely a breath, but he hears it.

You stroke his hair. It’s a slow, repetitive motion. You don’t have the strength to do anything else.

Garrett cries for what feels like an eternity. He cries for the terrifying night in the alleyway. He cries for the hours spent staring through the glass of Trauma Bay One. He cries for his mother, for the little boy who couldn’t save her, and for the man who almost lost the only other woman he has ever truly loved.

He pours all of his poison, all of his trauma, all of his fear out onto the sheets of your hospital bed.

And you just hold him.

You let him break. You let him fall apart, completely and totally, because you know that for the first time in his life, he has someone who is going to help him put the pieces back together.

Eventually, the violent shaking of his shoulders begins to slow. His ragged, torn sobs quiet into deep, stuttering breaths.

He doesn’t lift his head right away. He just lies there, his face buried in the blankets, his hand still locked in a death grip around yours.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett mumbles, his voice thick and exhausted. He sniffles loudly, a very un-captain-like sound. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I’m not supposed to be falling apart on your bed.”

You let out a tiny, breathy sound that is meant to be a laugh, but quickly turns into a wince as it pulls at your ribs.

Garrett’s head snaps up instantly, panic flaring back to life in his eyes. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his sleeve, smearing tears and exhaustion together.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks frantically, hovering over you again. “I put too much weight on the bed. I’ll get the nurse-”

“Garrett,” you croak, stopping him before he can hit the call button.

He freezes. “Yeah. Yes, baby, I’m here.”

You swallow hard, fighting the sandpaper dryness in your throat. You look at his red, swollen eyes. He looks completely wrecked. But the dark, heavy shadow of toxic guilt that has been suffocating him for the last forty-eight hours has lifted.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

The words are weak. They are raspy. They lack volume.

But they hit Garrett with the force of a freight train.

He stares at you. His lips part, his dark eyes searching your face as if he’s afraid he hallucinated the sound.

“You do?” He asks, his voice cracking on the question. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. The arrogant hockey star is nowhere to be found. He is just a boy, desperate for love, terrified of rejection.

You give him a tiny, incredibly slow nod, mindful of the neck brace.

“Since the ER,” you admit, the truth slipping out easily, despite the pain it takes to speak.

Garrett lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob.

He leans down. He is incredibly careful, treating you like you are made of spun glass. He supports his own weight on his forearms, ensuring he doesn’t press against your chest or your injured side.

He bypasses the heavy white patch over your left eye. He avoids your broken nose and your split lip.

Instead, he presses his mouth gently against the unbruised skin of your forehead, right at your hairline.

His lips are warm, soft, and trembling. He lingers there, breathing you in, pressing all of his relief, all of his devotion, and all of his love into that single, agonizingly gentle kiss.

“I am never letting you go,” Garrett whispers against your skin, his breath fanning across your face. “Do you understand me? You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

“Good,” you whisper back, your eye fluttering shut as exhaustion begins to drag you back under. The morphine is heavy in your veins, pulling at your consciousness.

Garrett pulls back just far enough to look at your face. He sees the heavy droop of your eyelid, the sluggish blink.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb resuming its gentle stroke across the back of your hand. “You’re safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” You mumble, the word slurring slightly.

“I swear to God,” Garrett says fiercely.

He settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. But he doesn’t look like a terrified ghost anymore. He looks like a man who has just been handed the entire universe.

You let your eye close.

The pain is still there. The road to recovery is going to be incredibly long, terrifying, and grueling. There will be police statements to give, trials to attend, physical therapy to endure, and nightmares to fight.

But as the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lulls you back to sleep, and the warm, calloused hand of the boy who loves you holds you tight, the paralyzing fear that has dictated your life for the past year is finally gone.

Because Phil Graham is in a cage.

And you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

***

The sound of the door clicking open pulls Garrett from a light doze.

It has been two hours since you fell back asleep. Garrett hasn’t moved an inch. He is exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, but his heart is lighter than it has been in years.

He turns his head.

Standing in the doorway of the ICU room are Logan, Dean, and Tucker.

They look terrible. They are all wearing Briar Hockey sweats, their hair messy, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Logan is holding a cardboard tray with four coffees. Dean is clutching a small, stuffed teddy bear wearing a miniature nurse’s uniform.

They freeze in the doorway, staring at you.

“Hey,” Garrett says softly, not wanting to wake you.

The three massive hockey players snap their attention to Garrett. They take in the change in his posture. He is no longer hunched over like a man waiting for an execution. He is sitting back in his chair, a small, weary, but incredibly genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Tucker’s eyes widen. “Garrett …”

“She woke up,” Garrett whispers.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Dean drops his head back against the doorframe, a loud, shuddering breath escaping his lips. “Oh, thank God. Thank fucking God.”

Logan sets the coffee tray down on a nearby rolling cart with a hand that is visibly shaking. He walks over to the bed, stopping on the side opposite Garrett. He looks down at your bruised, swollen face, the white eye patch, the heavy neck brace.

“Is she …” Logan swallows hard. “Is she okay?”

“She’s hurting,” Garrett says honestly. “She can barely talk. But she knows where she is. She knows we’re here. And she knows they caught him.”

“Good,” Tucker says, stepping into the room. He looks at you, his expression softening into that familiar, protective warmth. “Because if they hadn’t caught him, I was going to buy a shovel and take a road trip.”

“You wouldn’t have gone alone,” Dean mutters, walking over and placing the small stuffed nurse bear gently on the nightstand next to your bed. “I brought her a friend. Figured she could use another nurse on duty.”

Garrett looks at the ridiculous little bear, and then back at his best friends.

These guys didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They took you in, they protected you, and they sat in a miserable hospital waiting room for two days because you are family.

“Thanks, guys,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Logan waves him off. “Shut up, G. We didn’t do shit.”

“You did,” Garrett insists. He looks back down at your sleeping face. “You kept me from losing my mind. And you gave her a home.”

“She gave us a home,” Tucker corrects softly. He pulls a chair over from the corner of the room and sits down. “This house was a disaster before she started organizing the triage center and making Dean eat vegetables.”

Dean nods solemnly. “I miss the vegetables. I really do.”

Garrett actually laughs. It’s a quiet, rusty sound, but it feels incredibly good.

The four of them settle into the room. It’s cramped, it’s cold, and it smells like antiseptic.

But as Garrett sits there, surrounded by his brothers, holding the hand of the girl he loves, the ICU room doesn’t feel like a hospital anymore.

It feels like the beginning of the rest of his life.

***

Two and a half years.

That is how long it takes to put the shattered pieces of a life back together.

It takes months of grueling physical therapy, a second surgery to adjust the titanium plate beneath your left eye, and countless hours sitting on the worn couch in the off-campus house, letting Garrett, Logan, Dean, and Tucker simply exist around you until the phantom footsteps in the hallway no longer make your heart race.

It takes Phil Graham being sentenced to fifteen years in a maximum-security prison without the possibility of early parole, his legacy as an NHL player erased by the horrifying reality of his domestic abuse convictions.

And it takes time.

But as you stand in the tunnel of the TD Garden, the phantom roar of eighteen thousand fans vibrating through the concrete floor beneath your feet, you know every single agonizing second was worth it.

You watch the ice through the glass.

Garrett is a blur of black and gold. He wears number seventeen, his broad shoulders easily carrying the weight of the iconic spoked B on his chest. He skates backward, his eyes scanning the play, and intercepts a pass with a fluid, effortless grace that makes the crowd erupt into a frenzy.

He is twenty-three years old, newly graduated from Briar University, and currently the most beloved undrafted free agent the Boston Bruins have signed this century.

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the morning skate. The players begin filing off the ice, their skates clattering against the rubber mats of the tunnel.

Garrett takes his helmet off, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. He is joking with one of the veteran defensemen, a relaxed, brilliant smile lighting up his face.

Then, he sees you.

The smile softens, turning instantly intimate. He breaks away from the pack and skates straight toward the open gate where you are standing.

“Hey,” Garrett breathes, stepping off the ice. He smells like fresh sweat, cold air, and athletic tape. It is the best smell in the world.

“Hey yourself,” you smile, reaching out to rest a hand on the solid plastic plating of his chest pad. “You looked good out there. Your line is clicking.”

“We’re getting there,” Garrett says, leaning down to press a quick, cold kiss to your lips, uncaring of the equipment managers and staff rushing past. He pulls back and traces his thumb gently over your cheekbone, right over the faint, pale scar that rests beneath your eye. “You ready to head back to the apartment? The guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Tuck’s making lasagna.”

“I’m ready,” you nod. “Go shower. You stink.”

Garrett laughs, a deep, rich sound that settles deep in your chest. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

You watch him jog down the tunnel toward the locker room, your heart swelling with an overwhelming, terrifying amount of love.

Life is good. It is safe.

But safety, especially when you are suddenly thrust into the blinding spotlight of professional sports, is a fragile illusion.

***

The shift happens later that afternoon.

You and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island of your new, shared off-campus apartment. It’s a massive upgrade from the chaotic Briar hockey house, though you only live three blocks away from the guys. You are currently chopping vegetables for Tucker’s impending lasagna invasion, while Garrett is sitting on a barstool, scrolling casually through his phone.

Suddenly, Garrett freezes.

The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, instantly replaced by rigid, coiled tension. The color drains completely from his face, leaving his skin a sallow, ashen gray.

“Garrett?” You ask, putting the knife down. You wipe your hands on a dish towel, your heart rate spiking in response to his sudden shift. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. His dark eyes are locked onto the screen of his phone, scanning the text with a terrifying, absolute stillness. His jaw ticks violently.

“Garrett, talk to me,” you urge, stepping around the island and placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. “What’s wrong?”

Garrett slowly lowers the phone. He looks at you, and the sheer, unadulterated fury in his eyes makes you take a half-step back. He isn’t angry at you — he could never be angry at you — but the violent, protective rage practically bleeding off him is suffocating.

“They found a picture,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, deadly rasp.

“Who?” You ask, confusion clouding your mind. “A picture of what?”

Garrett looks down at his phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he wants to crush the glass into dust. Without another word, he turns the phone around and slides it across the granite counter toward you.

You look down.

It is an article from a notorious, sleazy sports gossip blog. The headline is blazoned in bold, aggressive text.

BOSTON’S NEW GOLDEN BOY AND HIS TWISTED FAMILY SECRET: IS GARRETT GRAHAM DATING HIS DAD’S EX?

The air in your lungs vanishes.

Below the headline is a split-screen image. On the left is a recent, high-definition photo of you and Garrett walking out of the TD Garden, holding hands, laughing at something he said.

On the right is a photo you haven’t seen in three years.

It’s a blurry, poorly lit paparazzi shot from a charity gala in New York. You are standing next to Phil Graham. You are wearing a stiff, uncomfortable evening gown, your face pale and hollow, your smile tight and forced. Phil has a heavy, possessive hand gripping your waist.

The text of the article is sickening.

Bruins rookie sensation Garrett Graham has been winning over the hearts of Boston with his stellar play and squeaky-clean image. But sources have recently uncovered a highly questionable skeletons in the Graham family closet. The mystery brunette Garrett has been parading around the city? That’s Y/N. A twenty-five-year-old nurse who, just a few short years ago, was playing arm candy for Garrett’s disgraced, currently-incarcerated father, Phil Graham.

Talk about keeping it in the family. While the details of Phil’s sudden imprisonment remain strictly sealed under state records, one has to wonder if this twisted love triangle had something to do with the NHL legend’s sudden fall from grace. Did the son steal the father’s girl? Or is Boston’s new golden boy just picking up his dad’s leftovers?

You stare at the screen, your vision blurring as a cold, terrifying numbness spreads from your chest all the way down to your fingertips.

The world begins to tilt.

The smell of the chopped basil on the cutting board makes you violently nauseous. You hear the phantom, heavy thud of Phil’s boots on the stairs. You feel the cold, sharp bite of the asphalt against your cheek.

“Hey,” Garrett’s voice cuts through the rising panic, firm and immediate.

His large, warm hands grip your arms, physically anchoring you to the present moment. He pulls you away from the phone, stepping into your line of sight so all you can see is his face.

“Look at me,” Garrett demands softly. “Y/N, look at me.”

You force your eyes to focus on him. You are trembling. The phantom pain in your ribs, a ghost from three years ago, suddenly flares hot and bright.

“They put his face on the internet next to mine,” you whisper, your voice cracking completely. “They think … Garrett, they think …”

“I know what they think,” Garrett says, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your biceps. His eyes are blazing with a terrifying intensity, a ruthless, protective fire that burns away the shadows in the room. “And it doesn’t matter. They don’t know the truth. They’re bottom-feeding scum looking for clicks.”

“Everyone is going to see this,” you sob, the panic finally breaking through. “The team. The fans. Your coaches. They’re going to think you’re involved in some sick, twisted drama. I’m going to ruin this for you.”

“Stop,” Garrett says instantly. He gives your arms a gentle, bracing shake. “Do not do that. Do you hear me? You are not ruining anything. You are my life. I don’t give a flying fuck what some garbage blog says. I don’t care what the fans think. I only care about you.”

He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. You grip the fabric of his t-shirt, burying your face in his neck, drawing in deep, desperate breaths of his cedarwood scent.

Suddenly, Garrett’s phone buzzes on the counter. Then it buzzes again. And again.

Garrett doesn’t let go of you. He reaches out blindly, grabs the phone, and checks the screen.

“It’s Logan,” Garrett murmurs. “The guys saw it.”

He answers the call and puts it on speaker, tossing the phone back onto the island.

“Tell me you saw it,” Logan’s voice barks through the speaker. He doesn’t sound like his usual laid-back self; he sounds absolutely homicidal.

“We saw it,” Garrett says, his arm tightening around your waist.

“I’m going to burn their server room to the ground,” Dean chimes in, his voice vibrating with rage. “I have a buddy who knows a guy in cyber security. We can take the whole site offline.”

“We are not committing a federal crime, Dean,” Tucker’s voice cuts in, calm but completely deadly. “Garrett, is she okay?”

You pull your face away from Garrett’s neck. You lean toward the phone, forcing your voice to steady. “I’m okay, Tuck.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tucker says softly. “We’re on our way over. We’re bringing the lasagna, and we are locking the doors, and we are ignoring the internet for the rest of the night.”

“The team’s PR director just texted me,” Garrett says, picking up his phone and swiping down to read the notification. His jaw clenches. “They want me at the facility tomorrow morning for a media availability. They want to get ahead of the narrative before the game tomorrow night.”

“What are they telling you to say?” Logan demands.

“They want me to decline comment,” Garrett reads the text out loud, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “They want me to say it’s a private family matter and redirect to hockey.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “You can’t let them drag her name through the mud like that. They called her leftovers, G. If you don’t say something, I’m going down there to the press pit myself.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet. It is the voice of the captain who dragged a broken team to a national championship. It is the voice of a man who watched the woman he loves nearly die in an alleyway.

“I’m handling this tomorrow,” Garrett promises, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I’m ending this. Permanently.”

***

The media room at the Bruins’ practice facility is packed.

It is usually a routine, boring affair. A few beat reporters asking about line chemistry and power-play percentages. But today, the room is buzzing with a chaotic, electric energy. The gossip blog post went viral overnight, picked up by mainstream sports outlets who are desperate to uncover the details behind the squeaky-clean rookie’s scandalous private life.

You are not at the hospital today. You called out.

Instead, you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, flanked by Logan on your left and Dean on your right, with Tucker standing behind the couch, his arms crossed.

The four of you are staring at the massive flat-screen TV, watching the live feed of the press conference.

Garrett walks up to the podium.

He is wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. He looks incredibly handsome, but his face is completely devoid of its usual easy charm. His posture is rigid. His eyes are cold, dark, and utterly merciless.

The Bruins’ head of PR, a nervous-looking man in his late forties, steps up to the microphone first.

“Good morning, everyone,” the PR director says, holding up a hand to quiet the murmuring reporters. “Garrett will take a few questions regarding tomorrow night’s matchup against the Devils. We ask that you keep all questions strictly related to hockey. Garrett will not be commenting on any personal matters or internet rumors at this time.”

The PR director steps back, gesturing for Garrett to take the podium.

Garrett steps up to the microphones. He looks out over the sea of flashing cameras and hungry reporters.

A reporter in the front row, a guy notorious for asking sleazy, boundary-pushing questions, immediately raises his hand and speaks without waiting to be called on.

“Garrett, Terrance Reilly from Boston Sports Daily,” the reporter says loudly. “Your PR guy said no personal questions, but the fans want to know. The article that dropped yesterday regarding your girlfriend and your father, Phil Graham — can you confirm the timeline of that relationship? Is it true you started dating her while she was still involved with your father?”

The PR director immediately lunges forward, reaching for the microphone. “I said no personal questions, Terrance. We’re moving on-”

“No.”

Garrett’s voice cuts through the room like a crack of thunder.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the absolute, lethal authority in that single word makes the PR director freeze in his tracks, his hand hovering over the mic.

The entire press room goes dead silent.

Garrett leans forward, resting his hands on the edges of the podium. His knuckles are white. He stares directly at the reporter, his gaze so intense the reporter actually shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m going to answer that question,” Garrett says, his voice vibrating with a dark, controlled fury. “And I am only going to say this once. So I suggest you all make sure your recorders are on.”

Back in the apartment, Logan leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes glued to the TV. “Give it to them, G.”

“The woman in that photograph,” Garrett begins, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers, “The woman this city has seen me with for the last two years, is my girlfriend. She is an incredible, brilliant pediatric nurse who spends her life taking care of sick children. And she is the bravest person I have ever met.”

Garrett pauses, taking a slow, measured breath. He is dismantling his privacy, tearing down the walls he spent years building, all to protect you.

“The article implies that my father’s imprisonment and my relationship with her are part of some scandalous love triangle,” Garrett continues, the disgust heavy in his tone. “It implies that she was playing us against each other. That is a lie. It is a disgusting, misogynistic piece of fiction designed to sell clicks.”

The reporters are furiously typing, completely silent, captivated by the raw, unscripted emotion pouring from the rookie.

“The truth,” Garrett says, his eyes turning hard as obsidian, “is that Phil Graham is not a hockey legend. He is a violent, cowardly abuser.”

A collective, shocked gasp ripples through the press room.

You suck in a breath on the couch, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. He is doing it. He is laying it all out there.

“He abused my mother until the day she died,” Garrett states flatly, refusing to shy away from the horrific reality of his past. “He abused me for eighteen years. And when he moved a young, vulnerable woman into his house, he abused her, too.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks. He looks out at the sea of cameras, but you know, deep in your bones, that he is speaking directly to you.

“I met her at a Thanksgiving dinner,” Garrett says, his voice softening just a fraction, the memory clearly visible in his eyes. “I saw the bruises he left on her arm. I told her to run, and I left. But she was trapped. She didn’t have anywhere to go.”

Garrett grips the podium tighter, leaning closer to the microphones.

“Three weeks later, I ended up in the emergency room at the hospital with a concussion,” Garrett says. “She was my nurse. And when she walked into my room, I saw what he had done to her. I saw the bruises on her face. I saw the terror in her eyes. I refused to leave that hospital without her. I moved her into my house, and I swore I would protect her from him.”

Garrett pauses, the heavy, suffocating silence of the press room hanging on his every word.

“He tracked her down at a grocery store a month later,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly rasp that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “He beat her so badly she required emergency surgery to rebuild her face and remove a ruptured organ. She nearly died in an alleyway because she had the courage to escape him.”

A reporter in the second row lowers her phone, her eyes wide with horror, a hand resting over her heart.

“Phil Graham is sitting in a maximum-security prison right now because he is a monster,” Garrett declares, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “He isn’t a victim of a love triangle. He is a domestic abuser who tried to murder the woman I love.”

Garrett stands up straight, stepping back from the podium slightly. He looks directly at Terrance Reilly.

“So, to answer your question,” Garrett says, his tone dripping with lethal contempt. “No, I didn’t steal my father’s girlfriend. I pulled a victim out of a nightmare. She is the strongest person I know, and I spend every single day thanking God that she survived. The only scandal here is that a garbage blog decided to re-traumatize a survivor of domestic violence for a headline.”

Garrett doesn’t wait for another question. He doesn’t look at the PR director.

He turns his back to the cameras, steps off the podium, and walks out of the press room, the heavy wooden door shutting firmly behind him.

The television broadcast cuts to a stunned anchor sitting at a news desk, fumbling for words.

Dean hits the mute button on the remote.

The apartment is dead silent.

You are crying. The tears are falling freely down your cheeks, hot and fast. You aren’t crying from fear, or from the trauma of the memories. You are crying because you have never felt so completely, unconditionally protected in your entire life.

Tucker reaches over the back of the couch and gently squeezes your shoulder. “He loves you. He loves you so damn much.”

“He just nuked his own privacy for me,” you whisper, wiping at your cheeks. “His past with his mom, his own abuse … he never talks about it. And he just put it on national television to defend me.”

“Because you’re worth it,” Logan says firmly, turning his head to look at you. “You’re his entire world, Y/N. He would burn the whole league to the ground if it meant keeping you safe. You know that.”

You do know that.

***

It takes Garrett forty minutes to get through the Boston traffic and back to the apartment.

When the front door unlocks and swings open, the guys are already gone. They left five minutes after the press conference ended, claiming they needed to go secure the perimeter, but really, they knew you needed to be alone with him.

Garrett walks into the apartment.

He looks exhausted. He has taken the suit jacket and tie off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. He drops his keys onto the console table, closing the door behind him.

He looks up, and his dark eyes lock onto you standing in the middle of the living room.

The tension that was radiating off him during the press conference is completely gone. He just looks incredibly vulnerable, his chest heaving with a deep, shaky sigh.

“You saw it,” Garrett says quietly. It’s not a question.

“I saw it,” you whisper.

You don’t wait for him to take his shoes off. You cross the living room in three rapid strides and throw yourself at him.

Garrett catches you effortlessly. His massive arms wrap around your waist, hauling you flush against his body, lifting your feet off the hardwood floor. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting hot across your skin.

You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his dark hair, holding him as tightly as your healed ribs will allow.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett murmurs into your skin, his voice thick. “I’m sorry it got out. I’m sorry you had to see his face again.”

“Don’t apologize,” you cry softly, pulling back just far enough to cup his face in both of your hands. You look into his beautiful, tortured dark eyes. “Garrett, don’t you dare apologize. What you did today … what you said up there …”

“I meant every word,” Garrett says fiercely, leaning into your touch. He slides his hands up your back, resting them gently on your shoulder blades. “I wasn’t going to let them paint you as some sort of villain. You survived him. We survived him. And I am so damn proud to be yours.”

You trace your thumb over his cheekbone, your heart overflowing with a love so absolute it feels like gravity.

“You told the whole world about your mom,” you whisper, the magnitude of his sacrifice settling heavy in the quiet room. “You protected her memory, too.”

Garrett’s eyes soften, a sheen of tears making them shine in the afternoon light. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“He doesn’t get to control the narrative anymore,” Garrett says, his voice steadying, finding peace in the truth. “He doesn’t get to hide behind his hockey stats or his money. The world knows exactly what he is now. And more importantly, the world knows exactly who you are.”

“Who am I?” You ask softly, a watery smile touching your lips.

Garrett opens his eyes. The darkness, the fear, the shadows of the past — they are all completely gone, replaced entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth of the future you have built together.

“You’re the girl who fixed my scrambled brain,” Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking curve of his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. He leans down, brushing his nose gently against yours. “You’re the center of my universe. And you’re never getting rid of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper.

Garrett kisses you.

It isn’t frantic or desperate like the kisses in the hospital room two years ago. It is deep, slow, and devastatingly certain. It is a promise written in skin and breath, a vow that the nightmare is truly, finally over.

You kiss him back, pouring every ounce of your love into the man who stood in front of the world and fought for you.

When you finally pull away, resting your head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, you look around the quiet, sunlit apartment. You think of Logan, Dean, and Tucker, who are probably arguing over who gets to beat up Terrance Reilly first.

You think of the long, terrifying road that led you from a cold alleyway to this exact moment.

Garrett holds you tight, his chin resting on top of your head, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet apartment.

The monsters are locked away. The shadows are gone.

The bed sinks as someone - a woman, judging by the voice - sits beside JJ. He feels the phantom of a hand atop of the duvet, resting on his side. 

“JJ, seriously - get up. John B’s gonna be here in, like, thirty-minutes.”

The stranger stands up again. The floorboards creak as they make their way around the room. JJ listens to every minor movement like he’s tracking a predator. His heart rate doubles; his palms begin to sweat. Who the fuck is that? The footsteps stop. JJ slowly lets his eyes drift around his surroundings and he takes them in. It’s eerily unfamiliar. Not his room, or any in the Chateau, or any of his usual sneaky-link’s places. The duck-egg blue walls are foreign, as are the prints framed and hung on the far side of the room. He doesn’t recognise the chest of drawers or the floor length mirror. There’s a gaping window which is to thank for the onslaught of sunlight. Standing just to the right of it, in front of a desk, is a woman.

You’re staring intently at your reflection - a precarious mirror balanced atop of the desk - as you guide earrings into your piercings. JJ studies your face in the glass. You’re pretty, strikingly so, in a way that would have JJ stumbling over his first few words if he were to approach you. And it seems that he must have. I mean, how else could he explain winding up in a random woman’s bedroom, in her bed no less, dressed in nothing but–

JJ’s eyes nearly fall out of his sockets. His hand quickly dips further into the duvet and he frantically feels his body for - nothing. Pressing his eyes shut, JJ lets out a pained exhale. Good fucking job, JJ. It’s pretty concerning to him that he managed to get so shit-faced last night that he not only forgot sleeping with someone, but also forgot the whole night in its entirety. Come to think, JJ can’t think of anything from the last twenty-four hours. It’s like he has amnesia; his mind a blank slate, wiped clean. There’s no distinct detail, no remarkable incident, and yet JJ here JJ is, somehow. In a random woman’s bed after seemingly sleeping with her, without any recollection of sharing a single word with her. 

“You okay?”

JJ opens his eyes. He looks back to the mirror. You’re looking at him through the reflection, concerned. 

“Yeah, uh…” JJ clears his throat; it feels horrifically dry. “Sorry but, uh…Did we, uh, sleep together last night?”

Your brows furrow, seemingly confused, and JJ’s question hangs in the air for a long moment. But then, a sly smile slowly unfurls on your face. You leisurely make your way back over to the bed. JJ’s eyes watch you like you’re as unpredictable as a stray cat in the street: non-threatening at first glance, but potentially rabid. His breath freezes when you duck down beside his side of the bed, your face level with his. There’s a twinkle in your eye. In a sultry voice, you ask, “are you wanting a play by play or something?”

“Um…”

“Wanna create it, huh?” you tease. JJ stares at you, wide eyed. 

“Uh, not right now,” he croaks. 

You're confused again, the suaveness lost in a flash, smile fading. “Are you feeling a’right? You’re acting kinda weird.” JJ tries not to flinch when you lift a hand. Your palm is warm and soft as you press it against JJ’s forehead. You hum. “You don’t feel like you’ve got a fever.”

For someone who only met JJ last night, you sure seem quite fucking comfortable. “Probably just had too much to drink last night,” JJ replies. Your hand slowly retracts from JJ’s forehead. 

“Baby…you didn’t have anything to drink last night. You’re the one who drove us back. Remember?”

Baby. Way, way too comfortable. 

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” you say, not waiting for his reply. Standing straight once more, you cross the room to collect your phone from atop of the chest of drawers tucked in the corner. “I’m calling Becky and taking the day off work.”

“No!” JJ blurts. Your head whips around to him. He clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant as he says, “no, you don’t gotta do that. You go to work. S’all good.”

“You sure?” you check, eyeing him warily. JJ presses his lips together in a tight smile which he prays is convincing and nods. You reluctantly return your phone to your jean pocket. “A’right. If you’re sure…”

JJ feels like he might throw up. He’s never felt so disoriented before. It’s as if dogs are walking on two legs instead of four; as if cars are driving backwards instead of forwards. There’s something wrong. JJ feels it in his gut, how things aren’t quite right. It isn’t just the way that he can’t rewind the last twenty-four hours or recall meeting with you, let alone sleeping with you. It’s the casual way you said ‘baby’. It’s the way you look at him, the way one might regard a lifelong friend. 

You’re crazy. 

It’s a shame, JJ thinks, because you’re pretty cute. 

“I gotta use the bathroom,” he announces. “Where is it?”

You stare at JJ as if he’s grown an extra head. Slowly, you point with a single finger to the bedroom door. “Down the hall? Where’s it’s always been?”

JJ nods stiffly. He goes to shove the duvet off before remembering his nakedness. Whilst quite confident in his physicality usually, JJ feels inclined to set some boundaries with you. You know, considering it seems likely that you’re psychotic. He stumbles awkwardly through his words. “Can you, uh…Y’know? D’you mind?”

“You want me to leave?” you ask. You sound taken by surprise. Rude. 

“If that’s a’right with you,” he replies. Your frown deepens. 

“Uh…Sure?” 

You take your time walking to the bedroom door. It’s as if you’re waiting for JJ to drop a punchline and tell you to stay. It’s as if he’s the one acting weird in this situation. Before you leave the room, you meet JJ’s eyes once more. If these were different circumstances, JJ might be flattered by the concern in your gaze. “There’s some Advil in the cabinet. I bought some more the other day. Might help if you’re feelin’ kinda woozy.”

“Great. Yeah, no, that’s great. Thanks.” JJ forces out a smile that feels tight like botox. You give a slow nod before finally leaving him alone, and the moment the door closes, JJ lets out a sigh of relief. 

“A’right. Lets get my stuff and get the fuck outta here,” he mumbles to himself. He shoves the duvet off his lap and glances around the room. He finds his clothes folded neatly on a beanbag chair. Again, it would be sweet if you weren’t a nutjob. He hurries back into his attire, glancing at the door every other second to check you’re not coming back. The minute he’s decent, JJ is cracking open the door and glancing into the hallway. You’re not lingering with a needle to sedate him, so it seems the coast is clear. JJ doesn’t let the door slam as he sneaks out the bedroom. It takes three tries before he finds the correct door to the bathroom down the hall. His fingers are quick to fasten the lock. As it clicks into place, JJ feels his heart-rate calm just slightly. He dips his head to lean it against the wood. God, wait until John B hears about this. 

As JJ uses the toilet, he takes in the decor of the pocket-sized bathroom. There’s a peach coloured shower curtain and fuzzy white towels which hang from hooks. An impressive collection of skincare products is stacked beside an almost overflowing make-up bag atop of a hip-height cabinet. Boring things like shower gel and hair wash and bubble bath decorate the window ledge, bathing in the sunlight through the frosted glass. He flushes the toilet and heads to the sink to wash his hands. The Advil seems like a good call with the headache that has already set in from how hard JJ’s brain is working to make sense of everything. It feels like he’s been staring at an optical illusion, trying to make some semblance of sense from it. He opens the mirror cabinet and quickly finds the Advil, shucking two from the bottle. But as he goes to lift his hand to his mouth, he freezes, mid-air. If being drugged was how he got here, maybe it’s best not to accept more medication from a complete stranger? He glances warily at the bathroom door before easing the tablets back into the bottle. As he returns it quietly to the shelf, soon remembering his bizarre situation, his eyes take pause on a second orange bottle. 

His body goes ice cold.

His fingers tremble as he retracts it from the shelf, as if bringing the label closer to his eyes might make the words change. Adderall - take two a day for ADHD. JJ Maybank. 

“What the fuck…” JJ breathes. He returns it to the shelf to retract another medication bottle, addressed to him. Then his eyes dart to the shelf below. A familiar black toiletries bag greets him. It’s JJ’s. He can tell by the bleach stain he got on it seven years ago that he couldn’t wash out no matter what he tried. It was his shaving kit. The same one he had since he was thirteen. The only decent birthday present his dad ever gave him. He unzips it and investigates the contents. Everything is there. As if items are manifesting into existence before his very eyes, JJ then notices the bottle of his go-to cologne. Then his hair gel. His deodorant. 

All of JJ’s belongings are in this bathroom cupboard. In your house. 

JJ loses his balance. He stumbles to the side and catches himself on the cabinet behind him, sending skincare products flying and clattering loudly onto the floor. 

“JJ! You okay?” you call from the other room.

“M’fine!” JJ shouts back. His eyes are wide, gaping holes in his head, and his chest is rising and falling with what might soon become a panic attack. His world is spinning too fast, everything around him a discombobulating medley. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a stroke. Something washes over him - perhaps adrenaline - and a voice speaks loud and clear in his head, giving him direction for the first time since he woke up. 

Get out. 

JJ scrambles to unlock the door. He trips into the hallway, his hand flying out to meet the wall. He tries one of the doors and it opens into an airing cupboard. He slams it shut. He’s hyperventilating, freaking out, spiralling. JJ tries another door and is met with an office, but before he can slam it shut and try the next, he hears your approaching footsteps. You call out his name again and a new wave of panic floods over him like an ice bath. He scrambles into the room and closes the door behind him. He’s manic as he looks around the room for some way to escape. A window. Yes. He wastes no time in trying it but it’s locked. He tries to force the latch, tries to haul it from the sill, grunting, but it won’t budge. His panic is rising and rising like a tsunami, building with no end in sight. And then, JJ’s eyes land on a framed photograph on the desk. He slowly releases his death grip on the window pane to instead reach for the picture. It feels like slow motion, as if he’s moving through time made of tar, as he brings the picture over to his line of sight the same way he did the medication bottles. 

The pictures is of you and JJ. You’re both younger, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Your braces glint in the flash of the camera as you beam at it, smiling. Your arm is hooked around JJ’s middle and his is safe and snug over your shoulder, holding you close and tight to him as if he might want to weld you against his side. He’s smiling too. His happiness is nearly contagious; it leaks through the glass and the wood and the ink. That isn’t the thing that catches him, though. No, instead it’s the writing at the bottom of the photograph. His writing. JJ could recognise his hand anywhere: scrawling and untamed, barely legible. The red marker is unmistakable, however, in how it reads. Fishes forever - all yours, JJ. The love heart beside it feels like an electric shock. JJ’s mouth gapes in horror. 

This was real. 

“JJ, what the hell is–” you stop, mid sentence, after flying into the office. Your hand is tightly clutching the door handle. JJ steadily turns his head to look at you. His heart rate weirdly settles at the sight of your face. His lungs let him take in a full breath of air. Worry consumes you. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

You hurry across the room and take JJ’s face in your hands. It’s delicate and doting, your touch gentle like he’s something breakable, and JJ stares down at you with parted lips. He takes in shaky breaths, trying to catch his spinning mind, reeling from the realisation that all of this - somehow, someway - was real. 

“Did you have another one?”

JJ frowns slightly, confused. 

“A panic attack, I mean?” you clarify. 

JJ swallows. He feels himself nod. You melt with sympathy, sighing, and wrap an arm around his shoulder, place a hand in his hair, and guide him into an embrace. 

“What a start to the day, huh?” you whisper. 

JJ doesn’t know why but he begins to curl his arms around your middle. He lets himself ease a little in your hold, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You smell like jasmine and vanilla. His eyes press closed. Like a drug, it calms him, grounds him. Makes him feel sane almost, like a nostalgic smell from a childhood blanket might. 

“You sure you don’t want me to stay home from work? You’re really worrying me, baby.”

The endearing term doesn’t send JJ into a blind panic this time. Instead, it sticks its claws into his heart and tugs on the strings. It’s a new feeling, but not necessarily an unwelcome one. 

“No, no, that’s a’right,” JJ eventually tells you. He eases away from your hold and catches your eyes. The look that you greet him with is foreign to him but he can read it like it’s his mother tongue. You’re looking at him with nothing but pure, unapologetic love. “I’ll be a’right. Just need’t get some sleep, I think.”

You sigh, clearly reluctant to let the matter go, but relent nonetheless. “Look, John B’ll be here in, like, ten minutes. Becky’s gonna be here in less than five and I gotta finish getting ready but please promise me you’ll call if something else happens, m’kay? I’m worried about you.”

JJ nods. “I promise.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You smile, small and sweet like a chocolate chip, and press a kiss to the corner of his lips. JJ’s thoughts vanish at the feel of your mouth on his even though it’s barely more than a peck. His body can’t seem to decide how to feel about it: panicked, elated, relaxed, unmoored…

As you return to the bedroom to finish getting ready for work, JJ busies himself with ransacking the office. He studies every picture and photograph on the bookshelves and walls as if searching for clues. A world builds around them, filling in the blanks of his mind. Every image of himself feels like JJ’s looking at a simulation. It’s him, distinct and unmistakable, and yet, JJ cannot place a single memory. It’s as good as AI: his face is a mere placeholder for something that was never his. But the more JJ delves into the world that he seemingly shares with you, the more he wishes it was. There’s group pictures of the two of you with the Pogues: on the boat, at the chateau, in the marsh and the sea. They pass through the years of fifteen to twenty-two - present day. There’s many of you and JJ. A graduation, the two of you grinning, hand in hand, dressed in robes, standing before your high school. A date night, you perched pretty on the pull-out sofa of the chateau, a buffet of finger foods and snacks surrounding you on a shabby blanket. A few candids here and there, some taken by the Pogues, some taken by you or JJ. The one of you two kissing, oblivious to the world around you, has JJ’s attention for the longest. In your hand is a fish cuddly, bright blue. This fish thing seems to be a recurring theme. He’d noticed it in a particularly cringy photo from when the two of you were around sixteen, faces puckered like sea creatures, cross eyed and dilated pupils. 

Your knuckles wrap against the office door and JJ looks over. You look beautiful: hair tamed and tidy, jewellery twinkling in the daylight, lips glossy as you speak. “Becky’s out front. One last offer?”

“You go,” JJ says. He means it this time, and not just because he plans on fleeing the second you’re gone. He’s sucked in - too curious to turn back. “I’ll be good, don’t worry.”

“M’kay,” you mumble. A car honking has you rolling your eyes. JJ wants to smile at the sight. You have a spunk to you that he imagines an older woman would describe as moxy or gumption. “A’right that’s me.”

You disappear from sight, footsteps tapping down the hall to what JJ assumes must be the front door. He hears it creak on its hinges as you pull it open. Then, before you leave, you call out, “bye! Love you!”, and JJ’s left alone in silence.

The two words rattle around his brain. It clearly isn’t the first time you’ve said it to him. It was as flippant as bidding him good day or night. Casual. Routine. JJ’s eyes stare into the hallway as if stuck in a trance. The words give way for a question that fizzles into his consciousness. 

Where the hell am I? 

*~*~*~*~*~*

JJ sits in a ransacked mess of diaries and photo albums and bills and letters. He spends every second of every minute reading, obsessing, over every syllable and sentence. Things as mundane as credit card statements and mortgage agreements slot themselves in his mind as high importance. His neurons fawn over every snippet of information. The pictures burn themselves into his hippocampus. Birthday cards and Christmas cards and Valentine’s day cards exchanged between you and JJ. His handwriting mocks him. Your words read empty like glancing over a play’s script. There’s no connection between this JJ and the loving messages you leave. The teasing ones. The sappy ones. JJ isn’t sure why it upsets him so much. 

He nearly leaps out of his skin when the front door opens, down the hall. 

“JJ? Ready to head?”

John B. 

Thank God. 

JJ scrambles to his feet, kicking envelopes and pages of paper out of the way. He ventures out of the office and into the hall. John B’s familiar face makes JJ want to weep for joy. At least something was normal. In fact, John B looks so regular - so typically himself - that it confuses JJ more. It turns him suspicious. 

None of this makes any sense. JJ suddenly finds it laughable how quickly convinced he was that he had been transported into another version of himself, living in a parallel universe, as if his life was some superhero movie. Whilst you were new, and this house was new, and this collection of property and items were new, John B wasn’t…

“Yo, good to go?” John B asks JJ. 

JJ cracks up. He laughs and laughs, and shakes his head, and tries to catch his breath. John B’s face twists with confusion, mildly concerned at JJ’s abrupt hysterics. 

“You good man?” he tentatively asks. 

“Oh, this is gold. Seriously man, I’m impressed,” JJ admits, clutching his stomach. John B’s acting is top tier: he looks utterly dumbfounded. “I mean, that’s some hella good acting. Where’d you find her? Castle Hill? Seriously, chick deserves an Oscar for that performance.”

“I–” John B’s words die on his tongue. He swallows, brows furrowed tightly together. “Are you good? Is everything okay? Did something happen to Y/N?”

But JJ refuses to hear the genuine concern in John B’s voice. Instead, he takes a small lap of the hall. “I mean, this must’ve taken you hours. I don’t know how you knocked me out good enough to get all this sorted. Seriously - I’m just impressed.”

At the silence that follows, JJ finally takes pause. Hands in his short pockets, he looks up and takes in John B’s expression. His lifelong friend looks like he’s two sentences away from calling the nearest insane asylum. JJ’s smile falters. Something runs through him: sharp and cold. Dread. It pools like cement in his stomach, weighing him down and welding him into the ground. 

“Are you pranking me right now?” John B asks. Then, as if he’s the one trying to make sense of this whole ordeal, he quirks a brow, and tries a smile. “Is this like some prank you and Y/N set up?”

JJ swallows. The dread doubles. 

“Yeah man,” JJ chuckles. His voice is so dry. “Yeah man, I’m just messing with you.”

John B doesn’t seem to believe him at first. JJ lamely clicks his fingers at him, half-assedly flashing finger guns. “Had you going, huh?”

The relief that washes over John B is so visible, JJ knows this is real. John B crosses the room and slaps him on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. “Don’t do that to me man, had me worried for a second there.”

“Nah, you know me. Just love joshing ya,” JJ murmurs weakly. 

“Come on, man. We gotta get to the shop,” John B says, heading out the door. He shakes his head seemingly to himself, mumbling something under breath about ‘fucking JJ man’, and leaves JJ standing in the house alone. JJ takes another glance at the framed photos on the walls of the hall. You and him. Smiling, intertwined fingers, sunglasses on faces. He grabs what he assumes to be his house keys from a trinket dish by the door and follows after his friend, locking up behind him. Here’s to hoping JJ is a better actor than he thought, because he’s going to need to put on one hell of a show. 

When JJ walks into the surf shop, it feels as though he’s stepped into a daydream. It’s exactly how he pictured it. Every detail is as if he spoke it into existence from nights spent smoking joints with John B, back in his universe. Hand painted wooden signs nailed to the walls, with puns and faux directions to beaches and surf breaks. Fishing and surfing gear, intermixed with snacks and drinks and supplies. Tourist information. Local produce and advertisements. 

He strangely falls into his role rather fast. Picks up the strings quickly and puppets himself as he didn’t wake up in a different man’s bed this morning. Maybe it’s because the job is so natural for him, it doesn’t take much acting. Maybe he imagined doing it so much when he struggled to fall asleep, it functioned as training. John B gets over the strange interaction at the start of the day rather quickly. That to say, JJ is aware of the occasional glances he gets from his friend and now business partner. The twinge of concern that tipped his brow and lip when JJ would ask where something was kept, or how to use the till, or what time they close up shop. Things JJ should know but didn’t. At five-fifteen, John B dropped JJ back home. The lights were on in the kitchen; JJ could tell through the windows. You were home. 

It smells like your perfume when JJ walks through the door. Melodically humming under breath, JJ can wanders to the kitchen to find you ransacking various cupboards. 

“Hey.”

You startle, the tune halting to a stop on your tongue. Looking over your shoulder, you smile at him. Dazzling like morning sun. JJ imagines the smile he musters back makes it seem as though he’s constipated. 

“How was work?” you ask him, taking one last glance into the cupboard before closing. You lean against the counter and look at him. 

“A’right,” JJ shrugs. 

“Have any more panic attacks?” 

JJ shakes his head. You hum, smiling gently at him, as if not fully believing him, and nod. A piece of paper is plucked from your short pocket.

“Wanna help with the grocery shop?”

JJ feels as though he’s in a ‘choose your own adventure’ game. The decision he makes here might affect his later life: what would your JJ say? 

“Sure,” he shrugs, noncommittal. You smile brightly and something tells him he chose correctly. He can practically see the text box appear at the bottom of the screen: she’ll remember that you said this. 

“Come on then, fishy,” you chime, breezing past him. You capture his wrist with two fingers and pull him behind you with little effort. JJ follows like a shadow as you both load up into the car. 

JJ has never known someone with such intense road rage before. For somebody who seems like they might make a good disciple for a mindfulness cult, you certainly have a way with the word ‘cunt’. As you boy-racer your way to the stores, JJ looks down at the shopping list you passed to him when the two of you got in the car. It’s typical: milk, eggs, bread, fruit. 

“Anything you wanna add?” you ask him, having seen him reading the list. 

“No, no. Sounds good,” JJ murmurs. He folds it up and pockets it. The car is quiet. The radio plays faintly in the background; the sound of tyres on tarmac is monotonous; something in the glove box rattles whenever you drive over a pothole. JJ wants to make conversation with you. He wants to say something, anything, but he has no idea how. You’re a stranger to him. A memory that he doesn’t recognise but should. He isn’t sure how to strike up casual small talk when he’s missed the entirety of your relationship. He’s not sure what casual small talk even looks like with you. His palms sweat as JJ stresses over every conversation starter, and before he can decide on one, you’re parking the car outside the store. 

It’s wordless as you both climb out the car, retrieve a shopping cart and venture into the wonderland of Walmart. JJ walks along beside you, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, and peruses the aisles that the two of you walk up and down, up and down. 

“Oh, we need pasta,” you say, turning left. JJ follows like an obedient dog. You squat down and hum, studying the different shapes. Picking out two packets, you turn and hold them up to him. “Which ones?”

JJ’s eyes flit from the Fuselli to the Penne. “I don’t mind,” he shrugs. 

You hum again and study them some more. “I think the Fusilli. Penne looks too much like dicks.”

JJ snorts. You look up at him and smile. Then, you drop the pasta into the cart and continue the shopping trip. As you walk, you reel off ideas for what to have for dinner next week. JJ nods along and chimes in whenever needed, and it starts to feel normal. Domestic, but not in a boring way. Comfortable as you discuss whether fish pie or fried fish would be better for Wednesday night. The chips and snacks section has JJ’s attention. He stops short and grabs a bag of chips off the shelf. You wait for him. But as he brings the bag to the cart, you're frowning, mildly confused. 

“What? You don’t like them?” he asks. 

You eye him. “No, you don’t like them. You said they tasted like pig testies.”

JJ feels like he’s been caught in the act. It interrupts his flow, like a tree trunk having fallen in a river. Just as he was starting to feel somewhat normal in this abnormal reality, he slips, and the facade fails. You give him that look. The look that tells JJ that you know something is amiss, but aren’t quite sure what. Hell, JJ isn’t sure either.  But he’s been good at lying his whole life. He had to be, to survive. So, JJ shrugs and drops them in the cart. “I guess I wanna try them again.”

“You wanna try pig testies again?”

“Yeah, well…Why not?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “A’right.”

The rest of the trip goes without a hitch. The two of you load up the bags, stock up the car, unpack everything into the cupboards and fridge and freezer. By the time everything’s tidied off, and JJ’s wolfed down some leftovers that were about to go bad, it’s apparently bedtime. At least, it seems to be, according to you. 

You seem to like routine. JJ isn’t sure how he notices this with only one day of knowing you, but there’s something ritualistic in your evening routine that is a nod to your type-A tendencies. The cup of chamomile tea an hour before climbing under the covers. The skin care regimen takes nearly ten minutes. The taking of various pills and medicines, checking afterwards whether JJ had taken his too. Finally, after all of this has passed, with minty fresh breath, you sit beside JJ in bed. As you relax against the pillows and bury your nose in your book, JJ sits like a stuffed bear. He can’t soften his spine, refuses to sink into the mattress and comforter. His body is on high alert. Sure, you haven’t been overtly threatening to JJ today - quite the opposite, in fact - but that doesn’t shake the fact that you’re new. Enough new, confusing things have been curveballed at JJ today that sleep seems unlikely. 

Dog-earing the page of your book, you sigh as you tuck it into the drawer of your bedside table. A finger hovers over the switch of your lamp. You glance back at JJ over your shoulder. 

“Lights out?”

“Mhm,” he nods, stiff as a board. You click it off and the room becomes bathed in darkness. Bedsheets ruffle as you shuffle down to cosy up into the covers, and JJ assumes he should do the same. He lies on his back, arms by his side, staring at the ceiling, lifeless like a corpse. He blinks up, wide eyed, heart hammering like he’s sharing a bed with a woman for the first time. It summersaults when you plant a hand on his chest, atop of his t-shirt. 

“Night, baby.”

“G’night,” JJ rasps. You hum, leave your hand on his chest, and JJ wastes his time awake listening to how your breathing slowly evens out into slow, deep inhales and exhales, like the susurrus of waves. The flicker of tranquility it brings him is shattered as you mumble, half-asleep, into your pillow: “love you.” 

JJ doesn’t sleep for three hours. When the clock reads one in the morning, JJ slips out of the bed and bunks down on the sofa in the living room. He finally gets some rest. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

You don’t wake JJ in the morning. Sunshine glaring in his face brings him to. On the counter of the kitchen is a note written on the back of yesterday’s shopping list. 

At work until 3. Call if you need anything. Love you. 

JJ toys with the corner of the paper until it wears off. He huffs out a breath, then eats, showers and dresses. John B reminded him (mildly concerned as he had been when answering most of JJ’s “obvious” questions) that he wasn’t on shift today. That left a day free to play detective. JJ turned the house upside down. Letters and photographs weren’t enough. He needed evidence. Something to confirm that this wasn’t just words that you’ve said and written which have generated this world. Instead, JJ finds boxes of his old clothes in the shed out back. He finds suitcases in the attic of his old toys from childhood. He finds his bike and a collection of tools. He finds report cards, shirts, trousers, boxers, hell, even his favourite brand of fucking condoms. Everything. All of it. The only thing that your JJ and JJ differed on were tastes in food. Holy shit, did this guy have bad taste. JJ cringed at the sight of the snacks in the cupboards before settling on a protein bar to quiet his grumbling stomach.  

After exhausting himself with household rummaging, JJ ventured out into Kildare. He hadn’t properly seen it yesterday. Instead, he passed by houses and stores in cars. He takes his time. Surveys the land like an inspector, as if checking if the cracks in the pavement are the same, or the wonky street sign from when Landon Peters crashed his car after a darty. A few stores are the same. A few are different. A few missing. JJ finds his feet guiding him to the Heyward’s residence. As he gets nearer with every step, a small ball of dread builds and builds in his stomach like a snowball tumbling down a mountain edge. What if Pope and Kie aren’t here? What if Pope and Kie don’t exist? What if he never sees them again?

The Heyward emblem on the side of the building quells his anxiety for a beat. More so when Mr and Mrs Heyward step out of the store together into the daylight glow, carrying brown paper bags filled with groceries that JJ assumes are for delivery on Figure Eight. It’s nice to see some things stay the same. He makes his way over. Before JJ can overthink whether Mr Hayward knows him, the older man catches the blonde-haired boy’s eyes and smiles. A friendly, familiar smile. 

“Hey! What’re you doing out this end, kid?”

“Hey Mr H,” JJ grins. He gladly accepts the embrace. He smells like soap and sweat and faintly of seafood. “Pope around?”

“Pope? He ain’t back for another month.”

“Month?” JJ frowns, stepping away. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts and rocks on his heels. “From where?”

Mr Heyward looks puzzled. He hands Mrs Heyward another bag and she loads it into the bed of the truck. “From college, boy. Boston ain’t a short journey from here, y’know?”

Boston? 

“Oh, right,” JJ chuckles, hoping he plays it well. “Must’ve got my dates muddled.”

“How’s the wife?” Heyward asks. JJ’s blood runs cold. It’s an expression, JJ, get a grip, he berates himself. 

“She’s good. Yeah, she’s good,” JJ says, hoping his mild look of terror isn’t obvious. 

“Always working that one, huh?”

“Always,” JJ bobs his head. He juts his chin back to the road. “Anyway, I should head out. I’m running errands, s’all. I’ll see y’all later.”

“See ya, JJ.”

“Take care!” Mrs Hayward calls, waving farewell. JJ waves back and ventures back onto the road. Soothed by the fact that the Heywards and John B were the same as always, he decides The Wreck is the next best place to stop. It isn’t as though the Carreras are JJ’s biggest fan either way, so if they’re hostile, at least it’s consistent. So long as Kie is still, well, Kie - that’s all JJ is worried about. 

He finds her scrubbing down a table. There’s a bandana in her hair, keeping it off her face, and she’s got that same disgruntled resting expression as she works. She’s just as he remembered her to be. It’s quiet at The Wreck. A family dines in the corner - the mother trying to wrangle her restless child - and a couple sits outside on the jetty, talking over pancakes. 

“Kie! Make sure that table for eight is all set up, yeah?”

“Yeah mom!” Kiara calls back to the disembodied voice that emerged from the kitchen. Then, ehr eyes glance over to the doorway, landing on JJ. She smiles and JJ takes a small victory breath of relief. “Hey!”

She quickly makes her over, tossing an arm around him in a hug. The spray bottle of disinfectant bangs softly against his back. 

“What’re you doing here? You and Y/N stop by for food?” she asks. JJ watches as she stores the spray and cloth in the waitress station. 

“Oh, uh, no, just me. She’s working,” he says. 

“I miss that girl. Feels like it’s been ages since we hung out,” Kiara hums. She begins to push together some tables and JJ decides to help. “The manager at the smoothie shop still giving her grief?”

“Not really sure,” JJ mumbles. Kie pauses, looking up at him. Her brows twitch. 

“Everything good, dude? You seem kinda off.”

“I’m fine,” JJ replies. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back, as if to drive home the point. Nodding, he adds, “all good here.”

“You guys have a fight?” she asks, frowning. 

“No,” JJ answers, tone slightly quipped. It’s driving him crazy. He does his best to act nonchalant, to act normal, and all people want to talk about is this random girl that he’s tied to and grill him on why he isn’t being “himself”. 

Kiara seems to take the hint. She finishes organising the tables so they can seat the party of eight arriving later. JJ sighs and calms himself a beat. The bell dings from the kitchen: order up. Kiara goes to pass him but stops, planting a hand reassuringly on his shoulder. JJ meets her gaze. 

“Look, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here, man. Always.”

“Thanks Kie,” he says, genuine. Kiara smiles at him and he manages one back, and then she disappears into the kitchen to gather up the order for the chaotic family of four. JJ takes one last glance around the restaurant before leaving. He makes note of the time on the old-timey analog clock hung on the wall, amongst old fishing gear displayed in wooden cases, and sepia prints of Kildare over the years. Three-twenty-five. You’ll be home, then. He wonders what your JJ feels when he thinks that. Does a thrill run through him, like an electric current from his head to toe? Does it calm him, like the notion of wrapping yourself up in a warm blanket after a long day in the rain? Maybe he’s indifferent. You might be as familiar to him as butter on bread or ice in water. He’s certain, however, that he doesn’t feel this sense of panic at the thought of you pottering around your house. That the mere idea of you kissing him ‘hello’ doesn’t fill your JJ with dread, like it does for him.

He takes the long way back. Drags out every step, every moment. But eventually, inevitably, he returns to the house. You’re cooking. Hair pulled back, strands falling out, an oversized t-shirt hanging over your frame that JJ quickly identifies as his. The radio is on. It’s static-like as it plays sixties music. You hum along, hips swaying slightly, as you stir something in the pot. It smells like it might be gumbo. 

“Hey,” JJ says. 

“Hey,” you reply, not bothering to look up from the pot. JJ watches as you lift a wooden spoon. “Come taste this. You think it’s missing something?”

JJ makes his way over until he’s standing by your side. You glance up at him, a small smile pretty on your lips, and JJ takes the spoon. He sips the broth: small bubbles sit atop of the surface from the heat. It’s hot - nearly scorches his tongue - but he swallows. Savours the flavours that fizzle on his tongue: tangy, spicy, warming. You watch him as he thinks. 

“Maybe some more garlic?”

“Garlic! Of course!” you gasp, as if you had a ‘eureka’ moment. JJ bites back his laugh as you head to the fridge, retrieving a clove of garlic. He leans against the counter by the sink and watches your cut and dice the clove. The air is sticky with heat and food. It clings to his skin, shining it with sweat. You’re much less threatening like this - lost in your own world - similar to how you were when the two of you went shopping together. He takes a quiet moment to admire you. The curve of your body. The melodic tunefulness of your voice as you sing along to a song underbreath. The stretch of your legs disappearing beneath the hem of the t-shirt. A tattoo peeks out from the sleeve of your right arm. It looks like a flower of some sort. JJ cocks his head and narrows his eyes, trying to make it out. But then you’re turning, looking over your shoulder, and JJ’s eyes dart up as if he’s been caught red handed. “Oh, I forgot to say,” you start, seemingly unaware of his quiet gaze, “your dad called. Said he wants you to stop by sometime soon.”

“My dad?” JJ checks. You hum, nod, turn back to the board to carry it over to the pot of gumbo. 

“Mhm. Said something about giving you those ‘things’ you were asking after. Seemed pretty secretive,” you reply. JJ thinks you might be joking from your tone but he can’t be sure. He grabs a piece of onion skin from the countertop and busies his hands with it, ripping small pieces off. 

“He’s probably lying. Just an excuse to get money off me again or something.” The onion peel falls to the floor as he rips it in two. You’re frowning when you look at him, face the picture of concern. 

“Did something happen between the two of you? You guys get in a fight or somethin’?”

JJ laughs, hard and sharp, like glass shattering. You flinch, alarmed. The look on your face has his humour dying fast, a candle flame blown out by a gust of wind. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I thought you guys were cool now.”

Cool? Not a chance in hell. 

But JJ didn’t have the energy to try and explain that to you. Instead, he shrugged, closing down. “Whatever. I’ll go see him tonight.”

“Want me to come with?” you ask, chirpy as always. 

“S’cool, I’ll go alone,” JJ mumbles. 

“You sure? I haven’t seen them–”

“--Christ sake, can I get a minute alone?” JJ snaps. 

You recoil. Physically recoil. The shock quickly fades into sadness, and maybe even a furl of anger as your lips slowly close, and frown at the edges. You ease the spoon back into the pot, shutting off the heat. JJ can feel the apology creeping up his throat but he swallows it down. You’re aggravating. Irritatingly bright and smiley and nice. Acting like you know him. Like you know what’s best for him. But he can see the pain sink into your skin and something in his gut tells him he’s done wrong. Your eyes press shut and you seem to gather yourself with a slow, measured breath in. 

“Don’t talk to me like that,” you say in an even, steady tone. You meet his eyes. Shake your head once. “Don’t talk to me like that, JJ.”

He’s left alone in the kitchen. JJ’s not sure if he’s ever felt so cruel before. He doesn’t eat, instead leaving the house for a long, drawn out walk. By the time he’s back, it’s pitch black outside, and all the lights in the house are turned off. There’s a bowl of leftover food waiting for him, kept warm with tinfoil over the top. He leaves it be and saddles up on the couch, falling asleep soon after. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

JJ finds ways to make himself scarce during the day. He does so for a week. Busies himself at work, picking up extra shifts, taking long walks, driving around on his bike until daylight turns to night, and hangs out with John B or Kiara at the docks. The routine you stick to at night is easy to crack. JJ times his return after you’ve already bathed, and by the time he’s washed up, you’re in bed, reading. Sometimes the light’s already out. For a few nights, you tried to initiate sex. Your hands would wander up, under his shirt, tracing the freckles on his skin. He’d shiver and edge away until your hand retracted, falling limp by your face. Not tonight, he’d mumble, I’m too tired. After four nights, you stopped trying. Even then, JJ couldn’t find it in him to share the bed with you. It felt wrong, intrusive. He couldn’t rest knowing you were right there beside him. He’d always creep off to the sofa. He knew you’d notice but you never mentioned it. Never even asked. 

On the eighth day in this alternate reality, JJ goes surfing. You’re working a shift at the smoothie shop. John B and JJ have a day off from the shop. The breaks are stunning. It’s as if the waves are works of art, tugging him in, luring him under. He spends hours on the surface, balancing his weight on the board as if he were born on one. He eats at The Wreck, chatting with Kiara. He buys a seltzer on the walk home, enjoying the sun and his own company, and yet…something feels wrong. Empty, maybe. Like there’s a piece of him that’s unfulfilled. It doesn’t make sense. His routine is hardly different to that of his old life, before he ended up here, and yet he feels dissatisfied. As if he’s overturned every rock except for one. Gathered every jewel except for the largest pendant. He tries to place his finger on it as he walks back to the house, as the sun takes on a delicious orange glow to warn of its setting. 

The front door isn’t fully closed as JJ walks up the porch steps. He frowns, pushes gently against the wood, and something tells him to remain unannounced. Voices drift from the living room towards the doorway and he lingers. Listens. 

“-a completely different person,” you say. Your voice sounds thick with tears, stuffy from a blocked noise. You sniffle. It sounds as though you’re crying as you take a shaky breath. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“It’ll be a’right,” John B murmurs. JJ studies the wooden slats of the flooring. You try to catch your breath, stifling your sobs. 

“I thought we were doing okay, y’know? Like I thought we were gonna get married, and s-start a family, and do all the things we talked about. But now…It’s like he’s pulling away from me, and I don’t even know what I did.”

The sob that racks up your throat has JJ wincing. His eyes press shut and he swallows the bile itching at his throat. Somehow, in the disorientation of trying to navigate a whole new life, he forgot about you despite being surrounded by your presence nearly every moment of every day. He didn’t consider you.  Never considered how this must be for you. You and JJ had been together for years, in this reality. Of course you could tell something was wrong with him. It wasn’t as though he was hiding it well. JJ had spent so much of his life alone that he never thought about what this might be like for you - a careless slip of selfishness. 

“Hey, c’mere,” John B says softly. JJ hears a rustle of clothing and he assumes John B must be holding you, soothing you through the turmoil that you’d been unwillingly tossed into. “This is JJ we’re talking about. You and JJ. Everybody knows the two of you are meant to be together. He’s probably just stuck in his head about something. He’ll come around. He always does.”

There’s no response for a while. Your crying has quieted, the occasional sniff and cough, and JJ wonders whether to make his presence known. But something tells him the conversation isn’t quite over, and he’s reluctant to face the image of you in pain because of him. When you speak, your voice is so fragile it’s made of cobwebs. 

“But John B…What if he doesn’t?” 

JJ can’t take it. He pointedly clicks the door shut. Takes two heavy footsteps in the hallway. Musters up the actor inside of him to sound nonchalant as he calls, “I’m back!”

“Shit,” you hiss. There’s some kind of movement in the living room and JJ drags out the motions of toeing off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket. He drops his keys in the trinket bowl by the doorway and makes his way into the main space. John B sits on the couch. You’re stood at the kitchen sink, back to JJ, pretending to wash dishes. 

“Hey man,” JJ says, nodding to John B.

“Hey,” John B replies. He’s not hiding it well, the conversation the two of you just shared. There’s an unease in his eyes, a furrow to his forehead. JJ tries to look past it. “Wanted to talk to you about shift patterns next week. You cool working Wednesday and Thursday? We’ll take Saturday together. Tuesday and Sunday off, and I’ll cover Monday and Friday.”

“Works for me,” JJ nods. He looks over to the kitchen once more. You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and, as if sensing his stare, glance over your shoulder. Your cheeks are damp, the stickiness of dried tears reflecting in the dwindling sunlight. It’s obvious you’ve been crying. And yet, the smile you place on your lips is frighteningly convincing. JJ smiles at you, wondering if it looks as apologetic as he feels. “Hey. How was work?”

“It was good,” you say, voice a little wobbly. “Pretty quiet.”

“That’s good,” JJ hums. John B clears his throat and rises from the couch, drawing both of your attention.

“I better head out. Sarah’s cooking sticky ribs for dinner.”

“Ooh, sounds tasty,” you hum. “Tell her hi from me.”

“Course,” John B says, smiling warmly at you. There’s something in the look he sends you, a message almost of ‘I’m here if you need anything’. He turns to JJ and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a brotherly fashion. The way he looks at him is weighted. Telling JJ that he knows something isn’t quite right, but doesn’t know how to bring it up. JJ gives a subtle nod and tries a smile. Then John B is down the hall and out the door. 

It’s silent in the house. You’re meddling with the kitchen towel between your hands, watching the movement with an absent mind. JJ’s never been good at knowing what to say to you. He feels it more now than ever. Rolling his lips together, he contemplates sentences, weighs them in his head before deciding. 

“You wanna order in tonight?”

Your head darts up. “Oh…Not tonight.”

JJ nods, pursing his lips. 

“I might take a bath,” you tell him. “Feeling kinda unwell.”

“Need some medicine? Soup?”

Your lips twitch with a smile. It’s small, but it’s something. “No, that’s alright. Thank you.”

JJ gives another nod. You tuck the kitchen towel on the hook and make your way past him, into the bathroom. A few seconds later, JJ hears the sound of running water, and the door clicks closed. He sighs and runs a hand over his face, through his hair. It feels like a mess he doesn’t know how to fix. Other JJ would. He’d know your tells and your remedies. The things to say to wind up in your good books, to help you feel listened to and seen, to make you feel better. But to this JJ, you were little more than a stranger. Like a character from a book or a movie, he only knew of you in the small snapshots he’d found in journals and pictures and fleeting moments spend in your company. Company that he found himself avoiding. 

He decides to visit his dad’s house. Afterall, you’d mentioned that his dad wanted to see him. He felt shitty enough - an altercation with his father couldn’t make things much worse, could they. JJ leaves the house without a word to you. 

JJ hardly recognises his father’s house. It’s the same yellow coloured boarding; the same white window frames and doors; the same greyish-brown netting surrounding the porch. And yet, it’s as if new life has been breathed into it. As if the wood is glowing beneath the paint and the wire net free from dirt and grime. Perhaps it’s the lack of clutter around it. There’s a garden to the left, growing what looks to be vegetables and herbs. There’s the usual fishing gear stacked inside the porch but it’s tidy, not tossed to the side half-drunk when a semi-successful day on the boat has concluded. There’s a wind chime painted with magenta and turquoise twinkling pretty in the evening breeze as JJ makes his way up the stairs. He raps his knuckles on the door. 

Things were undoubtedly different in this reality compared to his own. JJ was curious whether this went for his father too, and if so, in what way. He pushed the small bubble of hope deep into the pit of his stomach until it dissolved in his acid. He wouldn’t let himself imagine it might be for the better. Too many times had his dad let him down, he wasn’t about to kid himself again. 

Footsteps creak from inside the house and JJ’s heart hiccups, pushing into his throat. Please don’t be drunk, he silently begs, just as he hears the lock turning. The door opens and JJ comes face to face with someone who looks the spitting image of his dad. But this dad is clean shaven, fresh faced, bright eyed, and smiling. 

“Hey, boy,” Luke grins, voice raspy. He tugs JJ into a hug of sorts; one he doesn’t reciprocate. Luke doesn’t seem to notice nor care. He wanders into the house, expecting JJ to follow, and he does eventually. It smells delicious: deep fried chicken and fries. The house becomes no more familiar as JJ walks through it. The kitchen is spotless aside from a small, contained pile of dishes near the sink. A bowl full of fresh fruit sits out enticingly, not a single spore of mould in sight. The walls are covered in paintings and pictures: many of JJ grinning over the years, holding either a fishing rod or surfboard or sitting atop of his dirt bike. He lingers by one of you and him, his arm hooked over your shoulder, the two of you grinning brightly into the camera lens. You’re both standing in front of the house you currently reside in, a set of keys dangling proudly from your finger, and JJ assumes it must have been right after you bought it. 

“You want a beer, boy?”

“Uh, sure,” JJ mumbles, finally drawing his eyes away from the picture frame. His dad pulls the fridge open and retrieves two bottles, passing one over. “Thanks.”

“Come on, let’s sit out back,” Luke says, leading them through the rest of the house and onto the back porch. JJ freezes in the doorway as his eyes land on another person. His stomach flips and falls through the floor. The universe laughs at the new curveball it’s tossed in JJ’s direction. 

“Hiya honey!” JJ’s mom smiles. She pats the spot next to her on the outdoor sofa. “Was hoping you were gonna come by tonight.”

JJ’s body works on auto-pilot as he sinks into the seat beside his mother. He can’t stop staring at her - aware that he must look half-crazed. She’s just as he remembered her to be from foggy childhood memories. Her crows feet sprouting by her eyes as she smiles, nose wrinkling and dimples shining. Her blonde hair falls in soft ringlets around her face, half-pulled back in a low ponytail. She’s wearing a denim shirt that’s a little oversized on her frame and JJ wonders if it’s his father’s, and that in itself sends him spiralling because how is he in a version of his life where his mom wears his dad’s clothes. His staring must cause concern because her smile fades into a frown, brows tugging together. 

“You alright, JJ? You’ve got white as a ghost,” she fusses, planting a hand to his forehead in the way you had done not so long ago. JJ half expects hi fingers to go through her wrist like she’s a phantom as he eases her hand away from his head.

“I’m a’right,” he murmurs. 

“Your girl was telling us you haven’t been yourself lately. She’s worried you’re coming down with a flu of some kind,” Luke says from the armchair to the right. JJ sighs, closing his eyes, and rocking his head back in his seat. 

“No, I’m fine. She just worries, s’all.”

“Hm.” Despite not hearing his mom’s voice in years, JJ knows that tone. He cracks open an eye. She’s studying him, pursed lips. “You two having a fight or something?”

“Something…” JJ eventually replies. 

“I remember when me and your dad would fight. God, it’s like there weren’t enough words to say - ain’t that right, Luke?”

“Damn straight,” he grunted, tipping his bottle in some mock cheers. 

“But y’know what we found worked?” JJ shakes his head. His mom smiles reassuringly. “We talked. Talked and talked, and listened to each other, and figured it all out. All the things we’d been speaking but not really saying, y’know?”

JJ nods dumbly, not quite sure if he does understand, but glad to take the advice nonetheless. She glances back at Luke - a Luke that seemingly didn’t know a life of addiction and crime - and pokes her tongue out at him playfully as he jests something, and JJ feels the world melt away as he looks at his mom. Suddenly, he throws his arms around her. She gasps, taken aback, but soon returns the hug. She smells like her dresses used to before JJ’s dad threw them all out: her perfume no longer a pungent reminder of something lost. 

“I missed you mama,” JJ says thickly into her shoulder. 

“Darlin’, I’m ever so worried about you,” she croons into his ear. JJ feels like a kid again, cuddled in her lap after a nightmare, listening to her sing nursery rhymes until his eyes would begin to sag once more. She runs a hand over his t-shirt clad back. “I’m sure whatever the two of you have been squabbling over will be mealworms by next week, my darlin’ boy.”

JJ clenches his eyes shut. 

“Maybe this ain’t the best timing to give you these things you asked for then, huh?” Luke speaks up. JJ reluctantly untethers from his mom (making a point to keep his hand safely secured between her two palms) and looks to his dad. In his fingers is a small black box which looks to be made out of felt or velvet. When Luke cracks it open, a ring glimmers in the dying daylight. It’s an impressive diamond jewel, reflecting rainbows on the ceiling of the porch. JJ’s throat goes dry. 

An engagement ring. Those ‘things’ you were asking after. Seemed pretty secretive. Your words echo around JJ’s head. 

Luke must sense that JJ is about a half minute from spiraling into the underworld. He clicks the box closed and slips it into his short pockets. “How ‘bout I keep safe keeping of it for now, hm?”

JJ gives a stiff nod. His mom squeezes his hand, gathering his attention once more. “Let’s talk about something else, hm? How’s work been?”

The conversation comes easy in a way JJ has never known before. He hangs on his mother’s every word as if listening to the word of God from the heaven’s above. The way she laughs, the stories and yarns she spins, the small jesting jokes between her and Luke. His father is just as bewitching. He’s happy - truly happy - and he keeps reminiscing about the past in a way that doesn’t make JJ feel like he wasted his father’s time. They both steer clear of topics relating to you and JJ is grateful to have a moment free of worrying about what the hell he’s going to do if he’s stuck in this reality forever. But conversation can only last so long. It grows darker and darker. JJ finally finds the courage to face going back to the house. 

He hugs his mom and dad for longer than necessary and he knows it must worry them. They share a look when he lingers in the doorway. Before he departs, his mom takes him by the shoulder. 

“Just talk to her, yeah? The two of y’all will figure it out. You always do,” she reassures. JJ takes a small breath and nods, smiling. 

“Thanks mom.”

“Get home safe,” she tells him, voice a little sterner, and presses a kiss goodbye to his cheek. With that, JJ heads out the door, down the porch steps, and back towards the house with a newfound purpose: to have a conversation with you. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

The porch is a nice reprieve from JJ’s inner spiral. He sits on the swing that you so often favour and smokes a joint. It doesn’t clear his thoughts very much but it does calm him down. Slows his mind, eases his chest. He watches and sits and thinks in circles about this strange life he’s fallen into until it becomes dark. It’s unclear how long he’s been sitting there - maybe an hour - but eventually he knows he can’t delay facing you any longer. 

He takes his time doing his evening routine. Brushes his teeth with precision. Washes his face twice. JJ stares himself down in the mirror as water drips down his cheeks. Grow a Goddamn backbone, he thinks to himself. She needs you. Swallowing his fear, he grabs a towel and rubs it over his face, drying his skin. The light clicks off as JJ leaves the bathroom. 

You’re lying on your side in bed, facing the wall. The sheets are tucked up to your shoulders. You look cosy; safe in your cocoon of sheets. JJ shrugs off his shorts, leaving on his boxers and shirt, and flips off the light. You don’t say a word and yet somehow, JJ knows you’re awake. He slips under the sheets and hesitates for only a handful of seconds, before looping an arm over your waist. He spoons you in a loose grip, swallowing away the twinge of guilt, feeling as though he’s holding someone else’s girl. You turn in his hold, now face to face, heads on pillows. JJ can’t see you well in the darkness of the room. Your eyes shine, staring at him, studying him, perhaps looking for evidence to confirm that JJ wasn’t your JJ. Then, they press shut. JJ’s surprised how much it bothers him. It feels as though you’ve closed a door in his face: blocked him out. There’s a shaky intake of breath. It comes out of your nose slowly. 

“I need to ask this cause…Cause I’ll be an idiot if I don’t. And I hate that I’m about to - God, you have no idea how much I hate it - but…But I have to,” you murmur. JJ’s brows tug together; he’s unsure if he missed the beginning of the sentence. Your eyes open into his. You look terrified. Sick, even. There’s a curl to your lips that makes JJ worry that you might begin to cry. But you don’t. Instead, your voice is eerily steady as you ask him: “is there someone else?”

“No.”

It’s an easy answer. Simple. Truthful. 

You seem to recognise this. You exhale a breath that you seem to have been holding in for weeks. Eyes slipping shut, you take a moment. 

“God, you must hate me for even asking,” you whisper. JJ shakes his head. His hand instinctively reaches out for yours under the sheets; he captures your fingers. The touch has you opening your eyes, a flicker of surprise dashing across your beautiful features. 

“I don’t hate you for asking,” JJ tells you quietly. “I get why you did. If I were you - if I was in your shoes, I mean - I’d ask the same, probably.”

You stare at him for a long while. Shaking your head, you say into the night, “what happened, JJ? One day you were fine and the next…” You cut yourself off with a sigh. “It’s like you went somewhere.”

JJ swallows. His heart hiccups in his chest.

“You can tell me anything,” you suddenly say, as if sensing his anxiety. “Y’know that right? Anything at all. I mean, this is us. Y’know I’d never judge you.”

It’s terrifying, how easy you trust him, and how easy you expect him to trust you. It’s unnatural for JJ to open himself up to people. Flick open the cavity of his chest and allow you to take a peek. But something about you tells him it’s okay. That he can let some of the curtain fall. That it might even help. 

“It’s gonna sound insane,” JJ whispers. 

You shrug. “I like insane. Most things you tell me are insane.”

He gives a small laugh. It’s fleeting, short-lived. Your fingers squeeze his reassuringly. One of his legs slips between yours, as if his body is seeking you out, needing to be closer as if to ground him. He wonders if it was only his mind that came to this foreign world. Maybe his body remained at home, and this new body - other JJ’s body - knew you like muscle memory. Craved your company and closeness. Recognised your touch. He lets himself indulge. Sighs quietly at the feel of your foot swiping over his, capturing him in this strange embrace. 

Looking at you is too much, so he closes his eyes as he admits, “the other week, I woke up in this bed, and I felt like I was in a different world.”

You don’t say a word. 

“It was like I woke up in a dream. It was me, but it wasn’t me. Like I’ve possessed another person’s body. And I don’t…I don’t know how to get back.”

The silence stretches. JJ feels stifled by it. Suffocates in the deafening quiet. Then, bedsheets crinkle, and JJ nearly jumps at the sensation of your forehead pressing against his: warm skin resting atop his own. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you whisper. 

JJ suddenly wants to cry. Is this what it’s like for him? He thinks to himself. Can your JJ tell you anything, and you just accept it? Is it that easy for him? There’s a rush of something green in his stomach: jealous. It’s quick in its coming and going like a flickering bulb. 

“I just need you to be patient whilst I figure this out,” JJ confesses to you, eyes still shut. You nod against him. “I promise I’ll figure it out, I just…I just need you to be patient.”

“Whatever you need,” you hum. Your hand sweeps over his face, cradling his cheek and jaw, and JJ finally musters up enough courage to open his eyes. You’re beautiful, glowing in the darkness, radiant in the barely-there moonlight. There’s so much love in your eyes, it’s petrifying. “You’re it for me, JJ. I’m not giving up on us easily. Gonna have to try harder than that.”

JJ isn’t sure why, but he leans into your touch. “It’s nothing you’ve done. I need you t’know that. Nothing you’ve done at all.”

You needed to hear that. A visible weight rolls off your shoulders from his words. He presses a kiss to the palm of your hand, tilting his head just slightly, and he realises that this might be the most intimate moment of his life. Raw. Vulnerable. Gentle. 

“You’re perfect,” JJ tells you, and he means it. 

Smiling softly, you lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips. It comes and goes too quickly for JJ to realise it’s happened. He wants you to do it again, but he doesn’t say. Doesn’t kiss you in return. He just lets himself lay in your hold, and you in his. His eyes slip shut and for the first time since he woke up in this parallel world, he feels relaxed. 

“Get some sleep, baby,” you whisper. The pad of your thumb strokes dotingly over the apple of his cheek. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Thank God: it’s the last coherent thought JJ has before he drifts off to sleep. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

JJ woke up the next morning safe and warm in bed. You talk in your sleep: murmur little half-phrases underbreath, nose scrunching from time to time as if the figments of your subconsciousness annoy you. He’s shameless as he watches you sleep. Eventually, you stir and your eyes blink open. The smile that greets him makes him melt into the sheets. 

“Mornin’,” you mumble, snuggling deeper into the pillow. 

“Mornin’.”

“You had coffee yet?”

“Waitin’ for you to wake-up,” he half-lies. He was mostly distracted by watching you. “You at work today?”

“Yup,” you yawn, rolling onto your back. You stretch your arms above your head and point your toes, like a cat waking from a nap. The limbs flop back onto the duvet with a soft thud. “Long one too.”

“I’m at the shop with John B,” JJ tells you. “But I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Good,” you hum. The sheets are pushed off you and you sit up in bed and stretch once more, your arm flexing and bending above your head. The hem of your shirt rides up and JJ can’t help but be fascinated by the ripple of your muscles under skin as you wake up your body. Then, you’re heading to the door, calling something about making coffee. JJ takes a moment to gather himself before following. 

As if the conversation last night hit reset, everything felt smoother. JJ stepped into a morning routine that felt almost familiar. Perhaps it was the ease with which you moved through the steps: coffee, bathroom, breakfast, dress…JJ overhears your singing through the bathroom door as he finished his smoothie bowl. He listens to the rumblings of a podcast from the bedroom whilst he undergoes his morning routine in the bathroom. At least all the products are the same. His fingers hover at the medicine bottles in the cupboard. Well, might as well play the part, he thinks to himself, and with a committal shrug, he tosses the prescribed pills back. 

Work is second-nature now. John B’s looks of concerns are less so, then JJ knows his worry remains. He imagines the conversation shared with you that JJ overheard had done little to ease his best friend’s mind. JJ wants to acknowledge it and tell John B how he’d cleared the air with you, but that would give away at his eavesdropping, and so he let the matter go. Instead, he made passing comments about how he was planning to have dinner with you tonight. ‘Spend some quality time together, y’know?’ he’d said oh-so-casually. The tension that visibly slipped from John B’s shoulders didn’t go unnoticed. 

As usual, the house smelt like cooking when JJ arrived home. You were in the kitchen and just like it had been with John B, the change in you was obvious to the eye. Except, with you, it was far more bewitching. JJ lent against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watched you dance to the radio with a small smirk on his face. 

“Don’t go on any talent shows anytime soon, yeah?”

You nearly jump six-feet in the air. With a blinding smile, you roll your eyes. “What? You don’t think I’ve got what it takes?”

“No, no,” JJ says, smiling as he approaches you, “I just think you might shock the world with your ability.”

“Mmm. You might be officially out of the dog house, now,” you grin. You hook an arm over his shoulder, holding the other (armed with a spoon) away from his clean clothes. JJ’s heart stammers foolishly at the simple intimate act, but he steels himself in place. You needed this, he reminds himself. He was doing this for you. His hands come to your waist and the two of you sway like trees in a summer evening breeze, rocking from foot to foot. 

“How was work?” he asks you. 

You smile up at him. “Better knowing I was coming home to you.”

JJ’s heart damn near stops. How the hell did the other JJ get through life with you looking at him like that, and saying things that could be put in movies so casually, as if it were an everyday thing. 

Pushing onto your toes, you press a kiss to his lips. Just like last night, it’s quick and fleeting, but this time it lingers, tingling his lips, and he stands, stupefied, as you return to the stove. “I’m doing barbeque beans and fried chicken.”

“Sounds great. You want me to do anything?” JJ wonders. 

“Maybe grab us two beers and start the popcorn?”

JJ’s brows furrow. “The popcorn?” he checks. 

You nod, glancing over your shoulder to him. “Yeah. For horror movie night.”

“Oh,” JJ says. He nods and does as he’s asked. As the popcorn crackles in the microwave, he racks his brain for whether this ‘horror movie night’ has been mentioned before. Despite all his research at the start of this crazy ride, he hadn’t necessarily read the diaries and journals, but more pursued them to clarify whether this was some elaborate prank or not. Now he was kicking himself: perhaps there might have been some clues in there about traditions and celebrations. Celebrations. JJ’s skin goes cold. God he hopes he doesn’t miss some anniversary…

“It’s my choice tonight, don’t forget,” you tell him as you pass by, a bowl in each hand: one with beans, the other with chicken drumsticks. “Since you made me sit through The Blob.”

“Great movie,” JJ grins. 

You roll your eyes mirthfully, shooting him a pointed look. “Terrible movie.”

“That’s what makes it so great,” he counters. 

“How the hell are we together?” you sardonically mutter to yourself. You retrieve your beer and two plates, and JJ tentatively pulls the popcorn out of the microwave, frightened of burning himself, and soon enough, you’re both sat on the sofa, ready for horror movie night to commence. 

“Not that one,” JJ says as you scroll through various horror flicks. You side-eye him, mouth full of half-chewed chicken. 

“I think you’re forgetting this is my choice of movie,” you remind through your chewing. 

“I’m just guiding you in avoiding a bad life decision,” he shrugs with a playful grin, reaching for another drumstick. 

“Bit late for that, pal,” you snigger. Eventually, you settle on a horror movie from the eighties: ‘Chopping Mall.’ It looks terrible from the movie poster: silver text that’s supposed to resemble dripping blood, with a neon red shopping bag below. An eye pokes out and the tagline reads across the bag: ‘where shopping can cost you an arm and a leg.’ “Do you think they already had that tagline in mind and made the movie around it?”

JJ laughs. You’d taken so long in deciding that the two of you were practically done eating. He places his plate atop of yours on the coffee table and relaxes back into the couch cushions. You toss your legends up into his lap. The opening credits roll. JJ’s hand comes to rest on your calve and he rubs slow, deep circles into the skin. In the corner of his eye, he finds your smile, and he tries to bite back his own. 

Watching movies in silence is, apparently, not your thing. JJ’s relieved, as he also struggles to sit in silence for extended periods of time. You make commentaries, tease the actors and characters, mimic their lines and follow it with ‘I could have been in this movie’, and heckle the script. JJ isn’t sure how or why this ‘tradition’ began, but Horror Movie night was a stroke of genius. 

“Damn, she can run pretty fast, huh?” you mumble as the trio of characters sprint through the shopping mall, away from the very-non-threatening robot. 

“Channeling her inner Tom Cruise,” JJ agrees. You giggle and it feels like a reward. All too quickly he’s come to learn that he loves the sound of your laughter. The action scene continues, and suddenly ‘Rick’ is superhero jumping off the top of the elevator. 

“Rick!” another character yells out. 

“Woah,” you and JJ whistle in unison.

“He’s pretty cute, huh?”

“Who? The robot?” JJ frowns. 

“No. ‘Rick’,” you reply, gesturing to the screen. 

JJ’s frown deepens. “No way.”

“You don’t think? Google who the actor is.”

“No!” JJ laughs. Maybe it’s the beer that has him joshingly adding, “You got all the eye candy you could need right here, baby.”

You cock your head, smile twisting into something darker. Your teeth catch your lower lip. “Hm…I guess I do, don’t I?”

Something shifts. JJ’s throat goes dry like a virgin on prom night. He looks back to the screen and takes a swig of his beer. Your eyes watch him, not quite as intense as a hawk, but certainly enough for him to feel holes burn into his cheeks. It makes him smile. 

“You’re missing the movie.”

“It’s a shit movie.”

“I told you to pick a good one.”

“Better than ‘The Blob.’”

JJ’s head whips around to meet your gaze. You’re grinning from ear to ear. He grins back. Cocks a brow. “You gonna take that back?”

“Mm-mm,” you hum innocently, shaking your head. JJ’s hand locks around your ankle and he tugs you closer to him across the couch. 

“Take it back,” he demands, smile growing the closer you get. You don’t resist, simply shake your head, trying and failing to bite back your shit-eating grin. “I mean it - take it back.”

“What’re you gonna do about it if I don’t?” you challenge, leaning forward until he can smell the shampoo in your hair. Your eyes are stunning: twinkling with a liveliness JJ’s not sure he’s ever known. There’s a little scar above one of your eyebrows. The beginnings of laughter lines on your forehead. Your lips are what draws him in, though. Plump and damp from your messing. Smiling. His hand moves without cause: fingers crawling over your cheek until he’s cradling your jaw in his palm. Something ticks in him when you lean into his touch, your smile softening like ice cream melting on your tongue. Your fingers creep up his chest, hooking into the collar of his shirt, and JJ lets you tug him in, closer, closer, until his lips find yours. JJ isn’t sure why, but he quietly confesses: “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful.” 

It’s different from the other kisses you’ve shared with him. This time, it’s purposeful. It’s as if you’re both trying to speak the same language, finding some sort of translation as his lips slot against yours, the two of you pushing and pulling like waves of the sea. Your tongue catches his lower lip and he parts his mouth. Your tongues brush over one another in some inexplicable dance as JJ tastes you. Something escapes him - akin to a moan or a grunt - and you whine, fingers slipping into his blonde hair, tethering into the tendrils, and you pull him nearer. His hands become greedy. They slide down your body until they hook under your ass. You gladly let JJ pull you into his lap. Air is minor. Small moments to part, to take a breath. It’s like you’re all the oxygen JJ needs, the same he is for you. For JJ, he’s learning you. Every move of your tongue, trick of your teeth, brush of your lips is new, exhilarating, and fucking erotic. He’s mapping it to memory. Every reaction he can draw from you, as his hands knead your thighs, his tongue chases your taste, and his fingers tease your skin. But for you, it’s like coming home. You know JJ inside and out, perhaps better than he knows himself, and you fucking show it. Feather-light touch of your nails on his skin that have him almost whining. The way you pull his hair just enough to walk that beautiful thin line of pain and pleasure…It’s addicting. JJ wants more, more, more. 

The fire eventually slows. JJ sits, burning, as you pull away. Your forehead bumps against his. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, as does yours, and he nudges his nose against yours. You giggle underbreath. He smiles, eyes still shut, as if opening them might shatter the moment. His thumb brushes the apple of your cheek: the skin is hot to the touch under the pad of his finger. One of your hands rests on his stomach, atop of his t-shirt, and leisurely scratches patterns lightly onto the skin. 

“I miss you so much,” you whisper. JJ hates the heaviness in your voice. He squeezes your hip reassuringly but he isn’t sure what to say. Not yet, anyway. And so, JJ kisses you again. Shorter but no less sweeter. You know tonight isn’t the night, the same way JJ does. It feels wrong for him to kiss you, let alone touch you. You’re not his - not in the way you think. JJ doesn’t think other JJ is here, in this reality, but on the off chance that he might come back, JJ doesn’t love the idea of being found in bed with his girl. 

But it isn’t just that. As you slip back onto the sofa, now cuddled up safely into JJ’s side - his arm hooked around you, holding you close - JJ knows it’s something deeper. He doesn’t want to rush this. The way he feels about you is nothing like the girls back home. He doesn’t just want to fuck you and search for some self-worth in the sheets. He doesn’t just want to chase that temporary high that helps him numb the pain of living for a few short minutes. He doesn’t want to use you like that. He wants to know you. He wants to hold you close, and spend time with you, and understand you. And most of all, he wants to understand whatever the fuck is going on with his heart, because no matter howhard he tries, it won’t seem to calm the fuck down. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

It was as if JJ had let go of a boulder he’d been dragging around for weeks. As it tumbled away, everything became lighter, and JJ found it easier to sink into his role of - well - JJ. Work only became easier. Well, except for the fact that every hour spent at the store was an hour away from you. He’d grown more attached than vines on a house. He was growing obsessed with you. JJ told himself it was like a research project. He was in too deep, wanting to know you inside and out, that was all. But even his own psyche laughed at that excuse. JJ knew what it was, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He was falling for you. 

“It was nice seeing everyone again,” you tell him as the two of you walk back home from John B’s house. It’s dark out - the road lit up by street lamps - and the silence of the streets make it feel as though the two of you are the only people in the world. A dog barks in the distance, cicadas and owls create a enchanting melody for the creek, and fireflies twinkle by far-off trees. JJ squeezes your hand subconsciously as if to check this was really his life right now. He couldn’t remember Kildare being so pretty. He wonders if you have something to do with it. 

“Sounds like school’s kickin’ Pope’s ass, huh?” JJ replies. 

“He’ll get through it,” you shrug. “Just like how he did with the SATs.”

JJ nods his head. You often do that, allude to anecdotes or memories that JJ is supposed to share with you. He’s found it best to simply play along. 

“D’you ever wish you went to college?” you ask JJ. He laughs. 

“Babe, I think both of us know that was never on the cards.”

“Don’t say it like that!” you chastised, untethering your hand to instead loop it around his waist. He hooks his arm over your shoulder, keeping you close by. “You could’ve gotten in on a mechanic degree.”

“You’re sweet,” he says, smiling down at you. You poke your tongue out at him and JJ kisses you, mostly because he still can’t believe he can. Since that night on the sofa, the boundaries had continued to be pushed. JJ had to be honest: his resolve to stay an honest man was slipping. You were so soft. The way you felt under his hands; the way your body moved; the fucking sounds you make. God…JJ was a full-fledged addict. He craved more. 

He slept in the same bed as you, cuddled close under sheets. As the summer became more and more humid and muggy, clothes were less and less needed. You’d sleep in little more than a vest top and panties, and JJ merely in boxers. It was like a psychological test. How far can you push a man before he breaks? It might help if it wasn’t pain-stakingly obvious that you wanted to jump his bones. JJ would practically hear the battle in your mind, fighting whether to test the waters or let JJ initiate. After all, he said he needed time. But JJ was only half-ashamed to admit that if you were to test those waters, even if it were just to dip in a toe, he’d gladly get himself soaking wet. JJ wanted to know what other sounds he could pull from you. He wanted to know the way your face would contort with pleasure. Would your nose scrunch like it would when you were annoyed, or would everything just slip away, no sign of tension, only pure bliss? He wanted to know how you’d feel. Get you all worked up and toy with you over your panties before pushing them aside, slipping his fingers into your wet, desperate–

“D’you ever wish you did?” JJ blurts out, face flaming hot. Then, calmer, clarifies, “to college, I mean?”

“I mean, sometimes, yeah. Was working at a smoothie shop my lifelong dream?” you rhetorically ask. “But I don’t know. I guess life just finds it’s way, right? Isn’t that what they say in Jurassic Park?”

“Ah, yes. The most notable of scholars,” JJ deadpans. Your fingers tickle his side and he squirms. You laugh, he smiles. Everything’s good. 

“I mean it though,” you continue, more serious again. “If I went to college then who knows what would’ve happened to us. We always said we’d try and make it work long distance if I did go, but it’s always easier said than done.”

JJ frowns. “I meant that when I said it though.”

You blink up at him, taken aback. “You did?”

JJ doesn’t need to be your JJ to know he would have. Hell, your JJ would have been a fucking idiot to let you slip through his fingers. “Hell yeah I did.”

You smile. It’s prettier than all the consolations twinkling above the two of you in the sky. “Thanks fishie.”

“Tell me the story of how we met,” he randomly asks. 

Amused and befuddled, you ask with a laugh, “why?”

“Cause I like the way you tell it.” It isn’t a complete lie: JJ knows he’ll like the way you’ll tell it. You can read him out the shopping list and he’s enthralled. That seems reason enough to appease. You look ahead as the two of you continue to walk and deliberate where to begin the tale. 

“Well, I guess it all started with that project me and Pope were doing at school. We’d started hanging out together more to finish it. Sometimes we’d do the project at John B’s house, where you and the rest of the Pogues were hanging, and I tried to find more and more excuses to see Pope so I’d have more and more excuses to see you.”

JJ tries to bite back his smile. There’s a twinge of embarrassment in your tone as if you’re cringing at your former self, but JJ thinks it’s nothing shy of endearing. 

“But you were confused. See, I didn’t know Pope hadn’t told y’all that we were doing a project together. And I guess I hadn’t thought about the fact that I kept showing up at these hangs with Pope. So that one time when we were in the kitchen - y’know, when you were making a sandwich and I was getting a drink?” JJ nods, eager for you to continue. “I tried starting a conversation with you. And, man, I thought I was gonna black the fuck out I was so damn nervous.”

“I make you nervous, huh?” JJ can’t help but ask, a shit-eating grin on his smug face. 

“You wanna hear this story or not, mister?”

“A’right, a’right,” he laughs, holding a hand up in mock surrender. 

“Anyway,” you grit out playfully, “you asked how it was going with Pope. Well, I obviously thought you meant our school project - which was going alright - so that’s what I told you: ‘It’s going alright, I guess’. Then you asked how long it’d been and I was even more confused why you were so obsessed with this stupid project. So, again, I was like, ‘uh, a month or so.’ Then, you asked if it was serious. I was like ‘how serious can a school project be?’. So I was like, ‘uh, not really.’ And you looked so offended. But also kind’a relieved?”

JJ struggles to hold back his laughter. It’s okay though, because you’re having a tough time doing so too. 

“So then,” you say, breaking into giggles, “you gave me this really long look. Like long. It was almost like a puppy dog look? Like a hurt puppy dog? And you said something really weird like, ‘well, Pope’s a great guy’. And I was like, ‘ok-ay?’. And then - finally - you said, ‘you two make a really cute couple’.”

At this point you’re nearly doubled over in hysterics. JJ’s laughing too, but he’s held captive by the story. 

“And then I thought to myself: OH FUCK. He thinks I’m fucking his best friend! Now he’s never gonna fuck me!” You howl with laughter, tears weeping from your eyes, and JJ can’t look away from you, smiling like a damn fool. “And I was like, ‘Oh no no no! We’re not together like that! We’re just school partners!’ And that’s–” You gasp for air, wiping your tears. Taking a few breathes, trying and failing and trying again, you finally calm down enough to finish the story: ‘and that’s when you took the biggest breath of relief ever and said ‘thank fuck’.”

JJ holds your gaze. His smile mirrors yours. Thank fuck. He can practically hear the words rolling off his tongue and feel the relief flowing through his body that you weren’t with Pope, not even slightly. 

“And the rest is history,” you shrug. 

“That’s a damn good story,” JJ smiles. 

You giggle up at him. “I guess I do tell it pretty well, huh?”

A thought flashes across JJ’s brain, bright as a supernova. You’re so beautiful. His heart hiccups. 

“I’ll say,” JJ agrees. He catches your hand again and intertwines his fingers with yours. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Three months. Three months living his doppleganger’s life. Three months of working his dream job with his best friend. Three months of visiting his mom and dad, drinking sangria on their porch and listening to any story he can pry out his parents. Three months of spending nearly every day with you. Three months of cooking and eating dinner. Three months of morning routines and evening rituals. Three months of Horror Movie night. Three months of dates on the beach at sunsets and making out on the sofa to the radio and falling asleep tangled in your arms. Three months of a life that JJ never thought he could have, and never knew he wanted. 

His dad broaches the ring again. He reminds JJ of its existence when he goes to visit. And this time, JJ isn’t full of panic. Instead, he’s full of excitement. Anticipation, even. Pictures appear in his mind of white dresses and pressed black suits and flowers and garters and a white bedspread prettied with rose petals and you, in wedding lingerie, writhing and giggling, as he crawls atop of you and–

Fuck, JJ was horny. 

Yes, it had been three whole months since JJ had done anything intimate outside of kissing and dry humping. And he thinks he might be about to go feral or barking mad. 

It doesn’t help that you can’t keep your hands to yourself. Your hand rests on his thigh as he drives. Fingers teasing the fabric of his jeans, seemingly absentminded in your teasing. JJ might swerve the car off the road at this rate. You’d proposed an hour that the two of you should go on a late night drive. It’s so pretty tonight, you told him as you glanced out the kitchen window, we should go on a drive and watch the stars. JJ had grabbed a bag of chips (the pig testicle chips, as you dubbed them) and a bottle of wine with two shitty plastic cups, and you had shoved two thick blankets into an oversized tote bag and snatched up a large pillow from the couch. With that, you hit the road. 

JJ follows your directions to a secret viewpoint. You tell him you and Sarah found it the other week on a hike. He follows the dirt track, half aware that it feels like driving into a horror movie, before the trees show a clearing. It’s a cliff edge, plenty wide enough, with a glorious view of Kildare. Figure Eight shines like a beacon in the back, whilst The Cut shimmers like gold dust. Fireflies serve as the only company as JJ helps you out of the truck. The radio continues to play, humming quietly to itself as the two of you load up the bed of the truck with the blankets and pillow. You jump up and JJ follows, and the two of you shuffle around until you’re cosy atop of the unforgiving metal. You’re tucked into his side, cheek against his chest, and JJ’s right arm is looped around you, keeping you close as if you might float away. You tangle your legs into his, your fluffy socks snuggly against his calves. Titling your heads back, the view of the sky above is breathtaking. Stars upon stars stretching across an expanse of pure black.

“Thanks for doing this,” you quietly say into the night air. JJ squeezes you. 

“Course.”

After twenty minutes of star gazing in silence, save for when a shooting stars flashes by - ‘I wish to be chosen by the cat distribution system.’ - ‘I could just adopt us a cat.’ - ‘It isn’t the same.’ - you sit up and reach for the wine. JJ takes the cup you offer to him. 

“A toast,” you smile, “to many more nights spent like this one.”

“Any night spent with you is a night to remember,” JJ suavely says. You practically dissolve at his words. 

“Cheers,” you conclude, holding your cup out for JJ to ‘tink’ against. The wine tastes like strawberries. It wets his throat and calms his nerves. There’s a strange aura to the night. It’s like JJ hasn’t read the full page, and doesn’t know where the chapter will lead. “That was a good toast, fishie.”

Brushing some hair off your face, JJ says, “tell me the story of the fish thing.”

Just as you had done before when he asked to hear the story of how you met, you’re confused, but not irritated. “Because you like the way I tell it?” you wonder, hazarding a guess. JJ grins. 

“Course.”

You take another sip of wine and JJ does the same. Gazing off, JJ can see every star reflecting in your eyes. He could drown in them. He could drown in this moment. “I don’t really know when it started…Oh! Wait, yes, I do!” 

JJ loves the way you perk up. You’re already laughing as you say, “it’s so dumb! It was when we got those super sour candies on our second date, and I made this weird face, and you said I looked like a fish! And I told you that if you tried one, you’d look like a fish too. And then we took pictures of each other to prove it.”

Laughter bubbles up JJ’s throat. He cracks up, shaking his head. All this time, these three months, JJ has tried and tried to understand where on earth his fish thing came from. He’d read every diary and journal entry, and analysed every story you’d told him. He thought it must be something significant, like the first time you said ‘I love you’. Something groundbreaking. But no, it was a silly thing, as silly as two teenagers sharing sour sweets. That one little thing had spiralled until it became the string tying everything together: nicknames left on love letters and in birthday cards; scribbled on kitchen notes and typed in texts; whispered in the dark of the bedroom or shouted across the house followed by a request. JJ had followed the clues for the answer and there it was: a quick, four-or-so sentenced anecdote. 

When JJ finally catches his breath, he washes his humour down with the rest of his wine, and lays his eyes on you. Your brows are raised, waiting for an explanation, and JJ shakes his head. 

“You do tell that story well,” he murmurs. You brim with pride. 

“I do, huh?”

JJ can’t look away from you. You’re stunning, sitting on your knees atop of scrunched up blankets. The hoodie you’re wearing is JJ’s. It hangs slightly oversized on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, concealing the pyjama shorts you don. The fluffy toes of your socks poke out behind you, from where you sit atop of your legs. Hair slightly messy, falling around your face like framing a magnificent painting, and a smile unmoving from your lips.

“You’re my favourite part of all of this,” he tells you. Your brows tug together slightly. 

“Of all of what?” you ask. JJ shakes his head, smiling to himself. 

“This,” he simply replies. Your lips twitch up higher, happy with the answer, it seems. 

“I missed you so much, JJ,” you whisper. Missed. Like it’s a thing of the past. Like there’s nothing to miss now, because he’s here, with you again like he was before. 

“C’mere,” JJ murmurs. You swig the last of your wine and toss your cup into the bed of the truck. JJ drops his own cup away, hands reaching out to help guide you onto his lap. Your legs straddle him, knees planted either side of his hips, and you snake your arms over his shoulders. JJ kisses you like a man starved. You taste like strawberry wine and hours spent in the sun and the past and the future and everything. You’re everything. JJ pulls you impossibly closer. His hands desperately grab and hold you, searching your skin under your clothes. You whine against his mouth. He moans against yours. You rock against him and JJ sighs, his forehead slipping to fall pathetically on your shoulder. You waste no time exploring, kissing a trail from his jaw and cheeks to his ear. Kitten lick the lobe before taking it in your teeth, tasting and trying. JJ’s practically breathless. He holds you close as if he’s scard you might turn to dust in his hold. Nothing more than a phantom he’s made up in his lonely, cold bed. 

JJ knows then what this was for. It wasn’t the job, or his parents. It wasn’t the bordering sobriety, or the money, or the house. The reason the universe had planted him here was for you. JJ wanted this. He wanted a life filled with love, not anger. He wanted intimacy, not sex. He wanted to live, not just exist. 

“I love you,” he nearly gasps against you. It’s like he can’t keep the words down any longer. “I love you, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper. Quick, like a reflex. Certain. Nobody’s ever been certain of JJ before. Your hands plant on his face, one on each side, and you force his face away until he opens his eyes into yours. You’re crying. Smiling through the tears, gazing at him like he’s something worth looking at. “I love you so much, JJ. I was…I was so scared,” you hiccup, sniffling your words, “I was so scared I wasn’t what you wanted anymore.”

JJ’s head shakes. You don’t let go of him, not once. “I’m always gonna want you.” Then, half-laughing, as if something absurd just occurred to him he admits, “I don’t know how I made it so long not knowing you existed.”

It’s your turn to shake your head now, giggling through your tears. “You’re everything to me, JJ Maybank. Everything.”

JJ doesn’t want to stop kissing you. Not as he lies you down on the bed of the truck. Not as his fingers slip below your hoodie, until he’s coaxing it up and over your head. But he has to. Has to let his mouth follow the invisible line, down your throat, along your sternum, until he’s taking the pebbled nub of your nipple between his lips. You gasp, fingers slipping into his hair, back arching just-so, and JJ knows you must be as touch starved as him. 

“Fuck, baby, please,” you whine, head rolling back. He gives the same treatment to the other breast, his fingers teasing over the now neglected nipple. But then you’re nearly clawing at his face, dragging him up to your mouth. It’s filthy, the kiss you catch him in. Your hands desperately grab at his shirt, encouraging it up and over his head, and JJ pulls away long enough to toss it to the side. Fingers trace over the skin of his back; feel up his chest, over his muscles as they tense with every shortened breath. “I missed you so fucking much.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” JJ promises. He’s never meant something more. 

“You better.”

You’re just as soft as JJ imagined. The way you give under his fingers as they trace the silky wetness gathered between your legs. The sounds you make are better than those he conjured in the darkest parts of his mind. You grab for him, nails digging slightly into the skin of his biceps, as if it’s all a little too overwhelming. But you beg. Please, baby, I need you…Stop teasing, please. He can’t keep himself from you much longer. JJ’s finger slips inside you so easy. He shudders against your clammy skin, sighing against your collarbones as if it might be him, and you mewl as he fingers you under the starlight. Your hips rock helpless, lips damp and pretty as you let out the most hauntingly beautiful sounds. Sounds that will forever ghost JJ’s thoughts. You come with a shudder, fingernails leaving crescents in his bare shoulders, gasping out his name among cusses. JJ thinks it’s the most gorgeous prayer he’s ever heard. You taste like nectar on his tongue as he sucks his fingers clean, and he twitches in his boxers. 

“So fucking pretty when you come,” he grunts, kissing your neck fervently. “Wanna fucking taste you forever.”

“Please, JJ,” you beg. Your hands push at his shorts. “Please.”

“Want me to fuck you, baby?” he whispers into the crux of your ear. He grins at the gasp you let out. He can’t help but toy with your soaking cunt as he teases. “Is that what you want? D’you need it bad, baby?”

“Fuck you, JJ,” you hiss. He can’t help but chuckle at the moan which shatters your words. “God, please. Yes. Please, just…fuckin’...”

“I’ve got you, baby,” JJ croons. He shrugs off his shorts, soon followed by his boxers. When you take his length in your hands, his eyes squeeze shut and he grits his teeth. Fuck, he’s already so close. 

“Missed you so much,” you tell him again, a knowing taunt to your words. He forgets how well versed you are in the language of him. Guiding him to your centre, he groans as he grinds experimentally, slipping easily from how wet you are. 

“Don’t we need–”

“Pill, remember, babe?” you hum innocently against the apex of his throat. JJ sinks into you and he nearly blacks out. It’s intoxicating: the way you feel - gripping him, clenching around him; the sounds you make - gasping, whining, cussing, nearly screaming; the lewd sounds of sex as he fucks you until the only thing the two of you can say are the only things that matter in that moment. Please and fuck and God, yes. You cry out his name when you come, eyes screwed tight, lips curving with the shadow of a smile, and JJ shatters from the sound. He grunts and moans helpless against your skin, slick with sweat, as he fucks the two of you through your highs. Until finally he’s slipping out, heaving atop of you, searching his mind for some frame of reference because it’s never been that good before, has it? 

You refuse to let him slip away from you. You hold him close, kissing any expanse of skin exposed to you. JJ smiles tired and spent against your warm skin. The two of you tug a blanket over your sedated bodies, soaked with dopamine. And you lay like that, tangled and tethered together, until you both catch your breath. 

“I love you,” JJ murmurs into the dead of night. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”

“I knew you’d come back to me eventually,” you tell him, voice kind like an angel. Your fingers scratch through his hair like petting a dog, easing him to sleep. But he doesn’t want to leave this moment. His eyes slip shut, nonetheless. It’s as if you can read his mind; he hears you whisper, “get some sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Before darkness pulls him under, he catches three words that JJ will never get sick of hearing leave your mouth. 

“I love you.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

JJ wakes with a groan. He’s laying on his side, his face is squished into the pillow, dried drool stuck to his chin. As he comes out of a deep sleep, it almost feels like he’s waking up from death. He forces his eyes open just to close them a moment later. The room is dark, as if shadowed in grey from cloudy skies. It’s warm and sticky: bed sheets cling to the bare skin of his back, drawn to the sweat. Maybe that’s the thing that has JJ’s eyes flying open. 

The last thing he could remember was falling asleep with your body flush against his. You were still trying to even out your breathes, body clammy from his touch and the pleasure the two of you had shared. Beneath the two of you had been two blankets layered atop of one another, and below that, the metal bed of a pick-up truck. But JJ frowns as he feels a bumpy mattress taking the weight of his body. He sits up, the sheets slipping down to his waist, and looks around the room, bleary eyed. 

He glances to the spot in the bed beside him. It’s empty, untouched. He calls your name but there’s no reply. He takes in his surroundings. It’s his room. Not the room the two of you shared in that gorgeous little house. No, this is his room from before. Barren of warmth or personality. Soulless in the lack of you. 

Panic uncurls within him. It starts in his head and ends in his toes, until his whole body is vibrating, spiralling with dread. He calls your name, louder, and hurries out of bed. Pulling on a pair of boxers, he does a lap of the crappy apartment he had once found solace in. Now, it’s a cage. A relic to his past life and bachelor days. Empty takeout boxes pile up by the overflowing bin. Beer bottles and cans litter the counter. A half-smoked joint lies limp on the dusty coffee table. A random girl’s cardigan flung carelessly over the back of his years-old couch. But there’s nothing of you here. Nothing. 

JJ pushes his hands through his hair, chest heaving, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He knows what’s happened - knows it’s useless - but he calls your name again, over and over and over. He calls it until his throat goes dry, until it doesn’t sound like a real word. Until he’s sat on the floor, knees to his chest, leaning his back against the side of the bed. He cradles his head in his hands, fingers sinking into his scalp like claws. That’s when the tears finally come. 

“No,” he sobs into his palms. “No, please…Please, take me back…Let me go back…”

The universe didn’t answer his pleas. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

JJ moves through his world with a broken heart. He slowly picks it back together, unmotivated as he puzzles the chunks into place. His job is monotonous and empty, just as his days are without knowing you’ll be at the end of them. His evenings are spent isolated, drinking himself to sleep, convincing himself that when he curls under the covers, your arms are there to hold him. It stays that way for a couple of weeks.

That is until JJ is walking through town. Something catches his eye. It sits like a lighthouse, and he’s drawn to it like a sailor whose been lost at sea. The bright green and orange of the sign feels like a hallucination, a memory from a dream he once had, but it’s real. The smoothie shop you used to work at. 

He knows it’s a pipedream. The universe had been using JJ as its own personal entertainment for the past three months, so why now would it change its tune and show charity? But as JJ approaches, the smoothie shop remains, and he finally lets himself have hope for the first time since he woke up alone in his apartment. 

It’s not very busy inside. Reggae music plays from the speaker by the door. There’s a group of teengers sat talking animatedly as they sip their smoothies; a couple with a beautiful golden retriever reside by the window, people watching. Someone’s at the counter, blocking the view of the cashier they’re speaking too, and a worker is at the blenders. JJ feels his feet pull him toward the counter. He glances around as if to check that this is real, and when he looks back ahead, the man in front of him is thanking the worker and moving to the side to collect his order and:

“Hi!”

JJ’s world stops. And then, he breathes for the first time in two weeks. 

It’s you. It’s really, truly you. You’re standing in your little uniform, hair pulled back, eyes shimmering in the sunlight that glows through the large windows at the front of the shop. It’s like a drop of sunlight: ethereal and impossible and pure and perfect and somehow here, stood before JJ. 

“Hi,” JJ manages to reply. 

You tap something on the cash register, oblivious to JJ’s shock, before glancing back up at him. “Are you ready to order?”

JJ nods, dumbfounded. Then you smile, and his heart sings, and he knows that this is what he was meant to do. He was meant to come find you. 

“Alrighty,” you sing-song, picking up a takeout cup, marker pen at the ready to write on the plastic. “What can I do for you?”

Everything, JJ thinks as he stares at his future. Everything. 

.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Feb. 16, 2026

.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This started out as a joke, exactly 20 days ago. I stopped laughing halfway through, and now I’m crying in 284 languages because I can’t believe it’s done. Let me know if you guys want more, because I have tons of ideas for this universe, including additional drivers and racing arcs (hihihi 😈).

PLAYLIST

BANKS, Begging For Thread

DOC RAVEN, My Ride Or Die

MC MAZZIE, Saka Saka Saka

POST MALONE, Wow.

JUICY J, Payback

SICKICK, Infected

TROYE SIVAN, Talk Me Down

And I can’t be running back and forth forever

between grief and high delight.

J.D. Salinger, from Franny and Zoey

📍 Los Angeles, California | 11:04 PM.

“YOU DON’T HAVE to come tonight,” says Lando without looking at her. Freshly out of the shower, he’s facing the dresser, rifling through a half-open drawer.

For almost a month now, the house on E. Kensington Road is quiet. No more people coming over, no more late night dinners in the spatious kitchen, and no more work in the garage. Except for the room he grew up in, everything else remained pretty much untouched. Rather fast, he’s shrunk inward, confined himself to new routines and old habits, because it’s easier to pretend he’s still sixteen and his older sister is just out late. In reality, it’s like everything drained out of the walls and never quite came back ever since Letty died.

Murdered. Lando’s sister was murdered.

Even though time moves in one direction, his mind keeps replaying the memory of the day he looked over her grave from above as if it just happened. His jaw clenches automatically, the unwanted images invading his mind, forcing himself to chase them away as quickly as possible. He has yet to find the perfect formula to make them disappear without coming back, because he cannot afford giving up hope that at one point in his life, perhaps, the fact that he has no family left will not hurt as much. Somewhere deep inside, Lando knows he’s doomed to search for it his whole life though, without succeeding, just like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down just before reaching the top.

Nonetheless, better than the alternative. Giving up would mean admitting defeat. Accepting a reality where his attempts are futile and he’s all alone.

Well, maybe not completely alone.

Raelyn leans against the doorframe, cautiously following his moves, like a lioness waiting to pounce on its prey. Ironically, not to tear him apart, but to protect him from other predators, from the world and, most importantly, from himself.

“I know,” she replies with a silent sigh. “You tell me every time. Besides,” the girl continues, “I wouldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Lando finally reaches for a clean shirt, the fabric dragging smoothly over his skin. The mirror in front of him catches the dark circles under his eyes and the tension carved into his jaw, showcasing a restless anger that never leaves his gaze anymore. It’s not the first time she’s felt so helpless that it’s turned into guilt. She wants to do more for him, way more than she already does because, just like Lando, Raelyn can’t afford to give up on hope that they will get to see better days. For now, she can only be a mere spectator to how he chooses to mourn, hence she notices everything. Especially the demons he fights so hard to keep hidden from the world. And that takes a lot from him. He somehow looks way older than he did a month ago: he’s more rigid and pale, the lines of his body sharper, his eyes hollow, as if their essence was knocked loose and never put back the right way, regardless of how hard she tries to.

In the course of it, neither of them knows when exactly she moved in, but that’s because there was no conversation about it. She stayed over the night after the funeral and didn’t leave again. He never asked her to. Never asked her to stay, either. Somewhere along the way, Raelyn became the glue that’s holding together something already cracked. They slept together through it all, and he let her in during the nights he couldn’t speak, or the nights he had so much to say. It happened gradually, every single day marking a new milestone: a new toothbrush in his bathroom, a make-up bag on the counter, a change of clothes, then another. Eventually, her presence in Lando’s life stopped feeling temporary, but they’re not sure when it became as permanent as it is.

Not that they need a clear answer, anyway. They’ve been dating since high-school, and moving in together would have happened, sooner or later.

He shrugs into his jacket next, dragging his fingers through his hair in order to tame the wild curls, still slightly damp from a shower he took too fast, like he was raicing the water.

“I also know,” the girl adds carefully, “That if I stay here, you’ll push it harder. Just to prove you don’t need anyone watching out for you. That you’ve got it.”

Lando turns at last, one eyebrow arching in her direction. “You think you’re watching out for me?” he asks, eyes going a shade darker as he fixes his gaze on her; she doesn’t feel threatened in the slightest, but there’s something vicious about the way grief sits on him lately, stripping him down to instinct and teeth.

Raelyn swallows, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think someone has to.”

“I watch out for myself, yeah?” he nods once, taking a few steps toward her, until he closes the space between them and she’s backed up against the wall. “For us.” Lando cages her in without touching her yet, bracing his palms on either side of Raelyn’s head. She has to tilt her chin up in order to maintain eye contact, and he’s so close that she can count the moles dusting his cheek and feel the heat rolling off him, a gentle scent of his body wash and clean skin invading her nostrils.

Only weeks ago, his face looked soft in any light, smile lines permanently etched at the corners of his mouth like proof he laughed often and easily. In such short time, joy has become a foreign language, the creases have smoothed out, his expression changing dramatically from innocence to sudden maturity. Sometimes she’s shooting stupid jokes at him on purpose, just to see if she can coax it back, to watch his lips twitch and eyes warm briefly before the weight settles again. It never lasts, but she’s satisfied that she still has this power.

She memorized every square inch of his face and, recently, she had to learn new features that the grief has brought in. Luckily, there are things it hasn’t taken yet, like the fullness of his mouth, even when it’s set in a hard line. Maybe, if she looks long enough, she can remember him back to himself.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, hands clawing on either side of his jacket, fingers curling in the worn leather while she pulls him closer instead of pushing away.

His jaw flexes. “I know what you meant, and I’m telling you: I don’t need someone hovering like I’m about to fall apart,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “I’m fine.”

“Am I hovering, Lando?” she challenges him, noticing a knowing smirk blooming in the corner of his mouth.

One of the many things he likes about her is that she doesn’t flinch. Ever. She cuts through his bullshit like a knife through butter. Puts him in his place without clearly defining the hierarchy of their relationship, if there is one to begin with. As for Rae, she conditioned herself to find meaning in things that are on the other side of happiness, because she understood from an early age that life is more than that. Right now, for instance, is about knowing exactly how close to the edge they are and stepping forward anyway; she can’t risk getting stuck.

“You are,” he replies, matter-of-factly. There is no accusation behind his voice, maybe just a suddle tinge of frustration. “And you don’t have to be, because I don’t need anyone to watch out for me,” Lando insists.

Raelyn is aware that the source of his shortcomings lies largely in the empty rooms, missing voices, and the fact that his entire family has been reduced to a full house of ghosts. Nevertheless, his words sting just as much.

“Not even me?” she whispers, eyes searching his face.

Lando exhales, forehead dropping until it nearly touches hers. “It’s not about you.”

She can feel his heartbeat under her palm when she presses it flat on his chest. “Lan, there’s no one else left here but me.”

His eye narrow, understanding there is no way he can fight the cruel truth. All he needs to do is take a quick look around to realize Raelyn is right, and it’s not that he’d be all alone without her that wrecks him, but the fact that she must know how much pain she can cause him, if that’s what she wanted to. Love means trusting she won’t.

“You push like that,” he teases quietly, lifting his hand to cup the side of her face, “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

She holds his gaze without blinking. “With you?”

Lando shakes his head, eyes closing briefly. In spite of what she’s insinuating, he manages to smile a little and, before she can speak again, he presses his lips on hers, kissing her just like he always does: like he’s starving, with a possessive force that’s able to claim every inch of her mouth.

Raelyn melts into him, her tongue sweeping in to tangle with his. From her cheek, his hand drops to her waist, fingers splaying wide over the soft fabric of her black bodycon dress, then lower, gripping the exposed skin of her thigh. With a silky hum rumbling from his chest, Lando lifts her effortlessly off the floor and pushes her back against the wall behind, pinning her there.

A silent whimper escapes her lips right into his mouth, as needy as ever, dancing in circles on his tongue. Her legs snake his waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight around him, heels digging into the small of his back to wrench him close, then closer, until there is no physical space left. The friction of her core against his hardening cock sends an exciting jolt through him, and he takes the opportunity to savor it, grinding gently to tease both of them. Her arms loop around his neck, fingers burying into his curls, tugging with a desperation that matches his own. Then her hands slide down, nails scraping lightly over his skin until they grip the base of his neck, yanking Lando deeper into the kiss, as if she could simply fuse them together.

The kiss intensifies, turning wild and messy and sloppy. Tongues lick everywhere; hers tracing the seam of his lips before diving back in; his swirling against the roof of her mouth, tasting her greedily. He sucks at her bottom lip next, nipping only to hear her little gasp, then captures her tongue again, drawing her breath into his lungs like it’s the oxygen he can’t live without. His own comes out in ragged bursts, hot on her skin, possessive hold thightening even more, not wanting to give her the slightest occasion to break away.

One arm stays locked on her waist, supporting her weight without strain. The other hand roams lower, fumbling with the button of his jeans, the zipper rasping open in the charged air broken only by their heavy panting. The fabric parts, and he shoves it down enough to free his throbbing cock, the length springing out, already leaking from the tip. It’s embarrassing how quickly she can turn him on, but Lando lets her consume him in every possible way.

With Raelyn, every worry has a STOP button, and the buzz in his veins shifts smoothly back to a primal rhythm they both know so well. Impatiently, he rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging against the soft lace of her panties, seeping her heat through the thin barrier. A groan tears from his throat into her mouth, and she ends up swallowing it with a satisfied moan.

“Fucking hell, Rae,” he speaks against her lips, fingers digging into her thigh to hitch her leg higher.

“You can fall apart, you know,” she begins, contemplatively, “That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

“I am a little broken,” replies Lando, maybe a bit too quickly.

She arches into him, her body language screaming want with every cell, hips rolling to grind her clit on his length, chasing the sweet friction. In the moment, as her eagerness and impatient whimpers vibrate with him, Lando imagines that all that exists is her, dragging him from the edge of darkness back into the burning flames of life. Thus, in retrospect, it doesn’t matter whether he’s broken or not.

“You’re the same to me,” she exhales heavily, as if to emphasize her point.

Lando almost chokes on his next breath, losing his grip only to lower Rae back to her feet, but he doesn’t break the kiss. His mouth lingers on hers, tongues sliding in a messy dance at the same time his hands slide down her sides. Dexterous fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, peeling them off in one desperate motion, the lace leaving goosebumps all over her hips and thighs before pooling at her ankles. She kicks them aside without breaking contact, and once she’s exposed to him, Lando presses her clumsily into the wall again, the edge of the dresser digging into his hip. He manages to crowd her space, his freed cock bobbing heavy between them, brushing along her inner thigh. Rae’s palms curl around his biceps, fingers digging into the taut muscle there for support, feeling the flex as he repositions himself.

“All this time,” he mumbles impatiently, one hand wrapping around his shaft to guide the swollen head to her entrance, “And I still can’t get enough of you.”

“Promise?” she asks, voice cracking a little on the last syllable.

“Promise,” Lando exhales a shaky breath that fans over her cheek, slowly pushing forward.

Her walls part for him with ease, taking Lando in with a gush of wetness that lets him glide blissfully deep. She has to bite her lip at how good the homecoming feels like, eyes closing shut so she can fully focus on the way he splits her on his length. And the moment he starts moving, her inner muscles begin sucking at his cock like it’s second nature. Their heavy breathing fills the room, joining the guttural grunts that come out of Lando’s throat. The rhythm builds gradually, skin slapping on skin in echoing smacks that has her ass hitting the wall with each drive.

In the heat of it, Lando’s lips find the softness of her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column, biting lightly at the pulse point that beats wildly under his tongue.

“You really think I don’t need you?” he asks, frenzy evident in his voice. “How can I not? You were made for me, weren’t you?” Lando’s tone is laced with that soft-yet-aggressive edge, one of his hands dropping to her hip again to open her wider, allowing him to plunge deeper. “Fuck. Say yes, I wanna hear you.”

“Yes, baby,” agrees Rae in a high-pitched voice, the words coming out of her mouth like bullets, without being able to stop them. “I’m just scared because I sometimes feel like it’s a matter of time until you slip away” she admits, head falling back against the wall as she rocks her hips to meet him. “Faster. Please,” her voice breaks on the plea, fingers tangling in his curls once again, pulling at them to urge him on.

Processing her affirmation, Lando’s restraint snaps like a revved engine hitting redline. His pace increases with pure need, thrusts turning nearly punishing, hips snapping with a force that shakes her entire body.

“Not gonna happen,” he pants into the crook of her neck, breath breaking erratically against her skin. “With you for the long run, yeah?” his assures her, changing position so one hand braces beside her head, the other gripping her ass to angle her just right, his cock slamming home with every brutal drive.

The girl moans louder, all sounds mixing together into a cacophony that’s ricocheting off the walls. The pleasure is omnipresent, but it exponentially intensifies every time Lando cries out her name. He can’t stay silent even if he wanted to, not as he swells inside her with each thrust, his thick length pulsing, the ridged head dragging along her channel in ecstatic waves that shoot persistently from one body to the other. Her pussy flutters around him, the wetness coating his balls while they slap relentlessly with lewd sounds.

“Yeah,” her voice fades, gasping in time with her legs trembling around his waist. “Shit, I’m so close.”

At this point, Lando’s control is very limited and crumbles along with her failed attempts to speak without moaning. His movements become inconsistent, jaw working hard in order to prolong his own pleasure, while undoubtedly pushing Rae toward hers.

“Good girl, baby,” his voice is utterly wrecked, “Come on then, come on my cock,” he encourages her, the desperate grind of bodies seeking oblivion in each other. “You’re so fucking perfect, let me feel you.”

His thrusts are slowing a little, allowing himself the luxury of watching her face contort in bliss as the orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy spasms in repeated waves that suck at him without stopping, her moans turning into sweet cries that animate the bedroom. Satisfied, he grinds deep, circling his hips to elongate the sensation, feeling her wetness flood around him, coating his length and dripping down her thighs.

Only when she’s riding the peak, body shuddering in Lando’s arms, does he let go. His release hits hard and fast, praising spilling from his lips like a desperate prayer, his cock pulsing as hot spurts fill her to the brim. It’s messier than he expected, cum leaking out around where they’re joined, slicking his balls and inner thighs, the overflow dripping down as he keeps her pinned, with one palm firmly splayed on the wall for leverage and the other holding her steady through the aftershocks.

A few seconds later, he looks down at his girl with a yearning gaze that burns. For some reason, he gets the strange feeling that she’s something that should be out of his reach. Someone he shouldn’t have. Someone he doesn’t deserve. All at once, Lando realizes that her fears aren’t irrational; there were times when even he didn’t recognize himself, and only Rae knows what terrifying thoughts she didn’t share with him, just because she thought it was better not to.

The least he can do now is prove that no matter how many times the world might end around them, she won’t end up losing him.

Lando leans in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he speaks, “You have me, Rae. You’re my ride or die, don’t ever doubt that.”

The testimony is not limited to a simple promise made post-orgasm. Promises can be easily broken. The words carry a lot of weight, coming from Lando. It’s what his sister used to say about having that one person that’s yours only. Someone you can trust with your life, but also someone you would die with in a heartbeat. It means commitment that doesn’t break under pressure, not even when helplessness or fear claws at the edges of common sense, ripping it apart. He grew up watching that devotion shape the way Letty loved and the way she fought for the people she cared about. Treating it like a bravado would mean betrayal, especially knowing that she died believing loyalty was worth any cost. Even life itself.

Rae’s arms are still wrapped tight around Lando’s neck, thighs quivering still as he gently lowers her feet to the floor, supporting her weight until she’s steady enough on her own. Her body slides down his, his softening cock slipping free with a wet noise, more of their combined release smearing between them.

“Shit,” he exhales, “Are we okay?” asks Lando with a chuckle that barely leaves his throat, brushing a stray curl from her face.

For the first time in the past month, Raelyn can see vulnerability in his eyes, not just the endless void. She smiles, answering by rising on her toes to kiss him deeply; a silent declaration that they are more than okay, actually. He’s still in there, a little broken, but still hers.

“I’m coming with,” the girl presses a final kiss to his cheek before padding over to the dresser on unsteady legs to grab a fresh pair of panties.

THEY ROLL OFF Alameda Street an hour later, where the Arts District thins out into warehouse rows and dead-end stretches of chipped asphalt that no one takes responsibility for after midnight. Lando pulls in slowly, allowing the wheels to slide through the sea of people like skates on ice, letting the car announce itself through a dense, metallic purr. That makes him easy recognisable, and the shouts are then quick to follow.

His posture is loose yet nervous in an exciting way; the tone it’s always electric in places like this, and the atmosphere around sets his hands tingling with impatience already. When fast cars gather in one scene and people swarm around them like ants in their own colony, he knows he’s made it home. Not because he inherited someone else’s reputation, but because he grew up in this environment, seeking the thrill like some sort of addict.

The lot is pure chaos: lowriders bouncing on hydraulics; tattooed guys in tank tops chugging beers from glass bottles, foam occasionally spilling onto oil-stained ground because of how wildly they’re gesticulating; girls in ripped shorts climb onto hoods, dancing to the thump of hip-hop blasting from massive subwoofers strapped to truck beds; joints are passed around from hand to hand like basket balls, the skunky haze blending with the acrid bite of exhaust and rubber. This tiny bubble is a world onto itself, laughter punctuated by tons of curse words and jokes with just enough innuendo.

Above it all though, the sound of engines roaring is overwhelming. Lando eases the Skyline into a spot near the fence, killing his with a satisfied grin plastered on his face. The sudden quiet inside the car only amplifies the madness outside, and he can’t help but turn to look at Raelyn.

“Let’s make some money,” he says, leaning over the console to press a quick kiss on her lips.

She unbuckles her seatbelt quickly, pulling him back for more before he even has time to turn in his seat. “You’re enjoying this too much,” she points out soon after in a fake accusatory tone that Lando can’t argue with.

Still, “Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”

The night air carries a specific scent that Raelyn had never smelled anywhere else but at street races: sweaty men, spilled alcohol and canned energy drinks, hot metal, and motor oil. Lots of it. From where she stands, the strip stretches out like a vein, a long straight of abandoned roadway flanked by derelict warehouses and graffiti walls. In passing, she sees a guy in a bandana stumble from, most likely, too many shots of tequila, one of his arms slunging around a girl who grinds against him to the beat of the music. Over by a jacked-up Impale, a group passes around a blunt, the ember glowing in the space they share as they hype up a driver revving his turbo.

Lando’s hand finds hers once they weave through the throng, and for a moment she’s sure she can feel what he does every time he comes here: an escape.

They spot their crew somewhere near the improvised starting line. Raelyn sees Suki first, her long, glossy hair catching the light that comes from the street lights while she fiddles with the air filter on her Honda S2000, a bunch of tools scattered at her feet. Alex and George, the only mates left from the long-gone days of high-school, greet them with ear-to-ear smiles, cracking open fresh Monsters and ribbing each other about last week’s bust.

“Four, you late ass!” Suki calls out, straightening with a smile on her face at the same time she’s tilting a little to wipe the grease from her hands on her cargo pants. “What took you so long, dude?”

Lando chuckles, fighting the urge to flip her off as he pulls Rae closer to his side. “My lady,” he replies honestly, turning to look at the girl who’s a second away to go key his car for making her blush in front of their friends.

“Ignore him,” Raelyn chimes in, pinching her boyfriend’s bicep.

“Don’t worry, though,” continues Lando, “I wouldn’t miss watching you eat my dust for anything.”

Suki snorts, tossing a rag at him. “Rae, girl, tell this fool of yours to stop dreamin’. See this?” she says, tapping near the intake. “I retuned the throttle response and leaned out the air-fuel mix to sharpen the pickup. She’s breathing cleaner now, which, in simpler terms, means he’s got no chance against me tonight.”

Raelyn laughs, trying to ease the competitive tension that always simmers below the surface between them. “Play nice, you two. Save the trash talk for the line. And you,” she turns in Lando’s arms fully, throwing her hands around his neck, “You better pay more attention to that mouth, yeah?”

“Or else?” he provokes her, knowing well enough that or else she’s going to shut it for him.

And that’s what she does. Her chest presses against his, Lando’s arm tightening around her waist like an instant response. The kiss is more of a reminder that she can be assertive if the situation calls for it, so he’d better not step on her toes. Especially not when she’s wearing her favorite boots.

Their bickering flows easy after that, but it falters when several heads turn toward the same point of interest: a well-known matte black Dodge Charger that causes bodies to shift and scatter under the rich hum of its engine. Instinctively, Lando’s grasp on Raelyn’s waist tightens, jaw clenching involuntarily; just like that, the illusion of a drama-free night shatters under the sound of Dominic Toretto’s car door slamming shut.

A month ago, he would’ve clocked the big man the same way everyone else around him does, untouchable, above all. Maybe he did love Lando’s sister. Maybe he simply didn’t know how to show up for grief, preferring to do it alone. But nothing can excuse his absence when it mattered most. To Lando, the man that approaches their group now isn’t untouchable anymore. He’s human, just like everybody else, which makes him just as vulnerable. Just as flawed and exposed.

And a coward.

His worn jacket hangs open over his frame, moving with him as he closes the distance with characteristic patience, his heavy boots crunching over scattered gravel and discarded bottle caps. The overhead lights catch along the clean lines of his shaved head and the dark stretch of his T-shirt pulled tight across his frame, giving the impression that he owns the place, confident that no one’s going to stop him.

Whereas people’s eyes are glued to him, Suki’s gaze snaps past Dom, to another car that rolls off. To get better look at it, she hops up onto the hood of her car, shading her eyes against the flicker of the headlights. “Yo, Four,” she calls out, jabbing a finger toward a sleek, blacked-out Plymouth Barracuda, “Is that your sister’s old ride?”

Lando shifts his weight, already angled toward the edge of the crowd, because he would rather drag his girlfriend through it than face Dom, not trusting himself to stand in front of him without losing it. But in a fraction of a fraction, his blood starts boiling in his veins, confusion decorating his face.

“What?” he asks with an uncertain voice, mostly to himself, as his eyes lock onto the Barracuda.

The familiar lines of the body close around his throat like an invisible claw. It is, in fact, Letty’s car. The same one she’d poured her entire soul into, turbocharged and lowered. Relief punches through him and, for the shortest second, he’s as pathetic as imagining that she might step out of it. The next one, reality creeps back in, fueling him with anger so sudden it makes his hands curl into fists around Raelyn’s waist.

The car shouldn’t be here. Matter of fact, it shouldn’t exist anymore.

The raid on the Ortiz house and garage flashes in his mind like polaroid pictures thrown one by one on a table right in front of him: DEA agents swarming during the Braga investigation and badges dangling under floodlights, ripping apart their lives under the guise of justice. It makes him sick to his stomach; there was no justice. Letty’s car had been seized as evidence. Dragged away on a flatbed while she was still alive. After the case wrapped, it vanished into impound, ultimately auctioned off for pennies to some faceless bidder that was supposed to tear it apart for pieces.

Or so he’d thought.

Raelyn notices the change in Lando’s body language instantly; he’s gotten stiff beside her. Cold. First instinct is to cling to his torso, pressing her side against his like a shield, opposed to the storm brewing in his eyes. But everything stopped existing, except the scene in front of them. He can’t do anything else but stare while the mass of bodies shifts apart around the Barracuda, voices — now reduced to murmurs shooting from every direction in disbelief — rippling outward as heads keep turning.

The car looks brand new, glittering in the wash of artificial light, but no one needs to take a second look at it to recognize it’s Letty’s signature. By now, Lando’s face is completely drained of color, his hands ultimately falling at his sides.

Pushed by curiosity, or rather madness, he takes a step forward, but Rae reinforces her hold, just as pale as he is. And rightly so, this is just like seeing a ghost.

“Lan,” she speaks with worry, because she’s already deciphered the look on his face, one that just turned grief into rage. “Did you know about this?” the girl asks, careful to give the question a little room to sit bewteen them. It’s not the answer she’s after, but the pause. A tiny chance for Lando’s anger to stall long enough for him to breathe instead of react.

Still, he shakes his head, locking his jaw with such force that she can see the muscle twitch. “No…” he trails off, anchored in disbelief. “Fuck no. I thought it was gone. Scrapped or some shit,” the voice comes out drenched in sudden betrayal, eyes never leaving the car as it finally rolls to a stop.

Dom’s steps died out at a safe distance, arm crossed over his broad chest. Nothing gets through the mask of control he’s currently displaying, despite the fact that, much like Lando, his blood is currently boiling with rage. It’s Raelyn who catches the flicker in his brooding eyes and how subtly his shoulders square. The realization doesn’t surprise her in the slightest, though. Of course he knew. He must have, but decided to keep his mouth shut, probably figuring Lando would go nuclear on whoever had the balls to claim it. And, when the door swings open, the last piece of puzzle falls into place.

Marco Delano, the last idiot alive Lando would want behind Letty’s wheel. He grew up running the same streets as the Ortiz siblings, and their feud is old as time, a result of crossing lines that can’t be erased, envy and selfishness. Letty trusted him once, but she had a gift of seeing through people’s bullshit.

All his life, Marco wanted everything Lando had: his ability to make himself widely liked, the way he didn’t have to earn a seat at the table because he was born at it, his friends, his cars, even his girlfriend. Years ago, when Raelyn chose Lando, that happened to be his last straw. For a guy with a huge ego it was biblical humiliation, so he’s been silently waiting for the perfect moment to strike back. And now, the guy knows exactly what he’s doing, parading the car like a trophy, bragging in front of his best-friend-turned-lifelong-enemy, daring him to look at it without breaking.

As expected, Lando sees red, and Rae’s arms aren’t nearly enough to hold him back anymore.

“Lando, don’t,” she tries to stop him, but he wrenches free, stalking toward Dom with his fists still clenched at his sides.

Suki slides off the hood, coming to hold Raelyn from behind; a small gesture, designed to remind her that someone’s got her back in case things go terribly south.

“What the fuck is this?” Lando snarls, stopping inches from Dom. He’s shorter than the big man, but the anger makes him tower in the moment, his blue eyes blazing. “That’s why you’re here? You fucking knew and you didn’t say a word?”

“I heard about it, yeah,” says Dom, exhaling through his nose, occasionally glancing at the car he knows so well.

Lando squints. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” his voice is almost conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. “You simply let that piece of shit snatch it up like it was nothing?”

“I was gonna handle it.”

That earns a laugh from the youngest Ortiz, but he’s not amused in the slightest. “Handle it?” he points a finger at Dom’s chest, stopping short of contact, body trembling with the effort to hold back a swing. “Are you fucking serious right now? You were gonna handle my sister’s car like it’s some oil change appointment?”

Across the strip, Manny Cruz, known as Ledger, climbs onto the hood of a rusted Tacoma, holding a megaphone close to his mouth, “Alright, people. Before shit hits the fan, listen up!” the man shouts, his deep voice cracking through the air. “We go racing tonight, pink slips only,” he informs the people who are gatherig closer, already discussing among themselves whom to bet on. “You lose, I keep you title. You win, you take theirs. It’s that simple,” adds Ledger, hopping down and starting to walk through the racers with his palm out, collecting folded titles and money like a landlord collecting rent on the first of the month.

In the meantime, Lando doesn’t take his eyes off Dom. “I’m familiar with the fate of the things you care about,” he barks, clearly referring to his sister’s death. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“We’re still on the same team, kid,” says Dom with no inflexion in his voice. “I was gonna win it back. Bring it home.”

“You mean your garage?”

“That was family’s car.”

“My family’s car,” Lando corrects him in a heartbeat. “If you think I’m sitting this out while you play hero for my sake, you’re dead wrong, Toretto. I am going to bring it home, so you better stay out of my way.”

By the time Ledger gets to Marco, the guy leans against his freshly polished car with a smirk on his face. He doesn’t even glance around to check what other racers will compete tonight, because there’s only one he wants to beat. The way he sees it, he’s not gambling a car. Rather, he’s using it as a weapon, wagering on Lando’s weaknesses, on the reckless way he’s been driving since his sister died, and on the unshakeable belief that a broken man makes catastrophic errors the moment it gets personal. Finally beating the Ortiz would put Marco way up there, demonstrating once and for all in front of everybody that the name means absolutely nothing without Letty behind the wheel.

Keeping the same annoying grin intact, Marco stands back after dropping the title into Ledger’s hand, watching his rival turn on Dominic in public outrage, satisfied with the knowledge that he’s already turned family against itself before the engines even start.

“This is your fault,” hisses Lando, directing every ounce of indignation towards the man in front of him.

If the accusation affects him, Dom doesn’t let it show. “You don’t want to do this here, kid.”

“What I want is you out of my way,” Lando repeats, shaking his head. “You have the fucking nerve to show up here and tell me you knew that the scumbag had my car. You,” he almost chokes on the words that seem to pile up outside his mouth, “You have the fucking nerve to show up at all, one month after I buried the last member of my family. Where were you then? And where were you when she was murdered?” he keeps shooting, bullet after bullet striking Dom’s chest. “Where the fuck were you, man? Fixing cars in Panama?”

Although Dom exudes quiet command, a facial muscle twitches under his eye. “I took care of the motherfucker, didn’t I?” he pauses, going stiff at the memory. “Everything I did out there was for her, you know that.”

Lando’s face twists. “Alright then, where’s my sister? Row D, Section 4, East Lost Angeles Cemetery, plot 27,” he answers his own question, the exact location tumbling out like a missile. “You didn’t take care of shit, Dom,” says Lando at last. “You were too late then, and you are too late now, so stop walking around like you’re some sort of Good Samaritan.”

Dom’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains steady once he speaks again, “Like it or not, you’re family, Ortiz, not a stranger. And right now, you’re only untouchable because of what we, your sister and I, did in order to protect you,” he states, not in arrogance but naked truth. Where they live, loyalty is armor, nobody has to be lectured about it.

“How about this?” Lando smiles defiantly, leaning in so he makes sure he’s well heard. “Quit acting like I’m your responsibility. I never was, so you better learn to fuck off.”

“You were Letty’s,” Dom reminds him, a flicker of old pain surfacing behind his words. “And she was mine.”

“Fuck off,” Lando says again, louder, shrugging past the hand Dom extends once more in order to stop him. He pivots, storming through the gawking crowd, intentionally shouldering Marco Delano with brutal force. Marco reels, his laugh ending up choking into a grunt.

“Lando!” Rae yells after him one more time, but her voice is barely audible from a distance. Plus, Lando is too overcome with anger to hear anything other than the sound of his own vengeful thoughts anyway.

Blinded by it, he thrusts his own title into Ledger’s waiting palm. “I’m in,” he snarls decisively.

THERE IS NO room for errors on Alameda Street. This is a driver’s strip that demands speed, split-second decisions, and big balls. For more than half the night, Suki burned with impatience to get behind the wheel, but after the earlier drama, she knows better than to get involved in family blood. Plus, she’d rather not compete at all than to do so against the midfield. Like most racers here, she wants Four. Bullet. Toretto. The big names of street racing that could actually challenge her.

“Couple more things,” Ledger’s voice gets lost in the night as he crosses the street from one side to the other, “Jump the start, you’re out. Crash, you’re out.” He lowers the megaphone, pointing down the stretch of Alameda, where the streetlights flicker like they’re about to go out any minute now. “Drag race, quarter a mile ‘till the third intersection past the cold storage plant. You miss it,” he says, lifting the megaphone for the crowd to finish his sentence, you’re out, the words echo from every possible direction. “First to get back here wins. May the fastest motherfucker win.”

Minutes later, Lando’s jaw flexes in anticipation. He stands at the edge of the fray, his silhouette rigid against the chain-link fence. In order to keep himself from punching the concrete walls, he crossed his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more than to hold himself together. At least until his turn comes.

Raelyn sits nearby, avoiding to shower him in too much attention. That’s not what Lando needs right now. He just needs to know she’s there, which is always the case, and her hand brushing against his arm absent-mindedly is enough to remind him that.

His gaze is locked on the starting line, where Marco’s — Letty’s — Barracuda squats low. The supercharged V8 growls teasingly, minimal tweaks to the body keeping its lines familiar enough to taunt Lando. To add more to it, Marco leans out the window to flash a cocky grin, revving once to let the sound of the engine echo off the warehouses.

“Stupid idiot,” murmurs Lando.

Angel Morales alias Crow is right next to him. He finds himself into a gloss-blue Toyota Supra MK4, an iconic Japanese jewel, known for its aerodynamic design and the 3.0-liter 2JZ inline-six engine. The aftermarket modification is built for a relentless top-end speed that can swallow straights like Alameda whole, reaching performance within 4.6 seconds. The minimal decals give it a discreet yet striking appearance for those with eyes to see, Crow’s tattooed hands tapping nervously on the steering wheel.

Trying to capture as much information as possible, Lando chews on his bottom lip, a habit that Rae has teased him about ever since they met. His white Nissan Skyline GT-R R32 waits in the rotation. He put his blood, sweat, and tears into it, from reinforcing internals beneath the hood to a custom ECU tune sharpening its edge, and an all-wheel-drive system dialed for that perfect late bite of traction that launches without sacrificing the chase for top speed. The interior is stripped bare, designed for no distractions and less weight. It is the closest to perfection he has ever driven, and if he loses control, it won’t be the car’s fault.

Across the strip, Dom leans against his Charger with his arms folded across his chest. For Lando’s sake, he’s not competing tonight either, but that doesn’t mean he’s not prepared for the worst case scenario. Bottom line, they’ll get Letty’s car back at any cost.

The flag girl drops her arms and, for half a heartbeat, everybody holds their breath. One heartbeat later, the entire strip erupts, tires biting the asphalt, itching for it.

Lando shifts his weight nervously, feet planted wide like he’s preparing to brace for impact. He’s heard various voices mentioning earlier that Marco’s got a 500-horsepower Hemi under the hood, lightweight chassis tweaks, and sticky slicks for the quarter-mile. His Skyline is a corner-carver at heart, but in a dead sprint, doubt easily finds a way to gnaw deeper. Losing has never crossed his mind before, but losing here would mean capitulating the last piece of his family he can actually fight for.

Rae’s hand drops to curl around his bicep, squeezing gently.

The Supra edges ahead off the line, its lighter weight and clear-cut launch giving it the jump. Crow shifts gears with precision, the transmission whining through its ratios. Marco reacts, not that easily intimidated. The Barracuda surges, its massive torque overwhelming the Supra’s initial lead. By the 100-foot mark, the Plymouth’s nose draws even, exhaust spitting flames from tunes headers. Marco flirts with the throttle, keeping the rear end planted, the car’s wide stance devouring the strip. It pushes Crow to fight back, turbos screaming as he mashes the pedal, but ultimately, there’s no real competition here: Marco knows what he’s got his hands on, suspensions compressing under the G-forces.

He’s toying with it, Lando thinks, a chill racing down his spine. His stomach drops, figuring that Marco Delano came to perform and it’s just a matter of time until he does so, the nitrous bottle untouched, saving the blue flame for later.

Consistent with popular predictions, the Barracuda crosses the line first, clocks flashing a blistering 10.2-second quarter-mile. At last, Crow’s Supra coasts defeated to a stop, the man slamming the wheel in frustration.

Marco’s eyes find Lando’s once he steps out to cheers and backslaps. His smirk widens into challenge, rubbing salt into a wound that has been open for years. He gestures lazily toward his car, as if to say, yours is next.

The night drags on, two more races unfolding in rotation, shadowy figures in souped-up Civics and a Mustang trading pink slips in furious bursts of acceleration. Eventually, the lineup converges and Marco slinks to the starting line again.

Lando feels the inexorable draw that Raelyn makes sure to keep under control, eyes locking onto his with unshakable faith, piercing his fog of doubt. She closes the small space left between them, bringing a hand to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing the firm edge packed with tension. On her toes, she leans in to meet his lips in a tender kiss, an anchoring gesture amid the chaos. It deepens quickly, cherry gloss combining with the salt of his skin. Lando’s palm settles at her waist and just as she eases back to give him a smile, he decides that he won’t lose anything ever again.

“Smoke him,” she says with finality.

Lando nods, the ghost of a smile cracking his facade while walking backwards towards his car. He drops into the bucket seat, strapping himself in. The twin-turbo inline-six rumbles to life once he twists the key, its vibrations coursing through the chassis and settling into his core. He blips the throttle once, then again, only to feel all the systems awakening, so he can finally roll it nose-to-nose with Marco’s at the starting line. Refusing to look anywhere else but ahead, Lando’s kuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. In record time, all his senses refine, causing him to hear everything, from the noise outside the car to his own heartbeat.

The flags raise again, and the moment they slash downward, each second seems to pass in slow motion.

ONE. The launch detonates in a haze of fury, and it isn’t clean. Lando slams the clutch, floors the throttle, the car rushing with impatience. The tires rebel against him, spinning wildly on the oil-slicked strip scarred around from the earlier battles. A thick smoke chokes the air with the sharp tang of scorched rubber, the car fishtailing as the ATTESA system fights to redistribute torque across all four wheels in the shortest time.

Marco’s Barracuda rockets uninhibited ahead, its engine propelling the heavy muscle car forward in a flash. Lando’s eyes widen in the cockpit, irritation spreading like ivy in his chest.

“Not now,” he spits under his breath, the rearview mirror framing Marco’s vanishing taillights.

TWO. The Skyline manages to scrape for purchase, the rear settling as the turbos begin to spool with a mounting whine that vibrates through the roll cage, but the deficit looms. Marco’s eyes shrink in the distance, and Lando has to close his briefly, sweat prickling his brow. His right foot modulates the throttle, drowning the crowd’s enthusiasm, the entire universe suddenly condensing into a singular point. He bangs into second gear, the transmission engaging with a mechanical snap; he’s gone by now, vision tunneling, any trace of fear and doubt remaining deeply rooted in the past.

THREE. Marco’s car cleaves the air, its broad hood dominating the lane. There are short bursts of flame spitting from the exhaust with every upshift, as if emphasizing his desperate need to choke Lando. But in Lando’s current state, he’s impossible to reach. It looks like he is able to urge the car onward through sheer will, even though his fingers ache around the wheel. The instant inertia hurls him back into the seat with a jolt of G-forces that compresses his spine. He’s not even blinking anymore as he calculates the chasm, twenty feet and closing, agonizingly slow. He pre-shifts into third, a surge of heat taking over any other kind of emotion that might surface.

FOUR. His rival toys with a nitrous feint, azure flickers dancing unused from the tailpipes, baiting the rhythm. Lando’s frustration crests, pulse hammering in his temple as he counters with the subtle pedal work, the Skyline’s sleeker profile and lighter curb weight beginning to assert itself on the straightaway. The speedometer blurs past 80 mph, wind shrieking through the vents like a banshee.

“Fucking fight me!” he wills the machine, the night sky blurring into a cinematic rush outside the windows.

FIVE. The Skyline creeps alongside between one breath and the next, with tires singing at 100 mph over the grooved pavement. Midway down the strip, Marco muscles into third, the V8’s torque cresting in a thunderous peak which Lando forsees, his foot dancing on the pedals to sustain boost without spin.

SIX. That’s when Marco finally commits to the nitrous, a violent hiss unleashing the oxide in a blaze of compressed outrage. Flames erupt in blue hues from the Barracuda’s rear, rocketing it ahead and widening the breach once more. Lando responds promptly, triggering his own system, the bottle venting with a sizzle that feeds the turbos pure fire.

SEVEN. The cars draw closer in a cacophony of noise, clouds of exhaust fumes merging into a thick veil beneath the lights. Lando’s instinct peaks there, encouraging him to tuck into the Barracuda’s slipstream, managing to steal efficiency from the turbulent air. Then darts left to claim clean flow. Marco fumbles a shift, the heavier chassis balking under the strain; Lando seizes it, holding redline before slamming fourth, the gear meshing perfectly thanks to his experience on the streets and, mostly, his sister’s driving lessons.

EIGHT. The 450-horsepower turbos are at full cry, the strip appearing like it’s going to vortex into oblivion. The Barracuda tries to counter aggressively, swerving to steal the lane, but Lando anticipates, easing off the throttle at the same time the tires object with a high-pitched keen yet adhering to the tacky surface.

NINE. Marco’s car weavers, its nitrous ebbing as the early rush melts away. Lando’s aero savvy and unflinching boost control propels him past, the front bumper inching clear.

TEN. Reality crashes back in the moment Lando’s Skyline arrives at the line first, its brakes flaring crimson-red against the night.

He spends the next ten seconds clutching the steering wheel tightly, pure ecstasy washing over him, while the cheers outside are so loud that they seem like they’re gonna break the windows. When he finally steps out of the car, he does it on steady legs and dilated pupils from the adrenaline haze, searching the sea of faces for hers.

After everything, Raelyn launches herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist as her arms lock behind his neck for support. She crashes her lips against his, tongues tangling in a kiss that has the power to kill the chaos around them. Lando’s hands grip her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer. They don’t break apart, not even when hurrahs and whistles erupt louder from the sidelines.

Rae’s fingers thread through his damp hair, tugging at it just to make him groan into her mouth. “That’s my racer boy!” she smiles against his lips, nipping at his bottom one.

It only makes him kiss her harder, one hand sliding up her back, in that same possessive way he does, no matter who’s watching.

Humbled once again, Marco lumbers to a stop in arrears. The moment shatters as the familiar voice infiltrates through, fully dripped in venom.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Ortiz,” he says, fumbling in his pocket and hurling the keys on the ground, where they skitter across the gravel like discarded trash. “And let me tell you,” he adds, a devilish smirk blooming on his face, “Letty’s ghost in that ‘Cuda…” the boy trails off, pursing his lips before continuing, “Got me jerking off so fast.”

The entire area hushes in an instant, and the only sound in Lando’s ears is the sound of his blood rushing to his cheeks. He gently puts Rae back on her feet, then dives headfirst at Marco with an animalistic roar, slamming into him like a freight train. They crash to the asphalt in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring Lando’s teeth as concrete bites into his elbows. He rears back and drives his fist into Marco’s face multiple times, knuckles splitting open on the ridge of his cheekbone, blood blooming hot from the gash. As a result, Marco’s head snaps sideways, a spray of bright red arcing under the neon glow of the street lamps. He doesn’t go down easy, though. Twisting like a viper, he hooks a leg around Lando’s and bucks hard, flipping them so he’s straddling Lando’s chest.

People are surging closer, gasps of surprise quickly turning to chanting: “Fight! Fight!” a woman’s voice shrieks in excitement, fists pumping the air, while others shout encouragements.

Marco’s weight pins Lando, his bloodied grin turning demonic as he cocks back and slams a punch into Lando’s jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot and causing instant fireworks exploding behind Lando’s eyelids. Pain flares underneath his now bruised skin, copper flooding his mouth from a busted lip. It only makes him angrier, and he bolts upright, headbutting Marco square in the nose with a wet crunch, cartilage giving way under the force. More blood gushes from Marco’s nostrils, dripping onto Lando’s shirt as they roll again, grappling in a frenzy of years of repressed wrath.

Lando’s rage unleashes in every swing, his boot stomping down on Marco’s thigh while he claws at his shirt, tearing fabric and skin alike. Marco retaliates with a vicious uppercut to Lando’s ribs, the blow landing with a thud that steals his breath, cracking bone maybe, sending agony lancing through his side.

“That all you got, motherfucker?” Marco spits, blood flecking his teeth, but Lando’s already on him, kneeing his gut and following with a new wave of punches.

“Shut up!”

One glancing off Marco’s ear.

Another smashing into his eye, swelling it shut in seconds.

Then another, sending his head flying backwards.

They trade blows in the dirt, no more words, just grunts and the meaty sound of impact. Unmasked, Lando’s violence overflows through his fists like a dam breaking. It awakens painful memories for Dom who, after the initial shock, finally barrels in like a force of nature, his massive arms wrapping around Lando’s torso from behind.

“Enough, kid!” he thunders, muscles straining as he hauls him off Marco, prying them apart with sheer power despite Lando’s wild trashing.

“Get the fuck off me!” Lando protests. “I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

“That’s enough!” the man repeats, louder, throwing Lando at the side like he weights nothing, pointing at him before turning back to Delano. He pulls his unstable body back on his feet by the jacket, only one hand clawing at the bloody material. “You’re done here,” says Dom, infernal eyes piercing into his soul. “Walk away before I put your head into the asphalt.”

Lando looks like he could lunge again at any second, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes burn while darting around, scanning the ground. Every fiber of him buzzes with the leftover punch of adrenaline, like the storm hasn’t finished raging yet. Once he finds the keys to the Barracuda, he bends to snatch them, the metal biting cold into his skin, making him fist his palm around it until it hurts.

It only takes a glance at Raelyn, and she’s immediately by his side, worry etching fine lines around her eyes.

“Take my car and go home,” says Lando with an evident rasp in his voice.

Clenching her jaw, Rae doesn’t argue this time. She just nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek, refusing to look around and make eye contact with another person. As for Lando, he doesn’t wait for more. Sliding into Letty’s car, the engine starts purring smoothly beneath him, and he peels out, leaving the lot behind in a cloud of dust.

The city blurs past in shadowed alleys, but there’s no final destination this time. He presses the pedal harder, racing the wind, hoping the speed will do its thing and numb the ache. Unfortunately, even the fastest driver can’t outrun his own thoughts. He spends hours trying to, but when the sky finally hints at the pale edge of dawn, Lando turns onto the quiet suburban street, the driveway materializing in front of him in sweet familiarity. He kills the engine, allowing himself to just exist in his sister’s space without breaking all over again. Sitting there, he’s gripping the wheel until his hands cramp and the skin around his knuckles breaks anew, painting them in a brighter shade of red.

Another half hour stretches into what feels like eternity before he forces himself out.

Inside, the house is still, even if he already knows Rae is probably awake. Their bedroom door stands ajar, a silver of light coming from the lamp in the corner of the room, spilling into the hallway. She looks up from the edge of the bed as he enters, her eyes scanning Lando instinctively: his lip is busted open, bruises are glowing in faint purple shades along his jaw, and his clothes are streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. It hurts her to even look at the crimson crust at the corner of his eye, a shallow cut that Marco’s ring left behind.

Her heart shrinks to a painful knot in her chest, remembering that it’s only been a month of this. A whole month of holding him together while pieces of him, without a doubt, fractured. It’s physically impossible not to question herself, if this is what their life will look like from now on — a vicious circle of mourning the things that could’ve been.

It would be very easy for her to kick and scream, to demand why he keeps throwing himself into the fire, but she understands the why. For this reason, the what and the how long until no longer make any sense. Instead, she rises silently to brush past Lando in the narrow hallway. Her shoulder grazes his arm in a ghost of a contact that sends a jolt through both of them. But they both ignore it.

Just as serene, she rummages for the first aid kit in the bathroom, the plastic clattering against the sink. She allows her hands to shake for a few seconds before she steels them and by the time she’s back, Lando has stripped off his shirt, the dirty fabric discarded in a heap on the floor along with his jeans and jacket, where smoke clings to them still. He perches on the edge of the bed, the same spot where he found her, his bare torso marked with fresh welts and old scars from races that ended badly.

Although it’s the early morning, Raelyn switches the flip on in order to fully see him, the new wave of light flooding over the taut lines of his muscles, highlighting the tension coiled there.

“Move over,” she points at a chair, sounding detached of it all. “I don’t want all that mess in bed.”

Lando doesn’t complain. Sliding off the mattress, he settles into the chair by the window, watching Raelyn setting the kit on the windowsill with a small tap. He can feel the chemical scent the moment she uncaps the antiseptic, already anticipating its sting.

Stillness settles over them for the umpteenth time.

Raelyn starts with his face, tilting his chin up, vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. Despite the fact that she feels his gaze imploring her to look at him, even just once, she cannot do so without being overcome by the urge to punch him herself for the show he put on in front of everybody. She dabs the cotton swab at his busted lip first, the alcohol stinging enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. At least for now, Rae considers that’s enough of a punishment. However, she doesn’t soften her touch.

Lando keeps his eyes on her, tracking the precise movement of her hands. It’s not the first time she’s patching him up, but this time around, the tension that hums between them is heated with something more brittle. Her breath comes shallow while she wipes away the dried blood from his chin, his skin turning warm under her touch.

The girl moves to his knuckles after that, a flash of surprise crossing her expression. The cuts are deeper than she expected, the flesh around torn and swollen. Skillful, a quality acquired as a result of the many times he had to fix Lando, Rae soaks a fresh cloth in saline, pressing it firmly against the wounds. The liquid trickles down his fingers, pink-tanged, dripping onto the towel she’s laid across his lap. Lando keeps wincing occasionally, his jaw working like he’s stopping himself every time he’s about to say something — to point out how cold and clinical she is, perhaps. But he chooses to swallow his words, thinking now is not the time.

Raelyn wishes she were stronger than that. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her mind from racing at the speed of light. Powerless, she replays the fight over and over again, the anger in Lando’s eyes catching her attention every time. Marco shouldn’t be able to get under his skin anymore. Yet somehow he did, and he still won, in the end. At least on a mental level, considering that Lando is now battling new demons.

For all that, she can’t let Lando know how much it actually bothers her. If she lets emotion out, she’ll end up sobbing into his chest. Or worse: begging him to stop chasing ghosts. She can’t ask that of him. Not yet, anyway. So she stays cold, her touch efficient as she applies antibiotic ointment, the cool gel melting immediately on his heated skin.

Careful not to disturb her, Lando repositions himself, the chair creaking underneath. For the first time since he sat down, their eyes finally meet, gentle gaze colliding with the strain she’s hiding in hers. He itches to reach out, to pull her close and sit in silence together, just like they did times on end for the past month. Yet, he’s powerless too.

After she’s done with his eye, Raelyn sticks on a pink butterfly bandage, sealing the ring cut in a way that makes the corners of her mouth lift for the shortest moment.

“Come here?” Lando dares to speak, but the girl steps back instead.

She keeps avoiding him, focusing on packing away the supplies, her fingers lingering on the lid, like she can delay the inevitable confrontation forever.

Lando shifts again, rubbing a hand over his freshly bandaged knuckles. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, making an effort to bridge the chasm with levity in order to defuse the tension that surrounds them. “Did you see the other guy? He’s gonna be picking his teeth out of the gutter for a week.”

She freezes with her back to him, shoulders tensing more, ironically. His attempt of a joke lands flat, and Raelyn can’t acknowledge it even with a scoff. All she can think of is how utterly helpless she feels, not being able to absorb the rage that’s become his second skin. Without having much of a choice, frigidity settles in her even though she wants to bridge the gap, to meet him in this fractured life where any win still comes with a loss. Where entourages of gearheads and dealers orbit them like satelits in a doomed orbit.

Part of her aches to wrap him up and carry the weight of his vengeance so he doesn’t have to, while the other part screams at her to collapse. To let the tears finally break through and drown them both in the reality of it all.

“I saw him,” she replies in the end, eyes fixing on the floor where his boots lie kicked off, all caked in dirt. “And it makes me sick that you think this is funny. Any of it.”

Lando’s grin fades, his slightly healthier hand flexing. “Rae, come on. I’m trying to get to you, that’s all. It was bullshit, yeah, but I handled it. We’re good,” his words sound somewhat desperate, still clinging to the adrenaline.

The girl whips around, feeling her nails digging deeper into her palms. “You came home bleeding, Lando. Again. And I’m the one cleaning it up. Again,” her voice cracks on the last word, not loud but intense enough to give him chills. “How can we be good?”

He sits up straighter, wincing once more. “What do you want me to say, hm?” Lando’s eyes search hers, pleading.

Raelyn sinks onto the bed across from him, the space between them fogging with accusations that are waiting in line to be fired like arrows at a moving target. Her hands tremble in her lap, and she clenches them again, fighting the urge to reach out or push away entirely.

Paradoxically, both versions feel wrong.

“I know you miss her,” she whispers, not trusting her voice. “I miss her, too. But can’t you see this life is eating us alive?”

“Baby, hey,” his tone softens into insistence. The confusion on his face morphs into concern as he stands fully, his chest rising with a deeper breath. “What’s wrong?” asks Lando, figuring that whatever it is, it is much more than he thinks. He steps closer so he can drop to his knees in front of her, head lifting to see her tired eyes.

“What’s wrong,” she echoes thoughtfully, close to snapping while gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night that swallowed them whole hours ago. “What you did out there,” the girl continues, closing her eyes briefly, “That’s not… I haven’t seen you like that. Ever.”

Lando’s expression hardens, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his beaten up features. “Are you seriously worried about Delano? That piece of shit deserved it,” his words come out as if they don’t need justifying.

She analyzes his face, gaze sliding across the cuts, then the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m not,” Raelyn shakes her head, “I’m worried about you.”

Next time he speaks, it seems like a reflex he’s clung to for weeks. “You shouldn’t. I’m fine.”

“Clearly,” her laugh is short. “You keep saying that. For a month now, you keep saying that. But I think this,” she cups his cheek in her palm, tracing her thumb across his busted lip, “This is far from fine. You kept it all inside, Lando, and now it’s going to come out in ways I’m not sure I can fix.”

“Fix me, you mean?” his eyes lock onto hers, demanding answers.

They’ve always been equals in their mess, no one fixing the other, just surviving the crash together. Now it feels more like an attack, impaling into the nerve of his grief, the same way Marco’s taunts still burn under his skin. He knows he shouldn’t turn everything into personal matters, but honor is the only thing he has left. He failed to be a protector when it mattered the most. It’s only fair he does everything in his power to be one from now on.

“No,” she dismisses his inquiry with a decisive tone, meeting his upward gaze even though her heart hammers like pistons overheating in her chest. “Ironically enough, it’s not just about you.”

Lando shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “Then what is it? You’ve been looking at me like I’m a thicking bomb since I walked in here,” his voice rises a notch, taking even himself by surprise.

Raelyn exhales, shifting her gaze back at the window. “I’m trying to save what we have left. Because I feel like you’re lying, and I’m not sure when we started doing that, but I don’t like it,” she admits.

“I don’t lie,” he affirms with finality.

“Keeping things for yourself or not saying the whole truth is just as bad,” the girl concedes, cracking open a fear that she’s tried to keep buried for the past couple of weeks: that without complete honesty, they’re just two people careening toward another crash. “You’re not fine, Lando. Downplaying it makes me believe you don’t trust me anymore.”

His eyes soften, hands peacefully landing on each side of her thighs. “Baby, I’m sorry if I scared you, alright? I’m sorry,” he repeats, blue eyes contemplating her face.

“If Dom wouldn’t have pulled you off him…” her words taper off, heavy with the horror of what she witnessed from the sidelines.

“You heard what he said, yeah? I couldn’t let that slide, you know how he is,” Lando frowns, disbelief sharpening his tone.

“That’s not an excuse,” counters Raelyn. “I saw the look on your face, Lando. I believed you when you said you’d kill him.”

Life as she used to know it flashes before her eyes in an instant: stolen moments in the garage, Lando’s high-pitched laugh, the way he’d pull her close after a close call, whispering promises. Suddenly, a jigsaw of moments is flooding her mind, refusing to stay in order: high-school Lando in her bedroom, scribbling schematics for his dream car in the margins of a notebook; late-night drives around the city; take-out dinners on the couch, her legs thrown over his, arguing about a silly TV show; his first race; his first race win; their first kiss when they were only 17. It’d be fascinating to observe how easily it all gets shadowed by a mistake he keeps repeating. If only it didn’t hurt so bad for making her question the man she’s shared her time with up until this point.

Lando’s expression pales under the bruises. “I—” he tries, but the protest dies, replaced by a haunted stare. In the moment, he can’t even admit that he said it just because of the adrenaline and anger. Hours later, he still feels the same way.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Raelyn finally breaks, tears welling up. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand once they spill over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.

“Why are you even going there, Raelyn?” the full name slips out like a slap, and she freezes above him, her body going stiff at the unfamiliar formality. “You know everything is fucked up, and it’s going to stay that way, regardless of whether you interfere or not.”

“No, it doesn’t have to,” the girl insists, her hands moving to cover his.

His posture slumps, the exhaustion etching deeper lines around his mouth. “Look around, baby. You said it,” Lando reminds her, “There’s no one else here but us. We’ve got nothing else but each other, so let’s not lose ourselves too. Because if that happens, Rae… if I lose you…”

In his head, Lando knows that losing her isn’t an abstract thought. Of course it crossed his mind before, perhaps more often than he would like to admit. He’s already memorized the sound of grief. It’s like a hollow echo with no response, but Rae is the last place he feels safe, the last person who can pull him back. Without her, he has no reason to slow down. No reason to step off the gas at the last second.

Most people are terrified of pain, but that doesn’t scare him. It’s the certainty that he wouldn’t survive what he would become afterward that keeps him frozen in fear.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she jumps on his unfinished sentence.

“What do you mean?” asks Lando, confusion knitting his brows, one hand reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

“This place,” explains Rae, cautious. “What if we leve for a while?” she asks, gauging his reaction, her heart pounding in the silence that follows.

Lando doesn’t dismiss it outright, but he does pause. “What do you mean?” he repeats a little softer. “Leave where?”

Running her hand gently through his tousled curls, Raelyn takes a small breath before asking, “How do you feel about Monaco?”

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Every day since Max had proposed to you, there was one thing you had to do when waking up. Your first thought was always to hold up your hand to your face in order to make sure that you weren’t dreaming, and that you were indeed engaged to the love of your life. It still felt unreal, that you even ended up doing random check-ups on your finger throughout the day just to see if the ring hadn’t disappeared.

“You know, it’s not gonna vanish into thin air.”

Every time he would catch you looking at your hand, Max couldn’t help teasing you. He would always chuckle at the scene, while watching you analyse the ring from every angle.

“What if it does?” You asked, just for the pleasure of arguing with Max.

“I’ll buy you a new one”, he simply replied.

“So I could just pretend to lose it and you’ll get me the exact same one? How many times would it work before you find it suspicious?”

“I think I’ll draw the line at the fifth one,” he said after thinking for a few seconds. “Then, I’ll just end up buying one that’s two sizes too small so it won’t ever come off.”

“I could chop my finger off”, you joked.

“You’re insane.”

“Yet you still asked to marry me.”

“And I don’t regret it one bit”, Max told you.

You truly loved that nothing had changed between you and Max. In fact, things had never been better between the two of you. The banter was still there, as well as the love. Everything was just stronger than ever, and you were over the moon at this new step in your relationship with Max. Truth be told, you didn’t even care when you would actually get married to him. You knew it would happen one day, and you were currently enjoying the fiancée's life to its fullest.

There was one thing that still made you uneasy, though, when you remembered who was aware of your engagement with Max. Apart from Charles – who was definitely not an issue, Max had told a couple drivers about having proposed to you and they knew to keep it a secret. But there was a small group of, albeit lovely, chatty drivers who just adored gossip.

You liked your grid kids, you truly did. But oh God, those rookies scared you. It seemed like they could never keep their mouth shut, and one of them in particular had you nervous as hell.

Because Oliver Bearman didn’t know when to stop talking.

He had let so many secrets slip while in front of a camera, you had lost count of them. The most memorable one was the credit card fraud incident, and Ollie hadn’t even seemed phased by his actions. You had to admit that Franco was also a good contender to leak the news about you and Max getting married due to him revealing things about his sex life on every other podcast, but Ollie was truly the number one threat.

Therefore, you were really stressed when it was time for the Zandvoort Grand Prix. Because race weekends meant cameras and mics everywhere, the paddock had ears in every single corner. And Ollie had a mouth that could disclose anything: from something as boring as his favourite soap scent to something as major as your engagement.

So you had a plan, and no one would get in your way.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

As you arrived at the paddock on Friday with Max, no one could ever suspect that he had proposed to you merely two weeks before. If anyone was looking at your entrance, they wouldn’t be able to say that anything had changed compared to your last paddock appearance in Budapest. You were wearing a simple yet elegant outfit as usual, and were walking next to Max with a smile as he was telling you about being excited to race at home.

It would really surprise you if people noticed the subtle change on your hand, because the ring wasn’t one that was extremely eye-catching from afar. Max hadn’t chosen a massive rock for you to wear on your finger, and you were glad for that. Plus, it wasn’t like you were only wearing your engagement ring. You had always worn a few others, changing it up from time to time, and so a new ring adorning your finger was definitely not something unusual.

Apart from Ollie, you were quite confident that your engagement could stay a secret until you and Max were both down to just tell the world. It wasn’t like you would actively try to keep it hidden – you just wanted to savour the feeling in peace.

But you had forgotten about a bigger threat than the loudmouth that was your grid kid: a group of WAGs, overjoyed since you had texted them with the news. None of them had seen the ring yet; and this is why, by lunch, you were surrounded with no escape in sight. They had the biggest smiles ever on their faces, unable to contain their excitement.

“Can we see?” Kika asked.

Despite the sigh that left your lips, you smiled and obliged as you raised your left hand. The girls gasped in awe at the beauty of the ring, and they quickly gushed about how pretty it was. Isa carefully took your hand in hers, in order to look more closely.

“I love it so much”, she said. “This is really you.”

“I’m truly in love too”, you agreed. “I can’t help admiring it all the time.”

Alicia was about to add something, when you suddenly noticed that there was a Netflix crew not far away. Knowing that you definitely didn’t want them – out of all people – to be the first media aware of your engagement, you quickly shifted the topic to a more subtle one:

“But yeah, my nails are really gorgeous.” You hoped that the girls would get the hint; especially when you discreetly glanced at where the Netflix people were, to emphasise your words. To help make it seem normal, you eventually raised your right hand so that it truly looked like you were showing off your manicure.

“Your–?” Isa was confused for a second, until she followed your gaze and noticed who you seemed wary of. “Oh, yeah! The nails. Yes, absolutely breathtaking.”

“Totally agree. Those are some magnificent nails”, Alicia said with a nod. “I won’t deny it when I’m the one who helped choose them.”

“Really really pretty nails”, Lily added as she pretended to be deep in thought.

However, you couldn’t keep a serious face in after all the fake insistence on your nails. You covered your mouth as a laugh escaped you, which made the others break character as well.

“Sorry, I just– I love the nail talk, yeah, but this was getting too funny.”

“Your nails are pretty too, though.” Kika looked down at her own, then at yours. “I should go get mine done with you next time.”

“Please do. Alicia actually took me to a really nice place, and it was honestly the day after you-know-what happened that I realised she was actually in league with the rookies.”

“She had no idea”, Alicia said as she pointed at you with a chuckle. “I was actually so nervous because Ollie told me like the day before about the plan and I was really glad that my usual nail salon had last-minute availability.”

“I’m almost jealous I wasn’t a part of this”, Isa complained with a fake pout. “Gabriel texted me about it, like, super vaguely. I think his place was their headquarters for a bit, but I didn’t really know much.”

“I honestly would’ve never guessed it was gonna happen. Max was supposed to be in another country, and suddenly he’s crashing what I thought was a dinner with Jack.”

“Wait– what?” Kika laughed at your words, as she could feel your confusion and needed more info.

You then followed by explaining all the details that went over your head, as you truly hadn’t expected to be proposed to. Max had really hid it well, and it actually made the surprise even better than if you’d had a hunch about it. You didn’t think that it could’ve been better, and would forever cherish that evening for the rest of your life.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

After chatting with your fellow WAGs – it was by the way crazy to you that you were now closer to being a wife than a girlfriend, you were still thinking about supervising Ollie and his loud mouth. Following PF2 during which the Brit finished P11, you thought that you would come to him in order to make sure he wasn’t saying anything he didn’t need to.

And it was apparently the perfect time, because you saw him in front of the Haas motorhome with a woman who was probably from the social media team. She was holding a phone, and counting down on her fingers before she eventually talked:

“Okay Ollie, how do you feel after this first day back to work?”

“Honestly good”, Ollie replied. “We’ve improved in FP2 compared to FP1 so that’s a positive end of the day, and it’s making me confident for the rest of the weekend.”

“Glad to hear that! Now, were you really happy to get back in the car? Or would you have rather stayed on summer break?”

“I’m always happy to be back in the car! But the holidays were… really something else, so… I can’t compare the two.”

“You haven’t posted much about it, wanna tell us more?”

As he was about to talk with excitement about his grid parents being engaged, Ollie met your eyes from where you were standing. You were leaning on a wall, your arms crossed, and gave the driver a neutral yet stern look – the kind that was suddenly reminding Ollie to be careful about letting secrets slip.

“Oh, hmm… yeah, you know… spent some time away, hung out with my girlfriend, classic things… A well-deserved break!” The expression on his face made it obvious to everyone that Ollie had become nervous out of nowhere. He glanced at you, trying to check if he had managed to salvage the essential. When he noticed the tiniest ghost of a smile on your face, he mentally high-fived himself. You nodded at him before signaling that you would take your leave, and Ollie’s focus was now fully back on his team’s social media admin. “But, yeah! I’m glad to be back on track, and excited for the rest of the weekend! I believe we’ll leave the Netherlands with a few more points, to then also grab some in Monza next week.”

“That’s what the team likes to hear,” the woman said as a way to show Ollie that she was satisfied with his words. “I’ll let you go, and you’ll tell me tomorrow after qualifying if you’re still as pumped up.”

“Will do!” Ollie had a bright smile on his face, the kind that the fans watching the videos would definitely love.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

For the rest of the weekend, you felt like you could relax. You had made sure on Friday that Ollie wouldn’t say anything, and you really believed that you were safe from any of the other rookies to spill the news about your engagement.

On Sunday, you were therefore able to enjoy the race to its fullest. Most of your grid kids were starting outside points, except for the Racing Bulls. Liam was lining up P8 on the grid while Isack, whom you were the proudest of, would start P4 right next to Max. You were already excited at the idea of Isack getting his first F1 podium, and it would be even better if Max was beside him when it would happen. Kimi was still the only rookie to have stood on the podium this year, and it was definitely a huge motivation for the others to join him.

As the formation lap started, you could see the ocean of orange in the stands. Almost every Dutch F1 fan was dressed in their country’s colour in order to support Max. And to his request, you were currently wearing an orange top. Max had been quite picky regarding the exact shade, as he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t accidentally show up in papaya orange – it would surely be a scandal for you to wear McLaren’s colour instead of Max’s.

When the lights turned on, you were already biting your nails – the polish was beginning to chip anyways but you didn't really care. It was a habit you had been developing over the races, especially when you knew that Max would be bold from the first corner. And he was, when he overtook Lando to get P2 mere seconds after the start of the race. Cheers erupted in both the garage and the grandstands outside. And even though Max’s tyres wouldn’t last as long as Lando’s, the advantage was currently to the Dutch driver. Max then managed to keep his second position until lap nine, when Lando managed to pass him.

From then on, nothing was happening until Lewis crashed. Triggering a safety car, it led to most drivers taking advantage of it to pit. The rankings didn’t change much, and you were still hoping for Max as well as Isack to finish on the podium even with more than half the race left. For the entire race, Isack had been holding off Charles and George behind him. He was doing an amazing defence and you were already so proud of him no matter what would be the end result.

Along with Isack, Kimi was also on the right path to score points. He had just swapped with George to get P6, before pitting a few laps later. His main goal: to undercut Charles who was right in front of him. And it would’ve worked, if not for Kimi trying to use the inside line during his overtake. The worst-case scenario then happened, as both drivers crashed and a safety car was once again deployed on track. While Charles was definitely out of the race – it was clearly not a good weekend for Ferrari, Kimi was still able to keep going. The consequences came soon, making you wince when Kimi received his penalty. And as if one wasn’t enough, he was actually getting a five-second penalty for speeding in the pit lane added to the ten-second one he had already gotten for causing the collision with Charles.

You bit your nails as you began to do the maths – Kimi would surely end up outside the points as the gaps had decreased after the safety car. This would surely promote Ollie to P7, and thus grant him the points he had promised his team earlier this weekend. While you were glad for him and Isack, you still felt like the rookies were never able to all perform well. If someone were to ask you about your dream race result, you’d request a podium full of rookies with the three left being in the top six – Max could get P7, he would survive.

There were only less than ten laps left, when the unexpected happened: Lando was unfortunately forced to end his race early even though he had been so close to getting a podium once again. It only meant one thing, and you were almost not believing it until the chequered flag was waved and Isack’s name was still third in the ranking. You were unable to say a word, as your mouth was agape. So many emotions were currently filling your head, making you freeze as you processed today’s result. It was only when a sea of Red Bull employees swarmed around you as they were making their way towards parc fermé that you were brought back to reality.

Not wasting any time, you followed them and then paved your way to reach the barricade at the same time as the podium sitters were parking their cars in front of their respective finish position. You watched as Max barely had time to hug Isack to congratulate him for his podium, before the French driver was making a beeline for you – his grid mum was the first person he wanted to go to. It had been easy to spot you wearing orange amongst all the Red Bull team kits surrounding you, and Isack almost jumped over the barrier once he was approaching.

“Podium”! Isack exclaimed with that wide grin of his you liked so much. He wrapped his arms around you and swayed you from side to side.

“Yeah, you’re on the podium!” You were beaming with joy, over the moon with the fact that you now had two grid kids who had scored a P3 finish in their rookie season. “Bravo, Isack. Tu peux… être… très content”, you said in broken French with the last word definitely still pronounced as the English way.

“We definitely have to improve your French if I’m gonna start getting more podium finishes”, Isack teased. “Mais merci!”

Hugging Isack even tighter, you had a hard time letting him go. You were so proud of him. Now, you only needed the other rookies to get a podium as well before the end of the season. It would definitely make for good excuses to have huge celebrations after every grand prix.

“May I have my girl for a bit?” Max asked from behind Isack. “I got a better result than you and it’s my home race; I think I deserve her a bit more, don’t you think?”

“You have podiums all the time, this might be my last one for a while.” Isack faked a pout, not wanting to let go.

However, he was eventually forced to do so when he had to get on the scale per the FIA’s post-race requirements. Max smirked when Isack stepped away from you, but his expression softened before the rookie fully left the two of you.

“Congrats again, Isack. You did really well today”, Max told him.

“Thanks!” And with that, Isack was walking away with a bright smile on his face.

Your focus was now completely on Max, who seemed very satisfied with having your full attention. Without even noticing the gesture, Max was taking your left hand in his before he leaned down to kiss you. His thumb mindlessly stroked the ring on your finger, which made him grin against your lips. Even if he didn’t win today, Max couldn’t have asked for a better thing than being able to race at home in front of his fiancée. Having you here, supporting him in Dutch orange, was certainly the highlight of his weekend and he wished he could ask you to marry him all over again.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Organising the post-race celebrations was definitely easy. No hesitation, you had to do something for Isack’s first podium. The question, however, was what to do? And Max had the answer ready. This was definitely not what you had expected when coming to Zandvoort, but you were now finding yourself doing some last-minute swimsuit and beach towel shopping. Max thought that it was his best idea ever, while you and Isack had some doubts.

“Are you sure we won’t be freezing to death?” Isack wondered, standing a few feet away from the shoreline.

“We’re in August”, Max stated like it was the best justification. “The water here is the hottest during this month.”

“Yeah, here. But the sun has already set so I’m not too sure about going to swim in peak temperature right now”, Isack argued.

You had to admit that you were siding with Isack on this one. You certainly didn’t like being hot and sweaty, but being cold and shivering was not your favourite either.

“Isack, we do ice baths for a living.”

“It’s not the same!”

“Oh God…” Max didn’t know what else he could say to convince Isack to get in the water. Until he got what he considered his second-best idea of the day. “Come here,” he motioned to the rookie.

You weren’t even paying attention to the whispers between the two drivers, too focused on looking at the moon above you. A bit too focused, maybe. Because you didn’t hear either driver sneaking up on you, and had no idea about what was coming for you. A high-pitched gasp left your lips, as you were suddenly being lifted from the ground. Your feet were not in contact with the beach sand anymore, and were instead up in the air as Isack was holding your ankles. At the same time, Max had grabbed your upper arms.

And when you noticed the direction in which they were taking you, a shiver went down your spine. You were dangerously approaching the water, and there was only one fate awaiting you.

“No, no, no!” You pleaded. “Please! I didn’t do anything to deserve it!”

But it was useless. When Max and Isack figured that it was deep enough not to hurt you – the water was loosely around their thighs, they counted down from three before throwing you into the sea. A scream escaped you, before you had the quick reflex of closing your mouth to not swallow any water.

It took you a few seconds to reemerge, the frown obvious on your face as you looked for Max and Isack. As soon as you spotted them, you only had one goal in your mind and the expression you were harbouring was no joke to the drivers.

“I think we gotta run”, Isack suggested with a laugh.

Immediately agreeing, Max followed Isack as they both started to run – as fast as they could while still in the water. You didn’t know which one of them deserved your wrath more, so you simply chased them both without caring who you’d reach first.

Max had been the closest to you, which made him your first target. When he almost lost his footing, this was your chance. You took it as your opportunity to jump on his back, your hands on his shoulders, effectively dunking him under the water. This time, it was your turn to laugh as Max struggled to pry you off him after eventually coming back up to the surface.

“Isack! A little help here?”

“I mean…” The rookie didn't know whether to help Max or not. On the one hand, he did want to save his grid dad. On the other hand, he had to admit that it was kind of funny to see Max like that – Isack also realised that he might be your victim next and that it wasn’t worth risking his life. “I’m sure you’ll manage!” Isack called out as he stepped back.

“Isack”! Max yelled right before you pushed him underwater again.

“Wise decision”, you told Isack with a smirk.

The scene kept going on for a couple more minutes, before Max got you off him. In the long-term, your strength was definitely not better than his, but this had been fun while it had lasted.

The three of you spent a bit more time in the water, before you felt like your fingers were going to fall off. You didn’t hesitate rushing for your towel, hoping to quickly warm yourself up. Thankfully, the August evenings in the Netherlands weren’t that cold. You were about to wring your hair, when you got an idea as you noticed Isack sitting on the beach.

“Oh my God!” He exclaimed, as cold water was suddenly dripping above him.

“This is the payback you deserve”, you said. “You still helped throw me into the water like I was just a potato sack earlier.”

“Ok, fair.” Isack scrubbed his neck as rapidly as possible with his towel. He had been so close to completely drying off, and he now had to start the process all over again before finally being able to put his clothes back on. “I feel like I’m gonna freeze and end up as an ice sculpture.”

“Don’t be dramatic”, Max teased. Compared to you and Isack, he had no problem with cold water – and he almost argued again that the water was actually warm for an end-of-summer evening.

Now feeling a bit guilty as you saw Isack shiver – which was honestly him overreacting, you decided to sit down next to him before enveloping him with your own towel. You rubbed his back a bit, hoping to warm him up again.

“Better?” You inquired.

“Yeah, a bit.”

You stayed like that for a few minutes, huddled together, until Max sat down on Isack’s other side. He did the same as you, and put his arm around Isack’s shoulders. To the rookie, the situation felt homey and comfortable. And even if he had dried off quickly enough thanks to his grid parents sitting on either side of him, it wouldn’t hurt pretending to still feel cold if it meant that the three of you would keep hugging like that.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Arriving in Italy for the Monza Grand Prix always felt peculiar. Even at the airport, the atmosphere was buzzing. And it was even crazier at the track.

Oceans of red filling the grandstands, Tifosi everywhere, Ferrari merch worn by all the Italian fans – with the occasional Mercedes t-shirt to support the actual Italian driver on the grid.

Yeah, races here were always ones of a kind.

But even as die-hard Ferrari fans, Italians seemed to have a soft spot for Max – especially when he was beating the McLarens. This is what had happened in Imola, when Max had done his superb start to lead the whole race in front of the two papaya drivers. If Ferrari wasn’t winning in Italy, then the Tifosi considered Max the next-best thing.

So when Max did claim victory at the second Italian race of the season – with a track record nonetheless, no one complained. Sure, Charles finishing fourth was a disappointment compared to his splendid win from last year. But Max had prevented both McLarens from reaching the top step of the podium, and the Tifosi were definitely grateful for that.

But because things couldn’t be fully perfect during a race weekend, it was soon time for the chaos. You had clearly lowered your guard following the Dutch Grand Prix. And so, due to you not supervising Ollie’s loud mouth during the first part of the weekend, there was no one there to prevent what would be happening.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

On one side of the paddock, Ollie Bearman was giving his post-race interview. He had finished P12, due to the ten-second penalty he had received for causing a collision.

“Hello Ollie, what can you tell us about your incident with Carlos?”

“Race incident…” He only said with a shrug. The journalist just looked at Ollie, silently expecting more. The young driver sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Even if he was a bit ahead, I could’ve still had the corner. I didn’t actively try to ram into him, you know.”

“Something your team and PR manager will be glad to hear.”

The words made Ollie’s lips twitch, as he held back a smile.

“That’s the truth, though. Stewards gave me that penalty because it was my fault according to them, and that’s part of the race. We’ll bounce back.”

“Your fans will really enjoy your determination, as usual. Do you want to talk more about the rest of the race, as a whole?”

“Well… It’s really sad, honestly, as the car felt great today. I had to really fight as we were slow in the straights… But without the incident with Sainz, I think we could’ve been fighting for points – it’s just a big shame. So, yeah… the race was going fine until it wasn’t.”

“As you said, you’ll bounce back for the next races.”

Ollie nodded, some of the tension on his face disappearing a bit.

“I also wanna mention something else,” the interviewer said as she caught Ollie’s attention again. “We’ve seen pictures of you, with Max and his girlfriend, earlier today. It seemed like they were giving you words of encouragement for the race, can you confirm?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Ollie nodded with a smile, as he was always happy whenever you were mentioned. “I was starting P11, so it was right outside the points. I won here in F2 last year, during the Sprint, and they were both reminding me of that.”

“That’s really sweet of them.”

“Yes”, Ollie agreed. “In the end, I didn’t manage to get as good of a result – we’ve just gone over it, but it’s still motivating to know people outside my team and family also believe in me as much as those two do.”

“You have a special bond with Max and his girlfriend, right? Since the beginning of the season, it seems like they both took every rookie under their care.”

“That’s exactly how it looks! It’s become a big family and we’re all really close, even outside race weekends. Like, I’ve hung out with everyone during the summer break and we’re supposed to see each other next week too so I’m excited.”

“What are the plans?” The journalist didn’t know whether Ollie would disclose the information, but she still thought that it was worth a shot.

“Just a small get-together,” he replied. “We didn’t have the opportunity to do an actual engagement party before Zandvoort, so the upcoming break will be the right time to celebrate. And then, we’ll be off to Singapore!”

When the interviewer heard the word engagement, she almost choked on her own saliva. Had she heard well? Was she about to hear some breaking news? She was aware of most of the rookies currently dating, but who between them had gotten engaged? Was it Ollie himself, who might have just dropped the biggest news ever?

“Sorry, I– I’m not sure I understood everything. Is it your engagement party?”

Some heads turned at the question, as curiosity rose all around. Other journalists tried to stay focused on their own interviews, but it was harder to do so now that a possible major info about a driver’s relationship was about to see the light of day.

“What? No, oh my God!” Ollie was now panicking at the thought of people believing he had proposed to his girlfriend at the age of only twenty. His voice unintentionally got louder as he quickly wanted to deny the woman’s assumption, which meant that the entire media pen was now about to hear the news. “It’s Max’s! I’m way too young for that yet.”

And when Ollie name-dropped his grid dad, he didn’t realise that this was why he should panic now. He didn’t even notice what he had let slip, until everyone around him went silent. Gabriel was a few metres away, and he immediately turned towards his fellow rookie when he heard Max’s name.

Wanting to confirm what everyone had heard, but didn’t want to believe yet, the journalist asked the million-dollar question:

“Max is engaged?”

“What?” Ollie felt like he was called back to reality, as he processed the question. It took him a few seconds to replay the conversation in his head, until what he had said caught up to him. “No! No, no, no, no, no! I didn’t– I didn’t say that! I–”

There was no escape for Ollie as he had no way to take his words back. He looked around, like a deer in headlights, and searched for a solution. His PR manager was still speechless, not able to get a word out after hearing the most unexpected news.

Not wasting any time, Gabriel walked to Ollie’s side. The Brazilian was as panicked as the Brit, and he felt like there was nothing he could do except try to reassure his friend.

“I literally wanna bash your head into the camera for what you’ve just done, but I won’t. We– we need to do something, like–”

“Disappear”, Ollie interrupted. “They’re gonna kill me. Max is gonna kill me”, he added. And you, his grid mum as well as one of his favourite people ever, would hide the body. “I have to flee the country.”

“Mate, stop!” Gabriel put his hands on Ollie’s shoulders, to prevent him from spiraling. “They’ll understand. It was an honest mistake, any of us could’ve done it – although you’re the one who did it.”

“Not helping!”

Every journalist, driver, cameraman, and manager could only watch the scene unfold before their eyes. No one dared say anything, as the chaos was far from stopping in the media pen.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

On the other side of the paddock, though… Max Verstappen was indirectly about to fuel the fire that had already started unbeknownst to him.

The two McLaren drivers had just finished their respective post-race interview, and it was now time for today’s winner to speak about his race.

“Max, this has been a perfect weekend for you here in Monza. How do you feel after your third win of the season?”

“I can only feel good, you know. It’s tough, winning here in Ferrari’s home, especially after their victory last year.” Max paused as the Tifosi cheered at his words. “But yeah, a great day for us. Lap one was a bit unlucky, but we were flying after that. The car was really enjoyable. I could manage the pace and we pitted at the right time. Just fantastic execution by everyone.”

“You’re taking back points for both championships”, Davide Valsecchi stated.

“Indeed. Step by step, race by race. But this was for us an unbelievable weekend, so thanks to the team.”

“Can I just ask one last thing? Less racing-related.” When Max nodded, too happy about his win to care about eventual personal questions, the Italian gladly grabbed the opportunity. “You’ve had special support in your garage this weekend, from someone we don’t see often. Did her presence give you that extra motivation to do well?”

“I suppose we’re talking about my grandmother,” Max assumed with a soft smile at her thought, “because my fiancée’s here every weekend. But yeah, I’m always glad to see her even if it’s rare. And winning today sure feels even better knowing that she was there to see it. So, this one’s definitely for her.”

It took a few seconds for everyone around to catch on what Max had said, and Lando was the first to react.

“Mate, did you just say fiancée?!” The Brit exclaimed. “As in, you’re engaged?!”

“Well, yeah.” Max shrugged, not understanding what was so surprising about it. “It’s been, like, two weeks – maybe three. During summer break,” he added. “Did I not tell you?”

“No?!”

“Oh, my bad.” Maybe Max had forgotten to tell a couple people, which included Lando.

“Lando”, Oscar called out. “I think the entire world actually just found out at the same time as us.”

“Great! Even better!” If there was one thing about Lando, it was that he would now be overdramatic regarding the situation.

But there wasn’t even time for him to go on with that, because the sea of fans in the grandstands as well as the ocean running to get a glimpse of the eventual podium celebrations were finally realising the news that Max had just dropped like it was something as irrelevant as his grocery list.

A mix of gasps, cheers, and screams echoed around the track. Within seconds now, Max’s engagement was about to be the topic of all F1-related discussions. Confused, Max glanced at Lando and Oscar next to him before he turned to face the former driver interviewing him.

“Is it that shocking that I’m finally getting married?” He wondered.

“Well…” There was hesitation before the answer came. “People probably expected you to post about it first. No one could’ve guessed, so it’s just surprising that you’ve kept it a secret since it happened.”

“Oh, yeah, I see. Well, it’s not like anything changed – I’m still the same as I was before. But now I’m wondering if I was actually allowed to announce it like that.” Max’s eyes swiftly glance towards your direction. “Just hoping that my girl won’t kill me.”

“I won’t!” Your voice yelled from behind the barriers, not far away from where you were standing in parc fermé.

You didn’t even think about being mad or annoyed at Max, not when the situation actually felt hilarious to you. This was such a Max way to announce it. No grand declaration, no expensive photoshoot using the cats to post on social media. Just simple Max, who spoke about you like it was as natural as breathing to him.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Back to the media pen, still buzzing with chaos.

Gabriel and Ollie were far from calming down. The latter was already brainstorming fake name ideas for a new identity, while the former was definitely failing at reassuring his friend.

Until eventually, someone saved Ollie from hyperventilating on live television.

“Max just talked about getting engaged over the summer break”, a journalist said. Her expression showed that she was currently focusing on what she was being told through her earpiece, before she nodded after having all the information needed. “Seems like neither Lando nor Oscar knew about it, but the man himself confirmed it.”

Upon hearing that, Ollie felt like he had been blessed.

“So I’m not gonna die?” He wasn’t asking anyone in particular, just voicing his thoughts.

“I think you’re good,” Gabriel confirmed. “I’m pretty sure some people will notice that you did drop the news before Max, but we can just pass it off as broadcast delay.”

“Thank God…” Ollie sighed in relief. He felt like he could breathe again. “I never wanna keep a secret as big as this one ever again, please.”

“Noted.” Gabriel patted Ollie’s shoulder in support. “I think it’ll be easier to just never tell you anything else important for the rest of your life.”

“Okay, now that’s just mean.” Despite the slight pout on Ollie’s face, he knew that his friend was right.

And if you ever learnt about Ollie’s slip on the tongue, you never mentioned it to him – Max didn’t either. Somehow, it actually seemed scarier that neither you nor Max had said anything about it because Ollie would now forever feel like he would have to take the secret to his grave. But if Ollie as well as Gabriel – the Brazilian was by association guilty too from hiding the incident – were suddenly being angels in your and Max’s presence, then who were you to complain?

Taglist: @umm-i-love-u @callsign-mirage @freyathehuntress @elieanana @suns3treading @fastandcurious16 @l3thal-l0lita @urmomsgirlfriend1 @guacala @delululeclerc @st4r-girl-official @sol3chu @lagrandeourse @rtyuy1346 @beathreat @kebsf1shit @coldheartedmar

Tysm for reading, hope the wait was worth it for this one<3 as usual, tell me your thoughts and don't hesitate to like (+ reblog so people know I've come back from the dead)

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caption : ❤️

user Here for you girly!

user I'm siding with mom in the divorce

user Joe isn't worth it, you've got it!

user You're too pretty for him anyway 🥰

As soon as they got to their next destination, Y/N swore each one bigger than the last.

Lando stood outside the car door, ready to help Y/N out, a smile adorning his lips as she happily took his hand to step out. She had lightly overstepped, almost slipping, but Lando's other arm was already out around her waist to help her.

Her eyes looked up to see a few scattered fans around the new spot, her chest tightening, and her heart doing light flips at his touch on her hip.

"Lando," she said softly as he helped her down. "Fans are watching."

He shrugs. "And? I'm being a gentleman and helping a beautiful girl out of the car."

She wanted to argue and tell him about what the tabloids were already saying for her tonight, more particularly about Joe, and how she didn't want to add more. Instead she stayed silent and nodded with a light smile.

It was a harmless act after all, and Joe was the one who was across the country hooking up with another girl.

Her entire demeanor started to feel slightly uneasy at the thoughts of what he was doing, even if part of her didn't care.

Another part of her did.

Once they got into the building and found their home base for this round, Y/N excused herself quickly and walked straight towards the bathrooms.

As soon as she entered, she set her stuff down and looked in the mirror.

She closed her eyes and took in a few deep breaths, letting them fall slowly from her lips as she let herself relax. The music boomed outside the room, changing to something a little slower, but still upbeat.

Once she had collected herself enough to go back out, she grabbed her clutch and headed towards the door.

When she left the bathroom, she saw the familiar head of curls leaning against the wall just a little further down, his eyes looking over at her on a more serious note.

"Everything alright?" he asks her slowly as she approaches him.

She looks up at him and nods quickly, beginning to walk towards the crowd to find their group of friends.

"Monica filled me in," he states behind her. "I also saw the media. He's not right in the head for doing what he did. Dick move if you ask me."

Y/N came to a halt and turned to face him, unsure of what to say. Lando looks at her and can tell she doesn't know what to respond with, he nods in understanding and smiles down at her.

"You don't have to explain. When the timing is better, I'm all ears."

She frowns. "I was not expecting that."

He chuckles. "Because I'm not an asshole," he jokes, making her crack another smile as her eyes lock with his. "And I also want to make sure that this girl I met earlier enjoys her time away before going back to reality."

"The girl whose name you never got?" She shot back with a laugh, making him roll his eyes playfully. He nods.

"Yeah, that girl."

She nods slowly, tongue poking at the inside of her cheek. "It's Y/N."

He laughs before offering his hands out to her. "I know."

Her eyes widen slightly in shock, letting him take her hands in his own, slowly pulling her along behind him.

Her eyes locked with the man in front of her, completely entranced by how he was holding himself. She wasn't expecting the reaction he gave her after finding out about Joe; she thought he would get upset or even act like he never knew her.

The way her held himself kept her intrigued, and she wasn't sure if she should be.

Lando took both of her hands into one of his own now, using his free hand to do his handshake with Charles as they found the group. Alex turning to see Y/N, her eyes looking down at their hands, then back at Y/N.

Alex smiled smugly, raising an eyebrow at the actions. Y/N shook her head, giving her a look, and mouthed 'he's being nice'.

Alex shook her head and pointed at their hands. "That's more than being nice," she says softly. Y/N stays quiet, feeling a squeeze on her hands, and so she turns back to Lando, who is turning to face her.

"What's your go-to drink of the night?" he asks her.

"Jack and coke."

He nods and squeezes her hands one more time before letting them go. "I'll be back."

She nods as he disappears into the crowd again, heading towards the bar. Y/N feels her heart jump when a pair of hands grab her shoulders.

"He is obsessed with you!" Monica squeals as she turns her best friend around. Y/N rolls her eyes.

"I doubt it. He probably is just pitying the poor girl who just found out her boyfriend has been cheating on her."

Kika looks at Monica, and they look back at her.

"He came to find you for a reason," Kika says, Monica nodding.

"He went all on his own, we didn't push for him or anything."

Y/N looks at the girls. "Just don't overthink anything. Enjoy the night, and do what Y/N wants! Not what Joe, or the media, wants her to do. Do you," Alex reminds her.

She thinks about her friend's words, knowing deep down that they weren't wrong.

Y/N needed to finally choose herself in this life. Make decisions that she wants to make. Joe made his, and she needed to remember that.

Soon she nods, taking in their advice. She looks at Monica, handing her phone over. "Keep it away from me. I'm done seeing what the media has to say."

Monica proudly takes it with a curt nod and toothy grin, stuffing it into her clutch.

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monicabby Vegas baby!!

tagged : kikagomes , ynln , alexandrasaintmleux +4 others

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kikagomes My favorite people 🩵

user IS--IS THAT LANDO NORRIS

user Omg Y/N and Lando in the same room someone pinch me

user I hope Y/N is doing okay :(

alexandrasaintmleux I love you all 😍🥰

user I would strive to be apart of their friendgroup omfggggg

user Y'all SLAYING Vegas

monicabby just posted on their story!

caption : Can’t get better than this 😘

user Y/N LOOKS SO GOOOD

user This is the PRETTIEST GROUP BFFS IVE EVER SEEN

user Joe doesn’t know what he just lost like wtf 😬

user I LOVE YOU ALLLLLL

user Pretty girrrrllllls😍😍😍

Y/N hears a club techno remix of Madison Beer's song Yes Baby come on, pulling the girls out towards the dancefloor as she rolls her body slowly to let herself loose.

They happily follow her out into the crowd, dancing with her, the lights and energy around them making it easier to get in rhythm.

Monica spun Y/N around with a chuckle leaving their lips, the girls danced up on one another as Y/N finally let her body roll with the beat of the music.

She didn't have a care in the world. The more she realized that there was more to life than following orders from a man who didn't care about her like she thought, the more she was okay with taking Alex's advice.

Choosing herself and never looking back.

She knew that once she had gotten home, she'd pack up her things and leave for who knows where. She just knew she would feel at peace once she shut that door for good.

Another part of her could also feel a want for more. Something she wasn't exactly sure about. For tonight, she knew she wouldn't think twice about it. Reality would come back at her in the morning.

When she opened her eyes, she was met with the girls dancing around her and gliding together like they had been doing, laughing as they moved their hips.

Her eyes and body were scanning for something more. Someone, in this case.

Y/N's eyes froze when she saw exactly who she was looking for. He was standing with the other guys in their section, talking with them eyes watching the crowd in front of them as they laughed.

It didn't take long for his eyes to feel her stare, causing him to scan and find her in the crowd.

She took a deep breath before squeezing past the girls, walking towards him, not missing the way the girls hyped her up as they realized where she was headed.

Lando's focus was completely on her as soon as he found her, zoning out of whatever George was telling him in that moment.

It didn't take long before she was in front of him, her siren eyes pulling him towards her instantly. Y/N puts her hands out in front of her for him to take, Lando smirking down at her and taking them into his own with no hesitation.

Y/N pulled him further out into the crowd, their eyes never leaving one another's.

Once they had gotten far enough into the middle of the dancing crowd, it was Lando who made a move this time. He slithered both of his hands snugly around her hips, Y/N letting hers trail up to his neck.

They moved their bodies against each other, following in line with Madison Beer's song in the background.

Y/N's insides were on fire. They were burning with something more than just desire in that moment, and she could tell he was feeling it just as much as she was.

He took one of his hands from her waist, placing it on her jawline enough that his hand somewhat held the back of her neck, making her look all the way up at him as he pulled her as close as he could. Their faces were now inches away from one another, Lando smirking as he heard her breath hitch at his touch and grip on her.

"You have been driving me crazy, you know that?" he says softly. Y/N can feel his breath against her lips. She bit her bottom lip to partly hide her smile.

"Sorry."

He chuckles darkly, taking his hand that was on her jaw, sliding it to sit on her neck, shaking his head. "No, you're not."

Her eyes dart down towards his lips, then look back up at him. She shrugs. "I'm not."

He smiles like the Cheshire Cat, squeezing her neck just light enough for her to let out a gasp at the feeling. "I need to know you. All of you," he says, letting out a low growl when her nails dig into the curls at the nape of his neck. "We can figure out the mess together later. I'll do whatever I've gotta do to keep you around."

Y/N looks up at him, seeing that there was nothing but truth behind his eyes. She decides to play a bit more, smirking up at him while taking his chin between her fingertips.

"What would my boyfriend think?"

Lando bit his lip, clenching his jaw as he saw the playfulness behind her eyes. "Your ex-boyfriend, lost you the second I laid eyes on you," he shoots back lowly, now dragging both of his hands to her hair, pulling it back. "He would've needed to worry about whether you ever came home after meeting me."

Y/N's eyes closed at the feeling, never having felt this way before. Lando knew exactly what was making her tick, without even fully knowing her. His words, his tone, his touch. All of it made her body melt.

"Open those pretty eyes for me," he says softly, making her slowly open them to look at him. He was smiling down at her in a smug way. "I'm gonna give you everything you deserve. He's the least of my worries."

Y/N looks between his eyes, seeing the genuine look behind the playful glint, making her nod at his words.

"Am I allowed to kiss you, pretty girl?" he asks in a softer tone.

Before she can answer, she hears her name being called, causing the pair of them to snap out of their own world that they had created.

She breaks away from Lando, turning to see the girls walking up to them both, Monica trying to hide her smirk that couldn't stop forming. Kika and Alex are smiling widely with no regrets.

"Sorry to interrupt," Kika says knowingly. "But we've gotta steal her away real quick. Girl things you wouldn't understand."

Lando clenches his jaw before rolling his eyes. He grins down at Y/N, squeezing her waist before letting her go with the girls. "You know where I'll be," he says to her. Y/N smiles back at him before walking away with her friends.

Once they were in a more private area of the club, they turned around and began to squeal and freak out at Y/N.

"He's obsessed with you! Did you see how he was looking at you?"

"Tell us everything he said!"

"Are you going to go back with him to his hotel tonight or what?"

"Girls, chill!" Y/N laughs out, putting her hands up to quiet them down. "We didn't get to do too much, because some girls I know interrupted the moment," she snorts, eyeing them all.

Monica put her hands up in defense. "We had to! Make him chase you a bit more. Not that it's needed because he's basically ready to take you down to the wedding chapel-"

"Mo!"

"I'm just saying," she groans. Y/N looks at Kika and Alex.

Kika nods while Alex sheepishly agrees. "I mean, I've never seen him look and go after a girl like he has with you. He's hooked on you," Alex explains, Kika humming in agreement.

"He is going to make sure you know just how much he wants-no- needs you around," Monica says.

Kika presses her arm. "What did he say to you?"

Y/N feels her face heat up, thinking back to their hot moment just moments before. How his body felt against hers, his touch, everything.

"He basically said I was his the second he laid eyes on me, and that Joe would've had to worry if I came home or not, if we were still together," she explains, the girls gasping and clapping in excitement.

"He said we can worry about the mess later, and that he wants to give me what I deserve."

"I told you he's obsessed!"

"Go back to the hotel with him!"

"He is smitten!"

Y/N rolls her eyes as she laughs at their bombarding comments, letting them freak out all they want.

"Okay, okay, enough," she giggles out. "Are we done interrogating?"

"For now," Kika says slyly, glinting her eyes at Y/N. The girls talked about a few more things for the night as they walked back to the boys, Y/N seeing that they were all sitting down on the couches now as they talked to one another.

Lando's eyes snapped up when he saw the girls joining one by one, his smile widening at the sight of Y/N, who was already looking down at him. He straightened up in his seat.

She halts in front of him, letting one of his hands slide up from the back of her knee to the top of her thigh, where the hem of her dress sits.

"All good?" he asks her, and she nods.

"Yeah, just girl stuff."

Lando nods before squeezing the back of her thigh, tugging lightly to signal for her to sit next to him.

She sits down right next to him, Lando taking her leg that brushes against his own, placing it in his lap as he caresses the skin there. His legs were spread out in front of him, Y/N's insides fluttering as something lower pulsed inside her.

They both entered into the conversation being had, occasionally contributing to the topic as they all took a break from the chaos the club was becoming as the night went on. Lando's hand never left Y/N once.

To Y/N, this was different. She wasn't used to someone showing affection towards her, regardless of where they were out at.

Joe didn't like to show her off. He would act more embarrassed than proud having her on his arm. He avoided everything about it. She knew that there was a difference between being private and being avoidant. He was doing the latter.

Lando wasn't afraid of it one bit. He owned it, nothing in his actions or expressions showing a single sign of hesitation or embarrassment.

She knew that they probably had the possibility of not being shown in the tabloids the next day, but she knew that the photos of them arriving in the SUV together were going to cause people to talk. Regardless if they had the rest of the group in the car with them.

That's just how the media was, no matter who it is.

The British man looked over towards Y/N, seeing that she was staring at the group, but her mind was elsewhere, eyes zoning out.

He squeezed her leg softly, caressing the skin, watching her shake back to where she was. "You're overthinking again," he mutters, making her let out a huff.

"No, just thinking."

He fully emerges in turning to look at her. "About?"

"The stuff you already know."

He smiles at her. It was a smaller one, but nothing less than genuine.

"Would it make you feel better if I said that no matter what we see online tomorrow, that I meant everything I said?" he says, making her look at him. He nods. "You're worth it. The chaos. People will always talk, no matter what we do. But I'll walk with you next to me proudly, regardless."

"Lando," she says softly.

"I'm serious. I have a good feeling about you. We know the truth behind the scenes. Let them talk," he chuckles. "We will forever stay living rent free in people's minds."

She laughs at that, making him smile ear to ear.

"Reality tomorrow," he affirms, and she nods.

"Reality tomorrow."

It wasn't much longer that the group had stayed at the club, deciding to call it a night, almost two hours of dancing, drinking, and bad karaoke later.

They all piled back into the SUV, sleep and the effects of alcohol coming into view for most of them.

Y/N and Lando had talked to one another quietly on the way back, mainly asking each other the easy questions, and sometimes talking about the harder things, but Y/N noticed how each time she talked, Lando had done nothing but listen.

He didn't look like he was half-assing; he looked like he actually was taking in every word that left her lips.

Once they had arrived back at the hotel, Lando helped her out once more, hands on hips to keep her steady, waiting for the others as they all walked inside.

Lando walked with Y/N and Monica back to her hotel room, soon halting in front of the door as Monica swiped the keycard.

She looked back at the pair, raising her brows. "I'll um," she trails off slowly, a tired smile on her lips. "I'll give you guys a minute."

With that, Monica steps inside her hotel room, leaving it open a crack so Y/N wouldn't be locked out. Y/N turns back to look up at Lando, who was already looking down at her.

"Will I see you soon?" he asks, and she smiles lightly with a nod.

"I think I'd like that."

Lando nods before leaning down, taking her chin in between his fingertips, and turning her head to place a soft kiss on her cheek. He lingers there for a moment before pulling away.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he says lowly, eyes darting down to her lips one last time before backing away and walking down the hall.

Y/N bit her lip, heart beating fast as she still feels the tingle that his lips left behind. She sighs to herself before shaking her head. "Fuck it. Reality tomorrow."

With that, she scurries down the hall to catch up with Lando, calling his name softly. He turns around to see her walking quickly up towards him. He frowns slightly, but he doesn't have a moment to ask her if something was wrong.

Y/N had placed one of her hands on his cheek and one on the back of his neck, pulling him down to have his lips meet hers.

Lando didn't take long to kiss her back with just as much passion on his end, bending down and wrapping his arms around her lower half as she arched into him.

Their lips moved in sync, teeth clashing, tongues fighting. She smiled against his lips, Lando chuckling as he kept kissing her repeatedly. His tongue lightly grazed her lower lip, Y/N letting him in not too long after that. Y/N's insides were going insane, feeling as though fireworks and butterflies were buzzing all over her body.

Kissing Lando was something she never wanted to live without again.

She wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

That's what scared her most.

landonorrisupdates just made a post!

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landonorrisupdates Sooooo y'all??? Lando was out with friends last night, and I kept getting messages that he was seen up close with this brunette girl.

He looked so happy tho awwww, but do we know who she is??

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user The way he is looking at her omfg stahpppp

user OMG THAT'S Y/N L/N!!! She's dating Joe Burrow!!!

user **WAS dating Joe Burrow. He literally has been getting exposed for cheating on her. So if she's close with Lando, who cares? At least we know he won't do the same

user Wow.....She sure moved on was fast 😬😬😬

user Yeah that's Y/N L/N!!!! Poor girl, she's already going through it after learning about her boyfriend's scandal. Let her be

user This is gonna be insane if she dates Lando after Joe did what he did..... Good for her

user Wow she took like NO time finding a new guy😃

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Y/N yawned as she waited in line for Monica to finish checking them in for their flight back to Ohio, her iced coffee not doing much to keep her awake.

She wasn't very happy about bouncing back to reality this morning when her alarms went off, not wanting to have to face Joe when she gets back home.

Of course, she had woken up to several media outlets not only doing articles and reels of Joe, but about her and Lando as well. It didn't take very long for people to start speculating and putting rumors out there.

She decided to put her notifications on silent, not wanting to entertain anything being said. What she didn't miss were the several messages and missed calls from Joe fairly early this morning.

Joey

I'm sorry

I wasn't thinking

I swear it wasn't what it looked like

Can we please talk when you get home

I really am sorry

Are you kidding

You didn't take very long moving on

I fucking knew you were slimy

What the fuck were you thinking

We need to talk.

She never responded back to him, only turning on her read receipts for him to see she saw his messages. Just like he did to her.

Y/N didn't have the energy to deal with his back and forth, especially when he was the main one at fault. Their relationship was long over the second he thought it was okay to bring another girl into their shared home.

Especially if she wasn't the first one he took back there.

Once they made it through security and towards the waiting area for their flight, Y/N slumped in her chair and huffed.

Monica gave her a soft and sad smile. "You alive over there?"

Y/N lets out a short laugh. "Would it help my case if I said no?"

"Not in the slightest," Monica chuckles back lightly. Y/N groans while rubbing her face.

"Well, as soon as we're alive enough, we're packing up whatever you can grab and getting you out of there," Monica confirms. "Not sure where we will go from that point, but you're not staying there a second longer than you have to."

"I talked to Marr, and he said we can stay with him while we figure out everything," Y/N yawns out. "He told me they should be gone by the time we land. So we can drop stuff off at his, then head to Joe's to pick up my stuff."

Monica nods slowly, taking in the updated plans.

"You ready for it?" she asks cautiously, giving Y/N a soft but genuine look of curiosity.

"I don't think I ever will be, but I'd rather deal with this sooner than later," she chuckles dryly.

The flight felt long by the time they had taken off, Y/N trying to sleep through it as best as she could. She had to mentally prepare herself for whatever obstacles were about to be thrown her way.

They took a car out to Ja'Marr's, setting their stuff from Vegas inside his place, making sure to keep it out of the way.

Then headed to the one place she dreaded the most.

It was quiet on the ride there, her heart beating harder and faster the closer they got. Once they turned down the familiar road, Y/N's face frowned then her eyes widened.

"I thought you said they'd be out," Monica trails off slowly, Y/N shaking her head in shock and confusion as they stared at Joe's familiar car sitting in the driveway.

"Yeah, they're supposed to be," she mutters. "Ja'Marr said that they had meetings to be at all day."

Monica gives her a look that Y/N couldn't quite read, only seeing that she was just as curious as her friend was. The car halted outside of the house, the pair getting out of the car on each side before slowly walking up to the front door.

Y/N put the combo into the key lockpad, hearing the soft little jingle it made as it opened for her. She peered in quietly, the house sounding dead quiet, quieter than it ever had been.

She shut the door behind them, keeping her shoes on as she immediately went up the staircase and towards their once shared room.

She had a sick feeling in her stomach as she walked in, seeing the bedsheets still messy, her mind having to halt itself from imagining what could've happened. She didn't even want to go near it.

"Where are your other bags?" Monica says in a hushed tone as she headed straight for the shared walk-in closet.

"On the ground underneath the second rack, where all of my jackets are hanging up," she answers, before heading into their bathroom to grab anything that was hers.

Her eyes darted over and did a double-take as she saw the bracelets and chain she had gifted to him for his birthday were sitting discarded in the corner of the bathroom counter. It made her lip unintentionally wobble, more in anger than in sadness.

She decided to take off any of the remaining jewelry she had on that he had given to her, setting it right in front of his own.

Her hand turns off the bathroom light, heading to where Monica sat on the floor of the closet, folding and packing up stuff. She handed her friend the supplies she bagged up from the bathroom, having her put in in the bag.

Y/N turned back around to head back out into the bedroom and towards her nightstand, only to freeze slightly when she saw his eyes dark and staring down at her.

Instead of saying anything to him, she rolls her eyes and walks over to pull open the drawer to her nightstand.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" he says in a warning tone, his eyes not failing to follow her figure as she grabs everything out of her side.

He begins to stalk towards her as she still remains silent.

"You're really going to ignore me? Seriously?"

She purses her lips as she slams the drawer shut, turning around to go hand Monica the stuff in her arms to pack away.

"Oh of fucking course she is here," he scoffs, Monica snapping her gaze him glaring hard.

"You have no fucking right to be speaking to me," she spat. "You're lucky she talked me out of coming after you, you piece of fucking shit."

"You're the fucking one to talk! You probably pressured her to be all up on one of your boys, just to put your names out there!"

She glares at him, before raising her brows, scoffing, and shaking her head.. "You are so fucking dense," she growls. "Has it ever occurred to you that she's allowed to make her own decisions? Or are you just that far up your own fucking ass that you still make decisions for her?"

Joe's gaze hardens at her words. Monica tilts her head with a sarcastic pout on her face. "Or are you moved on to controlling your new cute little blonde friend?"

"It was a fucking mistake, alright?" he shouts back, Y/N biting her lips shut harshly to the point she could taste the metal in her mouth.

"She meant nothing! You don't know the half of what I'm going through! Y/N and I have gone through too much for me to just let her leave!"

Y/N whips her head around, speaking to him for the first time.

"You don't get to make that decision anymore!" she burst out, making him snap his head away from Monica, and look at her.

Y/N pointed a finger at him. "You lost that privilege the first fucking time you laid hands on another woman in the way you're supposed to be with your damn girlfriend! You don't get a say in if I stay or not, I'm fucking done with your toxic shit, Joe!"

He scoffs. "Oh, so now you are, huh? Because all of a sudden, some other big-time rich athlete shows you the slightest bit of attention? Says some fuck shit you have been dying for me to say? Give me a fucking break!"

"It's not about him! It's about me! It's about choosing me after years of being your stupid fucking arm candy, thinking that the way you treated me was fine in the first place!" she screams back, watching him flinch back slightly in his steps. She stepped forward once more.

"I'm choosing myself. I'm going to choose my fucking path. I'm going to make my own damn decisions without someone telling me to sit pretty the rest of my life, or worse, sit here in a toxic fucking relationship that should've ended ages ago. Someone like you!" She pushes, watching his nostrils flare.

"I really hope he fucking breaks your heart," he scoffs, talking about who they all knew he was secretly insecure about. "I hope he fucking messes you up to the point you disappear. You're nothing but someone's toy. I hope that racing ruins you."

With that, he walks past her, Y/N flinching as he gets closer, afraid he might try to do something, only for him to bump her body hard enough to make her fall to the ground as he walks out.

Monica scurries up quickly to be by her friend's side, shushing her shaking figure, seeing the completely shocked expression on her face, holding back the tears that glossed over her eyes.

"Hey," Monica whispered quietly, rubbing her shoulders as she kneeled in front of Y/N. "You want me to put mouse shit in his shoes? A fish under the seats of his car? Say the word and I'll go do it right now."

Y/N snapped out of her daze, shaking her head as she sniffled.

"No," she says quickly, wiping the stray tears that had fallen. "Let's just finish this and go."

Monica looks at her with a saddened expression before nodding and going back to grab whatever Y/N needed her to get.

Monica had brought whatever bags she could muster up downstairs to the front door, ordering them a larger Uber to take back to Ja'Maar's. Y/N checking to see if there was anything else she would need.

She stopped in the kitchen, grabbing the last couple cans of her energy drinks from the fridge, knowing she and Monica would have those finished by the time they reached Ja'Maar's.

She turned to see Joe sitting in the living room, his eyes on her own in a darkened expression.

"When shit doesn't go your way, I won't be here to pick you up," he says lowly.

Y/N purses her lips, nodding slowly as she glares at him.

"Good thing you won't be the one I call for."

Joe's eyes squint at her own, twitching a few times before he rolls them away from her, shaking his head.

As she turns to walk away, she halts and faces him one last time.

"I hope you figure your shit out, Joe. You're too grown to be acting like you peaked in high school," she says before walking away from him, and out the front door with Monica and her things.

Monica lets the door slam shut loudly, giving Y/N a satisfied grin before helping her bring the bags towards the van in front of them.

Once they had gotten everything packed up into the back end, they both hopped into the backseats. Y/N didn't hesitate to take her phone out, taking in a deep breath as she begins searching for the one number she made sure to keep in case she needed to use it.

This was the case.

"Who're you calling?" Monica asks, Y/N, putting the phone up to her ear.

"Someone who can help."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: Oooooo, who do you guys think she's calling? Lemme know our thoughts!!!

Permanent taglist: (please message me if you’d like to be removed!!!!)

Caption : ☀️

user She is not slick lmfao

user Tell me you’re soft launching without actually telling me you’re soft launching

user The unbothered stay glowing btw and I love it

charlesleclerc YOURE BACK IN MONACO??!

charlesleclerc AND YOURE ON VERSTAPPEN’S BOAT OVER MINE???

ynln We were gonna surprise you…? 🙂

charlesleclerc Liar

bestieig Welcome baaaaack 😌💕

ynln Sooo good to be back my love 😛🥰

maxverstappen just posted on their story!

Caption : Oh boy look who’s back 😩

user THE GANG IS BACK TOGETHER

ynln Oh stfu you MISSED ME

ynln Should I post our messages of you begging me to return??

ynln Or more so to return WITH my bestie??

maxverstappen Well hey now no need for any of that

maxverstappen harmless joke is all

maxverstappen No need for the big guns ok

maxverstappen Easy now

ynln Wow so she’s a trigger for you now huh??

ynln Protective ass

ynln You break her I break you

maxverstappen I have zero clue what you’re on about

user WE ARE FEDDDD

user Oh I cannot wait for the upcoming race weekend this is gonna be good

ynln just made a post!

Liked by 20m users

ynln I was heard I am missed dearly? Had to return for my favorites 🫶🏼🥰

tagged : bestieig , maxverstappen , charlesleclerc

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user MOM THE GANG IS BACK

user GANGS ALL HERE

user it’s the way I literally BREATHE for this friendgroup omfg

user Name a hotter friendgroup

bestieig you can’t 💅🏼😘

charlesleclerc I MADE AN INSTA POST OMG

charlesleclerc LEMME TELL EVERYBODY

ynln Well Leo was the main character but sure

charlesleclerc I hate you

ynln LOVE YOU BESTIEEEEEE

maxverstappen We are so back

maxfewtrell just posted on their story!

Caption : Snorkel adventure

user CAN WE PLAY MERMAIDS TOO 💅🏼😩

user That looks like so much fucking fun wtf

user I love how happy she looks with Max ugh 🥹

user SHE IS THE CUTEST🥰🥰

Lando She looks happy

maxfewtrell Because she is

ynln just posted on their story!

Caption : GNO tonight 😛

user SHE IS SO FIIINNNNNE

user *googles how to be Y/N L/N*

charlesleclerc SHE IS ALL GROWN UP

ynln Grown up enough to take Leo home???

Charlesleclerc SHE IS NOT ALL GROWN UP

ynln oh come on 😭😭😭

maxfewtrell Too late to ask you to play hooky?

ynln Just a tad🫠

maxfewtrell Well I vote you do

ynln You know the girls will never let you live that down

maxfewtrell You know damn well it would be worth it

ynln Got me there 😩

bestieig just posted on their story!

Caption : How are you real ynln

user She’s actually a fairy, plot twist

user HELLO 😛

maxverstappen More so how is the girl behind the phone real

bestieig You tried

maxverstappen What did I win?

user FEWTRELL STAYS WINNING

ynln Remember you dreamed me up pookie 😘😘🫶🏼

maxfewtrell Scratch girls night, I need her home now

bestieig Wife gets her first, you know the rules 💅🏼💅🏼

maxfewtrell WELL MY TURN HURRY UP

F1updates just made a post!

Liked by 2m users

F1updates Boy do we have news for you!

Lando Norris was caught out at a club with buddies, only to find out he was at the same club as ex-girlfriend and influencer, Y/N L/N!!!!! Looks like Lando decided at doing a love island tradition to pull Y/N L/N, for a chat!!

What could this mean? Are the pairs in talks of getting back together? Link in bio!!

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user WHAT

user I just know Fewtrell is FUMINGGGG

user Lando’s new girl is probs playing in traffic rn

user I’m shocked the place is not up in flames yet because I know miss girl had A LOT to flame him for

user Y/N, girl, no please 🤧

user STAY STRONG GIRL STAY STRONG 😭😭

user Y’all chill you are REACHINGGGG

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: Soooo… How’re we feeling friends?

Permanent taglist: (please message me if you’d like to be removed!!!!)

Caption : I need a nap

user YALL THE NECKLACE???!

user ITS AN M I KNEW IT WHERES MAX

user GIRL DELETE THISSSSS YOU EXPOSED YOUR TRUE MANSSSS

user WTF I WAS WAY OFF

bestieig girl that necklace is gonna cause chaos

ynln oops???

bestieig it already is isn’t it

ynln Lmfao you have no idea

charlesleclerc cherie I cannot help you out of this one 🤣

ynln Welp

F1updates just posted a photo!

Liked by 1m users

F1updates Looks like the cat might be out of the bag!!

Y/N L/N was seen wearing a certain initial necklace around her neck with an M, which are causing fans to put the speculation that her flirty comments and posts with best friend, Charles Leclerc, were to actually hide her true lover: 4x World Champion, Max Verstappen!!

Nobody knows just yet if this has been confirmed as neither party has spoken on it, but most hints are pointing in their direction! What do we think of our newest couple?

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user I KNEW ITTTTTT 😌😌

user From day MF ONE I knew that this was all a setup to hide her and Max!!!

user Y’all I know Lando is somewhere LOSING HIS MIND rn 🤡🤡🤡

user What if it’s actually someone completely outside of the equation we haven’t even thought of yet? Because if her and Charles were able to pull this off, then what shows that it’s possibly the same thing between her and Max, and it’s someone not even on the list??? I NEED ANSWERS 🫠🫠🫠🤔

user Either way we all can agree she’s upgrading from Lando. He really went downhill after that lmfao

user Max and Her came out of nowhere I was soooo set on her and Charles 🙂🤧😭

user Orrr maybe it’s alllll PR and she’s still saying Lando…

user INSANEEEEEE

user absolutely not nope

user What if it’s not a guy in F1?? Maybe she’s reallllly trying to throw us all off

charlesleclerc just posted on their story!

Caption : pretty girl’s last night 🩵

user IM SO CONFUSED SEND HELP

user GUYS THEYRE CONFUSING US ON PURPOSE WTF IS GOING ON

user I think I’m glitching rn

user HELLO??! WHO is the imposter??!!!!!

user My brain hurts too much rn I’ll be back after touching some grass

bestieig Hurry your asses up we’re all waiting, impatiently, may I add.

charlesleclerc Man your new man really has gotten to you hasn’t he

bestieig I’ve always had spice Monaco Prince man, now hurry up or I’m taking Leo home without you noticing

charlesleclerc You’d never have the chance, Y/N wouldn’t let that happen 🤣🤣

bestieig ……. fuck

maxverstappen just posted on their story!

Caption : Put a shirt on

user MAX IS JELLY OOOOOOOOO

user OPE HELLO

user SO KEEP IT OFF CHARLES😩

user Everyone say thank you Max for this photo🤩🤩

ynln You two are absolutely insane rn

maxverstappen I love the controversy happening

ynln you love any type of chaos let’s be real

maxverstappen I do I’ll always admit that

ynln Lemme liiiivvve 😭😭

ynln just made a post!

Liked by 17m users

ynln Anywho…. last night before I head home 🥰

load more comments

user TELL US TELL US NOW

user MAX OR CHARLES???

user STUNNINGGGGG 😍

user she’s THRIVING as a brunette omfg 😧💅🏼

bestieig I’m gonna steal that dog

ynln Nope Leo is mine and mine only

charlesleclerc NO HE IS MY DOG WTF

ynln Mine and mine only

charlesleclerc ….. fine

user OH HE IS DOWN BAD ITS CHARLES

user THEYRE FOOLING US ITS MAX

user Y’all either way let it play out 🤣

maxverstappen I love these 🩵

ynln 🤗💅🏼

ynln just posted on their story!

Caption : Back home ☺️

Texts between Best Friend and Y/N:

BFF: GIRL

BFF: TAKE YOUR POST DOWN

BFF: THATS NOT YOUR FRIENDS ONLY STORY

Y/N: What do you mean??

Y/N: OH FUCK

*this post has been deleted*

Messages between Lando and Y/N:

Lando: You’re fucking joking.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: sooooooo… how’s the weather?? 👀🙂

Permanent taglist: (please message me if you’d like to be removed!!!!)

Three days.

That’s all it took following the British Grand Prix for drama to happen.

You were just waking up, taking advantage of being home to sleep in a bit – sleeping until noon wasn’t just a bit, but you deserved it so who cared. You turned to the side, noticing that the space next to you was empty. This meant that Max was already up, and your first guess was that he was in the simulator. You hoped that you could convince him to take a break now that you were awake as well, so you left the comfort of your bed to make your way towards the living room.

Bingo, you thought when you saw the back of Max’s head while he was racing in Spa. You wished that you could admire his dedication to prepare for the next race, but right now you just wanted your boyfriend to spend a bit of time with you.

Because Max wasn’t currently streaming, his camera was off and he didn’t notice you when you went to stand behind him. He was solely focused on his race, and you could only imagine the serious expression on his face as he was taking the last corners of the circuit. He seemed satisfied with his performance as he nodded to himself before stretching his arms a bit. Finally sensing your presence, Max leaned back against his seat, as he looked up at you.

“Hi”, you said with a smile.

Max’s expression softened at the sight of you, and he couldn’t help the matching smile that appeared on his face.

“Hey, have you been standing here long?”

“Just enough to know that you’re winning the next grand prix.”

“That’s a bold prediction”, Max teased as he was back to looking at the screen to turn everything off.

“Excuse me for believing that my boyfriend who won the race three times in a row can win again.”

“Well, I didn't win last year so my streak ended. But thank you for the vote of confidence.”

Max was finally out of the simulator, which you really appreciated as you were now able to get your morning kisses. Max’s hands went to hold your waist before he leaned down to kiss you, and you could feel his smile on your lips as you brought your arms up to put them around his shoulders.

“I have faith you can make your tractor work even if the team puts you on the worst tyres again,” you said before leaning in for another kiss.

You thought that you would be getting several more, but Max froze after hearing your words. You were talking as if the next race would go as usual, like nothing had changed, and he realised that you didn’t know yet.

You were about to complain when Max pulled back a bit, but you noticed his confused look.

“What?” You asked.

“Have you looked at your phone?”

“Well, no? Sorry for going straight to see you after I wake up”, you said with a chuckle. “God forbid I wanna look at my boyfriend before a screen.”

Max debated just telling you right now, or going to grab his phone to show you directly, but he thought that you would enjoy the full experience and that you deserved to have it.

“Just go get your phone.”

“Okay…?”

You thought that he was being a bit cryptic right now, but you trusted that it was for a good reason. So you went back to the bedroom, and grabbed your phone that was on the nightstand before turning it on. By the time you were back to the living room, Max had disappeared into the kitchen. He came back quickly enough with your water bottle – the one bearing the effigy of Red Bull Racing that you always left in the fridge to constantly have cold water – which he was ready to give to you.

“Wait, no. What if you’re distracting me with the phone thing, and then I drink this without noticing that you’ve poisoned it?” Your crazy theory made Max laugh, while you suspiciously looked at him. “I’m not going to multitask until I know what you’re planning.”

“You act like this is some elaborate trap to trick you; as if you weren’t the one who filled it yesterday.” Although amused at your reaction for now, Max decided to put your bottle down on the table while he sat on the couch. He just had to wait for you to finally see the news.

“What am I supposed to be looking at? Or, looking for?” You wondered. Your phone was now showing your home screen – a picture of Max on the podium, from his first win after you started dating – and you waited for further instructions from Max.

“Just open Instagram. If you’re lucky, your feed will show you everything in the right order.”

Again, very cryptic. Still, you obliged and opened the application.

Nothing had prepared you for the first post that appeared before your eyes: Christian Horner leaves Red Bull with immediate effect.

You couldn’t even speak, as your only reaction was to look at Max for confirmation. Even if it was the F1 official account that had posted it, you couldn’t believe it to be real.

“Keep scrolling”, Max told you. “It’s not the only thing.”

The post below was enough to make your eyes go even wider if it was possible: Laurent Mekies to take over Red Bull CEO duties. Thinking that good things always came in threes, you scrolled again to see if there was a third part to this. And there was one indeed: Alan Permane promoted to Team Principal.

“You should’ve led with that! Just tell me directly next time!”

“You mean next time my team principal gets sacked?”

“Well, no! Now I don’t want this to ever happen again”, you clarified. “I like Laurent, way more than Horner.”

“You like everyone way more than Horner.”

“Can you blame me?”

Max shook his head with a laugh, already getting ready for your next words.

“Is Helmut Marko next?” You innocently asked.

There it is, Max thought. He should’ve bet on this question, certain that you would mention the other man whom you hated severely disliked.

“Guess you’ll have to wait to find out,” Max replied.

“So it’s a yes? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I always know things you don’t.”

“Well, I don’t like that.” You pretended to be offended. “Sharing is caring, especially when the info would make me happy.”

“I shared this one, didn’t I?”

“Barely”, you argued. “But now that I know, the celebrations can happen.”

“Should I be scared?”

“What? No!” Although your mouth denied it, the mischief in your eyes said otherwise. “Just thinking of opening the champagne, I don’t know.”

“It’s not even one in the afternoon.”

“We’re already late, then. Should’ve started drinking to that the second the news dropped.”

“You’re impossible”, Max said with a sigh.

“And still not drinking”, you added while making your way to the kitchen in the least subtle way.

Shaking his head with a chuckle, Max followed behind you. The bottle he had brought you was now abandoned in the living-room, and would definitely not be drunk by you anytime soon. Thankfully, you did not actually open a bottle of champagne as you decided to settle on some Champomy instead – Max didn’t even know that you had this in the kitchen, but he didn’t complain if it meant that you weren’t getting drunk before lunch.

After pouring two drinks, you gave one of the glasses to Max and raised yours.

“To the best breaking news in F1 this year!”

“Cheers to that”, Max said before tipping his glass in your direction and drinking its content.

As you quickly refilled your glass once it was empty, you thought about something.

“You know what’s everyone gonna say: did they fire him to make you stay, or because they already lost you?” You had seen the comments online, as people had been making theories for weeks before today's events had happened.

“They can speculate all they want, I'm not saying anything more than I’ve been saying during the past few races.”

“Well, I’m still going to wish you luck. They definitely won’t leave you alone during the next grand prix.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve been used to it for years. As long as I know, I don’t really care about people’s theories. Rumours are rumours for a reason,” he added with a shrug.

“Cheers to that, then.”

“I feel like you’ll cheer to anything now that you’ve started drinking.”

“Gotta finish the bottle now that it’s opened,” you told Max before winking at him. “I’m not letting it go bad.”

“Sure, that’s the only reason.” Even though Max rolled his eyes at your words, there was still a ghost of a smirk on his face. He could express his fake annoyance all he wanted, but he still hadn’t put his glass away nonetheless.

Even though Max’s first reaction when learning about the news had been far from celebrating it – Christian Horner was still the one who had helped him become a four-times world champion, he would still indulge you and not comment on it when you eventually told him that you were ordering a cake for the occasion.

He almost thought that you were going to throw a party, but you didn’t and just settled on texting Liam as well as Yuki to express your joy. Thankfully, it seemed to satisfy you and you were now ready to go on with your day as it was originally planned: packing for your well-deserved holiday with Max.

…..

You and Max had only been in Italy for a day and a half when you got the confirmation: Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz would once again play against each other in a Grand Slam final. You were currently on Max’s yacht, somewhere in Sardinia, as you had just witnessed Jannik Sinner win his semi-final against Novak Djokovic – a quick match in straight sets.

“Max!” You called as soon as the match had ended. You had stayed inside all afternoon to watch tennis – having first started with Carlos Alcaraz winning against Taylor Fritz – while Max had been resting outside and occasionally popping in either for a drink or just to check on you. “Max! Max!” Being too impatient, you left the comfort of the couch and went outside to find your boyfriend.

“What?” He eventually replied when he heard your footsteps approaching on the deck.

“He won!” You exclaimed, a bright smile on your face.

“Who?”

“Is the smile on my face not enough to guess?”

“Yeah, probably. I guess it’s Jannik, then?” Seeing you nod in excitement, Max couldn’t help but feel glad for you. Your joy was contagious, and he couldn’t not appreciate seeing you so happy. “He’s gonna play against the Spanish one, right?”

“Yeah, Carlos. Roland-Garros rematch”, you explained.

Max nodded to show you that he was listening as you then started rambling about the stakes of the match – something about a winning streak and haunted narrative – and how you wouldn’t survive if Jannik lost once again only a month after his previous match against Carlos. Now truly noticing how invested you were, Max had to interrupt you to ask the million-dollar question:

“Do you wanna go?”

“What?”

“The match,” he clarified. “Do you wanna go? I know you didn’t get to see their previous one, but I can try and get us tickets for this one – well, more like invitations.”

“It’s literally in two days.”

“So?” Max just wanted to hear you say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Because if you really wanted to go, he would have the jet ready to take you both to London in a heartbeat if it meant that it would make you happy – Max would do anything for your smile.

“We’ve only been here for a day, though. It feels like a waste to leave so early.”

“We’re not that far,” he stated. “Quick Sunday trip; we’ll be back here before you know it.”

“I don’t know…” You wanted to say yes, you really did. But this was supposed to be a peaceful holiday spent with Max. A way to take a break from everything that was happening outside, while you two would be in your own little bubble for a bit.

As you were internally debating with yourself, Max was simply watching you and waiting for your reply. He knew you. He knew you wanted to go, but would say no for his sake. And even if it would make you happier than ever to go see the match, he knew you also cared about being here with him.

“I’ll be fine,” you eventually said.

“Sure”? Max asked, giving you one more chance to change your mind – he would honestly accept you doing so on Sunday morning as he would definitely still be ready to take you to England until the very last minute.

“Yeah”, you confirmed with a nod. “We’ll watch it here, together. Just the two of us, away at sea. That way, no one will hear me screaming every time Jannik scores.”

“Okay, we’ll do that.”

“Now, move over. I need to catch up on my tan while there’s still sunlight.” A smile was back on your face as you nudged Max’s leg with your foot. Despite all the space there was on the deck, you still wanted to lie down right beside him and you wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Yes, ma’am.” Max rolled his eyes at your attitude, but he still shifted a bit to the side so that you could lay right beside him.

This is it, you thought as you felt Max put his arm behind you on the back of the sunbed. This was the peace and quiet you had both seeked out by coming here. The break you deserved. The rest that you had desperately needed.

Feeling more relaxed than ever, you closed your eyes. Basking in the sun’s warmth with the man you loved right next to you? Yeah, nothing could beat that right now.

…..

You thought that this – sleeping, eating, tanning, forcing Max to watch tennis, swimming, then doing it all over again – would be your plan for the next week and a half. But it seemed that Max had other ideas for the two of you.

On Sunday afternoon, Max told you to switch your bikini for an actual outfit. He didn’t explain why, and just said that there was a place near the coast that he had wanted to visit. Well, that was news to you. Max hadn’t expressed a wish to go to a specific location – especially one that wasn’t at sea – when you had planned your yacht trip, and you really wondered what it was about.

“You remember the final is soon, right? We can’t miss it, Max.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured you. “We’ll be in front of a screen to watch it, I promise you.”

A screen, he had said. Max had never specified which screen, so you couldn’t be mad at him when it just so happened to be a massive one that had been set up in the middle of a random village's square.

“Max, why are we here?” You asked him as you noticed the hundreds of chairs laid out in front of the screen.

Looking around, you started to notice more details – a kid with the Italian flag painted on his cheeks, a group of friends loudly chatting about aces and match points, an old lady showing off her parasol bearing the effigy of Wimbledon that she definitely had bought ages ago.

But the realisation came a couple minutes later, when the screen lit up and people gasped in excitement when a grass court appeared on it. If you had a ring to do so, you would get down on one knee here and now to beg Max to marry you – that’s how much you felt in love with him at that moment. Immediately turning to Max, who was harbouring a proud grin, you had to make sure you weren’t mistaking the situation:

“Is this for real?”

“Depends on what this is.”

“Maaax,” you whined as you dragged out the syllable. “Are we really watching the final here?”

“Yeah, we are.” Taking your hand, Max led you between the chairs before he found ones that were still free. “Figured it could be nice to take advantage of the fact that we’re in Italy while the country’s champion is probably playing the match of his career.”

“Well, he is.”

Turning around to look for the origin of the unknown voice, your eyes met the ones of the woman who was sitting behind you. She looked around your age and, noticing the same thing about you, she gave you a warm smile.

“Sorry to interrupt”, she said before standing up and dragging her chair on the ground to now sit on your right. “I guess you guys aren’t from around here?”

“You’re right”, you replied. “Just here for a holiday.”

“Makes sense. It’s not a race weekend, so…” When she saw Max tense at her words behind you, she chuckled. “Relax, it’s such a tiny village here that either no one realises who you are or they just don’t care. Today is all about tennis anyway.”

And just like that, you now had a best friend for the next three hours. After introducing yourselves to each other – even Max had done so, you then spent the entire match talking. Max would throw in a comment or two from time to time as he was loosely following your conversation with your fellow tennis fan, but he mostly just listened. He could hear the smile on your face every time you would highlight a good point, and was more than happy whenever he did see it as he sometimes turned to look at you.

He couldn’t help the way his expression softened every time he glanced your way, as he noticed how your eyes lit up and how your grin never faltered. Max had never been a huge tennis guy himself, but for you? He would sit through a ten-hour long match if needed – yes, even if George Russell’s face would keep appearing on the screen every now and then.

And when the match eventually ended with the Italian coming out on top, that’s when Max knew bringing you here had been one of the best ideas of his life. Because the way you stood up, screaming so loud that you almost could lose your voice over it, was probably one of the happiest Max had ever seen you – maybe even happier than when he would win a race, but he didn’t mind.

The square erupted in cheers. Everyone hugged, no matter if they knew each other or not. There were no strangers today; just fans of the same sport, united by a shared joy. Even Max ended up in random group embraces from all around, which you laughed at when you noticed him patting a couple guys on the back.

People danced, drank, sang, and celebrated all evening the win of their national treasure. The atmosphere was easily rivaling one of a Ferrari podium at Monza - Italians knew how to party, there was no denying that.

And amongst the noise, you had eventually found solace in a quiet corner. Max was sitting next to you, a pizza on his lap from which you took a slice. You watched the celebrations getting calmer from afar, although there was still that feeling of euphoria floating around the square. You were still on cloud nine after Jannik’s victory, and you didn’t think that you would be able to forget that match – nor that day as a whole – anytime soon.

Later that night when you were back on the yacht with Max, you could only express your gratitude. Laying next to him on the bed, you turned on your side to face him.

“Thank you”, you quietly said as your voice was barely above a murmur. “You have no idea how much I enjoyed today.”

“I think I do”, Max argued as the memory of your grin flashed in his mind. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

“It was definitely more than just a good time. That was like– the best day of my life.”

“Better than Horner leaving Red Bull?” Max asked with a chuckle.

“Oh, for sure. That’s top five at least, but today was definitely top three.”

“What’s first on the list?” He wondered.

“Well, today was my favourite tennis player winning. But I think my favourite day is any day on which my favourite driver wins a race.”

“Sounds like a nice thing to experience. Any chance I know this guy who’s at the top?”

“Maybe”, you teased. “He’s the guy whom I’ll get to kiss within the next thirty seconds to thank him for that wonderful day.”

“Seems like a very lucky man.”

“He is. And he has a girlfriend who also feels very lucky to have him”, was the last thing you said before closing the gap between you and Max.

The kiss wasn’t a heated one, nor was it one that would be leading to anything more tonight. But it was one in which you were pouring all the love you felt for Max, one to express how much you were grateful and thankful for him. Despite not going all the way to England to witness the match with your own eyes, Max had wanted to find an alternative that was as good – if not better if someone were to ask you – and that would still enable you to experience the joy of sharing this spectacular moment with others. And the fact that you had also been able to spend that moment with him? Well, that was definitely the cherry on top.

You had known for a while that Max was the love of your life. But today more than ever, you had felt so seen and so cherished that you knew. You knew you never wanted to ever let him go, and you could only hope that it was the same for him.

…..

By the time you got back to Monaco, you felt so disconnected to everything that you were almost forgetting about coming back to the real world. You knew you only had a couple days to enjoy at home before it would be time to fly to the Belgian Grand Prix. So as you were nearing your building, your only wish when entering the flat was to keep relaxing.

However, it seemed that it would probably be impossible. Because when you and Max made it inside, you realised that you weren’t alone. And you got confirmation of it when you reached the living room. While Gabriel was setting the table, Ollie was standing behind the couch as he hopped channels. Without a care in the world, Jack walked past you with a pot. As if everything was completely normal, the Aussie just smiled at you.

“Welcome back!” He said with excitement before putting the pot down on the table.

“You guys are early”, Liam complained as he had just arrived from the hallway with the vacuum cleaner in his hands. “I thought we had more time.”

“It’s fine, though.” Isack was following behind Liam while looking down at his watch. “We did most of what we wanted to do in record time.”

Now starting a group conversation together, the rookies were still acting as if it was normal for them to be here. Meanwhile, you and Max were speechless. Eventually, you broke out of your trance and interrupted them.

“Guys, what the hell are you doing here?” You could’ve asked more nicely, but there wasn’t time for that right now. “I want an answer, quick, as to why you thought you could break in and enter our flat.” You weren’t mad, but more like dumbfounded at their presence.

“Well, you gave us a key.”

“Correction, you gave Kimi a key.” Gabriel’s tone was sharp, as he looked at the youngest driver with daggers in his eyes. “Which I’m still not understanding why him and not me.”

“The key is for emergencies only”, you reminded them. “And we gave it to Kimi because we figured that him living in Italy would prevent any of those living in Monaco from getting in whenever they wanted.”

“But apparently, it seemed like Kimi wasn’t the best choice.” Max’s eyes were fixated on the Italian, as the meaning behind his words were obvious.

“Wait, no! I’m sorry”, Kimi apologised. “They forced me!” He then claimed while pointing at the other rookies in accusation.

“You little shit…” Ollie’s eyes were wide at the realisation that Kimi would betray his friends so easily. “As if you weren’t immediately on board with the idea of surprising them!”

“Everyone just stop talking now”, you ordered. With a sigh, you ran your fingers through your hair as you thought about your next move. “We came back here with the idea of relaxing, and I don’t want to waste all the other relaxing we did while on break. I’m giving you one chance to explain how long you’ve been there, exactly what you did in the flat, and why you believed that it was worth using the emergency key for it.”

Opening their mouths all at the same time, the rookies were ready to explain themselves and individually plead their case. Already sensing the chaos that it would lead to, Max prevented them from talking as he raised his hand.

“Not all at once,” he clarified. Scanning the rookies, his gaze then settled on one of them. “Jack, I trust you to be quick and concise.”

“Y–yeah”, he said before gulping from the pressure Max was putting on him. “Okay, so we knew you guys were coming back today because that’s something you told us after Silverstone. Meaning well, we thought it would make you guys happy to come back to a clean flat and a dinner ready because we imagined that you weren’t going to be motivated to take care of that after just being back from a holiday. So we all arrived around noon to dust everything” – Jack pointed to the vacuum in Liam’s hands – “do your laundry, buy groceries, prepare food” – he then pointed to the pot he had brought from the kitchen earlier on. “And yeah, that’s it.”

All nodding in agreement, the others were backing up Jack’s words. They really hadn’t thought that it would lead to that situation, but they were now realising that maybe it hadn’t been their brightest idea. While silently waiting for you and Max to come to a conclusion – you two were currently having a telepathic conversation to decide the next step, the rookies were sweating from stress.

Eventually, you finally broke your eye contact with Max and faced the rookies.

“We can’t argue that this isn’t super sweet of you to do all that for us.”

“But we weren’t joking around when we gave one purpose to the key,” Max added. “We’re willing to let you keep it, as long as we can be sure to trust you.”

Not knowing if they were actually allowed to speak up yet, the rookies chose to just nod in confirmation.

“We understand that this was supposed to be a surprise, and we do appreciate the effort.” Deep down, you were actually really happy to come back to a clean home and a dinner that honestly smelled delicious. “But next time, just tell us beforehand.”

“Even if it’s supposed to be a surprise?” Isack asked, his nervousness still obvious.

“Yes, even if that defeats the sole purpose of it. I love them – and you, but I’d feel more comfortable knowing ahead of time that people will enter the sanctity that is our flat.”

“The flat is sanctity, okay.” Making a mental note, Ollie nodded at the new knowledge that you really valued your home.

Thinking that the rookies had now all understood what you and Max had been unhappy with, you decided that it would still be nice to enjoy what they had taken time preparing for you.

“So, what’s for dinner? I hope you didn’t trash our kitchen to make a Michelin-star course”, you teased.

“Oh no, don’t worry. We kept it pretty simple”, Gabriel reassured. “You guys can enjoy what is definitely the best pasta of your life.”

“And I would know”, Kimi bragged.

“We also made a chocolate cake”, Ollie said. “And we bought fruits to keep it healthy – there’s some fresh juice in the fridge, by the way. What did we put in it, again?”

“Banana and strawberry in the first one”, Gabriel reminded. “And then, it’s peach with apricots in the second one.”

“You guys made a feast, okay. Well, what are we waiting for to eat?”

“Wait, the sauce! Oh my God…” Suddenly remembering about the last ingredient that hadn’t been ready yet when you and Max arrived, Jack panicked at the thought of it having burnt while you had all been talking. Soon coming back with a smaller pot, Jack sighed in relief when he looked at its content. “False alarm, sorry.”

“Now, you two are ready to eat. And we can finally leave you alone in peace,” Kimi announced.

“What do you mean alone?” Max wondered. “You did all that to not even spend the evening with us?”

“We didn’t want to impose”, Liam explained. “You two can have a nice couple’s night in.”

“I think you already did impose, though. Also, we spent the last week and a half just the two of us so we might enjoy some company.”

“Really?” The rookies marvelled at your invitation, excited at the prospect of spending some time with you and Max.

“Yeah, go sit before we change our mind.” Max motioned to the table, before he decided to get more plates and cutlery from the kitchen as he had just noticed that Gabriel had only set the table for two.

Now over the moon, the rookies all thanked you and Max for being so comprehensive and generous. They couldn’t believe that they were somehow getting away with it, and they now knew to never abuse your kindness ever again – the emergency key would definitely never be used again outside of its original purpose.

So much for relaxing at home, you thought before taking a seat between Isack and Liam. Playing grid mum hadn’t been part of this break at all – you had only planned to take back this function in Spa, and not earlier. But as you looked around the table, you realised that the situation simply felt comfortable and familiar. It was just easy to be there, at home, with Max and the rookies. It was the first time that they were actually all here together, and you didn’t think that you would now be able to have it any other way. The flat wasn’t made for a whole family – especially one as big as the one you had ended up with – but the way the space was filled with chatter and laughter as you were all cramped around the table, just felt natural.

Maybe your family was slightly chaotic – and a bit dysfunctional as Max had said a couple weeks ago – but you wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world, because it was your weird not so little anymore family.

..........

Taglist: @umm-i-love-u @callsign-mirage @freyathehuntress @elieanana @suns3treading @fastandcurious16 @l3thal-l0lita @urmomsgirlfriend1 @guacala @delululeclerc @st4r-girl-official

Thank you for reading, hope y'all enjoyed this one🫶🏻

I really like this chap bc i felt like i hadn't written enough ab the relationship w max compared to the dynamic w the rookies, and I'm glad ab how it turned out bc i just wanted to highlight how much of a green flag max is in this fic

Draft for the next chap (spa & budapest) is slowly but surely being written + i have 2 fics almost finished that i hope to post soon - one is like 90% done and the other is halfway done I'd say (idk if I'm being too confident mais osef😭) so stay tuned for those!!