Lilou

never asking jack for a favor ever again

the ring debacle

do a flip

the heels/club/bad bunny incident

do not kiss jack abbot

april fools prank

you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are?

he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

this is not just a series — this is a world. this is out of body experience for morgue girl ( and the reader ). this is a life-altering. this is a soft cinematic universe built from spilt coffee, sterile fluorescents, and jack abbot's absurdly soft hands wrapped around someone who didn't think anyone would take care to notice. this is GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS .

CHAPTER ONE — NINE ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 18.9k words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink and a single earth shattering kiss.

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIX .' caught in the cold

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVEN .' cold hands ⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHT .' left out in the cold ⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINE .' let in from the cold

CHAPTER TEN — NINETEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting hottee

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TEN .' heat source ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 001

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ELEVEN .' heat on contact ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 002

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWELEVE .' after the heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THIRTEEN .' heat in your hands

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOURTEEN .' the sound of heat ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 003

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIFTEEN .' held in heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIXTEEN .' heat flash ( coming soon )

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN .' heat bitten ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 004

⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN .' heated words ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 005

⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINETEEN .' heat of the moment ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 006 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 007 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 008

˚₊‧ 𐙚 THE APPENDIX ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ NIGHT SHIFT — MORGUE NOTES

˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part one ˚₊‧ 𐙚 part two ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part three ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames from jack ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames for jack

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  main masterlist ||| more jack abbot ||| inbox

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

You wake up hours later, disoriented, in an empty bed. A fleeting memory flits through your mind—Jack’s warm fingers brushing against your cheek as he slipped away. The space beside you is still faintly warm, so he hasn't been gone long.

You stretch slightly, feeling a subtle easing in your body. The fever fog that has haunted you has thinned; your joints still ache, but the pain has softened, and when you sit up, the room no longer tilts or sways.

You pause, bracing yourself for a wave of discomfort or dizziness, but nothing comes. Instead, you let out a slow breath, one you hadn’t realised you were holding.

You're through the worst of it.

The house is quiet, just the low hum of appliances and the faint, comforting clink of ceramic from the kitchen. Carefully, you swing your legs over the side of the bed. You move slowly, but steadily, bare feet padding across the floor. Each step feels deliberate, like your body is reminding you not to get cocky.

Jack stands at the counter, already dressed and wearing his prosthetic. He’s poured himself a cup of coffee, and as you enter the room, he looks up at the sound of movement. And for half a second, his face gives him away—relief, clear and unguarded—then it's gone, smoothed into something calm.

"You're up," he says.

"Don't get too excited," you reply, voice still scratchy but more robust than it was yesterday. "I can stand. It's a low bar." You slide into a chair before your legs can argue otherwise.

He huffs a quiet laugh and slides a steaming mug of coffee toward you without a word. You wrap both hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into your palms.

It’s easy, for a fleeting moment, to imagine afternoons like this—shared silence, coffee waiting, and Jack attending to you with a casual care that feels immensely significant.

You don’t let yourself stay there.

“I should head back later,” you say lightly, attempting to downplay the heaviness in your heart. “Ride out the last of it at my place.”

Jack’s response is immediate. “You don’t have to,” he says. “You can stay. At least another day.”

The offer lands heavily, its weight tugging at something tender and overworked inside you. Your heart, still fatigued, protests at the effort it takes to ignore it. You swallow the instinctive ‘yes’ that threatens to escape and instead paste on a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Thanks, but I should probably check that my roommate didn't leave the oven on all night," you say, trying to keep the mood light. “Or if she left the window open again. Last time we had pigeons. Plural.”

Jack studies you over the rim of his mug, his eyes measuring something unspoken between you. His gaze searches yours, weighing whether to challenge or let it go, but in the end, he relents.

"Let me take you home at least," he says. It’s phrased casually, but there’s something firm underneath it. It's not a question.

You open your mouth to protest—I’m fine, I can order an Uber—then close it again. The truth is, you’re still tired. Still a little shaky. And part of you doesn’t want to be alone quite yet.

“Okay,” you say finally, a reluctant acceptance creeping into your voice. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

The drive is quiet, only broken by the soft murmur of radio hosts drifting from the speakers. The city moves past the windows in soft blurs of grey, and you watch as familiar streets slide by. Jack drives carefully, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console.

"You feeling okay?" he asks, glancing at you briefly.

“Yeah,” you say, the answer forming more easily now. “Tired, but feeling significantly less like death.”

He exhales something almost like a laugh. “Good.” A pause. Then, he adds quieter. “I’m glad.”

When he pulls up outside your building, neither of you moves right away. The engine idles. The moment stretches.

“Thank you. For taking care of me,” you finally say, breaking the silence.

His gaze flicks to you then, steady and sincere. “Anytime.”

Hesitating for just a moment, you reach for the door and push it open before doubt can worm its way back in. The brisk air outside is colder than you expect, a stark contrast to the warmth inside the car.

Jack waits until you’re inside before pulling away.

Up in your apartment, the quiet feels amplified, almost overwhelming in its emptiness. You set your bag down, lean back against the door, and take a moment to breathe, grounding yourself. You close your eyes, trying to centre your thoughts, but your chest feels inexplicably tight.

You tell yourself he was just being kind. That it’s natural to feel concern for someone unwell. That people were watching in the ER. That that’s why he drove you home.

You struggle to find a suitable excuse for him bringing you to his house, for staying, for the way he watched you breathe like it mattered. Every explanation circles back to the same fragile word.

Kindness. He was just being kind.

You repeat it in your mind like a mantra, over and over, until the syllables lose their meaning and no longer feel true.

Over the next few days, you recover in slow increments. The coughing dulls, the chills fade, and your voice gradually starts to sound more like your own. Jack checks in daily—nothing dramatic, nothing heavy. Just simple texts.

How’s your head? You eating? Take your meds?

You respond honestly, but you don’t share the emptiness of your apartment or how you keep replaying the comforting weight of his arm around you, or how nice it felt to be taken care of.

By the time your next night shift rolls around, you’re functional.

Not great. Not fully recovered.

But upright. And breathing. And pretending that’s enough.  

Pretending is your forte after all.

“You’re back!” Parker sidles up beside you at the hub, eyes flicking up to the board before landing squarely on you with evident relief. “Thank god.”

Your brows knit together as you turn to face her, arms crossing automatically. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t bother to mask her frustration. “Abbot’s been a nightmare to work with,” she says. “Distracted. Snappy. I swear he was checking his phone every two minutes. He even had Lena hold onto it just in case he was busy.”

You blink in surprise. "Oh."

Parker gives you a look. “I’ve never seen a guy so worried about someone with the flu,” she continues. “And that doesn’t even cover the day you came in sick."

Your stomach does a small, traitorous dip.

“Don’t know how you managed to sneak that past him,” she adds with a grin, clearly misreading the situation, and thinking you snuck out of the house after he left. “But he was a wreck that night. Total mess. He even had Robby come in hours early so he could go home to you.”

Oh.

You hadn’t known that.

You quickly school your face into a neutral expression and reach for a tablet, grateful for the excuse to redirect the focus away from this conversation. “I don’t think he was that worried,” you say, aiming for casual. He couldn't have been. It was probably just an act to keep this lie going. “It was just the flu. He wasn't that worried."

Parker hums, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You shoot her a look. “Well, I'm back and I’m good.”

“Good,” she says brightly. “Because I can’t handle seeing his worried little frown all shift. It’s upsetting. And frankly, it kills the vibe.”

Before you can respond, the speakers crackle. Trauma alert. Heart attack, mid-50s.

You glance up just as Jack strides in beside you, already attuned to the urgency of the situation. His gaze flicks to you—quick, sharp—assessing your readiness. When he sees you standing steady, tablet in hand, colour back in your cheeks, he visibly relaxes; the tension in his shoulders eases just the slightest bit.

“You good?” he asks, low.

“Yeah,” you assure him. “Promise.”

He nods once, satisfied enough to move on, but not before his hand briefly brushes your elbow—grounding, unnecessary, and comfortingly familiar.

The call unfolds smoothly. You and Jack work seamlessly together, slipping back into an easy rhythm. He hands you the BP cuff before you ask. You anticipate his questions, fill in details without stepping on his toes. When the patient winces, Jack’s attention is split—half on the monitor, half flicking to you, like he’s making sure you’re not pushing yourself.

You catch him doing it. Again and again.

“I’m fine,” you murmur under your breath at one point, adjusting the IV line with practised hands.

“I know,” he says just as quietly. “Humour me.”

The patient notices, too. Gives you a knowing smile. “You two work well together,” he says.

Jack answers automatically. “She's a great doctor.”

You can’t help but notice Bridget, hovering on the periphery, biting her lip to suppress a smile as she watches the interaction unfold.

Later, as you clear the call and step away from the rig, Jack finally exhales fully, tension releasing from him. He looks at you like he’s been holding something in all shift.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

Rolling your eyes, you can't help but feel fond despite the annoyance. “I survived. See? No hovering required.”

A hint of a smile escapes him.

In the middle of a week already testing your patience in every possible direction—work, roommate, sickness—fate decides to push a little harder.

It’s a wet, freezing, grey evening, the kind that makes merely existing outside feel like punishment. You’re regretting your decision to venture out even more when the bus gives a sickly sputter, then a series of choking gasps, before it finally dies.

It's not your stop. Not even close. After a few excruciating minutes of anticipation, the driver announces in a weary tone that they’ve experienced an “engine failure”—an official term that translates into your language as: get out, everyone, and good luck finding your way home. And for you, this means: you’re in deep trouble.

The emergency stop is in a neighbourhood you only recognise because you’ve looked up ER wait-times here once (long live study procrastination)—long, loud, not exactly the sort of place you want to be stuck alone in after 6 PM.

People scatter toward the nearest bus stop, but the next bus won’t arrive for an agonising forty minutes, and the Uber wait-time is an excruciating hour. You can almost hear your wallet wailing at the thought of the fare while your sanity threatens to unravel completely. Staring at the useless little map on your phone feels futile as you weigh your options—and your desperate situation.

Reluctantly, you call Jack.

Not because you want to, but because you’re desperate. It’s his night off, and with his work-life balance already dangling by a thread, the last thing you want is to turn him into your personal rescue service. You already feel like you intrude on every corner of his life, but you have no other options, and you really, really cannot be late.

He answers halfway through the first ring, his voice warm but tinged with alertness. “Hey,” he greets, instantly gauging that something’s amiss. “What’s wrong?

“I, um…” You pull your bag closer to your side, acutely aware of the scattered figures around you. The sidewalk feels emptier with each passing moment, only a few souls left waiting for their rides.

“Could you… can you come get me?”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end. “Where are you?”

You give the cross-streets.

Dead silence follows.

“Why the hell are you there? I thought you were working tonight?” he asks—not loud, just tight.

“I am. The bus broke down,” you mutter quickly, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine, it’s just—my next connection doesn’t come for forty minutes, and I’m going to be late, and I—”

“Stay where you are,” he commands immediately. There’s a jangle of keys, a shift in movement that speaks volumes. “Don’t walk around. Don’t move. I’m coming.”

The line clicks shut, leaving you to hug yourself closer against the chill. Ten long, agonising minutes stretch out, headlights gliding over puddles while you fidget anxiously. Then, finally, his car pulls in sharply, stopping with a slight skid. Jack is out before you have a chance to fully rise from the bench, and his expression—God, he looks furious.

“What the hell is this commute?” he demands as you slide into the warmth of the car. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

You fasten your seatbelt, the click sounding louder in the tense silence. “It’s not always—”

He slams the door harder than usual, takes a breath, and dives into the driver’s seat, shutting his own door with a similar intensity. His jaw clenches and flexes as he starts the engine. “This is a forty-minute detour from your normal route,” he states as he pulls out into traffic.

You stare down at your lap, your heart sinking as you feel his eyes flicker toward you, searching. “You do this every night?” he presses.

No answer.

"Every morning?” His voice is edged with concern now, but you’re unsure what reaction the truth would elicit.

Jack exhales heavily. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

"I'm sorry for calling you," you murmur.

“Hey.” He glances over at you, and in his eyes, the anger begins to dissolve into something softer. “No, no. Sweetheart, I’m not mad at you. You can call me anytime.” His tone softens as he pulls onto the main road, still moving quickly but with more control now. “I just—if I’d known it was like this, I would’ve driven you.”

You try not to read into it. But God, it’s hard not to. The car hums, steady under his hands as he turns towards the Pitt. He drives a little slower now, like his pulse has finally caught up. The car hums around you, warm and steady, and the small coil of panic in your chest loosens.

The road smooths out, streetlights streaking past in lazy lines. Jack drums his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel before letting out a resigned sigh. “You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “You're really living up to your nickname, Trouble."

You blink at him, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Wow. So this is my fault?”

“Obviously. This screams personal vendetta."

You nod solemnly, playing along. “I did sense a hostile vibe from the engine.”

He shoots you a look that’s both incredulous and amused. “Don’t joke about engines. Too soon.”

“Sorry. My bad.” You pause. “But if it helps, when the driver said ‘engine failure,’ I briefly considered standing up and yelling, ‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’”

Jack groans. “I would’ve left you there.”

“Untrue. You’d have rescued me and pretended not to know me.”

“Hmm, I don't know about that,” he replies, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

Another light. He brakes a little harder than necessary, then catches himself.

“You scared me,” he admits, the weight of his words hanging between you.

You swallow, the openness of the moment catching you off guard. “Sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

Silence looms, but you power through it, not wanting to let the gravity of the situation linger too long.

“Good news, though,” you say brightly. “If we’re ever in a zombie apocalypse, I now know three main exits and one suspicious alley to escape down.”

He exhales a laugh through his nose. “That’s… comforting.”

“I bring value to this partnership," you tease, the tension easing just a touch again.

He shakes his head, a reluctant smile breaking free despite the circumstances. “Next time, I’m driving you. No buses. No apocalypse training on my watch.”

You grin, sinking back into the comfort of the seat. “Look at that. One near-death experience, and I get upgraded transport.”

“Don’t push it,” he says, but there’s warmth in it.

The car keeps moving, steady and safe, and the night suddenly feels a lot less hostile.

The email hits your inbox at 3:20 PM, right as you’re dragging yourself out of bed for another night shift—brain fuzzy, your soul hovering somewhere between awake and asleep, but notably more intact than it’s been in a week.

The lingering ache of being sick has mostly packed up and left; no fever, no bone-deep exhaustion, just the manageable, familiar tiredness of someone who works nights and makes questionable life choices. Enough that Jack has finally stopped hovering at work, no longer watching you like you might keel over if you blink too hard.

Your roommate, Talia, insisted on playing the same Sabrina Carpenter song on repeat most of the morning, so instead of sleeping, you’re now able to recite it word for word—backwards, if necessary—in multiple emotional tones.

Still, you feel… mostly good. Functional. The kind of okay that means you can make it through a shift without medical supervision or concerned looks from a certain doctor who pretends not to worry and fails spectacularly at it.

The email lands like it knew all of this and thought you can't have it too good.

HR Follow-Up Required — Marriage Verification & Cohabitation Status

You stare at it. At your wall. At the email again.

Then you text Jack.

YOU: Did we accidentally commit another policy violation in our sleep or something?

Jack: Not unless you fought another patient on my day off. It’s a follow-up. 5:50, outside HR.

You groan into your pillow, drag the covers over your face in a last, futile act of protest, then roll out of bed anyway.

Your rubber band waits on the nightstand. Picked by Jack after someone in the ER clocked your conspicuously ringless fingers and decided it was a topic for public discussion. You slip it into your bag.

Your real ring—the one you both picked out in a haze of exhaustion and bad coffee and… something else you refuse to name—slides onto your finger instead. It settles there, familiar, grounding.

Just in case HR demands proof, like some medieval marriage inquisition complete with torches and sworn testimony.

When you arrive at the HR office, Jack is leaning against the wall, his hair still damp from a stress-induced shower, you guess. Yours was.

Seeing you, his posture relaxes slightly. “You good?” he asks.

“No,” you reply flatly.

“Good. We’re on the same page.” He opens the door, his shoulder brushing yours in a fleeting moment of solidarity. The fluorescent lights inside still buzz like they’re trying to warn you to turn around. You ignore them.

Gina looks exactly the same—professional, rigid, already tired of this. "Doctors Abbot and Y/L/N,” she nods curtly in acknowledgement. “Let’s proceed.”

You and Jack take your seats, your knees bumping lightly beneath the table—light, steady contact. You don’t move away. Neither does he. You're too tired to ponder its meaning.

Gina lifts a thicker folder this time, the heaviness of it mirroring the weight in your chest. “We’ve reviewed your submitted documents. Everything looks good. However…”

Ah, the dreaded ‘however’.

“…We require further information.”

Jack nods politely. “Of course.”

She flips open a checklist that looks like it was designed specifically to ruin your week. “First point: cohabitation.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of the word, but you manage to maintain a composed expression—tired but neutral, a facade you've mastered over the last few weeks.

“You currently still list separate addresses,” Gina continues, her tone brisk, leaving little room for interpretation. “Given your marital status, this discrepancy raises concerns for the COI committee. You mentioned last time that you were moving in together—can you provide us with an estimated move-in date?

Before you can gather your thoughts or swallow your rising panic, Jack interjects with a measured tone. “We’re still finalising logistics.”

Gina’s gaze sharpens, her brow slightly furrowing. “I’ll need you to have a date by the end of this week,” she presses. “To avoid any complications with your submissions.”

A whole week. Luxurious. Generous. Insane.

Jack's jaw goes tight. “We’ll have a date by Friday.”

You steal a glance at him, but he doesn’t meet your gaze—his focus is locked on Gina. But, his knee presses more firmly against yours, a silent gesture that tells you he understands the weight of the situation, that he’s right there with you.

“Good,” Gina says, like she’s assigning homework, not deciding the fate of your careers. She tries something resembling a smile to soften the air, though it feels forced, and her eyes drift to your hands. “May I see your rings?”

You're not sure whether this is part of the interrogation or just her attempting to show interest like normal people do. Either way, it feels weird.

Jack, steady as ever, raises his hand. You join him, your hand trembling only slightly, thankfully. The weight of the ring feels suddenly heavier under her gaze.

“Looks good. Please ensure you’re wearing rubber substitutes in the ED.”

With that, she flips open another folder, “We’ve reviewed the documentation you previously submitted,” she says.

You and Jack exchange a subtle glance.

“Your timeline and personal statements have been added to the file,” she continues. “However, the COI committee has some follow-up questions due to the proximity and supervision overlap.”

Jack’s posture stiffens, a flicker of concern ghosting across his features. “Such as?” he asks carefully.

Gina slides a page across the desk. “They require supporting evidence.”

Your brows shoot up involuntarily. Supporting evidence? For a marriage? Is this HR or Homeland Security?

Gina leans forward, her tone clinical. “Photos together that predate the marriage. Proof of joint decision-making. Any texts or emails that chronicle the evolution of your relationship. And most crucially—documentation confirming your living arrangements moving forward.”

Jack maintains his calm facade, but the muscle in his jaw twitches, betraying the storm of emotions beneath. “What kind of documentation?” he asks.

“A signed statement of cohabitation,” she states. “Along with the new shared address and the date of your move.”

Your brain short-circuits. This is no longer theoretical. No longer a loophole or a technicality. It’s real, sharp-edged and official. This was supposed to be temporary, and now you have to move in together. Just the thought sends you spiralling into a desire to crawl under the table and vanish.

“We’ll handle the administrative updates,” Jack replies.

Gina nods. “Please do. The committee expects everything to be submitted by the end of the week.”

Sure. Why not? What’s next? A home visit to validate your life together?

With a finality that echoes throughout the room, Gina closes the thick folder. The sound is solid, final—an exclamation mark on this unsettling discussion. “That’s all.”

Relief washes over you, and you nearly exhale the tension you've been holding since you walked in.

You leave the room, and the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a wave of uncertainty washes over you. Your knees wobble slightly—not to the point of collapse, but enough that Jack instinctively catches you by the elbow, concern etched in his features. “You okay?” he asks, his tone laced with genuine worry.

“I mean… define ‘okay.’”

He huffs a tiny laugh. “Fair.”

“She wants a move-in date this week,” you say, the weight of the situation settling heavily between you.

“Yeah,” he concurs, nodding. “But let’s not forget the silver lining—she also complimented our rings,” he says, his expression deadpan but the corners of his mouth betraying a smile. “A rare gesture of goodwill. I think I’ll frame it as a keepsake.”

You snort, unable to suppress your amusement. It’s a surprising relief to laugh with him at a moment when everything feels overwhelming, and the walls seem to close in around you.

At that exact moment, a nurse walks by. "Oh! Congrats again!” she beams, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You two are seriously the cutest couple." Her gaze shifts to you, and she winks, adding, “I know quite a few people who were disappointed when they found out you snatched up this guy.”

You catch Jack’s reaction—the abrupt stillness in his posture, the way his chin dips slightly. For a fleeting moment, you swear you see a hint of colour bloom on his cheeks.

You smile politely, trying to brush off the compliment. “Thank you,” you say, though it doesn’t quite capture the flutter of uncertainty in your chest.

As the nurse walks away with a cheerful grin, you and Jack lean against the wall. He mutters, half-joking, “We’re doomed.”

You shake your head, trying to inject some lightness into the air. “We’re improvising impressively,” you counter.

He raises an eyebrow at you.

With a nudge of your shoulder against his, you offer him a playful look. “Hey, at least you know you still have options after the dust settles.”

His jaw ticks. He looks ahead and doesn't answer, besides a low hum. You arch a brow. Interesting reaction, but you know it's probably just because he doesn't want to discuss that with you.

Perhaps it forces him to think about what he’s giving up by continuing this charade with you.

You let out a resigned sigh. “Shift?” you suggest, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Shift,” he agrees with a solemn nod. “And afterwards… we need to talk about moving in. Properly.”

At the mention of the impending conversation, your heart performs an Olympic-level flip in your chest. You strive to keep your voice steady and calm. “Okay.”

He nudges your shoulder again as you walk toward the locker rooms—light, casual, and seemingly unnecessary. To anyone observing, it might appear as a friendly gesture. But to you, at that moment, it means everything.

The shift unfolds like it always does.

A string of traumas. A combative patient. Two codes. An endless, relentless stream of congratulations you’re both too tired to deflect. You hope those die down soon.

By the time dawn bleeds through the skylights, your scrubs smell like antiseptic and coffee, you’ve run on adrenaline fumes for hours, and your brain feels soft around the edges. Most of the ER is in the slow-motion limbo between night and day shift. Lena passes by, calling a soft, “Good work,” like she can smell the burnout steaming off your body.

Jack is at the hub, leaning on one forearm as he signs off the last chart.

That blank post-chaos expression sits on his face—the one he only gets after he’s run entirely out of adrenaline and is operating on quiet, stubborn will.

You drift over, shoes dragging on the tile.

He lifts his gaze as you close the distance, as if he’s perpetually attuned to your presence. “You okay?” he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Think so,” you say, though the weariness clings to your words. “And you?”

His nod is small and automatic. A lie, but a polite one. You can read the truth in the way he stands too rigidly, how he leans onto his left leg to alleviate the strain on his prosthetic.

“Come on,” he murmurs, logging out. “Let’s escape before someone congratulates us again. I'll drive you home.”

“Bold of you to assume we’ll make it all the way to the parking lot unscathed.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he mutters, guiding you toward the door with a soft nudge against your shoulder that feels suspiciously like checking whether you’ll topple.

You’re too tired to pretend the proximity isn’t comforting.

In the hallway, a nurse from the day shift calls, “Congrats again, you two! Seriously, cutest couple in the department!”

You both resist the impulse to react besides a polite nod, maintaining your pace.

Jack murmurs, “I wasn’t aware we’d entered a department-wide popularity contest.”

“Oh, but we’re winning,” you say. “Easily.”

“I regret everything,” he replies, but there’s the faintest smile in his voice.

You hit the parking lot in dawn light that feels too gentle for the night you’ve had. Both of you move like your skeletons are one millimetre out of alignment.

Jack unlocks the car, and you slide into the passenger seat, grateful for the warmth of the seat heater already cranked up. For several streets, silence envelops you, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine and the soft jazz emanating from the radio. You lean back, allowing the warmth to seep into your sore muscles, letting the quiet settle like a blanket.

He glances over, breaking the silence. “You’re quiet,” he observes.

“So are you.”

“Because if I start talking,” he says with a half-smile, “I might fall asleep mid-sentence.”

You give him a look. “Extremely reassuring from the person driving the car.”

He glances back. “You still have energy to sass me. That’s comforting.”

“I can sass and be half-dead," you argue. "It’s called multitasking.”

His mouth twitches, almost forming a smile, but faltering as exhaustion tugs at him. He exhales, a long, deliberate breath—revealing that his thoughts are churning beneath the surface.

“So,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “about what Gina said.”

You focus intently on the windshield, tense anticipation coiling in your stomach. “The unified household thing?” you ask, bracing yourself.

“Yeah.”

Your stomach tightens—not panic, just the weight of this is happening whether we prepared for it or not. When the two of you agreed to this ruse, moving in had not even been at play. And now, you have to lest the lie gets caught and your life gets ruined.

The sun glints off the steering wheel. Jack turns it with one hand, the motion easy and tired and familiar. “We need one address,” he continues, a trace of seriousness creeping into his voice. “A real one.”

“Right,” you respond, nodding slowly.

“And we need it soon.”

"Mm."

“And the logical choice is—”

“Your place,” you finish for him, your breath hitching in your throat. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the space between you, the warmth of the car, and the way your chest feels impossibly full.

You can feel his gaze on the side of your head. “Your roommate is…” he begins.

You make a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “A menace to public safety,” you supply.

“That’s one word for it," he chuckles, shaking his head.

You trace a foggy line on the window with your finger. “And you live ten minutes from the hospital," you add, weighing the pros and cons in your mind.

He nods once. “I do.”

“And you have… space," you acknowledge.

“Yes." Then, after a beat, he adds, lower, “And I don’t mind sharing it.”

He really needs to stop speaking like that. It makes your heart trip, stumble, crash, the whole shebang. He taps his thumb against the steering wheel, a tiny nervous gesture you rarely catch from him. “Doesn't hurt,” he adds, “that you might get actual sleep there.”

So, he had overheard you complaining to Shen about Sabrina earlier. Or maybe he just knew it from your dark circles. Either way, he's right.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light. Sunlight spills over both of you. You look at him—really look. Tired. Messy hair from the shift. That soft, worn-out fondness he doesn’t realise is written across his face whenever he looks at you right after dawn. Or maybe you’re imagining it, but you let yourself have this one for once.

“I don’t want to upend your life,” you say.

He huffs softly. “It’s not an upheaval.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” you retort, brow furrowing.

“It’s honest.”

You study him, heart racing, seeing him in this moment—tired, soft around the edges, his focus on you showcasing how much he truly cares.

This was supposed to be temporary.

And yet. The decision settles in your chest, warm and inevitable. Of course, you’re moving in with him. There was never any other option.

“Okay,” you finally say, attempting to sound casual.

He turns to you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. “Okay?” he echoes, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

“Yeah.” You give a slight shrug, as if the decision is obvious—a simple matter of practicality. “Okay. Your place."

Something unknots in his shoulders—a slow release he must’ve been holding since the HR meeting.

You add, turning your head to avoid his face, "Just for a bit—I'll find somewhere to stay after this is over.” You don't want to see the relief he must be feeling after hearing you saying that.

You can feel his gaze on you but the light changes and he faces forward again, turning the wheel. "You can have the bigger closet,” he says casually, like it’s nothing at all. Like he didn't hear what you said.

“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not taking your closet.” You won't be there for long so it doesn't make sense to rearrange his entire life for a couple of months.

“Then we’ll share," he counters, his expression unwavering.

His suggestion makes your pulse quicken. “You’re impossible,” you murmur, shaking your head with a smile.

He's dead.

Gol D. Roger, captain of the Roger pirates, your captain, is dead. Pierced through the back by the Marines like a pig for slaughter, a death unworthy for someone of his rank. He deserved to live a long life, drunk on rum, surrounded by his friends and crewmates, before being finally laid to rest in a casket and shipped off with the waves as per tradition.

As chaos ensues and all hell breaks loose, his corpse remains on the same stand where he met his end, left to roast in the warm sun. At the very least, he did not leave this world without flipping one last bird at the Marines.

His final words leave such a domino effect upon the witnesses, one that will last for years to come. Sailors, pirates, men, women, and children all head toward the vast oceans in a hurry, ships pushing off the docks at record speed as they prepare to hunt for his legacy. To claim his title for their own. A title he earned and subsequently put up for auction.

The Marines were hoping that his death would mean the end of Piracy, but as though fate itself had something else to say about it, it had the exact opposite effect.

You're not moving with the swarm of people. The race goes on, but you do not. 

You're still standing in the same spot as you were when you watched the officers drive their spears through your captain's back, having ceased to function as you saw the man who practically raised you, succumb to the same fate that claims all in the end.

Even as people are pushing their way past you, shoving you in God-knows how many directions on their way to the oceans, you can't find it in you to move on your own accord. 

The world has gone deafly quiet now, everyone else is gone, and you're its sole occupant now. Despite the unrest going around, and the wind that brushes against your neck, Roger's last words echo in your ears like the whispers of a ghost.

"Wealth. Fame. Power. I found everything this world has to offer. Free yourselves! Take to the seas! My treasure is yours to find!"

Someone - whether accidentally or not - thrusts against your stomach, and you take a tumble to the ground. The world finally perforates your consciousness, yet it leaves you exposed to its chaos. You attempt to stand up, but the ongoing movements from all around halt your efforts. 

You raise your arms to shield your face from further damage, suffering several pairs of feet and a handful of scratches from the crowd. Nothing too bad, but you don't dare to try and get up just yet. Your initial plan is to just stay put until the storm is over.

That is, until you hear a voice calling your name from somewhere in the crowd, muffled by the ruckus, but still audible for you to make out among the many others.

"COME ON! HURRY!"

You're hastily pulled up to your feet and collide face-first into a chest. Looking up, you only manage to register Buggy's hand tightly clenched around yours in a near-painful hold as he pushes you both through the ongoing crowd. 

While trying to navigate through the masses, you raise your head to gaze at his face.

Not unlike your own, his eyes are stained with tears.

------

Nothing is in its correct shape when you blink your eyes open. For starters, the room is spinning at an incredible speed, and for seconds, there is twice of everything. Two coats are hanging on the rack just on the edge of your vision, the same color and length and everything. You discover you have two pairs of hands and feet as you sit up, and at least over a dozen iron bars are separating you from the rest of the room.

In a minute or two, your sight establishes yourself. The world has become one again, but to your chagrin, you discover that the number of bars caging you remains the same. 

Shaking off the dizziness and nausea that accompanies your waking, you get up to your knees and discover that, once again, you're fucking trapped. This time, it's in a metal cage hanging off the floor by a hook and chain, swinging you lightly back and forth with each fraction of movement you commit yourself to. 

Exhausted from simply waking up, you clash your forehead against the bars. "Shit."

"Well, good to know that your colorful vocabulary remains the same."

You snap your eyes up to see Buggy striding into the room, and your gaze immediately narrows.

"And your eyes." His right hand dislodges itself from his wrist and hovers over to you with an outstretched finger, where it lands right in the space between your eyes. "Sharp as ever, if not even sharper. Careful, you could kill someone with those."

"Wishful thinking," you murmur indignantly and raise your hand to wave off the offending appendage. Like a fly will with sugar, it merely withdraws for a few inches before returning to the same spot. 

You elect to ignore it as best as you can.

He feigns a horrified gasp at your words and clutches his chest with his remaining hand. "Such harsh words! I thought we were friends, you and I. I mean, what kind of friend would threaten the other with their life so cruelly?"

Friends? That's rich coming from him. You haven't considered him as such since the day he left. You won't even dignify that with a response, and so you merely turn your head to the side and rest your cheek against the bars.

His voice lowers a few octaves, enough for you to differentiate between the real him and the act he puts on for a performance. "Then again, what kind of 'friend' leaves the other behind?" His footsteps come closer, each one weighing heavier than the last. "What kind of 'friend' abandons the other?" 

Your eye twitches, but you still refuse to look at him, much less speak to him.

"What?" the Showman farce has by now ended and been buried as he takes one last step forward. "Nothing to say? I'd thought that after twenty years, you'd be happy to see this handsome face."

As much as you want to admit that, yes, the years have done wonders on his face and he most definitely would've been categorized as 'handsome' in your dictionary, you don't. 

"What do you want me to say?" You tilt your head marginally to the side so that merely one eye is aimed at him. "That it's good to see you? That I've missed you?" Even though both of those statements are true to some extent, he doesn’t need to know that.

"Well, I could go for all of the above if you insist on being cordial, but for starters, an apology might suffice enough on its own." If you weren't already looking at him, you'd think that he’s joking. He isn't. He’s as serious as a heart attack, and he’s not smiling this time. All you can think at the moment is that it's strange not to see a clown smile.

"An apology?" You withdraw the impulse to scoff. "What, exactly, do I have to apologize for?"

He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he doesn’t do or say anything at all. You can't even hear him breathing, and it’s twice as eerie as his general demeanor. It's a foreboding omen that signifies he's on the edge of his temper like a bomb sizzling just before it goes off. 

"What do you have to apologize for?" he echoes.

That's all the warnings you get before the cage rattles with enough force to knock you back against the other side of the cage. Buggy's hand curls around the iron bars with such vehemence that it almost looks like he's about to break them right off the hinges.

He leans forward until his nose barely brushes against the cold steel placed between you, his bright-blue eyes near-bloodshot with the way they glower. Even now, with the few feet between you, you find yourself almost drowning in those blue irises of his. 

"You left me. You betrayed me!" he shouts loud enough for his voice to reverberate throughout the room, all thoughts of maintaining his composure thrown out the window the moment you inadvertently admitted your own cluelessness. "Just like all the others! Shanks, now I could've predicted that, but you?"

His hand dislodges yet again to point an accusatory finger at you, but it maintains a safe distance this time. Probably afraid of what you'll try to do with it if you get your hands on it. 

You have to give yourself some credit. You've not lost your temper once since you ended up here. In your adolescence, you would've torn him a new one fo the trouble, but you can't be bothered this time around. You’d have thought two decades of separation would’ve led to some pent-up fury like it has done to him, but all you feel is … well, nothing.

Nothing yet, anyhow.

"What you did to me, now that was cruel. That was something I did not expect, but you did it, and for what?" The cage continues to shake as his fingers dig into the rods. This time, you observe, he’s keeping his head slightly tilted downwards, rendering you unable to detect his eyes. "For Red-Haired fucking SHANKS!"

With all the movement going on in your limited space, you’re jolted forth again like a ball and cling to the front bars with your hand positioned right above his. Even with the gloves and the short distance keeping you separated, you can feel the scorching heat emitting from him.

How long has it been since you were last this close to him? It was underneath the stars, you unexpectedly recall. You were clinging to him, crying your heart out as the death of your captain had finally been processed. He was holding you close, whispering something you could not make out at the time.

It was during a time when it was just you, him, and Shanks. The three of you, against the rest of the world, ready to live up to Gol's legacy and become the Pirates of the New Age. With  Shanks’ leadership, your strength, and Buggy’s general unpredictability, nothing could stop you.

But now you're here, a captive. No longer a friend, no longer a... 

It never went that far, anyhow. No use bringing it up now when it’s hardly relevant. 

When Buggy’s raspy breaths slow down and his hold on the iron rods lessens, you decide to finally speak. 

"You're the one who left, Buggy," you say, your words laced with such apparent apathy that no one would’ve guessed what you’re feeling. In reality, you want to scream until his ears literally pop. 

Your chest constricts just to say it out loud, but you won't even stop and address the tremble that threatens to claim your voice the more you go into it. "I went with Shanks, because who else was I supposed to go with? The Roger Pirates were spread to the fucking corners of the earth, Gol D. Roger was dead, and you left. I had no one except for him. You closed that door, not me." 

Silence reigns loudly upon you as you're left there, nearly breathless after your little rant despite having kept your voice even throughout it. You feel pathetic, childlike, small. People say that admitting something is the first step towards overcoming it, but you feel neither achieved or relieved of any burdens.

You just feel ... small. As small as you were the day he disappeared from your life.

Buggy doesn't say anything, his countenance empty of any tell-tale signs regarding what he might be feeling. It's almost ironic. The man who used to wear his emotions on his sleeves, the same expressive man who used to spend hours bragging about his capacities and capabilities on the Oro Jackson, has now been rendered mute like a mime instead of a jester.

His eyes find yours again after an unknown amount of time, only now, it's not just bitterness and resentment you have to salvage from them. For a second, just a brief flash of the moment, there's something else. Something vulnerable. 

It goes as quickly as it came. 

He shoves himself from the cage, his indecipherable gaze – now laced with both anger and regret – lingering on you before he starts pacing around the room, having calmed down from his outburst but being no less agitated by the turn of events. 

"What are you talking about?" he demands, sounding a tad more curious now than accusatory. "You were already going to leave with Shanks before I booked it, I just beat you to it."

This time, it's your turn to point an accusatory finger toward him, lowering your voice just enough for him to hear you recount the most painful memory you have, save for Gol D.'s death. The memory you had spent almost two decades trying to bury deep down inside you. 

"The last thing you told me was that you wished that you'd never even met me, and then you fucking left me behind to go do who the fuck knows what. Which, apparently,— " You gesture to your surroundings with a dismissive wave of your hand. "— Includes enslaving people and keeping them in cages."

"Hey, people are allowed to have side-gigs!" he retorts, almost boyishly as if you didn't just have a serious argument moments ago. "Don't judge me! You used to steal shit when we were kids, but you didn't hear me bitching about it!"

You roll your eyes. Some things don't change, that being the childish bickering, not the enslaving and caging bit. Your lip inclines upwards for just a second, and it declines just as quickly. You lean back against the other wall of your cage and heave a breath, tired of it all

"Speaking of kids," he rests his arms atop a crate to his left. "What's up with you and Rubber-Boy over there? Luffy, was it?"

Your lip drops to a scowl. Looks like the kid's Devil Fruit powers have come to light, one fruit eater to another. "What about him?"

Buggy smirks and pulls out a knife from inside his coat. He turns it playfully in his hand, balancing the sharp edge at the tip of his finger as though in deep thought. "He yours or something? 'Cause, I gotta admit, I never took you as the white-picket-fence type."

He’s joking, right? 

Right?

"He's not mine.”

The look that befalls his face almost seems like … relief? He’s quick to mask it though with a half-assed smirk.

"No?" He tips his head to each side and lets the knife lie on the crate. "You sure as hell seem protective over him, and I know for a fact that not just anyone earns the favor of the legendary Cross-Hairs.” He puts a hand under his chin, feigning a motion of deep thinking. “What'd he do? Save your life? You found him in the trash? Or did you shag up with his daddy or something?"

You raise an eyebrow. "I made a promise."

At the mention of this, he promptly ceases with his ridiculous guesses and his words turn sharp. "To whom?"

"None of your fucking business." You're pretty sure that if he learns that you made that promise to none other than Shanks, he'd unleash a different kind of hell not even the death of Roger could hope to spark. 

Rather than pushing the matter, he shrugs with an air of indifference. "I just find it funny, that's all." He chuckles, but his tone lacks any visible sense of comicalness. "You, one of the most notorious pirates to ever cross the East-Blue, disappeared for a decade to do what, exactly? Look after a simple-minded brat who talks shit about becoming King of the Pirates." 

He snaps his attention back to you and moves closer to the cage again, crouching on his knees to gaze up at you instead. "Sorry not sorry to burst that little bubble, but that title will belong to me. Once I get the map your stretchy little runt has hidden, I will find the One Piece. I will become King. I will be known, and I will be loved."

("You were loved,") a part of you wants to tell him. The part that still lingers in your shared past. ("You were always loved.")

But you keep your mouth shut.

He perceives your silence as a sign to continue. "You know, despite everything that happened, I'm opening my heart to forgiveness, for old times’ sake."

"Forgiveness?"

He smiles, but this one, you discover, is genuine. At least, in comparison to all the other ones he's flashed you beforehand. It's a lukewarm feeling, but familiar. You're almost tempted to reach through the bars and feel his cheeks, trace the edges of his lips, and smudge away the red make-up just to know if it is real or just a figment of your imagination. 

"If you convince Rubber-Boy to hand over that map of the Grand Line, I might consider opening a special spot in my crew, just for you. I know better than anyone what you're capable of. Hell, it'll be just like old times, like nothing ever changed. You and me, against the rest of the world."

Slowly, he reaches his hand up and towards you through the bars, palm open for you to take.

"Don't you miss it?" he whispers, wistfully. "I do. Save for the One Piece, it's been the one thing I've wanted more than anything else."

You blink, and a feeling settles over your chest. Not uncomfortable per se, but not kind either. Like being enveloped by a warm yet tight blanket, staving you off the cold but suffocating you all the same. 

Your dream. You remember your dream. The one you thought gone forever, now seemingly resurfacing from the depths in your heart where it initially drowned. To travel and explore the seas, the three of you by each other’s sides until the very end. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Now, Buggy is opening up the possibility of that dream coming back to life again. 

You're tempted to take his hand, feel the warmth that once held you so openly when you were younger.

You raise your hand to him ever so slightly.

"Fuck, Rubber Boy can come too for all I care.” He proceeds to add. “He's a special case, and there's nothing I appreciate more than special ones." 

Your hand stops and promptly withdraws.

Buggy raises his eyebrows in shock, his fingers curling as they were about to grasp at yours only to find empty air. "What? What is it? What's wrong?" 

Luffy.

You shake your head. "He won't give up. He won't give up on his dream." 

"What, Rubber-Boy?" he scowls like the name itself tastes like bitter venom on his tongue. "He's just a stupid kid, he'll grow out of it. Once he sees that there's no way he would last in the Grand Line on his own, he'll get in line."

You take a deep breath, preparing for the confrontation that's about to come with your next words. "He won't, and no power or authority on this earth is ever going to be able to change that."

A flash of hurt crosses his facial features, only for a second, yet it feels like longer. Then, it stops, and all that's left is the same bitterness he showed that very day.

Snarling, Buggy pulls his hand back and gets back up on his feet. “I should’ve expected this. You never choose me!" he flares and pulls both his hands to his chest, gesturing to himself. "It's always someone els- Always someone fucking else. First Shanks, then this damn brat! Why?" He briefly pauses, as if weighing his next words. "What did they ever do that was so special that you decided to stick around for them that I didn't do?"

You’ve just about had enough of his self-pitying attitude. 

"I never 'chose' Shanks!" you hiss back at him. "It was never a choice. Why was I supposed to 'choose' anyone for that matter? What made you reach the conclusion that there had to be a choice at all?!"

He parts his jaws to answer with what you can only expect to be yet another sneer when the curtains behind him parts, and a member of the troupe enters. A dark-skinned man with a Mohawk of sorts, with filed teeth resembling a shark more than a man.

"Boss, the kid ain't saying nothin' about the map." The man ("Sharptooth", you decide to call him for now) says with a deep twinge of aggravation. "We're already at nearly thirty-damn-feet, and all the little shit does is fuckin' laugh at us."

Buggy does not even turn to address the man, his attention solely at you, but you can tell he's irritated by this interruption.

"Sharptooth" turns to you, having just realized you’re here. A sinister grin spreads along his cheeks, and he licks his upper teeth lecherously. "What do we do 'bout her? Is she up on the menu yet? I'm starvin'."

You crouch down, one hand positioned between your knees like a predator ready to lunge at the slightest movement. Truth be told, despite your reputation, killing someone has never been one of life's greatest joys for you, and it's been a while since you last committed a murder. However, the years have done little to weaken you, and you're not afraid to get your hands dirty if the situation demands it.

You'll be sure to let him know first-hand that if he dares to try anything.

"No," Buggy replies, voice void of any tangible emotions. "She'll snap your neck like a twig before you can get within a foot of her." He turns to face the disappointed performer, and before the latter knows it, a severed hand clamps around his throat and dangles him above the ground with what you can only expect to be a bruising grip. "I am, on the other hand, not limited by such proximity."

The man's face begins to pale as the blood flow to his brain is cut short, but the grip does not lessen at all.

Buggy speaks like he’s having a normal conversation. "She stays here, and no one, and I mean no one, is going to touch her. Understood?" His soft say leaves no room for opposition.

You watch as "Sharptooth" struggles to form a coherent sentence as he desperately clings to the hand keeping him afloat. "Y-Yes si— Yes, Captain. W-We won't!"

With a bored swish, the hand shoves the performer back a good two feet, where he crashes to the ground and clutches his neck in search of air.

"Splendid!" Buggy attaches his wrist back and claps his hands together, his Show Man act replenished. "Now, be sure to tell the others of that little fact, and while you're at it,—" he draws his palms away from one another in a straight motion. "Add another five feet."

The crew member wastes no time shuffling from the ground and all but books it out of there.

Buggy heaves a deep and dramatic sigh, exaggeratedly slumping his shoulders, and swings back to you again.

"Supporting casts, am I right?"

You don't bother with a reply.

He takes this with a lackadaisical shrug. "Now, as much as I'd like to continue this intriguing, little tête-à-tête, I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere. The show must go on, but I’ll come back before you know it."

It doesn't matter when he'll be back. You don't plan on waiting for him. You've already waited twenty long years, and as your temper simmers evenly under your skin, you intend to get one thing across.

"Just remember this, Buggy," 

You lean against the bars, pressed so tightly that it feels like your body is about to push through the narrow gaps. "If you do anything to the kid, anything at all, and you can consider our past six feet under. I'll come after you, and when I'm finished,—"

Fist clenched; you deliver a solid strike to the bar that rattles throughout the room to the point where it feels like even the ground is quacking from the force. Buggy jumps a few steps back in retreat, and when he looks up again, his breath halts. 

Where there was once a straight bar keeping you contained, there's now a prominent curve pointing out towards him. Not nearly large enough for you to squeeze through, but it's there, nonetheless.

When you lower your fist, knuckles red but intact, you finish your warning. "— Not even your Devil-Fruit powers will manage to keep you intact."

His eyes flicker between you and the now-deformed iron bar. Unexpectedly, he only stares, neither returning a threat nor even a joke to ease the tension. He doesn’t say anything at all, and the absence of words leaves nothing up to interpretation.

Buggy knows better than anyone that you don't make half-assed threats. Never you. Once you’ve set your eyes on a target, you don’t rest. He recalls the look of pure bloodlust in your eyes from back when you were young. It was neither cruel nor sadistic, but it felt cold to witness. Ice incarnate. 

A predator just following its prime instincts.

Whenever someone posed a problem to either you or your crew mates, you would counter it with a threat. It didn't matter how bold-faced it sounded, you always made sure to see it through. 

As a teenager, he begrudgingly thought that it was hot as hell. You were. Watching the way your eyes would almost glower as you made good on your promises, it did things to him.

Now, even when he's on the receiving end of it, it still does.

He can't deny that the feeling hasn't diminished. For what it’s worth, it means that you’ll keep your focus on him. He’ll have your eyes, all for his own now. Those very eyes, always so sleek and ready to cut and by God, he realizes at that moment just how fucking much he’s missed them.

How much he’s missed you.

“Ladies and gentlemen the race has been red-flagged. Start procedure has been delayed by race control until further notice as the drivers head back to the pits behind the safety car.”

“Sam, we’re headed back to the pits. The race has been red-flagged, start procedure is pending” Floyd’s voice rang through her radio. 

She tried not to sound upset when she responded, but she was. It was the first race back since the summer break and as much as Sam tried to forget about everything that happened the last time she’d stepped foot in the paddock, she was immediately reminded the second she walked through the turnstiles. All Sam wanted to do was get back out on the track and drive those 44 laps to take her mind off everything 

Which she still planned on doing… just at an undisclosed amount of time from this moment. 

Her car came to a stop in front of the McLaren garage, and from her side view mirror, she saw the HAAS mechanics flood towards it, putting up the tent around it to dispel some of the rain as they waited behind the safety car for a possible restart of the race. 

Sam kept her visor down and leaned her helmet-clad head against the headrest, closing her eyes and trying anything to not think about her weekend in Hungary. 

But of course, with her luck, the bright orange garage was to her right, and the car containing the singular person she was trying to avoid was parked right in front of her, so with the familiar noises of the paddock thrumming through her ears and everything she was trying to hide from seemingly surrounding her on all sides, it was all she could bring herself to occupy her thoughts with. 

It’s almost as if she could still see the neurotic shade of orange through her closed eyelids. But there was nothing she could do to escape it while she was sitting in the car stuck in the pitlane. The orange car in front of her, the building to her left: all this orange was starting to give her a headache. 

Sam could feel the headache forming once the bright orange hospitality came into her view up on her right. She tried her best to pick up the pace. Things with Daniel had somehow gotten more awkward since the incident in Silverstone. 

She hadn't spoken directly to him since she left the hospital that night. Of course, the video of her and Daniel on the floor of the hotel lobby had gone viral. That meant when the schedule came out for the Thursday press conferences before the Hungarian Grand, she just so happened to be put in a room with Daniel. 

From their points of view, the two drivers had tried their best to seem like everything was normal and not awkward whatsoever. But in reality, they still hadn’t had a proper conversation with each other about their so-called hatred for each other, seeing that Micheal interrupted them.

 However, the intense emotions surrounding the whole incident had since worn off, so both Sam and Daniel had assumed they had both had a lapse of judgment and there was nothing to talk about. So acting like professionals, they got through the press conference and went their separate ways. 

It’s like they had gotten so used to hating one another, it felt weird to even slightly act like they were on good terms with each other. The allergy incident didn’t erase what each of them assumed the other had done, and both Sam and Daniel knew that. 

So when she saw Daniel walk out of the McLaren hospitality from the corner of her eye, she tried her best to act like she didn’t see him. 

She kept walking, headphones adorned on her ears, loud bass echoing through her head, and eyes aimlessly trained on her phone as she pretended to busy herself. 

But of course, she could feel Daniel start to walk directly next to her. Sam tried her best to act as though she hadn’t noticed, yet he made that pretty hard. Out of her peripherals, she could see him talking despite nobody else being around. 

He looked a bit odd, but he must have been confident enough that Sam would eventually talk to him…

Sam tried to subdue the roll of her eyes, but the scoff still managed to make its way out of her throat. Still walking, she paused her music and peeled the headphones off her ears, and turned to look at Daniel, who was triumphantly smiling now. 

“Need something?” she asked trying to keep this interaction as short as possible. 

“Nope,” Daniel shook his head but continued walking beside her. 

She reached for her headphones to put them back on her head, but Daniel interrupted her. 

“This feels vaguely familiar, doesn’t it?”

“We just happen to be walking to the parking lot at the same time, Daniel. Nothing special” Sam matched his nonchalance with ease. 

Daniel pretended to be deep in thought before responding. “Nothing special? So does that mean you didn’t almost fight my teammate today?”

Sam looked back down at her shoes as they walked, trying not to let out a little laugh. She shook her head and looked at the stretch of the paddock in front of them. With ease, she explained, “We made contact on Lap 1, I finished the race and bagged some points, but he didn’t. I get away with taking him out of the race without any of the blame. No punching needed.”

She shrugged and Daniel dropped his chin to his chest, trying to hide his grin— a grin she hadn’t seen in a while. Sam, along with everyone else, had noticed Daniel had been struggling this season. It was widely known that Lando hadn’t exactly made his transition to McLaren much easier, or been too keen on being kind about it, which she assumed made today's race results the slightest bit more satisfying. 

That’s why she figured Daniel just looked different. His toothy grin had managed to reach his eyes, which Sam noticed almost immediately after the race. After poor performances in the past, she could tell his smile was for show; it was hard not to. 

“I can see it on your face you know,” she started knowingly. Daniel looked at her, raising a brow in confusion but letting her continue. “Those points taste a whole lot sweeter with Lando DNFing, even if you don’t say it out loud”

Silence. Daniel didn’t have an answer to give her. Of course, he knew the answer, he just didn’t want to admit to her that she was spot on. Besides, he didn’t want to believe that she was able to tell. Was he that obvious, or was she just good at reading people?

He tried to change the subject. “Any plans for later? Celebrating a great finish for both HAAS drivers?”

Sam scoffed, “I stabbed you with an EpiPen, that doesn’t mean you need to make awkward small talk with me now.”

This time, Daniel let himself laugh. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy stabbing me, Sam”

She turned to look at him and replied sarcastically, “Oh yes, I think about it constantly. All the time. Every night I dream about it. But normally it’s with something a lot sharper and bigger than an EpiPen.”

“You’re just absolutely delightful, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been called worse,” she shrugged at Daniel’s irony. He let out another chuckle and halted to a stop. It took Sam a second to notice he stopped before she stopped as well, a few feet in front of him. 

She stood and looked at him, waiting for an explanation or even for him to say something. A mischievous smirk began to grow on his lips, which Sam knew meant trouble. He took a few steps closer to Sam and then mumbled, “Oh I could think of worse things to call you, but I was trying to be nice. For your sake, of course.”

As if it was a challenge, Sam took some steps closer to him, until they were nearly nose-to-nose, before she raised her eyebrows and responded with an invitation, “Well, by all means, Ricciardo, don’t hold back.”

Daniel looked down at Sam, their 3 inches of height difference not putting enough space between them. And before he could think twice, he said just above a whisper, “Once I start, you’re going to beg me to stop.”

Sam tried her best to not let her reaction show on her face, but her insides were lit up like a Christmas tree. She hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they were hot, but she tilted her head, unrelenting, and responded with bite. “I don’t beg. And if I did, I wouldn’t do it for you.”

The look on his face grew determined. “I’m gonna remember that you said that. You know, for a later date”

“Please, if I ever beg for something from you, you can have all my sponsorships and I’ll let you pass me every race start.” She shook off whatever was happening to her insides currently, and focused on how much she disliked Daniel… or at least, was supposed to. 

His expressions gifted to a delighted bit of confusion, but his smirk never faltered. “Is that a bet?”

“It can be” Sam followed with surely. 

“And what do I get if I win?” He stepped the slightest bit closer. 

“We can come back to that if it actually happens,” Sam said, patting Daniel’s arm before turning her back to him and continuing to walk to the parking lot. 

“What, no faith in my persuasion skills?” he called out after her. 

She turned back to face him, her headphones in her hands, and continued walking. “Congrats Ricciardo, you just made yourself a deal with the devil,” she shouted before turning back around, placing the headphones over her ears, offering him a wave, and making her way to her car, leaving Daniel standing there speechless with a funny feeling in his chest. 

A funny feeling erupted in Sam’s chest when George told her that he wanted her to come out and play a small game of soccer with some of the drivers— Daniel included. 

“Nope. I’ll stay here, thanks though,” Sam said unzipping her race suit and letting it hang freely around her hips. 

George gave her arm a playful slap, “C’mon, it’ll be fun! You don’t even have to talk to Daniel. I think Checo and Esteban are out there with him too!”

“Nope, not happening,” Sam was ignoring the driver's attempts at bargaining, putting on her coat, and securing her beanie tighter to her head. 

“He’s a good guy, Sam.” Everything George had said everything he could think of to try and convince her to come out and participate in the debauchery that was ensuing out in the downpour. She was all in until she found out Daniel was among the group. 

“He very well might be, but if Daniel is coming with you, then I’m not.”

“You’re being overdramatic,” George snorted. 

“Hey!” Sam shouted in offense, “I wasn’t even gonna tell you what happened, but you pried so much that I finally caved! The least you could do is be on my side!” She grumbled, folding her arms in a pout. 

George ignored her glare and continued honestly. “On your side about what! You haven’t even told me what happened in Hungary!”

“I just did!” She countered. 

“Saying your life is over doesn’t count. For Christ’s sake Sam, I only found out Lando telling you what Daniel had done because you were drunk in Ibiza right after Hungary! You’ve been acting weird since that race, so just tell me why! How am I supposed to help if I don’t know the whole story? I can see it’s still bothering you, so just spit it out!”

“You don’t need the details. I can’t go hang around Daniel right now. Not a chance. But you’re welcome to,” Sam tried to shoo him out of her garage, but then she mumbled under her breath, “Not sure why you’d want to though…”

George obviously heard her but thought nothing of it, “I want to because Daniel is fun! He could never hate you, Sam. I don’t think Danny could hate anybody if he tried!”

“Yeah well you should see the way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to explode your brain with his mind powers or something,” Sam grabbed a power bar from the table behind her and casually started to eat it like what she had just told George was obvious.

Perplexed, his eyes went wide and he let out a laugh, figuring that Sam was just trying to mess with him or get him to take her side. 

“No, he doesn’t! Danny and I are close friends!” 

Sam glanced up from her snack and gave George a snarky look. It was a look George had received from her on multiple occasions. In a way, it asked him “you can’t be serious?” and told him “you’re wrong” at the same time. 

But he knew Daniel, and even though they hadn’t talked much that season, George was sure Sam was making things up. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s true! He even gave me some of his merch last season!”

“When was the last time he talked to you?” she crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for his response. But as he opened his mouth to talk, she interrupted him, “When you didn’t start the conversation?”

He closed his mouth and thought about it. The longer he stayed quiet and tried to file through each of the few interactions they’d had this season, the more dumbfounded he began to look. 

Sam watched as his expression changed and decided to put him out of his misery. “George. You’re my friend. So I’m gonna say this in the nicest way possible. You’re wrong.”

Looking rather offended, he tried to find something to say in return. Sam tried to hide her laughter at the look of fear on his face and how George was desperately trying to hide it behind his assurance. 

“Fine, don’t believe me? Go down to the McLaren garage and talk with Lando and tell me if Daniel tries to talk to you.”

George’s eyes are wide, and he’d nodding frantically, “I will. And what do I get when I prove you wrong?”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh, “When you prove yourself wrong, you’re welcome to let me post anything from your camera roll on your Instagram account.”

With a flash of his middle finger, George turned and exited the HAAS garage. 

To pass time, Sam chatted with a few mechanics and kept herself busy with her music. 

Nearly 10 minutes Later, George came sauntering back into the garage, ducking out of the rain with his hands in his pockets. 

“Well?” Sam asked when George hadn’t said anything after a few seconds. She knew from his heavy head and lack of gloating that she had been right. It was difficult having to hide her wide grin, but she didn't want to say ‘I told you so’ too soon. 

He rubbed his chin in thought before throwing his hands to his sides with a groan. “What did I even do!? I could feel him staring daggers into my back, and if that wasn’t enough, I could see his death stare in the reflection in one of their camera lenses!”

“What did you do?” she asked rhetorically through a laugh, “You associated with me, that’s what!”

Sam kept laughing at how distressed George was but was never joined by him. Even if it took him a while, George could always find a way to laugh at himself, but something was stopping him this time. “Okay, you don’t look annoyed anymore, you look guilty. What did you do between here and the McLaren garage?”

“Promise me something first,” he winced. 

Sam was confused, but her lack of information made her anxious. Suddenly her jacket was too heavy and her beanie was too thick; her palms beginning to sweat. “I’m not promising to anything until I know what it is that I’m promising,” she defended. 

“Just don’t get upset, and hear him out,” George pleaded. 

“Hear who out? Please tell me you did not drag Daniel down here!” Sam tried to peek around him to see who he could possibly be referring to. 

“Not exactly...”

From behind the corner of the garage peeked out the upper half of Alex Albon. 

“Hi Sam,” he chirped, slowly stepping from behind the wall and under the shelter of the garage, stopping between Sam and George. 

“Get out of my garage” Sam didn’t hesitate. 

“Sam!” George blurted out in bewilderment like it was an unexpected response. 

She pried her eyes off Alex and turned to George, “I never promised,” she reminded him before turning back to the RedBull reserve driver. “Now get out of my garage, Albono. Before I get back into my car and drive it through your kneecaps”

Without breaking his gaze from that of Sam’s murderous glare, he stepped right outside of the covered garage, just behind the line where the linoleum met the asphalt

“I’m not in your garage anymore,” Sam rolled her eyes. 

“Just listen to what he has to say,” George nearly begged. 

She hesitated, weighing her option. “You have two minutes”

Alex checked his watch, “The race is still delayed for another 47 minutes?”

“Time is ticking, Albono,” Sam raised her eyebrows, challenging him. He knew if she was willing to give him the opportunity to apologize, even if it was only two minutes, he wanted to take it. Alex took a deep breath. 

“What I did was shitty. I get that. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. I knew you were going to get the call up to F1 sometime soon and I thought that with you out of contention for a seat, it opened up the possibility for me… Looking back I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn’t nearly as ready as I thought I was; I had no chance. And now… look who has the seat and who doesn’t. It’s ironic, really.” 

He laughed a bit, and then looked at George, who wasn’t laughing. So he stopped laughing, and with the slightest encouraging nod from his close friend, he went on. 

“I’m so sorry Sam”

She looked at Alex questioningly, taking in his apology, and then turned to George. “Did you put him up to this?”

George shook his head, “I swear I didn’t. He saw me headed your way and tagged along; told me what he planned to do on the walk back over here.”

Sam turned back to Alex, staring at him like this was an interrogation. He didn’t know what she wanted him to say, so he finished George’s story.  

“I thought if I had George with me you’d be a little more inclined to actually let me get a full sentence out, and maybe not rip my head from my body.”

She hadn’t said anything in response yet, so the two boys just stared at her expectantly, while she glanced between them. 

“So, are we cool then?” Alex nervously blurted out, the anticipation killing him. 

She hummed and then squinted her eyes like she was still contemplating him even standing in front of her. “Not entirely, but we’re a step closer. I appreciate the apology, Alex. It means a lot.”

He bid them goodbye and began walking back to his garage. But before Sam could start yelling at George for springing that on her, Rachel Brooks came up to the duo. 

“Mind if we do a little interview for F1TV while we wait?” She shook the microphone in her hand and smiled at the two drivers. 

“Well, of course, Rachel! We wouldn’t mind at all!” George said enthusiastically, thankful for the interview getting him out of a proper scolding from Sam. 

Sam agreed less excitedly, but with a smile nonetheless. 

And then out of nowhere, Rachel began to talk, “That’s right Martin. I’m down here at the HAAS garage with George Russell and Samantha Thompson. And I just saw Alex Albon leaving too! It’s like a party over here!”

The three laughed before the reporter continued. 

“How are you guys managing? Sam, you’ve got layer after layer on, looking a bit cold. And George looks like you’ve got an energy bar in your hand, you must be a bit hungry”

He nodded and fumbled with the snack in his hand, “Getting a bit peckish, to be honest. I had my lunch a few hours ago now, so if it does get underway, I wanna at least have a bit of food in my stomach.”

Sam smiled and put her hand on his shoulder and gave his chest a friendly pat that looked normal to the viewers, but was far too hard to be considered friendly— her payback for springing Alex on her like that. She ignored George’s muffled grunt from the impact of her hand and chimed in, “Gotta stay fueled if he’s gonna out-drive everyone and land on the podium. Just- just don't say peckish. People on podiums don’t say peckish.”

He shoved her hand off playfully and rubbed where her hand had made contact. “Hey, I don’t see you on any podiums!”

“Yeah, but I still don’t say peckish because I want to keep my dignity,” she shrugged. 

“Aren’t you two hilarious! Sam, does this mean you’re rooting for George today?” The microphone was pointed at her and a genuine smile found its way onto her face as she nodded. 

“I’m always rooting for my friends, after myself of course,” she turned to the camera filming the interview and gave it a wink before quickly turning back to Rachel, “but today’s a special one for Georgie here, so if we do get a race in today, I’m hoping he can capitalize on his great qualifying. Except, I am gonna be a little jealous if he gets his first podium before I do…”

They laughed again, a much cheerier interview than the gloomy weather surrounding them. But what George said next, thug it was intended to be light-hearted and encouraging, made Sam’s stomach sink. 

“It’s only your first year, Sammy. There’s plenty of time”

She tried to hide her sudden shift in her mood by laughing, and she hoped it was believable. Everyone just assumes that Sam has all this time left in Formula 1 because she’s performed so well in her rookie year. But they aren’t aware of the contingencies in her contract. 

She wished she could tell George, hell, she wished she could tell everyone, but she knew it wasn’t in her best interest. Because she’d already gotten one of three strikes; if she got two more, her career was done. No more second chances, no more contingency clauses, no more racing. 

So yeah, in a way she did have plenty of time, but all Sam saw it as was plenty of time to make the wrong people angry. 

It’s only her first year, she has plenty of time. 

“It’s my first year, I don’t have time!”

“No, it’s exactly the opposite. It’s only your first year, You have so much time! Race data can wait! You don't race again for another 2 months, Sammy! Just come out tonight!”

“If I apply your logic, then since it’s only my first year and I have so much more time in my future, that means that same time, could also be used to party. Crazy how that works,” she retorted. 

Normally, Sam never turned down a party. But seeing as last time she went out with friends from the paddock, she ended up strewn across the tabloids and with a strike under her belt… now she was tentative. 

Molly rolled her eyes, “Well if you’re not going to go, can I at least borrow your black purse?”

Sam nodded and grabbed her purse from her room. She handed it to Molly before grabbing her iPad full of her race data from this past weekend and headed towards the couch in the middle of their suite. 

“Geez, have you even cleaned this out since the last time you used it?” Molly asked, taking out the contents of the purse and putting it on the coffee table while Sam leaned back on the couch already engrossed in going over her data. 

“Not since Monaco, no. I haven’t gone out to any clubs since then, and that’s my club purse.” Sam couldn’t be bothered to look up from her tablet as she responded, not even concerned with what her best friend was pulling out of her purse. 

Molly rolled her eyes yet again before sorting through the contents she’d dumped on the table. “Yeah I can tell, there’s so much shit in here. Toothpicks, bottlecaps, gum wrappers, a crumpled business car with-- ew! With chewed gum stuck in it! Gross, Sam!” 

Sam laughed, “Oops, sorry”

“What else… lip gloss, crumpled cash, a hair band. I’m shocked there isn’t a condom or something—”

“Wait!” 

Sam shot up from her seat on the couch and reached for the pile of miscellaneous items on the table. She grabbed the folded card and tried to open it. Once she made it past the blue glob of hard gum, she was met with the embossed bull logo. 

“Holy shit, I forgot about this,” she handed the now gum-free card to Molly. 

She squinted, trying to read the working through the gum residue, “What is it?”

“Franz Tost, Alpha Tauri’s team principal, saw me at the bar in Monaco and gave me his business card, along with some cryptic message about possibly offering up Pierre’s seat.”

“How do you just forget about that!” Molly shrieked. 

“I had a lot on my mind, Moo!”

“I know, I know I’m sorry. Dumb question,” Molly launched herself at Sam on the couch, tackling her in a hug, “Sam this is incredible! A seat at the RedBull feeder team! Oh my god!”

Sam was laughing, as her best friend put all her weight onto her, “I haven’t even called him yet, don’t get too excited. He probably thinks I blew him off. That was weeks ago!”

Molly stopped laughing and looked at her sternly, “Samantha Jordan Thompson. Stop that.”

Sam gave her a confused look. 

“Take a second to step out of the fast lane and think about this,” Molly sat up and crossed her legs on the couch next to Sam, “Another team has seen your performance this season, and they want in. Everything you’re doing, everything you’ve struggled through, it’s all been worth it. Because even if you don’t end up leaving HAAS yet, you caught someone’s eye. They noticed all your work. It’s paid off.”

Sam smiled. 

“You can’t use my purse tonight”

Molly reared her head back with a little gasp and whined, “What? Why!? I thought that was a great pep talk!”

“It was. But what purse am I going to use if you're using my club purse?” Sam smirked and then immediately plugged her ears with how loud her best friend shrieked. 

Sam heard Molly shriek with laughter, a big contrast to the pain that was shooting through her own tailbone currently. 

Mick, Lance, Seb, and herself were in a heated HAAS versus Aston Martin two-on-two game of soccer in the middle of the pit lane. Two sets of spare tires were being used for goalposts as the rain continued to thrum down against the asphalt. 

With their raincoats on, and their hoods pulled over their heads, their awareness was really lacking. Sam had gone to take the ball from Lance, but not before he faked her out, causing her to slip on a wet patch of the ground and absolutely eat it. 

Currently, she was laying on the floor of the wet pit lane, rain falling onto her face as she laughed along with everyone. After reveling in the embarrassment for a moment— which she had no doubt was broadcast to the whole world— she rolled over and stood up, brushing herself off. 

She took a moment with everyone’s eyes still in her, and playfully bowed, as everyone clapped for her and laughed. 

“That’s it for me, boys. My limit is one embarrassing fall per match” she signaled she was done by moving her hand back and forth at her neck. The two Aston Martin drivers came over and said their goodbyes. 

Mick and Sam walked back under the shelter of the garage, the former taking a seat next to Molly who had been spectating. They grabbed their waters and shed their wet coats. 

“You’re gonna feel that fall tomorrow,” Molly laughed. Sam took a sip of her water, still standing next to her empty chair. 

“I’ll be fine,” she assured, shifting her weight from foot to foot, looking like she was in a bit of pain. 

Mick and Molly just glanced between their friend and her empty chair, and she stood uncomfortable, trying to hide the bit of pain on her face like nothing was out of the ordinary. 

He looked at Molly, and raised his eyebrows, a cheeky glint in his eye as he turned back to Sam. 

“If you’re fine, then sit,” Mick taunted, gesturing to the chair. 

Sam blew air through her lips, dismissing Mick’s suggestion. “No, we might be sitting in that car for who knows how long. I want to stand while I can. You know, keep the blood flowing.”

Mick nodded, acting as if he understood. Sam thought she’d managed to get away with it until he spoke up again. 

“Sit in the chair, Sam,” He looked back at her. She didn’t respond, trying to think if the throbbing pain in her tailbone was worth proving Mick wrong, “unless your butt is hurting too much...”

Both Molly and Mick let out a laugh as Sam rolled her eyes and walked off, returning a few seconds later with a cooling vest. 

She harrumphed before placing the vest on her chair, and slowly easing herself onto her seat to avoid any more pain. 

She relaxed back into the chair, the coolness already countering the soreness, and closed her eyes. 

“I’ll give you ten dollars if you step into the vest like it’s a diaper,” came out into the silence after a few minutes. Her two friends were laughing like schoolchildren, but Sam remained unmoved. 

Both Mick and Molly thought maybe she’d fallen asleep after she didn’t respond for a minute or so. 

“Make it $20 and you have a deal,” she smirked from where she lay with her eyes closed. 

More time passed, filled with bets paid, ice vest diapers worn, pictures taken, and pleas were made to cameramen to find a way to delete the footage of it. There were still no words from the FIA on a race restart, and the radar said there was no oncoming gap in the rainy weather. So the drivers and crew continued to find things to fill their time. 

The chaotic energy was radiating through the paddock. Drivers were doing the wave with fans in the grandstands, games of cards were played, and even more people were slipping and falling. Cameras from all different broadcasting networks hung around every corner, desperate to catch any of the shenanigans. 

One thing that caught Sam’s eye was a clip of the broadcast playing on the wall of the garage of Lando slumped over asleep in his chair. An idea immediately sprung into her mind. 

“Moo,” she said loudly so her best friend could hear her from where she stood putting Sam’s hair in french braids, “Do you happen to have your makeup bag with you?”

The woman nodded with a hum, “Why? Thinking of putting on a face for all these cameras?”

“Nope, I have a better idea”

Moo could practically hear the smug look on her face. 

“This is going to get me in trouble isn’t it?” she deadpanned, finishing the braid. 

Sam turned to face Molly, that smugness right where she’d expected it to be. 

“Of course it is, but that’s why it’s fun”

And that’s how Molly found herself handing over her black eyeliner to Sam, who was crouched silently in front of a sleeping Lando, attempting to gently draw on him without waking him up. 

Cameras were around, trying to capture the sight of McLaren employees surrounding the scene of the crime. Everyone was trying to stifle their laughter, and if it got even a little too loud, Sam would turn around and give them all a silencing, wide-eyed look, while trying to stifle her own laughs. 

The concentration on her face may have been far too serious for a simple prank, but Sam considered it a work of art, her finest piece to this date, even. 

As she finished her last bit of penciling in, she must have traveled too close to the underside of his nose, because his face began to twitch and he began to stir, mumbling a few incoherences. Sam shot up from her crouched position and shooed everyone away from the sleeping boy. They all turned around and acted like it was business as usual and nothing had occurred. As fast as she could, Sam grabbed Molly’s hand and they ran from the McLaren garage in a blur of white. 

They didn’t stop running until they were 3 garages away from the papaya eye-sore of a building, laughing so hard that Sam didn’t even notice Daniel as they crossed paths for a moment. More breathy laughter erupted from them as they tried to catch their breath, Sam wheezing out, “You were right, we gotta add more cardio.”

When Sam took her hands off her knees and stood up straight, she noticed they were standing next to the Alpha Tauir garage. Molly noticed how her eyes lingered. 

“Any word yet?”

Sam nodded her head, “He’s called me back twice. I’ve been too scared to answer.”

“Well,” Molly said gesturing to the team principal who had noticed them from the pit wall and was now taking off his headphones, “Now’s your chance. I’ll meet you back at the garage.”

Nervous, Sam approached the pit wall, and Franz Tost offered her a smile. 

“Good to see you, Samantha.”

She smiled back, “Good to see you too. Sorry I haven't been able to pick up your calls. I—”

“No explanation needed. I know contract talks can be a bit daunting.”

“So it is contract talks?” 

Franz laughed, “Of course it is. Your performance has been nothing less than impressive. I’m interested in talking through the possibilities and I’m not trying to overstep, but whatever any other team has offered, I’m willing to—”

“I haven’t been offered anything by anyone else,” Sam interrupted plainly. 

The surprise on his face was evident, and her honesty must’ve changed something in him because he switched to German. 

“Senden Sie mir die Informationen Ihres Vorgesetzten. Ich möchte ein ausführlicheres Gespräch abseits von hörenden Ohren führen”. Send me your manager’s information. I want to have a more detailed talk away from listening ears. 

Sam smiled and nodded, “Sicher. Ich freue mich darauf.” Sure, looking forward to it. 

He gave her a wave, which she returned, and took her time walking back to her garage, meandering over her racing thoughts. 

In an instant, everything around her started moving faster, getting louder, and Molly appeared out of thin air in front of her. 

“FIA just decided it was dry enough to restart the race. Ace is sitting on wets, engineers are standing by, the only thing we’re missing is you.”

Sam held her palm out to feel for the rain, which was still falling just more infrequently. “A full restart?”

“Behind the safety car, Now come on!” Molly yelled running off, Sam following quickly behind. 

“Come on! This is a great song!” Sam argued, trying to pull George off the seat he was currently occupying at a table with a bunch of other people from the paddock, in the club. 

“I’m not dancing with you anymore! You’re ruining my game!” He shouted back over the music.

“Your game? George if a girl wants you that bad, she’ll still come up to you if you’re dancing with another girl. We aren’t even dancing on each other! It’s harmless!”

George flailed his arms and gestured to the dance floor behind her. “That’s my point. It’s not the fact that you’re a girl, it’s the fact that you can’t dance! It embarrassing to be seen around those moves!”

She huffed and walked toward where she last saw her best friends to try and force them to go out and dance with her. 

“Mick! Molly! Come dance—” Sam pushed past two or three people to get to the table she last saw her best friends sitting at. But what she was met with was a very distraught-looking Molly, and an equally worried-looking Mick with his hand on her knee, sitting inches from each other, deep in conversation. When she made herself known, they jumped back from each other and looked at Sam like they’d been caught red-handed. 

“Oh, I totally interrupted something. Sorry!” Sam left laughing without letting them get a word in. She didn’t want to hear them try and explain what they were up to… she had a pretty good idea and didn’t need the gory details.

She walked over to the bar and looked for a dry spot to lean her elbows on. After a minute, the bartender walked over and she gave him a smile to signal she was ready to put in her order. 

“Tequila soda with lime, please,” she went to her purse to dig out her wallet, but she was cut off by a familiar Aussie accent. 

“Make that two, actually” Daniel handed the bartender his card from over Sam’s shoulder. The bartender nodded before walking away. Sam dropped her head into her hands briefly in frustration. 

Finally, she turned around to face Daniel, leaning back against the bar. “You are not buying my drink.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to beg me not to because I really, really wanted to…” Daniel laughed, referencing their conversation on the way to the parking lot that Saturday. 

“You’re impossible,” she pouted, turning back to face the bar. 

Daniel leaned his forearms on the bar next to Sam and flashed her a lopsided grin, “No, I’m chivalrous. Now, I bought you a drink, so I think that means you owe me at least 10 minutes of awkward small talk.”

She turned to face him, “I should get a ‘get out of jail free card’ for saving your life.”

“Sure, but do you really want to waste it on getting out of small talk with me at a bar? I could think of worse things. What if we’re even in a press conference together and you want me to fake a scheduling conflict? Oh, or what if one weekend during the driver's parade…”

Sam walked away from their conversation, leaving Daniel a laughing mess hollering after her. So when she returned less than a minute later with 2 barstools and a defeated look on her face, Daniel blinked at her, his lips slightly parted with confusion. 

She set the stools down, sitting on one and pushing the other closer to Daniel with her foot. His grin grew, flashing his teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

As if it was timed perfectly, the bartender dropped off their drinks. Without hesitation, Sam grabbed hers and nudged the stool an inch closer to Daniel. 

He grabbed his drink and sat down on the stool, looking at Sam like she was a magician and what she had done was the best piece of magic he’d ever seen. 

“So,” he started with a laugh, “come here often?”

A few hours had passed, and Sam and Daniel were still in the club. It was about 3 in the morning, but the crowd had only managed to get bigger. They’d drank, danced, joked and talk bout anything ranging from TV shows to embarrassing childhood stories, to past races. 

But they’d managed to skip over the one topic they were both dying to talk about. 

At one point, they’d been having such a loud, animated conversation, that they caught the attention of Molly and Mick from a few tables over. 

“Should we break that up before it gets messy? The last thing we need is their surprisingly enthusiastic conversation turning into a screaming match in the middle of this club,” she asked Mick as they stared at the strange occurrence playing out at the bar. 

Mick put hi hands up in surrender. “Hey, this is the first time I’ve seen them get along, I say we leave them be for as long as this lasts.”

That was two and a half hours ago. 

So now, it wasn’t until Sam’s phone started to buzz incessantly from her purse that she finally broke away from the conversation with Daniel. 

She stood, and walked over to a quiet corner of the club to answer the call from her best friend. “Moo! Why are you calling me inside of the same club!?” 

The music was still loud despite the quiet corner, so she was shouting regardless. Trying to hear better, she plugged the ear that wasn’t pressed up against her phone. 

“I’m not here! We all left like an hour ago! I’m just calling to make sure you’re still alive!”

It took Sam a second to process what her best friend had said. “Wait, you left without me? Why!?”

“I couldn’t find you! Lance reassured me you were with some trustworthy people from the paddock and that you’d be fine. But I hadn’t heard from you since so I’ve just been a little worried and—”

“Molly Barnes you’re forgetting to breathe,” Sam interrupted her rambling best friend. 

Molly took a breath and continued for a moment over the phone, but Sam zoned out into her own thoughts. Had she really been with Daniel alone for over an hour? She checked her watch. She noticed it’d nearly been three hours since he bought her that drink. And she couldn’t find one negative thing to say about those 3 hours? There was no way. 

“Yeah, uhm, we’re headed home right now actually. Don’t wait up. I’m pretty pooped so I’m gonna head right to bed. We can grab breakfast in the morning, alright?”

“I’m glad you’re alive. I’ll see you in a few hours. Hope you’re having fun!”

Sam laughed, “Bye Moo.” And with that, she hung up. 

Why didn’t she tell Molly she was with Daniel? Sam never lied to Molly… not unless it was a teeny tiny white lie for her best friend’s own sake, like when she got bangs when they were 18 but Sam told her they weren’t too bad, despite how awful they actually were. 

But why now? It’s not like she was ashamed to be around Daniel… Maybe she was embarrassed for always being so open about her hatred towards him, only to be caught enjoying her time with him?

Her heart lurched at the thought. 

She needed to get out of there. 

Sam walked through the crowd and back to the corner of the bar where she’d left Daniel. 

“Everything alright?”

She nodded and held up her phone. “Yeah, that was Moo. Apparently, everyone left over an hour ago…”

Daniel looked shocked, and immediately checked his watch, then pulled out his phone. 

“Yeah, Micheal texted me he was headed back to the hotel 45 minutes ago.”

And like that, it’s as if the bubble they’d been aimlessly floating in for the past three hours or so, clueless to the outside world, had burst. The awkwardness returned and their air was instantly heavy— for Sam anyway. Daniel still wore the same smile, nothing having changed for him in the last 5 minutes. 

“I should get back. She sounded pretty worried,” Sam gestured over her shoulder towards the exit, “It was good talking to you though, Daniel. Have a good summer break.” She gave him a weak smile, trying to push all her raging thoughts to the back of her head. Every minute that passed she began to get a little more overstimulated inside the club. 

It’s like she wasn’t in control over her own emotions anymore. One second she hated Daniel, the next she enjoyed his company, but then she was reminded she should hate him, and then she thought maybe she didn’t want to anymore— it was all too much!

“I’ll walk back with you. It’s not far and I should probably be headed back soon too.”

Sam hadn’t expected him to offer, but she was too overwhelmed with her thoughts to say now. So they grabbed their things, paid for their tab, and headed out the door. 

Daniel could tell something had changed on that call Sam had taken. He didn’t know what it was, but he was eager to find out. She never would have been able to tell, but Daniel was going through the same mental hokey-pokey she was. 

Yet, he seemed to be one step ahead of her. All the time they’d spent together these past 2 weeks had made Daniel realize he wanted to look past what he thought to be Sam’s wrongdoing and get to know her better. He wanted to go back to being friends. 

On the quick walk back, the streets of Budapest were quiet and the two drivers stayed rather silent. That was until they approached the entrance to the hotel all the drivers were staying. 

Sam turned to say good night to Daniel, and thank him for walking her back, but he beat her to the punch. 

“Are you sure everything is fine?”

Sam smiled and nodded, “Yeah, I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. Thanks again for walking me back.” She wanted to get up to her room as soon as possible, so if she could sneak in her goodbye here, then so be it. 

Daniel didn’t respond back immediately, he stood there looking at Sam with a small, worried smile holding back a thousand questions he wanted to ask. 

“What happened on that phone call that caused you to put those walls right back up?” Asking again wasn’t Daniel’s brightest idea, but he was sick of walking on eggshells around her all the time. He needed answers. 

“You’re ridiculous,” she rolled her eyes and began walking into the hotel and towards the elevator, not in the mood to be having this conversation right now. 

She could hear Daniel walking in after her, “Samantha, we were having a good time! We were tolerating each other. It was like chaperoning in Portugal all over again! But then you got that call and now you’re—” he struggled to find the right words.

“I’m what?” she turned around and interrupted angrily. Sam had pressed the button for the elevator and all she could do now was wait. And if Daniel was going to try to argue with her while she was waiting, so be it that she’d argue right back. 

He looked taken aback by her outburst but continued firmly. “You’re acting like all the progress we’ve made to become friends again just disappeared. Like— like you wake up out of your thoughts and realize this isn’t a dream. That it’s actually happening and it’s actually me you’re talking to. And you’re reminded that you hate me or something!”

The last part came out louder than he’d anticipated, and Sam just stood looking at him like a deer caught in headlights…. A very angry deer. 

Finally, the elevator came and Sam turned to step inside, immediately pressing the button corresponding to the floor she was staying on. Then she moved right down to the ‘door close’ button and began rapidly pushing it in hopes of leaving daniel in the empty hotel lobby. 

But the second Daniel heard the rapid clicking of the button, he used his quick reflexes to shove his arm between the doors before they could close all the way. As they reopened, he stepped inside and stood on the opposite side of the elevator from Sam. 

She stared ahead avoiding eye contact, as Dan locked his eyes on her. “The door close button? Real mature.”

Nothing. 

“Sam, just talk to me about whatever’s going on! Because this is exhausting.” 

The doors opened, and Sam darted out into the hotel hallway. Of course, her room was at the very end, which meant she had to endure Daniel’s unrelenting questioning for just a bit longer seeing as he followed her out of the elevator. 

“Do you even want to be friends with me? Or am I wasting my time? Because I really enjoyed spending time with you in Portugal, but if you didn’t enjoy it as much as I did, that’s all you had to say. You’re not going to hurt my feelings—”

“I never said that” she muttered as she stopped in front of her hotel room, digging through her purse to find the key. 

“What?” He questioned. 

“I never said I didn’t enjoy Portugal”

“So what is it then?! Because I’m out of guesses!” it was half past 3 am and he was shouting a little too loud for the hour. 

She slid her key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open as soon as she heard the mechanism click open. In a feeble attempt, she tried to sneak into her room as quickly as possible and lock the door behind her, but there was no denying Daniel was stronger than her, so Sam wasn’t surprised when he pushed right past her. 

“Again, why are you trying to avoid me!? Sam just tell me what is going on through that head of yours. I’m not leaving until I get answers.”

Sam groaned and rolled her eyes, turning to look him in the eyes for the first time since the lobby. 

“I don’t have answers, Daniel! If I did, do you think I’d be as lost as you are!” Sam was shouting back at him now, arms out in confusion. 

“So where’s the disconnect then? What’s not clicking for you?”

She scoffed. “For me? So now I’m at fault here?”

Daniel ran a hand through his curls in frustration. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not blaming you—”

“It sure as hell sounded like you were.”

“Stop doing that! You’re deflecting!” he pointed an accusatory finger at her. 

“I am not!”

“God, you can be so insufferable sometimes!”

It clicked. 

That word. 

That’s the exact word that Lando had told her Daniel had used to describe her. 

The floodgates opened. The dam broke. And Sam was drowning in anger, anxiety, and every other emotion she was too overwhelmed to identify. She was enraged. 

“Get the fuck out of my room Daniel!”

“What? We need to finish this conversation—”

“I said get out!”

Daniel stood there staring at Sam in shock. He’d never seen her look so distressed, let alone yell that loud. But something in him shifted: he wasn’t giving up, not when he ws this close to answers. 

Sam glared back at him. The room was silent besides Sam’s heavy breathing as she tried to calm herself down and hold back tears of frustration. She could see the cogs turning in his head. Almost every time they’ve interacted and Sam had dropped a bomb on him like this, whether it was a one-liner or a middle finger, Daniel normally bit his tongue and left. 

But not this time. 

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me about what’s going on! This obviously involves me, and I want to know if I can help. Matter of fact, you’re going to have to beg me to leave, and I doubt you’re willing to lose a bet that soon after—”

Sam reached down and pulled her heel off. Daniel was confused as to what she was doing until her shoe flew toward him and just barely missed hitting him in the chest. 

He recoiled at the flying object and looked behind him to see where it landed, before turning back to the seething woman standing in front of him. The distress in her features was gone and at this point, he could tell she was nothing more than angry. 

“How’s that for a shoey?” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest triumphantly. 

Dan’s eyes went wide. Honestly, he would’ve laughed if he didn’t just have a shoe chucked at his head. “You are so full of this stupid, invented hatred towards me, that it’s standing in the way of you realizing that we could still be friends. You’re serious—“

“Get. Out.” She lacked any sympathy. No wiggle room. Not a drop of mercy.  In a way, she wasn’t even telling him to. It was like an order. 

But what did Daniel do?

Nothing. 

He just stood there, feet planted firmly on the ground. Sam knew he was doing it just to piss her off, and it was working. 

“I have one more shoe, Daniel,” she threatened, bringing her foot up so she could start to undo her heel’s buckle. 

With that, Daniel huffed and stormed towards the door. Sam put her foot back on the ground as she watched him hesitate to grab the handle, just staring at it. 

“We’re going to have to have a conversation about this at some point. You can’t avoid me for the rest of the season,” he said angrily. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. Besides he knew Sam was in no headspace to listen or have a productive conversation. 

“Watch me,” she spits back maliciously. 

Sam could see him itching to say something else. Steam was practically shooting from his ears. It’s as if Sam had learned exactly how to press his buttons over the course of this season, and she’d just managed to press all of them throughout the duration of one conversation. In her eyes, it was a mission accomplished. 

Daniel looked at Sam one last time, anger melting into desperation, but when she didn’t change her mind, he opened the door with unmatched force, before walking out and letting it slam closed behind him. 

As the room was finally quiet, Sam stood there trying to process what had just happened, while staring at the door he had stormed out of. How had things changed so quickly?

Daniel was right. It was obvious something had changed on that phone call with Moo. But the call itself wasn’t even that big of a deal, let alone its contents. Sam was just overthinking everything as she always did. 

It wasn’t long before suddenly, the door swung back open and Sam watched as Daniel walked back in, looking around before his eyes landed on her. 

She was taken by surprise and confused, to say the least. 

But the last thing Sam had expected was for Daniel to march over to where she still stood and without warning, smash his lips onto hers. 

There was one single second where Sam had no idea what was happening. But once she did, she didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. It didn’t last long— both drivers feared the possibility of any escalation, more so their inability to stop themselves— but eventually they pulled apart. 

Their foreheads were nearly touching, and Sam kept her eyes closed. Because if she opened them as Daniel had said, she would be brought back to reality to be reminded that that had really just happened. 

But this time, she wanted to stay naive for as long as she could, even if it was only for a few extra seconds. 

Daniel’s hands that cupped her jaw from either side gave her a small squeeze, which she took as a signal to open her eyes. Once she did, his dark honey eyes were staring right back at her. 

“You make me so fucking mad,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving her. 

Her hands that rested on his forearms were suddenly back at her sides and the surrounding air felt much colder because without letting Sam say a word, Daniel turned around and marched back out of the hotel room, leaving her standing there, alone, to wonder what the hell had just happened. 

She gently brought her fingers to her lips, “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Mick stuttered.

“That’s the big bad thing that happened that’s been eating you alive? You’re reacting as if you slept with him! Or sabotaged his car!” George asked for clarity, sounding rather underwhelmed. 

“You kissed him!” Mick said triumphantly, which caused Sam to punch his shoulder, “And you’ve been sitting on this information since before summer break?!”

“Well technically he kissed me and I just kissed him back,” Sam clarified surely, folding her arms across her chest indignantly. 

Molly groaned in a crescendo, before pointing at her best friend in accusation, “Oh that’s a hill of beans Sam, and you know it!”

Scoffing, Sam swatted Molly’s finger out of the air, “It most definitely is not a hill of beans!”

George chuckled, “A hill of beans? Molly, sometimes I am violently reminded you are from the south…”

He shook his head, and Molly shot her gaze towards him offended. If there’s one thing to know about Molly Barnes, it’s that you should never make fun of her country accent. That woman loved the south damn near more than Daniel Ricciardo himself. 

“You’re one to talk! You’re the most British cracker I’ve ever laid my eyes on!” George rolled his eyes but didn’t try to argue. He knew she had a fair point. “It just means that statement isn’t worth much. You guys still kissed!”

“I’m missing how you two kissing is a bad thing?” Mick interjected. 

“Because it’s Daniel,” Sam stated simply as if it should have been clear as day. 

“And? Daniel is a great guy!” George continued on with his argument from earlier, despite Sam having bruised his ego by proving him wrong. 

“George, don’t get her started—“ Molly tried to warn him. 

“Daniel Ricciardo is a selfish son of a bitch who thinks he personally needs to make the world spin on its axis. He puts his big nose where it doesn’t belong and tries to solve everyone’s problems but his own. He’s not as great as everyone thinks he is,” Sam huffed out. 

Molly smirked mischievously, “You didn’t think his big nose was an issue when you called him attractive in Portugal.” Sam let out a gasp, turning her head to her best friend in betrayal. 

“My point stands. You kissed him, you think he’s attractive. So what’s the issue?” George gestured outwardly with a grimace. 

Sam wailed in irritation, slouching back dramatically against the chair she was sitting in. “I don’t know, okay! I don’t know why I’m starting to not hate him. I don’t know why he would come back in and kiss me like that. I don’t know why I kissed him back. And I don’t know why I liked it!”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” Molly pretended to drop a microphone and everyone laughed, even Sam, before she shouted an annoyed, “Shut up Moo!”

The other HAAS driver chimed in with a shrug, “You guys just need to sit down like adults and have a conversation about it. Simple as that.”

Sam tried to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Mick, I don’t need a younger brother right now, I need you guys to tell me I’m not overreacting!”

“But you are!” They all said at the same time

Her jaw hung open in shock. She felt bombarded that each of them felt the same way, “Oh my god, give me a break—“

Before Sam could go on another tangent, the group was interrupted. 

“Word from the FIA! The session’s been terminated. Places are points!” The excitement in his voice was genuine but more than likely fueled by the certain driver in a navy racing suit sitting among them. 

Everyone’s jaws hung slack, eyes wide, still staring at the HAAS engineer delivering the news.  

“I believe congratulations are in order, Mr. Russell,” the man said with a smile, before offering him a handshake and walking away from the group. 

“George oh my god!” Sam shouted before leaping from her seat and tackling the driver in a hug. 

“Congrats George!” Molly added with some claps. 

“Well done mate, you deserve it,” Mick gave him a bro hug, with a pat on the back. 

George was still speechless, but slowly the dazed look on his face was transforming into one of delight. 

Sam grabbed him by the shoulders in his stunned state and shook him vigorously, bringing him back to reality, “You did it!”

Finally, he snapped out of it. 

“I did it, holy shit”

Sam could barely contain her excitement for her friend, nearly jumping up and down, shouting, “Go, I guarantee your team is looking for you!”

George nodded, his grin spreading from ear to ear as he turned and ran out back to his own garage. Sam couldn't help but smile as she watched him run out of sight, all her worries momentarily melting away. 

“5th place Sam, well done!” Floyd came over and patted her back, drawing her attention away from the pit lane. 

She nodded with a smile, and everyone came around to congratulate her on her finish. Sam slowly started the procedure of packing up her personal items from the garage, taking a trip to her driver’s room to drop off her helmet, and quickly changing out of her race suit. 

When she came back out into the garage, she caught a few more people who wanted to wish her their congrats or more simply offer a fist bump or high five. 

After a bit, George peeked his head back into the HAAS garage. The smile on his face had only grown, and it made Sam smile herself. 

“Well, you coming?” he asked, gesturing his thumb out of the garage and towards the podiums. 

She zipped up her coat and grabbed her beanie with a grin, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

The two walked to the podium together talking each other’s ears off. George was still holding his helmet, probably too caught up to realize. At some point, a camera started to trail behind them, catching the exciting moment between the friends. 

Once they’d reached the point where they’d have to split off— George to receive his trophy and Sam to watch him from the front row— Sam grabbed his helmet from him and gave him one more hug. 

She mumbled, “I’m so proud of you,” into his neck before pulling away and giving him a quick, friendly, peck on the cheek. George gave her another grin, before giving his helmet in her hands a quick pat and turning to jog off to where he was needed. 

Sam made her way up to the front of the crowd, surrounded by Williams personnel on every side. She looked around and saw nearly every remaining driver below, here to celebrate George’s massive accomplishment. 

The music came over the speakers, and out came Lewis, and then followed by George. The crowd erupted with cheers, Sam screaming along with them. The infamous track played, and in an instant champagne was being sprayed. 

Everyone laughed and cheered as George was celebrated by his fellow drivers, standing near the edge of the railing as he sprayed out into the crowd full of his team. Sam couldn’t help but look up at him proudly. Her mind immediately jumped to the fact that over everything, she was extremely glad to have him back in her life, and that she was able to celebrate this insanely special win with him. 

The drivers on the podiums took their pictures and headed back out of sight. Sam chatted with a few of the Williams team, congratulating them on their win as well. With George’s helmet still in her hands, she followed them off to meet back up with their podium finisher. 

However, as everyone cleared out from around the podium, one driver remained. While everyone had been watching the celebrations, Daniel Ricciardo couldn’t take his eyes off of one woman. Sure, he had initially been looking at the podium, thinking about how he narrowly missed out on that bottom step, waiting to cheer on his old teammate, and maybe even look past his petty distaste and give George a clap or two. 

But once his eyes landed on Sam in the crowd, looking up at George on the podium in admiration, his helmet clutched in her arms, it’s all he could manage to see no matter how hard he tried to look away.

it seems like I cannot keep my chapters short recently. but I literally hate how this turned out. hate hate HATE it. but I appreciate you guys waiting so patiently hehe, especially with the cliffhanger. I hope you guys aren't underwhelmed with what it actually was... I just needed to make it obvious that Sam is indeed freaking out over what others would consider being minuscule lol. next chapter is working to be one of my faves xx

shoutout to @lightsoutsainz for telling me I’m not crazy throughout this whole writing process <3

also, please let me know in the comments if your tag worked, I’d really appreciate it

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