THE LAST THING YOU REMEMBERED WAS THE BLARING HORN, the sound of screeching tires, and a truck’s grille filling your entire world. Then—

—nothing…?

You woke up to the pleasant smell of expensive linen and the feeling of your face pressed into a pillow softer than any cloud you’d ever imagined. Your head throbbed dully, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on elbows that felt strangely delicate, blinking against the morning light filtering through gigantic windows that showcased a city skyline you didn’t recognize at all.

What the hell?

The room looked like something from a spread from a luxury magazine. A chaise lounge in dove grey sat in the corner, next to a vanity table littered with crystal perfume bottles and jewelry boxes spilling over with gold chains and diamonds that glittered even in the soft light. You swung your legs out of the bed, your feet sinking into a plush, cream-colored rug. You were wearing silk pajamas—silk fucking pajamas!—a matching set in a blush pink that felt alien against your skin.

A full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. You stumbled toward it.

The reflection staring back was yours, and yet—it wasn’t. Your face, but perfected, hair that you usually kept in a hurriedly-brushed ponytail fell in artful, salon-fresh waves. Even your skin was flawless, glowing with the kind of health that only comes from expensive facials and a complete lack of real-world stress.

“Okay,” you whispered to the stranger in the mirror. “Okay, breathe. This is a dream. It has to me. A very, very detailed dream brought on by that last glass of soju and that novel you stayed up way too late finishing.”

The novel. Melting the Cold CEO’S Heart. It was a trashy, addictive romance you’d read on a whim, and the male lead, Park Sunghoon, was cold, ruthless, and unfairly handsome, trapped in a business arrangement—an engagement with a shallow, gold-digging socialite named… your blood ran cold as you remembered.

Y/N.

Your namesake, and the villainess of the novel. The one who was pathologically obsessed with Sunghoon’s money and status, who made the female lead’s life miserable, and who was unceremoniously dumped when Sunghoon finally broke free of his family’s shackles to be with his one true love, the sweet and humble wedding planner, Soojin.

You looked at the room around you. You looked at your perfect, manicured hands. You remembered the truck.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you said, your voice echoing in the cavernous room.

The plot, as you remembered it, was straightforward. The real Cha Y/N would play the devoted fiancée, clinging to Sunghoon’s arm at every event, while secretly making the life of the female lead, Lee Soojin, a living hell. Sunghoon, cold to his fiancée, would find himself drawn to Soojin’s genuine warmth and resilience, and after a series of public scandals orchestrated by Cha Y/N, Sunghoon would finally snap, publicly denounce her, and run into the rain to confess his love to Soojin. Roll credits.

Your old life, by comparison, had been pleasantly predictable. You worked a mid-level office job at a small logistics firm, a job you were competent at but which offered no real passion. Your days were a blur of spreadsheets, lukewarm coffee from the breakroom machine, and polite, surface-level conversations with colleagues you’d never see outside of work hours. Your apartment was a snug, lightly cluttered one-bedroom. Your social life was limited to your best friend, Abby, who you only got to see about once a month for dinner when she wasn’t busy with her boyfriend, Heeseung. Weekends were for laundry, grocery shopping, and maybe a movie if you could muster the energy. It was fine, by all means. Safe. And, if you were being brutally honest with yourself in your most vulnerable moments, a little bit boring.

The thrill, the color, the feeling in your life came from elsewhere:

Webnovels.

They were your escape. During your lunch break, hunched over your phone at your desk. On the subway ride home, packed between strangers. Late at night, curled under your blankets with the screen’s glow the only light in the room. You devoured them. Regency romances, fantasy epics, modern-day dramas. You loved them all, but you had a particular, guilty fondness for the tropiest of the tropey: the cold, domineering male lead and the plucky heroine who thawed his heart.

You knew the formulas by heart. The accidental touch that sent sparks flying. The possessive glare across a crowded room. The misunderstanding that drove them apart for three agonizing chapters before the grand reconciliation. It was comfort food for your soul. In those pages, you could experience earth-shattering love without the risk of a broken heart.

Now, standing in this silent, opulent bedroom, the irony almost made you laugh. You’d fantasized about being in a story like this a thousand times, but—you’d always imagined yourself as the heroine, not the villainess slated for a spectacular downfall.

A soft knock at the door made you jump nearly a foot in the air.

“Miss Cha?” a polite, older woman’s voice called through the wood. “Your breakfast is ready. The car will be here in one hour to take you to Mr. Park’s office for the wedding planning consultation.”

Wedding planning. You felt, suddenly, very awake. That was today. Chapter Four, if you recalled correctly. The first official meeting between Cha Y/N, Sunghoon, and the wedding planner, Lee Soojin. The scene where the villainess would size up her rival with thinly-veiled contempt, make snide remarks about her choice of clothing, and generally establish herself as the obstacle to Sunghoon and Soojin’s true love.

Your stomach churned. You couldn’t do that. You physically couldn’t. The thought of being cruel to some innocent woman just trying to do her job made you feel ill.

But what was the alternative? If you weren’t the evil Cha Y/N, then who were you? A random office worker from another world, trapped in a fictional character’s body. If you started acting completely out of character, what would happen? Would the universe correct itself? Would you be thrown into a mental institution? Would Sunghoon’s powerful family have you quietly disposed of for being an unpredictable variable in their business merger masquerading as a marriage?

Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in your throat. You gripped the edge of the vanity table, your knuckles turning white. Think, Y/N. You have to think.

The original Cha Y/N’s fate was bankruptcy and social ruin after Sunghoon cut her off. She’d tried to fight it, to cling, to scheme, and it had only made her fall harder and more publicly.

So you had to survive. You couldn’t be that person. You wouldn’t. It was simple: do no harm, collect the checks, and get the hell out. Let Sunghoon and Soojin have their epic romance. You’d take the alimony and live quietly on a beach somewhere, far from this world of cutthroat socialites and emotionally constipated CEOs.

It was a coward’s plan, sure, but it was the only one that seemed to offer a path through this nightmare that didn’t end with you being publicly eviscerated.

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the reflection again. “Okay, Cha Y/N,” you said to her. “Let’s do this.”

An hour later, you were in the back of a sleek, silent sedan, watching the city blur past. You’d chosen an outfit from the walk-in closet that felt the least like a costume and foregone most of the jewelry, wearing only small studs in your ears.

The driver held the door open for you in front of a towering glass skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. The logo was etched into the side.

The lobby was cold and elegant, people in sharp suits moving with purpose across the vast marble floor, footsteps echoing everywhere. The receptionist, a woman with a smile as polished as the granite desk, took one look at you and nodded.

“Miss Cha. Mr. Park is expecting you. 67th floor, please.” She gestured to a private elevator whose doors were already sliding open.

The ride up was smooth and swift, and you watched the numbers climb, your heart doing a nervous tap-dance. The doors opened directly into a corner office.

The view was breathtaking, a panoramic sweep of the city and the river beyond. But the room itself was as cold as the man standing before the window, his back to you. He was tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wore a charcoal grey suit that looked like it had been tailored directly onto him.

Then he turned.

Park Sunghoon.

The description from the novel didn’t do him justice. He was handsome in a way that felt almost aggressive. Sharp jawline, dark, intense eyes under thick, perfectly shaped brows, hair styled in a way that looked effortless and expensive. But it was his expression that really hit you. There was no warmth in his gaze, no flicker of recognition or welcome for his fiancée. And how could you fault him? Cha Y/N had been a piece of work.

“You’re early,” he intoned.

“Looks like I am.” you managed, your own voice sounding too small.

He said nothing, just looked at you for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then he gestured with a faint tilt of his head toward a large meeting table off to the side. “Sit. The planner will be here shortly.”

You walked to the table, hyper-aware of the click of your heels on the polished concrete floor. You sat in the chair he’d indicated, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. He didn’t sit. He remained standing by the window, the picture of impatience and disinterest.

The silence stretched, and you studied the grain of the table, the way the sunlight caught the edge of a glass water pitcher. Anything to avoid looking at him.

You’d read about his coldness, of course you had. You’d found it thrilling in the abstract, a challenge for the heroine to overcome, but experiencing it firsthand was different. It was isolating. It made you feel invisible, inconsequential. You understood, with sudden, painful clarity, why the original Cha Y/N had become so obsessed with his wealth and status. If you couldn’t have his warmth, you’d settle for the things his name could buy. It was a pathetic, hollow consolation prize, but it must have been something to hold onto.

Another soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sunghoon said, not moving from his post.

The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was around your age, maybe a year or two younger. She wore a simple, professional cream-colored blouse and a black skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, low ponytail. She carried a large portfolio and an iPad.

Lee Soojin.

Your pulse quickened. The female lead. The woman who, according to the plot, you were supposed to torment.

She bowed slightly. “Mr. Park. Miss Cha. Thank you for having me. I’m Lee Soojin, from Ever After Planning.”

She was exactly as described, warm and beautiful. She had a kind, fresh face, warm brown eyes, and a smile that seemed genuine, though right now, it was tinged with nervousness as her gaze darted between you and the imposing figure of Sunghoon. She clutched a large portfolio to her chest like a shield.

“Please, come in,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was different, softer.

The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Soojin presented floral arrangements and color palettes, her voice occasionally trembling. You, desperate not to play the villain, said nothing except, “That looks lovely,” or “Whatever you think is best, Miss Lee.” You kept your eyes on the swatches, avoiding Sunghoon’s probing stare. You could feel it on you, a laser of suspicion. The real Y/N would have been picky and dismissive, finding fault with everything to assert dominance.

Sunghoon, surprisingly, engaged. He asked practical questions about logistics, timelines, vendor reliability. His questions were sharp and intelligent. Soojin, after a few stumbling starts, began to answer with growing confidence, her passion for her work shining through. You saw the exact moment he noticed it: a slight tilt of his head, a fraction of a second where his gaze lingered on her animated face instead of the brochure.

There it is, you thought, a strange pang hitting you square in the chest. The beginning. The plan was working.

But then he turned that gaze on you. “You’re not yourself today.” His tone was neutral, but the question in it was clear: What’s your deal?

You met his eyes for the first time that day. “Well,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “Ms. Lee seems very competent. I just trust her expertise.”

He stared at you again, then gave a curt nod, turning back to Soojin, and the rest of the meeting passed in a blur.

THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A BIZARRE SORT OF DANCE. You attended obligatory social events on Sunghoon’s arm, fit the role of a silent, smiling accessory perfectly. You learned the rules of this world: who to nod to, who to ignore, which fork and knife to use where and why. And through it all, you were forced into proximity with Park Sunghoon.

At first, it was nothing but ice. Silent car rides, silent meals. You didn’t think there was ever a way to hold a conversation with Park Sunghoon. But survival instinct was a powerful thing when it kicked in, and the more nervous you got, the more your immediate instinct to be yourself began to show, especially once you moved in together.

The incident that started the thaw was, of all things, congee.

It was three weeks in. A late-night business dinner had left Sunghoon looking paler than usual, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight. You’d heard him return, the quiet click of the door, then nothing. An hour later, a faint, pained sound from the kitchen. You found him leaning against the island, one hand pressed to his stomach, staring into the empty fridge with blank eyes.

“Stomach ache?” you’d asked, hovering in the doorway.

He’d just grunted in response.

The real Y/N would have called for a maid, despite the ungodly hour. You, on the other hand, having grown up middle-class, were a veteran of questionable street food and late-night stress-eating, so you simply nudged him aside with your hip and rummaged through the pantry. “Sit,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. “You’re blocking the rice.”

He’d watched, silent and wary, as you boiled the rice into a soft mush, shredding the leftover roast chicken from yesterday’s dinner and adding slivers of ginger. The kitchen filled with a warm savory scent, and when you slid the bowl across the island to him, he looked at it like it was a foreign artefact.

“It’s just congee,” you said, suddenly self-conscious. “My mom used to make it when I was sick.”

He took a cautious spoonful. Then another. You had never cooked for someone before, but seeing the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders, the way the tension drained out of his body, made you realize why your mother had loved it so much. When he was done, he placed the spoon neatly in the empty bowl and met your eyes. “It was nice. Thank you.”

You’d snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”

A brief flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

That was the crack in the ice, and after that, indifference became harder to maintain. The silent car rides began to fill with your commentary on the city passing by, or his dry observations about the people you’d just met at some function. Once, you found him one evening in the library, staring blankly at a contract, his tie loose. You’d placed a cup of tea next to his elbow without a word. He’d looked up, surprised, then nodded in thanks. Another time, you’d gotten locked out on the massive balcony during a sudden rain shower. He’d found you, drenched and laughing, and instead of chastising you, he’d handed you a towel with a shake of his head, a genuine, if exasperated, smile on his face. “Only you,” he’d muttered.

Then came the charity gala for the Seoul Arts Foundation. It was a stuffy, black-tie affair, and the champagne was flowing too freely. You, nervous under the scrutiny of a hundred socialites who knew the real Cha Y/N, drank more than you should have. Sunghoon, for reasons unknown, matched you glass for glass.

It was no surprise that the car ride home, inevitably, was filled with giddiness. You were slumped in the backseat, giggling at nothing, the city lights streaking past the window like liquid silver. He was beside you, his posture less rigid, a soft, unfocused smile on his face as he watched you.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly, his voice a low rumble in the dark car.

“Am I?” you hiccupped, turning to him. His face was so close. The sharp angles were softened in the shadows.

“Mm. Before. You were so… loud. Demanding. Everything was—all about money for you.” He reached out, his finger hovering near your temple, not touching. “But now…”

“Maybe I just grew up,” you offered, the lie tasting bitter.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with an unnerving intensity. “No. It’s not that. It’s like you’re a completely different person.” He leaned closer, his breath warm and faintly sweet with champagne. “Who are you?”

Your heart hammered in your chest. The truth was a wild, desperate thing clawing at your throat. In your tipsy state, it slipped out, covered up in a joke. “Maybe I’m from a different universe,” you whispered, a playful, dizzy smile on your lips. “One where I’m not a horrible person.”

He stared at you. Then, to your utter astonishment, his lower lip pushed out in the faintest, most fleeting pout. You had never seen an expression so disarmingly childish and vulnerable on his face, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a slight scowl. “Stop messing with me,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it. He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, a small sigh escaping him.

The hangover the next morning was brutal, but at least it was a shared misery. You found him in the kitchen, grimacing over a glass of water, still in his rumpled dress shirt from the night before. You wordlessly made tea, and when you handed him a mug, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.

Then you got sick.

It was a brutal flu, a personal betrayal from your own immune system. One day you were fine, the next, you were a shivering, aching heap buried under the duvet in your room. The maids fluttered in and out with tea and towels, but the apartment felt cold.

You drifted in a feverish haze, only semi-aware of the passage of time. But then—

You heard the firm, quiet tread of leather soles on parquet. The room darkened as a tall silhouette blocked the light from the hallway.

Sunghoon stood there, still in his work suit, his tie slightly loosened.

“The staff said you haven’t eaten,” he stated, his voice softer than usual.

“Can’t,” you croaked, turning your head into the pillow. “Everything hurts.”

You heard him set something down on the bedside table—a small tray. Then, to your shock, you felt the bed dip near your hip as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with fever.

For a long, long while, all you could hear was your congested breathing. Then, a touch. Light, hesitant. Fingertips, surprisingly cool, brushing the sweat-dampened hair back from your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so utterly at odds with the Park Sunghoon you knew, that your breath hitched. His fingers stilled for a second, thinking he’d woken you. When you didn’t move, they continued, tucking the hair gently behind your ear.

He didn’t say a word. He just sat there,  his hand eventually coming to rest, palm down, on the duvet beside your shoulder. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up. You heard the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. “There’s broth here when you can manage it,” he murmured.

He worked from the armchair next to your bed that day, the quiet tap of his laptop keys a strangely comforting sound. He’d glance over every so often, refilling your water glass without being asked. It was the most mundane kind of care, but it made your heart squeeze. No one in this glittering, fake world had taken care of you like that. It felt more intimate than any kiss the novel had described between him and Soojin.

Life settled into a strange, peaceful rhythm that was nothing like the plot you remembered. You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you were… something. Allies due to the nature of your situation, perhaps. Your conversations became longer. You discovered he had a dry, wicked sense of humor that only emerged when he was truly relaxed. You learned he hated mint chocolate and loved coffee-flavored ice-cream. And then, one evening, you were in his study, looking for a book he’d said was in there. Your fingers trailed over the spines on a high shelf when you knocked a small, ornate wooden box to the floor. It sprung open, spilling its contents: not jewelry or documents, but a handful of old, laminated badges and a single, well-worn ice skate blade guard.

Curious, you picked up a badge. Seoul Junior Figure Skating Championship, 1st Place, Park Sunghoon, Age 12. Another: National Youth Competition, Finalist. There were photos, too. A young boy with solemn eyes and a shock of dark hair, poised on the ice, his arms outstretched. The resemblance was unmistakable.

You were staring at a photo of him, gap-toothed, holding a trophy with a rare, bright, unguarded smile, when his voice came from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

You jumped, the photo fluttering from your hand. He was leaning against the doorframe, his expression closed off, but you saw the flicker of something—embarrassment? pain?—in his eyes before the shutters came down.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, gathering the items with clumsy hands. “I knocked the box over. I didn’t mean to pry.” You held up one of the badges. “You were a figure skater?”

He walked in, taking the badge from your fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, his thumb tracing the raised lettering. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why did you stop?” The question was out before you could stop it.

He didn’t answer immediately. He carefully placed the badge back in the box, his movements precise. “My father,” he said finally, his voice flat. “He decided it was a frivolous pursuit for the heir of Park Holdings. That it wouldn’t build the ruthlessness required for business.” A humorless twist of his lips. “I suppose he was right, in a way.”

The sadness in his tone made you inexplicably upset. You thought of the cold, ruthless CEO you’d read about, the one who only melted for one person. You were seeing the fossil of the boy who had been melted down and reforged into that man.

On an impulse you didn’t fully understand, you spoke. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”

He looked at you, startled. “I don’t know. Over ten years?”

“We should go.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Ice skating. We should go. There’s that new private rink at your country club. We could rent it out. No one would have to know.”

He stared at you as if you’d suggested flying to the moon. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” You pressed, a sudden boldness rising in you. “You loved it once. Don’t you ever… you know, miss it? Just the feeling of it?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He looked from your face to the open box, to the photo of his younger, smiling self. The conflict in his eyes was a war you could almost see play out in front of you. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “That’s a pointless thing to do.”

But he didn’t say no.

Two days later, his assistant quietly booked the rink for a private two-hour session at midnight. He didn’t mention it to you. You only found out when a note, written in his sharp, elegant script, was left on the kitchen island next to your keys: 8 PM. Dress warm.

An hour later, you were in the empty rink, feeling utterly ridiculous in brand-new thermals. Sunghoon was already laced up, moving with a natural grace as he carved a slow circle on the pristine ice. He made it look effortless. You, on the other hand, sat on the bench, fumbling with the laces. Your fingers felt thick and clumsy. After a minute of struggle, you felt the bench dip beside you. He didn’t ask. He just took the skate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours.

“You have to tie them tightly. Ankle support is everything.”

He bent his head, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he began to lace the boot for you, his movements sure and careful. You watched, mesmerized by the sight of Park Sunghoon’s elegant, powerful hands, the ones that signed countless deals, meticulously tying a double knot for you. It felt impossibly tender. Then he did the same with the other foot, his knuckles accidentally brushing the sensitive skin of your ankle. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced up your spine.

“There,” he said, looking up and meeting your eyes. “Now, stand up. Slowly.”

You did, taking one wobbly step onto the surface, and immediately felt your legs betray you. You windmilled your arms, a squeak escaping your throat.

“Careful, careful,” A strong hand closed around your elbow, steadying you. “Bend your knees. Not at the waist.”

“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, but you bent your knees. His hand stayed on your arm, a firm, warm anchor.

“Now, glide. Don’t step.”

You pushed off, lurching forward. He moved with you, a silent, steady presence at your side. For the first ten minutes, it was a comedy of errors. You wobbled, you slipped, you clutched at his forearm with a grip that probably cut off his circulation. And through it all, he was patient. Surprisingly, infuriatingly patient.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as you stared at your feet in concentration.

“I’m thinking about not concussing myself on this ice!”

“Look at me. Not at your feet.”

You dragged your gaze up to his face. In the cool, bright light of the rink, he looked younger. The usual severity in his expression was softened.

“Better,” he said. “Now, just move with me.”

He took your hands in his, skating backwards and pulling you along. It was terrifying and thrilling. The world narrowed to the sound of blades on ice, the puff of your breath in the cold air, and the solid, reliable grip of his hands. You started to find a shaky rhythm.

“See?” he said, and you realized he was smiling. A real, proper smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It transformed his face completely. Your heart did a funny little stutter that had nothing to do with skating.

“Don’t let me fall,” you said, the words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He never looked away from your eyes. “I won’t.”

He guided you around the rink until your legs burned and your cheeks were numb with cold and laughter. Then, he demonstrated a simple spin, a blur of controlled motion that left you gaping. When he stopped, perfectly centered, he was breathing slightly harder, his face flushed.

He looked alive.

“Show-off,” you called, pushing off the wall to glide clumsily toward him.

He caught you easily when you overbalanced, his hands coming to rest on your hips to steady you. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness. The heat of his body through the layers of clothing. The way his thumbs were pressing just above the waistband of your leggings. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. His eyes were dark and searching.

You looked up at him, your own laughter dying in your throat. The rink was silent except for the hum of the chillers. For a heartbeat that felt like forever, neither of you moved. You could see the faint scar on his brow, the dark fringe of his lashes, the part of his lips as he breathed.

Then, a distant door clanged. The spell broke. He released your hips, his hands falling back to his sides as he took a small half-step back. “You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, his voice returning to its usual register, though it was a shade rougher and, if you listened hard enough, breathier.

All the way home, you replayed the moment at the rink over and over, the feel of his hands on you. It sparked a low, restless heat in your belly that was becoming frustratingly familiar.

That very heat continued to follow you, and it was driving you crazy. In the mornings, when he’d emerge from his bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp, his torso a landscape of lean muscle and faint scars you itched to trace. You’d mutter a good morning and flee to the kitchen, your face hot. Once, you came out of your room in just a thin camisole and pajamas to get water, forgetting he was working late at the dining table. The look he gave you—a slow, sweeping gaze that felt like a physical touch—had you scurrying back to your room, your skin prickling with awareness. You’d lie in your bed, in the dark, and imagine him in his room just down the hall. Was he asleep? Reading? Thinking about the company? Thinking about… you? Your mind would wander, unbidden, to the feel of his hands on your waist at the rink. To the solid heat of him when you’d stumbled against his chest. To the way his sweatpants hung on his hips. And then a slow, aching warmth would pool low in your belly, and you’d press your thighs together, frustrated and aroused in equal measure.

This was not part of the plan. Getting horny for your emotionally unavailable contract-fiancé was the fastest way to get your heart pulverized.

A WEEK LATER, SUNGHOON INFORMED YOU, OVER A BREAKFAST OF PERFECTLY POACHED EGGS, THAT YOU WOULD BE MEETING HIS FRIENDS.

“Friends?” you’d echoed, nearly choking on your toast. The novel’s Sunghoon had only business associates, rivals, and sycophants. Friends were never part of it.

“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “Park Jongseong and Shim Jaeyun. They’re very insistent. They want to meet you badly.” He said it dryly, but you caught the slightest tension in his shoulders. “It’s a dinner on Friday, at Jay’s.”

Friday arrived, and with it, a low-cut dress that felt both too much and not enough. Sunghoon was silent in the elevator ride up, his profile sharp in the dim light. But when the doors opened into a sprawling, modern loft filled with the smell of gourmet food and the sound of jazz, his posture shifted. He placed a light, guiding hand on the small of your back.

“Sunghoon! You made it!” A man with a charming, lopsided grin and artfully messy hair bounded over, pulling Sunghoon into a brief, back-slapping hug. Jake, you guessed. His eyes, warm and curious, immediately landed on you. “And you must be the infamous Y/N.” He winked.

Another man approached, slightly taller, with a more composed elegance but a friendly glint in his eye. Jay, of course. He shook your hand firmly. “A pleasure. Come in, make yourself at home.”

The evening was nothing like the functions you’d gotten used to over the last few months, and you found that your initial nervousness bled away easily. Jay was dry and witty, Jake was sweet and genuinely funny. They teased Sunghoon mercilessly about anything and everything, and to your astonishment, he took it. He even smiled a real, relaxed smile that made your heart do that stupid little flip again.

And the best part was, they talked to you. Not to Cha Y/N, the socialite fiancée, but to you. Jay asked about your opinion on the new exhibition at the National Museum, and you found yourself in a debate about Norman Rockwell. Jake, hearing you hum along to the jazz track, pulled you into a conversation about it. You were in your element, laughing, arguing. You forgot, for a moment, the character you were supposed to be playing.

You also forgot to watch Sunghoon.

He had turned quiet, observing from his seat on the plush sofa, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. At first, you thought he was just back to being his usual reserved self. But as the night wore on and your laughter grew more frequent, you began to feel it—a tension emanating from him. When Jake leaned in to refill your wine glass, his hand brushing yours as he pointed to a particular album cover on the shelf, you felt Sunghoon’s gaze on you like a hand.

A few minutes later, when you got up to admire the view of the rolling countryside from the windows, Jake followed, standing close beside you to point things out. “There,” he said, his shoulder almost touching yours, “that’s where Sunghoon and I got hopelessly lost on a school trip. He was too stubborn to ask for directions. We nearly froze to death.”

You laughed, turning to him. “I can picture that.”

“Picture what?”

Sunghoon’s voice was quiet, right behind you. You hadn’t heard him approach. He slid between you and Jake with a smooth, deliberate movement. His arm came around your waist, his hand settling on your hip, pulling you back against him.

“Just reminiscing about your navigational failures,” Jake said, his grin not fading, but his eyes flicking between Sunghoon’s face and the hand on your waist.

“Mm,” Sunghoon murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. His thumb moved, a slow, unconscious stroke against your dress. “Don’t believe a word he says. He was the one who dropped our map in the mud and got us lost in the first place.”

Despite the conversation not dying out, Sunghoon kept you anchored to his side, his fingers splayed on your hip, the warmth of his chest against your shoulder. Sunghoon’s interjections became more frequent in your interactions with Jay and Jake, his dry remarks steering the conversation away from anything that involved you and his friends directly interacting.

You couldn't say you didn’t expect that the journey back would be shrouded in a heavy silence. Sunghoon stared out the window, his jaw tight.

“Did you have a good time?” he finally asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

“I did,” you said carefully. “They’re lovely.”

“They seemed to think the same of you.” The words were clipped.

You turned to look at his profile. “Is that a problem?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept looking out at the passing lights, the muscle in his jaw working. The possessiveness he’d shown at the penthouse was gone, replaced by this cold, withdrawn sulk. It was so childish, and so utterly at odds with the man in the novel, who wouldn’t have batted an eye if the original Y/N had flirted with an entire football team. He’d found her disgusting, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been indifferent.

This wasn’t indifference.

The realization sent a dangerous thrill through you, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. You were messing with the script, and you had no idea what the new plot was.

Back at home, he headed straight for his study without a word. You stood in the grand living room, feeling unmoored. The heat from his touch still lingered on your skin, but the silent treatment felt worse than any cold remark. You took a deep breath and followed him.

He was standing by the window, a dark silhouette against the city’s glitter.

“Sunghoon.”

He didn’t turn.

You walked closer, your heels silent on the rug. “Are you angry with me?”

“No.” The word was short, final.

“You seem like it.”

He finally turned. In the dim light from the window, his expression was unreadable. “I’m not angry. I just don’t appreciate your…” he pretended to think. “Acting.”

“Acting?”

“The laughing. The leaning in. The wide-eyed interest in everything they said.” His tone was low, edged with something you couldn’t understand. “It was a bit much, don’t you think?”

A flash of irritation burst through you. “I was being polite. And for your information, I was genuinely interested. They’re good people, it was a normal conversation.”

“It didn’t look normal from where I was sitting.” He took a step closer. The air between you crackled. “Looked like you were enjoying their attention a little too much.”

You closed the remaining distance between you, stopping just an arm’s length away. You looked up at him, at the storm in his gray eyes. “Sunghoon,” you said, your voice tender. “They’re your friends. I was nice to them because they’re important to you. That’s all.”

But if anything, your softness seemed to make it worse.

A low, frustrated sound escaped him. He finally turned, but not to look at you. His gaze swept over his desk, the neat stacks of papers, as if searching for an escape. “That’s not the point,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.

The aching in your chest curdled into a sharp spike of annoyance. You’d spent the entire evening navigating his unpredictable moods, from his possessive display at Jay’s to this petulant silence. You’d offered an olive branch, and he was swatting it away.

“Then what is the point, Sunghoon?” you asked, the calm in your voice beginning to fray. “Because from where I’m standing, you invited me to meet the only people in your life who seem to actually like you, I had a genuinely pleasant conversation with them, and now you’re treating me like I’ve committed some kind of crime. So, please, enlighten me. What exactly did I do wrong? Was my laugh too loud? Were my interests too provocative?”

He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes, but it was enough. He looked at you then, and the storm in his brown eyes was now a cold front. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, the accusation falling like a blade. “You have this—” he ran his hands through his hair. “This way. You turn it on and off. For the press, for my employees, for my friends. That wide-eyed fascination. That laugh that makes men feel like they’re the wittiest person in the world. It’s an act. And a very convincing one, apparently.”

The accusation was so absurd, so wildly off-base, that for a second you were speechless. He was describing the original Y/N. Not you. You’d forgotten to act tonight.

That was the whole problem.

Your own frustration boiled over. “You are impossible, Sunghoon,” you stated, the words leaving your lips before you could temper them. “And you’re not even making sense. You’re jealous of your own friends for having a regular conversation with me. Do you hear yourself?”

You didn’t wait for an answer. The conversation was going in circles, spiraling into a void where his logic couldn’t follow. The warmth of the evening, the feeling of connection with Jake and Jay, the heat of his hand on your hip—it was all being poisoned by this stubborn, childish sulk. You were tired. The emotional whiplash was exhausting.

“You know what? Forget it,” you said, turning on your heel. The silk of your dress whispered against your legs as you strode toward the study door. “I’m going to bed. You can stand here and brood at the skyline all night for all I care.”

You reached for the polished brass handle, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pulled.

The door didn’t budge.

A large, warm hand was splayed flat against the dark wood, just above your head, holding it shut. You hadn’t heard him move, but he was right there behind you, his body warm. The scent of his cologne enveloped you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

“Wait.”

His voice was close, right by your ear. It had lost its icy edge. Now it was just rough, scraped raw.

You didn’t turn. You stared at the grain of the wood, at his long fingers pressed white-knuckled against it. “Let me go, Sunghoon.”

“I said wait.” The hand on the door slid down, his arm now caging you in, his chest not quite touching your back but you could feel the heat of him through the thin layers of your dress and his shirt. “Just—please. Wait a moment.”

The fight drained out of you, replaced by a shaky, breathless awareness. You leaned your forehead lightly against the door, closing your eyes. “Why?”

A long pause. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven. “Because you’re right,” he said, the words so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. “I’m being impossible.”

You blinked, your eyes still closed.

Huh?

He continued, the words coming out in a reluctant, stilted rush, as if being forced past a great internal resistance. “It wasn’t an act. I could see that. Tonight. With them.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding behind you. “You were—yourself. And they liked you. Jake was practically hanging on your every word about that absurd painting with the floating clocks.”

“Dali,” you murmured automatically.

“Yes, Dali.” he echoed. He shifted, his arm brushing against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. “The point is…” he cleared his throat. “I’m not used to it.”

“To what? To people liking your fiancée?”

“To caring if they do,” he admitted. “To watching it happen and feeling like I…” He trailed off. “It’s unfamiliar. And I handled it poorly. I apologize.”

The formal, stiff apology was so like him, yet the vulnerability laced through it was entirely new. The annoyance melted away, leaving that strange, aching tenderness in its place.

You finally turned, slowly, under the arch of his arm. You had to tilt your head back to look at him. In the dim light, his handsome face was all sharp angles and shadow, but his eyes… they held a turmoil you’d never seen before.

“You were jealous,” you said, not as an accusation, but as a simple, gentle observation.

He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked away, his jaw working. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the high points of his cheeks. “I was. It was… illogical.”

“A little,” you agreed, a small smile touching your lips. “They’re your best friends. Jake looks at you like you hung the moon. Jay clearly adores you. They were just being kind to me because I’m with you.”

He looked back at you, searching your face. “You’re not upset?”

“I was annoyed,” you said honestly. “Because you were being a grumpy, silent statue and it was confusing. But I’m not upset.” You reached up, tentatively, and placed a hand lightly on his chest, over his sternum. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. “It’s okay to feel things, Sunghoon. Even if they’re messy and confusing and don’t make sense.”

He stared down at your hand on his chest, then his gaze lifted to yours. His brows were knitted upwards. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the room.

“Do what?”

“Any of it.” The admission seemed to unlock something. The words started to tumble out, low and rushed. “This. Having someone here. Someone who—who argues with me and really listens to me and doesn’t look at my friends as potential social climbing opportunities. Someone who gets annoyed when I’m being an ass instead of just simpering. And then seeing you with them, so natural, so easy… it felt like you fit. You fit into a part of my life that has nothing to do with mergers or board meetings. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t. It’s—well, it’s kind of unsettling. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. Jay would laugh himself sick if he knew. He’s probably already guessed. He’s annoyingly perceptive about these things. Which is another problem, because now I’ll have to hear about it for weeks, and he’ll make some comment about me being emotionally stunted, which is technically accurate but still rude to point out, especially when I’m the one usually paying for his overpriced whiskey—”

He was rambling. Park Sunghoon, the master of terse, cutting remarks, was rambling.

You let out a breathy, incredulous little giggle.

He stopped mid-sentence, his brows drawing together again. “What?”

You shook your head, your smile widening. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He blinked. Cute. You were certain no one had ever used that word to describe Park Sunghoon in his entire life. A series of emotions flickered across his face: disbelief, offense, and then a dawning, bewildered wonder. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened.

“I am not,” he stated, but the protest sounded almost petulant.

“You are a little,” you insisted, your thumb making a small, unconscious circle on his shirt. “All this big, brooding energy because your friends and your fake fiancée got along too well. It’s adorable.”

He stared at you, utterly disarmed. The hand that wasn’t braced against the door came up, hesitated, then gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. His touch was feather-light, tentative. “You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” he murmured.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, then flicked back up to his. His gaze was locked on your mouth. For one heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you. The air grew thick, your breath coming shorter. His head dipped slightly, his eyes darkening—

—but then he stopped. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and straightened. The moment shattered.

His hand fell from your face, and he took a small, deliberate step back.

He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Go to bed,” he said, his voice rough, scraping over the words. “We have the drive to my parents’ estate tomorrow.”

THE PARK FAMILY ESTATE WAS LESS A HOUSE AND MORE A DISPLAY OF WEALTH. It was all severe lines, imported stone, and meticulously manicured gardens that looked like no one was allowed to walk in them. The air itself felt several degrees cooler when you stepped out of the car.

Sunghoon’s father, Chairman Park, was exactly as the novel had foretold: a man carved from glacier ice, a crueller, harsher version of Sunghoon. His greeting was a curt nod, his eyes assessing you. His mother, on the other hand, was far more complex. She was elegant, with a smile that reached her eyes but didn't quite warm them, and she welcomed you gracefully, complimenting your dress, asking after the wedding plans with a tone of mild interest.

Dinner was a silent, formal affair. The clink of silverware against fine china was deafening. Chairman Park grilled Sunghoon on work, dismissing his answers with grunts. He ignored you completely. Mrs. Park attempted lighter conversation, asking you about your family, your interests. You answered as blandly as possible, sticking to the script you imagined the original Y/N would have used: mentions of charitable boards, designer names.

“You must be so excited for the wedding, dear,” Mrs. Park said as dessert was served, a fragile porcelain cup of tea placed before her. “It’s such a wonderful opportunity to solidify your future.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Sunghoon tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time together since you’ve started living together. Getting to know each other.” Her smile remained, but her eyes were sharp and beady. “That’s good. A strong foundation of… understanding is so important in these arrangements.”

At the word ‘arrangement’, Sunghoon, beside you, went very still.

After dinner, Mrs. Park suggested a walk in the garden. “The roses are in bloom, Y/N. Come, let’s get some air.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. You followed her out into the twilight, the scent of roses indeed thick and almost cloying. She walked in silence for a while along a gravel path that wound past sculpted hedges and a large koi pond.

“You are a very different girl from the reports I received,” she began, her voice conversational. “The Y/N we researched was rather more acquisitive. I thought that before, you knew what this marriage was.” She turned to you. “A strategic alliance for your family’s benefit and for the stability of ours.”

You kept your eyes on the path, your stomach knotting.

“But it seems this new version of you,” she continued, stopping by the pond to watch the orange and white shapes glide beneath the water’s surface. “Is quite confusing for my son, I think. He is a man who values clarity. He understands transactions.” She turned to you, her smile still perfectly in place. “Your job, my dear, is to be a compliant partner and an asset to him. Not to… confuse him by making him question the nature of the transaction.”

The gentleness in her tone made the words cut deeper. “I’m not trying to confuse him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head. She let out a soft, pitying sigh. “You’re forgetting your place. This is a business arrangement. When the time is right, and his position is unassailable, you will both go your separate ways with the agreed-upon compensation. Any emotional complication is a breach of contract.” She placed a cold, delicate hand on your arm. “Do not make the mistake of believing this is a love story, Y/N. Remember who you are. And more importantly, remember who he is.”

Your head was spinning.

She gave your arm a faint pat. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the pond. Do find your way back before it gets too dark.”

She walked away, her footsteps silent on the gravel, leaving you alone by the darkening water.

The dam broke.

Tears, hot and shameful, welled up and spilled over. She was right. Of course she was right. You were an imposter in every sense. An imposter in this body, in this life, and now, an imposter in your own feelings. You were muddying the waters of a simple deal, risking everything for a man who was made to love someone else. The sobs came then, quiet and wrenching, your shoulders shaking as you stared blindly at the koi, your tears making small splashes in the pond.

You didn’t hear his approach. You only sensed a presence, and you quickly wiped your cheeks with the backs of your hands, turning your face away.

“Y/N?”

Sunghoon’s voice, close. Panic spiked inside you.

You couldn’t let him see.

“I’m fine,” you choked out, your voice thick. “Just—um. Admiring the pond. Give me a minute.”

“Look at me.”

“No, really, I’m—”

“Y/N.” His voice was low, but it was a command nonetheless. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you turned. The last of the twilight caught the tracks of your tears, glistening on your skin. His expression, which had been carefully neutral when he found you, shattered. His eyes widened, then darkened with fury.

“What did she say to you?” The question was a soft, deadly thing.

You shook your head, fresh tears falling. “Nothing. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Tell me.” He took a step closer.

“She just—just reminded me of my place,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. “That this is just an arrangement. That I shouldn’t… forget what it is. That I’m—I’m confusing you. And she’s right, Sunghoon, I am. I’m messing it all up, and I’m—” you sniffed. “I’m so sorry—”

“Stop.” The word was a whip-crack. He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. “She has no right. No right to speak to you like that.”

“She does,” you cried, the frustration and heartbreak pouring out. “This is her world! These are her rules! I’m just a temporary fixture, and I’m acting like—like I’m something else. I’m sorry for being confusing. I’m sorry for the skating and the congee and for talking to your friends and for just… for just being here all wrong!”

You were babbling, tears streaming freely now. You tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you. Instead, he pulled you into his chest.

One arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you firmly, securely, as you cried into the crisp cotton of his shirt. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“Y/N,” he murmured into your hair. “You are the only thing that has made any sense in a very, very long time.”

You clung to him, your fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt. His hand moved from your head to stroke your hair, slow, calming strokes. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your cheek, and the last of your resistance melted away, and you sank into the embrace, letting him hold the pieces of you together.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the silence of the garden and the sanctuary of his arms. The tears eventually subsided, leaving you hollowed out and shaky. He didn’t let go until finally, you took a ragged, shuddering breath. He leaned back just enough to look down at you, his hands moving to cup your face again. His thumbs wiped away the last of the moisture on your cheeks. His eyes searched yours.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

He kept one arm around you, guiding you firmly back toward the monstrous house, not to say goodbye to his parents, but straight to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled away from the estate without a backward glance.

You looked out the window, watching the dark countryside blur past, feeling the ghost of his arms around you, the sensation of his fingers in your hair. Your skin still tingled where he’d touched you. Then you snuck a glance at his profile, lit by the dashboard lights. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the cold fury had settled into a deep, simmering resolve. He had chosen a side. And for tonight, at least, he had chosen yours.

Though, of course, life humbled you. Confusion had to come from the other side of the equation: Lee Soojin.

The wedding planning continued as normal. You made a point of being pleasant, supportive even. You praised her ideas, deferred to her taste. You were the dream client, and her initial nervousness around you melted into a warm, professional respect. You liked her. She was kind, hardworking, genuinely talented.

And Sunghoon always noticed her. It was natural that he did—that was how it was meant to go. In meetings, he was engaged, asking questions, offering solutions. You’d catch him watching her as she meticulously arranged sample centerpieces, a considering look on his face. Once, when she dropped a binder, he was out of his chair in an instant to help her gather the scattered papers. Their hands brushed. You saw the faint pink that tinged Soojin’s cheeks, the way she couldn’t quite meet his eyes afterward, and the jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach almost became acidic.

It was exactly as the novel said. The cold CEO, melted by the genuine warmth of the commoner. You’d see them talking quietly in a corner of his office after a meeting had officially ended, and that strange pang would hit your chest again.

THE WORST WAS THE DAY OF THE FINAL VENUE WALKTHROUGH. You’d arrived separately from Sunghoon, caught in a snarl of downtown traffic.

The location was a stunning, glass-walled conservatory overlooking the river. By the time you rushed through the arched entrance, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the polished floor.

You saw them before they saw you.

They were at the far end of the conservatory, standing on a temporary wooden platform that marked where the altar would be. Lee Soojin was pointing towards the ceiling, explaining something about hanging floral installations, her face animated with passion. And Sunghoon…

Sunghoon was listening. Not just listening, but absorbing it all. He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted slightly toward her. The sunlight streamed through the glass panes, catching the dust motes in the air and painting them both in a soft, golden glow.

It was a perfect picture. The ambitious, brilliant CEO and the creative, warm-hearted wedding planner. He was asking a question, his expression serious but open, and Soojin smiled, gesturing with her hands as she answered.

You could see it, the rows of chairs filled with Seoul’s elite. The live music swelling. Soojin, in a simple, beautiful dress that wasn’t the one you’d picked, walking down this very aisle. And Sunghoon, waiting for her right there, on that platform, his brown eyes fixed only on her. The image was so vivid that it stole the breath from your lungs. Your chest constricted, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with the hurried walk from the car.

This was it. The real beginning of the end for Cha Y/N.

Sunghoon’s gaze finally flickered away from Soojin and landed on you, standing frozen in the doorway. The open, engaged expression on his face closed down, smoothed into the more familiar, neutral mask. He straightened up.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic,” you said, your voice sounding brittle and thin to your own ears. You forced a smile, directing it at Soojin, who had turned and was now offering you a polite, slightly nervous bow. “Sorry, Miss Lee. Please, show me what you’ve finalized.”

You walked forward, your heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm on the stone. As you passed Sunghoon to join Soojin by the platform, he did something unexpected. He reached out and briefly, almost absently, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cool against your heated skin. “You look flushed,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Did you run?”

The gesture was so intimate. A week ago, it might have sent a thrill through you. Now, it just felt like salt in the wound. He’s just playing his part, a vicious voice in your head whispered. The attentive fiancé in front of the help. It doesn’t mean anything. He was just looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Just the heat,” you lied, pulling away slightly, your smile feeling more like a grimace.

The rest of the walkthrough was agony. You nodded and agreed to everything Soojin proposed: the arch of white orchids, the string quartet placement, the timing for the sunset ceremony. But you felt like a spectator haunting your own life. Your responses were automatic. “Lovely.” “Perfect.” “Whatever you think is best.”

You watched Sunghoon and Soojin discuss the practicalities. Lighting cues for the photographer, the route for the caterers, backup plans for rain. Their rapport was seamless. He’d ask a sharp, logistical question, and she’d have a thoughtful, prepared answer. He’d nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes, and suggest a minor refinement. She’d consider it, then agree with a bright, “Yes, that’s much more efficient!” Every shared titter over a hiccup, every moment of unspoken understanding as they examined a floor plan, felt like a tiny paper cut on your heart. A hundred small, insignificant slices that left you feeling quietly, profoundly bloody.

As she got to her binder, Soojin tripped slightly on a loose cable snaking across the floor. Sunghoon’s hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow. “Careful,” he said, his voice soft.

“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Park,” Soojin stammered, her cheeks flushing a pretty, delicate pink again. She quickly righted herself, but her gaze lingered on his face for a second too long before she busied herself with her clipboard.

You looked away, your throat tight.

A little while later, as you were examining sample table linens, Sunghoon stood close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to point at a fabric swatch in Soojin’s hand. His chest brushed against your back. “I like the ivory better, not the stark white,” he said, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “It’ll be less harsh under the lights.”

You stiffened, every nerve ending hyper-aware.

“Yes,” you managed to whisper. “Okay. The ivory is better.”

He stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, and then he straightened up, the warmth leaving your back.

The walkthrough concluded with polite bows and assurances. Soojin promised to have the revised layouts emailed by the morning. Sunghoon gave a curt nod. “Your work is impressive, Miss Lee. Thank you.”

The praise, so directly given, made Soojin beam. “Thank you, Mr. Park! I won’t let you down.”

No, you thought, the ache in your chest deepening. You certainly won’t.

That night, back in the penthouse, you were curled on the vast living room sofa, a book (decidedly not a romance) open but unread on your lap. You were replaying the image of them by the window, trying to quash the hollow feeling it left behind. This was the plan. This was what you wanted. For them to fall in love, for the story to proceed, so you could leave.

So why did it feel like this?

You heard his footsteps first, then the subtle shift in the air as he entered the room. He didn’t sit. He came to stand behind the sofa, looking down at you. You kept your eyes on your book, but you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your shoulder, the curve of your neck where your hair had fallen away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed reserved for these late-night moments.

You swallowed. “Nothing. Just tired.”

The lie hung in the air. He was quiet for a long moment. You could almost hear him weighing his next move. Then, you felt the cushion dip slightly as he leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa, one on either side of you.

“You’ve been quiet since the venue,” he stated, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “Was it something Miss Lee said?”

The mention of her name was like a splash of cold water. You closed your book with a soft snap. “No. She was perfect. Everything is perfect.” You made to get up, to escape to the safety of your room.

A hand, firm and warm, landed on your shoulder, gently pressing you back down. “Y/N.”

You froze. He almost never used your name. It was always “you,” or “Miss Cha” in formal settings. The sound of it in his voice, so close, did something dangerous to your insides.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, you turned your head to look up at him. He was leaning over the back of the sofa, his face serious, his storm-cloud eyes searching yours. The distance between your faces was less than a foot. You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight pulse at the base of his throat. Your breath caught.

“I don’t believe you,” he said softly

Fine, you wanted to say. Something did happen. The entire plot of a trashy romance novel happened. And I saw you smiling at her, and it’s supposed to happen, but it feels all wrong now.

“I mean it,” you said instead. “It’s nothing. Really.” You offered him a weak smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”

He studied your face for a long moment, his own unreadable. Then he nodded slowly, not looking convinced. He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might touch your face. But his hand just brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the contact brief.

“Okay. Get some rest,” he said, his voice quiet. He stood and left the room, leaving you alone with the echo of his touch and the churning confusion in your gut.

Here lay the entire problem: the more you saw of the real Park Sunghoon, the more the fictional version paled in comparison. The attraction you’d felt for a character became a terrifyingly real pull towards the living, breathing man. You’d catch yourself watching him, a hollow ache blooming in your chest, before violently shoving the feeling down. He’s not for you. This story isn’t yours. His happiness is with Soojin

The pang in your chest was no longer alien, it was a constant, dull companion. And it was your cue to exit, stage left.

Enough. You had played your part. You had been harmless. You had, against all odds, built something resembling a civil friendship with the male lead. Now it was time to give him his freedom, take your cushy payout, and vanish. You had your lawyer draw up a simple, clean, no-fault dissolution of the engagement agreement, and then you requested a meeting in his office. The same office where you’d first met Soojin.

HE WAS AT HIS DESK, BUT HE WASN’T WORKING. He was waiting for you, leaning back in his chair, watching you as you entered. The afternoon light slanted across the room, splashing everything in gold and shadow.

“You wanted to see me,” he said. His voice was deceptively casual, but his posture was alert.

You managed a nod, your throat suddenly dry. The leather folder in your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between you in a few unhurried strides. Before you could step back or offer a handshake—any kind of businesslike gesture—his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently against him. He dipped his head, his nose brushing the hair at your temple as he inhaled softly. “It’s nice to have you here,” he murmured, the words a warm puff against your skin.

You forced yourself to relax into the half-embrace, your mind screaming at the contradiction. This was the man who’d taken care of you when you were sick, who taught you to skate. This was also the man whose destiny was written in ink, intertwined with another woman’s name. The hollow ache in your chest expanded, threatening to swallow your resolve.

“I just needed to talk to you about something,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You extricated yourself from his hold.

He frowned, returning back to his desk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” You placed the sleek leather folder on the desk between you. “I need you to sign these.”

He didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed on your face. “What is it?”

“The termination of our engagement.” The words came out steady, practiced. “My lawyers have already reviewed it. It’s very straightforward. The settlement terms are there, and I think you’ll find them reasonable.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence from him. The gold light glinted off the edges of the folder, off the sharp line of his cheekbone.

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward. He didn’t reach for the folder. He placed his palms flat on the desk, his knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was a low, controlled vibration.

“What?”

“I’m calling off the arrangement,” you repeated, your own voice sounding thin in comparison. “It’s for the best. We both know this was never a real—”

“For the best,” he echoed, cutting you off. The control was cracking. You could see it at the edges—a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm gathering in those dark eyes. He pushed back from the desk and stood up, the movement fluid and predatory. He loomed over the desk, over you. “For the best? Are you serious? You come into my life, you—you change everything, you act like a completely different person for months, and now you just… you just drop this on my desk and say it’s for the best?”

“Sunghoon,” you startled at the emotion in his voice, taking an involuntary step back. “We both don’t want this. It’s a business deal that’s run its course. You can be with—”

“With who?” he snapped, his voice rising. He came around the desk, stopping a few feet from you. The space between you crackled with his fury. “Who is it that you think I want to be with? Tell me.”

“Soojin!” you blurted out. “Lee Soojin! It’s obvious, Sunghoon. You’re good together. She’s sweet, she’s genuine, she’s everything that—that this arrangement isn’t. You should be with her. You’re meant to be with her.”

He stared at you as if you’d started speaking in tongues. The anger seemed to freeze, then shatter into pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Soojin,” he scoffed, the name a flat, incredulous syllable. “Our wedding planner.”

“Yes! You talk to her, you laugh with her, you look at her like…” You trailed off, the memory of those looks twisting inside you.

“Like a competent professional whose work I respect?” he fired back, taking another step closer. You could see the faint flecks of gold in his irises, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. “Is that the crime? Is that what this is about? You’ve decided, based on God-knows-what, that I have feelings for our wedding planner, and so you’re, what? Nobly stepping aside? Is that it?”

It was too close to the truth. You floundered. “It’s logical. This engagement is a farce. We should both be free.”

“Free?” he laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Are you fucking with me?” He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne. His gaze bored into yours, searching for something you were desperately trying to hide. “For months, I’ve been trying to understand you. I thought—I actually thought…” He broke off, shaking his head, a hand raking through his perfect hair in a gesture of utter frustration. “And now you hand me this. Did I do something? Did I upset you? Is this some new, elaborate game? Because if it is, I need you to tell me the rules right now, because I can’t keep up.”

The pain in his voice, the sheer, bewildered hurt mixed in with the anger, was your undoing. This wasn’t in the novel. The Sunghoon in the novel would have taken the papers with relief, maybe a cutting remark. He wouldn’t be standing here, looking at you like you’d just reached into his chest and pulled out his entire heart.

“It’s not a game,” you whispered, your own resolve crumbling. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been—you’ve been lovely. That’s the whole problem.”

“That’s the whole problem,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ve been lovely, so you’re leaving.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense, Y/N, I don’t accept this.”

“You have to sign the papers,” you said weakly.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” he said, and the final shred of his control vanished. His eyes blazed with conviction. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk in here, change every single thing, and then just walk away because you’ve decided what’s for the best. You don’t know what’s best for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin. “The only thing I know for certain right now,” he said, each word deliberate, hammering, and emphasised, “is that I am not signing those papers.”

“You have to,” you insisted, your voice trembling despite your resolve. “Sunghoon, this isn’t real. What we have is a contract. You’ll get over this. In a month, you’ll look back and be grateful I let you go to be with someone you actually—someone who actually means something to you. Soojin is—”

“Enough.” The word was a guttural snarl that vibrated in the marrow of your bones. His hand, still hovering near your arm, finally closed around your wrist firmly. “Enough about Lee Soojin! You think this is about her?”

He pulled you closer, the motion so sudden you stumbled a half-step forward. The storm in his eyes had broken.

“You want to know what I’ve been thinking about?” he demanded, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “When I’m in a meeting so boring I want to put my head through the glass, I think about coming home. Not just to this place. To wherever you are. That’s home. I imagine walking in and finding you asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest. I think about picking it up, reading the page you dog-eared, just to know what was in your head before you drifted off. If you’re in the kitchen, I think about you humming to yourself, that off-key little tune you do when you’re making tea, and I wonder what would happen if I came up behind you and put my hands around your waist.”

Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. This was a deviation, a crack in the universe.

“And you think I’ve been—been thinking about her?” He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Before you, this place was just a building. I’d work until I couldn’t see straight just to have an excuse not to come back.” His eyebrows were drawn together. “You’ve fucked me up, Y/N. Now I find myself watching the clock like some pathetic highschooler, inventing reasons to wrap things up early. Because you’re here.”

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “You want to know when I think about Lee Soojin? I think about her when she’s emailing me timelines and invoices. That’s it. She’s a good planner, and she’s doing an excellent job planning a wedding that I don’t want with anyone but you.”

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, a last-ditch defense. “It’s just… the arrangement, Sunghoon. It’s confusing your feelings—”

“Y/N,” He released your wrist, but only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was devastating in its tenderness. “You think I don’t know what I feel? You think this is confusion? This is the only thing that has ever been clear to me.”

“Sunghoon, please—”

“No.” The word was soft, final. “It’s you. It’s only you. It has only ever been you.” His voice broke on the last word, the raw vulnerability of it slicing through you. “Do you understand? There is no one else, there will never be anyone else for me.”

The world tilted. The solid ground of the plot, of your predetermined escape, crumbled into dust beneath your feet. He was looking at you like you were the sun, but you were just a thief standing in its light.

“You’re wrong,” you choked out, tears spilling over now, matching his. “You have to be wrong. This is a trick. I tricked you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m not her, Sunghoon. The person you think you—the person you feel this for, it’s not me. It’s a lie.”

His brow furrowed, bewildered concern overtaking his features. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?”

“The real Cha Y/N!” you cried, the words tearing free from some deep, secret place of panic. “The one who was supposed to be here! The person I was a year ago! That’s who you were supposed to be engaged to. That’s who you were supposed to hate. And I—I came in and I messed it all up. I was nice to Soojin. I made you congee. I laughed with your friends. I’ve been pretending to be someone,” you sniffled. “Someone better, and you fell for the act. You fell for this—this character.” You were sobbing in earnest now, the guilt and fear and desperate, unwanted hope pouring out of you. “You’re a good man, Sunghoon. You’re just—you feel responsible because I’ve been kind. That’s all this is.”

For a long, suspended moment, he just stared at you, his hands still cradling your face. The anger had drained from his expression, and, to your surprise, he wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. He was looking at you like he was finally, finally putting the pieces together.

“A character,” he repeated slowly. His thumbs stilled on your skin. “You think you’ve been playing a part.”

“Yes.”

“And the real Cha Y/N… you believe she was someone else. Someone I was meant to despise.”

“Yes.”

He took a deep, slow breath, his gaze searching every inch of your face as if seeing it for the first time. “The night in the car. After the gala. You said you were from a different universe.” he said slowly. “I thought you were joking.”

You couldn’t speak. You just looked at him, your eyes wide with terror.

His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with awe and a terrible, heartbreaking softness. “You weren’t joking, were you?”

The last of your resistance collapsed. You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.

“Oh, Y/N,” he breathed. The sound was full of wonder. His grip on your face gentled even further. “My impossible, ridiculous girl. Do you really think it matters to me?” A faint, incredulous smile touched his lips, though his eyes were still wet. “Do you think I’m some honorable hero from one of your books?”

You flinched at the accuracy of it.

His smile faded, replaced by that same conviction. “I told you. I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish man. I want what I want. And I have never, not for one second since you woke up in this world, wanted anyone but you.” He leaned closer, his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, dark with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “I have spent the last few months in a special kind of hell, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that’s been like? To have the woman I’m contractually bound to be the only woman I can’t fucking have? To watch you walk around in those little sleep shorts, with your hair messy in the morning, and have to pretend I don’t see it? To sit across from you at breakfast and want to clear the entire table with my arm just to get my hands on you?” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper that scraped over every nerve ending. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very desk. I’ve thought about pinning you against that glass and watching the whole city see who you belong to. I’ve thought about your mouth, your thighs, the sounds you’d make if I finally stopped being a gentleman. I’ve fucked my own hand more times these past few months than in my entire life before you, and every single time, it was your name I bit into my pillow to keep from shouting.”

A dizzying wave of heat crashed through you.

“Sunghoon,” you started, but you had no words.

“No,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, his gaze scouring your face. “Listen to me.” He released your wrist only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his touch searing. “You are not leaving me. This engagement is not ending. The only thing that’s ending is this pathetic charade where we pretend this isn’t real.”

He released you so suddenly you swayed. In one fluid, violent motion, he snatched the leather folder from the desk. You watched, hypnotized, as his hands searched for the papers. He tore them in half, then quarters, then let the pieces flutter to the floor.

“The only paper you’ll sign next,” he said, his voice low and final, “is our marriage certificate. Do you understand me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His attention was already on his tie. With a sharp tug, he loosened the knot of his silk tie, the dark fabric slithering free. His eyes never left yours as he began to stalk toward you, a predator with its prey finally cornered.

You took a step back. Then another. Your heart was a wild drum against your ribs. The heat between your legs was a throbbing, insistent ache. Your back hit something cool and unyielding—the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The panoramic view of the city sprawled behind you, a dizzying drop of steel and glass. You were trapped between the cold glass and the furnace of his body.

He closed the final distance and planted his hands on the glass on either side of your head, caging you in.

“Now,” he breathed out. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Lie to me.”

You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, your lips parted. A small, desperate whimper escaped you.

That was all the answer he needed.

He kissed you like he was starving, and you were the first thing he’d had in a lifetime. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every word about leaving, every mention of another person’s name. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp sting of pleasure-pain that made you cry out against his mouth. Your hands flew up to clutch at the crisp fabric of his shirt. A low groan rumbled from his chest into yours.

He swallowed the sound, his tongue tangling with yours, deep and filthy. When he finally broke for air, it was only to drag his lips along your jaw, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“You think I could look at anyone else,” he growled, his voice a scrape against your ear as he bit your earlobe. “When you’re in my house? In my bed? Fuck.” His hands left the glass and gripped your hips, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of your dress. “Every night. Every goddamn night, Y/N.”

“Sunghoon—” you whimpered, the explicit confession flooding your system with heat.

“Y/N,” he breathed out. He spun you around, your front pressing against the cool, unyielding glass. The city sprawled below, and your breath fogged the window. His body covered yours from behind, his erection a hard, insistent line against the curve of your ass. He pushed your hair aside and buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I couldn’t stand it,” he whispered, the words a dark, delicious sin directly into your ear. One hand slid around your waist, splaying possessively over your lower belly. The other hand yanked at the hem of your dress, gathering it up around your waist. The cool air kissed your bare thighs, and you shuddered. “Tell me you thought about it, too. Tell me you touched yourself, thinking about my hands on you.”

“Yes,” you breathed, the admission torn from you.

“Good.” The word was a satisfied rumble. His fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. With a sharp tug, the delicate fabric tore, and he palmed your bare ass, then slid his hand between your thighs.

You were soaked. Achingly, shamelessly wet for him.

He groaned, a deep, pained sound. “Look at this.” He dragged two fingers through your slickness, circling your clit with a pressure that made you cry out and press your forehead to the cold glass. “All that talk of leaving,” he breathed out, his voice thick with lust, “but your body knows the truth. It knows who it belongs to.”

He pushed a finger inside you, then a second, curling them expertly. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a pulse of pure need. You moaned.

His other hand slid up your torso, roughly palming your tits through the silk of your dress before finding the zipper at the side. With a sharp tug, he pulled it down, the fabric gaping open. He shoved the material off your shoulders, baring you to the waist. The cool glass met your feverish skin, your nipples pebbling into tight, sensitive points against the smooth, unyielding surface.

“See?” he whispered hotly against your ear, his fingers still working inside you, stretching you, preparing you. “See how pretty you look? Pressed against my window. My view.” He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand you. “I want the whole city to see. I want every man in every building to look up and see my pretty little wife getting fucked by her husband. To know you’re taken. That you’re mine.”

A shudder of pure, wanton heat racked your body. “We’re—we’re not married yet,” you gasped out, a feeble defense as you ground your hips back against his hand. “We’re just—hngh!—business partners.”

His fingers stilled. Then, slowly, he pulled them out. You whimpered at the loss, the emptiness. You heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of his belt buckle, the slide of a zipper. Then the replacement of the hot, heavy weight of his erection pressed against the cleft of your ass with the velvety head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.

“Is that so?”

His voice was a low, dangerous purr against the shell of your ear. He held his cock there, just brushing your pussy, his hips making tiny, maddening circles that smeared his pre-cum against your sensitive folds.

“If we’re not married,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, almost conversational, as his hands gripped your hips, “then I suppose this would be improper. A breach of our purely business arrangement.” He pulled back slightly, the loss of his heat a physical pain. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should stop.”

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from you. You tried to push back against him, but his grip was iron, holding you still. “Sunghoon—”

“No?” he echoed, mock-thoughtful. One hand smoothed over your bare hip, his thumb digging into the sensitive dip. “But you were so clear about the terms just now. About it being just business.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Business partners don’t do this, do they, Y/N?”

You were trembling. Your muscles clenched around nothing, aching. “Sunghoon, please.”

“Please what?” he purred, his other hand coming up to circle your throat. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

You were beyond pride, beyond the script of the novel, beyond everything but the pounding of your blood and the empty, throbbing want between your legs. “I need you,” you gasped, your forehead grinding against the cool glass. “I need your cock. Please. Please, just… fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me.”

“Where inside you?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. One hand slid from your hip, around to your lower belly, pressing down. “Here?” He rocked his hips, the blunt head catching on your entrance, pushing in just a single, devastating inch before retreating. A broken cry of agreement left your lips. “You feel that? That’s where I belong. That’s where I’m going to fill you up.”

“Please,” you sobbed, shameless now. “Please, Sunghoon, I need it so bad—”

He sheathed himself to the hilt.

The world dissolved into a white-hot shock of sensation. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs completely. You screamed, the sound muffled against the glass. He was so deep, you could practically feel him in your womb.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his body going rigid against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you’re tight. You’re taking me so well, baby. So perfect for me.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, letting you feel every inch, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming intrusion. You could feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your own muscles fluttered and clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.

Then he moved.

He pulled out slowly, almost completely, dragging it out before slamming back in. A choked cry was punched from you with each relentless thrust thrust that jolted you forward into the window, your palms squeaking against the glass. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your desperate moans, filled the silent office.

“You thought you could leave?” he panted, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled, more frantic. He wrapped one arm around your waist, hauling you back onto him with every drive of his hips. “You thought you could walk away from me?” He slammed into you, and a sharp cry was punched from your chest. “I’d have found you. I’d have torn the world apart to bring you back. You’re mine.”

“Big words,” you managed to taunt, your voice shaking. “For a man who—ah!—needed a contract to get a wife.”

“You have a smart mouth for someone getting split open on my cock,” he snarled. The arm around your waist tightened, and his other hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap on your ass.

The shock of it made you clench around him harder.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “You like that?” He spanked you again, on the other side, and you moaned, pushing your ass back into the contact, into his thrusts. “This perfect cunt,” he hammered into you, “this perfect body. All mine. In a month, you’ll be my wife. Then it’s forever.” His breaths were shaking too, now. “You’ll carry my children. You’ll wear my ring and my marks and my cum every single day until you forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine.”

Your nails scrabbled against the smooth glass. “You’re—you’re insane,” you gasped out.

“For you,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “It’s all for you.” His pace became brutal, a piston-like drive that had you seeing stars with each impact. The tightness in your belly wound faster, faster, a spring of sensation ready to snap. You could feel the sweat slick between your bodies.

“That’s it,” he whispered, watching your desperate, pleasure-twisted expression in the darkening reflection of the glass. “See how beautiful you are? Taking all of me. Made for me. My perfect girl.” He slid a hand around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight little circles. “You want me to put a baby in you, don’t you?” he breathed. “You want to be so full of me you can’t forget for a second who you belong to.”

Your hips rocked back, meeting his thrusts, seeking more, deeper. “Yes,” you whimpered. “Yes, Sunghoon, please.”

In one brutal, fluid motion, he spun you around. Your back hit the glass with a soft thud, the city lights a dizzying backdrop behind him. Before you could process the new position, his mouth was on yours, swallowing your gasp. His tongue mapped the interior of your mouth as his hands gripped your bare thighs, hiking them up around his hips. He entered you again in this new, face-to-face angle, and it was somehow deeper. You could see his face—the dark flush on his cheekbones, the sweat beading at his temples, the madness in his eyes.

His cock sank back into your soaked pussy with a slick thrust, stretching you wide in this new angle that let him grind right against that spot deep inside. Sunghoon groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing to yours as he started moving again, slow at first, savoring the way your walls clenched around him, pulling him in like you were made to milk every inch. "Fuck, you’re incredible," he rasped, voice rough with awe. "So tight, so wet for me. ‘S like your body's begging to keep me forever."

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles of his back through his shirt as he picked up the pace, hips snapping forward. Each plunge drove him deeper, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The cool glass bit into your spine, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. All you could focus on was Sunghoon: his breath hot on your neck, his hands bruising your thighs as he held you open, fucking you so hard you were sure you’d forget your own name by the time he was done.

"That's my girl," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his rhythm turning relentless. He loved it, the way your pussy fluttered around his thick length, the obscene wet sounds of him sliding in and out, the way your tits bounced with each thrust. He shifted his grip, hiking you up higher so that one hand could slide up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your hardened nipple while he lowered his mouth to the other.

Your head fell back against the window, a series of punched-out moan and whimpers tearing from your throat. His thrusts grew harder, faster again. You could feel him everywhere—his cock throbbing inside you, his hands on your body, his mouth on your tits, and the tightness climbed further and further, your clit pulsing under the friction of his body—until it snapped. You cried out his name as you rode the waves of your orgasm, legs trembling in his hold.

Sunghoon followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with your name on his lips. His cock pulsed, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, marking you from the inside out. He held you there, grinding deep as he emptied himself. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A hot trickle slid down your inner thigh. He released you from his grip gently, his expression utterly shattered. He looked at you—your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, your dress rumpled around your waist—as if you were a miracle.

He leaned down and kissed you softly. “I’m in love with you, you impossible woman,” he whispered against your lips. “I think I have been since you shoved me out of the way to make congee.”

A watery laugh-sob escaped you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on.

He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Then his expression grew serious again, though the tenderness remained, and he reached for his discarded suit jacket, draped over his desk chair, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then looked at the scattered shreds of the termination agreement on the floor, then back at you, a dark gleam in his eye. “And just in case you get any more noble, self-sacrificing ideas…” He placed his large hand over your lower belly again, thumb stroking the skin. “We’re not done here. We’re going home, and you can forget about work tomorrow.”

THREE YEARS LATER, THE SOUND OF GLEEFUL SHRIEKS WAS BETTER THAN ANY ALARM CLOCK.

You stirred, a soft smile already on your face before you even opened your eyes. The early morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom in the penthouse—your penthouse, your bedroom—covering everything in warm, honeyed light. The space beside you in the vast bed was empty, but still warm. You could hear the distant, deep complaints of Sunghoon’s voice mixing with the high, piping laughter of your daughter, Via.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, one hand automatically cradling the gentle, firm swell of your belly. Twenty weeks along with your second. A little brother for Via, the ultrasound had confirmed.

Padding out to the open-plan living area, you leaned against the doorframe, watching. Sunghoon, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, was on his hands and knees, being conquered by a two-year-old warlord in ugly green dinosaur pajamas. Via was perched triumphantly on his back, tiny hands fisted in his shirt, shouting “Daddy, horsey! Faster!”

“I am a CEO,” Sunghoon grumbled, but his voice was full of laughter as he obediently crawled a few more feet across the rug. “I negotiate several deals before you even eat breakfast. I am not a horse.”

“Horsey!” Via insisted, shrieking.

“You heard the boss,” you called out, grinning.

Sunghoon’s head snapped up. His face, which still took your breath away, softened instantly when he saw you. Even with sleep-tousled hair, he still made your heart do that stupid flip with a smile that reached his crinkled eyes. “Look, Via, Mama’s awake,” he said, carefully rolling so he could scoop your giggling daughter into his arms as he stood.

“Mama!” Via reached for you, and Sunghoon carried her over, depositing a wriggling, warm bundle into your arms before leaning down to kiss you, slow and sweet.

“Good morning, baby.” he murmured against your lips. “How did you sleep?”

“Perfectly,” you said, meaning it. You kissed Via’s dark hair. “Unlike someone who was apparently running a rodeo at 7 AM.”

“She has her mother’s energy,” Sunghoon said, his hand coming to rest on your belly, his thumb stroking the curve. “And her mother’s terrible sense of timing.” he mock-frowned. “Why’d you have to get up now? I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Mm, no,” you leaned into him. “This is much better.”

my first long-ish fic...thats why i used dividers but wow its lowkey too many sweats anyway she is my baby this took me so long (literally over a month lol) but i hope u like her....... to be honest with u guys,,, i dont like it 😭 i was super excited abt this idea but i dont like at all how it came out and i honestly think i could have done so much better but i just wanted to get this done even if it was shit i cant lie im sorry 😞 it felt so weird to finish off after everything,, im still pretty torn up about it so if anything at all came off a little weird thats my bad 🥲🥲🥲 anyway i hope u liked it tho, and i hope ur all doing good and keeping healthy (and boycotting belift !!) <3 much love from ur mona heedimples 💝

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

liked by alex_albon, yourusername and 216,345 others

f1updates @.williamsf1official has announced Alex Albon's race engineer for the upcoming F1 season will be Williams' Y/N L/N. The engineer has been working for Williams for 4 years, and will already step into the new role for the first GP of 2025.

username1 oh come on

username2 THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1

username3 some of you acting as if they picked a rando off the street and ignoring the fact y/n has been a reliable engineer for the team for years… grow up

username4 I'm SO excited to watch her work with Alex!!!

username5 chat are we for real?

username6 YESSSS WOMEN ON F1!!!!!

liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 108,948 others

yourusername I'm so beyond honored and excited to start this year as an F1 race engineer! The biggest thanks to @.williamsf1official for this opportunity and to @.alex_albon for trusting me with this very important job. 💙

alex_albon I'm so excited to work with you! ♡ liked by yourusername

williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername GO WILLIAMS!!!!

username1 I'M GONNA SAY IT AGAIN: THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1

georgerussell63 Congratulations!!! ♡ liked by yourusername

lauramuller YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername LET'S FUCKING GO!!!!!!!!!!!!

username2 alright…

It's not that you've given up on your love life, per se.

It's just that you're preoccupied with other things.

"Bearman is 1.7 seconds behind you, Alex."

Such as doing your goddamn best to help Williams be an upper midfield F1 team.

"Bearman has activated DRS, Alex."

And, most of all, trying to get Alex Albon somewhat closer to a podium.

"And Bearman overtakes Albon after another brilliant lap! Haas' work this season has been truly stellar—"

Which is proving itself to be a little complicated.

"Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, Alex. We'll get him in a few laps."

"The car sucked today."

You sigh deeply at that, hands on your waist as you watch Alex take off his helmet, his brow furrowed with frustration.

"I know," your tone is apologetic, but you know that doesn't change anything. "You did well either way."

His brow furrows further.

"We didn't even finish inside the points."

"You're being too hard on yourself," you try, one of your hands rising up to touch his arm, feeling his race suit's resistant material under your fingertips, "you said it yourself. The car sucked. You can't do miracles when the car sucks, Alex."

"Bearman can," is his annoyed answer, and you can swear you see a few tears accumulate on the corners of his gray eyes. You know the string of bad races are taking a toll on him. "Doesn't matter. We'll do better next weekend."

Your chest feels heavy at the disappointment that lingers in the space between his words, in the furrow of his eyebrows, in his posture. You're not sure how to make him feel better — not when you keep losing the chance to get any points, not when he keeps finishing P12, P14, P17.

It's not his fault, but you don't know what to do either.

You open your mouth to answer, and then Alex is pulled away from you and dragged to interviewers. Your heart clenches at the bad timing of it all, but the social media manager barely spares you a glance, and you resort to going back into the garage to speak to the engineering team about the race, about the car, about ways to erase that look on your driver's eyes.

liked by albonfan1, username2 and 27,897 others

f1updates After a disappointing race, Alex Albon gives Sky Sports an exclusive interview about his struggles with the car:

🎙️ "The team worked really hard, but ultimately I just wasn't comfortable with the car today. It wouldn't be fair to just say the car sucked and that's why we did badly, but I have to admit my issues with it were definitely an important factor in our results. I'm hoping we can fix some of these problems before the next race."

username1 I know he's saying the issue was the car but tbh I feel like his little race engineer was no fucking help as usual

↳ username2 brother that's not the case AT ALL

username3 I mean… they did say the woke would kill F1 and specially Williams…

username4 it's really telling that you only see these "engineers" in midfield to objectively bad teams. you'd never see something like this in McLaren lol

↳ username5 wow literally shut the fuck up

username6 Alex explicitly says the team worked hard and he just wasn't comfortable in the car and yet you guys are talking shit about unrelated stuff this is ridiculous

username7 IT'S OKAY HE'LL DO BETTER IN THE NEXT RACE

liked by yourusername, georgerussell63 and 204,731 others

alex_albon We'll do better next time. Special thanks to @.yourusername for leading me so brilliantly through such a complicated race.

username1 you guys don't know how to behave so he had to make a post making it clear y/n isn't the problem 😭😭😭 embarrassing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

username2 chin up alex you're the goat

username3 THE CAR SUCKS BUT YOU DON'T!!!!!!!!!

yourusername Proud of you like always ❤️ ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,003 others

When Carlos gets his first podium with Williams a few weeks later, Alex is ecstatic.

He celebrates. He hugs his teammate. He parties with his team. He doesn't even look you in the eye the entire night, and you know he's getting into his own head.

You'd been one of Williams' engineers for his side of the garage for years, so he knew you before this season, of course he did. He smiled brightly when he was told you'd be on his radio for the next season right after one of the last races during the prior year, his still gloved hand shaking yours excitedly.

Truly, Alex is your friend. Moreover, Alex feels like he's disappointing you.

"I'm sorry," are the first words out of his mouth when he finally sits down next to you in whatever random club you're at, many hours after the race ended and too many drinks later. "I'm sorry I sucked today. And on many other days."

You immediately shove his shoulder, touch burning under the soft white shirt he's wearing. Feels like cotton.

"Shut up, Albon. It's not your fault." Your words are a little slurred and so are his and neither of you mind. "We'll get there too."

He breathes sharply, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, back resting against the couch you're sharing.

"I hope so," he turns his neck so he can stare at you. "Maybe we need more team bonding."

You laugh at that, propping up your elbow against the couch as your chin rests on your free hand. Your other hand holds a half empty glass.

"Oh, yeah?" You take a long sip of your drink. "What kind of team bonding are you thinking?"

"I don't know," he admits, "any kind."

You laugh again, and a shadow of a smile takes over his face. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. It feels peaceful, to just sit here with you for a second, listening to the noises of the club, feeling like they're far away, a quiet buzz from the alcohol swimming through his veins.

He opens his eyes.

"What color are the lights?"

You blink in surprise at the question.

"What?"

"What color are the lights?" He repeats, and you look around the club to check.

Just like in any other places, your eyes travel around the space to find different hues of black, white, and gray. You can see light flashing brightly closer to the dance floor, but they are as monochrome to you as everything else. You wonder if they're red, or purple, or blue. You wouldn't know if you could see them — wouldn't recognize the colors you've never seen before.

You know the stories. One miraculous touch from your universe-assigned soulmate, and the entire world would explode in color. You only know it to be true because it has happened to too many acquaintances and friends and family members to be false.

Some look for their soulmates their entire life. You're preoccupied with other things.

It's not that you don't care or that you don't want to look for your soulmate. You like to think you're just — not obsessing over it. If it's meant to be, if you're truly meant to find this perfect person who will quite literally bring color to your life, they'll show up. You won't have to look for them.

Yet you've heard F1 cars are different colors, and that must make them easier to differentiate, specially when they're going too fast for you to read the numbers and sponsors. So maybe that'd be helpful.

"I wouldn't know." You finally look back at him just to find him studying you, his dark gray eyes mapping every inch of your monochrome face. "All black and white to me."

"Really?" He sounds somewhat surprised, and you chuckle.

"Really."

Usually, this is the moment when two strangers look at each other awkwardly and touch hands just to see, chuckling even more awkwardly when nothing changes.

You and Alex don't need to, though, so you don't. Because you're pretty sure you've already touched him many times before — you work together, you're his race engineer, you've clapped his back and given him high fives and shaken his hand.

So the two of you keep conversation going for the rest of the night, coming up with team bonding exercises and discussing race strategies until the topic shifts towards childhood memories, his first karting win, your time in university, the way his parents always said his favorite color would probably be blue when he could see it.

Your body is warm from more than just the buzz of your drinks, and, when you finally leave, hand in hand with some girl from the social media department who you always share hotel rooms with, you offer him a grin.

And he grins right back, waving you goodbye, shoulders lighter than before.

It starts to nag at you, day after day.

Have you actually touched Alex before?

You're not sure why the question rises up inside your mind. You have, right? You must have. You've known him for years. you're his race engineer. You must have.

Why can't you remember a single time you actually did, though? Every single touch you can think of happened with gloves, on his race suit, his hand on your shoulder on top of your clothes. Why can't you remember a single time you touched skin to skin?

What if you haven't?

That's a good question, what if. What if… what? It's not like he could be your soulmate. There's no spark. There's no—no chemistry.

Well, there is a little chemistry. There has to be because you're his race engineer and you need to work well together, to have some sort of understanding. It's not—it's not like that, though.

You would know if Alex was your soulmate. You'd feel it somehow. You must've touched at least once, a brush of fingers, anything. You would know.

"Alex, Antonelli coming up behind you."

"How far?"

"3 seconds, but he's closing the gap really fast."

Your eyes fly across the many screens in front of you, from Alex's vitals to the state of every single screw and bolt on the car to the live stream of information that shows Mercedes' number 12 inching closer and closer to your number 23.

"Antonelli is 2.1 seconds behind."

"Fuck!"

"Take it easy, Alex. Just focus on defending. You're doing great today. We only have 3 more laps, come on."

You watch the screen attentively. You count down the seconds to Alex on the radio as Antonelli grows closer, but Alex manages. He moves the car deliberately, forcing the Mercedes driver to wear out his tires, avoiding an overtake until you're screaming into the radio microphone, smiling wildly.

"P5, Alex! You're P5! Good fucking job!"

He gives you a high five when he's finally out of the car and you're acutely aware of his gloves, of how his skin doesn't actually touch yours. Even when you take a picture with the team to celebrate his position, his arm resting across your back, it only comes in contact with your dark gray shirt.

It's weird, now. Noticing it.

It's weirder when he reaches out for you in the way he does after almost every race, a bright grin on his face as his hand comes up to touch your clothed shoulder.

Even still, you grin back at him.

"Great job today, Albon." His fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder, and, for some strange reason, it sends a spark of electricity through your body that absolutely terrifies you. "I told you you'd get back into your rhythm, didn't I?"

"Our rhythm." His eyes sparkle with excitement. "You did amazing today, truly. Couldn't have done it without you."

You punch him in the arm playfully, your skin touching his race suit. Your fingers seem to tingle.

"Stop it. You were the one driving the car. I was just yelling in your ear."

He laughs at that, pulling you in for a hug. Your body immediately tenses up, eyes wide open as you wait for it, for something, for anything.

Nothing happens. His arms touch yours, the fabric of his race suit rubbing against your skin. It almost feels unlucky, in a way, and then you're chastising yourself — you've hugged before. Surely, you've touched then. You're just making up a problem that doesn't exist.

You hug him back. Your heart beats wildly inside your chest.

You're going fucking insane.

liked by yourusername, georgerussell and 305,716 others

alex_albon Really good work today!! More points in the bank 🤌💙

username1 y/n looks amazing and then there's alex

username2 am I the only one who thought they were lowkey flirting in the radio today…

↳ username3 bestie you're insane actually

williamsf1official Great work, Alex!

yourusername ALBOGOAT ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,518 others

username4 no because why am I sort of obsessed with the dynamic between alex and his race engineer… do you guys think they could be soulmates…

↳ username3 BFFR

liked by georgerussell63, albonfan1 and 456,321 others

alex_albon Enjoying the holidays before we head back to work 🏎️

username1 THIS YEAR IS ALEX ALBON'S YEAR

username2 ALEX WDC IDC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

albonfan1 omg that meat looks so good………..

username3 man's an eater truly

It's late one night when Alex searches you out in the Williams headquarters, probably already past midnight. He's in for simulator work, discussing his issues with the car with the engineers while you're on endless meetings with the team's strategists, debating pit preferences and quali orders.

It's pre-season. To your relief, the season ended soon after your—your silly crisis, and you had quite a bit of time to recenter yourself.

You're not avoiding Alex. That would be really fucking stupid. You're just—getting into your own head. It's fine. It's fine! You're not that close either way. You're just friends. Coworkers. Acquaintances.

You should not be this stressed out over the hypothetical (and probably inaccurate) possibility of not having touched Alex Albon skin to skin. Of maybe, perhaps, being his soulmate. It's fucking stupid.

You are, though. He's cute, you've noticed. And he's always nice — to you, to the other engineers, to Carlos. He's really funny and sweet. You really enjoy listening to him speak on the radio. It's—yeah. Yeah.

"Hey." He smiles when he finally gets to you, not even noticing the way your eyes widen in surprised and wrongly-placed panic. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, and you smile back, looking down at your notebook. "Yeah, it's been a while." You look back up at him. "Did you have a nice break?"

"I did, yeah." He shoves his hands inside his pockets. "You?"

"Yup." You nod a little too enthusiastically. "Hung out with my family. Saw some friends. It was great."

"I'm glad." His smile is so genuine your heart skips a beat, and you can't even believe how silly you're being. "I hope you rested well, because we'll have a lot of work this season."

"Yes, we will." Your fingers tap against your notebook, and you force yourself to relax a bit. "Give me a podium on Australia, will you?"

Alex laughs, and the sound is really nice. You can't believe you've never noticed how nice his laugh sounds before.

You can't believe you're thinking about any of this. You need to get your shit together and act normal.

"Yes, ma'am. Still counting on that team bonding, though."

A snort escapes you.

The two of you snap your heads towards one of the other engineers as Alex's name is called from the sim room, and he gives you a playful nod before running back. You manage to offer him a small wave, chest clenching as he leaves even while your body relaxes.

You're genuinely losing your mind.

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 603,980 others

alex_albon Pre-season

tagged: yourusername

username1 HUM?

username2 best Williams duo back at it again ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others

↳ alex_albon Damn right

↳↳ carlossainz55 Excuse me? ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,518 others

username3 they came back from break attached at the hip omg

username4 i love how literally every single picture we get of alex from testing and every social media thing he shows up in, y/n is right beside him. they're literally best friends they'll kill it this season

yourusername GET BACK TO THE SIM ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,347 others

↳ alex_albon 🫡🫡🫡

↳↳ username5 chat is this… flirting…

liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 20,741 others

yourusername Australia here we come!! 💙

alex_albon YESSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername

lauramuller Looking so good! Good luck to Williams this season! ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername Good luck to Haas too!!!!!!!!!!

username1 I LOVE her style I have to say

username2 what a cutie!!!

username3 FACE CARD NEVER DECLINES

username4 I'm obsessed

username5 why no pictures with Alex? we know you have them

liked by yourusername, williamsf1official and 56,714 others

alex_albon Confident in the car, confident in my team. Australia here we come!

yourusername you stole my caption…

↳ alex_albon perhaps

username1 WILLIAMS WCC!!!!!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others

username2 SO EXCITEDDDD CAN'T THE SEASON START ALREADY

username3 confident in the car?????????????????????????? has a williams driver ever said this before??????????? historical

williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by alex_albon and 5,214 others

"Alex, Piastri has overtaken Antonelli and is 4 seconds behind you."

"4 seconds? That's a lot."

You roll your eyes, a grin taking over your face.

"It's his home race, Alex. Don't be mean."

"What position are we in?"

You look at all the screens in front of you.

"P4. Really good result for the first race of the season, if you can keep it up." There's an edge of teasing to your voice, but he barely notices it.

"There's still a bunch of laps. Who's P3?"

You blink. "Russell. 3.4 seconds ahead."

"I'm coming after his ass."

A surprised laugh escapes your lips. "So 4 seconds is a lot, but 3.4 isn't?"

"I promised someone an Australia podium."

Your cheeks flush at that, and you ignore the side-eye you get from a few of your colleagues, fingers tightening on the notes sprawled on the table in front of you as you watch your screens.

It happens slowly.

The gap decreases lap by lap, until Alex is just 3, 2, 1.7 seconds away. He always puts in a lot of effort, but this time he chases Russell like a hunter, calculated turns saving every millisecond they can until he's so close you can taste the champagne on your tongue. He chases hungrily, and you match his hunger easily in the same way you seem to always match him, counting down the seconds and speaking in sharp, precise bursts of words, making sure not to throw him off.

"You're less than half a second away, Alex." You're aware he knows, you're aware he can see George right in front of him, you're aware the front of his car is already aligned with the back of Russell's, but you can't help but say it out loud, eyes wide with excitement.

"I know," and he knows you know, but he can't help but say it out loud either.

It's glorious. Your heart is out of your chest and reaching out to him and you're sure his ears must hurt when the Williams pit wall explodes in cheers the second Alex concludes the overtake. Your hand comes up to your mouth and your eyes fill with water and you can hear his voice screaming into the radio, and you don't care about anything else in the world.

The checkered flag is waved and it takes Alex mere moments until he runs towards your team by the boxes, jumping up and down by the race track when it's finally over. His gloved hands hold your wrists and your hands hold his helmet, staring into his gray eyes through the glass as the two of you yell at each other, tears streaming down your face and both screaming complete nonsense before he's dragged away to the cool-down room.

Everything happens too fast. Before you know, you're looking up at the podium, and he looks straight down at you before Great Britain's national anthem ends, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement and something else, and then he's spraying you with champagne, and you laugh, and laugh, and laugh, eyes burning from the alcohol, grin hurting your cheeks, so happy you can barely breathe.

Coworkers and engineers from other teams congratulate you as you walk through the crowd to the back of the podium where you know he must be, and you smile widely — you're on a mission. Alex's first podium with Williams. Your first podium ever. You're fucking ecstatic.

He's looking for you, too. You find each other in the middle of a random hallway, both searching, both shaking with excitement, and he's pulling you into his arms before you can react, naked hands coming up warm and tight against your back while yours come around his shoulders.

"I told you—"

"I can't believe—"

"Thank you so much—"

"You're—"

When you pull away enough to look at him, your hands automatically come up to cradle his jaw, holding his face just like you held his helmet minutes after the race, in a way that feels so natural, so instinctive, that you barely notice your own movements.

And the world explodes.

You can't name any of the colors you see. You've never seen them before. It's bright — so bright, overwhelming, makes your retinas hurt. Your breath catches, and Alex's eyes go impossibly wide.

His eyes are dark. Not gray, like before. You immediately want to know the name of this color — still dark, but warmer. Softer. Sweeter. It matches his hair. He looks good in Williams colors, whatever they are.

You can't manage to process anything else other than this — the soft warmth of his eyes, the way it matches his hair, the way every single color in the world seems made just for him, created exclusively to look nice around him.

You laugh. You laugh, and he's laughing too, and you're pulling him into another tight hug, and your head hurts from all the brightness and you can't name a single thing you're seeing, but it's perfect, isn't it? It's perfect.

When you pull away again, his eyes seem to sparkle in an even more beautiful way, lighting up their deep color, and he grins, and it's perfect.

"I hoped it was you," he admits. Your heart seems to burst. You laugh once more, loudly, your entire body burning hot, your eyes burning from the champagne, your heart burning from seeing him in his entirety.

"I'm glad it's you," it comes out choked, and you might be crying again. He lets out something between a sigh and a chuckle, and, before you know it, his lips touch yours softly, as warm as the color of his eyes. You don't care if anyone sees it, you don't care that you're standing in the middle of a hallway in the paddock, you don't care about any consequences or logistics — you can only see his colors.

You've heard stories of soulmates. Of this moment. You've never searched for it, not intentionally, and yet it came to you. Just like you believed it would.

You pull your lips away and his follow. You stare at him again, you commit his colors to memory. It's all so overwhelming you can barely think.

"Congratulations on the podium," you manage, and he grins so big you can feel your face flushing, "really good race."

"You're so stupid," his voice is smothered with affection, and a giggle escapes you before his mouth slants over yours, his hands resting on the back of your neck and sending a pleasant shiver up your spine.

Your eyes close as you sigh into his kiss, turning off the colors that stay engraved into your mind. He sighs too, and it feels bright. Brighter than the world around you, brighter than anything you've ever seen or felt before.

It's stupid, yes. It's perfect, too.

liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63 and 547,364 others

yourusername touched this guy by accident and now everything's too bright

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You can hear the narrator’s voice, tinny through your phone speakers as the video keeps playing: “The two souls connected by the red thread are destined to be lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstance. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.” You can’t stand the stupid smile on Lando’s face for a second longer, so you jump on Lando’s back. His giggle drowns out the rest of the narration as you finally manage to wrestle the phone out of his hands, stabbing the pause button like you have a personal vendetta against it. 

“Not another word about it,” you warn him, smoothing your dress. He actually manages to keep his mouth shut for about five minutes.

“I can’t believe you buy into that stuff,” Lando scoffs, rolling his shoulders in that cocky way of his as you both exit his apartment building. He pulls open the passenger door, and you slide into his car as he walks around to the driver’s side. “It’s such rubbish.”

You sigh. “I can’t believe you don’t. I mean, look at all the people who found their soulmates. Look at Oscar and Lily! How can you hear all those stories and still believe there’s no such thing?”

“We can’t see it,” Lando shrugs as he hands you the aux cord without even looking. “The red string is supposed to show up if we fall in love with our soulmates, but who could prove it? I could say Tate McRae was my soulmate and no one would be able to tell I was wrong, even her. Unless she fell in love with me and didn’t see it.”

“Please,” you respond tartly, pausing before the punchline. “As if you could ever pull Tate McRae.” You know he’s about to respond, a sassy retort or a punch to the shoulder brewing in his mind, but before he can, you hit play on your ‘Make Lando Shut Up’ Spotify playlist. His eyes widen with delight as On the Floor by J.Lo starts to play, and before you know it you’re both singing along, the conversation effectively forgotten.

⸻

You’re sitting in a booth at Jimmyz, watching Charles Leclerc cross the dance floor with your chin propped in your hand. His tanned skin shines under the pulsing lights, those beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he speaks rapid-fire French to one of the other drivers. You’re not sure when you started noticing Charles the way you do now. Maybe it’s a stupid crush on one of Lando’s friends, a guy tangentially in your orbit who’s finally single. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s your —

“Just go talk to him, you muppet,” Lando says directly into your left ear, and you jump in surprise, whirling to face him. His hair is damp, a sheen of sweat on his muscular arms. 

“Jesus Christ, Lando. Stop sneaking up on me.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes bright and teasing as he leans closer to you. “Eye sex tends to work better when the other person is looking back at you.”

“Charles will realize he wants my eye sex one of these days,” you counter, sitting back in the booth. “This is eye foreplay.”

Lando grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Maybe you should get some eye experience, to know what you’re doing when the time comes. Wanna have a staring contest?”

You snort, bumping your shoulder against his. “Ew. Freak.” You don’t look back at Charles. He’s not looking at you, anyway. “Think those girls might have a problem with that,” you note, eyes flicking to the gaggle of bleach-blondes Lando left behind at the edge of the booth.

He rolls his eyes. “Please. You know you’re the only one who’s coming home with me.” You allow him a small smile at that, and he grabs your arm, pulling you out of the booth to dance. 

⸻

“Oh my god,” you moan, teeth sinking into the first bite. “I think this pizza is my soulmate.” You’re at a tiny ristorante in Monza, executing your oldest pre-race tradition of taking Lando to Saturday night dinner (he insists that if you pay, it’s all even, despite the fact that he pays for your flights and hotel room and gives you a paddock pass). 

Lando’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, not looking at you. “That’d be a real win for the universe, wouldn’t it?” he replies dryly. 

You give him a pass. He’s still waiting for his food, and he gets fussy when he’s hungry. “I’m serious,” you continue lightly, waving a slice in his general direction. “Try some.” He doesn’t look up. “I should invite Charles here. Maybe we’ll be poly soulmates with this margherita. Do you think if we both ate some at the same time, we’d be able to see the red string going down our throats?”

Lando giggles, finally putting his phone away, and you feel a little swell of happiness in your stomach. “Oh my god, shut up, you muppet.” He reaches for the pizza, about to take the slice from your hand when he goes pale, letting it slip through his fingers. It falls face-down on his plate, untouched. 

“What the hell, Lan?” you grin, but all of a sudden he looks like he’s on another planet, eyes wide and fixed on your face. “You okay?” you ask, concerned, and place your hand on his wrist. The skin burns beneath your fingers.

His eyes meet yours for another second, and then he shakes his head like he’s clearing cobwebs from his brain. “Totally. Just… zoned out for a second, I think,” he says softly.

“Okay,” you say, unconvinced and ready to press him on it, but then the waiter comes back to your table with his pizza, and that strange, charged moment passes.

⸻

You’re sprawled on Lando’s couch under a big blanket, a little wine-drunk as Notting Hill plays on the TV screen in front of you. You’ve seen it a hundred times, since Lando picks it practically every single movie night, but you can’t stop your eyes from getting a little misty when Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts look at each other in the crowded press room, the red string wrapping around the mic stands and chairs from one pinky to the other. 

“See?” Lando tosses a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it in his mouth. “Hugh Grant was like, totally in love with his wife. She finds her soulmate and leaves him. And the whole time, Julia Roberts was there. His real soulmate, out in the universe, and he marries someone else.”

“That doesn’t lessen the value of the love,” you shrug, throwing a handful from your bowl at his head. He yelps, pieces hitting him in the face. “It just means the person who was made for him was somebody else. You can still be happy with someone who isn’t your soulmate.”

“God. Love’s complicated enough without soulmates messing it up,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. “I hate soulmates.”

“How do you hate something you don’t believe in?” you ask automatically, expecting his usual anti-soulmate rant. But it doesn’t come, and when you look over at him, he’s avoiding your eyes. 

“Oh my god,” you say, somewhat delightedly. “You do believe in them. You believe in soulmates.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, suddenly very interested in his popcorn bowl.

“I thought you thought they were ‘rubbish,’” you mimic his words from weeks ago, not even bothering to hide your smile anymore. “What happened?”

“They still are rubbish,” he protests. “How terrible is it that we know someone out there is made for us, but we don’t know if we found that person until we’re already in love? Look at Hugh Grant and the ex-wife. They had to know they were dooming their soulmates if they stayed together.”

You frown. “It’s just a movie, Lan. An admittedly great movie, but a movie. Plus, they found the right person in the end.” You motion to the TV, where Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts sit in the park. 

He sits up, eyes flickering over your face restlessly. “What if they hadn’t? If you love somebody who isn’t your soulmate, would you leave them to wait for the real thing? Or would you stay with the person you love anyway?”

“Me?” you ask, and he nods, his fingertips drumming against the arm of the couch. “I dunno. Who knows if I’ll ever find my soulmate, you know? I want to believe I will, but it’s a big world. I guess I’d stay with the person I love.”

He slouches back on the couch as the credits roll. “Yeah. Love’s hard enough without soulmates.”

⸻

“You’ll never believe what just happened,” you laugh. “Are you sitting down?”

“Hold on,” Lando’s voice spills through your phone speakers. He’s in Woking for testing this week, so you’re all alone in Monaco, and you hate to admit that just hearing his voice is making you smile. “One second.” You hear him close a door behind him, then the soft oof of him flopping facedown onto the couch. “Alright. I’m sat. Lay it on me.”

“Okay. So. I was on one of those park benches by the beach reading, right? And all of a sudden this little dog runs up to me.” You pause for dramatic effect. “It’s Charles’s dog. And he comes running up after him, all cute and sweaty, and thanked me for catching Leo. And we got to talking, and he asked me if I wanted to grab dinner with him tonight.” You can hear the smile in your voice, sure he’s about to tease you endlessly for it.  “What?” Lando says, sharply, and you have to hold the phone away from your ear a little.

“Jesus, Lan. Volume.” You’re only teasing, but for a moment there’s nothing but silence on the other end of the phone. 

“Well… that’s cool,” he says flatly. You frown. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but it’s not this.  

“Are you serious?” you say, picking at your cuticle. “I thought you’d be happier for me. You’ve been telling me to talk to him for, like, ever. And this was a pretty cute first encounter. Straight out of a rom-com. Maybe I’ll see the red string tonight. Maybe he’s my —”

“Charles Leclerc is not your soulmate,” Lando scoffs dismissively. 

You roll your eyes before you realize he can’t see you. “How would you even know?”

A pause. Suddenly the amorphous space between you feels charged like a live wire. 

“He just isn’t. No way.” Lando says firmly, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Whatever,” you say, but your enthusiasm is somewhat dimmed. “I guess we’ll see on the date. How’s testing going?”

He launches into some story about how Oscar accidentally nearly broke the rear wing by leaning too heavily on it, but you’re not listening, not really. His words, his certainty rubbed you the wrong way. How would Lando possibly know whether or not Charles was the right one for you?

He couldn’t, of course. No one could. You wish you could just ignore it, let it go, but Lando knows you better than almost anyone, and you trust him instinctually. 

Charles Leclerc is not your soulmate.

You hadn’t thought that he was, not seriously at least, but hearing Lando say it so straight-out made the butterflies in your stomach stop fluttering. An hour before you’re supposed to meet Charles at the restaurant, you text him to cancel. 

⸻

“I think it’s going to rain,” you muse, taking a sip of your iced coffee. You’d dragged Lando on an adventure to some cafe overlooking the ocean; your friend had told you it had a beautiful view and the best kouign amanns in the principality. She wasn’t wrong, and although the walk was longer than you’d expected, you’d been congratulating yourself on a Saturday well spent until the sky started growing darker. 

“It’s not going to rain,” Lando says from beside you, voice muffled as his mouth is half-full of one of the pastries. “It never rains in Monaco.”

It’s like the storm was waiting for dramatic effect; just then, the sky opens up, and before you know it the rain is soaking through your shirt.

“Shit,” you laugh, watching the shock evident on his face. “Never rains, huh?”

As you speak, there’s a crack of thunder behind you. You’re not a child, not scared of storms like you used to be, but Lando still grabs your hand as you take off running, searching for the nearest shelter from the driving rain. He pulls you down a side alley, your sneakers skidding on the wet stone as you stop beneath an awning. 

You lean against the wall, panting as you look up at him. His white tee is soaked through and his hair is plastered to his forehead, but he’s grinning at you, eyes bright, so breathtaking that you feel like the wind just got knocked out of your body. “Always an adventure,” he says cheerfully, and you realize he’s still holding your hand. You’re about to wriggle away, to wipe the water off your face, when something catches your eye. You look down at your hands and nearly stop breathing. There’s a glowing red thread, winding from your pinky to his. 

The red string of fate, you think to yourself. The two souls connected by the red thread are destined to be lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstance. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. 

Lando was your soulmate. 

You were in love with your best friend.

“You okay?” Lando asks, and you realize you’ve been silent for far too long. You want to look at him, but you can’t seem to drag your eyes away from the thread. 

“Our hands look good together,” you say dreamily. You can’t keep the smile off your face. “I never realized until just now.”

“Yeah?” Lando says, his voice pitching up slightly. “What changed?”

You look up, finally, and meet his eyes, see the way his tongue darts out to lick the plush pink of his bottom lip. He’s nervous. Does he know? You’re not going to force it, if he doesn’t.

“A new accessory,” you say vaguely, shrugging your shoulders, but your cheeks are starting to hurt from beaming at him. 

“Red, by any chance?” he asks, and you know. 

“And joint custody,” you agree. 

His smile lights up his entire face. “Took you long enough.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” you smack his arm, hard, and he just shrugs. You’re understanding his change of heart on soulmates, now. He figured out that he had one. “When did you find out?”

“When you were shoveling that pizza, in Monza.”

You grin, eyes shining with tears. How could you not have guessed it? “Played it off well, there.”

“I’m super smooth,” he agrees, pulling you closer. Your hands land on his chest, like they’ve always been meant to be there. “I’m gonna kiss you now, yeah?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with one finger.

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to: Campus Cupid <[email protected]> from: Oscar Piastri <[email protected]> subject: Crush advice?

Hi Cupid,

This is slightly embarrassing, and I’m not totally sure how this works because I’ve never actually read your column, but my friend Lando said you give decent advice. Honestly, I could really use some, because I’m properly hopeless at this stuff. So here goes. 

There’s this girl I like. We’re not super close or anything, but we kind of orbit around each other if that makes sense? You know, a few mutual friends, some classes together, that kind of stuff. She’s brilliant — like genuinely really smart, and always has takes that make me see things differently. And she’s funny too. She’s got this way of making little offhand observations that just make me laugh. Stunning as well, but honestly that doesn’t crack the top 10 of things I like about her. She’s just… amazing, basically, and ridiculously out of my league. 

The issue is I have no idea whether she thinks of me as more than a friend. I’m not great at the whole romance thing to begin with, and I definitely don’t know how to figure out if she likes me or not. And even if she did, how am I supposed to tell her I like her? Do I just say it and hope for the best? Drop hints and pray she picks up on them? Keep emotionally repressing the feelings until I explode (which at this point is kind of seeming like the most likely option?)

I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for her or put pressure on her, but I also don’t want to spend the rest of the semester pretending I’m not interested when I definitely am. Would love some advice from the romance expert. 

— Sincerely, A Very Lost Cause (you can pick something less cringe if you want. I couldn’t really think of anything good. Yikes, I’m overthinking the sign-off too, aren’t I?) ───────── ☆ ─────────

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January 24

Welcome back to Cupid’s corner, where your love life is my business. Whether you’re falling in love or falling flat on your face, I’m here to help! XOXO, Cupid 💌

Q: My situationship told me he’s “emotionally available in theory,” but when I asked him to share how he’s feeling about us, he didn’t respond until 2 AM asking me to come over and talk about it. What does this mean? — Theoretical Thot

A: Dear Theoretical Thot, it sounds like he’s “emotionally available” the way that your professor is “available outside of office hours” — AKA, he’s not. Plus, the 2 AM text is the emotional equivalent of suggesting you meet up to discuss your relationship at a frat party: technically possible, but the environment isn’t exactly screaming meaningful conversation. If he was really willing to talk, that’s great, but make sure he’s not just creating an excuse to find you in his bed again! You deserve someone who doesn’t treat their feelings and yours like a part time job.

Q: I want to do something cute for my girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, but I spent my extra money on this fancy protein powder and now I’m completely broke. What’s a good budget Valentine’s idea? — Rich in Love (Poor in Cash)

A: Dear Rich in Love, it’s so sweet that you’re thinking about Valentine’s Day plans already. Broke V-Day is basically an extreme sport at this point, but it doesn’t mean you can’t still score! Being creative is wayyyy sexier than throwing a bunch of money. Write her a love letter! Or make her a playlist! You could even do a scavenger hunt connected to moments in your relationship. Years from now, she’ll remember the thought you put in, not the money you spent. Whatever you do, just make sure it’s from the heart! And maybe lay off the protein powder.

Q: I’ve got a crush on a friend of mine, but I have no idea whether she sees me as more than a friend or how to tell her I like her without making things weird. Help! — A Very Lost Cause

A: Dear Lost Cause, this is a tricky situation. I get the urge to go full rom-com and just confess your feelings, but maybe you should pump the brakes a little. If she IS interested, she’s probably already picking up on your energy. Maybe act a little bit less available? Sometimes people need space to realize exactly what… or who… they’re missing. But (out of purely professional curiosity, of course) what kind of friend are we talking? Lab partner? Frat sweetheart? My advice might change with a little more background info. 

Campus Cupid will run weekly until Valentine’s Day. After that, I turn back into a pumpkin (or just another regular student who cries in the library). Need help with a crush crisis? Email me at [email protected]. XOXO! ───────── ☆ ─────────

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───────── ☆ ───────── to: Campus Cupid <[email protected]> from: Oscar Piastri <[email protected]> subject: re: Crush advice?

Hi Cupid,

Me again (still a Very Lost Cause, I fear.) Thanks for answering my question last week. 

I tried your advice about pulling back and being less available, but I think it didn’t work. Or maybe I’m just shit at following advice. Probably both. The thing is, I think I’m sort of terrible at playing it cool. Every time I tried to give her space or forced myself to wait before texting her back, I was pretty much just staring at my phone like an idiot. And when I canceled plans with her, I spent half the night feeling like a complete dropkick and wishing I hadn’t. I ended up messaging her anyway — couldn’t even ignore her for more than a few hours.

The really pathetic thing, and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, is that I got jealous. Like properly jealous over nothing, which is insane, because I have no right to be, especially when I’m the one who backed off. But she was hanging out with this guy I thought might be into her, and for a few hours I genuinely considered transferring uni's. Turns out he’s not (thank God), but it kind of proves my point. 

I can’t play it cool with her. I don’t want to pull back. I like being around her. I like talking to her. I like the way she scrunches her nose when she’s confused. I like how she always has something smart to say even when she’s completely exhausted. I like that she always remembers the small things I say even when I don’t think she’s listening. I like her, full stop. And the more time I spend trying to act like I don’t, the worse it feels. 

So. Since pulling back didn’t work, what do I do now?

— Sincerely, your Very Very Lost Cause ───────── ☆ ─────────

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February 7

Welcome back to Cupid’s corner! Because nothing says happy Valentine’s Day like mild emotional panic sent to an anonymous advice columnist. Let’s fix your love life (and maybe mine too!) XOXO, Cupid 💌

Q: I had one too many cups of jungle juice at my frat’s mixer this weekend and accidentally liked my crush’s Instagram post from 2013. Should I transfer schools? — Butterfingers

A: Dear Butterfingers, take a deep breath. Although I get your impulse to flee the country, this is not a transfer-worthy offense. Here’s a wild idea: use this as an excuse to actually talk to them! Apologize for your social media snafu and follow it up with actual conversation. Or just pretend it never happened and continue living in denial like the rest of us. 

Q: I matched with my econ professor’s son on Tinder. We’ve been talking a little, and I kind of like him, but now I’m starting to feel super weird in lecture. Help! — Hot for Teacher(’s Son)

A: Dear Hot for Teacher(’s Son), what do you value more? The class or the guy? It sounds like it’s still early enough to drop either one. If you keep talking to him, you're going to spend every lecture wondering if Professor Dad knows you're the one sliding into his son's DMs. And if things go south romantically, you'll still have to sit through a whole semester of avoiding eye contact while learning about supply and demand curves. My advice? Be upfront with the guy about the situation and let him decide if he's comfortable with it too. If you're both cool with the weirdness, go for it. Just maybe don't bring him as your +1 to any department events.

Q: I tried to take your advice and pull back, but I don’t think it worked. I’m not good at playing it cool. What else could I do to make it clear that I like her? — A Very Very Lost Cause

A: Dear Lost Cause, I’m glad you’re back! Look, if playing it cool isn’t working, maybe it’s time to go in the complete opposite direction. Sometimes you have to be bold and put yourself out there in a big way. Here’s what I’m thinking: make a public gesture. Do something that gets people’s attention — at a party, or in front of your friends, or somewhere on campus where people will see. The bigger and more public, the better! 

Campus Cupid will run weekly until Valentine’s Day, after which I disappear into the mist like every good university urban legend. Time is running out to send me your burning questions and bad romantic choices at [email protected]. XOXO!

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to: Campus Cupid <[email protected]> from: Oscar Piastri <[email protected]> subject: re: re: Crush advice?

Hi Cupid,

Me again — for the last time, I swear! Although I think your inbox is probably closing anyway, given that it’s almost Valentine’s Day. 

First of all, thanks for your advice. It pretty much all terrified me, but I think I needed the push to stop overthinking everything. You made me feel a little less like an idiot fumbling around in the dark with this stuff, which honestly is a minor miracle. Even though your advice didn’t work out, it was definitely better than Lando's. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have gotten where I am without you.

Which brings me to where I am, I guess. As much as I want to beg you for more advice, as much as I want to stall and make it absolutely perfect for her, I think I’ve gotten to the point where no guidance, even from the self-proclaimed campus love expert, is going to make this any easier.

There is no perfect way to say it. There is no magic sentence, no secret signal that will make everything fall into place. I like her, and I don’t want to waste any more time pretending I don’t or hoping she figures it out on her own. 

So I’m just going to tell her. No schemes to figure out if she likes me too. No grand gestures that I forget to put my name on. Just us — just me, finally saying what’s been on my mind for a while. And whatever happens, at least I’ll know I said it.

Wish me luck, Cupid. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get another success story out of it.

— Sincerely, Oscar

PS: Also, I’m sorry I never answered your question about who she was to me. Maybe it would have made for better advice, but since you work for the Chronicle you probably know her, so I didn’t want to risk it. ───────── ☆ ─────────

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you have (1) missed call from osco • listen to voicemail? 1:21 ▶‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

“Hey, Happy Valentine's Day. Okay. Um… okay. [soft laugh] I really don’t know what I’m doing, or why I thought I’d be able to say this without getting nervous, but, uh, here goes. [sigh] This wasn’t how I planned it, you know. I was going to tell you after class like a normal person. But you didn’t show up, and now I’ve got all this stuff I want to say to you and nowhere to put it but your voicemail. I — I like you. A lot. Like, emailed Campus Cupid multiple times trying to figure out how to tell you, a lot. I tried to follow their advice and pull back, but I couldn’t really… stay away from you. [laugh] I mean, I bought the entire Chronicle donuts and a coffee machine because I thought it might make it obvious to you that I liked you. But even after all of that, I don’t know if you feel the same way. I really don’t. Just… I don’t know, I couldn’t not tell you, even if you don’t feel that way about me. [pause] And now I’m running to yours because I just realized I’m a complete idiot for not saying this to your face. I’ll be there in 10 minutes, just — please answer the door? Oh. Shit. Uh, this is Oscar by the way.”

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liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and 1,092 others yourusername turns out my “bad advice” was some of my best. campus cupid signing off, xoxo 💌

your elbows press into the skin of your thighs, shoulders hunched in a position that can’t be good for your back. your hands fidget with your phone, watching the screen light up every time you click the side button like you expect to see anything else besides your wallpaper of you and lando staring back at you. 

the picture almost seems to mock you every time you look down, the two of you smiling and curled into each other like it’s the most natural place for you both. the picture is old, back from the afterparty in miami where he won his first race but couldn’t stop grinning and hugging you long enough to celebrate with everyone. 

that was months ago.

before everything went to shit.

you’ve only been sitting here for an hour, but the minutes seem to drag on until you swear you’ve been waiting for an update on his condition for hours. the lack of other people in the waiting room doesn’t help, leaving you even more lonely with only your spiraling thoughts.

it’s been two hours since your call dropped abruptly, checking his location frantically as you called emergency services, the distance between you feeling like a chasm as you ran through streets of people to get to him. 

it’s been an hour and a half since you watched his limp form be pulled from his car and loaded into an ambulance, his curls matted with blood from the impact. 

and now it’s been an hour of sitting here, shaking in your damp clothes as you wipe at your face, knowing you have to look a mess. you can’t feel the cold even as you tremble, your mind racing with the image of him limp on the cot.

the nurses told you he was stable as you watched them roll him down the hall and out of sight, murmuring about stitches and concussion protocols to start. when they asked if you were family, your response got stuck in your throat long enough for the receptionist’s face to fall.

you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

“i’m.. yeah. i’m family,” you finally say, your heart still hammering in your chest. 

nobody questioned your hesitation as they directed you to where you’re sitting now, waiting for any update to come. 

this is what you’ve been doing for months, isn’t it?

waiting for lando to come back to you. 

you’ve been shaking your leg hard enough to make you lean back in the chair, the nervous energy coursing through your every fiber. you swallow thickly, trying to wet your throat as you check the phone again, letting out a shaky exhale when nothing changes on your screen.

you should call someone.

you shouldn’t be here alone, the hollow ache in your chest making you feel that much worse.

your eyes burn with unshed tears, the view of the double doors he was pushed through blurring as your eyes get glassier. you’re close to breaking down, but something deep inside you is so numb that you can’t bring yourself to let the tears fall.

the moment you open up your messages, your mind goes silent. 

you have a few of the drivers in your contacts from your time beside lando: the ones you’ve hugged in garages, the ones who went to parties alongside lando with, or ones who’ve given a pep talk before a race because you looked that nervous. there’s people who have seen you as a constant in the background of lando’s busy life for years, yet you still feel like you’re disposable.

nobody in the list feels safe to text when you can’t even be sure where you stand with lando right now, your thumb hovering over name after name with no avail. 

you don’t know what would’ve went down if you didn’t wait for him tonight, the thought alone of him showing up to you already gone making your stomach churn.

you finally settle on george and alex, knowing at least one of them is currently on their phone anyways. they’re least likely to judge you when they hear what happened, especially since they’ve seen you by his side for years now.

to: george and alex

are you guys awake?

the text dots pop up almost immediately, and you let out a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding. 

from: george 

I’m awake

What’s wrong?

from: alex

what happened? you okay??

your throat gets tight as you try to swallow over the lump in your throat that forms, your hands shaking around your phone. 

to: george & alex

i’m at the hospital

from: george 

The hospital? Are you alright?

from: alex

mate shut up and get in your car, we can talk to her when we get there

you chew on your lip until you can feel the tang of copper in your mouth, licking over the wound. you don’t even know what to say to them, this being the first time in months you’ve done more than like a picture on their instagram or react to a story.

to: george & alex 

i’m okay, it’s not me

it’s lando

your fingers tremble as you type it, the hollow sinking feeling you can’t get rid of sinking further down. 

it isn’t more than half a minute before they both answer, a bit more rushed concern behind their words.

from: george

What hospital is it??

from: alex

i’m omw, just use lando’s location 

from: george

Ok. I’ll grab my coat and then we’ll be there, alright? 

from: alex

when i said i missed seeing you around i didn’t mean for us to hang out next at a hospital, alright?

be there in 10

you let your phone fall down onto your lap as your palms press against your eyes, wincing when you rub them and pull away with spots dancing across your vision. 

both of them are coming, and then you won’t have to be in this godforsaken hospital waiting room any longer by yourself. 

————————

you hear them coming around the corner before you even see them, heavy footsteps rapidly approaching your seat. the sound seems to echo off the walls, the silence when they skid to a stop even louder.

“there she is,” alex breathes, giving you a weak smile as he walks over with george on his heels. 

george is holding his keys, phone, and a cord all in one hand, running his free hand through his wind-swept hair as he walks over to you. “are you alright?”

alex reaches you first as you stand up to meet them, his hands finding your shoulders as he scans over every inch of your face. “are you hurt too? did anything happen to you?” 

you feel something warm stir in your chest at their concern not only for lando but for you, shaking your head with a weak smile that fades away. “i’m fine. it’s just.. it’s him.” 

“how bad?” george asks softly, his jaw tense with stress. his gaze darts toward the doors leading down the endless hall with patients before looking at you, his bright eyes dull.

“they told me he’s stable at least,” you mutter, wringing your hands together. “they’re doing more tests and running some scans.”

“stable is better than bad,” george hums, trying to act calm for your sake. you’re not very close to him, but you can see the tension in his shoulders and the worry creasing his brows. he looks like he’s seconds away from walking to the back and demanding more information from the nurses at the front desk, pursing his lips. 

“i didn’t really know who to call,” you whisper, your hands still shaking. 

alex’s frown deepens and he pulls you fully against his chest without warning, wrapping you up in his arms. “it’s alright, you called the right people,” he hums, squeezing you a bit tighter when he feels you go lax. 

“we always have his back, so we’ve got yours too,” george agrees, his arms crossed over his chest as he nods toward the chairs behind you. “here, let’s sit down, alright?”

you nod and let him walk with you back to the chairs, trying your best to not let any tears fall. “i don’t know how long we’ll have to wait,” you whisper, not meeting either of their eyes as you pull away from alex’s hug. “i feel like it’s been ages.” 

“hey, it’s alright. we’ll wait with you as long as you need,” alex chides, plopping down into the chair beside you. 

he’s more of a soothing presence beside you, whereas george seems to be a few seconds from imploding. his leg can’t seem to quit bouncing, and his eyes scan the desk with a concentration you only see from him on track the few times you’ve been. 

“i’m finding a nurse,” he huffs, standing up abruptly from where he was just sitting beside you on his phone. 

“george, they said they’d tell her when something-” alex starts, cut off when the taller holds a finger up. 

“i’m not yelling at anyone, i just want to check,” he insists, already halfway to the desk before you or alex can say anything else. 

alex snorts as he settles back into the chair again, crossing his arms as he looks to the side at you. “you’ve activated his mother hen sense,” he murmurs, nudging his knee against yours. “you scared the shit out of us, y’know..”

you wince and try to cover it up with a weak smile, twisting your hands together. “i know. i’m sorry, alex, i didn’t mean to worry you two with- whatever all this is..”

“no no, don’t apologize to us,” he chides, rolling his eyes like the idea of this being a massive inconvenience for the both of them couldn’t be further from the truth. “we’ve just not heard from you in a while. george and i both ask about you and lando just goes quiet. he’s been down in the dumps more often than not as of late.”

before you can say anything back, george is walking back over with a much different expression than the one he left with. 

“they were about to come and talk to you, but they said i could tell you,” he says gently, kneeling down so he’s directly in front of you. 

your stomach drops, a million scenarios running through your head as you chew on the inside of your cheek. “is he okay? what did they-”

“he’s fine,” george cuts in, sensing the worry that’s surely written all over your face. “they just finished up with the final scans and tests and he’s awake.”

your breath catches as you sit up straighter, a sense of hopefulness you haven’t felt in days coming back.

“he’s asking for you.”

you stand up from the chair quick enough that your head spins for a second, knees trembling under the weight of what lando asking for you means. 

alex’s hand reaches out to catch your elbow as you lean back toward the chair instinctively, his hands soothing as george stands up from his position in front of you. 

“he’s down about halfway in room twelve ten,” george says softly, his blue eyes soft with understanding. “middle of the hall, left side.”

even halfway down the corridor feels like it’s miles away, your feet feeling like lead as you start walking away from the safety of alex and george. you look back at them over your shoulder once, your stomach twisting into knots.

“it’s alright, mate,” alex says, smiling at you. “we’ll wait right here for you.”

you nod again as you wring your hands together, stopping not far away from your seat. “what if he doesn’t want to-”

“he asked for you,” george says quickly, cutting off your doubts again as he walks closer to you. he pushes you forward gently, like you just need that final nudge to go on.

you don’t say anything else as you start walking, every step feeling like a weight settling in your chest. the lights seem to get brighter the further you go, the buzz making your ears ring.

the door number looms over you, seeming almost ominous with lando’s name below it. your hand hovers by the handle, still fighting with yourself on whether you can manage to open it or not. 

what if he’s hurt worse than what the doctors told you?

what if seeing him drags every insecurity back up to the surface that you’ve worked so hard to tamp down?

what if he asks why you’re here?

do you even know why you’re here?

does he want you to be here?

you run a hand through your hair as you try to dispel all the questions in your head, your heart in your throat as you push open the door.

the light from the bright hall floods into the room as you slip inside, immediately noticing the quietness around you. there aren’t any medical carts and pagers going off every second, instead just the steady beeping from a heart monitor.

lando’s propped up slightly in the bed against far too many pillows, his hair a mess of flattened curls. there’s bandages on his forehead, more on his shoulders that you can see peeking out from under the hospital gown. 

his eyes blink open slowly like he’s trying to piece together who is standing by the door, his gaze dragging up from the floor to your face.

he lets out a shaky, hoarse breath when he meets your eyes, sinking further into the pillows. “you came,” he rasps, smiling slowly.

it hits you like a punch in the ribs, your breath catching as you hold onto the door handle for support. he sounds so earnest, too drugged up to even bother lying. 

“thought i was dreaming again,” he mutters, swallowing thickly in an attempt to wet his throat. “i wasn’t.. i didn’t think you’d actually bother to..”

he trails off as he watches you push the door shut fully behind you, walking closer to the foot of his bed. 

“hey, lando,” you whisper.

he lets his eyes slip shut when you say his name, like it hurts in a way he wasn’t expecting. his heart rate picks up a bit, like your presence alone is enough to fluster him.

he looks fragile when he looks at you again, every emotion visible in his eyes with a familiarity that sends you reeling. 

“come here, please,” he rasps.

you move without hesitation, crossing around from the foot of his bed to his side. when you get this close, you can still see specks of dried blood at his hairline, the faint bruising near his cheekbones, every injury that never should’ve happened.

you bottom lip trembles as you scan over him again, your hands wringing together to stop them from shaking so badly. 

lando’s hand lifts up slowly from the bed like he’s giving you time to move away, leaving his palm open in a silent invitation. he raises his head from the pile of pillows as well, giving you a weak smile.

your throat tightens at the sight of him looking so pitiful and still reaching for you, swallowing over the lump you feel forming as you take his hand in yours. as soon as your fingers touch his he’s lacing them through and squeezing your hand weakly.

“can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers, his face going lax as he lets his body relax. 

“yeah, i’m here,” you whisper back, your eyes stinging as you hold back tears. “i’m right here, lan.”

his thumb drags over the back of your hand, the calluses on his palm scratching gently as he moves to hold your hand even tighter. he looks up at you with glassy eyes, the exhaustion shining through. 

“i thought you..” he trails off, swallowing thickly as he shuts his eyes. “i don’t know what i thought. everything happened so fast and i just.. i only thought about you the entire time.”

you chew on the inside of your cheek as you try not to cry, nodding silently. 

“i kept asking them over and over again if i could see you,” he whispers, voice trembling. “they stuck oxygen on me and kept fuckin’ poking and prodding me and fuck- i just needed you. i needed you to know i didn’t leave you like that on purpose.”

you blink hard, your vision blurring even further as you try to keep your tears in. it’s overwhelming, hearing him apologize for something like this that wasn’t even his fault. 

“i knew you didn’t leave me on purpose,” you murmur, squeezing his hand back.

he gives a soft smile when you do, wincing as he shifts in the bed to get comfortable. “were you scared?” 

you nod again, exhaling before you try to speak up. you don’t trust your voice not to break and splinter further, hating the idea of being weak in front of him even after everything. “yeah. i was really scared.”

“me too,” he whispers. he moves to reach for the bed remote, wincing as he stretches in a way that puts stress on his ribs. 

you reach out, your hand reaching for his shoulder without thought as you lean closer to try and help him. 

he looks at you with shock like he somehow wasn’t expecting your touch to be gentle, like he wasn’t expecting you to even want to be near him at all. 

“i’m so sorry, love,” he whispers, his voice shaking as he looks up at you with a sigh. “i’m sorry for everything- i never meant for you to feel less important than what you deserve, i never meant to hurt you like i have..”

you stay quiet as he opens his mouth again, a shuddering breath leaving him. “when everything went black in the car i thought..” he trails off, lip trembling. “i was so fucking scared. all i could think about was that i didn’t get to fix anything with you, that i-” his voice breaks off as a single tear slips down his cheek, not looking at you. “that i didn’t get to tell you how much i care about you. how much you mean to me, how much i love you..”

you move closer, bringing your hand out to hold his face while avoiding the cuts and bruising near his temple. his eyes slip shut as he leans into your hand, like he’s been waiting for ages just to feel your touch. 

“please don’t leave me,” he whispers, voice so soft you barely hear it. “please don’t go.”

there’s fear in his voice, the words making something inside you twist into knots. even now he’s still worried that you might change your mind, but you can’t. “i’m not going anywhere.”

his eyes flutter open to look up at you again with a weak smile, pushing further into your touch. you feel your own eyes getting teary, the ache in your chest mixing with relief that flooded through you as soon as you saw he was awake. your throat is tight as you try to swallow over the lump forming, exhaling shakily. 

“god, lando,” you mutter, taking a shuddering breath. you let your thumb drag under his eye to wipe away the wetness you both are pretending isn’t there, your touch light and grounding. “look at you.”

he lets out a weak laugh as he brings a hand up to cover yours that’s still resting against his face, nuzzling in further into your touch. “i’m alright, i promise,” he murmurs, even though he winces again.

you shake your head as your thumb traces over the crease beside his eye, giving him the best smile you can manage. “no, you’re really not..”

“i don’t want you to see me like this. i guess i didn’t want you to have to,” he mutters. “it’s too late for that to be true i guess.”

“don’t say that,” you chide. 

“i look a proper mess, don’t i?” he says, eyes looking away from you like he’s ashamed. 

“hey,” you chide, leaning closer as your fingers trace over a bruise near his temple. “i don’t give a shit what you look like, lando. you.. you scared the hell out of me. i only care that you’re still here.”

he makes a soft noise as his eyes squeeze shut, weakly tightening his grip on the back of your hand. “i didn’t mean to,” he mumbles. “i didn’t want you to worry about me after everything i’ve put you through..”

you purse your lips as you let your thumb rub small circles to his cheek, tilting your head as you look down at him. “of course i was worried, lando. you’re my boyfriend,” you retort, something twisting in your chest when you think about the weight of your words. 

he never truly stopped being your partner, and you feel like he needs some confirmation of that as he sits here in a hospital bed with sterile gauze and sheets wrapped around him. 

“i really thought i lost you tonight,” he whispers, voice breaking mid-sentence like he can’t handle the thought of what could’ve happened. tears are pooling in the corners of his eyes, shining in the dim light from the overhead lamps. “i thought that-”

“you didn’t,” you cut him off, stopping the movement of your thumb as your brows furrow. “you didn’t lose me. i’m still here.”

he closes his eyes as he presses his head further into your hand, letting out a shuddering sigh. when he opens them again, he’s staring up at you like you hung the moon and stars. “come here?” 

it’s so fragile that you almost don’t hear it, wiping at your own face with your other hand that isn’t held against him. 

“please?”

the request isn’t a demand, frail with hesitation to even ask like you wouldn’t do anything to make him smile right now. 

you nod and watch him shift over on the bed to make room for you, gritting his teeth when he moves his torso at an odd angle.

you climb onto the bed cautiously, avoiding the numerous wires and bruising all over him as you settle in. the sheets rustle with every move as he tucks the blanket in beside him to give you more space, raising his arm to invite you to lay on his chest. 

you try to take your time, every movement carrying much more of an emotional weight than you could have thought possible. his breath catches as you finally let your head rest on his shoulder, scooting down little by little. 

he wraps both arms around you as best as he can, pulling you closer until you’re settled into his body, your ear resting on his chest right above his heart. 

the pulse you feel hammering against your ear matches the beeping of the heart monitor to the side of the bed, both speeding up as you adjust the position of your head to be more comfortable.

“fuck,” he sighs, voice breaking as his fingers dig into your side weakly. “i’ve missed you- missed this- so much..”

your eyes squeeze shut as you take a deep breath in, holding it for a moment before letting it back out. 

you move on instinct like you’re used to, sliding a hand across his chest before going higher, cupping his face in your palm again. he melts into the touch like he always used to, pressing against you like he needs you to hold him steady. “don’t ever scare me like that again, lan,” you whisper.

“i know, love, i..” he trails off, and you rub circles into his cheek as he hesitates. “i know. i’m sorry, i just.. i’m so sorry baby.” 

his breath hitches as his voice wavers near the end of the sentence, his grip tightening further in the fabric of your jacket you’ve had pulled tight around you all night. 

he’s crying.

you push up on your arm without moving your hand from his face, not able to once he grabs it like he’s scared you’re about to move away from him. “lando,” you whisper, brows creasing as a salty tear hits your thumb. “hey, you’re alright..” 

“i’m so sorry,” he chokes out, blinking quickly to try and keep more tears from falling. “i thought.. i thought that was the end. i didn’t think i was going to get a chance again to fix things with you and- that scared the shit out of me.”

you wince at the honesty in his voice, cupping his face in your hands as your eyes drag over his face. “i’m right here,” you whisper, watching as another tear streaks down his face and into the gaps between your fingers. “i’m here, you’re okay..”

he nods as he trembles below you, sniffing as he brings a hand up to squeeze your arm. “stay with me please,” he pleads, each word teary and frightened, like there’s still a possibility that you could leave at any second. 

“i’m not going anywhere, alright?” you soothe, bringing your forehead down to rest against his. “i’ll stay right here as long as you need me.”

his body shakes with another sob nodding so small you barely feel him move. 

you soothe him slowly back down, watching the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor slow down after he got himself worked up with the thought of losing you. 

“thank you for coming back to me,” he whispers, eyes shining as you kiss his forehead above the bandage. the soft, fragile smile on his face makes you melt that much more.

“i always will.”

————————

three weeks later

lando has never been better. 

he’s perfectly fine, annoyingly so, fine in the way that people sometimes shouldn’t be after such a serious injury like bruised ribs and a concussion. 

the bruises that once littered his face are gone, the only thing remaining being the small scrapes, especially the one that’s thin and scarring near his eyebrow. sometimes you catch him tracing a finger over it in the mirror, brows furrowing before he spots you behind him and lights up. 

it still doesn’t feel fully real that he’s here with you, lounging around in your apartment every day for the past month. 

this is the kind of time with him that you never thought you’d get to have, and yet here he is. 

that being said, he’s also milking his ‘recovery’ for all he can. he’s an excellent actor all of a sudden, his personal favorite being the exaggerated wince when he wants something. he thinks if he looks just pathetic enough he can get out of doing menial tasks, like doing the dishes or getting off the couch to help take out the trash.

today’s comes when you remind him the trash is full, groaning slightly from your couch as soon as the word ‘bins’ leaves your mouth. he stumbles into your kitchen, barefoot and wearing only sweatpants that make your face heat up. 

“i’m really sore today, love,” he mumbles, pouting as he presses a hand into the side of his ribs that bruised the most. 

you cross your arms as you raise a brow, looking at him with no sympathy. “your ribs are fine, lando. they’ve been fine.”

“i’m delicate,” he counters, raising his chin like him pouting more will get you to back down. “i wouldn’t want to pull something and.. exact- exacer- worsen my old injuries.”

you snort at his inability to find the word, cocking your head. “exacerbate?” 

he grins with a nod, winking as he taps the tip of his nose with his finger. “that’s the word.”

“you’re impossible,” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn your back on him to grab a paper towel to dry your hands on. 

he’s grinning big, the boyish one that you didn’t think you’d get to see anytime soon just a few days ago. “so you’ll take it out for me?”

“absolutely not.”

he withers instantly, slouching and adding in another wince for good measure as his hand rests on his ribs. “you’re heartless.”

“up, come on,” you point at the bin, raising a brow. “take it out please.”

he huffs something under his breath again before he grabs a shirt from its place draped over your couch cushions, sliding it on his head. “can’t believe you’re not like- being nicer to me, babe. i’m an injured man,” he grumbles, pouting. 

“your injuries have been healed for over a week at least,” you reply, turning back to the sink to grab the cloth and wave it in his general direction. “take your time, but i want it done in the next hour.” 

his nose wrinkles up as he dodges the swipe of the wet towel, taking the lid off the can. “fine. but i expect at least a kiss for this laborious task.”

you roll your eyes again as you watch him tie the bag, your eyes drifting to the scar through his eyebrow. it’s fully healed now, but something about seeing proof of what he went through so prominent on his face makes your stomach churn. 

he must feel your gaze because he looks up at you, smiling knowingly. “hey, love,” he murmurs, cocking his head. 

he steps around the counter to touch your cheek, eyes scanning your face as he rubs his thumb under your eye like you kept doing in the hospital to him. “you alright?”

you blink at him. “me?”

“you’re staring at the scar again,” he hums, concern on his face. 

you open your mouth to say something but feel your throat get tight, pressing your lips together as you bring a gentle finger up to trace it. “i’m just.. i’m glad you’re alright, i guess.”

his expression softens. “course ’m alright. i’ve got the best nurse in the world and way too many painkillers to care,” he hums. “i like being here with you, even if you make me take the trash out when i’m trying to be vulnerable.”

you blush as you let out a helpless laugh, your eyes dropping down to the floor as you feel them get glassy. 

his hand finds your cheek again to raise your chin and make you look at him, a devastatingly tender look on his face. “i’ll be right back, okay?” 

you nod as you watch him step back, hauling the bag from the bin before carrying it effortlessly toward your front door.

you fail to hold a laugh in at his ability to suddenly be healed enough to carry the bag with no issue, covering your mouth when he glances back at you. 

he comes back inside shortly after with an overzealous sigh, breezing past where you’re wiping down your island with a rag. “i’m feeling peckish,” he mumbles, his hand dragging across your lower back as he walks past.

he makes a straight line toward your fridge and you turn to lean against the counter and watch him as he opens the door, assessing the options inside like he pays for anything inside. 

“what’ve we got in here,” he mutters, pushing aside a shelf of red bulls to look at what’s behind. “grapes, half a carton of milk, what is-”

he stops mid-sentence to turn over his shoulder, the easy smile he had on moments ago gone. there’s betrayal in his eyes as he glares back at you. 

“is that sushi?” 

your lips twitch up into a smile that you try to hide, raising a brow. “yes.”

“raw fish?”

“most sushi is raw fish, lando,” you hum, the amusement on your face making him huff. “yes, it’s raw fish.”

he stands up and closes the fridge door like it offended him, turning to face you. “you put raw fish in my-” he stops as a blush rises on his cheeks at his misstep. “our fridge?”

“your fridge, hm?” you muse, grin growing when his blush darkens. 

“it was my fridge by default,” lando retorts, pointing at the scar you stared at earlier. “i was in recovery and you kept me cooped up in here with your pretty smile and my rehab appointments.”

you roll your eyes but can’t keep the smile off your face. “you can’t use that as an excuse to ban sushi in our fridge.”

he wrinkles his nose up with disdain nonetheless, walking away from the fridge. “it was staring at me,” he grumbles, crossing his arms to mirror your stance.

“baby, it’s a spicy salmon roll. it doesn’t have eyes,” you assure, holding out a hand to him to try and pull him closer to you. 

he trudges over, wrapping an arm around your waist as he frowns, close enough to you now that you can smell his shampoo and the cologne you love so much. “at least buy something i’ll eat next time as well,” he huffs, and you can’t help the laugh that you let slip out. 

“okay, so what about this for dinner?” you pick up your phone from the counter, scrolling through your flooded inbox until you find the reservation you made on a whim this morning. “here.”

his brows furrow, but his expression quickly changes to something that makes your heart twist in your chest. 

the screen casts a soft glow on his face as he looks it over before looking up at you, his eyes glassy. the name of the restaurant you spent over half an hour in the cold waiting for him reflects in his eyes, and you feel your own throat get tight. 

“redo?” you ask quietly, uncertainty slipping through the cracks in your composure as his eyes flick down again to the confirmation email before looking back up at you. 

he stares at you, his eyes flicking over every detail of your face like he’s trying to memorize you all over again after months of not being there for you. he brings a free hand up to your cheek, nodding silently as you lean into the touch. 

“yeah- yes,” he breathes, something akin to relief in his voice. “god yes. i’d love a redo with you.”

you let yourself smile back at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “good,” you whisper, blushing when he puts your phone down on the counter behind to squeeze your hip.

“you didn’t have to do that, y’know,” he murmurs. “is this for tonight?”

you nod, the proximity of his face to yours making your whole body warm. “figured you’re fine enough to go on a proper date with me now.”

he laughs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, and then another to your cheek. “a date with you sounds perfect tonight,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “my only rule is we can’t drive separately.”

your brows furrow. “why not?”

“because if anything happens, i’m not letting you sit in a hospital waiting room for hours on your own,” he murmurs, squeezing your waist in his large hands. 

your breath catches, swallowing thickly at the memory as you hold onto him tighter as well. “yeah, that’s.. that’s fine. deal.”

he’s smiling when he pulls back, kissing his way down the side of your face as you laugh at him, pushing against his chest playfully.

“i’m gonna go get ready,” he hums, kissing your cheek and nose once more before he pulls back.

you lift a brow. “you’re leaving?”

“nah, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” he scoffs, winking as he lets a hand card through his hair. “just.. going. very briefly. be back at six?” 

“six on the dot?” you tease, crossing your arms as you watch him grab his phone from the counter. 

“six on the dot,” he repeats, his voice softer and more certain. he holds a hand out to where you’re still leaning against the counter, smiling when you take it and he spins you out before pulling you to him. “promise i’ll be on time.”

you nod hesitantly, pressing your lips into a thin line. “okay.”

he studies your face when he notices your wariness, frowning slightly. “i want you to know i can show up for you like you need me to. i.. i’ve been slacking a lot more than what you deserve in a partner and i’m really sorry.”

“you don’t have to say all that, lando, it’s-”

“i want to,” he cuts you off, letting his hand cup your cheek to tilt your head up. “i want to be better for you. i want you to feel loved and appreciated.”

you smile at him, letting your hand rest over his against your face. “okay,” you breathe, letting your eyes slip shut. 

“that’s my girl,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the soft skin underneath your eye. your face heats up, and you see his own eyes widen like he realized the weight of what he said. “sorry.”

“it’s alright,” you whisper, leaning into his palm. “go get ready, hotshot.”

“you think you’ll be alright on your own?” he teases, a crooked grin slipping back onto his face. 

you roll your eyes, patting his chest with your free hand. “i can handle an hour on my own, yes.”

he huffs, wrinkling his nose. “well i dunno- you’ve not been away from me for that long since you went grocery shopping without me last week.”

“mhm,” you agree. “it was the most peaceful hour and a half of my life.”

he gasps, jaw dropping in shock at your comment. “rude.”

you shrug, but you’re grinning right back at him as he pouts and picks up the rest of his things from your counter. every step he makes toward the door makes your stomach twist in a funny way, like him leaving you is more serious than you’d like.

“i’ll see you at six,” he says again, looking over his shoulder at you. 

you nod as he opens your front door. “see you at six.”

as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, your apartment seems too quiet. you look at the door for a few moments before you force yourself into action, showering and doing your makeup and changing your mind on your outfit at least three times. 

you rummage through your hangers to find a dress that somehow expresses the gravity of this situation, how much this ‘redo’ really means to you after everything. you pull out the dress, the one that once made him so speechless you thought you broke him, running your hands down the front of your body as you spin in the mirror.

the deep red makes your skin glow as you touch up your makeup, leaning impossibly closer to the mirror as you mess with a pesky lash that keeps curling the wrong way. you try to curl your hair and consider pinning it up, running your hands through it over and over until you settle on leaving it down, huffing as one curl keeps falling forward into your face. 

you look at yourself in the mirror again, a soft smile on your face. “this is going to be perfect,” you whisper to yourself, fastening the necklace he bought you for your first anniversary around your neck before searching for your phone.

there’s a knock at your front door as soon as you look down at the time, your smile growing when you see it’s exactly 6:00. you walk over to the door, taking a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves before you open it to find him standing in the hall.

lando’s standing there with flowers in one hand, each stem perfectly arranged in a bouquet you cannot wait to put on your bedside table. he’s dressed up as well, the suit jacket done with a single button and cuffed to show off the watch you bought him years ago.

his gaze drags up from the floor and over you before he meets your eyes, and you swear he freezes.

his lips part as he exhales shakily, like the sight of you standing in front of him has completely undone whatever smooth pickup line he no doubt was working on on the drive back over to you.

you feel yourself blush, still feeling self-conscious as he stares at you. “what?” you ask quietly, chewing on the inside of your cheek. maybe this dress is too much for a date like this, the thought making you tug at the hem as you try to settle the butterflies in your stomach.

he blinks at you again and swallows, his mouth still open. “you look..” he trails off, clearing his throat as he steps closer. “fuck.”

“lando?”

“you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, his eyes dragging over every inch of you like he’s trying to memorize every detail of how you look standing in front of him. “i can’t even begin to- fuck, you’re absolutely beautiful..”

your blush darkens as you watch his hand tighten around the bouquet, looking down at them like he finally managed to break out of whatever trance you put him in. he flushes as he holds them out, letting out an awkward laugh that makes you smile.

“i got these for you,” he says, his breath catching as your fingers brush over his. “i saw them at the little corner store down the road and i just.. i know they’re your favorites and i didn’t want to show up empty handed.”

you take them from him, letting your fingers drag against a petal gently. “thank you, lando,” you whisper, smiling down at the pinks and whites of the flowers mingling perfectly. “you didn’t have to get me anything, y’know..”

his eyes follow you as you move back, grabbing a vase from under your sink to put water in for the arrangement. “i thought they’d liven the place up a bit since we’ve been holed up in here together,” he murmurs, fidgeting with his watch strap when you come back over to the doorway. “not that the normal view of you isn’t enough or anything..”

“they’re beautiful,” you hum, letting your hands go to the lapel of his jacket, straightening it out with a precision that makes him smile warmly at you. “thank you.”

“can i kiss you?” he blurts out, blushing as his hand hovers beside your waist, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. 

your eyes soften as you step closer to him, your hand carding through his curls before settling at the base of his neck. “please.”

he gives you a small nod as he leans into your touch, his hands settling against your hips as he tugs you flush to him. 

and then his lips meet yours for the first time in months. 

the kiss is soft and filled with a desire and unspoken words that makes you warm as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer to you. you both seem to melt into the moment, lando’s fingers tightening their grip to hold you tighter.

he makes a small noise of protest as you pull back, but you quickly shut him up with another peck.

“you ready for the best redo ever?” you tease, pulling back to kiss the tip of his nose. 

“i’ve never been more ready for anything else,” he murmurs, the sincerity in his voice making you blush again. 

you’d hired louis first, a middle-aged man who acted like he hated everyone but really didn’t, to bake alongside you, then juliette as an extra hand on restocking and serving customers. juliette was nineteen, extremely extroverted, hated anyone shortening her name, and couldn’t be more perfect for the job.

the bell at the door rings, but you’re too busy with sorting out some of the pastries at the display to look.  someone stops at the register, and you don’t glance up as you say, “hi, what can i get for you?”

at the lack of answer, you finally stop what you’re doing.

instead of a regular, or some stranger that you’re used to, you’re staring right at a face you hadn’t seen in years.  oscar piastri. the son of one of your mom’s closest friends, someone you’d grown up with yet had strayed so far from.

“oscar?”

he looks equally as stunned, eyes wide as he stares back at you.

“what are you…” he trails off, still frozen on the spot. “you work here?” “i own this place,” you answer, and he seems to slowly relax. “what are you doing here?” “i live here.” “so do i.” “why didn’t i know that?” he frowns. “when’d you move to monaco?” “a year or so ago,” you say, and you glance behind him to where another man is on the phone outside. “i...did you wanna order something?”

“oh, uh, yeah,” oscar mutters, glancing over at the display. the bell for the door rings again, and he glances back. “lando, what’d you want?” lando looks over at you, in the middle of pocketing his phone as he smiles politely and turns back to oscar.

“éclairs,” juliette sidles up beside you, sliding the tray into it’s display. she glances at the two, her eyebrows raising, “shit, aren’t those formula 1 drivers?” “oh,” you say, focused on trying to sort out all the thoughts in your head. “yeah.” “lucky you,” she smiles, already walking back into the kitchen to presumably grab more. 

oscar places his order, a croissant, pain-au-chocolat, and a coffee, and when lando moves to sit at one of the tables, oscar stays standing. you’ve seen him on social media, on the tv sometimes, but in person? a whole different story.  he’d been 15 the last time you saw him. it wasn’t like he’d moved countries, he’d just been too busy traveling around the country for races. a year without seeing him turned into multiple, and now here you were, in your early twenties, standing face to face with him for the first time in years. 

“so,” he says, and you glance over at him from the coffee maker. “how’ve you been?” “pretty good,” you say, and you blame the heat rising up your neck on monaco’s summer weather. “never expected you to show up here though.” “really?” he says, arms crossing as he leans against the counter. “your store’s right in the heart of monte carlo. don’t you get f1 drivers showing up all the time?” “charles comes here a lot,” you say, ignoring the way his eyes are trained solely on you as you speak. “max a few times, but he isn’t a regular—his girlfriend is though. comes with their daughters almost every week.”

you go quiet, realising you might’ve leaked more information that needed, but he doesn’t look surprised.  “you look good,” he says, and you can’t help the small smile that makes its way onto your face. “really good.” “so do you,” you say, finishing up the coffee and starting on the rest of his order. “really different from fifteen.” “has it been that long?” he says, and you laugh quietly. “i swear it hasn’t.” “time probably goes fast when you’re busy driving formula 1 cars.”

you smile, passing over the rest of his order.  “enjoy,” you say, and he waits a second, like he’s debating saying something else, before picking up the paper bags and the coffee. “see you around.” “yeah,” he says, and you watch him give you another quick once over. “it was nice seeing you again.”

you try not to stare too hard as him and lando walk out again. lando says something, then looks back at you. 

“do you know him?” juliette asks, and you snap out of your thoughts. “oscar?” “i did,” you answer. “we grew up together.” “childhood best friend?” “not really.” “hm,” she says, starting to fix her hair in the glass display’s reflection. “looked like he was.”

deep down, you know that’s not the last time you’ll see him. not even close.

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and others ynln rare sighting of me outside the bakery view comments alexandrasaintmleux cute 🤍 liked by creator user1 is this girl related to f1 or something?? oscar charles and max all follow her

user2 she owns a really popular bakery that a lot of drivers go to user3 i heard she grew up with oscar back in aus or something

juliette.faure body tea

ynln LMAO

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, ynln and others mclaren Your favorite Papaya duo 🧡 view comments lando that stuff from @/ynln was fire

ynln why thank you lando @/oscarpiastri go pick up more pls oscarpiastri go by yourself

user4 LANDOSCARRRR user5 watch @/ynln 's bakery become a sponsor

ynln mclaren hmu!!

“let me do it.” “no.” “louis.”

you’re standing in the kitchen of the bakery, hands covered with flour, and louis is kneading dough on the countertop. 

“it’s nine in the morning! you've already made the dough,” he says, waving behind him in dismissal. “and decorated cakes. and filled the tarts. and—” “i know what i did,” you say, frowning. “but you’ve been busy too.” “i’m 49,” he says, like it means something. “you’re in your twenties. i need to keep busy.” “that’s unfair.” “that’s the truth,” he turns to you, eyes narrowing. “let me be.”

you let out a sigh, shaking your head as you turn away. just as you’re about to check on the pastries in the oven, juliette knocks on the kitchen wall and calls your name. 

“what’s wrong?”  you say, wincing at the fact that you know you’ve probably got flour on your face. “is there something out of stock?” “i think you might want this customer.” “what?”

you glance over at the counter, and lo and behold, oscar piastri is standing there. juliette lets out what sounds like a giggle, waltzing past to probably go annoy louis.

“oscar,” you manage to say, and he smiles. “you’re back.” “i am,” he says, leaning against the counter. “lando wants more.” “lando, or you?” “bit of both,” he says, and you laugh. “he says i live closer and he’s too lazy to walk here.” “fair enough,” you say, dusting your hands off and looking up at him. “same as last time?” “sure,” he says, and you immediately start on the coffee. “how’ve you been since the last time i saw you?”

the sound of traffic floats in through the open windows, along with the hum of the coffee machine. again, he stays standing as you make his order, fixated on every word you say like it matters. 

“pretty good. charles came in the other day and said he’s surprised we know each other,” you don’t look at him while you talk, but you know he’s listening. “made a few new recipes for the tarts, experimented a little too much i think. i look a mess.” “nah,” he says, and you glance up at him for a second. “not even close. you’ve got a bit of flour on your cheek though.” you sigh, brushing it away, “thanks—oh, you should try one.” “one of the tarts?” “uh-huh,” you say, sliding a croissant into a paper bag and setting it on the counter. “unless you’re in a rush.” “not at all.”

he lets you walk back into the kitchen and grab one from the tray louis was looking over. the man scowls, but passes you a napkin anyway.

“i don’t actually remember what i changed about it,” you frown as you give it to oscar. “i think it was something to do with the dough, and the filling too. maybe i let it set longer? this one’s the strawberry one, by the way.” he lets you talk as he bites into it, adding in a few ‘mhms’ or ‘really?’s, until you realise he’s finished the pastry and is staring at you smiling. 

you halt your sentence, blinking at him.  “was it good?” “better than good,” he says, and for some reason, you don’t doubt him. “shit, think i might need more of those actually.” “seriously?” “lando’s gonna freak out over them,” he laughs, and you hide the way blush is forming on your cheeks by pretending you’re dusting off more flour. “could i get a box or something?” “i’ve got other flavours—” “pick whatever you want,” he cuts you off, and you smile. “whatever you think is best.”

“what are you doing?” louis says as you walk back into the kitchen, sliding the tray of tarts towards you. “hey, i said one—” “special order,” you say, not even hiding the smile on your face. “by a formula 1 driver, louis. how can you refuse a formula 1 driver?” “she means it’s an order by the guy she has a crush on,” juliette interjects, though she isn’t looking up from the oven. “oscar piastri.” “since when have i had a crush on him?” “since he walked in a week ago.” 

you seal the box closed, pointedly ignoring her.   “i expect compensation!” louis calls as you walk back out of the kitchen. “lots!”

oscar is still standing there, leaned against the counter on his phone. as soon as he senses you walk back in, he looks up.

“i was thinking,” he suddenly says as you put everything into a separate bag. “are you free later? around lunch, maybe.” you raise your eyebrows, “lunch?” “to catch up, y’know?” his tone is casual, but his body language isn’t. he’s still slightly leaned against the wooden countertop, still surrounded by the labyrinth of bread, pastries, and cakes. “but if you’re busy—” “no, i’m not,” you scramble to say. “lunch sounds good.” “yeah?” he physically relaxes, eyes lighting up slightly. “you haven’t changed your number, right? i’ll text you later.” “sure,” you smile, and he picks up the bag and coffee. “see you later, then.”

the sound of the bell at the door ringing lasts for what seems like a lifetime. 

you’re stuck standing at the counter, his words playing on repeat through your head, the entire conversation playing on repeat. 

“someone has a crush,” juliette says, a piece of bread in her hands. 

you smile, walking past her towards the kitchen. 

“shut up, julie.” “my name is not julie!”

oscar would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy he ran into you that day.

ran into probably wouldn’t be the best explanation, since he’d been the one to walk into the bakery that you owned, but it was the only explanation he could think of.

“this shit is good,” lando says, mouth full of the tart you’d made oscar try. “like, stupidly good. spectacular.”

zak and andrea are at the front of the meeting room, going over some strategic plan, and all oscar can focus on is the thought of you, and the lunch he’d spontaneously decided on asking you to.

“lando,” he says, eyes narrowing as he leans back in his chair. lando wipes at the corner of his mouth, looking over at him. “hypothetically, if i were to take a friend i hadn’t seen for almost ten years out to lunch, where would i go?”

lando blinks at him.  “you mean…her?” he points at the tarts on the table in front of him. “the girl who made these?” “yes. her.” “date?” “not really?” “reunion?” “i guess so.”

lando cocks his head, looking elsewhere in thought.

“there’s this good italian place near her bakery,” he says, and then he nods like he’s confirming his decision. “i’ll send you the address. it’s got a real good view of the dock and everything.” he smiles, arms crossing.  “it’s a date,” he says. “don’t lie to me.” “i’m not!” oscar frowns. “it’s a catch-up thing.” “have you got a crush on her?”  “i haven’t seen her in ages. that wouldn’t make sense.” “could be one of those…fate things,” lando shrugs. “have you heard of that string theory thing? i saw it on my for you page the other day.” “what side of social media are you on?” again, he shrugs, reaching for another tart, “fine. deny it all you want.”

by the time the meeting is over, it’s 12. oscar had texted you the address of the italian place already, and when he’d first opened his messages with you, the last one had been exactly eight years ago about some kind of family dinner between his and yours. your contact name had been a nickname he didn’t remember giving you—he didn’t even know he was close enough to you before to give you a nickname.

you’re standing by the entrance of the restaurant when he gets there. your apron is gone, flour completely dusted away, and your hair isn’t tied up anymore. 

you were gorgeous. 

that was the only thought circulating through his head when you glance up and see him, offering a smile and a little wave.

“it was only a two minute walk from the bakery,” you tell him as he stops beside you. “you didn’t keep me waiting, i promise.” “you sure?” he says, following you into the restaurant. 

you both choose to sit at a table outside, and like lando had mentioned, the view of the dock is crystal clear. he lets you take a few pictures of it before talking again, quietly going over your features that he couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten.

“ever been here before?” you ask, setting your phone down on the table and picking up the menu. “it’s pretty.” “truthfully, no,” he says. “lando recommended it to me.” “guessing he’s been on a lot of dates here then,” you say, and when he pauses, you tense up too. “not that this is a date—not that it’s a bad thing. i mean, well—” “i get it,” he says, and you cover your face with your hands, blush creeping up your neck. “i get what you mean.” “i think all that flour is getting to my head or something,” you say, slowly lowering you hands and reaching for the menu again. “how were the tarts?”

oscar smiles, “lando finished them.” “seriously?” you gasp. “all of them?” “and he wants more.” “they were just a test batch,” you look over the dishes on the menu, but none of it really sticks. “you were the first to try.” “what an honor.” you glance up, giving him a small smile. 

five minutes later, both of you have ordered, and you’re playing with the necklace around your neck mindlessly, trying not to stare at the man in front of you. wind is softly messing at the ends of your hair, and the scent of flowers from the nearby flower shop fill your nose. you can tell he’s trying not to look at you too.

“tell me what you changed about the tarts,” oscar says, abruptly, pulling you away from your thoughts.  you tilt your head, “you won’t understand a word.” “doesn’t matter,” he answers, reaching for your glass to pour you water. “it’s interesting.”

you spend the next hour talking about batter, dough, fillings, random baking techniques you’d discovered. the topic switches every now and then, your brain struggling to keep focused on one thought before moving onto another.  throughout all of it, oscar’s staring, a soft smile on his face. 

“i talk a lot, don’t i?” you frown at one point. “like, a lot.” “that’s a good thing,” he answers like it’s second nature. “cause i like listening.”

by the end of it, when your plates are practically wiped clean in attempt to drag out the conversation as far as it would go, you’re wondering why you were never close to him in the first place. 

“how’s your mum?” you ask him as you’re walking down the street, back towards the bakery. “i haven’t talked to her in a while.” “she’s good—misses you, by the way. i told her i ran into you.” though you’d never really been close with oscar growing up, you’d been close with the rest of his family. his mother was the one who’d stand in the kitchen with you at ten years old, teaching you how to preheat an oven and tell if the inside of a cookie was baked enough.

“i miss her too,” you say. “a lot. i don’t think i’d be where i am right now if not for her.” “i can’t tell her that,” oscar says, making you look over at him. “she’ll book a flight to monaco within two seconds.” you let out a laugh, but it gets cut short when he reaches over, pulling you back just as you’re about to cross the road. a car speeds past, and you blink. 

“oh.” “careful,” he mutters, hand still around your wrist. 

the road is clear now, but neither of you move. 

“where’d you park?” you ask him, just to get rid of the heavy tension that’s started to settle over you. “you don’t have to drop me off back at the bakery.” you swear you feel his fingers tighten around you, but you don’t pull away.  “you sure?” he says, staring at you. “i can—” “it’s only five seconds away, oscar,” you smile, and finally, his hand falls away from yours. the absence of it is immediate, but you ignore it by reaching up to brush your hair out of your face. “i promise i’ll be fine.”

he stays quiet, his eyes on you, and you can tell he’s choosing whether to argue back or not. 

“alright,” he settles on, clearing his throat as he puts his hands in his pockets. “i’ll see you later then.” “sure,” you say, also straightening. “thanks for today.” “anytime.”

every step away from him feels forced. 

juliette’s right by the door when you walk back in, fixing the displays at the front of the store.

“how’d it go?” she says, rushing to your side. “was i right?! do you like him?” you frown, barely glancing at her.

“i’m…not sure.”

liked by oscarpiastri_, juliette.faure, and others ynln 🥖 view comments oscarpiastri_ i think i did really good making bread

ynln i think so too juliette.faure i disagree

user6 ARE THEY DATING

lando probably user7 WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN??

user8 is the bread oscar made up for sale or no

user9 bro 💔

it’d been weeks.

weeks of oscar showing up whenever he was back in monaco, weeks of conversation that flowed as easy as breathing, weeks of getting closer and closer.

you didn’t need juliette to drag you out of the kitchen whenever he showed up anymore, he didn’t need to use the excuse ‘lando wanted more’, even though it was still true half the time.

on one of the rare slower days, you’d let him in the kitchen, where he’d watched you make a loaf of pain de mie. you’d tried teaching him and he hadn’t understood a word, but still nodded along as if he did. louis had scowled the entire time, muttering about bad technique and waste of ingredients, and juliette had taken hundreds of pictures on her phone.

he’d been to your apartment about five times already. the first was just to help you drop off boxes of ingredients, the second was under the excuse of testing another new recipe, and the third had no reason at all. 

on the weeks where he was off in a different country racing, you’d have live broadcasts playing in the background, filling the store with the sound of lap times and engines. as soon as he landed back in monaco, he’d be right by your side again.

“i haven’t been out to lunch with you in while,” he’s leaned against the counter like always, though this time beside you and not opposite you. “not since we first ran into each other.” “it’s a bit late for lunch,” you answer, glancing at the time. “unless you want dinner?” “that could work.”

the doorbell rings, and you both glance over at the door.

“well look who we’ve got here.”

“i’m not giving you free samples, lando.” “why would i ask for free samples?” lando frowns, reaching to grab multiple bags of cookies and dumping them on the counter. “hi louis!” “not you again,” louis’s sigh is audible from the kitchen, and lando practically pouts.

“so, what’re we doing?” he says, taking a box of tarts from a shelf and also putting them on the counter. “did i ruin some kind of romantic moment?” “no.” “are you sure? seems like it.” you shake your head in exasperation, moving to scan the items on the counter.

“kind of glad i didn’t,” lando says, pulling out his card and looking at oscar. “we’ve gotta go somewhere.” “what?” oscar answers. “where?” “strictly confidential.” “what?” “racing business,” lando shrugs, scooping up everything into his arms. “let’s go.” “you couldn’t have texted me?” “i knew you were here—plus i need a restock on all this.”

oscar glances at you, and you smile.  “go,” you say, gently nudging him towards lando. “i’ll text you later about those dinner plans.” “dinner plans?” lando repeats, a grin making it's way onto his face as him and oscar start walking towards the door. "knew i walked into something."

you hear oscar mutter a 'shut up, mate', and as the doorbell rings again, he looks back at you. the silence that fills the space is immediate, and you hate the fact you already miss him so much.

“you’ve gotta wait for the water to boil.” “it’s already boiled.” “i just turned the stove on.”

you’re standing in your kitchen, arms crossed as you watch the pot of water. 

“i feel useless.” “you’re not useless,” oscar says, smiling as he opens up your fridge. “do you only have milk, eggs, sugar and flour in your kitchen?” “i’ve got wine.” “that’s not an ingredient.” “sometimes it is.”

he shuts your fridge again, moving to stand beside you. “see? now it’s boiling,” he points to the water. “you know how to cook pasta, right?” “clearly not,” you mutter, grabbing the pack of fettuccine. “i could probably make this though. the fettuccine.” “it’s already made for a reason.” “i could make it better.” “i know you could,” he opens the pack, handing it back to you. “but we’re cooking, not baking, remember?”

you sigh, watching him grab ingredients from a plastic bag and setting them onto a chopping board.  “this is unfair.” “how?” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “unfair because it’s not you doing everything anymore?”

“exactly. i’m not used to doing nothing,” you complain. “it doesn’t feel right. i should be stirring something, or checking up on something. my hands are literally itching to do something but i can’t because i have no clue how to cook—this is torture.” “yeah?” “if louis were here he’d be just like me. actually no, i think he’d be good at cooking. he’s like experienced in everything—did you know he speaks italian too? on top of english and french. i think it might be my lifelong dream to be as skilled as him.” “mhm.” “he’s lived like twenty different lives too. he waved the checkered flag once in monaco, did you know that? schu…what was his name?” “schumacher?” “yes, him. he won that race. louis brings this kinda thing up every now and then. i wouldn’t be surprised if he reveals he’s raced or something before,” you glance over at the pot, “can i put the fettuccine in?”

oscar pauses, eyebrows raising, “have you not?” “you never told me to!” you say defensively, scrambling to dump the pasta in the water. “you need to specify. i’m not a mind reader.” “i just assumed,” he says, clearly amused. “it’s fine. it won’t make a difference.” “now what do i do?”

he moves his attention back onto the chopping board.  “keep talking,” is all he says.  “i’m listening.”

you end up sitting up on the counter, lazily watching him cook while you tell him about anything and everything that crosses your mind. he looks at you every now and then, with that same smile you’d started noticing more than you should’ve. 

“i feel bad,” you say, the pasta halfway finished on your plate. it was good, better than good, and you’d already told him about twenty times. “i did absolutely nothing.” “nah,” he frowns, sitting opposite you. “you kept me company. it’s like listening to music while baking, except it’s just you.” “are you comparing my voice to music?” “sure,” he says, like its the most casual thing in the world.“y’know. 15 year old me would be shocked at the fact oscar piastri is sitting in my apartment, eating dinner with me,” you mutter, scooping up more of the fettuccine and bringing it to your lips.

“honestly? me too.” “you were so…closed off back then.” “says you.” “i wasn’t closed off!” you argue. “you just never approached me.” “how was i supposed to approach you?” “maybe by coming up to me during one of the millions of family dinners we had.” “you were so reserved. that was practically impossible.” you put your fork down, fully turning to him. it’s only then you realise he’s already staring. 

blush creeps onto your face, the same one you’d usually blame on the weather or the constant warmth of the ovens in the bakery, but you’re not blaming it on anything but him now. 

he notices. you watch him notice, you watch the amusement on his features turn into something else. something you can’t place. there’s faint sweat on his neck from cooking, his hair is messy in the perfect way. his shirt hugs him just right, and before you know it, you’re subconsciously leaning the slightest bit closer to him.

it hits you then.

“oscar,” you say, though you’re not sure why. 

he lets out a hum in response, mindlessly, like a reflex. 

you want to kiss him. you want to move even closer, you want his hands around your waist again, you want the familiar warmth of him. 

before you can give in, you move back, clearing your throat and shifting on your chair. 

“i wasn’t reserved. i was cautious—you were intimidating, y’know? really intimidating,” you avoid looking at him, picking up your fork, even though you had no intention of eating. “did i seriously seem closed off to you? sorry about that, really, really sorry—” you sense him move before you look at him. 

his hand reaches for yours, tugging you towards him.  “shut up for a second,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you. the sound of your fork falling against the plate is loud, sudden, but neither of you pull away. your hands are moving up to his hair, and his fingers are tightening around your wrist, pulling you closer.

it’s soft, slow, perfect in every way imaginable. he’s almost hesitant, like he’s giving you the option to move away, but you don’t. 

neither of you do.

you pull away after what feels like a lifetime. his hair is messier now, your face feels like it’s burning, and your heart is pounding against your chest.

“you kissed me,” you state, blinking, practically dazed.  he nods, slowly, like he’s partially stunned too, “and you kissed me back.” “...huh,” you scoff, quietly. 

he doesn’t move when you lean forward again. 

he doesn’t move when you stand, body pressed against his, until he presses you against the counter, hands traveling up your waist like they were meant to be there. you feel him smile against you, the same smile you’d seen countless times over the span of a month. 

when you break apart again, breathless, filled with so many emotions at once, he laughs, forehead falling onto your shoulder. you stay there, hands still in his hair, the warmth of him pressing into your skin.

it doesn’t feel anything other than right.

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and others ynln eighty-one view comments oscarpiastri ❤️ liked by creator lando rare post without any form of bread in it

ynln lol i hate you

user10 OMG I KNEW IT user11 this is the cutest thing ever user12 mclaren x yn collab confirmed liked by creator juliette.faure what did i say!!!

ynln LMAO

liked by ynln, lando, and others oscarpiastri i now know how to bake view comments lando did you two swap instagrams or something user13 pls this is so cute user14 AWH no wonder he's been to this bakery 24/7 lately ynln love you ❤️

oscarpiastri i love you more lando what about me

It was back then, when people devised an understanding for a unique way of the world. A soulmate, they called them. Someone supposedly gifted to you by the Universe, and then you had to find them. Some philosophers theorised it was to give us a purpose; others, to be cruel. But the system itself was fairly simple. The only thing that is truly infinite, is numbers. So people would be sent numbers, and they would sub-consciously notice them, over and over again. Until eventually, it would become all too overwhelming to ignore, and they’d know they were close to finding their so-called soulmate.

For generations, this worked. As long as numbers existed, so did soulmates. So did huge, universal, undoubtable love.

Numbers still exist. Soulmates? Now a myth.

Historians assume it was the rise of capitalism. The invention of the dowry. The birth of the belief of the perfect couple. The new societal classes. That dragged apart love-matches, and paired them to financial ones instead. Monarchs could not marry boys covered in mud, and a woman could not love another woman. And so, society scrapped soulmates, and left everyone  rather miserable, and both poorer and richer simultaneously. 

Still, fate did not let up. It was weaker now, easier to ignore, but it still tried.

Most people would start seeing the numbers. The percentage on their phone, the time on the clock. The same number, popping up every time. Still, there was a limit, of sorts. If you didn’t believe in them at all, you’d never notice. If you believed in love, but not quite enough, you probably won’t see it until it was ever too late, or far too early, and then it would be lost again.

It was not infinite, if you did not believe, did not try.

It was easy to dismiss. Everyone has a lucky number. It was those brave enough to be sceptical of its consistency that ever got a reward. Still, it was so rare now. The few cases of soulmates were almost all co-incidences, from lucky run-ins on city breaks. 

Very few chased it, and you are not one of the few.

81. That’s your favourite number, lucky number, whatever else. You were born on 8/1, anyway. You figure it’s that. Just seems to settle in the right way in your soul, like a guidance. You’re not sure what it means, if it means anything at all. 

81. That’s Oscar’s favourite number, lucky number, whatever else. He’d been drawn to it, and at the mere age of ten,  he’d been told to pick a number to drive under. He’d blurted it out instantly, without thinking at all. Just a quick, definite decision. He’s not sure what it means, if it means anything at all.

The first time you almost meet Oscar Piastri is when you’re barely five years old. You’re having a taster day at kindergarten, and you’re being rather moody about the whole thing.

“Mum, I don’t want to go in. I already don’t like it here.” you grumble, tugging on her sleeve, and she shrugs you off.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be fun, come on.” she replies quietly, giving you an enthusiastic smile, and you scowl in response.

“Here are some kids you can buddy up with for the day, okay? Amy, Jules, Henry and Oscar.”

You count the heads dutifully, but come up one short. Amy is dramatically adorable, with red pigtails and muddy knees. Jules looks a little colder, and she’s tall, but she’s carrying a bright pink lunchbox so you figure she’s not nearly as tough as she looks. Henry is covered in freckles and his shirt has a ridiculous assortment of paint stains, but you think he might be fun. So, that just leaves Oscar, who is apparently a no-show.

The teacher grimaces.

“Does anyone know where Oscar is?”

The kids look from you to her blankly, with scattered shakes of their heads and shrugs, and she sighs.

“Alright, you three give her a tour, and we’ll see if Oscar ever shows up.”

Amy grabs your hand instantly, while Jules and Henry bicker over which staircase to take, and you let yourself relax a little. But something blares in your mind: Oscar. You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on the fact he didn’t make it, on who he is at all, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s almost… important. Still, by the time you’ve made it to the art room, that’s long forgotten.

Once you make it back to the main foyer, dutifully following the three children around with the desperation of a new kid, you hear the teacher from the morning.

Her voice is quiet, but her tone is serious, and she’s muttering about impressions and tardiness. 

The boy on the receiving end of the lecture looks about your age, with floppy brown hair and bunny-like teeth. He's gripping his orange backpack and shuffling his feet, and you wonder if he might cry if she raises her voice even just a little. When he looks up from the floor, his eyes shift from her stern face to your curious one, and for a second, the world seems to inhale. And then you’re dragged into an overly colourful classroom, and you wonder if you made it all up. You don’t see him again, as the final bell rings, and you reach your mother’s open arms.

“Still don’t wanna come here? You look like you had fun!” she says cheerfully, and for a second, you think about when the World Stopped. And then you stop thinking about it, fold your arms, and shake your determined head.

The second time you almost meet Oscar Piastri is at a funfair. The dodgems are gleaming, playing some obnoxious music, and you can feel Jasper tugging at your arm relentlessly.

“Come oooooon. I want to go.” he whines, yanking you into the queue. 

You don’t like dodgems. Primitive, insane, and overly painful. And way too expensive.

But Jasper is desperate, with a disgusting grin on his face. You’d always found him to be slightly too energetic for a nine year old. Still, apparently maturity was a myth for many boys at school, and they seemed to take the foundational skills of maths as rather unimportant. 

So you oblige, chucking him one of your last tokens, and you pile into the arena, darting towards an open car.  As you reach an orange one, the number #81 painted on it, you feel something that isn’t the plastic of the seat beneath your hand.

You look up quickly, meeting brown eyes.

The boy looks oddly familiar, and you just can’t quite place it, until the sounds of shrieking children and blasting music fades into something quieter than the hammering of your heartbeat. He glances down, at your hand on his, and his ears turn a vicious shade of pink. Still, he doesn’t shift away, and neither do you, and you stand like that for what feels like an eternity and less than a second. You begin to splutter out something between an apology and an accusation, his name somewhere hidden in the fog of your brain, but he’s gone by the time you manage to remember it started with an O.

The third time you almost meet Oscar Piastri will also be the last, or so you think. Marty is shimmying into various different skirts in front of your mirror, while you offer short comments about how she ‘looks good in anything’ and she really ought to ‘stop stressing.’ 

“Who’s this party even for, anyway. Who’s the pastry kid?” you ask, lying down on your messy bed.

“Piastri,” she corrects, with a hidden laugh, “and it’s a goodbye party. He’s off to England, to drive, or something. I don’t actually know him.”

“England? At fifteen? Lucky bastard.” you complain, with a disgruntled scoff.

“What, would you move if you could now? Wouldn’t you miss us all terribly?” she asks, catching your eye in the mirror, and you shrug.

“Terribly, sure. But worth it. I’m going there, one day.” Marty pauses. “Are you going to come back?”

“I don’t know.”

You both fall quiet, before you realise there’s no point in thinking about it too deeply. So instead, you hit play on your speaker, and wait for her to finish getting ready.

It’s busy, when you arrive at the house. You don’t know who’s house it really is, or who the people piling out the door are, but Marty's hand in yours keeps you calm.

“We can find Jasper and the others, okay? C’mon.”

She drags you through crowds and awkward people shuffling to the blaring house music, before you see familiar faces sprawled on the couch. 

As you sit down, you scan the sofa, and in one inhale, it blurs.

He gives you a flicker of a smile, and his name finally forms in your whirling head.

“Everyone, this is-” 

“Oscar.” you whisper, cutting off Jasper’s introduction.

“You know each other?"

You nor Oscar reply, because you’re not sure what the right answer is. How to explain whatever’s going on.

It’s soon forgotten, and then Marty is leading you away. You try not to think about how this is probably the last time you’ll ever see him. He tries to understand why he feels such a sharp sting in his stomach, and a sudden urge to chase after you.

It’s only when the charm on your necklace gleams at him, a small silver ‘81’, that he feels a deep regret as you disappear into the evening.

⛐✦

8:01. The number blurs as you unlock your phone, clicking off your alarm. With a desperate effort, you’re up, and the day begins. Clara is already fiddling in the bathroom, her music quietly waking you up, as you stumble towards the sink.

“G’morning.” she chirps, dabbing at her concealer, and you give her a tired smile.

“Well, if it isn’t my best friend!” exclaims Lando, his voice slightly distorted by his evidently bad wifi.

“Lando.” you mutter, rubbing your face, and he laughs. 

Lando and Clara had been a thing for a while now. Never quite official, but something more unspoken hummed between them both. It was hard, you appreciated that. Clara was never one to reach for fame, and it was somewhat impossible to be seen with Lando and not have it rub off on you. So, she didn’t go to races, and they existed hidden in summer breaks and glitchy facetimes.

You’re not sure why they keep going. How they’re surviving. But you don’t judge, don’t comment, just stare at their lovesick eyes and question the eventuality of it all.

Once he hangs up, the noise increasing behind him, she looks disappointed for a second, and then it’s gone.

She passes you the toothpaste wordlessly, and you search her eyes for something, but instead you look at her hands. And there, as she flexes her knuckles, is something resembling a ‘4’.

“When d’you get a tattoo?” you ask, gesturing to her fist, and she frowns.

“I don’t have one?”

She scans her hand, giving you a confused shrug.

“Can you not, like, see it? That is a four, is it not?”

She stares at you now, her voice faltering a little.

“What did you say?”

“A four.” you repeat. “Y’know, like Lando’s number? I know you’re a 444 person, so-” you begin, but her widening eyes make you fall silent. 

When you look again, it’s gone.

“I don't, I don't know what you’re talking about. See? Nothing there.”

You swallow, rubbing your eyes again, and wonder what you just saw.

81 hangs over Oscar’s head as he sits on the concrete step, trying to block out the clamour of noise from the paddock.

“Yeah, love you too. Bye.”

Lando shuts off his phone and sits beside him, extending a palm. Oscar takes it gladly, but he notices the stretch of his number on his thumb.

“I like that.” Oscar states, nodding towards the ‘4’ on his finger, and Lando frowns.

“Like what?”

“The four, up the side of your thumb. It’s cool. Maybe I should match.”

Lando retracts his hand and analyses his thumb carefully.

“I know you’re obsessed with me, mate, but you’re seeing my number now. Nothing there.”

It’s ironic, Lando thinks, considering he spent the last year trying to convince himself he wasn’t going insane when he saw his number everywhere. Still, he waits for Oscar to react, and he just blinks.

“Oh. Right. I’m tired.”

Once Clara closes the door behind her, you descend to your laptop. It blinks back at you, 81%, and that’s what cements it for you.

‘What does it mean when I see the same number a lot and start seeing tattoos of other peoples lucky number?’

The initial results are unhelpful- number tattoos inspiration, maths answers, what different numbers mean, and so on. Until you see a title that catches your eye- ‘I can’t stop seeing the number 47 everywhere I go, what’s going on?

With a determined click, you read the responses. People agreeing, people unsure. And then, an answer.

‘Not sure how helpful this is, but these are some historical accounts of the same things happening. People called it the ‘soulmate way’ back then. Not really a thing anymore, but maybe that’s what you’re experiencing?’

You click onto the link in the answer, and you’re engulfed by a rather wordy account of exactly what you’re going through. The constant appearance of the same number, some strange understanding linked to it, and feeling a bit overwhelmed.

The second page goes into detail into the ‘apparitions’ of numbers. When someone is running out of time to find their soulmate, they start seeing marks on other people, of their number, as if to entice you to try and find your ow- 

When someone is running out of time?

Your next search is more frantic. ‘Can you run out of time to find your soulmate?’

Another article pops up, confirming your fear.

‘Yes. Once a person starts seeing their number, they have a finite time to find the person who sees the same number. They will know when they’ve found them, as there is often a feeling of ‘the world stopping’, or ‘time slowing down.’. They will also begin to see those who have found their soulmates with identical markings, to try and keep them believing a little longer, and keep the number alive. Some people see their number from birth, other in old age. It can be terribly unfair. Once it becomes noticeable, overwhelmingly so, then you know you do not have long left. If you are to meet your soulmate after this subsides, you will be unaware of who they are.’

The world stopping. It’s a familiar feeling.

You wonder if that boy with the orange backpack, whose name you’ve forgotten once again, was your soulmate. And now, he was in England somewhere, and you’d lose him without ever having him at all.

The next few weeks are hell for Oscar. Every time he opens his phone, he sees it. 81 unread emails, 81k likes, 81 songs on his playlist. His fruit, 81g. His fucking McDonalds order. Still, he ignores it. He smiles at the fans, posts the stupid videos, and focuses on the championship. When Lando asks him what’s up, he doesn’t answer. Just a shrug, another complaint of tiredness, and then it’s free practice. 0.81 seconds between him and Lando, naturally. And so, it becomes part of life, but he remains as unbothered as he can be. That’s until he starts dreaming about you.

It happens for the first time in his driver’s room, after an exhausting qualifying. As soon as his eyes close, he sees it. Kindergarten.

The corridors are exactly as he remembers them; lined with crappy art working and half open backpacks. But it’s oddly silent, only the muffled shouts of impatient children behind closed doors. With a mortifying step, he releases he’s late, and that classic childish terror hits him square in the chest. It drags, time slows, and his breaths grow heavy. It’s the closest thing to a nightmare he’s had in a while, and he just can't figure out why he’s dreaming of this right now. He also doesn’t understand why he’s so aware he’s asleep, but then he hears an awkward cough. 

And it's you, although he doesn’t really know who you are. And he’s no longer at school, he’s stood by that scuffed dodgems car. That crawling heat he’d felt when your hand had pressed on his comes back instantly, and he wants to pull his arm away, but he can’t. When he looks up at you, you’re not the nine year old he’d met that night. Instead, you look older. As he assumes you might look now.

“Oscar.”The background shifts to that leaving party now, your necklace gleaming at him once again.

“Oscar?”

You’re speaking, and it sounds different from how he remembers you saying his name.

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t know why he’s replying. How he’s replying.

“What the fuck is going on?”

He straightens. 

“Are you talking to me?”

You look around the room, at the blurred faces and the hum of music.

“Can we even talk to anyone else? They don’t have, like, faces.” you whisper, a slow look of horror painting your face.

Oscar wants to wake up. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but seeing your matured face, and knowing you without really knowing you at all is abrasive in a way he wasn’t expecting.

“It is Oscar, right? That’s your name?”

He nods, his mouth drying.

“This isn’t real.”

You snort. “Nice one, genius. Obviously we’re not back at a house party from nine years ago.”

He frowns, and then Lando’s voice rings out.

“Oscar, mate? It’s time.”

You scrunch your face up in disdain.

“Is that Lando? Why can’t I escape that guy?”

Light is pouring into the room now, as his eyes begin to open begrudgingly. Before he can ask you how you know Lando, he’s awake.

“Coming,” he croaks, trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

⛐✦

“Who’s Oscar?”

Clara blinks at you curiously, with a wicked grin. 

“Who?”

“Oscar.” she repeats, with a determined eye roll.

You shrug. “I don’t know an Oscar.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Mate, you called his name last night. While you were sleeping.”

You give her a mortified look.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

You hide your face in your hands, bringing your knees to your chest.

“That’s so embarrassing. I genuinely don’t even know an Oscar!” “You seriously don’t know him? What were you dreaming about?”

“I can’t remember.” you mumble, desperately trying to think, but nothing comes to mind.

She explodes into an outrageous fit of giggles, and you drop your head further into your knees.

“Stop, s’is not funny.” you groan, but she keeps cackling, giving your shoulders an affectionate shake.

“You really need to go talk to some more people. Or go find this Oscar guy.” she suggests, and you scowl.

“Don’t mention this. Ever again.”

Oscar doesn’t dream that night. Or the night after. He barely even sleeps. Something keeps him up, keeps him thinking. Like he’s lost something, or something’s missing. It’s the third restless night, when his eyes finally close, that he sees you again.

“I think I’ve figured it out.” you nod wisely.

“Where are you? We?” he asks, gesturing to the sofa you’re crouched on, and the bustling blank people around you.

“I was thinking about work before I fell asleep. This is where I eat lunch.” you explain casually, and he blinks.

It suddenly occurs to him that he wants to know everything about you.

“What do you do for work?”

You pause, and give him a sideways glance. He’s gripping the armchair he’s sitting in rather tightly, and it’s so bizarre that he can feel the fabric beneath him.

Your voice is muffled when you reply.

“I couldn’t understand that.”

It’s the same jumbled sound when you try again. 

He stares at you, exasperated. 

“I’m an F1 driver.” 

As he speaks, he sounds just as distorted as you.

“Personal stuff. I don’t think we can actually tell each other anything.” you suggest, and he frowns.

“Why?”

You shrug. “So we actually have to find each other, I don’t know? I don’t think we remember this when we wake up, either.”

You wait, to see if he says anything. When he stays silent, you continue.

“I figure it’s about dreaming at the same time. So, if we’re both asleep, then we show up. I mean, I obviously don’t have much data to go off. But it makes sense. Like, I’m assuming you’ve just fallen asleep, ‘cause you’ve ended up in my office now.”

Oscar pauses to think.

“So, if I fall asleep first, you’ll end up with me, in whatever I’m dreaming of?”

“That’s my current guess, yeah. I wish I could remember this, so I can google it later.” 

He laughs. “D’you really think google can help you here?”

“It helped me before. With seeing the number, and everything. And Clara’s tattoo.”

“You see it too? 81?”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ everywhere. It’s killing me.”

“What does it mean?”

You give him an awkward stare. 

“Apparently, that we’re soulmates. Interlinked and all that.”

He swallows, and you both sit with it for a minute. Then Clara becomes your interruption, shouting about dinner, and the room disappears.

As Oscar’s timezones change with every other week, your meetings seem to shift into things a little more desperate. You test what your subconscious and the fates choose to blur.

You learn he has three sisters, but he can’t say their names. He learns that you cried for a week when your cat died, and that he was named after a Star Wars character, but you can’t say who.

You make fun of him for his house music- he plays it as he falls asleep in the hope it’s still playing when you see each other, so he can convince you it’s worth listening to.

It turns out you have a much stronger imagination than he does, so you often hope you fall asleep first. Because you can weld the dreamscapes into anything you want. When you tell him you’ve always wanted a conversation pit, you can make one appear.

When he tries to show you his favourite model of car, you end up in some badly imagined saleshouse, with deformed buggies and odd workers in plastic suits.

You do not mention the ‘soulmates’ idea again, but it settles between you like a mantra, a truth. You agree with it, he strives for it, and you talk of when you’ll see each other, one day.

It turns into something a little more affectionate, and it feels just as real as if he wasn’t hidden somewhere else in the world. When you brush his arm on false walks through fake fields and tours of your childhood town, comparing your favourite parks, it feels true.

Maybe even a little like love, which is such a ridiculous thing to admit that you keep it to yourself.

He pieces it together, that Clara is your best friend, and she’s Lando’s girlfriend. He curses himself that he can’t just find you through them the next morning, because he’ll forget it all.

You live whole lifetimes together, in your heads. Dreams have no concept of time. Sometimes, they’re years. Sometimes, they feel like less than an hour.

On some days, when you’ve fallen asleep with your head in a book, that’s where you end up.

On this particular occasion, the two main characters are getting married, but it seems that it’s morphed a little. You’re the one with the ring on your finger.                                                                                                   

“Who got you that?” he asks, gesturing to the rock, and you laugh.

“Hi, Osc. Didn’t think I’d see you tonight. You haven’t been around for a while, or at least it feels like that. Guess you’re somewhere far away.”

Oscar nods, but his eyes tear around the setting. It’s an extravagant barn, with an arch at the end of the aisle, and an officiant with some large headgear. The guests on the benches are clearly well dressed, but he can’t make out who they are. Except, he recognises a man standing up by the front of the room.

“That’s Lando.” he mutters, pointing towards him, and he’s right. And stood beside him is a girl he swears he knows, in a pale pink dress, matching her hair.

“And Clara.”

He runs his hands through his hair inquisitively. 

“Why can we see them? They’re not blurred. And that’s my sister. How did you-” he calls, rushing towards Edie who’s clapping in the front row.

“This isn’t my dream anymore. I wasn’t the one getting married, before you showed up. And I sure as hell didn’t make up your sister, so, it’s our dream, I guess.”

That hits him, so hard, he almost doubles over. He can see them now, his family materialising. The lull of the piano, the grin on Lando’s face. You. He sees you.

‘It’s our dream.’ And he realises it’s your wedding. Your fucking wedding, and it’s not even real, and when he wakes up, his chest will ache as always.

“This is, I mean, it’s a lot.”

“It’s not real, Oscar.”

There’s a level of defeat in your tone, and it’s bitter.

“But it feels even more real this time. I can see them. I can hear them.”

“I think we’re running out of time. They’re getting desperate.”

He looks to the guests, bewildered.

“The fates, I mean. The universe, I don’t know. We’re running out of time.”

“What are you saying?”

“They’re giving up on us. That’s why we can see everything clearer. My cat’s name was Luke.”

He shakes his head in denial. “Or maybe we’re getting closer, and it’s stronger, and we’re beating them.”

“Oscar.” your voice breaks a little, like you’ve accepted it. That you’ll never make it, and that you’ll forget him permanently, not just when the sun rises.

He doesn’t want to accept it, doesn’t want to admit you might be right. So he soaks up the sight of you desperately nonetheless, until it burns his eyes and he doesn’t care about the rules of this stupid ordeal. He will wake up, and remember how you look right now, how you are, and that will be enough.

“We can get married, in our heads, and that can be it. And then this will never have happened, and all of it will stop.”

“You mean like, seeing the number everywhere? You, haunting me? It all goes?” he asks carefully, and you purse your lips.

“I guess so. You don’t need to sound so glad.”

“I’m not glad. I’m annoyed. Seething, if anything. It’s bullshit.”

“Maybe.”

He blinks.

"Have you been seeing it less too? Like, is it just back to being more like a lucky number now?"

You give him a pained smile.

"I forgot to put my necklace on this morning, because I didn't see the charm on it. For the first time. Since I got it at thirteen."

He knows what you mean by seeing. it's more like a feeling. A consuming pull towards the number, towards him.

"We can't just, I don't know. Give up. I can't lose you." he exclaims, and it feels a little like his heart is surrendering.

"Did you ever really have me anyway? Maybe it's okay. Once we forget, it will be easier. It won't hurt for long."

What he can't bring himself to admit is that he wants it to hurt, wants to feel like he's a little insane, because he knows you're going insane with him too. The idea of you, real or not, is better than nothing at all.

"We can find our way back." you promise, but the hope in your voice almost sounds fake.

"Wait-"

⛐✦

A few weeks later, Oscar arrives rather dishevelled at the airport the next morning. There’s a dull throb in the back of his head, and a heavy sadness weighing on his chest, but he can’t explain it. He’d been feeling that for a while now; he’d woken up with a rather sudden sadness. His ticket to Monaco rests in his hands, as he goes to check in. The lists of flights flash on the board, as he scans for his own. But one catches his eye. It doesn’t jump out at him, as it usually does. He has to read it twice before he lingers on the #81 at the end. There’s something relieving in the way it doesn’t haunt him anymore, but it still feels deeply important. And there’s a small tug at his heart, pulling him to the desk. He goes to show his boarding pass, but instead, he speaks.

When he goes to drop his baggage, he is heading far away from Monaco, sandwiched on a random middle seat between two strangers, on a whim that he hopes might bring him to you. Obviously, he doesn’t know that in truth, but rather his soul is screaming that at him, and he is unaware. He instead just questions his own sanity, and that is the end of the matter.

There’s a desperation to get to work in the air the next morning. You’ve overslept, ever so slightly, and your presentation is uncomfortably soon. As you arrive at the station, you search the timeboard for an inkling of which train to get on, but your regular isn’t appearing.

Underneath it, though, is a train you don’t recognise. It’s a bit slower than you’d like, since it stops at the airport, but you’d still get there in time. It’s meant to come in a couple minutes, at 8:10, so you wait dutifully on a bench, taking a long sip from your flask.

It’s ironic, you think, when you see the number flashing at the end of the train on the screen. You almost forget how important #81 had once been to you, until your fingers flick to your neck. You’re not sure why you wore it today- you hadn’t worn it in about a month. It’s a blurry memory, how desperate you’d been. How you’d believed in that soulmate nonsense, how you’d flicked between Lando and Clara in photos and wondered if there was some invisible tie between them.

And then they’d argued, and you’d stopped marvelling at your 81 new messages, and it had all been forgotten. Even the boy in the orange backpack that had made The World Stop feels like a myth.

Oscar can barely feel his legs when he steps out from the plane, the pins and needles a searing flash of white. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s ended up back here, back home. He hasn’t even called his mum, and let her know he’s back in Australia. He’s meant to be resting, after a triple header. And yet, he still doesn’t reach for his phone. His headphones stay jammed in his ears, a drumbeat he used to listen to when trying to fall asleep, although he can’t really remember why. He waits, for his luggage to arrive, scouring the moving belt. But his half orange suitcase never comes, as the people beside him thin out.

“Shit.” he mutters curses under his breath, begrudgingly heading to lost property. There, half opened, is his suitcase, unfolded laundry spilling out. 

“Mate, this yours? Someone took it earlier and realised they got the wrong one.” 

Oscar nods quickly, gathering is things and shoving them back into the luggage, before hauling it ridiculously fast towards the train station. He’d wasted a solid twenty minutes there, and for some reason, that filled him with a ridiculous sense of dread. He wasn’t particularly sure why, considering he didn’t even know where he was going. Still, as he stumbles to the platform, yawning, something tugs at him to get whichever train came next. 

He almost laughs at the board, at the code. 081. It feels much more like a joke now, like an elaborate, overly convenient game of ‘where’s wally’, which he finds a way to win every time. So as it arrives, he gets on and collapses onto the first vacant seat. He praises the universe for delaying it, because he would've missed it, and the next one wasn't for a while.

As he closes his eyes, for a moment of respite, you pop into his head. Not a dream, just an image. A singular shot, mid laugh, feet tucked behind you on a couch he somehow recognises. And then there’s a pang in his stomach, and he realises he misses you. Even though he’s certain you’ve never really met. You look vaguely like a girl he’d seen once-

Each memory swirls in his head like soft bullets, each blow as beautiful as they are painful. He can’t remember where they’re coming from, what they mean, but he sees them all. Conversations down roads he doesn’t know. Descriptions of restaurants he’s tried on different race weekends, and your face lighting up at the sound of them. A room you had a spelling bee competition in once, but he didn’t see you because Hattie was in a more junior category. Then, you’re both older. He has a beard. You’re walking somewhere, with a determination to not look back, to keep pushing forward. Then you’re dancing, to that same song he was playing just a minute ago. It clicks into place, like some ridiculous, made up jigsaw, as he watches lifetimes pass at the same speed of the carriage, the light flickering across his confused face in golden shards.

He realises now why his flight has taken him here. Why he's on this train. Because somewhere further down, in a carriage, you’re waiting. 

You don’t take the 8:10, because it’s delayed. The red writing on the screen taunts you, testing the pulling at your chest versus the logic in your brain. You let the logic win out. With heavy steps, you sprint to the other platform, and get the train that’s actually there. It feels like a betrayal as you sit down, as the doors close, as it hums to life. But you don’t know who you’ve just betrayed. 

The guy beside you has one earphone in, the other dangling by his neck. The beats of the song are familiar, like you ought to know it. It’s not really your kind of music, too blaring and not melodic enough. But this particular track feels familiar, like you should recognise the drum pattern. With an awkward inhale, you tap him on the shoulder. 

“Sorry, I hate to bother you, but what’s that song called?”

The boy shrugs, flashing his phone screen at you. He’s 1:21 in, to a song with a vaguely familiar title. You take out your own headphones and play it carefully, desperately searching for an answer as to why anyone even puts up with this abomination of a music genre. And then, you hear someone humming along, and your own laugh. 

“How can you even hum house music? It barely has a tune. You could at least be a man and beatbox it for me.” 

It’s your voice, clear as day, ringing in your head.

“I’m hopeless at beatboxing. One of these days, I’ll figure out how to play some music here. I don’t understand how you’re so good at it.”

The person replying has a muted accent, and you can’t quite tell if he’s smiling or not, but it’s so warm that you can barely feel the chill of the morning anymore.

You hear more snippets of your conversation now, easily banter. And then they morph into more meaningful things. Things you promised you’d never tell anyone. And you hear him talking back, mumbles of things he’s normally too shy to say.

“It’s only me, Oscar.”

And with that, you remember. You remember all of it, you hear it all. Telling him you’re running out of time. All those dreams you couldn’t recall. The obsession, the insanity, the hesitancy to tell anyone. Telling him that you’ll forget it all. 

Does he think you have forgotten about him?

‘Oscar, do you think I have forgotten about you?’

The song has ended a long time ago. You almost expect a response in the silence, but he does not whisper back to you. The only sound is the squeal of the brakes, and the train lurching forward. You stand up rather suddenly, throwing yourself towards the door, pressing the button rapidly. 

He gets up, as the train shuttles along. He’s in the first carriage. He doesn’t know where you are, or when you’re getting off, so he moves with purpose. He checks every seat, hopeful with every turn of a head. You’re not in the second, nor the third. The fourth is practically empty, and the fifth is ridiculously packed, but you’re not there either. As he reaches the eighth door, his hope dwindles, until it’s gone. There’s no one there, except for a rather elderly woman, absent mindedly reading a book.

He clings to the pole by the door, willing himself to turn around, or to sit, but he can’t. He just keeps looking, as if you might materialise.

“It’s rude to stare, boy.” the lady croaks, glaring at him through her purple glasses. He gives her a sheepish smile and ducks his head, preparing himself to shuffle through the rows of bodies again.

“You can sit here, if you need to. You won’t disturb me.”

And so, he does. He sits on the row beside her, trying to ignore the slight welling of his eyes and the way the exhaustion and disappointment has seeped into his very bones. 

“She got away?” the woman asks, rather suddenly, and Oscar startles.

“Sorry?”

“The look in your eyes.”

He shakes his head, almost giving her an incredulous laugh.

“It wasn’t ever real anyway. I’m just tired.”

“Then why are you staring at the door like you’re expecting to see her get on? Or, you’ll get off, and she’ll be there?”

Oscar hadn’t even realised he was staring so desperately at the door. It’s rather embarrassing, really. It’s then that the train jolts, and with a whistle, the very same door opens.

He’s not entirely sure why, or what takes over him, but he gets up. With a muffled ‘goodbye’, he steps onto the platform, the suitcase narrowly missing the step. It’s almost eerie, how quiet it is. The wind, and the departure of the train, are the only things he can hear. And then, the hammering of his heart, when he looks up. 

Because standing there anxiously, necklace gleaming at him, is you.

And the world stops.

Oscar rested his lips against the crown of your head. “Hi,” he whispered. You tilted your head up to look at him, a smile stretching across your lips. He could watch the way your eyes lit up at the sight of him forever.

“Hi,” you whispered back, voice soft and private. You hadn’t spoken to any other people aside from Lando, because you didn’t know anyone. Oscar said you didn’t have to talk to people anyway, not if you didn’t want to. You had no doubt that you would eventually, but that was for a day you were feeling brave. Today wasn’t that day. So, you clung to Oscar like a lifeline. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he hopes you never stopped. The way you gravitated to him in a room full of strangers never failed to warm his heart. He loved it when you needed him.

“You doing okay?” He asked. He felt you nod.

“It’s just … a lot.” And it was. It was so many sounds, voices, lights, people. Oscar knew this, he'd felt it, too. When he was younger, fresh in the pool. Now, a veteran of F1 paddocks across the world.

"You want to go to my driver room?" A safe haven from the chaos of the world. Throughout the season, he'd been accumulating things from around the world tailored for your comfort, for your safety. A room dedicated to you. He just stayed there, but you'd taken up residence there, squeezing into every open corner, on his blankets, in his limited closet space, in the space between blinks. You were everywhere, bleeding into every aspect of his life. He'd never object to it. He welcomed it with open arms and a gentle smile.

He wanted you to crawl inside his skin and make a home there.

You shook your head gently, smiling up at him. He wrapped his arm properly around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. He was so warm, you couldn't help but burrow into it. You could feel his smile against the top of your head.

"What're you reading?" He asked, because he wanted to hear you talk. To hear you be passionate about something, to light up the way he did when he talked about racing.

The title slipped from your mouth like a prayer, and he devoured it. He knew the book, of course. The one you'd been reading to him every night for the last week in the spaces between racing and the passage of time. The time where he let his phone ring without moving, choosing to stay in your arms instead of facing the world that demanded so much of him. He'd always choose you, the way you rubbed his back and let him fall asleep on you.

"Care for some company?" The arm of the chair was digging into his back, and he yearned to be beside you. Even if you didn't speak. Even if you just existed. He needed that right now, more than he'd ever be able to say.

"If it's you? Always." You lifted your legs and let him slide in beside you. You adjusted the blanket over his legs, making sure no part of him was left exposed to the air. He felt the smile overtake his face as you flipped back to where you'd stopped reading the night before. As your voice filled his ears, gentle and low, Oscar let himself relax. The tension in his shoulders dropped, his eyes slipped closed, and he let himself forget who he had to be. All he needed to be was Oscar. The person who made your breakfast, who did the chores you hated, who offered to drive you everywhere.

All he needed to be was here right now, with you.

The clip is posted by the official McLaren account that afternoon and goes viral. It spreads across the planet faster than Oscar can finish a lap. By the end of FP1 that day, the world knows how gently he cares. How quiet the love you share is. And they’re hungry. Obsessed with the five second clip an admin captured. The comments range from supportive, others jealous, others unsure what you have to do with racing. Everyone ignores those. Because, even if you're not a driver, you have everything to do with racing.

With one driver's racing, to be specific. A driver who has something to prove to you. Not because you asked him to, but because you deserved to see him succeed. To see that your support got him to where he is, chasing world titles and hitting corners with pinpoint accuracy. He needed to show you that he was here, and this is what he'd do to make sure you could be happy working a job you loved, living in an apartment covered in plants and art purchased at flea markets. To show you that he could achieve the dreams you spent years dreaming up together in the early hours of the morning.

𓂃۶ৎ

You were the first person he wanted to see after a race. Good or bad. But he needed you today. The car felt great, the race had been great, but then it had all gone wrong. A promise of a podium squashed by his own hubris. He'd finished in the points, just barely. Scraping by on merit and adrenaline. He'd maximized his scenario, but he felt heavy. Oscar's feet dragged as he walked back to the McLaren garage, where he knew you'd be, tucked away, practicing how to comfort him. You didn't need to. You could say nothing and remove the weight from his shoulders.

He found you with Andrea, scribbling something on the back of an old data report. You looked up as he approached. Your Oscar senses were tingling. You could always tell when he was near. The universe shifted to make space for him beside you. You extended the artwork out to him as he came to your side.

"What's this?" He asked. You just shoved it harder against his chest. Oscar grabbed the paper from you, turning it over. On it, in your perfectly perfect way, was a sketch of him. The lines messy and hurried, but distinctly him. You always drew him with a blush, because whenever he looked at you, heat flooded his cheeks. He recognized you, as well, with less features than him. You weren't the focal point. He was. He always was.

he recognized a podium, with only one spot. He occupied it. Your writing, full of loops and charm, broadcasted what he'd won. PODIUM OF MY HEART. And under it, in smaller writing: You'll always have P1 here, with a heart drawn next to it. When Oscar looked up, his eyes swimming, you were looking at him. You looked shy, worried that you'd messed up, that you'd not said enough.

Oscar stepped forward and wrapped an arm around you, leaning the side of his head against yours. Your arms wrapped around him, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze.

You made the knife of losing hurt less. Somehow, you did it. You eased the pain of not being enough. He might not have been good enough for Melbourne, but he'd always be good enough for you. And right now, in the back corners of the garage, with the world moving around you, that was enough.

He'd feel the hurt later when you both had a cup of tea on your hotel room balcony. He'd cry, you'd hold him, offer sweet words of encouragement and let him feel what he needed to. Oscar hadn't let himself cry until he met you. Until you cried about things that you thought didn't matter, like sad moments in movies, or when you couldn't find your keys. You cried like it was important, because it was. There were studies to prove it. He'd started crying in places you could see. You trusted him enough to cry in front of him, he could repay the favour, even if he was an uglier crier than you.

But now, he didn't feel the need to cry. Not when the world wanted to see how he looked when he failed.

Only you deserved to see that.

𓂃۶ৎ

Your apartment was quietest on Mondays. The aftermath of jet lag and a race weighing down on Oscar. He liked to sleep in on a good day, but on Mondays, he was dead to the world. Blackout curtains became his best friend. You'd gotten up a few hours ago. You did chores on Monday. His laundry, because you knew he'd forget today. Maybe you'd go to the market today, see about stopping at the bakery you'd discovered the month before. Their rosemary loaves made your mouth water.

Gentle music filled the kitchen as you wiped down the cupboard fronts. The picture of concentration. Your house clothes splattered with bubbles and water stains. Clothes meant for your eyes and his. You called them your goblin clothes. Oversized, faded design. His merch, of course. A shirt from his F2 days he gave you when he was taken on by Alpine. A chance to remember the best of his youth as the days slipped away. Getting older, but never losing the best parts of being young.

Sure, he got back pain and couldn't stay up past 1 AM, but he was young in the ways that mattered. The ways you saw in the way he got upset at reality TV you both hate watched on Wednesdays, or the ways he took a football with you to every park because he wanted to get better, or the way he loved chocolate and stole bites of your desserts when he knew you could see.

You hummed along as you ticked items off your to-do list. The warm Monaco air flitted in through your open windows. The sounds of life carried in by a late morning breeze. Car horns, music, the sound of the waves. The things you loved about Monaco. The small things that made life living.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Your Oscar senses tingling with excitement. He was awake. You heard him rustling around in your bedroom as he stumbled through getting decent. He was still weighed down with sleep, you could tell. His footfalls heavily clashed with your bedroom floor. He was stumbling into things, cursing as he tripped over his own two feet. You found yourself smiling as you dumped out your water bucket, drying off your pruny hands. The door swung open and Oscar crossed the threshold into the world of the living. He made a beeline for you, like he always did.

"You were gone when I woke up," he mused as his arms wrapped around your middle. His head nestled on your shoulder as he breathed you in.

"I didn't think you'd notice."

"I always do," he replied like it was everything in the world. He started to sway, a gentle movement, like ocean waves in a secluded cove. You smiled at him, letting him move you with the soothing guitar. He was different in the mornings. He hadn't had time to ponder what the world thought of him yet. Drunk on the way you felt in his arms.

"Did you sleep okay?" You asked.

"Yeah," he replied through a yawn. "I feel out of it, though."

"That's okay, we can take it easy today." That's what Mondays were. Your take it easy days. days spent wrapped in blankets, watching TV programs at random, trying a new recipe, going to the ocean just to feel the sun. Small things that piled up and created the perfect day. A world that turned without permission, existing in seconds of precious time you fought for. The distance, the time away, came back to days like Monday.

"We can finish that show we started last week," Oscar proposed.

"The world's our oyster."

"I don't think I like oysters," Oscar mumbled. "is that weird?"

"It's okay if you don't," you promised, reaching a hand back to boop his nose with the love and care he deserved. "We can try that fish market Max recommended later, too, if you want."

"As long as I get to be with you, I don't mind." You chuckled, letting his hands cover yours in a warm grip.

"I'm not going anywhere."

𓂃۶ৎ

"I think that crab had it out for me," Oscar announced as you lugged your beach supplies into the back of his way-too-fancy car. 'he was looking at me funny!"

"I think all crabs look like that," you replied.

"This was different! This was pure evil."

"Ah, yes, the greatest villains of our world: hermit crabs."

"See, you're laughing now, but just wait until you're on the receiving end of its pincers."

"You went poking around its home, Osc! It's like you when someone gets in your personal space." Beside you, Oscar shook his head.

"No way."

"Yes way, you get all crabby and snap." He did, in fact, do that. Never in malice not truly. Just something close enough to scare away those who didn't know better. "Want me to kiss it better?" He perked up at that.

"It couldn't hurt," Oscar relented, handing his hand over. You couldn't even see where the crab nicked him anymore. It happened hours ago, yet he kept bringing it up because it made you laugh.

Your lips pressed against his pointer finger. His cheeks, full of sun, turned redder. Years of dating, of being beside each other, and he still blushed like a schoolboy. Young in the ways that mattered.

"Better?"

"It's a start," he agreed. You fought back a snort as you rounded to the driver seat. Oscar climbed into the passenger seat. You'd promised that if you both ever went somewhere, he'd drive one way, you the other. Just to keep things light, entertaining, to make driving something he enjoyed doing, not something he was forced to do.

Oscar fiddled with the AUX as you backed out of the emptying parking lot. To the shared mix Spotify made for the both of you as soon as the feature was released. Him with house, you with songs to fill in the gaps of silence. Songs about devastating romance, feelings left unsaid, and sunlight hidden in guitar strings.

He always started trips out with a song of his when he had the AUX, then slowly, like you did with his life, your taste took over. An infection he welcomed with open arms.

Strawberry wine, and all the times we used to have / Those things I miss, and know I'm never coming back for you, darlin', for you.

The sunset rippled across the skyline. In the distant distance, Monaco got bigger, the lights staining the clear sky. The windows partly open, the countryside rolling by in a whisper of days spent gathering berries and picnics under the summer sun. Nights spent trying to navigate by the stars, laying with grass tickling your cheeks as you swapped stories and secrets no one else knew.

You were in everything he did and was. Seeping into the cracks, staining his insides with every colour, and ones that hadn't been invented. Every break, every day off, every second, he went to you. Some said he didn't have many friends. He did. You both did. But life felt better with you in it.

You sung along with a song about love and everything else that hurt in the best ways.

No thing defines a man like love that makes him soft and sentimental / like a stranger in the park.

Oscar sipped from your water bottle, covered in stickers with his face on them, cats and other things that made you the person he fell in love with. The water, still cold, rattled with the promises of another day together.

If I was empty space, and you were a formless shape / we'd fit.

You just worked. Both of you. Together. In ways few others things could. The way tea tasted better with a little bit of sugar, or the way sun felt better after a storm, or the way your shoes looked lined up beside his. Lining up in ways the universe couldn't describe. And you were here, beside him, driving with one hand on the wheel, one hand dancing through the evening air.

Empty space and a formless shape. Stranger words had been spoken. Or, in this case, sung. But those words, wrapped in whistles and simple drumbeat, felt right.

Oscar hit repeat when the song ended. he pretended to ignore the way your eyes danced over to him. You sang along again.

He joined in this time.

Oscar didn't know why they were here. The answers he'd gotten weren't satisfactory enough, only the romanticized ideas of going somewhere with snow for the holidays to shake off the season and start fresh. Across the world from his parent's house, Oscar trudged across a heavily salted tarmac. This didn't seem worth it. He'd been sold at first, with the photos online of a quaint Canadian town surrounded by mountains, modeled after the fairy tales of Central Europe. Lance even knew the area, assuring Oscar of its ... homeliness. Yeah, that must have been code for fucking freezing.

The airport's warm air was a rush of feeling in his fingers and toes. He flexed inside his sneakers. Not nearly enough for all this.

"We're meeting someone?" Oscar asked the party. Multiple heads nodded and answered with confirmations. Oscar didn't know anyone this far ... removed. And until last week, he was certain his family didn't either. No relatives were spending time up here, and his friends were Australia-bound, except Lando, he supposed. A very concentrated group of people in one place with his ideal temperature.

In a corner of the airport, someone was playing the piano. He recognized the tune, the bass thundering out something that reminded him of a time before he was alive. Some kids, decked in heavy winter coats and snow pants, danced, or tried to. It looked like something mutated and not quite dancing at all, but they were doing their best.

The person at the piano was a mystery, donning a toque with a pompom on the end, a jacket cozy around their shoulders as their fingers moved with the skill of someone who had been doing whatever this was for centuries.

"They should be here soon," his mum announced, staring at her phone. A contact Oscar couldn't see. "Go look around," she urged the siblings.

"Look around at what?" Oscar asked. There wasn't exactly much to look at. The airport had two terminals, and he could clearly see the other end.

"At something," was the response as his mum went to stand by the baggage carousel. Oscar hadn't packed much, only needing a carry-on. He shrugged and moved closer to the piano and the dancing kids. Apparently, based on the sign, the piano was a way for people to share Christmas music without it being overbearing. There was an info graphic about the Christmas to non-Christmas music play ratio from the year before. An even split.

The kids looked up at him as he approached.

"You look cold," a little boy spoke up. Oscar looked down at his soaked shoes and jeans, feeling warmth rush into his cheeks.

"I am cold," he admitted.

"Luke, you can't just say that!" A little girl, maybe a year or two older than the boy, chastised. "That's mean!"

"It's not mean if it's the truth," Luke argued back.

"It's still mean," the girl narrowed her eyes. "Apologize!"

"No, it's alright," Oscar assured them. "I value honesty, even when I'm jet lagged." The music came to a stop as hands came off the keys. The musician turned to face Oscar, and he felt the air leave his lungs. A familiar face. Older, sure, but the same.

He said your name, let it hover in the space between you, as you registered his face. One you'd seen plastered across social media. Always far away, never near, always higher, more successful than you both ever thought you'd be.

Luke was right, he did look cold.

Your mouth dropped open. "Osc?" You asked, testing the word out on your tongue. He found himself nodding.

"Hi," he breathed, because he didn't know what else to say when you were looking at him like that, with wide eyes and an open mouth, unsure if you were seeing things correctly. If he was standing in front of you like he'd never left.

"Who's that?" Luke asked as he clung to your leg.

"That's my friend, Oscar," you explained to the small boy. Luke looked just like you. The girl did, too, now that he thought about it. Oscar felt the heat drain from his face. "The one from the photos at home." You still had photos of him.

"Oh, the race driver?"

"Yeah, pretty cool, right?"

"Why's he here?" Luke asked. Oscar opened his mouth to open when his mum's voice blasted across the terminal as she rushed to hug you. You barely had a second to recover before the entire clan was upon you, happy laughs and exclamations of joy filled your ears as you were passed around like a rag doll between each person who missed you more than words would express.

"I assume you're the guests my mum told me about," you spoke as Nicole let go of you.

"She invited us! Said it's been a while since we were all together!" Oscar shuffled on his feet. A while felt like a strange way to describe a decade apart. A decade since he'd set out for his future, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces and wonder if you'd been friends after all.

"I guess I'm the tour guide then," you offered the family a gentle smile. "Luke, can you take auntie Nicole's bag and show us your muscles?" You asked the small boy, who nodded. The small kid started pushing his mum's wheely bag out towards the doors. You followed after, the girl at your side. She clung to you like a leech, not dis-similarly to how Oscar's sisters attached to him back when they thought he was the coolest person on the planet. Back when being Oscar had been enough for everyone.

Oscar fell into step beside you, like he always seemed to. Some things didn't change. Not the ones written into his bones like second nature, the ones he spent more of his life following than defying.

You said nothing, just walked and laughed at stories of time spent away. Oscar didn't say anything. He couldn't. Not when he could barely remember the last thing he ever said to you. It came to him in pieces, shards of a day that marked the end of his childhood.

You all went back out into the cold. Oscar braced himself for it. You walked into it like you'd always been meant to be there. Made for the extremes. You turned back to look at him as he felt the world tilt. Black ice. You lunged forward and grabbed his arm before he could lose his balance and eat shit outside an airport in a place he couldn't find on a map if you paid him. You chuckled as he wobbled unsteadily, like a newborn fawn testing its legs.

"You okay?" You asked. Your breath came out in large puffs on steam. Oscar nodded.

"I almost wasn't," he admitted. Your grip on his arm tightened.

"Gravity still isn't your strong suit, huh?" You teased gently. Even when he started walking, you didn't let go. Your arm looped through his, securing him to your side. Oscar didn't protest. How could he?

"I guess not," Oscar admitted. "Some things don't change, do they?"

"I'm glad they don't," you replied. Oscar looked over at you. You were smiling.

Did you think of those days as fondly as he did? Like you'd lost something when he stepped through that departures terminal? Like the best part of you had been ripped from your chest, left to beat on its own while the rest of him kept pushing forward like he was always meant to? Did you miss him?

Your mother, a woman with a smile like the sun and hands that spoke of years of work creating a future of promise, greeted them at two cars.

"We can fit most of you with me!" She explained. The small boy and girl got into assigned car seats, and his family piled in after them. By the time Hattie got inside, all seats were filled. Oscar bit the inside of his cheek. This felt deliberate.

"Guess you're coming with me," you whispered. "You okay being a passenger princess?" You asked as you dug your keys out of your pocket.

"I'll stomach it," he shot back.

"I don't want any backseat diving from you or you can walk." He shuddered at the thought.

"I wouldn't dare."

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊

Something was keeping Oscar awake. Something with a conscience. When his family went up to the rooms reserved for them, he stayed downstairs. The Muppets Christmas album played in a gentle lull from a record player he'd bought you for your thirteenth birthday. He held a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, watching you out the window shoveling snow with Luke and the little girl, who he found out was Cassie. Your niece and nephew. Turns out your sister managed to settle down shortly after you moved here nine years ago.

"Australia stopped being home the second you left," you'd told him on your drive back. That had stuck with him, like how a scab always got worse before it got better.

When had home become a person for you?

"It's good to see you, Oscar," your mother spoke up as she migrated into the living room.

"It's good to see you, too," Oscar replied. He meant it. In the best way he could mean anything.

"Nicole wasn't sure if you'd come. We know you have a busy life back in Monaco."

"I don't think I'd miss this for the world," Oscar whispered. He cleared his throat, losing himself in the way the marshmallows you'd plopped into his cocoa were drowning.

"They missed you," she spoke. Oscar looked up. "Don't look surprised, don't tell me you're not that slow." Oscar chuckled.

"I didn't want to get my hopes up. I mean, I wasn't exactly ... good at being their friend after I left." Missed calls, time zones keeping you apart. Promises to try harder next week.

He'd been so good at keeping promises. Then, suddenly, keeping them got harder and harder. Until he stopped trying all together. Liking and commenting on each other's social media posts became enough, until he stopped running his account. Then you vanished from his life all together. Just a whisper of the person he'd been when everything else mattered just a little bit more.

"It's hard to hold on when everyone keeps pushing you forward." Oscar nodded.

"Don't I know it," he lamented. You were still shoveling, focusing on the snow in front of you. The kids had stopped helping, leaving you to fend for yourself as they tried to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

"That's why second chances exist," your mother hummed. "There's extra boots and gloves in the closet. if you want to try being a better friend again."

You glanced up as the front door opened. Oscar stumbled out, a toque on with his name embroidered on, gloves on, and boots donned. He moved down the stairs towards you, grabbing the extra shovel as he went.

"Fancy some company?" He asked.

"My workers left me," you replied. "Snow tasting takes priority." Oscar chuckled and moved beside you. He followed your movements. You were better than him at this, but he prided himself on being a fast learner. By the fifth run across the driveway, he was matching your pace. You worked in silence, focusing on getting the job done so you could retreat back inside where hot cocoa in a pot called to you.

"You don't have to help, you know," you spoke up, slightly panting. Oscar looked at you with furrowed brows.

"I know."

"Good, cool." A silence fell between you. He went back to shoveling. You didn't. You stared at him like you didn't recognize the person he'd become.

"I, uh," Oscar hesitated, turning back to you. "I wanted to try and ... be better. Try like I should have back then. I figured shoveling snow would show that I'm serious." Slowly, but surely, you started to smile. You let your shovel fall down as you approached him. Your arms wrapped around him in a gentle embrace. Oscar felt himself smile as he returned the hug. For a moment, wrapped in your arms, he forgot how cold he was supposed to be.

"It's a good start," you whispered. His grip tightened on your shoulders, holding you to him with a promise of trying to do better. Trying to be who he should have been.

Oscar just hoped it would be enough.

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊

"Come on, Osc, you're not gonna die!" You called from the middle of the lake. It had frozen over during the night. Thick enough to skate on. Much to your joy, and his terror. Balance and Oscar didn't go together the way they should. In the car, he could account for everything. Out here, him against the forces of gravity, was a losing battle.

"I beg to differ!" He called back, sat on a dock that overlooked the pond. The lake was full of people. No one had taken their phone out to film that idiot in papaya, who couldn't move on the ice, much less skate. You moved like you were made for it. like the ice spoke to you in a language he couldn't dream of understanding.

Some said, loudly on the internet, that Oscar put all his skill points into racing. They were half right. He put his effort into racing, because it was the path forward for him. You forced him to be good at other things like karaoke so you wouldn't sing alone at birthday parties, or swimming so he'd never miss a beach day, or bracelet making so you could make each other matching bands on the day your legendary friendship was born. Things that wouldn't truly matter ten years down the way, but he was able to tread water because of you, able to hold a tune with Lando at staff parties and keep up with him. He owed half of who he was to you and what you'd taught him, just to make him feel like he was as important to you as you were to him.

You moved closer to him.

"You look so sad," you cooed at him.

"What did Cassie say the other day about not being mean?" Oscar asked as he crossed his arms.

"Luckily, Cassie's not paying attention, so I can be as mean as I want." You slumped into the snow beside him. "People don't care if you fall, you know." You bumped your shoulder with his like you used to. He glanced over at you.

"That obvious?"

"Oh, come on, I'm not that dumb. You're famous now. If you fall, people notice." Specifically after this season, they cared a hell of a lot more than they should. "But the more time you spend worrying about what random shitheads online say when you mess up, the less time you spend learning and getting better." He hummed. You always had been profound. Understood the world a lot faster than he did.

"So, don't leave me hanging and come skate. And, if people film, whatever. Oscar Piastri might care, but just Oscar doesn't have to." You glanced at your skates, feet barely touching. "And, if it's any consolation, I'd rather hang out with just Oscar anyway." Oscar felt colour enter his cheeks as his stomach tumbled over itself.

Had you always been so perfect? or was that a recent development?

"Fine, only because it's you." He meant it, too. He really did. How could he not, when you smiled at him like that? He grabbed your extended hand, letting you guide him out onto the ice.

"Hold on to me," you teased as his grip on your hand tightened.

"I don't think I could let go if I tried," he replied. You offered a smile back.

"Then, try to keep up!" He went to protest, but you were pulling him along. You were doing all the work, he was letting himself be dragged, laughing louder than he had in years, trying to move the way you explained. You made everything look easy. Something he could never do, but always aspired to.

He wondered if you ever got into teaching, like you always wanted to.

He wasn't sure how long you both spent on the ice, but you only moved to leave when his ankles hurt too much to support his weight and your joined families were shouting at you both that they were heading home. Like the first day, you and Oscar had come together, while everyone else piled into your mum's minivan. His music bled into your driving playlist like it had always belonged there, and you stopped wondering where you ended and Oscar began.

"Do you ever think that we needed time apart?" You asked as you helped him untie his skates.

"What?" Oscar asked.

"That ... maybe fate needed us to take a break, or whatever."

"Fate didn't have anything to do with it," Oscar replied firmly. "I ... forgot you."

"You didn't forget me," you tried to comfort. Oscar moved away from you.

"I did. I stopped being your best friend." He looked up at you, and you gasped. He was crying. When did that happen? "Aren't you mad?"

"Maybe I was, at first." You turned your attention to the darkening sky. You knew Oscar didn't like to be noticed in the deepest ways when he cried. He needed space to process, not eyes. "But what fifteen year old wouldn't be? But, I think some part of me always knew that you'd outgrow me someday."

"I wish I never had to." You reached out, your hand falling over his in a gloved grip.

"You're here now, though, right?" He nodded. "Then that's enough for me. Just ... Don't leave again, okay?" You sounded so small, healed from the hurt he'd caused you. You'd grown from it, while he'd let it fester and become infected.

Somehow, you were better off without him than he could ever be without you. But even then, why was being without him the option you'd both suffered from?

He had free will, didn't he?

Oscar forced his arm to move around your shoulders. He pulled you into his side. Your head leaned against him without words, a silent acceptance of his presence. He felt solid, permanent.

"I've changed a lot since then, for the better, I'd like to think. The me I am now wouldn't dream of leaving you again."

And he meant it.

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊

Around a real Christmas tree, the world felt as small as he could only dream. Eggnog in a mug, sat beside you on the couch, as your family and his put ornaments on the tree. One at a time, plotting each spot like a battle map. Everything had a place. His place was here. Not in Monaco. He'd replied to photos Lando sent him from England with his own. Some of the town, most of your home, and all of them had you in them. Whether you took the photo, were in the background, or the focal point.

I'm forced to play Twister again and you've got yourself a partner? The text burned in his jean's pocket. He hadn't responded. Left it on read.

was that what the world would see? You both, together, as one entity? Would they see the broken bond slowly being repaired, or would they destroy this like they would everything else?

Would you want to be with someone like him? Someone with millions of eyes on him, hungering for a scent of scandal. If they made him out to be a villain, if they destroyed the grip he had on the public, would you stay with him?

Could you?

He knew he'd stick by you. After nearly a week with you, he couldn't imagine himself anywhere else. But, were you stronger than him?

Selfishly, he hoped not.

"Your turn!" You elbowed him. "Want me to help you pick an ornament?" Oscar found himself nodding as you escorted him to the countless cardboard boxes filled with collectables, some handmade, some purchased, all perfectly curated.

He rifled through some of the boxes with your name on them. He recognized some of the ornaments, from when you were kids and used to help decorate the fake trees bought from Wally World to compensate for the lack of snow in Melbourne. Some you made in school in class, kept in pristine condition. Some were gifts from family, from shows you grew out of or secretly still watched.

One caught his eye. He dug down for it. A small ornament, made of metal. Inside was a photo, one that brought a smile to his face.

"What?" You asked, barging to his side. "What did you find?" he turned the locket to show you. A photo of you two as children stared back at you. You couldn't have been older than eight. In the throes of friendship that felt like it would last forever. Smiles with missing teeth, squinted eyes, and sunburned cheeks. On the other side was his messy writing that hadn't changed that much, now that he thought about it.

Put this up when we share a house, okay?

You both burst into laughter as you cradled the piece of metal in your hands like it was the most fragile thing in history. Were those ... tears in your eyes? Had he written that?

"I remember that one," your mother croaked from her arm chair. "Back when you were convinced you'd get married some day." Oscar's hands shook, his pulse jumped.

Had his eight year old self known something his twenty-four year old self hadn't grasped yet?

How had his child self known what was most important before him as an adult?

"Funny how things always have a way of reminding us of the best parts of us," your mother spoke out. You looked up at her, your eyes sparkling.

God, you really were beautiful.

If things had been different, if he'd cherished you the way he should've, would you be married like he had hoped? Why did it sound like everything he could ever want?

"You want to put it up?" You asked him. "We're not sharing a house yet, but this is close enough." Oscar knew what his answer was. Something he'd never hesitate about ever again.

"Yeah, let's put it up." You both moved to the tree. "Where should we put it?" He asked you. You pointed to a gap in the middle of the tree, where everyone could see, where the light would hit it just right.

"What about there?"

"I like your style," he agreed, slipping it over a branch. Settled amongst the lights and needles, it looked a vision. Of something he didn't realize he'd been craving. What would a life with you look like? Would you have cats, like you wanted? Would you go to races?

Why did a future with you sound better than any world title?

"Perfect," you crossed your arms in satisfaction. Oscar agreed. You both turned and moved back to your spots on the couch. As soon as you sat down, you leaned your head on his shoulder, his arm reaching around you like it was always meant to be there.

he didn't say anything, he couldn't.

His mum looked over, his eyes glinting with something that had always been there, but he'd been too young to notice.

You're right where you need to be. She didn't need to speak, he just knew.

He's right where he needed to be.

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊

The party was going strong when Oscar found you. Friends you'd made since your move came to celebrate. Some recognized him, but none asked for a picture. They had common decency, which he could appreciate. He did make sure to get their emails so the team could send them merch for free, as a token of goodwill. He was on vacation, not heartless.

You stood by the speakers, the event DJ. Some people were dancing in the living room, letting alcohol and fruit juice (in the case of the kids) guide their clumsy movements to the same fifty songs sung in different ways. You bobbed your head along, smiling. Your mum and the man she'd started seeing six months prior were swaying, while Luke and his crush Maisie were playing freeze dance with kids from a few doors down.

You sipped your fruit juice, forgoing alcohol entirely, like you'd always said you would. Oscar's boozey eggnog felt heavy, so he set it down and stole your cup. You didn't protest.

"Not in the mood for dancing?" You asked. Oscar shrugged as he placed the cup back beside his.

"Haven't found someone brave enough to embarrass themselves," he quipped.

"I mean, I'm slightly offended that I wasn't consulted. You being embarrassing is our bread and butter." Oscar snorted, bumping his hip into yours.

"Rude."

"You said you value honesty," you reminded him.

"That's true, I did." Oscar sighed. "Will you embarrass yourself with me, then?" Your smile grew as you nodded.

"Duh," you grabbed his arm and lead him to the makeshift dance floor as the song changed to Last Christmas began its iconic intro. Your face broke into a gleeful smile.

"Last Christmas, I gave you my heart!" The room erupted into movie musical levels of chorus. You pointed at Oscar as you sang in the way you always did. On pitch but never bragging. He rolled his eyes and joined in. He couldn't fight it, not anymore, not here. With alcohol in his system and you wearing an Oscar themed ugly sweater you'd made earlier that day and were adamant about wearing. He'd made a matching Lando one. He showed his teammate, who wanted his own. Said it would catch on. Oscar disagreed, of course. But he couldn't argue. Not when you were overjoyed that he'd indulged you.

You said you'd rather his number being on that trophy, and he'd felt like he was flying.

He felt like a fool. But, Oscar found that he didn't mind it all that much. Not when his singing made you laugh. Not when you sang someone special, it felt like you were whispering to him and him alone.

Being in love with you was so easy.

Hold on.

Oscar froze for a second as you twirled, giggling as Hattie came and stole you for a short dance.

He was in love with you?

Hadn't he always been?

You spun back to him. Oscar's arms moved automatically, caging you in, changing to a gentle sway as George Michael faded into Sabrina Carpenter. A promiscuous song disguised as something wholesome. You kept singing. You forced him to move to the beat while his mind raced. He was staring at you, focused on the way your eyes glimmered, realizing he'd been in love with you since he was four years old and he learned what love was.

You were it, weren't you? It felt so obvious. Like everything in the world clicked into place. Like the world hadn't made sense until you.

You stepped away from him, leading him back to your cups. The party was dying, people leaving, heading home. Santa was going to come tonight, after all. The kids needed to be tucked in soon. How was it already Christmas Eve?

Time flies when you're having fun. Oscar didn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun. He didn't want it to end. How could he, when he had you?

"See? Not embarrassing," you bumped your shoulders. How were you so calm about this? He turned to look at you. He saw a soft look in your eyes. You didn't have to say anything. He knew.

You'd been in love with him as long as he had with you.

"Oscar?"

"Yeah?" You pointed up. He followed your finger. Mistletoe. Freshly placed, likely by Edie. He chuckled, feeling that damned heat fill his cheeks. "Damn."

"You don't have to," you told him. Oscar stepped closer to you.

"I want to," he assured you. "The me I am now doesn't want to let you go."

"The me I've always been says to do it, coward." You wrapped your arms around him as he kissed you like he'd always been wanting to since he was four. With care and gentleness and a promise that this wasn't something he'd move on from. That he was here now, and would always be.

Somewhere, somehow, a child Oscar was dreaming of a future just like this and smiling.

The person he was now could only hope that in every reality, he'd keep waiting for this moment, that he'd do it all again a thousand times over.

"As if that's a punishment." He meant it, back then and now, walking into the first race of the 2025 season. It startled him, how much those words still rang true two years later. You'd established yourself as his person, the one who guided him out of the darkest moments of his two seasons. The one who pushed him ahead. The one who would help him win. If it could be anyone, he knew he wanted it to be you.

The heat was brutal as he tested. Australia was coming up. First race, his home race. The first stint of the year, where he'd prove himself, or die trying. He knew that you knew how important this race was for him, for both of you. On your home turf again, trying to carve your names into the stars.

"How we looking?" He spoke into his radio. He heard movement in his ear, you struggling to get back to your radio.

"Yeah, fine, holding up well," you sputtered. He could hear the food in your mouth. "Jesus, you're like a waitress with how terrible your timing is. I mean, c'mon, I just started eating," you complained. Oscar found himself chuckling.

"I live to inconvenience you," he replied. You snorted into your sandwich, the one you'd spent ten minutes telling him about on the drive from the hotel to the track.

"And every day, I get closer to poisoning your food."

"I figured I'd graduated from poison by now."

"Dropping a piano on you is too complicated. Too many unknown variables," you carried on as he shot around a corner. "Like, what if I hit Lando?"

"Oh, that would be such a travesty, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, the worst! Young women all over the world would be out for my blood." Oscar snorted as he pushed into the straight. He knew long talks over the radio weren't recommended, as in no one else did them, except Charles o a bad day, which seemed to be happening more often than not these days, but he could never resist some banter.

"You're losing time going into this corner," you relayed to him. "You go too wide, tighten it up." He nodded, even though you couldn't see it. he tightened, as close to the inside as he was allowed. You went silent as you worked away with calculations and his past sector data.

"Purple," you reported. Oscar smiled and pressed out of the corner like a man possessed. "You're beating Lando's times," you spoke.

"Really? By how much?"

"Two tenths." Enough to win a race, to win everything. The results he'd trained for, worked his ass off for. The ones he promised you he'd deliver. "Hit another few laps, then pull in so we can adjust some things." Oscar gave the affirmative as he let the sounds of the world fade into something small and containable. Nothing outside the cockpit mattered right now, not when he was driving, not when he felt like he could blast off into space. The team built a rocket ship this year. You'd helped, offering advice and ways to tailor the car to suit your driver, to make him fly. And flying he was.

"Can I have AUX on the way back?" Oscar asked.

"Why?" You replied. You'd started listening to more love songs, songs that meant something. He'd pretended not to notice, ignoring the sirens going off in his mind. You'd never preferred songs about caring for someone more than words can express, but you'd changed. Subtle enough on its own, something he wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know you like the back of his hand.

"Because you hog it," he bit back. That was a safe answer. He couldn't resort to the truth, not now.

"Lies and slander," you shot back. "You drive, I pick songs, that's how it works."

"Then you can drive."

"You hate my music that much?" It was meant to be a joke, but it hit him like a train anyway. "Fine, you can have AUX, but I'm driving, and we're getting smoothies."

"Acceptable trade," Oscar relented.

"And if you play Calvin Harris I'm jumping into oncoming traffic," you added, to show that you weren't hurting, not really. But he felt like he'd hurt you anyway.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing, I just want some variety from you, Mr. I listen to one genre only." Oscar snorted as he finished his final testing lap and diverted into the pit lane, where you'd be waiting with a water bottle and a smile for him, and he'd have to pretend that things between you weren't changing. That the world wasn't fragmenting into something unrecognizable. Something he refused to name.

When he got back to the hotel, you were sitting outside his room, legs crossed, a book in your hand. Your McLaren pajamas stuck out in the hall of white. You looked up as he approached. He'd lost it, lost grip of everything. The lead, points, the glory. He'd spun out, barely saving his race, barely saving himself. He'd been holding back tears since the race ended. Seeing his teammate on the podium while he barely clawed in a single point was hard. Seeing the pity-filled smiles from the rest of the world when he stepped out of the garage was so much worse. They didn't believe he could do it. he wasn't Lando, he was still a rookie, in his third season. he hadn't achieved glory yet, not the way the others had. So, it didn't matter to the world that he'd lost everything, because he never had it to begin with.

"I brought you something," you spoke as you got to your feet. Oscar looked at the Tim Tams you'd brought with you with wide eyes.

"When did you get time to get those?"

"Just now. The guy behind the counter didn't blink at my pajamas," you explained as Oscar unlocked his hotel room door, letting you in. You ignored the mess, the one you'd come to expect from him, and plopped into the bed that he'd obviously slept in. Covers thrown every which way, his pajamas folded at the foot of his bed. The one organized thing in this whole room. he followed after you, collapsing on his side, sweat-soaked and all. You didn't judge, just picked your book up and kept reading.

"You should shower, you smell awful."

"No sense of empathy?" You looked over at him. Your eyes were different. A kind of different Oscar recognized. The one he'd seen in his sisters, when they spoke of people in their classes they thought were cute.

An admiring look. Something inside him squirmed.

"Fine, since you're ashamed of the way I stink."

"Very ashamed," you called back as you turned back to your book, leaving him to shower. He didn't rush, because he knew you didn't care. You weren't here for him, specifically, just here for the proximity to someone familiar, someone you couldn't miss. He let the water work its magic, lazily washing his hair.

Silence from inside the room. He didn't mind. Oscar figured he wouldn't be good company anyway. You'd watch some shitty TV, then leave him to sleep this feeling off. Meet up tomorrow, and move towards something better. Get better, keep moving forward. But for today, you'd let him wallow in what could've been.

He changed into his pajamas, stared at his reflection.

What did you see when you looked at him?

Somehow, he knew the answer. One he'd think about tomorrow.

"Clean?" You asked as he surfaced from the bathroom. The fatigue hit him then, watching you push his clothes into his suitcase. The room, now mostly clean, beckoned him in. The TV was already on, some home renovation show filling the void of silence. You looked up at Oscar as he moved into bed, curling into himself. You didn't rush, didn't force yourself into his space. Just let him watch the TV while you refolded his shirts and underwear. He trusted you more than he trusted himself. It's like you were fluent in all the ways he moved through life. You'd cracked his code when you were both too young to know that sometimes, friendships ended. Yours hadn't, so why would anyone else's?

He laid there for around twenty minutes when you moved. Everything cleaned, almost like he'd never existed in these four walls at all. You climbed into the empty space in the bed beside him, putting a bookmark he'd bought you between pages. You snuggled down into bed, leaving space between you. Oscar grieved alone, and this wasn't different.

"I'd kill them if they did that to my house," you mumbled, like the world wasn't ending. Oscar glanced at you. "They got rid of all the cool parts."

"You think you'd do it better?" He croaked, his voice hoarse from crying. You pretended not to notice.

"I know I could," you replied. "But maybe it's harder than it looks, so I shouldn't judge too hard." Your eyes flicked to him as you spoke. Oscar always felt seen when you looked at him like that. Like you'd peeled back every layer of the person he pretended to be, right into the core of him that still didn't like sharing his snacks and promised that you'd be best friends until the sun blew up.

"You shouldn't judge yourself, either." Oscar tried to nod, but he couldn't. He looked away from you. He felt warm. He looked to the TV to see what you found so distasteful. He clocked it right away. The dull colour they'd painted the walls. You liked colour. The way it caught the light, the way it made something look lived in.

Much like you did with him. Made him look lived in.

"You can be frustrated, or angry, but don't hold it against yourself. Because I won't let you talk about my Oscar like that." My Oscar. That rang in his heart like a glass shattering. "So, come back better tomorrow, and move on." You both fell silent.

His eyes moved to look at your hand, empty and placed in the space between. Not an invitation, but a possibility. In another life, he was sure he'd have grabbed it. But the next race, China, loomed in the distance like a shadow. he didn't take your hand, and you didn't move away. It's okay that you're not reaching, the silence sang, I'm just here in case you decide to.

Oscar wasn't sure when he fell asleep. Somewhere between you rambling about the importance of fire places and the clock hitting 1 AM. You'd been there when he closed his eyes, like you always were. He'd always fallen asleep first, even when you were both young and jacked up on candy and energy drinks. You'd make sure he was tucked in, secure from the monsters that would try and eat him while he slept.

But when he woke up, you were gone. Not just in the bathroom, to return, but vanished, like you'd never been there at all. The TV was off, the blankets tucked around Oscar like a warm hug. he AC unit hummed, set to the perfect sleeping temperature, and his water bottle full beside him, his phone plugged in. Traces of you scattered everywhere, but you'd left.

Oscar looked at his phone, a text from you, from an hour ago, sat unopened on his lock screen.

Your snoring got too loud.

It felt amazing to be winning, to be defying the expectations of the world. When he crossed the finish line in Miami, he felt like a man on fire. The world cheered from him like it was always meant to. This was what he'd been chasing, this rush of adrenaline, this push towards something greater. Australia hadn't held him down like he'd thought, it strengthened him. he'd learned, and he'd improved. Like you wanted. He didn't hold onto the guilt, to the tears. He let them go, between weekends of success, and through tight corners. He felt unstoppable.

Somewhere along the way, more cracks started to form. Ones that were almost too obvious to ignore now, but he kept glancing past them, looking ahead. Not rejecting, just stalling. You'd never bring something like this up with him on your own. He had to take that first step. He was just ... waiting. For success to soak into his bones and make him grow into the potential you always saw in him. He had more important things to worry about than you acting slightly different. You both knew it. So it just hung there. Always present, never addressed.

He approached the garage after the podium celebration, where you stood, smiling. He bee-lined for you, a hug manifesting in his bones. You laughed as he spun you, as the garage cheered, as eyes drank in the way he cherished you. How you celebrated every win like it was yours, too. How he always told you they were.

"Soon, you're gonna be sick of champagne," you whispered as he set you down. There was that look, the one he'd been pretending didn't alter the gravity in the room.

"I doubt it," he replied. You chuckled.

"You got me all sticky," you complained. "A piano is in the cards for sure."

"Not worried about hitting Lando?" He asked.

"Worth the risk."

Oscar's team called for him, he spun. They were going for drinks, something he'd done more times this season than his last two combined. he didn't do this, go out. But, when he won, he felt like he needed to experience the world made space for him because he'd done something right. He turned back to you.

"Want to come?" There was a time when he didn't have to ask. But, if he liked staying in, you liked it more. being his best friend stopped being a good enough reason to risk a hangover.

"What the hell? Sure," you agreed. Oscar beamed and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you with him towards the guys, Lando included. You split off into a car with the other girls on the team, preparing to get ready together. You turned to look at him before they'd pushed you into the driver's seat. You looked beautiful.

Oscar waved, like he always would, and turned without looking back. he couldn't look back, because if he did, he'd cancel his plans.

And he wanted to be a winner to more than just you tonight.

He wanted to be a winner to the world.

Time blurred together as Oscar and Lando got ready. No texts from you about how you hated getting ready to go out, how it felt like you were becoming someone else. He didn't check often, engrossed with Lando's plans for the evening. A little too much for him, but he'd try what he could handle.

"Mate, you gonna dance with anyone tonight?" Oscar replied that it would likely be you, because that's how it always went. Never romantic, just two people unafraid to embarrass themselves with each other. Lando wiggled his brows.

"Finally making a move?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oscar asked as he rolled up his sleeves.

"They're, like, crazy into you, mate." Oscar repeated your name, a question. A chance for Lando to back down. For this conversation to stay safe, in a place Oscar made his home in. Not risky, safe, familiar.

"Don't me you haven't noticed?"

"I've noticed something," Oscar replied. "I don't have time for that right now, Lando. I'm finally ... making waves, as a driver."

"Well, do they know that you don't time for 'that'?" Lando used air quotes. Devastating.

"We're on the same page," Oscar replied. Lando widened his eyes, but said nothing. There wasn't anything he could say that would shatter the thin glass between Oscar and realizing that he was in the wrong. Lando wouldn't try, he knew better. He just hoped that the hurt you'd feel would be enough to do what his words couldn't.

Not that he wanted you to hurt. The opposite.

Especially when Oscar hadn't said he didn't feel the same. There was hope for something beautiful to take root.

The ride to the club was chaotic, loud, and overwhelming. All the things Oscar hated but swallowed down because this was his night. Other drivers decided to join him. George, Max, and Charles were the first to follow Lando's call for a party. The rookies couldn't drink, and some other drivers were doing something more low key. Something Oscar would've preferred. You didn't ride with him, dubbed the driver for the night. Sober and ready to record him being an idiot, as you lovingly put.

Everyone met up outside the club. The boys arrived first. Waiting in the crisp air sent a second wind through Oscar's blood. This was going to be a wild night.

Your group approached, the women of the paddock flocking to you like a moth to a flame. They'd taken to you instantly, pulling you into their galaxy. You were an engineer, but you and Oscar arrived together often enough for them to notice you, and they hadn't let you go. Not that you'd truly protest. Oscar couldn't be your only friend.

It stung that you were finding other friends in this world you'd forced yourself into. Childhood jealousy, something green and rotten had bloomed in his chest that first day when you spent the time on a weekend at a cafe with Carmen, instead of continuing your binge of whatever caught your fancy. That feeling died, though, when he noticed how happy being surrounded by good people made you.

He'd always be your number one, no matter how old you both got, no matter where you were. Even when he was with his family for the break and you stayed in England in the apartment he helped you pick out, learning to love being alone. The distance didn't matter when you both tried.

He didn't expect you to dress up. You normally didn't. Oscar tried not to let his breathing changed as you walked towards him in something you'd never choose for yourself.

"Don't," you chastised. "I'm supposed to be flirty tonight apparently I can't sleep with my engineering notebooks tonight," you whispered to him as you both pushed into the club after the group.

"Forced relations?"

"Just heavily implied," you replied. "They say I haven't gotten action since the Christmas party last year." Oscar furrowed his brows.

"What happened at the Christmas party?" You hadn't told him about anything. You always did. You told him about your first kiss, your first everything. He met your first boyfriend, interviewed him with the strictness of a father. It hadn't lasted. He claimed innocence. You and the world knew he'd had a hand in it.

"Nothing," you shook him off as your eyes roamed to the bar. You moved away from Oscar to follow the girls. Somewhere in front of him, Lando diverted to follow you. Oscar watched you both go, smiling to himself. You and Lando had gotten closer this year. Lando had no qualms joining your board game nights, and had pulled you into their orbit like you'd always belonged there. It felt good, to know that Lando had adopted you as well as Oscar. That you mattered to someone else a fraction of what you meant to him.

Lando leaned in to whisper something to you, and Oscar watched shock fill your face as you slammed your balled fist into Lando's shoulder, laughter escaping. They both glanced back at Oscar. Oscar pretended to only be seeing you for the first time.

Deep down, he knew what you both were talking about. Him.

He pretended that it didn't matter. Because it couldn't. Not now. Once the season ended and he'd accomplished all he'd set out to do, Oscar could decide if he wanted to open that door.

For now, he needed his best friend. His engineer. The person you made him as his engineer was more important than whoever he'd be if he let you love him.

"Think fast!" You shouted as you tossed his water bottle at him. Oscar barely reacted in time. You pushed into the space by his side as the paddock busied itself preparing for the end of the first half of the season.

"You could've killed me," Oscar teased. You shrugged.

"But I didn't."

"And that makes it all better?" You snorted into your own drink.

"You should thank me. I'm improving your reflexes."

"That's what we're calling it now?" It fell silent. Not the kind of silence that demanded to be filled. A silence soft around the edges, one so perfectly you and Oscar. Ones filled with thoughts not dared to be spoken aloud.

"Did you think about what I asked this morning?" You asked. The trip invitation. You'd booked tickets to an isolated Grecian island for the break, a chance to reset, to connect with the earth, the sky, and the sun. You both always went away together for the break, either to visit family, or find a new place to leave your souls for two weeks. Two weeks of laughter, inside jokes, and moments that were too purposeful to be mistaken for just friendship. trips Oscar looked back on with fondness and gentle smiles. But, he hadn't agreed yet. He had been thinking about it all day, even during the race.

He was sure he knew what the small cracks in you meant. Would going on this trip shatter you completely? Could he risk his suspicions being confirmed by everything you didn't say? Could your friendship survive the answer he'd crafted?

If Oscar hadn't noticed, if he was still himself, he know what he'd say. yes, a thousand times over. But saying yes right now meant more than it ever had back then. It meant being alone with you, when his gut had been telling him the same thing for almost six months.

So, he lied.

"I was invited on a trip with Lando last week," he admitted quietly. You tensed. "I can tell him I'm going with you instead." Oscar knew that you'd never force him to cancel plans he'd already made. he weaponized your kindness, and it was eating him alive.

"No, it's okay!" You assured him, like he knew you would. You still smiled, but he could see the sadness in it. He almost crumbled, almost fell to pieces at your feet because he did want to go on that trip, he wanted to watch sunsets and pretend that the world wouldn't notice if you both disappeared.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. And he was. You nodded slowly, pushing yourself away from his side. Not in defeat, but in hope.

"If you're not going, that means I can ask Isack," you assured him. Oscar's brow furrowed. When had you and Isack gotten close? "Tell me all about your guys trip with Lando when you get back, okay?" You waved as you turned and bolted towards the Racing Bulls hospitality, hoping to catch Isack before he left.

Oscar forced himself to stay still as he typed out a message to Lando.

Got any plans for summer break?

The Baku air was oppressive in its expectations. The summer break had been good, exciting, wild, if Oscar could call it that. Lando had pulled through at the last minute, and the break had turned out okay. They went to Spain and Oscar joined in on a Quadrant video Lando was filming. It hadn't been planned, but it had been fun.

He'd been stalking your Instagram since you'd posted your photo dump. The island, gorgeous in its simplicity, and Isack. Isack had agreed, so you hadn't been alone. You both had gone to flea markets, adventured to old ruins, and swam in waves the purest blue. Oscar had commented looks mega and moved on, hoping that he could just put his phone down and stop analyzing the way you and Isack seemed so happy.

Someone else to send your puppy eyes towards. He could focus.

Then the race went badly. As bad as it could have. he crashed. Him. His first crash since 2023, and he wallowed. A marshal brought him their phone so he could watch the rest of the race live.

of course, when he tuned in, they replayed the crash. He tensed. Your voice, caught on the radio, filled his ears.

"Shit, Osc, you okay? Is he okay?" You sounded panicked, like you were losing someone important. He supposed he was important. He heard Zak's voice, assuring you that Oscar was fine. The replay ended, and the race continued. In another life, when he felt more like himself, he'd text you, no matter whose phone it was.

For now, though. He just watched the rest of the race. he didn't know what he could say to you to make himself feel better. To not feel that he'd let you down. Even though you'd never admit it. His crash looked bad on you, too. Not just him. You were a team, and he'd ruined something good for you.

He couldn't face all the ways he had been a bad friend just yet. So he watched the race.

He started noticing changes. These ones were more obvious. You became more of his engineer, and less of his friend. he started doing worse, and so did you. You didn't come to his hotel room when he finished P5. You expressed sympathy, gave him a quick hug, but left him to pick up the pieces by himself. You hung around with Isack more, laughing at his jokes. he saw stories of you and Isack playing Mario Kart at 1 AM, when he was busy feeling sorry for himself.

Oscar never realized how big of a gap you'd leave behind. How everything he did seemed to be with you in mind. He was ... lonely. It felt strange to admit, because he'd been without you before. He'd been in England while you stayed in Australia, for Christ sake. But, you'd never felt far from him, had you? Photos of the two of you in his dorm, calls while you both worked on homework visits whenever you both had time. You'd never been apart, not in the ways that mattered.

You'd started laving his messages on delivered. Not even openig them. You were busy, so was he, but he'd feel better if you at least knew that he was trying to fix what he'd broken. If he even deserved that.

The he lost his championship lead, and the world felt like it was ending. He'd held it for so long, thought he could win it. But then it was gone. You hadn't been in his ear that race. You were feeling under the weather. Not your fault, and not his. Just a cruel twist of fate. Oscar blamed the person who stood in for you, because blaming you wouldn't be true, or fair. And blaming someone else was always easier than blaming yourself. The car didn't feel the same. That's what he said in interviews to pull away from the fact that it was him who didn't feel the same. he felt off. Not on his A-game. He knew it was obvious. The downfall of Oscar Piastri, a champion before he was ready. That's how people would remember this season. As something almost magical.

That night, you texted him. Because what else could you do?

I'm sorry.

He stared at it like it would manifest and grow wings. Like it could solve all his problems. He needed to hear those words out loud, from you, right now. Because reading them wasn't enough. especially not from you.

After Vegas, Lando had enough.

"I don't know what's up with you, mate, but you need to stop it." Oscar scoffed, because what right did Lando have to his friendships? What right did anyone else have? First, Charles and Arthur noticed something, then Max, and everyone else was quick to follow. He arrived to the paddock alone, you had arrived hours earlier, fighting with the brass to adjust the car as you advised, because they liked to ignore you. It felt wrong, coming on his own. It had been weird to everyone else, too.

"Don't scoff, Oscar. I don't know what happened, but you've royally hurt your race engineer." Oscar tensed at that. "How's focusing on your future going, hm?" Oscar could've snapped. he could've punched Lando, but he stayed still.

"That's not-"

"What? That's not important? Try telling that to them. mate, they're in love with you, and you tossed them away like trash." Oscar stumbled, like Lando had hit him. Because that was true, wasn't it? He had discarded you, not outright, but in all the small ways that added up to something larger and scary. "I told them. That I hadn't asked you about the break before they did." Oscar's hands clenched.

"And somehow, they weren't surprised. And you know what they said? 'He doesn't really care, does he?' And I didn't know how to answer that."

"Of course I care!" Oscar shot back.

"Clearly not, because if you did, you'd tell them that you were too much of a coward to be anything more than friends." How could he argue with that? It ran true inside of him, like a tolling bell. "You should apologize. It sucks seeing you pretend that everything's fine and it sucks seeing them make themself smaller so you can achieve something bigger." He knew you'd given up a part of yourself when you attached your name to his, your future was his. And he'd let you down.

Lando saw his words land. His posture loosened.

"When did you get so wise?" Oscar asked with a small chuckle. Tears gathered in his eyes. Ones he would've pushed away if it was anyone else.

"I'm plenty wise, actually. You just don't listen." Lando patted Oscar on the shoulder. "Go, mate. You know where they are." Oscar nodded and took off running. He didn't care if he looked like a mess. Because in the end, he didn't care what anyone else thought of him. Just you. You who'd sacrifice everything you knew so he could smile.

He found you where you usually were in a fancy hotel, in the hot tub because there was something different about fancy hotel hot tubs, something that made you feel like you'd made it.

He wasn't in swim wear. Something obvious when he pushed through the doors. The pool was empty. It was late, or early, depending on how you thought about time. You were in the hot tub, book in your hands. You were facing away from him. Oscar took his phone out of his pocket, slipped off his shoes, and moved towards you. You looked up when he got closer. He recognized the smile you sent him. The one you resorted to when you didn't know how to form words.

"This seat taken?" He asked with a broken voice, pointing at the tub.

"You're not wearing a swim suit." Oscar shrugged and climbed into the tub. He regretted it right away, but he let the water surround him like warm arms. "I'm sorry." You put your book on the deck and turned to face him.

"For what?" Not because you didn't think you were owed an apology, but because you wanted him to tell you what he'd done. Own up to all the ways he'd become a shitty friend. A chance to grow and change, because that's what life was for.

"For becoming someone you don't recognize." You put your legs over his, not romantic, just you. Oscar exhaled, letting a broken smile overtake his face. He missed being close to you, in whatever way you allowed. "I let ... everything consume me. Trophies started to matter more than you, and I don't think I'll ever understand why." It was hunger, but something unnamed, something rotten inside him. That longed to be remembered for something more than how he lived.

"I thought being me wasn't enough for what I wanted. And you're everything to me." Not romantic, just the truth. "I think I'm gonna beat myself up for that for the rest of my life." He looked down. You moved closer.

"You're allowed to make mistakes."

"But I'm not allowed to hurt you, and that's what I did." You shrugged.

"You're allowed to, there's no law against it. Hurting the wrong people is part of life."

"I wish it didn't have to be," Oscar surrendered his words to the air. Growing up was hard. He'd seen it first hand, experienced it a hundred times over. Making the wrong choice was easy.

"Me too," you mumbled. You leaned forward, resting your head on his shoulder. Oscar leaned his head against yours.

"I missed you," he breathed. He meant it. He wasn't himself without you. He was something marginally worse without you. And he hoped that you were better when he was by your side, too.

"I missed you, too." He sighed in relief. "And I forgive you, by the way."

"I know." A part of him always knew that you'd forgive him, just as he'd always forgive you. because that's the kind of people you made each other.

"No, you didn't. I'm mysterious." He chuckled, loudly, for the first time in what felt like weeks.

"As mysterious as a puppy, maybe."

"Rude." It wasn't mended, just poorly attached with crazy glue and a dream, but he felt the air change. Your friendship was back. And as he looked at you, he realized that the cracks in you were just as beautiful as you always had been.

Oscar had been focused on the cracks in you, he hadn't noticed the ones in himself.

He hadn't won the championship, but he had you back. And at the moment, under the Australian sun, meant more than any world title. Losing you had been the worst part of the season, and having you back made everything vulnerable.

The cracks started by him noticing things. The way the sun made your hair glow, the way the ocean breeze clung to your skin like a blanket. You were beautiful, he knew that, in an objective, they're my best friend way. Knowing someone was beautiful and seeing it were two different things.

And he saw it now.

You spent every waking second together, in your house or his. It felt good, being together. You went to dinner, and took photos if fans recognized you. You spent your days finding new spots in Melbourne, going to the beach, and pretending that the break would last forever.

How was it possible to fall in love with someone you'd known your whole life?

Oscar noticed how he'd gravitate to you, hands linked more often than not. He went with you everywhere like it was wired in him. he'd become the one thing you came to expect. He realize dhow much he knew about you, how much useless knowledge he'd held onto his whole life. Your coffee order, your size in clothes, the way you crossed the street, your favourite side of the street to walk on.

It was so easy to pretend to be something more than just your best friend. Because it felt like a natural progression, something that was meant to happen.

The break passed by in a flash. The last night descended upon you both like a storm. You'd packed both your suitcases, and Oscar read to you.

He didn't want to go back. It was a funny thing, realizing that where he was was where he'd always wanted to be.

"Have you ever thought about where you'd be if you hadn't followed me?" Oscar asked.

"Hm?" You looked up at him. "Not really. I kinda always knew where I'd be." Beside you. The words hung in the space between you. Oscar found himself smiling.

"I can't picture anyone else doing what you do."

"My evil plan succeeded," you joked. Oscar slid off his bed to sit beside you on the floor.

"You've bewitched me," he breathed. You looked up at him. He saw the moment you registered the cracks in him, the way he'd seen yours.

"Osc?"

"Hi," he greeted.

"Hi," you greeted back. So close, two plants on a collision course. In the silence, what went unsaid was loudest.

I love you.

And when he kissed you, it got louder, filled the room, the universe and beyond.

How was it possible to fall in love with someone you'd known your whole life?

It was possible because it was easier than breathing. Because it was you.

And Oscar wasn't sure when you'd become more than enough for him. If he asked anyone who knew you, they'd say it was the day you met. But Oscar wagered that it was before that. Before you'd even met. Because loving you felt like the easiest thing in the word, whatever form it took throughout his life.