KC Garcia

His filmography: Cellophane (a trilogy) Summary: Michael does an interview that leaves your relationship on rocky ground. Part I. Part II. Part III.

Acts of Service Summary: As the oldest sibling, you’ve always shouldered the responsibility of taking care of everyone else and then yourself. From this responsibility comes a level of independence that has managed to manifest in all areas of your life, including your new relationship with Michael. Now, Michael decides that this is his time to show you that with him, your needs are his top priority, and that includes breaking your little bubble of independence. (AKA. Mike wanna trick on you!) Part I. Part II.

Your Biggest Fan Summary: You’ve always been one of michael’s biggest fans. after years of pining for the older man, you decide that now is the time to finally make him yours. only one problem–well, many problems, you aren’t the only one seeking his attention. however, you’ve always liked a little competition, especially eliminating it. Part I.

Your Greatest Desire (Sequel to "Your Biggest Fan") Summary: With the recent revelations of your manipulation and pregnancy reveal, your and Michael's relationship is tested to new levels. Plus, you may not be the only one with dark impulses. Part II.

Too Much Summary: In which, a comment by a one of Michael’s close friends leads to your insecurities pooling to the surface, and you can’t help but start pulling back in your relationship. Worried about if you’re too much. Theatre A.

Like a Tattoo (short film) Summary: A happy little accident leads to your man getting a special tattoo dedicated to you. Theater 1A.

Golden Globes Summary: You and Michael are exes, but a chance encounter at the Golden Globes leaves Michael jealous and desperate to win you back. Theater 1B.

My Little Weirdo Summary: The chronicles of Michael and his weird girlfriend, aka you. Part I. Part II. Part III.

Claim Me Summary: Michael is desperate to post about you on his social media, but you’re adamant that you don’t want to be posted. Now, Michael is spiraling and trying to figure out why you don’t want to be claimed by him. Theater 2A

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not Summary: You have a crush on your co-star, Michael, but he seems to have his eyes set on a certain other leading lady. Despite your best efforts, you decide to move on….but maybe Michael isn’t ready to for you to move on quite yet. Theater 2B

Challenger (starring tennis!reader) Summary: You’re tennis’s new golden girl. A powerhouse that already has her name in rooms before you even touch the door. Confident. Arrogant. Talented. All the things that people hate for black women to be, but you’re consistently breaking barriers. Now, you have your eyes set on your celebrity crush, Michael B. Jordan. Michael isn’t used to being openly pursued by women, so it’s a welcome change when you’re the one shooting your shot at him. Besides, who doesn’t love a little challenge? Theater 2C

Enlighten Me (A Conversation) Summary: You’re young. Younger than Michael. He assures you that the age gap isn’t a problem for your relationship. However, a certain chasm grows between you, and you begin to doubt that your lack of life experience is enough to sustain your relationship with him. Theater 3A

Please, I'm a Star Summary: You’re gonna be famous, and you’re not letting anyone stand in your way. Theater 3B

Assimilation Summary: After a mission goes wrong and your husband is declared legally dead, you’re surprised to find him standing at your doorstep eight months later in seemingly perfect health. You’re happy to have him back, but the man in your home isn’t the same man who left you months ago. Who is this stranger….and why isn’t he acting like the man that you love? Theater 3C

Can't Let You Go Summary: You end your fling with Michael because you’re craving a real relationship…but Michael’s not ready to let you go. Theater 4A

What's Your Favorite Scary Movie? Summary: You love horror movies. Michael does not. But as your boyfriend, he has to suck it up and deal with it. Theater 4B

His Characters:

Checkmate (starring Elias "Stack" Moore & Elijah "Smoke" Moore) Summary: You love Elias. Your Elias. When you catch him in the act of betraying you, you decide to move on. Only…Stack isn’t so ready to let you go, but someone else already has their sights set on you. Theater 4C

Knight Protects the Queen (sequel to "Checkmate") Summary: In this next installation in the “Checkmate” universe, we learn the origins of how the reader and Smoke got together. In the present day, you, Smoke, and Stack all deal with the aftermath of Stack learning about you and his brother. Theater 5A

He fell. Oscar slipped on them. Yuki watched it all happen with a horrified face from below the podium. They all ended up on the floor. She raised a thumbs up from the ground and said:

“I stuck the landing.”

“WHY DID SHE TAKE GEORGE DOWN WITH HER”

the team radio breakdown

She was in P2. Two laps to go. The podium was hers. And then—snap. A mechanical failure. Complete power loss, everything stopped.

She rolled to a stop in sector three, heart thundering, fists clenched so tight it shook. The radio crackled. And then—anger.

“I swear, I will actually FIGHT this car. Someone hold me back.”

Luca’s silence was deafening.

Later, she laughed about it. Said she’d cool off. But fans? They turned it into a war cry.

“luca’s js used to everything she’s doing”

post race cravings

Post-race interview. She looked dead behind her eyes. Grease smudged her jaw. Her ponytail was falling apart. The race had been hell. No points, no pace. And the reporter asked what her plans were.

She sighed, blinked slowly, and went: “…nuggets. McDonald’s. I’d sell my souls for a 20 piece right now.”

And the best part? McDonald’s replied. By the next race, she had a personalized nugget box. With her number on it.

“she ate the nuggets during fp1. realest driver out there”

the lewis interview

Post race, she walked into frame next to Lewis. Exhausted, but radiating chaos. He leaned on her shoulder. She leaned back.

“We’re tired,” he said to the mic.

“We’re delusional,” she added. They both bursted into laughter.

They started high-fiving out of nowhere mid-interview. Talking over each other. Giggling at nothing.

The interviewer gave up halfway through.

“these two have NO media training and we LOVE that”

grid kid softness

He looked scared. Eight years old, holding the umbrella next to her on the grid, hands shaking.

She knelt down.

“Hey,” she said gently, handing him her cap. “You look cool. Wanna wear this?” He nodded shyly.

She fist-bumped him. “You’re braver than half the grid.”

He beamed back at her. And she stood for the anthem, capless, with one hand protectively behind his back.

“he said she makes him feel ‘safe.’ i’m actually sobbing’

the seb moment

During a race weekend, Sebastian Vettel made a surprise paddock appearance. YN spotted him from across the media pen and literally gasped. Covered her mouth. Full body turn. Then ran.

They hugged, she squealed. He called her "the fiercest thing on four wheels." She teared up.

Photos of her beaming at Seb like he was her dad? Broke the internet. They love them both.

“she looked like a kid meeting her hero”

the public nap situation

It was between sessions. Hot day. Busiest paddock of the season.

Someone walked by a tire stack and found YN asleep behind it. Fully out. Arm as a pillow. Hoodie pulled over her eyes, how did she get there?

She woke up to the sound of a mechanic accidentally dropping a wrench and sat up like a soldier in a war movie.

“Am I late for quali?” she asked. It was 11 am.

She then fell back to sleep instantly.

Lesson 1: Never Call Your Ex When You’re in Trouble

Lesson 2: Don’t Underestimate an Ex With a Plan

Lesson 3: Don’t Poke a Queen in Heels

Lesson 4: Don’t Show Up at Your Ex’s House Unannounced

Lesson 5: You Can’t Hurt Your Ex Without Bleeding Too

Lesson 6: Never Share a Room With Your Ex

story timeline

Lesson 7: Denial Is Not a Strategy, Darling

Lesson 8: Never Enter a Battle You Can’t Win

Lesson 9: Ears Lie. Hearts Don't

Lesson 10: Pain is Shared, Not Borne Alone scheduled 01/17

A week of bruises fading, nights staring at the ceiling, and pretending you’re “fine” even though your mind hasn’t taken a single breath.

A week without seeing him.

Not really, anyway.

Just fragments—

a glimpse of him at the stables,

Maria mentioning he’d checked in,

Ellie talking about his late nights on the porch sipping coffee and playing guitar.

Tommy muttering something about patrol maps.

Little pieces of him scattered around Jackson, but never directly connected to you. He didn’t come to check on you, and you didn’t go check on him either… but still, you wondered if something was wrong. If maybe he was avoiding you.

And it’s stupid. God, so stupid. Because there was nothing between you. You were just… traveling together. Surviving together. Sharing the same purpose, the same fire, the same cramped spaces. That was it. And he was just being… helpful. Friendly. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But the thought of him keeping his distance now—after all those nights, all that quiet closeness—waking up with his warmth close enough that you could feel his breath brushing yours —made something in your chest twist painfully tight.

You sit up slowly, careful of the soreness still clinging to you. The wounds are healing, sure, but the memories haven’t caught up yet.

Bare feet hit the floor before your brain fully catches up. You shuffle into the kitchen on autopilot, and it isn’t until the coffee begins to brew that the smell steadies you.

You’ve barely poured your first mug when—

Three sharp knocks.

You freeze.

Then another set—quick, insistent, familiar.

You open the door, and your whole body drops in relief.

Dina.

Her cheeks are pink from the cold, curls escaping her striped beanie—blue, peach, soft beige—those colors somehow making her smile look even warmer against the freezing air. Her eyes sweep over you immediately, like she’s checking whether you picked up any new injuries overnight.

“Hey,” she says. “You look like absolute shit. Cute shit, but still.”

You snort. “Good morning to you too.”

She breezes in like the place is hers, swipes your mug, and takes a sip.

“Ugh, this is so bitter. Since when do you drink your coffee black?”

“Since when do you go around sipping from someone else’s mug without asking?” you fire back, half annoyed, half amused.

“Okay, chill, I’m joking,” she says as she hands it back. “What are you, seventy? Who drinks it this bitter?”

Joel, you think, Joel drinks his coffee this black. Maybe you’ve gotten used to that when traveling together.

But as the thought of him creeps in again, uninvited, you rub your eyes, trying to drag yourself back into the present.

Except now she’s serious, watching you closely. “Okay. How’re you actually doing? And if you say ‘fine’. I’ll throw myself out the window.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning on the table for support.

“I don’t know. I keep getting flashbacks—, nightmares… voices. Everything blends together. And when it hits, I just freeze. My whole body locks up like it’s trying to protect me from something I… I can’t even remember.”

Dina bites her lip, deciding something.

And then she leans in.

“Okay, so—I’m definitely not supposed to tell you this. Like, at all. Joel was very clear about that.”

Your brow goes up, already bracing for chaos.

“Then don’t, Dina…”

“I know! I KNOW. But you look like you’re spiraling, and this might actually help.”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes, but you don’t tell her to shut up. Not yet.

“Joel’s been seeing Gail.”

Your eyes widen.

“Gail?… as in therapy Gail?”

“Yeah. Real therapy. I mean—Jackson therapy, but it works. He’s been going every week. For a long time. After he and Ellie went through a rough patch last winter, she kind of put him back together piece by piece.” Her hand settles on your arm. “And I think she could help you too.”

The words settle deep, heavy.

Joel. Therapy.

Not exactly the image you had of him—tight jaw, swallowed emotions, all those walls.

“Well first of all, he told you not to tell anyone, which means—Dina, stop being nosy. Seriously. That’s none of your business. Or mine,” you mutter. “And second… I’m not even sure therapy is for me.”

“I knooow,” she groans. “But I’m not telling the whole town—just you. Because you matter. And because you look like you’re about to drift right out of your own head.”

Your eyes burn.

Dina squeezes your shoulder.

“Just think about it. Okay?”

You nod, and that’s enough for her.

She leaves with a promise to check in.

Joel. Therapy.

The words sit in your chest like a small stone, strangely grounding.

Maybe you’re not as alone in your head as you thought.

And maybe talking to someone…could cut through some of the fog. Maybe it could make the nightmares less sharp, the flashbacks less suffocating.

Maria’s office is warm, but the air inside feels tight.

Too many problems, too many lines on the map of Jackson spread across the table.

Maria leans over it, hands braced on the wood. Tommy’s pacing, hat in his hands. Joel stands back a little, jaw clenched, eyes tracking the red circles Tommy’s drawn on the trails.

Tommy stops and taps the map with the end of a pencil.

“See this? And this?” He drags a line along two narrow trails weaving behind the old quarry. “It ain’t possible these routes have been used. We cleared ’em months ago. Months. houses cleaned, no infected, no bodies, nothin’.”

Maria exhales sharply. “At this point, I’m not sure about anything.” She crosses her arms. “First they hit Jackson, now this? We keep getting blindsided.”

Joel steps closer, eyes narrowing.

“I cleared these trails with Jesse,” he says. “Every damn inch. If someone’s been using them… it’s been checked, double. Before and after. Controlled.”

Tommy shakes his head, frustrated. “But why these trails? They’re not strategic. They’re not even good hideouts. The supply runs don’t go near ’em.”

Maria looks between both brothers. “Unless someone’s using the lesser trails on purpose.”

“To stay unseen,” Joel finishes quietly.

A silence settles between them—heavy, inevitable.

Tommy finally says what they’re all thinking:

“You think it’s connected? The hit in Jackson? Marek? Ethan?”

Maria doesn’t answer right away. She presses her lips together, then nods once. “Feels like someone’s moving pieces behind our backs. And they’re smart enough not to touch the obvious routes.”

Joel exhales slowly, shoulders tightening, hands coming to rest on his hips.

He recognizes that kind of planning—patient, quiet, careful.

Tommy leans over the table again, tapping the same trail with the back of his knuckles.

“Look—like someone’s been through here enough times. But it ain’t random. Whoever’s usin’ these routes knows ’em real well.”

He glances between Maria and Joel, eyes narrowing.

“Has to be someone who remembers how they were before we cleared ’em. Someone comfortable movin’ through ‘em in the dark.”

Maria looks at Joel. “You’ve seen this kind of pattern before, haven’t you?”

Joel’s eyes stay on the map, voice low.

“Yeah,” Joel mutters. “Ain’t no point beating around it. Someone inside Jackson’s helping ’em.”

The room goes still—air pulled tight like a bowstring.

Maria exhales through her nose, controlled but furious.

“We need find out who,” she says. “Fast.”

Gail opens the door before you even finish lowering your hand from the knock.

“Oh, there she is,” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “So Dina was right.”

You freeze.

There she is?

You’ve barely talked to Gail in your life—how much did Dina spill?

…Or worse, was it Joel?

No. No, that’s stupid. Joel wouldn’t talk about you in his sessions why would he? That’s ridiculous.

You blink yourself back into the moment.

“Right about… what?”

“That you might drop by one of these days.” Gail leans on the doorframe, voice warm but edged with her dry humor. “Though from the way she described things, I didn’t expect you quite this soon.”

She lifts a brow, teasing. “Good thing is my day off today.”

Your face heats.

“Oh—sorry, if you’re busy. Really. I wasn’t even thinking, I just knocked. I can come back another—”

“No need,” she cuts in, stepping aside and gesturing you in. “Since you’re here, come in.”

You step inside, hesitant, almost apologetic—like you’re not entirely sure you’re supposed to be here

The place smells like sage, old books… and the unmistakable whiff of someone who maybe hits a joint once in a while. You don’t care—apocalypse and all... Even shrinks need to be shrinked sometimes, so if Gail’s coping method involves a little weed? Fine by you.

Sunlight softens the curtains, warm and hazy, and the room itself feels like it’s been exhaling for hours. Something in your chest loosens too, despite how hard you’re trying not to let it.

Gail closes the door behind you, nodding toward the chair across from her.

“Sit wherever you feel comfortable.”

She reaches over to the side table and picks up an old metal kitchen timer—paint chipped, dial dented—then twists it until it clicks into place.

“Not sure if Dina mentioned it,” she says, eyes on the timer, “but for sessions I usually trade in whiskey, beer, cigars, a joint, something that keeps the world tolerable.”

She waves a hand. “But that doesn’t matter for today. You didn’t know. Next time is fine.”

“Oh—of course,” you nod quickly. “I actually have—”

You start digging in your backpack.

Gail lifts a hand, amused, soft but still very her.

“Not this session,” she says. “Wouldn’t be very welcoming to shake you down on your first day.”

You freeze mid-motion, cheeks burning.

“Oh, right. Yeah. Next time.”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, timer ticking softly between you.

“Good,” she says, voice warm but steady. “Now…”

Her eyes meet yours, calm in a way that makes you want to look down.

“What brings you in?”

You swallow. Your hands won’t stay still on your lap.

“I’m…”

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “I’m not… okay. I guess that’s the short version.”

Gail gives a small nod. Not a dramatic one—just enough to let you know she heard you.

“Not okay can mean a lot of things,” she says gently. “What does it mean for you today?”

You look at your fingers, nails picking at each other, throat tightening as if your own body doesn’t want the words out.

“It’s like my thoughts won’t line up,” you say. “Everything feels loud and cluttered, and I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

Your voice trembles. “I feel like I’m slipping out of what ‘normal’ is supposed to feel like. I just don’t want to feel this way all the time.”

Gail hums, leaning her elbows on her knees, posture attentive.

“Feeling overwhelmed isn’t a flaw, and it’s not abnormal,” she says. “It just means something in you is asking to be heard.”

She gives you a small, encouraging nod.

“But ‘my thoughts are loud and messy’ is still a little vague. Can you give me something more specific? Even a small piece.”

You try. You try so hard to stay composed.

But the second you open your mouth, it cracks.

“It’s just—”

You blink fast, vision blurring.

“It’s hard to… start at the beginning. Because the beginning feels like… everything. And I can’t tell what part even matters anymore.”

Your voice breaks, just a little, and you press your palms over your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to… cry, I just—”

“Hey,” Gail says softly, not unkind. “You don’t have to apologize “You’re not doing anything wrong. This is what this space is for.”

You take a shaky breath.

“I just want my head to shut up,” you say finally. “I want to understand why I feel like this… why it keeps getting worse when it shouldn’t.”

Gail nods once, thoughtful, grounded.

“Okay,” she says. “Then let’s start there. Not with your whole life story. Just with what feels wrong today.”

She reaches over and adjusts the little metal timer, not resetting it—just touching it, like grounding the moment.

“And we’ll go at your pace. You don’t need to impress me, or sound organized, or have a speech prepared. Just talk. I’ll help you sort the pieces.”

“You don’t give her every detail, but enough.

Paul and Anna—what happened to them.

The raiders.

The fractured memories.

The nightmares.

The flashbacks that lately hit without warning, barging into your day like intruders, twisting your sense of time, of safety—of yourself.”

Gail nods gently, making notes, she watches you for a moment, then leans forward, elbows on her knees, voice steady.

“Would you try something?” she asks. “It’s a technique that can help you observe those fragments without getting pulled under by them.”

You tense slightly, but nod.

She softens her tone.

“It’s a form of guided hypnosis. And before your brain goes there—no, it’s not mind control, and I’m not going to make you cluck like a chicken. It’s closer to a very focused meditation. You stay conscious the whole time. You stay in control the whole time.”

Your shoulders drop a fraction—listening, taking her in.

Gail continues, reassuring but clinical in the way that makes you trust her.

“It works by shifting your brain into a quieter state,” she explains. “Not asleep, not dreaming. Just… open. It lets us look at memories without reliving them. Like watching them through glass instead of being inside the fire.”

You swallow.

She gives you a small, careful smile.

“We don’t have to do it every session,” she adds. “We don’t even have to finish it today. The moment you feel uncomfortable, you tell me, and we stop. No questions, no pressure.”

Your breath steadies just a little.

“And you’ll be safe,” Gale says simply. “I’ll be right here the whole time. You’re not facing anything alone.”

She waits.

Patient.

Present.

“Just this once,” you say quietly.

Gail’s expression softens, but her voice stays steady. “I think it might help us understand where those memories are coming from.”

You breathe in—slow, deliberate.

Then you nod again, this time with intention, before fear has the chance to pull you back.

“Alright,” she murmurs. “Then let’s begin.”

You close your eyes, letting the room fall away one breath at a time. Gail’s voice follows you inward—steady, low, unhurried—guiding rather than pulling. The air feels warmer, heavier, as if the world has stepped back a few inches to give you space.

Your thoughts, normally a frantic tangle, begin to thin at the edges, slipping into a slower rhythm. Your limbs grow lighter, your chest softer, and a gentle hum settles behind your ribs. You’re aware—of the chair beneath you, of Gail’s presence—but you’re also drifting, sinking into that quiet place where memory feels closer than the present.

And then—

The darkness behind your eyelids shifts.

Snow.

Endless, blinding white swallowing your vision.

You feel it before you see it—your body dragged across frozen ground, cold biting through fabric, through skin, through bone. The world jerks with every pull. A shadow above you. Heavy hands on your ankles.

And then his voice—Marek’s voice—curling through the storm like smoke.

“Well, look at that...Tough little thing, ain’t she?”

A laugh follows—sharp, cruel, delighted.

“Maybe I’ll keep her, see what’s she’s good for before she’s gone.”

Your breath stutters. The snow burns. The dragging doesn’t stop.

Somewhere behind you, a belt snaps free from a buckle—metal scraping, leather unfurling—and your stomach twists violently.

A woman screams.

Close. Too close.

Her voice cracks through the wind—raw, terrified…is it you?

Then a baby crying.

Anna.

Your Anna.

Another voice, lower, pleading:

“Please—she’s just a baby—please—”

Her wail pierces through the walls, fragile and desperate, and it slices straight through your chest. Your lungs seize. Your hands claw at the chair without realizing it.

“Stop,” you choke, but the memory swallows your voice whole.

Snow. Hands. Laughter. Screams.

A gun shot.

Anna crying.

“No—no—NO—!”

Your voice rips out of you, feral and panicked.

“Hey—hey—” Gail’s voice cuts through sharply, grounding and firm as her hands grip your forearms. “You’re here. Right here. Look at me.”

You gasp, eyes flying open, tears streaking hot down your cheeks as the room slams back into place around you—the smell of sage, the lamp, the steady tick-tick of her metal timer.

Gail leans in, voice low but absolutely steady.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you. Come back to your body—right here, with me. You’re not in the snow anymore.”

Your whole body trembles, breath shuddering, hands gripping hers like you might fall if you let go.

And slowly, painfully, the memory recedes.

But the echoes stay.

Gail leans back slightly, letting you settle, giving you space to breathe.

“What you just experienced… that was a glimpse,” she says gently. “Not the whole story, just fragments. And that’s enough for now. You felt it, you faced it, and you came back. That’s progress.”

“Now would you be able to tell me… do you have any conscious sense of what those fragments are showing you? Of what those flashbacks are revealing?

Your throat tightens. You shake your head slightly, voice barely a whisper.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t remember it all. Some of it feels… like it shouldn’t even be mine, some does…”

Gail nods slowly, thoughtful.

“That’s okay. You don’t need to have all the answers right now. But noticing the pieces, feeling them, that’s the first step. And sometimes, the mind buries things for a reason—you’re seeing it in your own time. That’s valuable.”

“These memories, they’re parts of you trying to be seen. Not just trauma, but signals. Things that need to be understood and integrated. And you have the strength to do it, even when it feels impossible.”

Her hand squeezes yours lightly. “This first session wasn’t about fixing everything. It was about starting to reclaim control. You know now that even when the past reaches out, you can come back to the present. That’s huge.”

She leans back, giving you space, but her presence remains grounding. “Next time, we’ll go a little deeper. But today, you did enough. And you did it safely. That’s the foundation we need.”

You breathe, the tremors slowly ebbing, a flicker of steadiness returning. The room feels less suffocating. The echoes of snow and screams linger faintly, but they don’t consume you—not anymore. Not completely. Actually… it almost feels exorcising.

You take the long path through the gardens afterward, trying to steady your breathing. Frost is melting down the greenhouse windows, folks trimming vines, barrels steaming in the cold. Delia, your neighbor, spots you from afar and waves; you lift a hand back without really thinking.

You keep walking, moving through it all like you’re slowly slipping back into your body again.

You’re rounding a corner when you hear footsteps.

You turn, and see him.

Joel.

He’s a few feet away, hands deep in his jacket pockets, beard a little overgrown, hair messy like he’s been tugging at it all morning. His eyes skim over you in that quiet, assessing way.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough but warm.

“Hi, Joel,” you murmur.

He nods, shifting. Something tense in his posture—alert, aware.

“So… I heard you’ve been busy,” you say lightly.

He snorts. “Busy sittin’ on my ass. Tommy and Maria won’t let me near patrol ’til this leg stops bein’ dramatic.”

You smile despite yourself.

He scratches at his belt buckle. “Been lookin’ over the maps, though. Somethin’ ain’t addin’ up. Routes that used to be clean are suddenly bein’ used again. Things that don’t make sense—things that shouldn’t be happenin’ inside Jackson.”

A chill crawls up your spine.

“And,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours, “I heard you’ve been havin’ a rough week.”

You try not to grimace. Dina.

“Yeah,” you admit softly. “Just… a lot going on in my head.”

Joel watches you—really watches—not pushing, just present.

Then he says, almost under his breath:

“You know… you can come to me when you’re not feeling yourself.”

You blink, a little sharp. “Can I? Because I haven’t seen you since we got back… and it sure doesn’t feel like you’ve been checking in.”

He shifts, a little awkward, scratching the back of his neck. “Well… with the leg, movin’ around was… difficult. I tried.”

He huffs out a breath, eyes dropping for a second. “It just felt… weird. That night, comin’ back here without you. Not havin’ you around… it felt strange.”

His jaw works once before he adds, quieter, “Had to think about it, I guess.”

Your heart jumps.

“So… you felt weird because I wasn’t there, and that’s why you vanished for a week?”

“I didn’t vanish,” he says with a low chuckle, head tilting. “Why d’you sound so mad, darlin’?”

His smile twitches, teasing but a little unsure.

“You’re not gonna tell me you missed me… are you?”

You arch a brow at him. “Oh, you wish. Don’t get so cocky, Miller.”

He shifts, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. The cold air seems to condense around him, brushing against your skin as he leans in. You catch the faint scent of him—sandalwood and leather, familiar, grounding.

His lips hover just by your ear, close enough that his warmth seeps in, and he murmurs, low, only for you to hear, “Maybe I did miss you.”

“I… I thought… maybe you didn’t want to see me,” you say softly, eyes dropping for a moment. “Or… that you were avoiding me.”

Joel lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Now, sweetheart, why in the world would I be avoidin’ you? Not for a minute. I’ve been thinkin’ about you the whole time.”

He steps a little closer, until the heat from his body presses gently against yours. A stray lock of hair falls across your face, and he reaches up, tucking it behind your ear, his fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary, tracing the curve of your cheek just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your breath catches, pulse spiking, as the teasing weight of his presence presses closer. His eyes lock on yours, searching, warm, daring.

Your heart picks up, as you turn toward him fully. The garden isn't empty; distant voices from the greenhouses remind you of eyes that could wander this way. But Joel's awareness matches yours—he's always been the one to sense threats, to pull back when he should. Yet here, with the weight of days without seeing you, or being able to hold you at night, caution gives way to need.

He moves in, bodies pressing together, chest to chest, the heat from his body seeping through layers of jackets. His big, rough hands land on your waist, thumbs brushing your hips, holding steady, heavy, grounding. You lift your face, lips parted, palm flat against his chest, feeling the hard thrum of his heartbeat, the way it vibrates under your fingertips.

The sound you make—soft, unintentional, throaty—escapes before you can stop it, a release you didn’t know you were holding. He captures it immediately, lips pressing hard to yours, teeth grazing yours in a teasing bite. You shiver, fingers digging into the back of his jacket, then slip behind his neck, hand tangling in his hair, gripping, pulling him closer. His lips shift, pressing to yours again, harder, faster.

Joel’s hands move up, cupping your face, thumbs sliding down your jaw, anchoring you, steadying you. His mouth opens against yours, tongue teasing, probing, seeking, and yours answers in kind, brushing, pressing, tasting. Each press of his lips, each slide of his tongue sends heat pooling low in your body, a delicious ache you’ve been starving for.

He nips at your lower lip, playful and demanding, and you gasp, twisting your head slightly into the curve of his neck. He responds, lips trailing down, brushing your jaw, the side of your neck, his warm breath fanning your skin. He groans low, a vibration that sinks straight through you.

His hands slide from your waist to your hips, gripping, pulling you flush against him, bodies molding together naturally. Your legs brush, your thighs pressing as the kiss deepens, tongues tangling, tasting, claiming. You can feel his heartbeat racing against yours, his breath ragged, matching yours, as if your hunger and his are the same.

He breaks the kiss for a second, but he doesn’t let go. His hands stay on you, pressing you close, and he leans in, brushing lips along your neck again, whispering softly against your skin,

“See?… I missed you.”

You laugh, tilting your head, letting him nuzzle closer, fingers still tangled in his hair as you pull him toward you. The garden hums around you—frost on the windows, steam curling in the cold air—but all you notice is him: the heat of his body, the weight pressing into yours, the ache in your chest from waiting too long. Finally, you meet his lips, pressing a tentative, hungry kiss, just a little peck that says everything you’ve been holding back.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard, eyes scanning your face, confirming you’re really there. With him. And for a heartbeat, the world shrinks to the two of you, bodies pressed, heat lingering, lips still tingling where they met.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’. You know that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, a hint of a smile tugging at the words.

You bite your lip, heart thudding. “Maybe… not as much as you,” you whisper, letting the words hang between you.

You reach for his hand, tugging gently. “Let’s just leave before we start putting on a show,” you murmur, teasing. He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, letting you pull him along. His fingers lace with yours, thumb brushing yours with a slow, lazy sweep, and he murmurs, “Yes, ma’am,” voice rough but amused, letting you lead the way.

He walks you home, shoulders brushing yours every so often, fingers brushing your hand as you navigate the path. After a moment, his voice drops, quiet but steady.

“You know… I didn’t forget what you said back when we were out there,” he murmurs. “I promised I’d take you back to Grand Teton, to see your home. When we’re both healed up… I’ll take you there.”

“I’d like that,” you say, your smile softening without you meaning to, the warmth of him—and the fact that he remembered—settling over you like a blanket.

When you reach your porch, the chill of the evening brushing your cheeks, Joel slows, letting his hand linger in yours for a moment longer. He looks down at you, eyes warm, quiet.

He leans in, brushing his lips to yours again—a soft, lingering kiss that speaks of unspoken promises and the spark between you. You pull back slightly, still close, foreheads almost touching, and you can’t help but grin.

“See you around?” he asks, voice low, teasing just enough to make you lift your eyebrows.

You let out a little chuckle, soft and natural. “Yeah… see you around,” you reply, warmth threading through your words.

He starts to turn, stepping away, but then pauses. You’re just about to step inside when he comes back, moving close enough to brush past you, his voice quiet but certain: “Actually… would you like to have dinner at my place tomorrow?”

You angle your head, a small grin tugging at your lips. “Is this… like a date?”

Joel quirks an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Mm, I don’t know… don’t you think I’m maybe too old for dates?”

You roll your eyes. “A friendly dinner, then?”

He huffs a soft laugh, low and warm. “Friendly? Nah. Screw that. Yeah… like a date.”

He dips his head to the side, eyes tracing your face—lingering a beat too long on your lips—something gentle tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Would you like that, sweetheart?”

You smile, a little playful, a little shy. “Oh… okay. I like that better, Mr. Miller.”

He grins, eyes lighting up. “Good. Tomorrow. Seven?”

“I’ll be there,” you answer, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He backs up a step, still watching you. “You better…”

He tilts his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. “One for the road,” he says, leaning in and pressing another soft kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to catch your eyes before finally pulling back. He nods once, giving you a last, warm look, then turns and walks away.

You watch him go for a few steps, biting your lip, and for a moment the evening air feels different—lighter, charged—like something between you two finally clicked into place after weeks of circling around it. As if the whole world had shifted just a little, making room for this small, impossible-to-take-back moment.

At Jackson’s edge, Lena hovers like she’s waiting for someone. Her breath fogs the air in thin, shaky streams. She keeps pacing, shoes grinding frost into the dirt, her eyes darting between the treeline and the distant lights of town. She can’t stop checking over her shoulder—like she’s terrified someone might see her… or that someone might already be watching.

A twig snaps.

She spins.

A woman steps out from the shadows, hood pulled low over her head. She reaches up, sliding the hood back to reveal a cascade of brown curls and piercing, black eyes that gleam with intensity. Her expression sharp enough to cut.

“Took you long enough,” she says flatly.

Lena jerks like she’s been struck, guilt and terror twisting across her face.

Where is?—

“I came alone, he didn’t let me bring the boy with me. Marek’s done being patient. Everyone’s done being patient.”

“I’m… I’m handling this, Rhea.”

She laughs—short, sharp, humorless.

“No. You’re hiding. Jackson’s turning you soft.” She steps closer, boots crushing the snow. “Ethan’s little brother is being kept here, two of our men are dead, and you’re standing here playing house with these people.”

Lena’s voice breaks—but the fury underneath doesn’t.

“Our men?” she spits. “The same ones who tied me up? Starved me? Beat me?” She takes a step forward, trembling with rage. “Yeah, they died. Torn apart by clickers.”

Her lip curls.

“And you know what? Good. I’m glad. They deserved it.”

Rhea moves before the air can settle—closing the distance so fast Lena flinches. Her breath ghosts against Lena’s cheek, cold and intimate.

“Careful now,” she whispers, voice low, sharp, like a blade sliding under skin. “Watch your mouth.”

A beat.

“You forget what you came here for, Vic?”

The name detonates between them.

Lena flinches—hard—as if struck.

She hasn’t heard her true name since she first stepped into Jackson.

Victoria.

A name she tried to bury.

A name she’d rather carve out of herself than ever answer to again.

“…It’s Lena,” she whispers, but it comes out cracked, fragile, almost pleading.

Rhea tilts her head, studying her like a pinned specimen—then lets out a low, amused laugh.

“Lena?” she scoffs, lips curling. “Oh honey… please.”

Her gaze drifts over the distant cabins, the fencing, the warm glow spilling from Jackson’s windows. A slow, mocking sweep.

“You really love playing your little part, don’t you?”

Lena swallows hard. Her hands twitch at her sides—wanting to ball into fists, wanting to disappear.

“Look at you,” Rhea goes on. “Settled in your miracle town. Eating their food. Sleeping in their beds with that pathetic man—Greg, right?”

Lena’s breath stutters. Guilt flashes quick across her face.

Rhea laughs softly, like she’s savoring it.

“Can you imagine his face when he finds out his sweet little wife is already married… with a son of her own?”

Her voice dips, crueler.

“Or when he realizes he doesn’t even know your real name? Your real life? You’re fooling yourself if you think you belong here.”

Lena looks down, chest tight, breath going thin.

“And the worst part?” Rhea leans in close. “You know it. You’re just like the rest of us. You did the same twisted shit. Don’t get cynical on me now, Vic.”

Lena flinches—hard.

She presses back until the trees dig cold into her spine.

“What’s next?” Rhea asks lightly. “You gonna pretend you’re better than us now?”

She taps Lena’s chest with one finger—light, precise, vicious. Lena jolts, breath breaking.

“Why? Because you helped that girl escape?”

A thin, cold laugh slips out of her.

“You think that makes you what—redeemed? Good?”

She steps closer, slow enough to make it hurt, her voice dropping into something cruelly soft.

“Is that what you whisper to yourself at night… just so you can sleep?”

Lena’s breath shatters. Her shaking hands lift uselessly at her sides.

She tries—just once—to lift her chin.

It trembles.

“Rhea… that’s enough.”

The amusement drains from Rhea’s face like a curtain dropping.

“Never forget who you are. And who you belong to.”

Her voice turns soft—wrong soft. A gentle tone twisted into a threat.

“You’ll follow his orders, exactly like we agreed. You’ll keep pretending. And you’ll keep those trails open for our people. No hesitation.”

Rhea’s gaze darkens.

And don’t you dare repeat what you pulled last time—forcing us into Jackson too early because you let those patrol guys crowd the paths.”

She pauses.

“One more slip like that? You’re dead. His words, not mine.”

Lena swallows, the color draining from her face.

Rhea doesn’t stop.

“Oh—and the girl…” Her mouth curls, almost fond.

“He wants her back. You know how he is with his toys. That one’s his too. It’s been years, Vic. Years. Plenty of time to blend in. And you did. Congrats!.”

The smile drops.

“But the game’s over. He’s only been patient because you gave him a son.”

She tilts her head, almost pitying, but her eyes stay sharp.

“Tell me… do you actually plan on seeing him again?”

She lets the question hang for a second before adding, casual and cutting:

“Because I didn’t mind bringing him before—letting you get a look at him. But now?

Now you’re being real stupid. Real clumsy.”

Lena steps forward, voice tight, eyes wide with worry. “Please… just tell me if he’s good?” Her hands fidget at her sides, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve.

Rhea tilts her head, lips curling faintly, eyes cold and sharp. “The boy’s fine,” she says, letting the words hit. “Marek won’t let anything happen to his blood. But keep testing him… and he might just prefer to be a single parent.”

Rhea steps back, pulling up her hood until shadows swallow her face.

“Fix this,” she murmurs—soft, deadly. “Because when he comes for you—and he will—you won’t like the version of him you see.”

And then she’s gone, swallowed by the trees—leaving Lena standing there in tears, pain twisting through her chest until she can barely breathe.

Prev / Next

For a moment he doesn’t move, as if any sudden motion might shatter whatever spell he’s still under. His brain feels strange. Soft at the edges, his thoughts moving slower than usual. He can feel the ache in his body like proof something immense has happened. Something he’s not ready to process yet.

Then he turns his head.

You’re still asleep, half-buried under the sheet, the sunlight spilling in lines across your back. Your hair’s a mess, your breathing even. Peaceful. He stares for too long, trying to reconcile the calm before him with the storm still running through his muscles. There’s a pull in his chest he doesn’t have a name for yet, something warm and unnervingly gentle, like waking up somewhere his body recognises before his mind does. His gaze drifts down your arm and catches on a small bruise blooming along your elbow. Faint, purple-edged, the type you get from clipping a rail or misjudging a landing. Without thinking, he reaches out, brushing his thumb lightly over the mark, careful, reverent. The kind of touch he wouldn’t give to just anyone. The kind that says more than he’s ready to.

His eyes travel up, and that’s when he sees them. Faint marks and bruises forming along your collarbone and throat, fingerprints of last night’s chaos. His breath catches. His eyes widen. Memories hit him in a rush...your voice breaking, your nails in his back, the balcony railing biting cold against his hands, the way you’d looked at him like you wanted to burn him alive.

He lets out a shaky laugh under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “Christ,” he mutters. “I need a debrief.”

You stir, stretch, and murmur something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh of your own. When you sit up, you catch his dazed expression and shake your head, amused. 

“Afternoon,” you say, voice rough from sleep.

“Afternoon,” he echoes.

You throw him a look that says you know exactly what’s going on in his head, and get out of bed. The hoodie he swears was folded on the chair last night somehow ends up around your shoulders as you pad toward the kitchen.

By the time he pulls himself together enough to get dressed, there’s a mug of black coffee waiting on the counter.

“You looked like you’d need it,” you say simply.

He takes a sip, silent, eyes still fixed on you as you move about your chalet. Everything around him feels like an extension of your mind. Ordered, precise, everything in its place. Supplements lined by day. Protein powders alphabetised. A laptop open to a colour-coded schedule for the next week.

He glances at the room, half asleep, half dazed. Eyes following the carefully curated space you made, if only for a weekend. “You’re very organised.”

You shrug, pushing your hair out of your face. “Easier that way.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, still piecing together whatever version of himself existed before last night. It’s obvious this is simply who you are – deliberate, honed, shaped by years of structure. The way you say it makes it sound less like a preference and more like a law of physics. He understands that. Lives by it, even. “Comforting, I guess.”

“Necessary,” you correct, and the half-smile you give him tilts his world just a little. It’s small, barely there, but something warm drops through his chest anyway and his stomach flips before he can stop it.

When you finally check the time, you swear softly. “We’ve missed half the slopes.”

“Half?” he echoes. “More like two thirds.”

You shoot him a look, exasperation edged with something softer, “Lunch. Slopes. Then pack. Norway tomorrow.”

“Right,” he agrees immediately, with the misplaced conviction of a man nodding at gospel. It’s only when you turn away, hiding the start of a smirk, that he realises he’s nodding like someone freshly domesticated.

What the fuck am I doing? he thinks, rubbing his eyes like he could blink the spell off him.

You think he looks cute when he's nodding like a lost puppy, though.

The restaurant is warm, all chatter and clinking glasses. You’re already ahead of him, laughing with Ella, Noa, and Shaun. You look completely back in control: hair neat under a beanie, eyes warm, focus sharp again.

Lewis slides into a chair beside Miles and Tim, his movements slower than usual. He’s quiet. Too quiet.

Miles, halfway through a forkful of pasta, stops and stares. “Mate… you good?”

Lewis blinks once, twice. “I think so.”

Miles tilts his head, studying him. Lewis looks like a man who’s been unplugged and hasn’t reconnected yet. Calm, polite, but distant, his eyes still somewhere else entirely.

“Good,” Miles says slowly, still watching him. “Because you look like you’ve been in a traumatic event.”

Lewis gives a tiny, helpless laugh. “Huh, maybe.”

Tim looks up, frowning. “You okay?”

Miles waves him off, eyes still locked on Lewis. “He’s not hurt. He’s transcended. Look at him. He’s blinking in slow motion.”

Lewis groans, rubbing his eyes. “I might need… a debrief. Possibly a therapist.”

Miles’s jaw drops. “Holy shit. Did she—” he stops himself, lowers his voice, “—ruin you?”

Lewis glances at him, utterly sincere. “I think I’ve seen the light, mate.”

Miles just stares for a second, unsure whether to laugh or call a doctor. “You’re not even joking.”

Lewis shakes his head, dazed. “Not even slightly.”

Miles sets his fork down, now half-worried. “Are you okay? Like physically, emotionally… existentially?”

Lewis exhales through a quiet laugh. “Physically, aching. Emotionally, undefined. Spiritually, obliterated.”

Miles leans back, hands up in mock prayer. “She’s broken the man. Someone alert the FIA.”

“I’ll recover,” Lewis says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

Miles studies him again. “You sure? You look like you’ve had an entire religion rewritten overnight.”

Lewis hums, finding the plate in front of him far too interesting. “Maybe I have.”

At that, Miles can’t help but laugh. “I thought she’d eat you alive, didn’t think you’d come back a prophet.”

Lewis shakes his head, smiling faintly, eyes unfocused. He can still hear you crying out for him against the balcony in his head. “You have no idea.”

Miles’s amusement softens into something like genuine concern. “For real though, mate… she’s intense. Don’t let her throw you off your axis. You look—” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “—different.”

Lewis thinks about denying it, then doesn’t. “I am.”

Across the table, you’re a universe away. Animated, focused, completely at ease. Talking with Shaun about your training block, laughing about an old crash video Ella pulled up on her phone. You slice through your pancakes like a woman entirely unbothered by last night’s events.

Shaun grins. “You’re off to Norway tomorrow, yeah?”

“Early morning flight,” you say between bites. “Camp starts Monday.”

“Brutal,” he says.

“Necessary,” you reply again with a small shrug, the word effortless.

Miles watches the exchange, then glances at Lewis. “She’s talking about altitude training and you’re over here having an out-of-body experience.”

Lewis hums again, eyes still on you. “Because to her, maybe nothing happened.”

Miles sighs exaggeratedly . “Brother… you’re finished.”

Lewis breathes out a quiet laugh, more of a confession. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I am.”

You glance up mid-conversation, meeting his eyes across the table. A flicker of knowing passes between you. Brief, electric, a private aftershock of something neither intends to name. Then you go back to your pancakes, perfectly composed, as if the world hasn’t shifted.

Miles watches him, still wary, half-laughing. “Alright,” he says finally. “Nap. Water. Maybe a smoothie. You look like enlightenment’s hangover.”

Lewis nods slowly, still dazed, still watching you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Probably all three.”

By the time they leave the restaurant, the sun has already started its slow descent behind the ridge. The air has that late-afternoon hush, blue light softening the edges of the snow.

Lewis tells himself he’ll go back out. Just a couple of runs, clear his head, shake off whatever this fog is. But the minute he gets back to his chalet, the warmth hits and his body decides otherwise. He drops onto the bed fully clothed, still half-listening to the wind against the windows, and then… nothing.

When Lewis wakes, the light has turned gold.

The clock reads 4:03 p.m. His neck aches, his body feels like it’s been through a training camp he doesn’t remember signing up for. There’s a soft knock on the door. A polite, rhythmic knock that only Miles could manage.

“Come in,” Lewis calls, voice rough.

Miles eases the door open, holding a smoothie like it’s holy water. “Alright, mate,” he says. “You. Missed. The slopes. Do you have any idea how serious this is? I thought you’d been abducted. By monks.”

Lewis sits up slowly, wincing at his own stiffness. “Yeah, well. I needed sleep. System rebooted.”

Miles stares at him. “You don’t ever nap, Lew. You meditate for an hour and then decide to stretch. This—” he gestures broadly to Lewis still wearing a beanie in bed “—this is a red flag. Did she break you?”

Lewis blinks, still foggy. “Kind of.”

Miles grins, delighted. “Kind of? Mate, you look like you’ve done three triathlons and fought God in between”

“Accurate.”

Miles’s grin sharpens. “So… not to pry, but… did she, uh, outperform the data model?”

Lewis gives him a flat look. “Miles.”

“I’m just saying,” Miles says, palms up. “You look like you’ve seen every dimension of reality and then some. There’s actual enlightenment in your eyes, mate. Like you came back from a pilgrimage.”

Lewis leans his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “That’s because that’s actually what happened.”

Miles tilts his head in disbelief. “Lewis, mate. It’s just a woman, a little one night stand. A very beautiful woman. Come on–”

“I’m serious,” Lewis says, eyes snapping open and meeting his gaze. “I have no idea what just happened to me, but I might never recover.”

Miles starts laughing so hard he nearly slides off the bed. “You’re telling me the seven-time world champion, the man who redefined endurance, got flattened?”

Lewis shrugs helplessly. “That’s one word for it.”

Miles stares at him, hand over his mouth, eyes watering with laughter. “I need to send her a thank-you card. Maybe a trophy. You’re blinking like a man who’s just come back from war.”

Lewis rubs his temples, muttering, “It’s not funny.”

“It’s absolutely hysterical,” Miles says, wiping his eyes. “You, Mr. Discipline, Mr. Meditation… napping at 4 p.m.? Brother, she didn’t just knock you off the podium, she lapped you.”

Lewis sighs. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It was…” He stops, searching for words, then laughs helplessly. “Insane.”

Miles’s eyebrows shoot up, intrigued. “Insane how?”

Lewis stares at him, blinking slowly, utterly sincere. “Like… insane.”

Miles narrows his eyes. “Define insane.”

Lewis hesitates, eyes darting toward the floor. “I—probably shouldn’t.”

“Oh no, no,” Miles says, dropping onto the bed, grinning. “You started this, you finish it. What happened?”

Lewis opens his mouth, immediately regrets it, then blurts a string of half-sentences and gestures that make absolutely no sense but somehow imply everything.

“I came FOUR times, Miles. I forgot that was possible. I felt possessed, bruv. Hot tub, bed, reverse cowgirl, doggy, balcony, SHOWER–” 

Miles goes still for half a second, then bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry, WHAT? Bro!”

Lewis throws up his hands, mortified. “I told you I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Not joking?” Miles asks, eyes sparkling.

“Not even slightly. I felt like she slipped a viagra in my drink, Miles. I’m telling you… check the CCTV. Someone drugged me or something. No way that was all me.”

Miles clutches the smoothie like it might keep him from levitating. “Okay, first of all, respect. Second…holy FUCK.” He laughs again, bright and delighted. “You look traumatised and healed. FOUR TIMES? That’s talent, brother.”

Lewis exhales through a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah. Talent.”

Miles wipes his eyes, still giggling. “This is incredible. You’re forty, mate. Forty! And she’s got you walking around looking like you’re pussy whipped! Aren’t your knees insured?!”

Lewis glares at him, mouth dropping open. “DO NOT PHRASE IT LIKE THAT MILES, JESUS CHRIST! Don’t make it sound weird. And yes, I’m sure my knees are fucking insured but that’s not the point is it?!”

“It is weird!” Miles gasps between laughs. “You’re glowing and broken at once. You’ve got post-traumatic serenity. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me as your friend.”

Lewis covers his face with both hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Not a chance,” Miles says. “This is history. Lewis Hamilton found his kryptonite, had one taste, and decided to nap about it.”

“Four tastes, Miles. Four. In under 3 hours…”

Miles stifles another laugh and nods towards Lewis’s crotch faintly, voice lowering to a whisper. “Is lil Lew alright?”

Then he’s hit in the face with a pillow so hard Miles nearly falls off the bed and drops the smoothie.

“Shut the fuck up.” Lewis grumbles as Miles suppresses another snicker. “I’m serious.I don’t know what just happened to me. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s…she’s so…different.”

Miles’s grin softens but doesn’t fade. “Oh, I know. I’ve met her, remember? She walks in and the air salutes.” He tilts his head, still laughing. “But clearly, you’ve reached a level of pussy whipped none of us were ready for.”

Lewis chuckles weakly, staring down at the smoothie in his hands that he snatched mid-sentence to hide how flustered he was. “You think I’m exaggerating.”

“I think,” Miles says solemnly, “that you need an electrolyte IV and a therapist bruv. This is outstanding.”

Lewis laughs, finally relaxing. “Probably both.”

“So dramatic.”

Lewis lets out a laugh that sounds half-genuine, half-resigned. “You think I’m joking, Miles. I’m not. She… she’s different. I’ve met focused people before, but she’s—” he pauses, searching for the word, “—another category entirely. Watching her lose control like that…because of me. Fuck, man.”

Miles flinches like he’s been shot. “Mate, please. I’m one more word away from blushing on your behalf.”

Lewis rolls his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m serious.”

Miles studies him, grin still there but softened. “Alright then. Different how? And if you say ‘she glows in the moonlight’ I’m leaving.”

Lewis snorts and shoves him, thinking for a second before responding. 

“She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” Lewis says quietly. “She just is. She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t chase attention. She’s brilliant. It’s terrifying. And magnetic.”

Miles lets out a low whistle, eyebrows shooting up. “Yep. That’ll do it. Man’s cooked. Properly. Like a Sunday roast left in the oven ‘cause nobody set a timer.”

Lewis lets out a helpless, embarrassed laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck off. You’re not helping. I’m just…” He exhales, defeated. “Yeah. Fine. Cooked. Absolutely cooked.”

Miles shakes his head, still half-laughing. “I’d say congratulations, but you look like you’ve survived a natural disaster. Drink that before you start levitating again. Honestly, bro? You’ve never looked more human. Or more alive. It’s kinda beautiful. And also deeply alarming.”

Lewis glances up at him, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “That’s because I am alive. Barely.”

Miles snorts. “Sip your smoothie, Socrates. And next time you go near her, wear emotional armour. Or—I dunno—holy water. Something.”

“Wouldn’t help,” Lewis mutters.

Miles grins. “I know. That’s why it’s funny.”

Lewis takes a long sip of the smoothie and exhales. “She’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Norway, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Miles nods like he’s assessing a wounded soldier. “Well then,” he says, pushing himself to his feet, “I’d get your words in quick, mate. Before she leaves you catatonic again. Or speaking in tongues.”

Lewis chuckles, low and resigned. “You’re a menace.”

“And you,” Miles says brightly, pointing at him like a disappointed PE teacher, “are finished. Cooked. Folded like laundry. Recover, hydrate, maybe call a priest. You look like a broken man, Lew.”

Lewis shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Something like that.”

When the door shuts, the room is quiet again. He sinks back into the pillows, the smoothie dripping condensation onto his hand. He doesn’t even notice, he just stares at the fading light pooling across the floor. Every muscle still aches, but it’s the kind of ache that tells him something irreversible has shifted. It feels like something completely out of his control. He doesn’t know if it was sex or a seismic event, but whatever it was, it shifted something he can’t put back.

You’re back where you belong.

Snow hisses under your board, the air clean enough to bite. The mountain opens below you like a familiar map. Every line, every edge, every drop exactly where it should be. You’d forgotten how quiet everything feels up here when you were doing it for fun. No noise, no press, no eyes. Just wind, speed, balance. 

You cut hard, feel the tail of your board skid through powder, then ride out the turn and laugh. Ella’s behind you, Noa chasing close, and Tim’s halfway down the run trying to get shots before you disappear again.

“Slow down!” Noa shouts, but you can hear the smile in it.

You don’t.

By the time you reach the bottom, your lungs are burning in the best way. You unclip, fix your beanie, and glance up. Shaun’s already there, one hand wrapped around a coffee, the other shading his eyes. He looks amused.

“You know,” he says as you stomp over, “most people would take a rest day after… whatever that was.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Whatever what was?”

He gives you a look that’s half brotherly, half gleeful. “Don’t play dumb. I saw him earlier. Lewis looked like he’d gone ten rounds with the apocalypse.”

You laugh, unbothered. “He’s fine. He’ll recover. Eventually..”

Shaun snorts. “Recover? He could barely walk, kid. I’ve been on podiums less bruised than he looked.”

“Dramatic,” you say, unclipping your gloves. “It was just a night. It was fun.”

“Fun,” Shaun repeats, sceptical. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

You shrug, smile crooked. “Would you prefer I call it a religious experience? He seems to think it was.”

Shaun laughs so hard he nearly drops his cup. “Oh, he’s gone. You should’ve seen him at lunch...Miles was practically calling for last rites.”

You shake your head, suppressing a grin. “They’re both ridiculous.”

“They’re terrified,” Shaun says, still chuckling. “He’s forty, you’re you, and apparently, he’s out here questioning reality all of a sudden.”

You adjust your beanie, half amused, half exasperated. “That’s on him. I’m fine.”

You tell yourself that’s true. Mostly it is. But there’s a part of you, the quiet, unguarded one you keep buried, that's stuck replaying last night in flashes. How he looked at you, the way his eyebrows knitted together and jaw slackened as his forehead rested on yours, the low moans he made. His laugh low in the dark, the way he listened like every word you said mattered, how easy it felt to let the world drop away for once. You’d talked for hours before anything else happened, real talk, not the surface-level scripts you’re used to. He’d understood things you never explain out loud. That unsettles you more than anything. Because you’ve built a life on control, on choosing when to let go. And last night, you didn’t choose. You just did. 

Shaun gives you that look, the one that’s seen every version of you. “You always are.”

You glance away, back up the slope where Noa and Ella are already strapping in again, Tim crouched low with his camera ready. The sunlight catches off the snow, scattering into gold.

You smile. “Come on, old man. You coming, or do we need to get you a recovery smoothie too?”

He groans. “You’re so annoying.”

You start toward the lift, board dragging with you. “That’s why you love me.”

Behind you, Shaun laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Just try not to break another world champion, alright?”

You toss a look over your shoulder, grin flashing. “No promises.”

And then you’re gone again, carving into the mountain like it’s muscle memory, leaving the rest of the world to catch up.

Dinner runs long. Firelight, music low, plates clinking softly as snow keeps falling outside.

Lewis arrives late. He’d told himself it was just to say goodbye properly, nothing else. But when he spots you already seated, laughing at something Miles has said, that promise evaporates before he even reaches the table.

He ends up next to you. Not planned, not really, the only open seat. Miles raises his brows but says nothing, biting down on a smile that doesn’t help.

“Evening,” you say, voice light.

“Evening,” he returns, careful, casual. Except it isn’t. At all.

The conversation flows around you both. Noa and Ella talk travel logistics, Tim gestures animatedly with his camera, Shaun argues with Miles about something ridiculous. Lewis adds in where he can, but half his attention is on you, the way your laugh cuts through the noise, the way the firelight catches in your hair.

When you pass him a dish, your fingers brush. It’s nothing, just a small, electric misstep, but he doesn’t pull away right away. Later, when you lean closer to reach for your glass, your knee knocks lightly against his under the table. This time he stays still, pretending not to notice while every nerve in his body does.

Miles definitely notices. He smirks over the rim of his drink, shaking his head like of course.

Lewis clears his throat, turning slightly toward you. “You all packed for tomorrow?”

You shake your head. “Not even close. I’ll do it after dinner.”

He smiles, low. “Still the last minute type? I’d expect you to be packed a week before your trip, you know.”

You arch a brow, suppressing a smirk. “And you’re not?”

“Not if I can help it anymore.” He gestures toward you with his fork. “You look like someone who plans her life to the minute.”

You laugh softly. “Only when it matters.”

“I think it always matters,” he says, a little quieter now.

Something about his tone makes you glance at him — he’s smiling, but it’s that softer one that reaches his eyes. You hold the look for a second longer than you mean to before reaching for your drink.

“You sound like someone who meditates about his suitcase.” Deflection, a quick pivot away from the feelings in your stomach. 

He chuckles. “You’d be surprised.”

It’s easy. Too easy. He asks about your next competition, you ask about the season ahead. He’s curious about your training schedule, the places you’ll go, how you stay sharp when the pressure never ends. You listen when he talks about the silence before a race, the focus, the odd calm of it. You recognise pieces of yourself in every word.

At one point, as the table breaks into laughter about something Miles says, his hand slips to your leg, a quiet, grounding gesture under the table, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your trousers. It’s brief, almost unconscious, like he needs that small point of contact to steady himself. He leaves it there just long enough for you to feel it, then shifts slightly, pretending it never happened. 

It feels like fire, the way it leaves a trail of heat on your thigh. Forbidden fire. Fire you cannot let yourself get too close to.

He asks, “Do you like Norway?”

“I love it,” you say without thinking. “It’s quiet. Real snow. No cameras. I can just work. Train hard. Focus.”

He nods, thoughtful. “I get that.”

“You should,” you tease. “Bet you hide away all the time, huh?”

He tilts his head, dimples on show. Tries to hide how his eyes soften at the sound of your teasing, the way his stomach flips just from looking at you. “Maybe, sometimes.”

Miles is still watching from across the table, eyes glinting with amusement. He mouths something that looks suspiciously like whipped, and Lewis fights the urge to laugh.

By dessert, you’re already mentally gone — half in the snowfields of Norway, half still here, finishing a conversation that’s turned surprisingly honest.

“I should pack,” you say finally, checking your watch. “Early flight.”

The table quiets for a moment, then fills with goodbyes.

Miles groans dramatically. “Already abandoning us?”

“Some of us have to work,” you shoot back, smiling.

Tim waves. “I’ll send the photos.”

Shaun stands to hug you, voice low and warm. “Eat enough, kid. Don’t run yourself into the ground.”

“I’ll try,” you say, though you both know it’s a lie.

Then you turn to go, until Lewis is already pushing his chair back, coat in hand. “I’ll walk you,” he says before he can think twice.

Miles mutters something that earns him a look from Shaun.

You hesitate, only for a second. “Alright,” you say finally.

Outside, the air bites. Snow drifts lazily under the lamplight as you start down the path together, footsteps soft against packed ice. The silence is comfortable.

He wants to say something, anything, but every word feels too heavy. You don’t seem to need them anyway; your gaze is forward, already halfway to Norway in your mind.

Still, he stays close beside you, the space between your hands too small to ignore.

The night air fogs with every breath, crisp and dark with cold.

“You’re really flying out tomorrow?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Mhm” you confirm, hands tucked into your jacket pockets. “Training camp. It’s… pretty full-on.”

He nods, smiling faintly. “Sounds like it.”

You glance over. “What about you? When do you head back?”

“Couple of days,” he says. “Then I’m flying to Italy. Maranello.”

You tilt your head. “Back to HQ?”

“Yeah. Pre-season meetings, simulator, data work, the usual,” he says with a small shrug. “Pretending to enjoy spreadsheets until I can get back in the car.”

You laugh, low and genuine. “That’s a very glamorous image, Lewis Hamilton versus Excel.”

He grins. “Hey, don’t underestimate me. I’m unbeatable in column formatting.”

That makes you laugh again, bright and easy, and he swears he can feel the sound of it somewhere behind his ribs. The sound loosens something in him. When you brush snow off your sleeve, he reaches out without thinking, fingertips grazing yours before his hand settles lightly around yours.

You glance down but don’t pull away.

He exhales, the faintest smile on his lips. “Just making sure you don’t slip,” he says, even though you both know that’s not what this is.

“Mm-hm.”

You walk the rest of the way like that, your hands still linked, the quiet between you soft and comfortable.

When your chalet comes into view, you slow. Warm light glows through the windows, golden against the snow.

You stop at the steps, turning toward him. “Thanks for the walk,” you say.

He nods but doesn’t step back. His gaze flickers toward the door, then to you, your face half-lit by the porch light, your breath still misting in the cold. It hits him all over again: how last night felt like falling and flying at once. The feel of your skin under his fingertips. The way he’d made you let go of everything, focus only on him, even for a couple of hours. He doesn’t want to leave, not yet.

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat, “let me help you pack, yeah?”

You tilt your head, amused. “You want to help me pack?”

“Yeah,” he says, half laughing now, aware of how ridiculous it sounds. “Just… make sure the gold medal’s in there somewhere.”

You smirk. “I think I can manage that.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Still.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, then push the door open. “Alright,” you say, stepping back. “You can supervise.”

He follows you inside, the warmth rushing up to meet you both.

Inside, the chalet is warm and impossibly tidy. Not hotel tidy, you tidy. There’s a rhythm to the order that makes it feel lived-in and fully under control: boots aligned heel-to-heel on a mat; outerwear hung with zips kissing; a drying rack of neatly spaced base layers like a monochrome flag.

Lewis shuts the door and catches himself smiling. In the lust-filled chaos of last night and the daze of this morning he hadn’t quite realised the extent to which everything was…ordered.  He’s lived a long time with systems and rituals, but this is another level. He follows you to the table and stops. The table you put his coffee on this morning. It isn’t a table anymore. It's mission control.

Your laptop glows with a colour-blocked calendar. Hourly bands for sleep, mobility, cardio, slope time, strength, recovery. Next to each day is a linked checklist: tiny boxes with ruthless label. AM: HRV log, 10-min breathwork, 5g creatine, 20g collagen, ankle prehab, hip CARs. SLOPE: line review, two warm sets, progression 1–2, risk gate. PM: compression, protein target, legs up, 8h asleep. Lewis leans in and sees that each item has a timestamp when it was last completed. You aren’t planning your life; you’re auditing it.

He thought he was meticulous. He thought he was the one who ironed discipline into lines. Internally he winces: Jesus. I’m a hobbyist compared to this.

Your phone buzzes on the table. You flick your eyes to it without breaking pace, open the email, scan, nod. “Nutrition,” you say absently. “Confirming macros for camp. They want me at 120 grams protein minimum, heavier on carbs the second session.”

Another buzz. “Physio. Slot tomorrow evening for tissue work. And...” one more ping, “Coach wants to tweak tomorrow’s conditioning if snow is heavy. He’s sent a new off-snow activation block.”

Lewis watches those emails arrive and slot instantly into the calendar with no friction, no fuss. You’ve already dragged little blocks an hour left, half-hour right, all while zipping a side pocket and kneeling to coil a charger into an elastic loop.

The suitcase on the floor is half packed. Half packed for you still looks military. Compartment cubes are labelled with painter’s tape and tidy caps handwriting: THERMALS — MON/TUE, MID — WED/THU, OUTER — ALL. A smaller cube reads SPARES: straps/edges/screws. That last one makes him snort.

“What,” you say without looking up.

“Spare screws,” he answers, crouching to help. “I’ve seen engineers less prepared.”

“That’s because I pay attention,” you say, not unkindly. “Everything breaks eventually.”

He doesn’t miss the way you say everything: gentle, factual, without drama. You fit so precisely into discipline it feels like the only place you can breathe.

He reaches for the stack of sweatshirts on the chair and, out of habit, folds them. Shoulder to shoulder, sleeves in, a single smooth panel and then halves into rectangles. You notice, eyebrows arching.

“You fold like a man who’s lived out of a bag.”

“I have,” he says, aligning edges. “A long time.”

“Perfect,” you say, and it lands like a compliment you don’t hand out easily.

On the floor by the wall sits a snowboard bag. A huge one, zips straining under the pressure of keeping it shut. Curiosity gets the better of him and he unzips the top and freezes. “You brought...three?”

You glance over, matter-of-fact. “Obviously.”

“For one trip?”

Your look says you know better. “Different days. Different tasks.” You tap the first: “Park board: stiffer, edges set hard. Good for rails, predictable pop.” The second: “Big air: lighter core, faster base, slightly tuned for speed and takeoff.” The third, you rest your hand on, almost fond: “Backcountry: she’s wide, she floats, and she doesn’t argue.”

He laughs under his breath. “You just called your board ‘she’.”

“She is,” you say, unapologetic. “She saves my life on heavy days. I bet you personify your car!”

He runs a palm along the top sheet of the big-air deck and whistles. “Touché. And you bought all three for a four day camp? Or the weekend away?”

“I take them everywhere,” you deadpan, and that makes him grin.

Beside the bag is a lined-up trio of helmets in soft cases. You pull them out without ceremony, laying them like offerings: matte black for park; matte white for big air; then the one you lift a little slower, the competition shell, glossy and deep blue with a faint pearly fade. The Red Bull mark curves clean along the side.

“Well, well,” he says, flashing a look of disgust. “We’ve seen that logo around.”

You catch it, laugh. “Don’t start. I drink the cans, I don’t design the engines.”

“Please keep it that way,” he says, mock grave. “We’ve had… professional differences with red bull over the years.”

“That’s between you and your past life,” you reply, smiling as you check the liner. “Mine pays for snowboards and plane tickets.”

He steps closer to the comp helmet, noting small, quiet details a casual fan would miss: a tiny inked outline on the rear, barely there unless the light hits it. A shape like two rounded humps and a thin valley.

He squints. “What’s that?”

You slide the helmet into his hands. “Helvellyn. Striding Edge, technically.”

“Lake District?”

“Home,” you say, and the word sits differently on your tongue. Softer, less precise. “Dad and I hiked it when I was little. One of the few days I remember thinking… okay, I’m brave up here. First time I fell in love with the mountains. It's about 20 minutes from my family home”

He turns the helmet gently, finding another mark on the inside rim, a small date, unassuming numerals. He knows a podium date when he sees one. “Your first gold.”

You shrug, almost guilty at being sentimental. Your first gold when you were 15. A fluke, many thought. A one-off. How wrong they were. “I like to keep the map and the proof together.”

He hands it back with something like reverence. “I get that.”

On the table, your spreadsheet of meals sits open in another tab. He’d thought the supplements off to the side were a lot...little labelled cases with AM/PM, soft gels, chewable vitamin D, iron, magnesium, omega-3, something for joints. But the plan is another universe: MONDAY—oats, chia, berries (weighed), espresso (single), protein shake (30g), then a neat column of checkboxes for water in 500ml increments. LUNCH—rice bowl with greens and salmon; AFTERNOON—banana, yoghurt; DINNER—chicken or tofu, roast veg, sweet potato; DESSERT—“hot chocolate if landings clean.” He huffs, amused and appalled. Hot chocolate if landings clean. You’ve gamified the simplest comfort.

You catch him reading and don’t flinch. “It helps.”

“I know,” he says. “I had to turn food into math to stay sane some years.”

“Then stopped counting?” you say, half statement, half question.

“Mostly,” he admits, under his breath. “Weight limit changed, bit easier now. Means I’m actually allowed to have some muscle. Still count when I need to. Well, I have people to count for me..”

You nod like he’s spoken a code phrase correctly. Then you pull a zip-pouch marked RECOVERY and line it with compression socks, a travel TENS unit, two lacrosse balls, and a neatly folded set of Voodoo bands. He watches your hands and thinks not of obsession, but of devotion. There’s a difference. Obsession is loud. This is quiet. Monastic.

Your phone dings again. You swipe, skim. “Dom says wind could be variable. Session one is rails and switch landings, session two is air awareness. He wants the backflip clean before we add rotation. Ana wants me to keep ankles warm on lifts. Rhea says sodium up if I’m lightheaded after session two.”

“Does everyone in your life email at midnight?” he asks, half teasing, half stunned.

“They know I’m awake,” you say simply.

God, he thinks, a little awed, a little unnerved. She never puts it down. And then, because honesty is cheaper than pretending: Neither do I, to be fair.

You kneel again, weighing your three boards with your hands like each has a personality you can sense through your palms. Lewis crouches beside you, sorting gloves by thickness without being asked, lining them from thin liners to insulated pairs, thumb seams facing the same way. You glance sideways.

“You really like order,” you say.

He smiles. “You really like winning.”

“Same thing,” you answer, but you’re smiling too.

He notices, then, the small things others would miss. How you check your edges with a thumbnail and then write a quick note, sharpen big air heel edge, into a little pocket notebook that already has a dozen lines of scribbles. Just like his notebook he carries with him at the paddock. How you count your spare bindings screws under your breath: one, two, three, four, and then count again. Like it's a compulsion. How you set your alarm for a time that ends in :27, the kind of ritual a body trusts even when the brain can’t explain it.

He slides a folded sweatshirt into the suitcase and looks up. “You ever… not do this?” he asks gently, not accusatory, genuinely curious. “The lists, the loops, the checkboxes.”

You sit back on your heels, considering. “When I do, I get hurt,” you say plainly. “Or I forget to eat. Or the run goes bad and I don’t know why. The routine means I can fix things before they break.”

He nods, that honest understanding tugging at his chest. “Yeah. I know that one.”

“It’s not about control,” you add, surprising him. “It’s about peace.”

He lifts an eyebrow, studying your features. “I thought the peace was the control.”

“It used to be.” You zip the cube closed. “Now the peace is knowing I did everything I could. Then the mountain can say no if it wants.”

He sits with that for a second. Then tilts his head and mutters slightly softer, “and if it says no?”

“It never says no to me,” you say with a smirk, like you’re reading the weather, not your life.

He exhales and smiles because there’s nothing else to do in the face of a truth that elegant.

You stand, slide the big-air helmet into its case, and tuck the comp helmet last, fingers resting on the Lake District line a second longer than they need to. He can almost see you on Striding Edge. Small and stubborn, wind loud, dad’s hand near but not holding, the first taste of I can do hard things. He files that image next to you upside-down against blue sky and you over a table with a pen drawing tiny boxes that all get ticked.

When the suitcase is finally zipped, the room exhales. You check the calendar again, drag a mobility block fifteen minutes earlier, swap sled pushes to bike flush because the physio wants less eccentric load on travel day, set a reminder to call your mum when you land. Then you flip to tomorrow’s list and tap three boxes you can’t do tonight. Sleep ≥ 8h, Eat enough, Landings clean. The interface drops a soft checkmark on each. It’s almost tender.

Lewis laughs quietly. “You check boxes in advance?”

“Manifestation,” you say, deadpan, and it’s so at odds with the science that he wheezes.

There’s a soft domesticity to what follows. Two people moving through small tasks like they’ve done it a hundred times. He folds another hoodie and slots it into a gap you left for exactly that shape. You plug in your watch and coil the cable with the same neat loop he used on his sweatshirts. He moves your compression boots from the chair to the case so you don’t forget them; you set a tiny sticky note on the door handle that reads PASSPORT. It all looks absurd from the outside, he knows, neurotic, maybe. But on you it reads like a vow. A wonderful, beautiful, devoted vow to your sport. He tries to ignore how his chest feels so warm.

He wanders to the helmet bags again and taps the Red Bull emblem with a sideways grin. “You know, if anyone asks, I did try to talk you out of the cans. Can’t you get sponsored by monster or something? Red bull is not good for your image.”

You roll your eyes. “Your team is sponsored by a printer and watches I can’t afford. If I come back with a ten second edge on you one day because of caffeine from those cans, I’ll send a handwritten apology.”

He snorts. “Ten seconds? Please. Give me my dignity. I’m not that slow on a board.”

“Sure. Keep folding my sweatshirts, Lewis,” you chuckle.

“Gladly,” he says, and he means it. There’s something deeply soothing about being useful in your orbit, even at this small, ordinary scale.

You close the final pocket, pat the top of the suitcase like a done thing, and straighten. The room is the same and not; the chaos of leaving has already been pre-forgiven by your order.

“Done,” you say.

“Of course you are,” he answers, soft.

You look up at him at that. It’s not pride he’s offering, not awe. It’s recognition. The kind of look you give someone when you’ve finally mapped the contours of the mountain they climb and can say without flattery: I see the cost, and I see why you pay it.

He checks the time and swallows what he wants to say, because it would be heavy and you are packed lightly tonight. “What’s left?”

“Sleep,” you say, then add, “and an alarm at 4:27.”

“:27,” he echoes, amused. “Lucky number?”

“Just right,” you say.

He hesitates, then nods. “I should let you get it.”

You walk him to the door. The night breathes like a living thing outside, snow still whispering against the glass. He’s not ready to leave, but he respects the ritual: evening closed, morning already open.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For folding?” he teases.

“For not making fun,” you correct, a small smile. “People usually do.”

“I might be the last person qualified to laugh,” he says. “Besides, it’s not crazy. It’s the price of landing every jump right, the way you always do.”

That earns him a full smile, quiet and rare. “Exactly.”

He steps out into the cold and turns back. You’re already unplugging chargers, checking a final list, smoothing the case handle down so it sits flush. He realises it then with a clarity that feels like clean air: what looks like perfection from a distance is, up close, your way of being kind to yourself. Of removing every stray variable so the only thing left to manage is the leap. He pushes down the need to hug or kiss you goodbye. 

“Goodnight,” he says, soft.

“Goodnight, Lewis,” you answer, and it sounds like both a boundary and an invitation to try again. 

He starts to turn, hesitates, then laughs softly, half-nervous, half-hopeful. “Wait. Do I have to ask Shaun for your number, or…?”

You freeze, thrown completely off. “What?”

“Your number,” he repeats, smiling. “So I can check in. See how training’s going. You know…research on my new favourite snowboarder…”

You raise an eyebrow. “You could just follow my Instagram.”

He groans quietly. “I will! But that’s… impersonal. Everyone follows your Instagram.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you say, but there’s humour in your voice.

He folds his arms, still grinning. “I’d rather ask properly.”

You sigh, amused. “Fine.” You hand him your phone, screen unlocked. “But if you start sending affirmations, I’m blocking you.”

He chuckles as he types in his number, then calls himself so yours flashes on his screen. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then before he can stop himself, “no one’s going to object, right? Me having your number?”

The question lands lightly, but something in him tenses as he waits for your answer. He knows the answer, he slept with you last night, but he's trying to use it as an opening.

You shake your head, barely registering the question. “No. No one to object.”

He tries to play it off with a half-smile. “Boyfriend?”

You laugh. Not sharp, not cruel, more dismissive than anything else. “Absolutely not. Haven’t got the time or the interest.”

“Right,” he says automatically, but the word doesn’t sit right in his mouth.

You go on, matter-of-fact, oblivious to the man you’d destroyed the night before in front of you. “The love of my life’s snowboarding. Everything else just complicates the data. Distraction, disruption… all the things I don’t need.”

He nods, smile tightening. “Makes sense,” he says, but there’s a dull throb under the words.

You don’t notice. “It’s not exactly romantic.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs, eyes on you. “But it’s honest.”

And it is honest, that’s the part that stings him. Because as he watches you standing there, lit by the porch light, confident and already halfway to Norway in your mind, he realises how completely he believes you.

He gives a small nod, as if agreeing with himself. “So I’ll just cheer from the sidelines.”

You tilt your head, that faint smirk tugging again. “You can try.”

He laughs softly at the rejection you're gently giving him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I can.”

The door closes softly. He stands a moment in the hush. He’d loved helping you pack. Loved being close to you, even like this. Somewhere inside him, a box ticks itself complete, something unclenches.

When he finally walks away, the cold air hits him harder than it should. Your number glows in his phone. A tiny, impossible thing, like a keepsake he hasn’t earned. Proof he didn’t dream you, proof last night wasn’t something he crafted in his mind from hunger or loneliness.

But all he can think about is how seamlessly you drew the boundary. How unshaken you were. How calm. Like nothing had shifted at all.

The snow crunches under his feet as he walks, slow, hesitant, each step dragging a little. Somewhere in the blue-lit silence, something settles in his chest with the weight of a stone dropped into deep water: he’s already in trouble. Real trouble. And you didn’t look back at him even once.

He exhales, breath curling up into the dark, and tries to laugh at himself, gently, quietly, the way a man does when he knows he’s losing before the race has even begun.

She’s not obsessed, he thinks. She’s devoted. Single-minded. Unreachable in the way only the truly exceptional are. Just like he has been for most of his life.

He understands it better than anyone. That kind of devotion has a gravity to it. A pull that doesn’t leave much room for love, or softness, or someone waiting in the wings. He respects it. Wants to protect it, even. He tells himself he’s fine with being a friend, with being someone who cheers from the sidelines.

But the truth presses in as the cold creeps through his coat: quiet, bruising, inescapable. He already wants more. He already feels too much. But he knows he doesn’t get to want anything at all. Not from someone who belongs to the mountain, not to him.

So he tucks his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders curling inward, and walks on. Letting the cold bite, letting the quiet swallow him, letting the self-denial settle like fresh snow.

Because your devotion might demand sacrifice, distance, restraint, patience...and he’s already terrified of how willingly he’d give all of it if it meant he could stay close enough to feel your orbit, even from far away.

The sound was everywhere: edits of girls staring out car windows, playlists titled songs that ruin your life at 2 a.m., even fan theories explaining how “Silver Springs” was about a love so deep it rotted. The comments were a collage of ache:

“who hurt her this bad.” “y/n literally said ‘i’ll haunt you forever’ and meant it.”

Within a day, the internet had turned it into something between a prayer and a dare.

By the end of the week, someone posted the old live performance— the one where she sang it directly to him, decades ago. The camera zoomed in on her eyes, on his clenched jaw, on everything that still burned between them. It wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a myth caught on film.

“You could be my silver spring,” she’d sung, voice steady, “I’ll follow you down ‘til the sound of my voice will haunt you.”

That clip hit harder than any breakup TikTok or sad movie scene. It was real.

People started digging. Old interviews, tour footage, the breakup album, and grainy photos of them laughing before it all fell apart.

And somewhere between the screaming and the nostalgia, someone tweeted:

“I wonder if they ever talk now.”

That one went viral too.

popculturemuseum

Fleetwood Mac's "Silver Springs" is trending again as fans rediscover the 1997 live performance between Y/N Y/L/N and Charles Leclerc. Over 50 years after their breakup, people are still obsessed with the emotional tension that defined their music.

💬 209 🔁13k ❤ 100k

user1 their chemistry was toxic but cinematic as hell user2 i need to haunt my ex like this fr user3 this is why musicians shouldn't date each other user4 my mom was in the trenches

By the second week, journalists had joined in. Think pieces flooded the internet:

“How ‘Silver Springs’ Became Gen Z’s Breakup Anthem” “The Art of Haunting: How Love Outlives the Lovers” “Fifty Years Later, We Still Believe in Y/N’s Curse.”

Somewhere, in a quiet apartment above the water, someone else saw it all unfold.

A woman—older now, softer around the edges—watched the hashtag climb the trending page. She didn’t click it. She didn’t have to.

Her phone buzzed, one notification after another:

Have you seen this? They’re talking about you again. It’s gone viral. Again.

She set the phone face-down on the table, the sound still echoing faintly from another room—the faint loop of a younger version of herself, singing a promise she hadn’t meant to keep.

And somewhere else—a continent away, maybe—a man watched the same clip. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He just stared, long enough for the glow of the screen to reflect in his eyes, then turned it off.

No statements were made. No comments posted. But for the first time in years, the world remembered them.

And maybe, quietly, they remembered each other too.

You meet him in someone else’s house—a half-empty beer in your hand, a guitar too big for your lap.

Charles Leclerc is standing by the fireplace, tuning his instrument with the kind of intensity that makes the air hum. You can hear the chatter of college kids around you, the clinking of bottles, but his fingers are the only thing in focus.

He looks up when you start to sing. Not a real song, just a stray line you’ve been humming all night, something about the desert, something about loneliness, something that sounds like freedom if you squint hard enough. His eyes soften. He joins in without asking, and for a minute, the room fades out.

Later that night, on the porch steps, he tells you you’ve got a voice that sounds like trouble.

You laugh. “Trouble’s usually the fun part.”

He grins in that quiet way of his, dimples showing. “Guess I’ve been looking for some.”

The first months are a fever dream of cheap apartments and open-mic nights. You and Charles play anywhere they’ll let you plug in: coffeehouses, college campuses, once even a bowling alley, where no one listens until the final verse. You share a beat-up van and the same worn-down dream: to make music that hurts people a little when they hear it.

When the small labels start calling, it’s exhilarating. You both think it’s luck; everyone else says it’s chemistry. He writes like he’s starving. You sing like you’re saving your own life. There’s no boundary between love and art yet; it’s just creation, constant and consuming.

“Promise me,” you say once, half-asleep in some two-star motel outside L.A., “that if it all goes wrong, we don’t stop writing.”

He kisses the top of your head, voice muffled in your hair. “We’ll never stop.”

By the time Fleetwood Mac finds you, everything’s already starting to shift.

You’re no longer the kids on the porch; you’re professionals now, contracts, rehearsals, studio sessions that stretch until dawn. You move into the big white house in L.A. that feels more like a dream than a home.

And somewhere between the tours and the pressure, the songs stop sounding like promises and start sounding like accusations.

He starts to vanish into the work, chasing perfection, chasing something you can’t name. You start to find your own power in the spotlight, and he hates that it looks good on you.

One night, during a take that won’t come together, he slams his guitar down hard enough to make the mic stand shake.

“You’re not listening,” he snaps. “It’s supposed to sound like— like heartbreak, not performance.”

Your jaw sets. “Maybe it’s both now.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t know you anymore. “You used to care about the song.”

You meet his gaze. “I still do. Just not only yours.”

There’s silence, thick and electric, before the producer coughs awkwardly and cues the track again. You sing. He plays. Neither of you look at each other.

It should have ended there, but instead, it became legend.

Every fight, every line, every late-night studio confession bleeds into the music. The world calls it passion; you know it’s decay.

And when “Landslide” charts, when strangers hum your pain back to you, Charles turns to you onstage between verses and says under his breath, “You got your dream, Y/N.”

You smile for the crowd. “So did you.” But you both know you’re not talking about the same thing anymore.

The house on Fleetwood Way smells like incense and exhaustion.

Mick’s pacing in circles, Christine’s chain-smoking by the piano, and John’s fiddling with the same bass riff he’s been playing for two hours. The clock on the wall has stopped ticking, but no one notices; time doesn’t work right anymore in this house.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet, notebook in hand, voice raw from take after take. The air is too warm, your hair sticks to your skin, and Charles is sitting across from you, far enough to seem distant, close enough that every time he exhales, you hear it.

He hasn’t looked at you in three days. Not really. Not since you showed him the lyrics.

You could be my silver spring, blue-green colors flashing...

He’d read them once, twice, and said nothing. Just set the paper down carefully, like it might explode.

Now he’s pretending not to watch you hum through another verse. You catch his eyes once—only once—and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

“Let’s take it from the bridge again,” you tell Mick.

Your voice sounds steady. It’s a miracle.

It’s almost two in the morning when you realize everyone else has gone home.

The console lights blink like city windows in miniature, and the air smells like stale coffee and reel-to-reel tape. A rough demo of Dreams is still looping quietly through the monitors, your own voice haunting you from half an hour ago.

You’re sprawled on the studio couch with your notebook open on your knees. The words are starting to blur together: thunder, rain, freedom, loneliness. You press your pen too hard and rip the page.

The door opens behind you, slow, hesitant. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

Charles stands there for a moment before stepping inside. He doesn’t say hello, just crosses to the console and kills the playback. Silence falls, heavy and alive.

“You’re still here,” he says finally. His voice is rough: smoke, whiskey, and too many takes.

“So are you.”

He smirks faintly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, that seems to be the theme lately.”

He leans against the mixing desk, arms folded. In the low amber light, he looks older than he should—or maybe just tired of pretending he isn’t.

“You working on another song?” he asks, nodding toward your notebook. You look down at the half-finished lyrics. “Something like that.”

“Let me guess. About me?”

You don’t look up. “Don’t flatter yourself. Not everything’s about you.”

He laughs softly, but it’s not kind. “You used to say everything we did was about each other.” You meet his eyes then. “Yeah, well. I used to believe in a lot of things.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can smell the sharpness of the bourbon. “You always make heartbreak sound noble,” he says. “Like it’s art, not a mess you helped make.”

You tilt your head. “You’re the one who keeps turning it into a song.”

“It’s the only way I can stand to look at it.”

“And does it make you feel better? Lying about me on vinyl?”

“Better than pretending you’re innocent.”

The words hang there, brittle as glass. You stare at each other, neither willing to flinch first.

Finally, you close the notebook, slow and deliberate. “You know what your problem is, Charles? You think honesty and cruelty are the same thing.”

He exhales through his nose, a bitter, almost-laugh. “And you think poetry can make you blameless.”

Something in you snaps—not anger, exactly, just the ache of recognition. “Maybe we deserve each other then.”

“Maybe we ruined each other,” he says quietly. “There’s a difference.”

The hum of the equipment fills the silence. Outside, L.A. is sleeping under smog and starlight.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches over and switches off the last lamp, leaving only the console glow between you.

He hesitates like he wants to touch you, then doesn’t.

“I still hear you when you sing,” he says finally. “Even when it’s not about me.” You swallow hard. “That’s the curse, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You’ll always think it is.”

For a moment, it feels like the universe might collapse back into what it used to be: two people and a song. But the moment passes, soft and merciless.

He steps back. “Finish your song,” he murmurs. And then he’s gone.

You sit there for a long time after, staring at the empty doorway, humming the line that will become Silver Springs.

It’s nearly midnight again.

The air in the studio feels heavy, almost wet, the way it always does when the tape’s been rolling for too long. Cigarette smoke clings to the walls, and the room hums with the static fatigue of overwork and ego. Someone’s guitar hums against an amp. The faint whir of the reel-to-reel blends with whispered irritation.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, notebook open, pen trembling slightly against your knee. The words blur, too many rewrites, too many nights like this. Across the room, Charles is bent over his guitar, tuning and retuning as if precision could hold back the inevitable.

“Let’s just take it from the top again,” he mutters. He doesn’t look at you.

“We’ve taken it from the top six times.” You close the notebook, a soft thud that feels louder than it is. “Maybe it’s not the song.”

That gets him to look up. His eyes are rimmed red, hair falling over his forehead, sweat making it stick. There’s a flicker of something, guilt, annoyance, maybe both. “Then what is it?”

You swallow the words you want to say. It’s us.

Instead, you shrug. “Maybe the song doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

He scoffs, leaning back in his chair, strumming once. “It means exactly what I wrote it to mean.”

There’s a quiet murmur from the corner, Mick pretending to tinker with his drum kit, Christine scribbling something on sheet music to avoid watching the slow-motion collision happening a few feet away. You can feel everyone holding their breath.

You rise, walking to the mic. “Then maybe you should sing it yourself.”

“Maybe I should,” he fires back, sharp. His voice cuts through the air like a snapped string.

The tension sits there, pulsing, alive. You both hover on the edge of something dangerous.

When you finally start singing, your voice is low but steady, the words soft daggers:

“You said you’d never leave me, but you never stayed the same—”

Charles’ fingers tighten around the neck of the guitar. He plays the chords anyway. Every strum sounds like an argument.

By the second verse, you can’t help it; the venom seeps in. You lean into the mic, eyes locked on him.

“You said I was your reason, but now you don’t even call my name.”

Christine glances between you two. “Should we—”

“Keep playing,” you say, without breaking eye contact.

He gives a humorless laugh, half under his breath. “You always did like making me the villain.”

You take a step toward him. “You made yourself the villain.”

“Or maybe I just stopped being your hero.”

There it is. The room goes still.

You’re too close now. The mic stand is between you, your voice shaking but sure. “I never asked for a hero, Charles. I just wanted you to stay.”

His jaw tightens. “You wanted me to stay small.”

You blink; that one lands harder than it should. The band pretends to be busy, but everyone’s listening. You can hear the scratch of Mick’s lighter, the faint clatter of Christine setting her pen down.

“I wanted you to be honest,” you say finally.

He stands, guitar swinging low against his thigh. “I was honest. Every goddamn song I’ve written is about you.”

The confession hangs there, raw and unwanted.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s not honesty, Charles. That’s theater.”

His face twists, not in anger, but something close to hurt. “And what do you call this?” he gestures toward you, toward the microphone, toward the notebook full of words that sound like revenge set to melody. “You write your heartbreak and make it rhyme, then act like you’re bleeding more than the rest of us.”

You step closer. There’s barely an inch between you now. “Maybe I am.”

Silence. The tape still spins.

Mick mutters something about taking five, but neither of you moves. The air is leaden, too heavy to breathe. You can smell the salt of his skin, the faint metal of his strings, the ghost of what you used to be hanging between you.

He exhales through his nose, voice lowering. “You always had a gift for turning pain into poetry.”

“And you always had a gift for giving me something to write about.”

That one hits its mark. He turns away, hand gripping the edge of the console. The muscles in his jaw twitch. You want to apologize, but you don’t, you can’t. Not when you both know you’d mean it and unmean it in the same breath.

You catch your reflection in the soundproof glass, two people who can’t stop orbiting each other even as they burn everything down.

“Let’s take it from the top,” you whisper.

He doesn’t argue this time. He just nods, picks up his guitar again. And when you start to sing, it’s softer now, the bite gone, replaced by something hollow and tired.

Christine joins in on the harmony. The music swells, wrapping around you like smoke, like memory.

By the final chord, the anger’s melted into something worse, resignation.

You meet his eyes one last time. For a heartbeat, it’s just the two of you again, the same two kids who wrote songs in a tiny apartment before the fame, before the fury.

But then he looks away first. And you realize the song’s over.

The door clicks shut behind you, muffled by the sound of Los Angeles breathing outside.

Neon bleeds through the window, a soft, sickly blue that pools against the floorboards, making the shadows stretch long. The city feels distant here, like it’s holding its breath with you.

You kick your boots off near the couch, collapsing into the quiet. The air smells faintly of dust and the cigarette you forgot to finish this morning. Your throat burns from hours of singing—or arguing. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

The notebook sits open on the coffee table, its pages littered with fragments: half-lyrics, crossed-out lines, a verse you started during soundcheck and never finished. You stare at it, waiting for the words to move, to make sense of what happened back there. They don’t.

You think of Charles.

Of how his hand trembled when he tuned his guitar. Of the way his voice cracked—just once—on your name, when he wasn’t looking at you.

The argument replays itself in your head, line for line, like the tape still spinning somewhere downtown. You wanted me to stay small. It hits harder in the dark. You hate how it hurts because you know he’s half-right.

You had wanted him close. You had wanted the version of him that still called you “darling” in the mornings, who’d hum new melodies against your skin before you were both awake enough to speak.

You wanted to freeze him there, before the headlines, before the stage lights, before he started writing songs about other women and pretending they weren’t all still about you.

The clock ticks.

You light a candle, though the flame flickers against the draft.

Music still echoes faintly in your skull, the chorus you recorded tonight, the one that cut deeper than it should’ve. You said I was your reason.

The irony is almost holy. You laugh under your breath, but it sounds too much like a sob.

You pick up the phone before you can stop yourself. His number is muscle memory. Your thumb hovers over the dial, heart pounding. But you already know what would happen if you called — he’d answer, maybe. You’d both say each other’s names like prayers, and then you’d talk about nothing until it hurt too much to keep pretending.

So you don’t call.

Instead, you write. You always do. The pen scratches slowly, deliberately across the paper:

“What if I told you I still dream about the song you never finished? The one you said would sound better if I sang it?”

You stop. The ink blots, spreading.

You remember the way he used to sit cross-legged on the floor with you, bare feet brushing, sharing the same cup of coffee. The way he’d hum your melodies and call them his own, and you’d let him, because it felt like belonging.

Because back then, it didn’t matter who wrote what; you just wanted to build something together.

Now, even your harmonies sound like war.

There’s a knock at the door, soft, uncertain. You freeze.

For a moment, you convince yourself it’s him. That he drove all the way from the studio to apologize, to take it back, to say he didn’t mean it.

You open the door.

But it’s only the night air, cold and empty. Someone must’ve knocked on another door.

You laugh again, quiet this time, almost gentle. You sit back down, tear the page from your notebook, fold it neatly, and tuck it inside your guitar case.

Maybe someday, you’ll finish the song.

Maybe someday, you’ll sing it without feeling like you’re bleeding through your teeth.

For now, you leave the candle burning until it gutters out.

And as the smoke curls toward the ceiling, it smells like memory, sweet and bitter and gone.

You hear your name before you see him. Someone backstage calls for Charles, his voice easy, practiced, like nothing’s wrong. The crowd roars, the lights flash, and the sound is so huge it feels like standing inside a storm.

You’ve done this show a hundred times now. The routine is muscle memory, a lace dress, a tambourine, and the mic adjusted to your height. Every movement rehearsed, polished, perfected. And still, every night, the air tastes like grief.

He passes you on his way to his mark, guitar slung low. The same one you bought together in some dusty California shop years ago. His eyes flicker toward you, not enough to be called looking, not enough to be nothing. You can tell he hasn’t slept. Neither have you.

Then the first chords hit.

“You can go your own way...”

It’s brutal hearing it live. The song was born from the same walls that used to hold you, and now it’s an anthem for your undoing. He sings it with that raw, defiant tone that makes the audience scream — the kind that makes you feel like the villain in someone else’s tragedy.

But when it’s your turn, you don’t flinch. You give them Silver Springs in return. Your voice cuts through the noise, high and aching, like prayer, like punishment.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me...”

It’s always been your secret answer to him, and he knows it. Everyone does. Every show becomes a duel — his chorus against your verse, his accusation against your forgiveness that never quite forgives.

Tonight, though, something shifts.

He won’t look at you. Not once. Not when the crowd chants your name, not even when your voice cracks on his. It’s the final cruelty: indifference.

You finish the song, breath trembling, and for a heartbeat, you think you might break down right there. But instead, you smile—bright, devastating—and bow.

If he wants distance, you’ll give him a galaxy.

Backstage is colder.

The air conditioner hums too loudly; someone’s pouring champagne in the corner. Reporters hover nearby, pretending they’re not watching the two of you.

Charles stands by the mirror, unstrapping his guitar. His reflection looks older, harder. You want to tell him that fame doesn’t suit him, that it’s too sharp around the edges, that it’s cutting into what’s left of him. Instead, you just say, “Good show.”

He nods. “Yeah.” His voice sounds like smoke.

You wait for something more. An apology. A memory. Anything. But he’s already halfway to the door when he adds, without turning around,

“You know, that song of yours... You sing it like it’s still about me.”

You bite down hard on your tongue. “That’s because it is.”

For the first time all night, he looks at you.

And for a moment, it’s like being twenty again, before the world knew your names, before the love curdled into legend.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. You can see it, the apology he’ll never say, the love he’ll never let himself mean again.

“Goodnight,” he says finally.

He leaves, you stay.

The mirror catches your reflection, all glitter and exhaustion. You barely recognize yourself, the woman who sings her heartbreak for thousands, the ghost haunting her own song.

You press your hand to your throat, still sore from the set. It feels like the universe keeps dragging his name out of you, night after night, until there’s nothing left to give.

Still, when you walk back onstage for the encore, you smile again.

Because no matter how much it hurts, this—the music, the myth, the ache—it’s yours too.

And when the lights flare and the crowd erupts, for one blinding second, you believe it’s enough.

The house is smaller than anyone expects it to be.

You bought it years ago for the silence—tucked between jacaranda trees and the long, sloping road that used to echo with the sound of Harley engines and half-finished songs. Now it smells of dust, incense, and paper. Every shelf is lined with old journals, Polaroids fading to the color of smoke, and gold records dulled to bronze.

The journalist from the magazine sits across from you on the couch, recorder blinking red between you like a heartbeat. She can’t be older than twenty-five. Her denim jacket is patched with bands that borrowed your chords without knowing. You watch her eyes dart from the photos on the wall—snapshots of five kids in bell-bottoms—to the curve of your guitar case resting in the corner.

“Do you ever listen to Rumours anymore?” she asks, voice cautious, like she’s stepping on a ghost.

You smile, slowly. “Sometimes,” you admit. “Usually by accident. Grocery stores love ‘Dreams.’” You tilt your head, almost fond. “It’s strange hearing your younger self in stereo. She sounds like she still believes love can fix everything.”

The interviewer laughs softly. You can tell she wants to ask about him, but doesn’t know how. You decide to make it easy.

“You’re wondering if I ever see Charles,” you say.

She freezes, then nods.

“No,” you answer simply. “Not for years. But I still hear him.” You gesture toward the wall of records. “There he is, on every harmony, in every echo I tried to drown out.”

She scribbles something in her notebook, and you feel a flicker of pity. She thinks this is about nostalgia. It isn’t. It’s about ghosts.

You lean back, lace sleeves brushing the armrest. “We built something beautiful,” you continue, voice lower now. “But we built it out of pain. The kind that eats everything else.”

There’s a pause. She waits. You let the quiet settle, heavy and sweet.

“When people ask what it costs, I tell them the truth,” you say. “It cost me him.”

The words hang there, simple and devastating. The air feels thinner.

“Do you regret it?” she asks finally.

You think for a long moment. The sun catches the glass frame of a Rolling Stone cover on the wall—both of you frozen in your youth, laughing like nothing could break. “Sometimes,” you admit. “But then I remember the music. The world still sings it. That’s… something.”

You turn your gaze toward the window. Outside, the canyon glows gold, the same color it was in ’75 when you first moved here with nothing but notebooks and dreams. The same gold that poured across the studio floor the day you recorded Silver Springs and knew you were writing your own curse.

“We loved each other too loudly,” you say softly. “The world heard it all.”

The interviewer asks, “Do you think he hears it too?”

You smile, eyes glassy but calm. “Of course he does. You don’t spend a lifetime harmonizing with someone and forget their frequency.”

The camera crew packs up slowly, careful not to disturb the silence that’s settled over the room. Someone adjusts the lighting one last time; another coils up cables in the corner. You sit still on the couch, framed by soft afternoon sun and shelves stacked with vinyl sleeves, all the ghosts of your own voice staring back at you.

The questions have been kind. Thoughtful, even. You’ve talked about the writing, the tours, the chaos that made you legends. You’ve laughed at stories that once made you cry, gestured with your hands when words failed, and pretended not to feel the weight of every name that still lingers in your throat.

Then she asks it, the question you always know is coming. Softly, carefully, like a prayer:

“Do you still love him?”

For a moment, you don’t answer.

The air feels heavier suddenly, like the walls themselves are waiting. Outside, you can hear the wind rattling the eucalyptus trees, the faint hum of a city that moved on without you. You trace a finger along the rim of your teacup, watching the steam curl upward until it disappears.

When you finally speak, your voice is calm.

“Always.”

You let the word hang there, simple and devastating.

The interviewer’s eyes widen, not out of surprise, but awe, like she’s just been handed a secret. You smile faintly, that old bittersweet kind of smile that comes from years of surviving what once consumed you.

“But loving him,” you continue, “was the price of the music.”

You lean back, eyes unfocused, drifting into memory. The room fades; the years collapse.  You remember the studio air thick with cigarette smoke, his laugh bleeding through the static of the tape, the first night you realized the songs you were writing weren’t saving you, they were eating you alive.

He used to say that the music would outlast everything. You’d roll your eyes and tell him he sounded pretentious, but secretly you believed him. You still do. Because even now, decades later, you can hear it — his voice blending with yours, your harmony chasing his melody until neither of you knew where one ended and the other began.

You think of all the versions of yourselves you left inside those songs: the lovers, the enemies, the strangers. You think of the nights when you’d sing Silver Springs and he’d sing Go Your Own Way, and the audience would cheer, never knowing they were watching two people bury a decade of love under applause.

The journalist says something—you don’t quite catch it—and you realize there are tears on your cheek. You laugh softly, dabbing them away with your sleeve.

“Sorry. It’s strange,” you murmur. “You spend your youth thinking love will make you immortal. And in a way, it does. Just not the way you expect.”

She tilts her head. “Would you do it again? If you knew how it would end?”

You take a long breath. The answer comes slower this time, gentler.

“I think I’d still choose him. Maybe not the pain, but him. The songs wouldn’t exist without the heartbreak, and the heartbreak wouldn’t exist without the love. We built something beautiful out of the wreckage. That has to count for something.”

A long pause follows. The room feels holy, somehow, as if grief, after all these years, has become its own form of worship.

“People always tell me Silver Springs sounds like forgiveness,” you add quietly. “But it’s not. It’s remembrance. It’s me saying, ‘I was here. We were real.’”

The interviewer smiles, that shy, reverent smile again. She thanks you, tells you how much your music means to her generation, how it still makes people believe in love. You nod politely, grateful, but inside you think: They’re not hearing love. They’re hearing rage.

When the crew finally leaves, you stay where you are, surrounded by silence. The late afternoon light cuts across the room in gold stripes. You walk to the turntable and set a record spinning, the old one, the one you can’t bring yourself to stop keeping near.

The needle drops. That familiar hiss fills the air, followed by the first chords of Silver Springs.

You close your eyes. The sound is worn, warped at the edges, but his voice is still there: young, alive, unbroken. Your answers, clear and soft. For a moment, time folds in on itself. The years vanish.

You don’t sing along. You just listen.

And when the song reaches that part—You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you...—You laugh through the tears, because after everything, it’s still true.

Love and art devoured you. Love and art defined you.

And when the record ends, the silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s peace.

rollingstone "Loving him was the price of the music."

In a rare new interview, Y/N Y/L/N reflects on the legacy of Rumours, the art born from heartbreak, and the boy she never stopped loving.

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user1 what a timeless song user2 imagine carrying that kind of history user3 idk man if someone sang to me like that i'd evaporate on stage user4 this feels like what dying of devotion sounds like user5 now why am i crying over people who broke up 40 years ago user6 ai could never recreate this user7 she speaks like she's been living with ghosts user8 mutual destruction but make it melodic user9 STANDING OVATION

You step into the light, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

The crowd roars, a wave of nostalgia and devotion that hits harder than you expect, but it isn’t what stops your heart. It’s him. Standing just a few feet away, guitar slung low, chin tilted in that same way you remember from the early days. The years have marked him, sure, but not erased him. You could pick that profile out of any lifetime.

The first chord rings out, clear and cutting, and you’re thrown back through decades you’ve spent trying to forget.

“You could be my silver spring…”

The words taste like the past. You wrote them on a night when the two of you still believed in forever, when forever was a small apartment and the smell of cigarettes and honeyed wine, when you’d sit cross-legged on the carpet and he’d hum new melodies against your shoulder. He’d grin whenever you came up with a lyric sharp enough to sting, pretending it didn’t land too close to home.

Back then, you were both hungry, not just for success, but for each other, for meaning, for a kind of love that devoured as much as it gave. You’d lie awake in those narrow hotel beds, whispering dreams into the dark, promising that nothing, no one, would ever come between you. And maybe that’s what doomed you from the start.

Because love, as you learned, doesn’t like to be shared with ambition.

The stage lights burn a little hotter.

You watch him through the haze, the way his fingers still move like they did when he was twenty, sure and desperate all at once. He doesn’t look at you yet. He never does, not right away. But you can feel it, the gravity between you, something cosmic and cruel.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me…”

The crowd is singing along, their voices soft, reverent. They don’t know they’re harmonizing with your ghosts. They don’t know that the song they love was born from heartbreak so real you thought it might end you.

You remember the night you wrote it.

The silence between you was unbearable, that kind of silence where love still lingers but has nowhere left to go. He’d already started pulling away, caught up in the momentum of his own genius, his own anger. You’d tried to hold him, to remind him what it used to feel like, but he’d looked through you, not at you.

So you wrote Silver Springs. You wrote it because it was the only way you knew how to speak to him anymore.

And now, twenty years later, here you are, singing it back at him, live, in front of thousands.

He glances up. Finally. For a heartbeat, the room collapses. You forget the microphones, the cameras, the stage. All you see is the man who once promised you the world and then walked out of it.

Your voice tightens, then grows. There’s something defiant in the way you hold that note. You’re not asking for pity, you’re reminding him. You’re saying: I was there. I loved you. You don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen.

And he hears it. You know he does. His jaw tenses, eyes darting down, pretending to tune his guitar. But you see the flicker. That crack in his armor. That quiet ache of recognition.

“I’ll follow you down ’til the sound of my voice will haunt you…”

You step closer without realizing it. Every word is a confession and a curse.

The crowd doesn’t blink. They can feel the electricity, the unresolved tension that hums louder than the music. The cameras will capture it, the look in your eyes, the way you refuse to look away, the way your hand grips the mic like a lifeline.

And for those few minutes, it’s as if you’ve both been thrown back in time. To the night you fought in a hotel room until morning. To the apology whispered through tears. To the endless, foolish promise that music would keep you safe.

You think of how wrong you were.

“Was I just a fool?”

The bridge hits.

Your voice breaks, but it’s beautiful—raw, trembling, all the years of silence collapsing into one single note that feels like it might tear your chest open.

And still, he looks at you.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t cry. He just sees you, and that’s somehow worse.

Because in that look, you realize he never stopped loving you either. He just learned how to live with it.

The final verse crashes down, and when it’s over, the applause is deafening. You drop your gaze, suddenly dizzy. It’s over, but your hands are shaking. You take a step back, just enough to breathe.

“Thank you very much, we really appreciate it. Silver Springs is a great ol’ song, thank you.”

He turns toward you, the faintest nod. Not forgiveness, not regret, just acknowledgment. Like saying, I heard you.

Backstage, the air is thick with congratulations. Someone tells you the footage is incredible, that the whole world will be talking about the stare you gave him.

You laugh softly, but it’s hollow.

Because it wasn’t about the cameras. It never was.

It was about finishing the sentence you started all those years ago, the one he never let you end.

And when you finally take off your heels, when the dressing room door clicks shut, you let yourself feel it. The ache. The relief. The strange, quiet peace that comes after bleeding the truth in front of thousands.

You loved him. You’ll always love him.

But maybe now, for the first time, you can stop haunting each other.

ao3 link

Chapter 1: Blind Date

Chapter 2: Cinderella

Chapter 3: Happily Never After

Chapter 4: No More Secrets

Chapter 5: Falling Hard

Chapter 6: Truth or Dare

Chapter 7: Apologize

Chapter 8: Trick or Threat

Chapter 9: Hurt

Chapter 10: Here Without You

Chapter 11: Favorite Crime

Chapter 12: You're the Reason

Chapter 13: How Long Will I Love You (final chapter)

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January 23

You are sitting on the couch, legs propped on the coffee table, your nine-month belly taking up all the space in front of you.

“Look… look… look!” you laugh, trying to get Lewis’s attention while you balance a water bottle perfectly on your bump, until a kick from the tenant inside makes it fall.

Lewis bursts out laughing. “She doesn’t like being used as a table, that’s pretty clear,” he jokes, dropping next to you and stroking your belly. “Hi, baby,” he whispers with that soft look he’s had ever since you found out you were expecting.

“A little more patience, daddy…” you smile. “…I’m going to bed, I’m exhausted,” you say, and Lewis stands to help you up. “Everything hurts,” you admit, pressing a hand to your back.

“Are you ok?” he asks immediately.

“Yes, I just can’t get comfortable in any position anymore. I’ll try to sleep a bit…” you say, dragging yourself toward the bedroom while Lewis follows you with that anxious, worried expression.

“I’m fine, ok? I’m just about to explode…” you try to reassure him and he mutters something behind you.

-

The first half of the night goes by quietly, but at two you’re awake, listening to your husband’s soft breathing beside you.

Your belly is hard and you distinctly feel something strange low in your abdomen.

You decide to get up, moving silently into the kitchen to make yourself some chamomile.

Minute by minute the discomfort grows, becoming more insistent. Your due date is in two days, nothing strange if it all starts now, if these really are the first gentle contractions.

You sit at the counter drinking your tea, then decide to take a shower, and by the time you’re done you clearly feel the discomfort getting stronger, though still not alarming.

Back in the kitchen you pour more chamomile, leaning against the counter, one hand on your belly.

“Baby?” Lewis’s voice fills the room as he walks in. “Everything ok?” he asks when he sees you a little bent over.

You nod and he steps closer. “Love…”

“…I’m ok… just… I think it’s starting…” you say, looking at him, and he widens his eyes.

“It’s… starting?” he asks, placing a hand on your belly. “Do we need to go?”

“No rush, but let’s start getting ready, ok?” you say, putting your hand over his, taking a deep breath. “She’s coming…” you admit with a smile and he hugs you, kissing your head.

“Let’s get dressed, mummy…” he says with a calmness you did not expect from him right now.

-

It’s a never-ending night, and the sun is already high when you enter the delivery room.

Lewis stays beside you the whole time, present, loving, your rock as always.

At 12:49 pm your daughter’s cry fills the room and suddenly she is in your arms, her warm amber skin against yours, and you are smiling without understanding how, after so much pain and exhaustion.

“Hi, little one…” Lewis whispers as he sits beside the bed. You look at each other with shining eyes and an unbelievable smile. He reaches out and strokes her tiny back. “…you were incredible, love…” he adds softly. He stands and kisses the top of your head.

The doctors move quickly around you; after about an hour they take the baby for her checks, Lewis follows them for signatures and paperwork, and the nurses take care of you. Two hours later the three of you are together again in the private room they’ve reserved for you.

You’re lying in bed and you can’t take your eyes off Lewis, who is sitting on the armchair, shirtless, your daughter curled against his chest. Grace Elizabeth Hamilton, caramel skin, black hair, eyes closed, breathing steadily, cradled in her father’s arms.

“Sleep,” Lewis tells you as he lifts his head. “I’ve got her. We’ll wake you in a bit…” he adds, stroking the baby’s back.

“I’m exhausted,” you admit with a smile. “But you look way too beautiful with that tiny human in your arms,” you say, settling on the pillow and closing your eyes.

-

Those first days in the hospital go by quietly, with the midwives helping you, guiding you, and you slowly start understanding what it means to have someone who depends entirely on you.

Lewis is always beside you two, studying, cuddling, silent in that way he uses when he doesn’t want to disturb the most beautiful moments of your life.

Three days later you’re home, the lights dim, both of you sitting on the couch. Grace is in your arms, nursing, her little hand wrapped around your thumb, and the silence feels unreal.

“Baby, she won’t disappear if you stop staring at her,” you tease gently, turning toward him, and he laughs.

“I can’t help it, she’s… perfect,” he says softly, pulling you a little closer. “I don’t know, baby, it all feels so incredible and I still can’t believe I… have a daughter… I…”

“Well, I was under the impression you knew exactly how babies are made. You certainly put in a lot of effort…” you tease.

“Oh shut up!” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’d say I had a pretty solid idea of what to do to get her…” He kisses your shoulder and you turn your head, catching his lips.

“You can tell we put in the effort. Look at what a masterpiece she is,” you whisper, almost still pressed to his mouth.

Grace makes a little sound and both of you look down at her. You lift her and hand her to Lewis. “The princess is done. She’s all yours,” you say while he takes her, placing her on his chest and kissing the top of her head, whispering something only she will ever hear. Then he stands and begins pacing slowly, rocking her.

You leave them in their little bubble and go freshen up in the bathroom. You take your time; neither of them needs you in that moment, and you’ve noticed Lewis loves those small slices of time where it’s just him and his daughter.

He’s read dozens of books about father–child bonding, about how the mother’s connection is naturally easier, and he’s determined to build something special with her.

He had told you two months earlier, one evening, when he confessed that he’d thought a lot about family when he was younger, a little before turning thirty. Then he had let the idea drift for a while, but he had never let it go completely. Becoming a father, building his own family, it was something he wanted with an urgency that surprised even him.

He told you how excited he was to be three, how he couldn’t wait to see her face, her eyes, what it would feel like to hold her.

And now that Grace is here, you’ve realized her arrival has hit Lewis harder than anything ever has.

The weeks slip by softly, like you’re inside a warm bubble. Just the three of you, a few visits from friends and family, Lewis preparing for the new season that will start in March, the nanny adjusting to the rhythm of your home, rhythms you’re still creating from scratch around your new arrival.

Quiet evenings, sleepless nights feeding Grace and watching Lewis wander around the room with her in his arms singing nonsense lullabies he invents on the spot, cold sunny days, a few stolen walks, cuddles on the couch.

As February passes, things settle. You understand Grace more each day, and Lewis begins to slip into fatherhood perfectly, with a tenderness you knew he had but that still surprises you.

Slowly though, something starts building inside Lewis. A thin layer of nervousness, a small, shadow-like anxiety you can’t quite catch. His answers get shorter, his eyes a little darker, and you find yourself wondering what’s wrong, why sometimes it looks like a cloud falls over him.

It’s late February, the night before his first trip to Maranello, when you decide to talk to him. Grace is asleep in her bassinet and the nanny is organizing her things in the nursery.

You find Lewis in the gym, the rhythmic sound of his feet on the treadmill filling the room. You stop to watch him for a moment, he seems deep in thought, maybe worried about the season, maybe thinking about something he hasn’t shared.

He notices you and slows the treadmill, almost stopping. His hands rest on the bar, breath heavy, skin damp with sweat.

“Everything ok?” he asks, and you nod as you approach.

“Funny, that’s the same question I wanted to ask you,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Why?” he replies defensively. “Everything’s fine,” he says quickly.

“Ok, since we’ve cleared the answer you think I want to hear, can I have the real one?” you stare at him “No bullshit, Hamilton. It’s not fine. You’ve been speaking in monosyllables for days, running every night… and when you’re not running you’re sitting with Grace on your chest. I’d really like to understand what the hell is going on with my husband.”

He sighs, shakes his head. “You’re impossible when you get like this,” he mutters, stepping off the treadmill and wiping his face.

“Sure, because I’m the problem, not the guy who went from roses-and-unicorns daddy mode to a troll who grunts instead of speaking,” you say.

He turns to stare at you. You hold his gaze and the silence falls heavy between you.

“I’m scared of the season,” he says finally, looking down.

“The car?” you ask, softening your voice. “You think it’ll be like last year?”

“No, not the car. The distance.” He takes a step closer. “We decided not to bring Grace to the paddock, not to feed her to the media, and I agree… but that means I’ll be there, and you’ll be… here.”

You let out a long breath and go next to him. “Lewis…”

He stops you. “I leave you here and she grows while I’m gone for weeks… I didn’t think about it, ok? I know I’m an idiot, because this has always been my life and I should’ve realized sooner, but I didn’t really think about what it meant… that I’d keep traveling and be without her… and without you too.”

“Love, why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, taking his face in your hands. “Why do you keep everything to yourself… I had no idea you felt like this.”

“Traveling everywhere while my family stays here?” he asks quietly.

“Ok… maybe I could’ve guessed…” you admit “...if you were even slightly more communicative. But sure, go off, keep bottling everything up,” you tease, and he finally smiles.

“We’ll come with you,” you say suddenly, no hesitation.

“No,” he cuts you off. “She can’t live on a plane, she can’t…”

“…not to every race, not for weekend trips, but for the long ones? Why not?” you interrupt.

“The press, baby, the people…”

“Screw them. I’ll deal with them myself. Let’s see who dares bother my daughter,” you say, making him laugh as he wraps his arms around you.

“No fights, Rocky…” he murmurs, amused.

“You’ve got three long ones back-to-back, Melbourne and then whatever God-forsaken places follow,” you tease. “We’ll come. We’ll try. I have no idea if it’s crazy to travel with a three-month-old…” you laugh and he laughs with you “…but at least you’ll get recharged every night, and cuddle her properly.”

“And you. Not just her. I remind you that I enjoy cuddling you as well…” he grins.

“All the cuddles you want, but don’t get ideas. I still have nightmares about childbirth, and it’ll take a while before I fall for your sex appeal again,” you joke, looping your arms around his neck.

“Maranello is only four days,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours.

“Exactly, and we’ll wait for you here. Then we’ll figure out the rest, ok?” you say, kissing him long and slow. He holds you tight.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, barely moving away.

“Oh I know, it’s impossible not to love me. I’m the perfect wife and the perfect mother,” you tease as he pulls back laughing.

“Humble too.”

“And gorgeous,” you add, making him laugh again as he kisses you.

“You’re really sure that…” he murmurs, sliding his lips down your neck.

“Lewis… control whatever’s happening down there  because the last thing I’m thinking about right now is sex…” you say, and he breaks into a helpless laugh.

“You’re cruel,” he complains, almost pouting.