cw: [felix is a fuckboy but also a gentleman. inexperienced reader (not a virgin). corruption kink if you squint. one night stand dynamics. protected piv sex (always protect yourselves!!). dirty talk. clit play. masturbation (f). multiple rounds and positions. hair pulling. aftercare. female ejaculation if you squint. mentions of oral sex (f receiving). mentions of disappointing past sexual experiences (reader).]
wc: 6,8k
smut. mdni. 18+ only.
🌃
He notices you retrieving your hand and you blush, caught red-handed, quite literally.
“Were you trying to touch your pretty clit?” Felix smirks evilly, slowing his thrusts inside of you.
Your cheeks are burning.
“C’mon. Were you?”
You whine, missing the feeling of Felix’s cock hitting that spot that has your walls clenching around him repeatedly. It’s almost as if he wanted to tease you, and you feel insanely shy right now, unable to meet his lust filled eyes. He doesn’t stop fucking you, though, albeit slowly, excruciatingly so.
“Yes.”
You try to hide your face behind your hands but Felix stops you from doing so, wrapping his hand around your wrist, and then he uncovers your face. There’s something extremely intimate in his gesture, and he doesn’t know why he did it in the first place, but he can’t help but find you cute like that.
“Yeah?” He rhetorically asks, thrusting a bit harder inside of you, so unexpectedly it makes you yelp. “You were gonna make yourself cum on my cock? You were gonna make a mess on it, weren’t you?”
You avoid his gaze once more, now hiding your face in his neck. He holds you closer, fucks you harder. You’re so sweet and innocent and he was the one corrupting you and it felt incredibly hot to think.
“You’re so fucking cute,” he chuckles.
Then, he carefully slips his arm under your leg, and spreads your legs open. This way, he can see better where he is buried inside of you, and also allows you to touch yourself freely and in a more comfortable position.
“Do it. C’mon, do it,” Felix grunts, “touch yourself,” he encourages you.
He wants you to enjoy this as much as he is — which is a lot, and he wants to see you making yourself come for him. You are so fucking beautiful under him, that he’s somehow hypnotized.
You slowly move your hand back to where it previously was, a bit higher than where Felix is moving in and out of you. Of course, you’re quick to find the spot of your interest, but feel shy and vulnerable under Felix’s intense gaze.
“Theeeeere you go,” Felix breathes out, his low and deep voice makes you gasp, goosebumps all over your arms and legs, “there you go. I wanna see how good you’re feeling.”
You slowly, timidly, start stroking your clit. Felix lowers his gaze to look between your legs and grunts, fucking you not faster, but deeper instead.
“Feels good?”
You nod. “I want you to do it, though.”
Felix snaps his head up in your direction, pecks your lips. “I will touch you,” he promises, “but I want you to make yourself cum first. Then I’ll touch your pretty clit all you want. All night long if you want me to.”
With his promise reverberating in your mind, you find the motivation to rub yourself faster, albeit still kind of shyly, the same way you do at night when you find yourself alone in the comfort of your bed. Your orgasm feels right there, right around the corner — only a little bit more and you’ll be able to reach it. At the same time, it feels impossible to reach. Especially when he’s looking at you with those eyes, when he’s fucking you so deep and slow.
You fall back on the mattress, burying your face in your hands as a desperate, frustrated sob escapes your lips.
“I can’t. I can’t.”
Soon, you feel his hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hands away from your face.
“Of course you can. Just relax. You’re getting too much into your head,” he whispers on your lip with a relaxing and comforting tone. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
He guides your hand back between your legs with a delicacy no one ever showed before, encouraging you with his understanding eyes.
“Maybe you need more? More kisses? More dirty talk?” He asks, “tell me what you want.”
You avoid his gaze when you gasp out, “more dirty talk is okay.”
“Mhh, yeah?” Felix chuckles, “you want to know how good you’re making me feel? How hard I am just f’you?”
He’s like a dog unleashed now. Whispering, moaning, gasping out how your tight pussy feels, how wet you are, how he wants to keep fucking you all night long. His thrusts turn sloppy, the wet sound of him fucking you faster and deeper, mixed with the sound of skin slapping against skin has your toes curling automatically.
“Gosh, I don’t want to stop fucking you,” he bites down on your collarbone, “you’re gonna make me come. Your tight little pussy is going to make me come so fucking hard.”
It brings you to the edge. You’re so close. He notices, by the way you throw your head back and start gasping for air as your own movements on your clit become rougher and inconsistent.
“Yeah. Yeah, like that,” Felix praises you, “good girl. You’re so good to me. Look so pretty when you’re coming f’me, yeeeah.”
He watches in awe as your whole body trembles and shakes with the force of your orgasm. He shouldn’t be so surprised, really, he’s watched countless of girls experience an orgasm with him. But right now, it’s like you’re a sight entirely new to him, and he can’t tear his eyes off you — couldn’t even if he wanted to, mesmerized by every single detail that involves you.
“You’re gonna make me cum so hard. Sweet pussy. Makes me wanna keep coming all night.”
Before he can fully realize it, he is coming, emptying himself inside the rubber with a choked gasp, stilling his movements as he comes. When he’s finished, his arms give out, and he lets himself collapse on top of you. It’s not something he usually does, and he’s not used to it. It feels intimate and weird at first, but the weirdness of it all vanishes as soon as you wrap your arm around his waist to pull him closer and bury your hand in his hair as he regains his breath.
You don’t go as far as kissing him, you know better than that, but you do think he might appreciate the aftercare. One night stands are a thing, but acting as an asshole during sex is another. And even though Felix isn’t usually the cuddly type with his hookups, he also knows this is your first time doing this, sleeping with a stranger, and he doesn’t want you to feel bad about it, nor think of him as an asshole. So he, too, wraps his arm around your waist and buries his face into your neck.
“Was it… okay?”
You ask after a while, feeling kind of stupid and embarrassed by your very question. It’s a sensible question, though.
Felix lifts his body from yours, and the cold air hitting your skin makes you shiver. “Okay?” Felix repeats, his heart swells up when you nod timidly. “You know, I truly meant everything I was saying. It was amazing, really.”
“Are you sure?” A timid blush creeps up on your cheeks. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”
Felix looks down at you, bites his lip. You wince a little when you feel him pulling out of you, holding himself by the base so that the full condom doesn’t slip off. “Look at this, sweetheart,” his voice comes out nearly as a growl from how deep it is, “you made me come so much.”
There is, in fact, an obscene quantity of Felix’s cum trapped inside the latex. You feel kind of proud of yourself for that, if it’s really because of you. Maybe you shouldn’t believe the words of a fuckboy, but there’s something extremely convincing in the way he said it.
“You can tell me if it wasn’t anything special, you know…”
Felix smiles at you understandingly. He slips the condom off and ties a knot on it to avoid making a mess on the sheets. He’s lying down beside you a second later, kissing your lips. It takes off guard both you and him, the spontaneity of the gesture. Especially since it’s the first time your lips meet when you’re not having sex. It felt nice.
“It was good. Really good.” Felix promises. “Maybe you were a little shy at first, but we can work on that.”
You have a feeling that your cheeks are incandescent by now.
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” you lower your gaze to avoid meeting Felix’s eyes. “It’s been a while. Like, a long while.”
“It’s okay,” Felix’s warm voice soothes the awkward feeling inside your chest. “Did you like it?”
“God, yes,” it slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. “I mean— you know I don’t have much experience. In fact, I don’t have any experience since my ex and I only fucked twice and then that’s it,” you ramble on, “but yeah. It was, like, insanely good.”
Felix is now focused on another part of your rambling on.
“He only fucked you twice?"
“Hm mh. I had my first time with him. Kinda regret it now, but yeah. He fucked me once and then a second time a few weeks after. We broke up shortly after.”
“What the fuck?” Felix gasps. “No, like, seriously. What the fuck? I mean, not to be cocky and shit, but if I was your boyfriend, we’d never leave the bed.”
“Stop.”
You hide your face in your hands, and Felix chuckles, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you closer, resting his chin on your head.
“He only fucked you twice. Gosh, what a loser,” Felix comments, more to himself than to you. “I would literally fucking bend you over every surface of my room and fuck you until I have no cum left in my balls.”
You let out a tiny squeak, not used to hearing such vulgar words come out of somebody’s mouth when directed at you. But it feels nice to hear, especially because God, you’d let him do that. Is it possible that you trust him so much with your body and your pleasure? Felix is a stranger after all.
“I mean, you… you could do that… if you want…”
Felix’s brows raise. “Oh?” He teases, lifting your head by the chin to make your eyes meet his.
“Don’t make me say it again,” you whine, embarrassed by your own thoughts.
Thoughts on how good he felt when he was buried inside of you. Thought of how you want to feel him again, how you’d let him take you in every position that comes to his mind. There’s something of Felix that attracts you like a magnet, and you find yourself unable to resist his charm.
“No, no, no,” he grins devilishly, “if you want me to do it, I need you to say it.”
He loves the way he’s slowly starting to corrupt your innocence. While you’re not innocent physically speaking, because you’ve had sex before, you still are when it comes to dirty talk and vocalizing your wants. Felix loves that he’s the first man experiencing this new side of you. He loves to know that he’s the first you’re experimenting with him sexually wise.
“I… I want you to— don’t look at me! You’re making me shy,” you whine.
Felix smiles at you, then moves to kiss you on your neck.
“Fine. I won’t look at you when you say it.”
But it’s worse, because he starts kissing your neck so sensually, teasing you with every drag of his tongue against your skin that you find it impossible to focus on what you have to say. He licks and kisses your neck the same way he’d done to your pussy before, with the same urgency, the same want as he presses himself between your thighs, semi-hard already, his pubic hair brushing against your skin.
“I want— gosh, Felix, you…”
His kisses move from your neck to the valley of your chest. He cups one of your breasts and sucks a nipple inside of his hot mouth, rolling his tongue against it, making you gasp out for air. He blows cold air on it and you tug at his hair.
“C’mon, sweetheart… say it,” he sucks it back inside his mouth, lapping at your most sensitive area as he grinds on you.
“I want you to… bend me over and fuck me.”
He presses against you harder, rougher. Then he pulls back to look at you and you suddenly feel shy.
“With pleasure.”
Felix thinks it’s impossible to be this cute and hot as the same time like you are. He feels the urge to fuck you and blow your mind as he makes you feel a pleasure you’ve never experience before, but he also feels the need to hug you and cuddle you and just keep you in his arms. He’s not the type to do the latter, though— not anymore. All he’s got to offer now is sex and a fun night, nothing more. He’s done with all that relationship bullshit. Opening his heart to someone, making himself vulnerable and for what?
He immediately notices how you become shy the minute he kneels on the bed, right in front of you, already hard and shameless.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
You’re not exactly lying to him, no. You’re just omitting your insecurities— that’s a whole different thing. Felix doesn’t think the same, apparently.
“If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” he gently tapped on your knee, “you don’t have to say yes just because I want to.”
You don’t want him to misunderstand your silence.
“No, no, it’s not that. I want to do it, but I’m kind of nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?”
You sigh, “I don’t know… I’m scared I’ll just end up embarrassing myself… I’ve never done this before.”
Felix finds you the cutest.
“I’m sure you won’t embarrass yourself. And even if you do, I’m not an asshole— I won’t make you feel bad about it.”
You have got a feeling that God did indeed create the perfect man — Felix. And of course he would make him an emotionally unavailable fuckboy.
“Are you sure?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, forgetting that you’re having this conversation while both butt naked, you lying on his bed and him kneeling on the mattress with his cock out.
“Believe it or not I’m a gentleman.”
You somehow believe him. After all, when you first saw him, you didn’t get the impression that he was some obnoxious fuckboy— you thought he was a sweet, shy man who also happened to be incredibly handsome. And then he’d approached to you and was honest with you, you appreciated that. Whatever happened after that was very, very much wanted by the two of you.
It’s a matter of seconds before he has you on your knees, chest pressed on the mattress and Felix behind you with his fingers on your hips. He enters you slowly, listening carefully to any sound you make — gasps, whimpers, if you wince or hiss in discomfort. He feels much bigger from this position, and Felix knows you’re already sore, so he doesn’t want to push your limits.
But you really crave him, and you’re so wet, and he slides inside effortlessly, filling you up to the brim until his hips meet your ass.
“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he bites his lip. “Can I pull your hair?”
You grip the sheets and nod, your hips moving to accommodate Felix’s movements and to meet his hips as well. “Yes. You can— pull it.”
“Aren’t you perfect?” Felix grunts. You think he’s asking a rhetorical question, more to himself than to you, so you just ignore him. “Sweet tight pussy taking me so fucking well. You’re fucking creaming around me, holy sh—”
Talking dirty comes as natural as breathing to Felix. You’ve experienced the benefits on your body. His voice makes you become instantly wet, and his words really do the trick, nearly pushing you off the edge.
“Felix…”
“Wait— wait f’me, sweetheart. Gotta fuck you nice and deep, huh? Gotta— make you— mine.”
He fucks you hard. Not fast, just really deep thrusts inside of you that make your toes curl. You’re nothing but a panting and moaning mess for him.
“There you go. You’re taking me so well, fuck…”
He hunches over you, presses his body flush on yours until you both fall on the mattress into a position that’s kinda like missionary, except you’re lying on your tummy and you’re not facing each other. You like this new position. You feel confident enough to start moving your hips to encourage Felix’s movements.
Felix intertwines your fingers with his. He reaches his climax with a choked grunt, in your ear, and fills up the second condom.
You reach your own high, as well, by the friction caused by Felix’s rough trust and your clit against the material of his bedsheets. Felix insists you might’ve experienced some sort of female ejaculation, because there’s a small patch of… something wet on his sheets.
You’re too embarrassed to speak, but Felix smiles at you and pulls you closer, crashing his lips on yours, telling you repeatedly how cute you are.
—
The third time he fucks you, his back is resting against the mattress and your body is pressed on his as he thrusts slowly inside of you.
Felix’s bedroom reeks awfully of sex, and your bodies are now shiny with sweat after three rounds in a row. This time, however, feels much different than the previous two. It’s a bit more intimate now, with Felix’s hands all over you and his lips on yours. He licks into your mouth, grunts as you sink down on him once more.
“Feels good?” He asks, breathless, eyes staring right into yours.
His hair is all messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead. Still, he looks gorgeous.
“So good.”
He fucks you and holds you close and makes you cum exactly like that— with his cock buried deep inside of you and his arms around your waist, your foreheads pressed together. You didn’t even know it was possible to feel this good when sleeping with a complete stranger.
Then, the funniest thought pops up in your head — you blame the post-orgasmic state you’re in. Despite technically being a stranger, Felix doesn’t quite feel like one. Within the span of three hours you’ve shared more with him than you had with your ex whom you’d dated for a few months.
He’s gentle when he pulls out, heads to the bathroom only to come back with a wet towel in his hand. He gently starts to wipe you between your legs, delicate and slow when you wince, sore.
“How are you feeling?”
Thoughtful and caring. Not only is he incredibly hot and a sex God. Felix is also thoughtful and caring. He is willing to provide a complete stranger who was supposed to be nothing but a hookup pretty good aftercare. With the way things are going, it’s better if you leave his apartment as soon as possible if you don’t want to start catching feelings for him.
But Felix doesn’t let you, no.
“I’m alright. My legs feel funny, though.”
He lies down beside you.
“Mh, yeah, I figured,” he smiles at you. “I didn’t hurt you, though, did I?”
“You didn’t, it was perfect.”
And it was.
You hated that you felt that kind of connection there with Felix, because it kind of stings to know that nothing can ever happen between you and him— not in the way you want it to happen. Maybe Felix would be okay with hooking up from time to time, but that’s not something you want, you’re sure of that. You yearn for intimacy and connection on a deeper, emotional level, and while the sex with Felix is something out of this world… it is not enough.
“Something on your mind?”
You thought you could hide your emotions a little bit better than that. Or maybe Felix is just exceptionally good at reading others, who knows.
“Not really,” you lie, “my brain is all fuzzy.”
He seems to buy it.
You think he’s going to ask you to leave any second now. After all, that’s all you’re here for, aren’t you? You are his conquest for the night, and maybe you have overstayed your welcome at his house. You’re prepared for the worst possible outcome.
You definitely weren’t ready for a fourth — and final, round, but you’re not complaining.
He takes you right there. He’s got you in missionary once more, but it feels nothing like the first time. Everything feels so much better now. The first time he fucked you were shy and nervous and kept overthinking every little thing. Right now, though… it’s slow and sensual and messy, and you’re both tired and clinging onto each other desperately. There’s no rush this time, neither of you is impatient.
Whispers of praise is all that comes out of Felix’s lips. He keeps telling you how hot you are, how good you’re making him feel, how he can’t get enough of you. The praise is not even that dirty right now, it’s mostly wholesome, and you’re scared it’s starting to fuck with your head. This feels almost like making love…
Felix presses all of himself deep inside of you as he comes, filling up the fourth condom. You’re impressed by his stamina and feel definitely a whole lot more confident in yourself for turning him on that much. He makes you come, too, then rests his body on yours, tired and spent.
“Wait, I have to get you another towel,” he tries to speak but the words come out kind of slurred from how tired he is.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to. I can just clean myself up with the towel you gave me earlier. It’s still wet and pretty much clean.”
“Mhhkay,” he yawns. You see his eyes flutter shut and you can’t believe how cute he looks right now. “Thank you f’ trusting me,” he mumbles, sounding already half asleep. “’M just resting my eyes. ‘M not fallin’ asleep…”
You’re surprised when he wraps his arm tighter around you and pulls your body closer.
You’re not stupid, you’re very much aware you’re not supposed to stay the night. Although you’re not exactly experienced in the hookup field, you do know the basics — that’s just how things go. You vow to only regain your breath and the proper functioning of your hips and legs and then you’ll go.
It’s incredible the way Felix manages to look breathtaking even when he’s asleep. He truly is perfect. Angelic features, combined with a charming personality and amazing skills in bed. From what you’ve discovered so far, he’s also a pretty decent, respectful human being with a functioning brain.
What a shame it is, that he doesn’t do relationships…
—
Felix didn’t mean to fall asleep. He swears he was just resting his eyes…
When he wakes up, something’s different than the night before. It takes him a while to figure out what it is, but when he does, an upsetting feeling invades all of his senses. You’re not beside him. You’re nowhere in sight, actually.
Felix sits up on the bed to take a better look around the room, but you aren’t there. Your clothes aren’t on the floor anymore and your bag is also gone.
He should be relieved, though, shouldn’t he? He got what he wanted — he got to hook up, and the sex was amazing. So yeah, he got laid and now he’s back to his everyday, ordinary life.
He shouldn’t be upset. Why is he upset?
A part of him is disappointed in himself that he wasn’t a gentleman and didn’t make sure you got home safely. He literally passed out the night before and didn’t even hear you get up and leave the house. He truly hopes you’re alright.
Another part of him, though… yeah, that’s the part of him that would’ve liked it if you’d stayed the night. That’s the part of him that would’ve loved to wake up in your arms, or for you to wake up in his. It’s that part that makes Felix think it really sucks that you’re nowhere to be found. Fuck, he didn’t even get your number — forget it, he doesn’t even know your full name. Why is he so upset, then?
Felix doesn’t do relationship. He hasn’t been in a relationship in a long while and he most definitely isn’t looking for one.
Although he must to admit, at least to himself, that last night, with you… it was strange. It wasn’t like the sex he usually has with those random girls who only want him for his body and then that’s it. Maybe it’s a bit delusional of him to think that, but Felix kind of thinks that he felt a connection to you while you were sleeping together. Even the sex was different. It wasn’t just purely fucking to get off, and it wasn’t even, like, super kinky or anything. In fact, it was probably the most slow and passionate and intimate sex he’s had in a long while.
You were different.
Yes, cliché. He knows how this may sound. He slept with countless of people before and then bam! One night he goes out, meets the umpteenth girl, brings her home and suddenly realizes she’s different. It sounds ridiculous even to himself, but that’s just how things are. He can lie to everyone else, but he can’t lie to himself. There was something different in you and that’s a fact.
Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him with those innocent eyes at the club. Maybe it was the way you’d trusted him with your body and your pleasure, allowed him to be the one to do certain things to you. Felix thinks there’s more than that. He’d also felt it while he was having sex with you, the way you had looked at him, the way you had spoken to him… and the aftercare, too. It’s not something two strangers do so intimately. Lying in the bed next to someone else and hug them, craving their skin on his, was something Felix never experienced before.
And of course you’d disappear without a trace. Not even a single hand-written note saying ‘It was fun!’ or something like that. Felix leaves those kind of notes, sometimes— when his hookups are already asleep and he’s just about to leave. He does it so that the girls don’t feel bad about what they did, but also because that way Felix himself doesn’t feel like a complete asshole towards them.
Now here he is. In his empty bedroom, with the covers that still smell like you and the memories of the night you had shared. Is it weird that he wants to see you again? See where this feeling in his chest leads him to?
“Listen, I’ve gotta be honest. I don’t do relationships, I’m not that kind of guy. A night is all I can offer you.”
That’s what he had said to you. That’s what he said to all the girls before you.
You were unique even in your response.
“Maybe a night is all I want.”
He lies there, reminiscing how the past night went. From the hungry kisses in the backseats of the cab and some inappropriate touching, to the way you’d stopped him right from eating you out in the middle of his living room.
You’d looked at him with the same innocent eyes, and said, “I know I acted all confident and stuff back at the club, but… this is actually my first time doing this.”
And Felix had nearly fainted, looking at you with wide, surprised eyes. “Wait… are you… a virgin?”
You’d let out a tiny squeak. “No! That’s not what I meant! I meant it as in — it’s my first time doing this with someone I just met.”
He remembers the way he’d felt inside. How his fingers were shaking as he grabbed your waist and pulled you closer. He remembers the slow, passionate kisses that followed, and how you ended up on his bed.
Felix’s mind goes back to when he undressed you, and then you him. How he’d taken his time kissing every inch of your body as he removed every piece of clothing covering your skin. He remembers how shy you looked when he gave you head. If he focuses hard enough, Felix is sure he can still taste you in his mouth. The way you fell apart onto his tongue, pulling his hair gently as not to hurt him… he shivers at the memory.
He remembers how nervous you looked when he was about to enter you. How you’d avoided his gaze and whispered, “I’m sorry if you’ll hate this with me. I don’t have much experience…” And how he’d kissed you and reassured you he could never hate it.
And the rest… well, is kinda history.
Felix sighs, draping an arm over his eyes as he accepts defeat. He’s sure he’s never going to see you again. He knows nothing about you except for your name, but for what he knows you could’ve made that up. It was the first time he saw you and you had told him that you’re not the type to go out at parties or hang out in bars. Hence, he’s probably truly never seeing you again. That’s too bad.
With a grunt, he forces himself into the shower, still unable to stop thinking about you.
—
Ten days later, he’s still thinking of you.
Two weeks later, he dreams of the night he had with you. Everything felt exactly as it did the night you’d stayed at his place. He could feel your touch on his skin vividly, as if you were in the same room, next to him. Except you aren’t, and the memories of you and what you and Felix did are the only things left to him.
Three weeks later, he goes to the same bar, hoping to find you there. He doesn’t. Nobody knows who you are apparently. Well, to be fair Felix only gave a description of your general physical appearance, but it’s hard to find someone whose full name you don’t even know.
One month later, he decides it’s best if he gave up. And he does.
—
Six weeks later, he sees you again.
His friend Chris had insisted to have breakfast in that coffee place downtown for the longest time, and that morning, Felix caved in and, rolling his eyes, he had accepted. Only to walk in and freeze in his tracks, caught in a trance starring… you.
You — wearing a green apron with the logo of the coffee shop embroidered on it. You — with your hair put neatly, so that it doesn’t fall on your eyes whilst you take orders. You — with the brightest smile on your face as you speak to an old couple, writing down their order on your paper block.
You.
“Felix? You alright, mate?”
Chris elbows him, showing concern for his friend.
“It’s her.” It comes out in a whisper.
“Huh?”
“The girl. The one I met at that club. C’mon, I told you about her!”
Chris’ expression changes all of a sudden.
“The girl?” He asks in disbelief.
“Huh. Her. She works here, apparently.”
You haven’t noticed Felix yet. After all, you’re across the room, and he’s completely out of your sight, but Felix can’t take his eyes off you. You’re so different than the last time he saw you.
Today, your makeup is a lot more natural, your clothes less revealing, but you look stunning nonetheless. In Felix’s eyes, you’re even more beautiful.
“Ah. You’re gonna talk to her?” Chris asks, and Felix doesn’t know what to say.
Of course he wants to talk to you, but… what is he even gonna say?
Should he pretend he didn’t spend the last weeks trying to forget about you? Pretend he didn’t run to the bar and asked about everyone if they knew anything about you? After all, he still isn’t sure why he was so desperate to find you again…
But now he did, and this was his chance. It’s all up to him.
“I don’t know…”
Chris frowns. “You don’t know? I thought you liked her?”
Liked… that would be… what, an understatement? Felix feels kind of ridiculous. He’s intrigued by you, yes, and hasn’t been able to sleep properly since that night because thoughts of you are always plaguing his brain, but…
What kind of wishful thinking is this, that you too still think about him and that night?
“I— do I? I mean, we slept together but— we didn’t really talk. She’s practically a stranger…”
“A stranger who caught your interest, though. That gotta mean something, man.”
Does it?
It does, Felix is sure of that. But he’s scared. He doesn’t do relationships, it’s just how he’s built. Commitment is scary, and the possibility of getting his heart broken is something he does not want to think of. But… you caught his interest in a way no one has ever done before.
And that scares him even more than all that fear-of-commitment bullshit.
“I’ll… I think I’ll go talk to her.”
Chris smiles at his friend encouragingly.
—
In the middle of the chaos that is the coffee shop this morning, amongst all those voices, you hear someone call out your name.
You recognize the voice. God, how could you ever forget it?
Your knees buckle as you turn around.
“Hi.”
He speaks first. You take a moment to look at him. He’s exactly like you remembered.
You nearly drop the paper block and pen. Your kneels buckle as you stare at the man in front of you, so different than that night, yet the same. The same cute freckles decorating his cheeks, the same perfect little nose, the same blond hair kept half up half down. The same lips you kissed so many times whilst he made you his between his bedsheets.
“Felix…”
It’s almost like one of those scenes you see in movies — where everything stops and nothing else exists beside the main characters, staring into each’s eyes.
Seeing Felix again is not something you saw coming. In fact, you were convinced you were never going to see him again after that night. You don’t know how to react.
“I’m… uh, how… how are you?”
It’s as if you were paralyzed, staring at him as if Felix were an hologram, the product of your imagination. But it’s not your imagination playing tricks on you, and you’ve got tables to serve. Your coworker snaps her fingers at you to get your attention.
“I’m… I’ve been… I’ve got a table to serve.”
This is definitely not the kind of answer Felix was hoping for, but what was he expecting? You’re working, after all. You shouldn’t drop everything for him, and he respects that. But what if… what if you hate him? What if you don’t want anything to do with him?
“Right…”
You’re out of his sight in a matter of seconds, leaving him with a gut-wrenching feeling pervading his whole body. Maybe he already had his chance and he blew it, and he won’t get another one.
“Felix?”
Your sweet voice snaps him out of his spiral of negative thoughts. His head snaps up to look at you, in front of him, with your beautiful eyes now filled with nervousness.
“Yes?”
You fidget with the hem of your apron.
“My break starts in half an hour,” you tell him. “If you… have something you want to tell me, we can talk then.”
Felix’s heartbeat picks up its pace. Yes. Yes. Of course he’ll wait. He’ll wait until you finish your entire shift if it’s the only chance he has to talk to you. After all, he’s been waiting for this moment for over a month, what difference is half an hour more gonna make?
“I’ll wait.”
—
Chris, Felix’s friend, decides to wait outside. Decides would be an understatement, given that Felix practically shoved him out the coffee shop as soon as he saw you take off your apron and tell something to your colleague.
And now Felix is alone, sitting at his table, kicking his leg and reminding himself to breathe in and out as he tries to organize his thoughts into coherent sentences.
“Hey,” you mumble as you approach him, “sorry for making you wait. Mornings are always super busy.”
“It’s okay. It’s— I had nothing to do anyway. It’s okay, really.”
You smile at him.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Felix nods. After all, this is just a coincidence.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here either,” he admits. “My friend’s been wanting to take me here for months.”
“Right…”
Felix sighs. He looks at you and remembers all the time he spent replaying that night into his brain, memories forced into a loop he wasn’t able to stop.
“You know. I’m glad he dragged me here. I’ve been… looking for you,” he confesses.
“You have?” You frown.
Felix nods. “Please, don’t think I’m a creep. It’s just— I tried looking for you at the club we met. Asked about you…”
You’re even more confused now. “Oh… why?”
This is not how Felix imagined the conversation going, but what was he expecting?
He looks into your eyes, and his heart skips a beat. “I was hoping I’d find you again.”
“Felix…”
“You left without saying goodbye. You— you didn’t leave a note or… say anything. You just disappeared.”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise.
“I thought… that’s how one night stands worked?”
And you’re not exactly wrong. Felix himself did that a few times. So why does it sting so fucking bad?
“I— you’re right… it’s just… I keep replaying that night in my head. I just…”, he pauses, takes a deep breath as he looks you in the eye, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Your eyes widen. Your fingers and hands tremble. Could this mean that… perhaps…
“Felix, what…”
“Go out with me,” he blurts out, taking you off guard.
You sigh.
“Listen, Felix, I…” you swallow the lump in your throat, not sure how to phrase your thoughts. “That night was… amazing. But I’m at a point in my life where I… I think I want more than just casual sex. I think I want a relationship, something serious.”
There’s an alarm going off inside Felix’s head. It’s that part of him that he’s terrified of commitment. It’s that part of him that’s screaming to get up and run, the part of him that’s telling him that he’s not made for a relationship.
But the feeling inside his heart is telling him something entirely different. It’s a new feeling, something Felix is not used to. It’s another part of him, telling him that you’re worth it, that it’s the right decision.
“I want something serious, too. I think…”
You look into his eyes. Felix sees the uncertainty. He’s expecting rejection.
“You said you don’t do relationships…”
Felix is met with the reality of his words and actions, and it stings way more than it should.
“I know. But you’re stuck in my brain. I’ve tried to forget about you, and nothing worked. That’s gotta mean something, right?”
You stare into his eyes and he looks and sounds sincere. You have mixed feelings about this. Part of you is happy to see Felix again, because you too haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. But there’s another part of you who’s scared to get hurt. That’s the part that’s stopping you from listening to your heart and giving in.
“I suppose it does…” you mumble, fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater. “I’ve… been thinking about you, too.”
Felix’s eyes lit up.
“You have?”
You nod. “I guess that night felt like something more than just a hookup. That’s why I’m a bit scared.”
“I’m scared, too,” Felix destroys the walls he’s spent years building. “I’m not good with feelings. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a relationship, but that night with you meant something to me, too. It felt different than just a hookup.”
A shiver runs down your spine at the memory of the way Felix had looked at you as he fucked you. The way he’d touched you with such care and reverence. The way he’d held you afterwards. Maybe this is the right thing to do… maybe you should trust your gut.
“It felt different for me, too.”
Felix smiles. Inside of him, it feels as if something has just healed. His whole body is pervaded by calm and peace.
“I know I said I don’t do relationships… but there’s something about you that makes me want to try.”
“Maybe we should take it slow. Know each other before jumping right into a relationship.”
Felix’s body relaxes a little as he realizes you’re right. You’re right. You’re in no rush.
“That sounds… perfect, actually,” he smiles. “Would you like to grab a coffee with me sometime soon?”
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“Keep your eyes on me. So you know, who’s gonna make you feel this good for the rest of your life.”
[ abstract ]: Minho confronts you about your initial idea of wanting to meet up with your ex in Busan. But you prove that there’s nothing to worry about. And, oh so suddenly, a missing letter reappears.
[ general ]: minho + fem reader, childhood friends/enemies → lovers, non idol au, ex’s enemy, demisexual reader, angst + fluff + smut, sunshine x grumpy, she falls first but he falls harder
[ warning ]: explicit content [ includes oral f rec, semi-protected piv, mating press, minho is a little bit possessive but the hot kind 🤭, spanking, messy as always, praise, reader gets called desperate and brat, creampie ], mention of therapy, hyunwoo being hyunwoo
[ words ]: 3.4K
[ note ]: sorry for the 2 months break… writer’s block and irl stress was getting the best of me. there is gonna be some epilogue one day to this (chapter 20) but the story ends here for now. they deserve their happily ever after 🩵 i love you all and thank you for being patient. i hope you enjoy despite the wait :)
[ !! ]: the beautiful dividers are from @saradika-graphics
“You’re here because of him, aren’t you?”
The words are echoing through the room, as your throat becomes dry. Your phone feels heavy in your hand, after Minho pushed it towards you.
“Come on, speak up,” he says, his voice breaking. He really wants to come off confident, nonchalant, as if nothing could hurt him in this world when he knows this isn’t true. There’s no one who could ever get under his skin like you do.
And now you did it once more. Broke his heart again. You should do this professionally, he knows what he’s talking about. But is it really that fair? After all, he can’t trust Hyunwoo anyway. It’s Hyunwoo.
“W-What did he say?” you ask, your voice even smaller than his and a sting of pain rushes through his chest listening to it.
“I wanna hear it from you, Y/N. You’re choosing him again, aren’t you? I’m still only the second best, huh?”
It’s his insecurities talking. At least he’s trying to convince himself of that. This can’t be all an act, right? These past days you spent together were out of this world. It felt real. So real. Even better than he’s ever imagined. There weren't just sparks, it was constant fireworks whenever you were with him.
“Hyunwoo was the second best. I’ve never chosen him, Minho. You rejected me,” you clear things up. You understand that he's hurt. Still, it’s unfair that he doesn’t listen to your version of the story first. But you’re gonna prove it to you. You’ll capture this chance. You’ve never loved someone as much as the man standing in front of you and you’ve let him run away too many times before.
“So, this is what it is? You’re not patient enough to wait for me and you run off to the next guy that happens to be my roommate? To make sure you rub it in my face, huh?”
You gasp. “What are you even talking about?”
“I can’t believe you.” He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching. “You know… it’s clear that we still haven’t talked about the elephant in the room. But there’s no need for it when this is the same shit all over again.”
Well, now you’re just confused.
“Minho, I can’t follow… what elephant?” you question.
“Come on, don’t play dumb. It doesn't put you in a better light, I promise,” he replies, a tear running down his face and you feel as if you’re caught in a fever dream.
“I’m… I seriously don’t get it…” you admit.
He sighs. Minho takes a step back, letting the palm of his hand cover his eyes for a second, as he turns around. Sometimes opening a window helps, but he doesn’t make it that far, as impulsivity takes over him. “Tell me the truth, then. Are you here because of Hyunwoo?”
“I’m not,” you immediately say. “Listen, whatever he said to you is bullshit. He’s a bastard. He hired your company to break up with me, what do you expect?”
“Nothing much. Just for the record, I know he was talking shit. But I wanna hear the truth from you,” Minho tells you. This isn’t about your ex. It’s about the two of you finally coming clear with what’s been between you for almost a decade now.
“Alright. Here’s your truth then,” you start, walking closer to him. “I went to Busan with you because I knew he was gonna have a meeting here. I wanted to meet up with him. Not for making up. For punching him in the face, if I’m completely honest. Not sure if I’d go for his nose or his chin. Haven’t figured that out. I wanted answers. For the sake of my sanity.” You take a deep breath, shivering. “You told me he cheated on me. That was a fucking week ago. Minho, I’m overwhelmed. My whole world turned upside down and you want to blame me for yet another impulsive decision?”
“N-No,” he gulps. “That makes sense.”
“Why would I want to be with him? Why are we even talking about him?” you ask, at defeat.
“It’s… I… You were engaged to him, after all. That’s not a decision you make every day,” he states. Minho is right. You were engaged to Hyunwoo. But not because you loved him. You told yourself that’s the final step to get over your childhood friend who rejected you so many times.
“I’m really sorry. I understand that this came off the wrong way and it was never my intention to hurt you. Hyunwoo called last night. I didn’t pick up. I wanted to block him.” Your eyes meet his own and for a second you believe his cold facade is slowly melting. “Yes, my initial reason for coming to Busan was to confront him. But not in order to make up. It was for me to move on. So I can be with you.”
“Y/N…”
“No I’m gonna prove it to you.” You grab your phone again. You must have placed it on the nightstand table during this heated discussion or, well, monologue. Dialling your mother’s number, you put the device on speaker.
She picks up immediately. “Sweetheart. Are you alright? You haven’t replied in days. Is everything okay?”
“Hi, mum. I’m… calling because… the wedding isn’t happening. Hyunwoo and I split up,” you blurt out. Minho stares at you with wide eyes. He knows you sometimes have trouble talking to your mum about stuff like this. And her finding out about the break up makes it… so final.
“Thank God, my prayers have been heard,” the woman replies. Minho chuckles.
“What?!”
“It’s… sweetie, listen, apart from Hyunwoo not being the most… sympathetic person in this world, I always felt as if you didn’t… quite like him,” she confesses.
“You’re right. Thank you… although that information would have been helpful a little sooner,” you speak through gritted teeth.
You mother sighs. “I knew you were gonna figure it out on your own. You’re a strong woman, you know that, right? I’m proud of you, always.”
Your heart feels all warm and fuzzy and Minho places his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it for comfort.
“Thank you… uhm, there’s another thing,” you begin again.
“Are you pregnant?”
“God, no,” you immediately say. “It’s… I know it sounds like jumping the gun since the breakup happened not that long ago but… Minho and I, we are a couple.” You place your hand on the microphone, speaking to only him now when you continue. “If he still wants me.”
He gives you a small smile, as a nod follows.
“Took you long enough, sweetie,” your mother replies. “Listen—I need to head to bed. But greetings to my future son-in-law. I owe his mother five thousand won since I lost the bet.”
A rhythmic sound appears, indicating your mother ended the call. You place the phone away.
“That was… I didn’t expect that,” Minho admits.
The two of you walk towards the bed, sitting down.
“I surprised myself a bit. But it’s still my turn.” He chuckles, as you continue rambling. “Look, I’m even ready to forgive you for turning me down and pretending my drunk confession and everything before never happened. That was over two years ago. You’re a different person now. I don’t know how this happened—if it’s your stable job, your new friends or if you perhaps went to therapy—which I would support—but… I cannot bring unresolved baggage into this either. I needed to close this chapter. Because you deserve this. We do.”
Minho scoots closer. He understand you. And he appreciates the thought you—for once—put into your decisions. “Okay… that makes sense. I’m sorry… it’s just… I know rejecting you was the most cruel thing I did. I had my reasons though, as you know. You’re right. Therapy helped a lot. I wasn’t ready and I would have broken your heart so much worse if we dated but—wait—you know all this. Why are you speaking as if that’s new info?”
Why would you know that? Last time you checked, Minho rejected you after your drunk confession.
“I don’t remember suffering from amnesia. This is new,” you state.
“But… I already told you this… in the letter. Have you never read it?”
Minho wouldn’t blame you. He knows he was, first, too late and, second, that you would have deserved to have him say these words to your face.
“What letter?”
And in that moment he curses himself for not ever thinking about the secret third option in all those years. Of course you never received it. Minho made the mistake of placing it on your bedroom table in the college dorm, but someone else must have found it before you could.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Hyunwoo won’t see the light of the day tomorrow, I swear,” he grunts.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Give me your phone,” he says, his demeanour switching instantly. You curse yourself because of the arousal you feel from seeing him like this—anger washing over his face, as his veins pop out and his jaw clenches.
“W-What?”
“I said, give me your phone, princess. Don’t make me repeat myself,” Minho adds and you follow suit.
An hour later you find yourself in the hotel lobby again, this time facing your ex-fiancé. It‘s odd seeing him here. Although that’s probably not the best word to describe him. You have waited for this moment for so long now and now that he's finally standing in front of you, your voice gets stuck in your throat.
When Hyunwoo broke up with you—or made Minho do the dirty work—you wanted nothing more to punch him in the face. If it wasn’t for your new boyfriend being there, you would have torn your ex‘s apartment down. Hyunwoo has always called you impulsive in that negative sense, completely ignoring that you always turn angry after he's provoked you with no end.
But now… now it feels like it doesn’t matter anymore. It never really did. You’ve never loved him and that’s your part of being the wrong one in this past relationship. Sure, Hyunwoo is the most pathetic man on this planet, but you dated him. Deep down knowing you didn’t want to end up with him for the rest of his life. Maybe hes always sensed it.
“Hi Y/N, hi Minho,“ your ex starts as if he‘s reading your mind and the information that he is about to reveal will make this all so fucking ironic that it’ll have you wondering if you’re secretly caught in a mediocrely written romance book.
“Hyunwoo,“ your new boyfriend says, as he‘s holding your hand, making sure your ex sees it.
“Ive got some explanations to do,“ he starts again. “I’m—I cannot turn back time, I know that. I was selfish, I was in the wrong and in the end it didn’t work out for a reason.“
“Was the cheating really necessary though?“ you blurt out.
“I—“
“Come on, Hyunwoo. Tell her. Even if it‘s two years late,” Minho encourages him, which holds him back from punching the other man in the face.
“I specifically asked for Minho to deliver the message. He and I aren’t friends anymore because… I have known about his feelings for you for quite some time. I was possessive. I’m a coward but I also wanted the two of you to be together instead. So… that’s why I hired him,” he explains.
All you let out is a gasp. “Don’t expect any applause or praise for that, you piece of shit.”
Even Minho is surprised by your sudden rage, although he knows it’s the right thing to do. He knows your temper, he’s aware you always stand your ground and he’s glad you do it right now too.
Your ex reaches in his shoulder bag and pulls out a crinkled envelope. He takes hesitant steps towards you. His hands are shaking, you can tell, and for a second you feel pity for him. The ugly kind.
“I… I found this in your bedroom some years ago when we started dating. I‘m ashamed to admit this but I hid this letter from you all these years. I… think it‘s best if you read it. After all it was meant for you anyway. I'll leave you guys alone, yeah?“ Hyunwoo rambles, before he is out of the hotel lobby, basically running for his life, looking like a chicken.
You don’t know what to say. It feels as if the world stopped moving, this weird sensation you experience in a dream when you keep ignoring that it isn’t real. But maybe this time it is.
Minho guides you to the nearest sofa in the hotel lobby, helping you sit down. The envelope feels cold when it grazes your skin and you try to focus on the moment. It’s what you always do when dizziness announces itself inside your head and body. Your environment turns dark and silent, so you take a deep breath.
Opening the envelope slowly, you pull out the letter that’s inside it. The pieces of paper are glued together, you can tell that Hyunwoo must have torn it apart in a moment of anger. You wonder why he kept it then. Did his consciousness tell him that he's in the wrong?
You choose to ignore all those questions, instead focusing on the material of the paper. It’s a baby blue paper, bunny figures printed into the material. A smile appears on your face, as a tear rolls down your cheek. Minho is sitting next to you, feeling as if he‘s paralysed. All these years he thought you read the letter and made the decision to not understand his reasons. He wouldn’t have blamed you. It was difficult back then, he was difficult. Fuck, hes even a stubborn idiot today from time to time.
But he wanted you to know that this was never about him not loving you back. This was about him not being ready, about him knowing that in this state back then he would have broken your heart caused by stupid mistakes.
You wipe another tear away, before you start reading.
“Dear Y/N,
this is the fifth letter I‘m writing because I don’t know how to phrase it. My mind is a total mess but you deserve the truth, you deserve to know about this mess.
I‘ve never known what my purpose in life is. I’ve never fit in, I've always felt misunderstood and as if I was doing everything wrong. However, you’ve always been there for me. No matter how much I pushed you back.
So, I realised there’s two things I have always been sure about:
First, I am in love with you. I have been in love with you, officially, since you took care of me when I had that cold and, unofficially, since I met you. This will never change. No matter how far away we are, with whom we are or what we’re doing—I will forever love you. You’re the best that has ever happened to you. Any room you enter, you light up, like my sun. You’re not only smart and beautiful, no, you’re the most astonishing woman I’ve ever met.
Second, therefore, I want what is best for you and, unfortunately, this is not me yet. I am aware of the issues that I have been dealing with, the deep trauma that needs fixing that only a professional can guide me through because otherwise I would involuntarily break your precious heart. So, I am doing therapy to fix these things so I can be the man by your side that you deserve.
I don’t expect you to wait for me. My love for you is enough for the both of us. But I would be very happy if we find each other again one day.
— Minho.“
The letter falls down to the floor, once you’re done reading. Tears are pricking on your lower lashline again but this time they aren’t caused by hurt. They symbolise relief. Happiness. Satisfaction.
You shake your head, giggling, as you make your way towards your boyfriend. Minho stumbles back a little, when you place your lips on his own, sealing them with a kiss.
He chuckles, too, before speaking, “Thank you for waiting for me. I’m sorry for–“
“Don’t apologise. You were right, Min. Now is the perfect time. I’m happy and proud you sorted all that stuff out for me but also for you. I’ve always loved you—every version of you,” you confess.
He presses a kiss on your forehead. “I love you so much, darling. You made me this version. So much more than that.”
After a long day spent finally exploring the city of Busan together—doing all the tourist stuff and going to the beach—Minho and you had a wonderful evening at a cosy restaurant, before you came back to the hotel room for your last night here.
He’s got you spread out on the mattress, devouring you like it’s the best thing in this world (it is, he can’t get enough!) as he hums against your wetness. You taste better than anything else in this world, and he lets you know by the noises he keeps making, almost being louder than you.
Although, you would never miss a chance to let your boyfriend know what a perfect lover he is—moans and whimpers are echoing around, as you grip the sheets.
“I think at this point we are drawn to this hotel room. We always end up here. You on your back, spreading your legs for me so prettily,” he hastily says between licks and kisses. He’s never been so eager with anyone else. Minho has troubles not coming in his pants from eating you out. He’s not even being touched. That’s the effect you have on him.
“That’s all that has ever mattered. Being yours,” you reply, letting your head fall back, when he curls those two fingers inside your hole.
He almost reaches his own high when listening to these words, as cheesy as it sounds.
“Hm, I was made for you, too,” he chuckles. A string of saliva hits your clit, before Minho rushes to spread it. You’re already drenched enough, but he adores how messy things can get.
Your boyfriend is bringing you closer to the nth orgasm of the night—you seriously lost count—before he drags his tongue away, a mischievous smile decorating his face.
“Wha– why–“
He chuckles, “Come on, baby, be a bit patient, will you?” He doesn’t need to slip out of any clothes since you’ve been at it for hours now, as he positions his hardened cock between your folds. “I’ve been fucking you for eternity and you desperate little brat still can’t get enough, hm?”
His words make your head spin around. And so does the sensation, when his thick length enters you. Minho is stretching you out so deliciously, grazing over that certain spot when he throws your legs over his shoulders. This is his favourite position with you. He’s never liked it that much before—way too intimate. But with you, he can’t even be close enough.
“Let’s just stay like this forever,” he mumbles, “forget our responsibilities. Sounds like a dream.”
You giggle, “It does. I can’t get enough of you.”
Minho finds a steady rhythm, making sure to place sweet little kisses all over your face and neck, whenever a moan slips out of you—so opposite to how roughly he’s pounding into you. Your walls are tightening around him, showing him how much they adore having him inside you.
“You’re so fucking needy… all for me?” he asks.
“Hm…” you giggle, while your brain turns into mush.
Slap. The palm of his hand collides with your ass check. “I didn’t hear you. Don’t be shy.”
“A-All for you, Min,” you whimper.
“Who do you belong to?”
You love this possessive side of him. You’ve never thought this would arouse you so much.
“Y-You, only you.”
“Eyes on me, baby,” he orders and you follow suit. “Keep your eyes on me, when you come. So you know, who’s gonna make you feel this fucking good for the rest of your life.”
That’s what pushes you over the edge, as your come around him, seeing stars yet another time. Minho’s climax follows, as he spills his seed into you, marking you as his in any sense of the word.
He carefully slips out of you, before he whispers. “I love you so much, angel.”
“I love you too, Min.”
[ note ]: thank you guys so much for reading this series until the end. and for being so patient. and to everyone who read this for the 2nd time and was patient enough for me to do a re-run of this! once my life gets less busy, i will share lots of other ideas and stories with you! i am very much looking forward to this and utterly grateful for you, whenever you manage to make my everyday life a little better. thank you for making this blog my comfort space ✨ Yours, Cece 🩵
⤜GENRE: Nonidol au, arranged marriage, angst, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, soft Smut minors DNI, first time, virginity taking, sweet Minho at the end,
People always say that your wedding day is supposed to be the most amazing day of your life and yet right now it didn’t feel that way to you. You stared at yourself hoping to feel a little pang of happiness for what was going to happen today and nothing felt good to you. There was an uneasy feeling in the back of your mind making you overthink every detail about how the wedding was going to happen.
Sure the dress looked fabulous on you, better than fabulous actually. It was a bright white colour that popped against your skin and made it look as though you were glowing. There was a tasteful low v-neck that made your breasts look luscious and full, something the maid had told you was to get the attention of your soon-to-be husband.
The skirt of the gown draped along the floor in a graceful folding way and there was one slit up the left side of your leg, it was elegant and yet sexy all at the same time. It made you feel truly like a princess.
Every movement you made the dress would shimmer and you could hardly believe that this was what you were going to be wearing to be getting married. You’d had no choice in choosing the gown but you had fallen in love with it the moment your hand-maiden had helped you dress into the gown.
You’d had no choice with anything that was going to be happening on your wedding day, the guest list had been chosen for you…In fact, everything was preselected for you since Minho’s wedding had been planned since the moment he was born. All you had to do was show up and say “I do”.
Hi! I was wondering if you could do something with Ollie about young parents, or something really sappy, like the one about being obsessed with the reader. I love your blog<3
Dangerous Devotion - OB87
pairing: ollie bearman x fem!gf!reader
summary: everyone warned Ollie that becoming a father at twenty-one would be a career-ending distraction. They were half right. He isn't distracted by the sleepless nights, the crying, or the chaos of raising a daughter while chasing a championship. He’s distracted by her. Navigating parenthood didn't make them drift apart; it turned Ollie into a man who is possessive, touch-starved, and completely, terrifyingly obsessed with his wife.
wc: 3.5k
💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)
note: thank you for the request and idea! i decided to do 2 in 1 hope that's okay for you, hope you like it! 😽💛
The front door clicked shut, the sound barely a whisper in the quiet house, but Ollie knew you heard it. You always heard him.
He dropped his bags by the entrance, toeing off his shoes with an urgency that had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with the ache in his chest—the hollow feeling that had been expanding ever since he left for the track four days ago.
He found you in the nursery.
The only light came from the star-shaped nightlight plugged into the corner, casting a soft, golden glow over the rocking chair. You were there, curled up with your legs tucked beneath you, your head resting against the high back of the chair. In your arms, your daughter was fast asleep, a tiny fist clutching the fabric of your shirt.
Ollie stopped in the doorway. He felt the air leave his lungs.
It happened every time. He’d come home thinking he was prepared for how much he loved you, thinking he knew the extent of it, only to be knocked sideways by the sheer, crushing weight of it. seeing you like this—hair messy, face devoid of makeup, holding the life you two created—it felt like a physical blow.
He crossed the room silently, dropping to his knees beside the chair.
You stirred, blinking open tired eyes. A soft smile broke across your face when you saw him. "You're home," you whispered, careful not to wake the baby.
"I'm home," Ollie breathed. He didn't lean in for a kiss immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the sweep of your eyelashes, the slight pulse in your neck. It was intense, bordering on feverish.
"Ollie?" You shifted slightly, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You okay? You look... intense."
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. He turned his face, pressing a fervent kiss to your palm, then your wrist.
"I missed you," he said, his voice rough. "Not just 'I wish you were there' missed you. I mean, I felt like I couldn't breathe right until I walked through that door."
"You were only gone four days, you drama queen," you teased gently, though your thumb stroked his cheekbone lovingly.
Ollie opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, and terrifyingly sincere. He shifted, resting his chin on your knee, looking up at you like a devotee at an altar.
"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "Do you know what I was doing during debriefs? Thinking about this. Thinking about you holding her. Thinking about the way you smell."
He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your skin, needing the contact to ground him.
"It’s actually a problem, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. "I am so obsessed with you it scares me. I look at you and I feel... greedy. I want every second of your time. I want every thought in your head."
You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, despite the years you’d been together. "Ollie..."
"No, I'm serious," he interrupted softly, leaning forward to press his forehead against your thigh, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor himself to you. "You’re a masterpiece. Look at you. You’re exhausted, you haven't slept properly in weeks because of the baby, and you are still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."
He looked up again, his expression vulnerable.
"I would burn the world down just to keep you sitting in this chair, looking at me like that."
You softened, your heart squeezing in your chest. You leaned down as much as you could without disturbing the sleeping baby, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, luckily for the world, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."
Ollie let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes again as he buried his face against your stomach, right beside where the baby lay.
"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and devotion. "Because I'm never letting go."
When you finally woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.
Panic, the constant companion of a young mother, spiked in your chest. You sat up abruptly, hair falling over your face, expecting to hear a cry or the hum of the baby monitor. But there was nothing.
Then, the smell of coffee and burnt toast drifted down the hallway.
You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, following the scent. The morning sun was streaming through the kitchen windows, blindingly bright, illuminating the scene in front of you.
Ollie was standing by the stove, shirtless, wearing only his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. In one arm, he balanced your daughter, who was happily chewing on the drawstring of his pants. With his free hand, he was attempting to flip a pancake.
He looked chaotic. There was flour on the counter and a carton of milk dangerously close to the edge. But he was humming.
You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, a smile tugging at your lips. "You're going to burn the house down, Ollie."
Ollie spun around so fast he almost dropped the spatula. The moment his eyes landed on you, that same intensity from the night before snapped back into place. The spatula was forgotten on the counter (dripping batter onto the marble) as he just stared.
"Hi," he said, his voice raspy with morning grogginess.
"Hi," you replied, walking over to rescue the milk carton. "How long have you been up?"
"Couple of hours," he shrugged, shifting the baby so she was resting more comfortably on his hip. She made a happy gurgling sound at the sight of you. "She woke up around six. I didn't want to wake you."
You reached out to take the baby, but Ollie stepped back slightly, shaking his head.
"No," he said firmly. "I've got her. You drink coffee. You sit."
"Ollie, I can hold my own child—"
"Y/N," he cut in, stepping into your personal space. He used his free hand to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "I’m serious. Sit down. Let me do this."
He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He was warm, smelling of baby powder and strong espresso.
"I watched you sleep for a while before I brought her out here," he murmured against your skin, his lips moving against your pulse point. "You were drooling a little bit."
You laughed, trying to push him away, but his grip on your waist tightened. "Shut up. That ruins the romance."
"It really doesn't," Ollie pulled back to look at you, his eyes scanning your face with that terrifyingly soft adoration. "It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I almost woke you up just to tell you how pretty you looked, but I figured you’d kill me."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally a quick, hard peck on your lips.
"Go sit," he commanded gently, guiding you toward a barstool. "I’m making you pancakes. They might be burnt, and they definitely won't be round, but I made them."
You sat down, watching him turn back to the stove. He was humming again, occasionally whispering nonsense to the baby on his hip, who was watching him with wide eyes.
"You're obsessed," you said, resting your chin on your hand, your heart feeling full to the point of bursting.
Ollie glanced over his shoulder, a lopsided, boyish grin on his face. "We established this last night, darling. I'm completely gone for you. Now, do you want syrup or fruit?"
"Both," you smiled.
"Both it is," he said, turning back to the pan, whispering to the baby, "See? Mommy gets whatever she wants. That's the rule."
The end-of-season party was in full swing. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was light. But in the corner booth of the VIP area, a different kind of show was happening.
Kimi Antonelli leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and sighed loudly. He looked across the table at Arthur Leclerc, who was currently trying to ignore the situation.
"Is he blinking?" Kimi asked, nodding his head toward Ollie. "I genuinely don't think he's blinked in three minutes."
Ollie was sitting next to Y/N. He had one arm draped protectively over the back of the booth behind her, and his body was angled entirely in her direction, effectively turning his back on half the group.
Y/N was in the middle of telling a story about the baby’s first attempt at crawling. She was animated, using her hands to demonstrate, laughing at her own bad parenting moment.
Ollie wasn't listening to the story. He was listening to the sound of her voice. He was staring at her profile with a look of such profound, dopey adoration that it was almost painful to witness.
Every time Y/N laughed, a soft, matching smile would spread across Ollie’s face, like a reflex. He reached out, his fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve, then drifting up to brush a stray eyelash off her cheek.
"It's disgusting," Arthur whispered, though he was smiling into his glass. "He used to be cool. He used to want to talk about racing."
"Now he just wants to talk about how 'Y/N is a goddess for birthing his child,'" Kimi mimicked Ollie’s British accent poorly. "If I hear him say 'Did you see how she holds the bottle?' one more time, I'm throwing myself into the pool."
At that moment, Y/N shivered slightly, the air conditioning in the venue a bit too high.
Before she could even rub her arms, Ollie was moving. He was out of his jacket in a split second, draping it over her shoulders and tucking the lapels in to ensure she was covered. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that made her flush pink and swat his chest playfully.
Ollie caught her hand and kissed the knuckles, completely unbothered by the audience.
"Oi! Bearman!" Kimi finally snapped, tossing a peanut at him.
Ollie didn't even flinch. He just lazily turned his head toward his friends, keeping one hand firmly planted on Y/N's waist. "What?"
"You're drooling," Kimi deadpanned. "Dial it back, mate. We get it. She's the love of your life. You're obsessed. We are trying to have a conversation here."
Ollie looked at Kimi, then looked back at Y/N, who was now hiding her face in her hands, embarrassed but laughing.
Ollie smirked, completely shameless. "I haven't seen her in four days, Kimi. You're lucky I'm even acknowledging your existence right now."
"You're whipped," Arthur shook his head. "So whipped."
Ollie just shrugged, leaning back and pulling Y/N into his side, resting his chin on top of her head. He looked at his friends with a smug, satisfied expression.
"I have a beautiful girlfriend," Ollie stated matter-of-factly. "We have a beautiful baby. And I’m the one going home with her. Call me whipped all you want. I’m winning."
Y/N groaned into his chest. "Ollie, stop bragging."
"Never," he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent again. "They're just jealous."
Kimi rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to get another drink. I can't be around this much sugar."
As Kimi walked away, he heard Ollie whisper loudly to Y/N: "Do you want anything? Water? Champagne? My kidney?"
The red digits on the clock read 3:14 AM. The nursery felt like a pressure cooker.
Your daughter had been screaming for two hours straight—a high-pitched, sawing wail that grated against your very soul. Teething. It was brutal. You were pacing the floor, bouncing her rhythmically, tears of sheer exhaustion streaming down your own face. Your back ached, your arms were shaking, and you felt like the worst mother on the planet because you couldn't fix it.
"Shh, baby, please," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Please just sleep."
The door creaked open. You expected a sleepy, grumpy Ollie. Instead, you found him fully awake, eyes clear and focused in the dim light.
He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't ask if you were okay. He just walked straight to you.
"Give her to me," he said. His voice was low, calm, and brokered no argument.
"Ollie, you have training tomorrow, go back to sleep—"
"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, his hands gently covering yours where they clutched the baby. His thumbs stroked over your knuckles. "Look at me."
You looked up, blinking through tears.
"You're done," he said softly. "Your shift is over. Give me my girl."
He took the screaming baby from your arms with a practiced ease that still surprised you sometimes. He shifted her high onto his shoulder, immediately starting a deep, rumbling hum in his chest that you knew she found soothing. He began a specific, swaying walk around the room.
"Go to bed," he instructed over his shoulder.
You hesitated, hovering by the crib. "But she's—"
Ollie stopped swaying and turned to look at you. His expression was fierce, but not angry. It was that intense, singular focus again.
"I cannot handle seeing you in pain," he said, his voice rough. "It hurts me more than her crying does. If you don't go get in that bed right now and let me take care of our family, I'm going to lose my mind. Go."
The sheer force of his care for you was overwhelming. You nodded mutely and slipped out of the room.
Twenty minutes later, you were drifting off when the bedroom door opened softly. Ollie padded in. It was silent outside.
He climbed into bed behind you, smelling of baby lotion and relief. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm clamping around your waist like a vise. You felt him bury his face in your neck, inhaling sharply.
"Is she asleep?" you whispered.
"Out cold," he mumbled against your skin. "Took some convincing." He kissed your shoulder, his grip tightening almost painfully. "God, I love you. You're such a good mom. I'm so obsessed with you it makes my teeth ache. Now sleep."
It was a black-tie gala for one of the sponsors. Ollie had stepped away for two minutes to grab you both refills on champagne.
You were standing near a high-top table, idly watching the crowd, looking stunning in an emerald green gown that Ollie had spent the better part of the evening staring at.
"Excuse me," a voice said to your left.
You turned to find a man in an expensive suit—someone you didn't recognize, perhaps an investor—smiling smoothly at you.
"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, stepping a little too close into your personal space, his eyes raking over your dress. "But you look incredibly bored. And far too beautiful to be standing here alone."
You gave a polite, tight smile. "I'm not alone, actually. My partner is just getting drinks."
The man laughed, a dismissive sound. "Well, he's a fool for leaving you unguarded. I'm Marcus. Can I get you—"
He started to reach out to touch your arm.
He never made contact.
Suddenly, the air pressure around you changed. A warm, solid weight slammed against your back. An arm, heavy and unyielding, wrapped around your waist, pulling you back so hard your spine collided with a rock-hard chest.
The smell of Ollie’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive—flooded your senses.
"Is there a problem here?"
Ollie's voice was unrecognizable. It was several octaves lower than usual, stripped of all warmth, all humor. It was ice cold and razor-sharp.
The man, Marcus, blinked, looking up at Ollie, who was glaring down at him with an expression that could only be described as murderous. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and flat.
"Oh, uh, no," Marcus stammered, taking a reflexive step back. "I was just... making conversation with the lady."
Ollie didn't blink. The arm around your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress. It wasn't painful, but it was a clear, primal marking of territory.
"She's not interested in conversation," Ollie said, his voice deadly quiet. "And she's not 'the lady.' She's my wife. Move along."
It wasn't a request.
Marcus turned pale, mumbled an apology, and practically ran into the crowd.
As soon as he was gone, the tension didn't leave Ollie’s body, but his focus shifted entirely to you. He turned you in his arms, his hands coming up to cup your face, tilting your head back.
The icy look vanished, replaced by frantic, searching concern. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.
"Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly now. "Did he touch you? Tell me if he touched you, Y/N."
"I'm fine, Ollie," you soothed, placing your hands over his on your face. "He was just annoying. You scared him off."
"Good," Ollie breathed, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His heart was hammering against your chest. "I hated the way he was looking at you. I wanted to rip his eyes out."
He kissed you then—hard, possessive, and desperate, right in the middle of the gala floor, not caring who was watching. When he pulled back, he kept you locked against his side.
"We're leaving," he muttered into your hair. "I need to get you home and remind myself that you're mine."
The noise at Monza was deafening, the Tifosi screaming as the cars tore down the main straight. But inside the hospitality suite, it was relatively muffled.
Ollie stood by the glass, arms crossed, watching the monitors with a critical eye. He had a few silver hairs mixed into the dark curls at his temples now, and fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes—evidence of a life spent squinting at the sun and smiling at you.
On the screen, a car emblazoned with the number 87 overtook down the inside of Parabolica.
"Did you see that move?" Kimi (now sporting reading glasses that he refused to admit he needed) pointed at the screen. "That was late on the brakes. She drives exactly like you, Ollie. Aggressive. Little bit stupid."
"She drives better than me," Ollie corrected without turning around. "She has her mother's patience."
"She’s leading the championship," Arthur added, shaking his head. "God help us all. Another Bearman."
You walked into the suite then, carrying two espressos. You were wearing a team jacket over a simple white dress, your hair windblown from the walk through the paddock.
The moment you stepped into the room, Ollie’s posture changed. The tension in his shoulders from watching your daughter race evaporated. He turned away from the track—away from the race his eighteen-year-old was currently leading—and walked straight to you.
"Hi," he said, taking the coffee from your hand and setting it down on a table without looking at it.
"Hi," you smiled, smoothing the lapels of his shirt. "She's doing well. Five laps to go."
"I don't care," Ollie murmured. He stepped into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in until there was no daylight between you.
"Ollie," you laughed, glancing over his shoulder at Kimi and Arthur, who were both groaning theatrically. "Your daughter is about to win Monza. Watch the screen."
"I've seen Monza," Ollie said dismissively, his eyes scanning your face with that same hungry, reverent intensity he’d had at twenty-one. "I’d rather watch you."
"Please," Kimi called out from the couch. "We are forty years old. Are you still doing this? It’s been twenty years, mate. Give it a rest."
Ollie didn't even look at them. He brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.
"They don't get it," he whispered to you, his voice lower, rougher with age but just as devoted. "They don't understand that it never stops. It just gets worse."
You softened, leaning into his touch, the roar of the cars outside fading into the background. "It gets worse?"
"Yeah," he nodded, his eyes dark and sincere. "I used to be obsessed with the girl who held my baby. Now I'm obsessed with the woman who raised her. I look at you, Y/N, and I think... how did I get away with this? How did I get to keep you for two decades?"
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.
"I am still so head over heels for you, it’s embarrassing."
"It is embarrassing," Arthur shouted. "We are all embarrassed for you!"
You giggled, and Ollie smiled—that boyish, lopsided grin that hadn't aged a day. He kissed you, slow and deep, ignoring the race, ignoring his friends, ignoring the world.
"Let them talk," he murmured against your lips. "I won the championship a long time ago."On the screen behind him, the car with number 87 crossed the finish line in first place, the garage erupted in cheers, but Ollie Bearman was too busy looking at his wife to notice.
summary: after a bad argument with the drivers, you leave the house to get some air. except, you lose track of time, your phone's dead, and your boyfriend? spiralling.
drivers: lw44, cl16, op81, ln4, gr63, ak12, mv1, yt22, aa23, cs55, eo31, ob87, ls18, fa14, ll30, ih6, nh27, gb5, pg10, fc43
warnings: a bit angsty, mentions of an argument, mentions of walking out/leaving.
notes: i actually giggled typing these out, i hope you like it as much as i did! i put translations for things at the bottom incase anyone is interested! no part 2 (sorry)
f1 masterlist !
FERRARI
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MERCEDES
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REDBULL
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MCLAREN
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WILLIAMS
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RACING BULLS
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ASTON MARTIN
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KICK SAUBER
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HAAS
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ALPINE
translations:
stp/s'il te plait = please
schatje = treasure/little treasure
tu es ma vie = you are my life
j'peux pas respirer sans toi = i cant breathe without you
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When Levi and Y/n speak French, how do the cadets react?
C/n: italics mean French.
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“What the fuck are they saying?”
“How the hell should I know, dipshit?”
It was dinner at the Survey Corps and The Levi Squad was sitting at their table while the cadets were next to them.
Y/n and Levi were chatting with each other when they felt the nosey cadets listening in since the next training would determine who would be in the front lines of the up coming expedition.
“Levi?” She whispers to him. “Hm?” She leans towards him and whispers in his ear. Whatever she said made Levi smirk and the cadets were shook.
“So anyway, do you think this would mean that Eren would be the next one?” She asks and he shakes his head. “No. I see that Mikasa is surpassing everyone at everything. She should be the next.” “I agree. We should tell Erwin our decision.”
The cadets’ eyes widened at the foreign language their superiors were speaking. The only thing they caught was Mikasa’s name.
“Mikasa! They said your name!” “So?” “So?!”
Y/n and Levi continued to speak their language that they learnt back in the underground.
Right now, everything was settled and Y/n and Levi were just trolling them.
“Jean is looking over here like a dunce.” She chuckles at Levi’s words. “You could expect that. They have never heard this language before, I assume. It’s been a while since we spoke like this, huh?” “Yeah. I must admit, Y/n. You sound very sexy right now,” Levi remarks and Y/n blushes while giggling. “As do you, my love.”
“I just want to know what they’re saying! I want to be on the expedition!” Eren yells out and everyone around him laughs. Except for Armin. His bright, red blush was hidden by his book.
Now he wished his grandpa never taught him French.
———————————————————————
“Imagine Levi dirty talking in French to you. Holy fu-..”
a/n: this is old as balls, so read at your own peril!
⋆ ࣪. ❤︎ 𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘! todoroki’s been ignoring you, but you can’t for the life of you figure out why.
⋆ ࣪. ❤︎ 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘! angst, miscommunication, pre-established relationship, ochako and katsuki are your besties.
⋆ ࣪. ❤︎ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘! 3.8k+
It’s been one week since Shouto started avoiding you, seemingly without cause. It was as if you were suddenly invisible to him. At first, you brushed it off as him wanting a little bit of space. You knew how much he struggled with his emotions, and sometimes he just needed some time to himself to figure it out.
But after three days, you approached him again to ask about his day and he still completely ignored you. You remember the icy, disinterested stare he gave you before stalking off past you as if you hadn’t even spoken to him at all.
That stung.
Come the fourth and fifth days, and he continues to act like you didn’t exist. You can’t help but get the feeling that you’ve done something wrong. Why else would he go completely radio silent? The concerned texts you’d sent hadn’t even been opened. Was it something you said?
You give him even more space and the benefit of the doubt, hoping that maybe this was all one big misunderstanding, and eventually, he’d come to you and apologize once he was over it. Or come to you so you could comfort him as you always did. But that time never came, and he still avoided you as if you reeked of some sort of disease. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was talking to what seemed like everyone other than you. You’d never felt so small, and so invisible.
Summary: Levi thinks you’re too clingy and tells you in a heated argument.
TW: language, angst, fluffy ending
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The scouts could agree that it had been a tough week for everyone, some keeping their stress to themselves and others voicing their inner conflicts. You were optimistic knowing that the long week was over, the problems had been resolved and you acknowledged that the high levels of stress were part of the job. To you, your boyfriend eased your stress every time you laid beside him in your shared bed and every morning you woke up to the sound of his heart beat pressed against your ear. You knew he was stressed out but he didn’t share much, he acknowledged his stress but wouldn’t speak about it. You had a small smile on your face as you thought about you boyfriend, you were walking to his office with a small tray in your hand holding two cups full of warm tea. You walked into his office without knocking, gently shutting the door behind you with your foot.
“Do you not know how to knock Y/N?” You heard Levi say, turning to see him glaring at you.
“Oh, I’m sorry Levi I didn’t think it would bother you,” you replied back, you weren’t upset about his small outburst you understood he was a bit grumpy today. “I brought you tea.”
He hums in response, ignoring your presence as he continued looking at the paperwork in front of him. You quietly placed the tray on his desk before pulling up the chair you would always sit in, placing it in front of his desk.
“Do you need any help darling?” You ask sweetly, looking at him even though strands of hairs slightly covered his face.
“No,” he mumbled, continuing to scribble his signature on the paper.
“Are you sure? It looks like a lot and you’ve been here for so-“ you were cut off by Levi glaring at you.
“I already said no Y/N,” he replies, annoyance laced in his voice.
“Oh, ok. Well you should drink your tea before it gets cold, maybe even take a break,” you reply quietly not wanting to upset him anymore. You were trying to keep your temper under control, sympathizing with him.
“Holy shit, you’re so fucking clingy. I can’t do shit without you being so far up my ass. You’re so annoying, I can’t even have my own damn space. When I asked you to date me it wasn’t an invitation to be so attached to me, you cling to me like a lost puppy and I can’t stand it anymore. You’re always around me, always touching me, always fucking talking,” he speaks quickly, glaring at you as if he was burning a hole through your head. If looks could kill you would already be buried 6 feet under.
You stared at him in shock, eyes slightly widened as your mouth opened and closed. The words were stuck in your throat but you slowly nodded, standing up and walking out of his office to your shared room. You didn’t know he felt that way, you just tried to love and care for him and he seemed to enjoy it every time. Maybe he was just acting to not upset you. You laid in bed, facing away from his side of the bed as you tried to collect your thoughts. You let out a sigh, you can’t be upset with him for wanting space even though he could have asked for it in a mixed way but you understood that he could have been feeling overwhelmed. You slowly fell asleep as you tried to ignore the thoughts flooding your brain. That night Levi came to bed later than usual, sighing as he removed his clothes and climbed into bed with you. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you towards him until your back was pressed against his chest.
——————————————————————————
Levi had noticed a change in you, you were still the same person he fell in love with, the only difference was that he rarely saw you throughout the day anymore. He would see you in the mornings when you would get out of bed and before he knew it you were already out the door to start your day.
When it was time to eat he noticed that you wouldn’t sit as close to him as you used to but you would still bring him his tea which he would quietly thank you for. You would talk to Hange most of the time, which wasn’t anything rare but he noticed that your hand wasn’t resting on his thigh and that you wouldn’t lean your head on his shoulder. Other times you would sit with the cadets and even though you were across the room he couldn’t stop looking at you, at how you would laugh at their jokes and play fight with them. You would get your food with him but when you reached the mess hall you would quickly announce that you were going to sit with the cadets and leave him walking to the table you would normally sit at.
He rarely ever saw you come into his office anymore unless it was work related or to bring him his nightly tea. He was shocked when you didn’t barge in like you normally would but he knows it’s his fault after he yelled at you about it. He would hear a soft knock on his door to which he would respond with “state your name and business.” He would remind you that you didn’t have to knock, looking at you sweetly as you placed the cup in front of him. He had noticed that you would only bring his cup and before he could blink you were already out the door.
Once he was done with his work he would go into your shared room to find you asleep with your back facing him or awake reading a book. If you were awake you would nod your head at him and greet him with a small smile before focusing your attention back on the book. He missed the way you would cling to him, pressing kisses on his skin and quickly bringing him to bed once he was done with his night routine. You still asked him about his day which he would respond to you with small details of his day and you would nod or hum in response. He would lay beside you but you still wouldn’t take your attention off of the book so he took it as a chance to stare at you and take in your features, the face of the person he loved and yet he saw less and less of you every day.
If you ever did stay in his office to help him with the stack of paperwork on his desk, he noticed that you were so silent he could hear the scribbling of the pen against the paper. Normally you would be humming a tune, most likely from a lullaby you remembered or a tune you heard when walking through the town or hearing the other cadets sing. He enjoyed the quiet sounds that would leave your throat, he would feel his muscles relax whenever he would hear your quiet hums. Other times you would mindlessly talk to him and he would listen, a small smile on his lips as he heard you talking about the smallest event that happened to your day but it filled you with pure happiness. He missed hearing you but you were so quiet, so still. Your eyebrows were furrowed as you looked through the papers, a bored expression of your face but you still continued until you were done with the work.
When you were touchy or more talkative he would try to take in every single one of your words or keep a hold on you as if you would disappear in any minute. When he would feel you interlacing your fingers through his as you walked through a crowded place so that you wouldn’t lose him he would hold onto your hand tightly, loving how small and warm your hand felt in his hand. When you would wipe crumbs from his face, he would lean into your touch before you pulled away, a small frown playing on his lips. He missed you, even if you were around he missed the way you touched him. You were present in his life but you weren’t physically there with him, you weren’t there to caress his skin or press random kisses throughout the day.
He was currently in his office, seated in his chair as a heavy sigh left his lips. He heard a small knock on his door, muttering out a small “come in” knowing it was you. You walked in, quietly closing the door behind you. He looked up from the paper he was currently reading through, his eyes focusing in on your face. He noticed that you had already showered due to your semi wet hair, you were wearing your silk set of pajamas, the light pink camisole and shorts making your skin look so soft.
“Hey, I just came in to check in on you before I go to bed. Do you need any help?” You ask, not moving from your place in front of the door.
He nods, “if you don’t mind, I have a few more to go through and I just want to be done for the night.”
You made your way towards his desk, pulling up the chair you always sat on and placing it in front of his desk. You grabbed the pen you had left of his desk last time you helped him, grabbing the small stack he was handing you.
Levi couldn’t concentrate, you were too quiet for his liking. “Um, do you think you could hum? It’s really quiet and I don’t like it,” he asks sweetly, looking at you with a light blush on his cheeks.
You look at him, your eyes slightly wide in surprise but you slowly nod, looking back down at the papers in front of you as you quietly hum his favorite tune.
He lets out a sigh of relief, visibly relaxing more in his seat with a small smile on his lips as he continues reading and signing the papers. When the both of you finished, he wrapped an arm around your waist as he walked you out of his office and into your room. You had patiently waited for him to finish cleaning himself up, your back still facing him. He laid in bed, staring at your back for a minute.
“Can you face me, please? I want to hold you,” Levi whispers, placing his hand on your forearm.
You slowly turn around, looking at him before you feel him pulling you into his chest.
He sighs, holding onto you tightly,”I’m so sorry sweetheart. I didn’t mean anything that I said to you that night, I let my anger get the best of me and I took it out on you. I’m really fucking sorry but I can’t deal with it anymore. I miss everything about you, I miss hearing your voice, I miss feeling your skin and your lips on mine, I miss your small touches, your laugh, your smile, I just miss you.” He pressed soft kisses against your cheek before pressing his forehead against yours. “I was such a piece of shit for saying those things to you pretty girl, I learned that I need you, you’re the reason that I wake up every morning and the reason I have a reason to live and yet I’ve taken advantage of your kindness and you love and I hope you forgive me. I miss having you seated beside me at every minute of the day so I ask you to please come back to me, love me like you did before I even said anything to you.” He pleaded, his eyes boring into yours as he looked at you desperately.
You let out a sigh, pressing a small kiss to his lips, “I understand that you must have felt overwhelmed by my presence and I don’t mind giving you space, you just need to ask me and I don’t want you to feel that way again.”
“No, no I wasn’t overwhelmed by you love, I was overwhelmed from the stress and I took it out in you. I love the attention you give me, I love you and everything you are.” He responds, gently cupping your face in his hands.
You smile at him, leaning into his touch as you trailed your hand up his arm until your hand landed on the back of his head, playing with the strands on his hair. “I love you too and I promise I’ll be around more often, just promise me that you will tell me if you ever need space,” you respond.
“I promise, not that I will ever need to ask you brat,” he chuckles, pulling you closer to his body as you laid your head on his chest, humming in contentment.
Tags: Smut, groping, Mutual pining, phone sex, oral (f , m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, begging, praise, soft dom Minho, tension snapping like a wire, domestic fluff, aftercare, post-sex vulnerability, tit play, friends to lovers
Word count: 8k
Summary: You always thought Minho was gay—so you never held back. Tiny tops, unfiltered stories, late-night cuddles… harmless, right?Until he sees you soaked through one day and finally snaps. And suddenly, your best friend isn’t looking at you like a friend anymore. Until one late-night phone call changed everything. Now you’re at his door—no bra, no excuse—buzzing from the sound of his voice and the filthy things he made you do. He opens the door. He sees you. And just like that, it’s over. The line is crossed.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
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You’d known Lee Minho since you were barely old enough to walk without holding onto his shirt.
Back then, he was just that loud kid who shared his snacks and shoved you into mud puddles. Now? He was your best friend. Constant. Loyal. Always down to pick you up when you were drunk or kill spiders or fake-boyfriend you out of awkward situations.
And also—totally not into girls.
At least, that’s what you’d always assumed.
He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man alive—or playing for a different team.
So you got reckless. Comfortable.
And today?
You were about to find out just how wrong you’d been.
It started with the kitchen sink.
You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burst—literally—spraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.
“FUCK—shit, fuck—” You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.
And that’s when Minho walked in.
“Yo, I got the charger you—”
He froze.
You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.
Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.
“Oh.” You laughed, awkward. “Um—hi. Broken faucet. Don’t mind the wet t-shirt contest.”
He didn’t answer.
Just stood there.
Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.
Your smile faded.
“Min?”
His gaze finally snapped to your face.
Too late.
You saw it—the tension. The fire.
The unmistakable flicker of hunger.
And suddenly your stomach flipped.
“…Minho?”
He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.
“Put something on. Now.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I said—” His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. “Go change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.”
Your heart skipped.
Because that? That didn’t sound like your best friend.
You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldn’t meet your eyes.
He turned his back to you—turned his back—and gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.
You’d never seen him like this. Not with you.
“I wasn’t—Min, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, brain short-circuiting. “I didn’t know you were coming over yet.”
His voice was clipped. “You knew the faucet was broken.”
“I didn’t know it was gonna blast me in the tits!”
Silence.
A beat.
Then, quietly—so quietly—you heard it:
“Jesus Christ…”
That’s when something finally clicked.
You looked down at yourself—at the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.
You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.
“…Are you mad at me?” you asked, voice small.
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
You stepped closer.
“Then what’s going on?”
He shook his head, still facing away. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it again—that look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel you’d pressed to your chest, then back to your face.
You watched him like he was someone else.
Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yours—but you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.
“I’ll fix the faucet later,” he muttered, stepping past you—carefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.
You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.
“You didn’t answer me,” you said.
“About what?”
“Why you told me to change.”
He stopped at the door.
Didn’t turn around.
For a long second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Then, quietly, he replied:
“Because if I’d kept looking at you, I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.
The air changed.
Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.
You didn’t move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.
⸻
The rest of the day passed weirdly.
Minho didn’t leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.
But the energy between you?
Completely different.
He didn’t look at you the way he usually did. Didn’t tease you like normal. Didn’t even touch you when he passed you the remote—just tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.
And you couldn’t stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.
“I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Kept it shut about what, exactly?
What he was thinking?
What he wanted to do?
You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.
Except… this time?
You caught him looking.
Not accidentally.
Not briefly.
He looked—and kept looking.
From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t apologize.
He didn’t blink.
He just raised a brow—almost like a dare—and said, “Your sink’s still fucked.”
You nodded, slowly.
“So are you gonna fix it?”
He stood up.
And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.
Just a touch.
Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.
And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.
Like it hadn’t just happened at all.
⸻
He always crashed in your bed. That wasn’t new.
Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing synced—just best friends, just comfort.
Except tonight?
You felt everything.
His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.
You’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.
And you knew—you knew—he hadn’t stopped thinking about earlier.
About how you’d looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.
You should’ve felt awkward.
But instead, your thighs were clenched.
And then—His hand moved.
Just a little.
At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.
Slow.
Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.
Your breath caught.
His did too.
Like he just realized what his body was doing.
He didn’t pull away.
Not immediately.
His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boob—soft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasn’t completely out of bounds.
Your chest rose and fell faster now.
He still didn’t speak.
But his hand stayed there.
Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.
And you?
You didn’t stop him.
You didn’t even breathe.
You just pressed back into him slightly—so slightly—and felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.
He exhaled shakily behind you.
Shit.
You’d never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.
Not around anyone.
You didn’t move for a while.
Didn’t even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed still—heart hammering, skin burning—like your body was listening for his next move.
But when none came…
You shifted.
Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.
His fingers twitched again.
But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t say your name. Didn’t jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed there—completely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.
Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touch—but it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything you’d done with someone you were actually sleeping with.
And still, you stayed quiet.
Still.
Sleeping.
His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.
And this time, his hips shifted too.
The press of him against your ass sharpened—more deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you weren’t stopping.
His hand tightened—slightly.
He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.
Just like you were.
If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.
So you didn’t.
You just let it happen.
Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushing—and instead, welcomed.
He let out another one of those breaths—low, shaky, wrecked.
You smiled into the pillow.
Still not breathing.
Still “asleep.”
And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.
—
The morning came too fast.
Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it.
He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.
Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.
You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.
He handed you a mug. “You were out cold.”
Liar.
You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.
“So were you.”
A flicker—barely there—but his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.
You let him sit with the tension.
You drank your coffee slow.
“You ever think…” you began softly, “maybe I’ve just been really fucking stupid?”
He looked up from his cereal. “Since when?”
You tilted your head. “Since assuming you weren’t into girls.”
He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.
That… got his attention.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat there—silent—and then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.
But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.
“What makes you ask that?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around like—” you gestured vaguely at yourself—“this. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.”
Another pause.
His eyes dropped to your thighs.
You were wearing the same sleep shirt.
No bra still.
Of course he noticed.
But he didn’t give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadn’t betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.
“Maybe I’m just good at not talking about certain things,” he said.
That hit harder than it should have.
You stared at him.
And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t see your best friend.
You saw a man who’d been holding himself back for years.
You’d never stared at his crotch before.
That was the first red flag.
You weren’t even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You weren’t supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.
You blinked away quickly.
Jesus.
You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chest—and your thighs.
He didn’t notice.
Of course he didn’t.
Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldn’t flinch. It was part of the reason you’d always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.
You needed to know.
If you were wrong. If he’d just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.
So you tested it.
That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldn’t be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.
Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.
He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the side—too close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.
His jaw clenched.
But he said nothing.
Strike one.
You tried again.
Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.
Still nothing.
Strike two.
You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.
But Lee Minho stayed quiet.
You weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.
That he wasn’t gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?
Maybe it was all of it.
But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.
“You’re not good at building shit,” you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Lucky I’m cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.”
He grunted—low, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flicker—straight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage you’d made extra sure he’d notice.
Bingo.
You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.
He went still.
“You okay there, Min?” you asked softly. Coy.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“This,” he said. He didn’t look at you. “Whatever game you’re playing right now.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
You tilted your head. “What are you talking about?”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “I’m warning you.”
Oh, that did something to you.
He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he should’ve been—because you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.
You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skin—more than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.
“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Touch me.”
He swallowed.
Didn’t move.
So you took his hand yourself—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to your breast.
Flesh to palm.
He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didn’t pull away.
You arched into his touch.
“You’ve never been curious?” you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. “Never once wondered what they felt like? You’ve known me your whole life, Minho…”
His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
You smiled faintly.
But then he tightened his grip—just slightly—and your breath caught.
“You think I’ve been ignoring you all these years?” he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. “You think I don’t notice when you walk around half naked? You think I don’t see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?”
You froze.
Oh.
Oh shit.
“You think I don’t feel them when you’re sleeping pressed against me?” His thumb brushed up now—barely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.
“Minho…”
His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.
“You need to stop,” he said, standing up too fast. “Before you push me too far.”
You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.
For the first time… you realized you might’ve already pushed too far.
—
It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.
He was already in it—lying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.
Your heart was still pounding.
He hadn’t said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadn’t cupped your tit like a stress ball.
And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.
You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.
You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.
“Hey,” you whispered in the dark. “Are we… okay?”
His voice came low. Controlled. “You tell me.”
You swallowed. “You seemed… upset earlier.”
“I was,” he said. “I’m not anymore.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
Then, casually:
“You looked at my dick today.”
You choked. “What?! No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
You rolled onto your back, flustered. “You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t need to. I know your face. I’ve known it since you had baby teeth.”
You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.
He shifted then—closer. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.
And something else pressed against your ass.
Hard. Solid. Undeniable.
You gasped.
His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.
“That’s payback,” he said softly, “for putting your tits in my hand.”
You forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t move.
Neither did you.
The air between you was molten now, and his cock—fuck, that was his cock—was still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.
“Minho…”
“You wanted to know,” he said, voice silk and fire. “You’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now you’ve got one.”
You felt him smirk.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Too much?”
You couldn’t answer.
Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.
You didn’t say anything at first.
Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.
Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.
“…Can I touch it?”
Silence.
Not even a breath behind you.
Then— “What?”
You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. “I just… I wanna feel it. Like—actually feel it. With my hand.”
A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.
“You’re kidding.”
You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yours—blown, stunned, like you’d slapped him with a brick made of sin.
You didn’t wait for another answer.
Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.
And your hand followed.
The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where he’d pressed up against you before—still just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
You cupped him gently.
Minho jerked.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, face twisting. “What the hell are you doing…”
“Just curious,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. “You’re so… big.”
He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.
Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.
“You’ve been like this all night?” you asked, eyes wide.
He hissed through his teeth. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Why not?” you teased, still stroking. “It’s not like I’m doing anything serious.”
“That’s the fucking problem,” he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.
You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.
He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.
“You can tell me to stop,” you whispered.
He didn’t.
So you slipped your hand inside.
No warning.
Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.
Minho choked.
“Fuck—fuck—”
You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.
He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.
“Is this payback too?” you asked, lips barely moving.
His eyes flew open.
“Keep talking and I’ll fuck your throat instead.”
Your hand froze.
Your heart flipped.
Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.
But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.
His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlight—teasing.
Minho’s eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
You felt powerful. Dangerous.
So you looked up at him—bold, daring—and said, “So? Still want me to stop?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.
“Are you crazy?”
You tilted your head. “Maybe.”
“This is—” He swallowed. “We’re—”
“Friends?” you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. “Childhood besties? Practically siblings?”
He winced. “God, don’t say that.”
You smiled.
And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your head—bare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts he’d felt in his hands earlier.
They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.
His breath hitched. His eyes dropped—dragged—to your chest.
It was the second time he’d seen them that night.
“I’m sure,” you said simply.
Something broke in him.
He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.
You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured it—biting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like he’d been starving for years.
“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. “You really wanted to see what I’d do?”
You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.
“Too late to take it back now,” he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nipple—hard.
Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.
“Minho—”
“I’ve dreamed about these,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”
Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.
“Need to feel you,” he rasped. “Need to have you.”
“Then take me,” you breathed. Without even thinking about it.
And for a second, Minho froze.
Not because he didn’t want to—his hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising force—but because the way you’d said it… so open, so needy, so real… it shook him.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. “Because if I start, I won’t stop this time.”
Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips and—
“I’m not asking you to stop,” you whispered back.
He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him again—slow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.
And maybe they did.
His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.
“Already soaked,” he rasped, biting down on your lip. “Fuck—have you always been like this around me?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwear—just enough to make you moan.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. “You keep tempting me like this, and I swear—”
“Then burn me,” you whispered, grinding down on his hand.
He snapped again—grabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like he’d been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.
Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.
His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.
You whimpered, bucked.
“Don’t tease,” you begged.
He chuckled darkly. “Says the one who’s been waving her tits in my face for years.”
You gasped—half embarrassed, half turned on—and he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.
“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Or I’m going to ruin your sleep.”
You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whispered—not yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.
“Not tonight,” you murmured, heart racing.
His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
But his fingers didn’t move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.
“For the record,” he added, voice like gravel, “this is me trying to behave.”
You giggled, breathless.
“I can tell.”
And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.
You didn’t have sex that night.
But neither of you slept much, either.
⸻
It had only been three days.
Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, “I’ll see you later,” and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since you’d almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.
Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.
He hadn’t ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. “Sorry, been busy.” “Work’s a lot this week.” “I’ll come by soon.”
But soon wasn’t now. And now… was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside you—desperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.
It wasn’t the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.
Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way he’d looked at you like he’d been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.
Then your phone lit up.
Minho calling.
You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.
You hesitated just long enough for it to ring again—and then answered, trying to level your breath.
“Hey,” you managed, voice just a bit too airy.
“Hey,” he said, voice casual, low. “Were you sleeping?”
“Nope.” You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. “Just… relaxing.”
“Mmm.” His voice dropped, curious. “You sound out of breath.”
You swallowed. Hard. “Tired day. I was just—y’know. Lying down.”
The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.
“Sorry I’ve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.” His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. “A lot, actually.”
A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didn’t.
“…You okay?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sound—off.”
You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didn’t dare stop.
“I’m fine,” you rasped.
But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.
He paused. “Wait. Are you—are you doing something?”
Your whole body froze.
“No,” you lied, voice high.
He went quiet. Too quiet.
“…Are you touching yourself right now?” His voice came low, dangerous. “While on the phone with me?”
Silence.
Then, another breathy whimper.
He growled. “Fuck. You are.”
You felt heat shoot up your spine.
“Keep going,” he said, voice gravel now. “Don’t stop. You started this.”
Your hips rolled again—slower this time, more deliberate—as you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he demanded. “While you fuck yourself to my voice.”
You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.
“Tell me,” he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. “What were you thinking about?”
You whimpered. “You.”
He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.
“Yeah? What about me?”
You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. “The way you felt that night,” you gasped. “The way you pressed into me from behind… the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheets—”
“Fuck.”
His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldn’t have—yet.
“Are you still touching yourself?” he asked, voice thick.
“…Yes.”
“Good. Faster.”
The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didn’t even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.
“Wish I could see you,” he breathed. “Wish I could have my hand over your mouth. You’re too loud, babe. You’d wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.”
“Minho—”
“Not yet,” he cut in. “You’ll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.”
You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.
“Keep going. Just like that.” His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. “You’ll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you should’ve that night.”
You whimpered.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”
“Minho—”
“Louder.”
“Minho.”
“Good girl,” he rasped. “Now come.”
You shattered.
Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didn’t even try to hold it in anymore—he needed to hear it. He deserved to.
Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.
When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he said softly, deadly. “Next time I get my hands on you… I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.”
The call ended.
You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.
But you didn’t sleep.
You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.
If he wasn’t going to come to you?
You’d damn well go to him.
—
You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number you’d memorized when you were ten.
You shouldn’t have been here.
But your body didn’t care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard you’d been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.
Showing up like this—unannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodie—wasn’t just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.
You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.
Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.
Minho.
Still shirtless.
Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like he’d been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.
He didn’t say a word.
Just looked at you.
Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lower—lingering on your bare thighs.
You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.
“Say something,” you whispered.
His voice came out hoarse.
“You’re insane.”
“I know.”
Another pause. The air between you tightened.
He stepped forward. Just one step—and you backed up, your breath hitching.
“No bra?” he muttered like it hurt him. “You show up like this after what just happened—fuck—”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t want to wait.”
That was it.
He snapped.
You didn’t even see him move—just felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.
His breath hit your lips.
Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.
“Last chance,” he growled. “If you tell me right now you’re not sure, I’ll let you go. I’ll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’m sure.”
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a wave—his tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and gripped—like he was claiming territory.
A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.
Minho’s mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you up—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didn’t even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard he’d made you come.
His bed was unmade.
Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.
Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.
Like he’d waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.
“You still want this?” he asked, voice low—gravel and smoke.
You didn’t answer. You showed him—legs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.
“Fuck, okay,” he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. “Okay, baby.”
He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw first—then your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.
“You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark he’d just left. “You just didn’t know it.”
You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.
“You feel that?” he asked, dragging it up and down—your body arching, chasing it. “You’ve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.”
He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you got careless around me?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out—just a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.
Your nails dug into his arms.
“Minho—”
“Shh,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I know.”
Then he pushed in.
Slow. Deep. Relentless.
And holy fuck.
Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside—until his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking tight.”
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
He pulled back just enough to drive back in—and again—again—building a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.
Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.
He was everywhere—teeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.
And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.
“You gonna let me fill you up, baby?”
“Gonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.”
“You were made for this. For me. For my cock.”
You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.
“Right there?” he growled, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s your spot.”
You were sobbing now—wet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.
“Minho, please—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he snapped. “Right now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.”
And you did. Harder than before—louder, messier, more intense.
You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost it—groaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.
He stayed like that—deep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.
You didn’t know how long you laid there—legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.
Minho hadn’t moved much either.
He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyes—eyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.
Just softness. Almost guilt.
“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but gentler now.
You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.
“Did I go too far?” he murmured.
“No,” you whispered, your voice small. “I liked it. I liked all of it.”
That made his lips twitch.
“Yeah?” he said, brushing his knuckles across your tits—lingering when your breath caught. “Even when I told you to shut up and take it?”
You swallowed hard. “Especially then.”
He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptiness—at how sore and stretched you felt—and Minho’s gaze immediately dropped between your legs.
“Shit,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Look at that mess.”
You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.
“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “You look so good like this. All ruined because of me.”
Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.
You flinched. “Minho—too much—”
He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.
“Alright, baby,” he said. “I’ll be good.”
And he was.
For about two minutes.
Then he kissed his way up your body—lingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gently—making your hips buck.
“I just wanna taste them,” he murmured. “You kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.”
“They still do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
He smirked. “Then don’t move.”
He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together again—need building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.
“Fuck,” you mumbled. “You’re gonna break me.”
He pulled back to look at you.
“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “But you did say you liked sucking cock, didn’t you?”
You blinked. “I—yeah—why—?”
He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard again—thick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.
“Then get over here.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.
He tapped the tip against your lips. “Open up, baby.”
You did.
And he groaned the moment you took him in—just the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.
“That’s it,” he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. “So fucking pretty when you’re drooling on my cock.”
You moaned around him, and he twitched.
“You gonna swallow it all?” he asked, voice breaking a little. “You want me to come in your mouth this time?”
You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.
He cursed—hips jerking, cock thickening—and seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.
You swallowed everything.
Every drop.
When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadn’t just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.
“Now,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, “lets get some sleep.”
⸻
The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.
You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floor—probably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.
Minho’s arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.
It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like this—after.
You stayed still as long as you could, just… absorbing it.
And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.
“Your thighs are twitching.”
You groaned. “Maybe because you almost broke them last night.”
He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. “You came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why not? It’s my favorite memory now.”
You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.
He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.
“What?” you asked quietly.
He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.
“You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”
Your breath caught.
“I mean…” he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. “It can be, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.
Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back either.”
Minho exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night.
Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.
You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.
Later, you’d get up. He’d make coffee. You’d steal one of his shirts. He’d tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And you’d both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.
But for now, you stayed in bed—best friends turned something more—with his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics ❤️ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!
oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader.
ꔮ word count: 20.4k. (!!!)
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between.
ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Oscar spots them before you do.
You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.
Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.
When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”
They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”
“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”
The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”
He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”
The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.
“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”
“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”
You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”
The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.
“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.
You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.”
Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.
Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.
It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.
Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.
Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.
Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.
The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.
Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.
Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.
Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”
“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank.
“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”
You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”
Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”
“Oh? What’s the damage?”
“Dinner tonight. My pick.”
Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”
You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.
And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.
There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.
Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.
When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.
“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”
“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”
“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”
“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”
You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.
The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.
You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”
“It’s called a compromise.”
“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”
“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.
Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.
The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.
There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want.
The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.
By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.
“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.
“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”
“I have a system,” he interrupts.
“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”
“Which is why I’m never locked out.”
You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”
“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”
The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”
“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”
“You loved that one.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You cried.”
“Allergies.”
You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”
He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.
When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.
It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.
He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.
“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.
Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”
Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”
He levels you with a look. “Three.”
“Six,” you insist.
He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.
“And you love me for it,” you retort.
The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.
Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.
“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.
“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”
“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”
You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”
“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.
Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.
The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say.
He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”
You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.
Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.
Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”
He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”
“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!
The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.
“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”
You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.
“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”
You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.
Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”
The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.
“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”
You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”
You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.”
“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.”
“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.”
“Oscar.”
The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”
Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”
“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”
The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”
He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”
“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”
Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon.
The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.
“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine.
You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.
“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”
“Headshots.”
“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”
“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.
You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”
Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.
The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.
“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”
Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”
Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”
There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”
You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.
You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”
“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.
“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”
“I’m a divorce attorney.”
The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”
“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.
Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”
That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.
And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.
Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.
Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”
Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”
You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.
Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.
Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.
“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”
You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”
He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”
“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.
“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”
That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”
The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.
What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?
Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.
“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.
Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters.
The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.
The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.
His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”
“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”
“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”
Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”
“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.
Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.
“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”
His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.
A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.
He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month.
Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.
Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.
Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”
Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”
Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”
Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”
“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”
“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!”
Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern.
Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”
“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to.
There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.
He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.
The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says.
It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.
Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.
Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.
By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.
You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost.
You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.
He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.
And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.
“You’re my logistics team.”
Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”
“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”
“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”
That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.
The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.
Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.
“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.
Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.
He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”
You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”
“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.
From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.
Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”
At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”
“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.
Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.
He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”
Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.
The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.
You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”
He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”
Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.
Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position.
But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.
It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.
“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”
He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”
“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”
“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”
You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”
The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.
Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.
“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”
She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.
On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.
But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.
Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.
He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.
The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected.
“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”
The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”
Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”
Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.
“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”
The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”
She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.
As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.
The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.
They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”
It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”
Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.
When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.
“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.”
He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.
Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.
You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.
You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”
You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.
He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”
“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”
Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”
“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.
You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.
You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”
A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”
He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.
Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.
And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”
“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”
You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.
Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.
The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.
The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.
He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”
You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”
“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.
You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.
Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.
You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.
Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out.
You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands.
“Oscar, I have a million—”
“Eat.”
Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”
You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”
The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.
“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.
It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.
He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl.
It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”
You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”
“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.
But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”
Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.
Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.
The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.
The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.
“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”
“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”
You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.
“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”
“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”
“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”
“And yet you trusted me with it.”
“Desperate times.”
He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.
You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.
Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”
“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”
“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”
“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”
You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”
Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”
It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.
The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.
“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”
The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”
“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief.
Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”
You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.
The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.
“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”
She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.
“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye.
He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.
Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.
“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.”
“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”
There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.
You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks.
“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.”
Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.
“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”
Oscar’s grin freezes.
Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.
He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.
He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”
For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over.
Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.
It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.
He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.
You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.
He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.
It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”
Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out.
“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”
Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”
George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.
“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”
“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”
“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”
Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”
There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”
“Scout’s honor.”
As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.
The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.
He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”
“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”
The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”
Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”
George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”
Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”
The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.
Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”
Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”
The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”
George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily.
Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”
By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.
The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.
Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.
The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.
There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.
Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.
There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.
The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.
You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.
“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”
Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?”
“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”
Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”
You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”
“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows.
“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”
Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”
“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”
“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”
You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.
The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.
The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows.
You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”
He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.
Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.
Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.
Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real.
The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.
Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.
You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.
“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”
“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.
You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.
“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.
Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.
Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.
Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.
You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.
But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”
On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—
You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.
You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”
For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you.
He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.
How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you.
Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.
He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.
Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.
Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.
He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.
He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.
“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.
Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”
“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”
“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”
Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.
He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.
Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”
He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”
Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.
Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.
By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.
Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole.
He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—
Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”
“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”
He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”
Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”
She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.
Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.
Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.
He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”
Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”
Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”
“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”
“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.
“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”
You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.
You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.
He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”
You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”
“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”
The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.
“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”
Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”
You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”
“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”
You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”
“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”
You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.
Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.
You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.
“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.
He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.
“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.
“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.
“Promise?” you say in a small voice.
Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.”
“Already? You rented it already?”
Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”
You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”
Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.
You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”
“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”
“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”
Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.
Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”
See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.
You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.
Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.
By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.
The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.
Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.
He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.
Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.
You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”
You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”
Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”
You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”
That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.
You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”
He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”
A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.
“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point.
Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”
Your brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”
You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”
“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”
Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.
He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”
Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.
Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for.
The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.
Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.
You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”
Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”
“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”
He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.
You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.
What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between.
“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.
It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.
Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.
Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.
There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.
Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”
You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”
“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.
“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”
The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”
Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading.
You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”
“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”
Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.
“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.”
And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.
The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”
Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.
Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.
He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐
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Summary: Oscar’s looking for an easy to care for houseplant. You have just the solution. Check out the moodboard here!
Word Count: 7.1k
Warnings: none
The greenhouse is quiet in the early morning. It’s one of your favorite things. Before the customers come in, looking for flowers for their porch or vegetable plants for their gardens, it’s just you and the plants and the sun streaming in through the glass. So when somebody interrupts your morning solitude, you’re not exactly happy about it.
Sure, you’re technically open, but nobody ever gets here this early. You’re watering plants in your rain boots, a mug of coffee in your hand, when the front door swings open. You turn to look, the noise startling you.
The man who walks in looks sheepish when his eyes meet yours. He ducks under a hanging basket, nearly trips over your garden hose. His cheeks flush red. You’d be more irritated with his presence if he wasn’t being so cute about it.
“Sorry, the- the sign said open,” he says, backing towards the door.
“You’re fine. We are open,” you affirm, flicking off the sprayer before you drown the petunias in front of you. “I was just surprised to see someone in here so early.”
He laughs. It’s a nice sound. Almost as nice a sound as his voice, with an Australian accent. He stops backing away. You should probably point out that he’s standing in a puddle, but you’re not sure if that’s really your place.
“Can I help you find something?” You ask.
He takes a step forward. A thick band of sunlight shines down on the top of his head, like a halo. He brushes his floppy hair from his face.
“No, that’s okay. You’re busy, I’ll just have a look around,” he says.
You nod. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
You turn back to the flower trays in front of you. They’ll need pruning, soon. And some of the hanging baskets are getting a bit unruly- it’ll likely be time to put them on sale in the next few days, to open up space for new plants. You can hear the man walking around behind you, peering at the plants. His footsteps are hesitant, and when you look, he has his hands held behind his back. He leans close to read the signs, brows tightly wound.
He obviously has no idea what he’s looking for.
You put the hose away and set your nearly empty coffee down at your workstation in the back of the greenhouse. Then you make your way back up to the front, where he’s standing near the succulents.
“Sure you don’t want help?” You ask.
He looks up with a sheepish grin. “Is it that obvious that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing?”
“A bit,” you say, and he laughs again. “That’s okay, though. It’s what I’m here for. What are you looking for?”
He stands up straight, eyes dancing over the greenhouse. “So. I’ve been told my apartment is boring. A friend suggested a plant to liven up the space.”
You nod. A tale as old as time. He’ll either kill the plant within a week or fill his whole place with them.
“But I’m gone a lot for work,” he says. “Like, a lot. So I need something that won’t wilt the second I’m gone, you know?”
You nod. “Does your apartment get good light?”
He laughs. “I don’t know what good light means.”
“Which direction do your windows face?”
“South,” he says, confidently. “Google said that was good. Right?”
You fight a laugh. He’s a bit adorable. Trying very hard to get it right. Like this is a test with right and wrong answers.
“Yeah, south facing is great.” You gesture towards the succulents. “You could get a succulent. They can go weeks without watering, but they need lots of light.”
He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “I thought these were cactuses. Or cacti?”
“Close,” you tell him, and he smiles again. “Cacti are the ones with the spikes.”
He nods in understanding. He crouches down, then, eye levels with the little plants. Your heart is melting. You scuff one of your rain boots against the ground. You could stand here and watch the way his long eyelashes flutter as he blinks all day, but that would be creepy and you have a job you’re supposed to be doing.
“How do I know which one to get?” He says, quietly. “Like… there are so many different kinds.”
Your face breaks out into a huge grin. He’s so endearing. “I think you’ll know when you see it.”
He appears at the front cash register ten minutes later, a succulent in hand. It’s a little one, the perfect starter plant. He’s eyeing the decorative pots next to you, brows furrowed again.
“Those are too big for that plant,” you tell him, and he breathes out a sigh. “There are smaller ones on the other side of the display.”
He moves to look. You hear him shuffling, hear him pick up pots and then set them down. Then he appears again, a little pot with black and white checkerboard print on it in his other hand.
“Perfect,” you say softly. “Have you got potting soil?”
He clears his throat. “Um. No, but I’ve got a courtyard at my apartment with a garden… but I’m sensing from the look on your face that that won’t do.”
You roll your eyes playfully. Then you reach under the counter and grab one of the small sample bags of potting soil you keep on hand.
“Here. On the house.” You say. “So you can put that plant in the pot.”
“Wow. Thanks,” he says. He sets the other items down on the counter. “Thanks for all your help, actually.”
“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.
You bag the items carefully, making sure the plant won’t be squished. You put a care instruction sheet in the bag, too. Then you slide it to him with a smile.
“There’s a care sheet in there that should help. Enjoy your new plant,” you say. “I hope it works out.”
“Me too,” he says.
He leaves, then, and you’re left with your quiet greenhouse once again. It’s odd. Usually you breathe a sigh of relief after a customer leaves. But this time, you almost want him to come back.
…..
Two weeks later, you’re back at your workstation re-potting a sad looking philodendron. You look up from it when you hear the bell over the front door ring. The watering is already done, the hose put away, so there’s nothing for the man to trip over this time. But it is the same guy, and he ducks under the hanging basket the same way. You should maybe move it, but he seems to be the only one who’s had an issue with it. You stand up, wiping the dirt from your hands on your apron.
“You didn’t kill that succulent already, did you?” You call out.
His eyes dart to meet yours, and he laughs. “No! Promise.”
“Good. That would be a new record,” you laugh.
You let him wander the store on his own for a few minutes as you get the philodendron correctly in the new pot. Then you give it some water and take it with you to set it back out on the shelf. He’s still the only other person in the store, and he’s currently eyeing the flats of flowering plants.
“It’s actually going really well,” he says as you walk by. “He has a new leaf.”
That’s when you know the guy is hooked. He has a new leaf. The plant is no longer just a plant to him. Absent-mindedly, you wonder if he’s the type to name his plants. You set the one in your hands down on the table in front of you, your back to him so he doesn’t see your wide grin. When you turn around, you tone it down.
“That’s great,” you say encouragingly. “So I’m guessing you want another one?”
He nods, rubbing his finger over the leaf of a fiddle leaf fig. “Yeah, but I’m thinking something different this time. Something bigger.”
“You don’t want that one,” you say, and he backs away from the fig tree slightly. “Fiddle leafs are notoriously dramatic. If you left her for a week she’d drop all her leaves.”
He sighs and stands up. “What would you suggest?”
You wave him over to another area of the store. He follows eagerly, footsteps splashing in the leftover puddles from the morning watering. You lead him to a section of spiky, tall plants.
“Snake plant,” you say, pointing at them.
He’s standing next to you, and your shoulders just barely brush. A shiver runs down your spine. You try to hide it.
“Snake plant,” he repeats. “The name makes sense.”
“People also call them mother in law’s tongue,” you add. You fight the urge to check his ring finger. “But if you’ve got a mother in law I’d suggest avoiding that name.”
He laughs, and his shoulder bumps into your again. “I don’t. But snake plant sounds cooler.”
You nod in agreement. “They do well with very little water. And, they can do okay in pretty low light, too. So if you’ve got a darker area that needs a plant, it would be a good fit.”
He’s up at the register ten minutes later, plant and a pot in hand. This one is plain terracotta. You like that he’s the type of person to buy the pots, too. Some people just leave them in the boring plastic, and it makes you sad to think about. All plants deserve a nice home. You say that to him as you ring him up, and he laughs. He’s also grabbed a small bag of potting soil this time.
Your repeat the process, same as last time, and hand him the bag. He takes it, and then he hesitates.
“Thanks again,” he says, juggling the bag until it’s held in one arm. He sticks his hand out to you. “I’m Oscar, by the way.”
You tell him your name, though you’re sure he could read it off your nametag, too. When you shake his hand, you swear the warmth of it runs all the way up your arm. He thanks you again, and then he disappears out the door once again. That ache is back in your chest. You find yourself hoping he’ll be back soon.
…..
He does come back. Multiple times. He buys more succulents on one trip, asking you to help him choose between them, and then he ends up buying all three instead. Another morning he comes in and you show him a ZZ plant you’ve just gotten in that you think will be perfect for him- you don’t tell him you’ve been saving it for him at your work station. It’s just… you know it’ll look great next to the snake plant he bought.
Each time he comes to the store, he hangs around a little longer. You chat about the weather, about the plants in the store, about his plants at home. You tell him funny stories about other customers and complain to him about the rude ones. In return, he tells you about his coworkers, specifically one named Lando who he seems to get into a lot of mischief with. He hasn’t said what he does for work. You field weird about asking, so you don’t.
The 4th time he stops by, you suggest a pothos. He eyed the leaves and vines skeptically.
“The other ones looked tough, you know? Like they’d survive even if I fucked up.” He tugs at one of the vines. “Are you sure about this one?”
You nod encouragingly. “You can handle it. I promise. Plus, the cool thing about these is you can cut parts of the vines, like this,” you say, holding up one you’d taken from the workstation. “And then you stick it in water for a bit, it grows roots, and you’ve got a whole new plant.”
He raises his eyebrows. “That’s cool.”
“I know,” you laugh.
He joins you up at the front to buy the plant. You go through the same routine. This time, he’s picked out a pretty blue ceramic pot for it. It compliments the leaves well. Then he leans on the counter and the two of you start chatting. You’d had a shipment that came in last week with a bunch of dead plants, so you regale him with the story of trying to deal with the company’s customer service. In turn, he tells you a story about his family back home- one of his sisters had a dance recital, his mother tried to videotape it for him, he received a video of his mother’s face as she watched the recital. You don’t realize how long the two of you have been talking until Jane, the next person on the schedule, walks in.
You stand up straight, face growing hot suddenly. “Hi, Jane!”
“Hi, hun,” she says, walking past the two of you. “Sorry I’m late. Bet you’re dying for your lunch break.”
She’s late? You and Oscar must’ve been talking for… forever. It had felt like only minutes. He smiles sheepishly and pushes away from the counter.
“Well, I should be going,” he says, taking the bag in his arms. “Thanks again!”
You watch him walk out the front door, unsure why it feels like you’ve been caught. It reminds you of the feeling you’d gotten years ago, when your teacher found you and the boy you had a crush on in the hallway alone. You hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but it still makes you feel strange.
“Friend of yours?” Jane asks when you walk past her to take your break.
You blink, shrugging. “I think he might be.”
…..
Oscar always comes in on Tuesdays. You avoid taking Tuesdays off and won’t admit to yourself that he’s the reason why. But when you wake up with a raging fever and a pounding head, you know you have to call in. Jane, always a sweetheart, takes your shift. When you see her two days later, it’s after you’ve already done the opening shift.
“Did you see your plant?” She asks as she breezes through the greenhouse.
You shut off the hose you’d been using to water a particularly thirsty chrysanthemum. “What plant?”
“The one your friend brought,” she says, and you only feel more confused. “He dropped it off Tuesday, said he was looking for you. It’s on the desk.”
You walk over to the workstation. Sure enough, in a tiny plastic pot- likely one from one of the succulents he’d bought-there’s a small pothos vine growing. You pick up the little plant, knocking over the piece of paper propped up on it in the process. You reach for it, finding a note written in rushed, messy scrawl.
I know you’ve probably got tons, but it felt right that you would have my very first propagation. Learned that word from the internet. Feel better soon! -Oscar
You turn to look at Jane. She’s at the register, not paying you any attention. You cradle the tiny plant close to your chest and do the same with the note. Then you tuck the paper away for safekeeping.
The plant, however, you carry with you all day. You place it in a sunbeam at the front register. When it catches your eye every so often, you feel a warmth in your chest.
…..
The next time Oscar comes in, he eyes the little plant at the register. You’ve stuck a little stake in it and tied a bow on top. He smiles softly and turns back to the display of pots. He chooses a tiny one with checkerboard print, the same as his very first purchase. You ring him up for all his items, but when you go to put that one in the bag, he grabs it and shakes his head. He slides it towards your tiny vine.
“For your plant,” he says, smiling softly.
You break into a face splitting grin. “You’re too sweet.”
His fingers brush against yours when you take it from him. You swear you feel sparks. You wonder if the red cheeks he sports as he leaves the store means he felt it, too.
…..
Another man comes into the shop early in the morning. It’s a Wednesday this time. You know it won’t be Oscar because of that, but you still look up eagerly. The guy nods, waving politely. You smile and go back to your watering. He walks the aisles, looking at the plants and never picking them up.
“Excuse me?” He says, after you’ve put the hose away. You turn, trying to hide your surprise at his American accent. “Um. Could you tell me where the succulents are?”
You grin and nod, walking over towards the area. You point them out.
“These right here,” you say. “Anything I can help you with?”
He stares at the tiny plants. “I have no idea what I’m doing. My friend, he’s gotten really into plants, and he talks about this shop all the time. Figured I’d see what the hype was all about.”
You tilt your head. He’s probably not, but it almost sounds like he’s talking about Oscar. You try and shake the idea from your head. Oscar is just a customer, he’s not going around and telling his friends about the greenhouse he goes to. He’s definitely not telling them about you.
“Succulents are a good place to start,” you say.
He sighs. “I don’t have much of a green thumb. I don’t think I’ll be very good at this.”
“Well, it’s worth a try.” You say with a shrug. “You might surprise yourself.”
He ends up picking out a little succulent. He doesn’t go for a decorative pot. He seems wholly unconfident in his ability to keep it alive for more than a few days. Still, he smiles as he’s leaving. He pauses in the doorway.
“You know, I thought Oscar was exaggerating when he told me about you,” he says. “But I get it now.”
He’s out the door before you can even form a syllable, let alone a word or a sentence. You think about chasing after him and asking what the hell that even means, but you stay rooted there. Oscar talks about you. To his friends. You swear your heartbeat doesn’t slow all morning, and the heat in your cheeks stays there all day.
…..
Oscar comes rushing into the shop the next Tuesday. He has a brown paper bag in his arms, and his eyes are wide. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s been running. You stand up, setting the garden hose down. He nearly slips on a puddle as he rushes over to you, and you reach out to steady him.
“I just got home last night,” he rushes, “and something’s wrong with- with Greg.”
“Greg?” You ask, leaning to peer into the bag.
“My succulent,” he says. His cheeks have gone red. “I name my plants. Is that weird?”
You laugh. “No, it’s not.”
You don’t tell him you’ve named your tiny pothos vine after him. You take the bag from his arms and walk to the back of the store, towards the work station. You reach in and pull out the succulent. It’s a little withered, a bit droopy. It’s also doubled in size since he bought it.
“I’ve been watering him when the soil gets dry,” he says, “and he’s still getting sunlight. I’ve tried everything- I left music playing for them when I left, so-“
Your eyes flicker up to him. He plays music for his plants. He’s the cutest man you’ve ever met. You want to take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead. Or his lips. He has these cute little freckles and moles- you’d like to draw constellations between them. Your face feels hot again. You direct your attention back to the plant as he rambles on. You frown, tugging slightly to see the roots.
“Osc, babe,” you interrupt, and he stops and stares at you. “He’s just a little root bound.”
You don’t dwell on the fact that you’ve just called him babe. It’s too late now.
“What’s that mean?” He asks, the panicky tone still in his voice.
“It means,” you start, nudging his side softly with your elbow, “that you’ve taken such good care of him that he’s outgrown this pot. He needs more soil. More room to spread out.”
His shoulders drop. The panic melts off his face. “Oh.”
You laugh. “God, I can’t believe when you came in here the first time you had no idea what a succulent even was. And now here you are, all panicked over a little wilting. You’ve become a true plant nerd, haven’t you?”
He shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe.”
“It’s cute,” you tell him, just to watch the blush creep up on his cheeks again. “Come on, let’s get him a new pot and some fresh soil.”
You lead him up to the front. He starts to pick through the display, holding the succulent up to the different options until he finds the right one. It’s a light orange.
You nod in approval. “Now you’ve got an empty pot,” you say, pointing at the original pot for the succulent. “Which means if you want, you have an excuse to buy another plant.”
“You’re so smart,” he says, eyes wide.
He rushes over to the display of succulents. While he’s picking one out, you carefully re-pot the plant into its new home. He takes his time, like always, indecisive to the very end. When he makes it up to the counter, he grins widely at the sight of the plant in its new pot.
“Thanks,” he says, softly. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
…..
When Oscar comes into the shop on a particularly rainy Tuesday, you’re trying hastily to hide your tears. He doesn’t come in every week, but it’s just your luck that he’s here today of all days. You wave and turn your back to him, sticking to the workstation. You hear the soft fall of his tennis shoes, though, even over the sound of the rain against the greenhouse roof, and you know he’s making his way towards you.
“Everything okay?” He asks, voice low.
You turn and find him with his hands in his jeans pockets. You wipe at your cheeks hastily, hoping he can’t tell how upset you are, but knowing you look a wreck. Your hair is soaked in rainwater, and your eyes likely red rimmed and puffy. It’s confirmed when his soft smile drops into a frown.
“I’ve had a shit morning,” you tell him with a sigh.
He pulls one hand from his pocket. “You, uh. You have dirt on your cheek.”
You groan and try to brush it away. Oscar chews on his lower lip. Then he reaches out, his fingertips sweeping against the skin of your face. His hand is warm, despite the chill in the air. Tiny sparks seem to spread across your skin, following the trail of his touch. Your face grows hot.
“There,” he says.
“Thanks,” you reply.
He nods. “What’s going on? If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, but…”
You sigh and turn away slightly, back to the plant in the pot in front of you. His gaze is so warm that you can’t stand to look at him, afraid you might start crying all over again.
“Just. Woke up late, so I was in a rush. And then I locked my car key in the car because I forgot something in the flat, and my mum has the spare key and she’s not even awake yet, so I had to walk here in the rain. And I couldn’t find my umbrella.” You brush a wet piece of hair away from your forehead. “And I slept like shit, and haven’t had any caffeine because I was late. So, yeah.”
“Shit morning,” Oscar agrees.
You nod. You finally turn to look at him again. There’s a soft look on his face, one you can’t quite place. He reaches out, places his hand flat on the counter next to yours. If you shifted your thumb just slightly, you could touch his. You want to, but you don’t.
“Sorry, I- Can I help you find anything?” You ask, blinking at him.
“You don’t need to be sorry, I asked,” he says. He rocks back on his heels and pulls his hand back. “I actually just remembered, I’m- I have to- I’ll be right back.”
He turns around and walks quickly to the front of the store. The bell dings as he walks out through the front door. You stare at the spot where his hand had been for just a moment and feel your heart shatter in your chest. You’d gone and over shared with your favorite customer, the one you thought might actually be your friend, and now you’ve scared him off. Yet another tally to add to the shit morning. You collapse into the chair behind the counter and rest your head in your hands, trying to will the tears away.
You’re not sure how long goes by before you hear the bell over the door again. And really, nobody comes in this early, so why are they choosing today of all days? You hastily wipe your face on the sleeve of your sweatshirt and stand up, plastering a smile onto your lips to greet whoever is in the store.
Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s… Oscar. He’s walking towards you, though he’s not looking at you. He has three takeout coffee cups balanced precariously in his hands. His hair matches yours now, soaking wet and hanging over his forehead. You burst into laughter as he sets them down.
“Oh my god, I thought I scared you off,” you say, brushing a stray tear from the corner of your eye.
“No,” he says, eyes wide. “You said you needed caffeine. There’s a coffee shop just down the road.”
You laugh and press your hands to the counter, leaning towards the cups. “Three cups?”
He smiled sheepishly. “I got you coffee, but I didn’t know if you wanted cream or sugar. So,” he points at the smallest of the three cups, “this is cream,” he says while digging in his pockets. Then he places an assortment of sugar packets on the counter. “And here’s sugar. The other cup is mine.”
You grin at him, shaking your head. “I knew you were my favorite customer for a reason.”
The smile he gives you in return is bright enough to make up for the lack of sun, to wash away the rain clouds, to warm your cold hands. You open the lid to the coffee and pour a bit of cream in, and then add two sugars. Oscar watches, nodding.
“I’ll know for next time,” he says.
Your heart flutters in your chest. Next time. You like the sound of that. You wrap your hands around the paper cup and let the warmth seep into your fingers before you take a sip. You sigh happily, meeting his eyes over the lid. The cup in his hand has something written on it in messy pen. You wonder if the barista tried to give him their number, and you fight back the jealous feeling at the thought.
“Thank you,” you say, softly.
“It’s no biggie,” he insists. “I owed you anyway, for saving Greg.”
He hangs out for a while that morning, leaning on your counter and chatting. You re-pot some plants and then bring them out to the displays, and he follows along. There’s something about his presence alone that warms you up from the inside out. By the time he looks at his watch and curses, muttering about having a meeting, you’re feeling much better. His hand brushes your shoulder before he leaves. You call after him to thank him again for the coffee.
He stops in the doorway, rain falling on his arm that’s extended to hold the door open. “I’ll see you soon!”
Then he disappears into the storm.
…..
You don’t see him soon. It’s not abnormal for Oscar to go a couple weeks without stopping in, so at first you don’t think much of it. Each Tuesday, though, you look up eagerly when the bell over the door rings, and your heart sinks when it’s not him. Maybe you really did over share, maybe he did get scared off. You try not to think about it.
It’s just… he was cute, and kind, and fun to talk to. He brought you coffee. You wonder how his plants are doing, if he’s still playing music for them while he’s gone. You have fleeting images in your brain of him watering the plants, taking the time to look for new leaves and check the roots. You almost wish he’d have another plant emergency, just to give him a reason to stop back in.
Eventually, after a month goes by and he hasn’t been back, you give up almost entirely. You’ll move on eventually, find a new favorite customer. You couldn’t have expected him to keep coming around forever, after all. To him, you were just another retail worker.
You do end up seeing his American friend one more time. He comes in on a Wednesday morning, just like before. He doesn’t stop and look at any of the plants, instead beelining for you. You’re working on bagging some potting soil and watch him with wide eyes.
“Hi,” you say. “Can I help you find something?”
“No, I just-“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I super killed that succulent.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re Oscar’s friend, right? He didn’t help you?”
The guy shakes his head. “He made fun of me, though. Said I overwatered it.”
“How is he, anyways?” You ask.
Logan frowns. “He’s good.”
You nod. “Well, d’you want to try again?”
“No, that’s not why I-“ he sighs, rubbing his temples. “He won’t shut up about you, you know.”
You cross your arms over your chest. “Find that hard to believe, since he hasn’t been here for almost a month.”
Which is maybe a little mean spirited. And probably not something you should be saying to his friend. You wince.
Now it’s his turn to blink wildly. “So you miss him too?”
You squint at him. “Why are we having this conversation? I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Logan,” he says. “You haven’t like… reached out to him or anything?”
“How would I?” You ask. “I don’t even know his last name, let alone his phone number.”
“His last name’s Piastri.”
“That feels like information you shouldn’t be giving away to strangers.”
He’s not listening, though. Something seems to have clicked in his head. His eyes go wide and he starts to back away.
“I have to go,” he says. “Thanks!”
You’ve had a lot of strange interactions while working retail, but that one comes in pretty high on the list. And it leaves you wondering about Oscar, which is something you’re trying desperately not to do. All in all, not a great day.
…..
Two weeks later, you clock out of your Tuesday shift around lunchtime and head down the street. It’s raining again, but at least this time you’re armed with a raincoat and an umbrella. Your car is parked nearby, but you’re in the mood for coffee and warm food, so you head to the cafe nearby. You try not to think about the time Oscar had brought you coffee from there. You can’t help picturing his soft smile, eyes trained on the cups balanced precariously in his hands.
You make it halfway to the cafe before a gust of wind hits your umbrella at just the right angle and snaps the metal supports. Then, as if the universe is playing a cruel trick on you, a car speeds by on the road next to you, hits a puddle, and sprays you with muddy water. It soaks through your clothes and onto your skin nearly immediately. You fight the urge to ball your hands into fists and yell dramatically at the sky.
“Shit,” someone says, and the sound of his voice makes your breath catch in your chest. Then he says your name.
You turn, coming face to face with Oscar. Well. Okay. He’s studying you with a pained look on his face and standing under an umbrella.
“Yeah, shit,” you mutter, shaking water from your hands. “Oh my God. Hi, by the way. It’s been a bit.”
“It has,” he agrees, shuffling closer to hold the umbrella over you. “Here. Um. You okay?”
You shrug. “S’just water. I won’t melt.”
Oscar laughs- god, you’ve missed that sound- and nudges your shoulder. “You’ve got bad luck with rainstorms, huh?”
You nod. You’re trying not to freak out at the fact that he’s here. Oscar is standing next to you, holding his umbrella over your head. He’s here and he’s talking to you and he’s feeling sympathetic, which maybe means he doesn’t think you’re completely crazy.
“S’what I get for trying to go get coffee,” you say over the sound of raindrops on the umbrella. “And lunch. Now I’ve got to drive home like this.”
Oscar frowns, his whole face crumpling with it. “Hey, you know… I live just a block down. If you want, you could come and change into some dry clothes.”
Your mother would kill you for even considering it. You can practically hear her yelling in your head. But god, it’s Oscar. It’s Oscar and you haven’t seen him in a month and you might never see him again. There’s something about the soft look on his face that makes you trust him.
“Okay,” you say, quietly. “That would be… really nice. But only if you’re sure.”
“Of course,” he says.
Your shoulders brush as you walk, the umbrella over both of your heads. The two of you are nearly silent on the walk there. It’s like neither of you quite know what to say. You know you don’t. You worry he’s regretting inviting you to his place. But he lets you in the front door, leads you to the elevator, and all the way up to flat. When he opens the door, warm air pours over you like a river. You step in and toe off your boots, wincing at the squish of your wet socks.
Oscar winces, too. “Here, the bathroom’s right there,” he says, pointing at a partially open door. “I’ll go grab you some dry clothes. There’s towels in there too.”
You nod and step into the room. So far, the little bit of his apartment that you’ve seen matches up with what he’s told you. There are no shoes sitting out in the entryway. The bathroom is nearly spotless, which makes you feel a bit guilty about the dirty rainwater you’re dripping onto the floor. Oscar’s only gone long enough for you to take off your jacket.
He knocks on the door. “I’ve got clothes for you.”
You open the door, and he’s standing there, eyes squeezed shut. The clothes are held out in midair, like he’s trying to keep his distance. You laugh and take them, murmuring out a thanks. As you go to change, you hear him walk away.
You shuck your wet clothes off and drop them in the tub, shivering when the air hits your bare skin. You wipe the rainwater from your skin. Then you pull on the clothes he gave you- a t-shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of sweatpants. Plus a pair of thick, warm looking socks. All of them are baggy on you, but luckily the pants have a drawstring so you can pull them tight around your hips. You wring the water out of your hair with the towel and then wrap it around your shoulders before you step out into the hallway.
You can hear him moving around in the next room, so you head there. He’s standing at the kitchen island, which is open to the living room. He looks up when he hears you walk in, and a soft smile spreads across his face. His living room is neat and tidy, too. His plants are all lined up on the windowsill. You recognize them all from your store, and you smile.
“D’you have a plastic bag I can put my clothes in?” You ask, and he tilts his head at you. “I don’t wanna get more rainwater on your floor. Or in my car, really.”
“I mean, sure,” he says with a shrug. “Or… you could throw them in the washer. Hang out for a bit.”
He’s not looking at you anymore. You’re glad, because you’re sure you have a dumbfounded look on your face. It’s then that you notice the coffee machine running on the counter behind him, and the snacks out on the counter. Your mind is racing. He hasn’t stopped by the shop in nearly a month, but now…
“I don’t want to be a bother,” you say, unsure what else there is to possibly say.
He shakes his head, still not looking up. “You’re not.”
You cast your eyes to the window. It’s raining harder now. And god, you’ve missed him. You didn’t realize just how much until you were standing here.
“It’s been a while,” he says, turning his back to you when the coffee maker beeps. “We have some catching up to do.”
You think about letting it go. Maybe it’s enough to be here. Maybe you just shouldn’t bring it up. But really, you’re confused about the fact that he stopped coming to the store.
You tilt your head at him. “Yeah, you stopped coming in.”
“Well, you never texted me,” he says. “So I figured I’d freaked you out or something. But then Logan said he stopped by and you asked about me-“
You stare at the back of his head, bewildered, and you break in. “Oscar, I don’t have your number.”
He freezes, hand in midair, reaching for a coffee mug. He turns his head over his shoulder, and his eyes meet your again. He looks just as confused as you feel. Suddenly, your heart is racing in your chest.
“I wrote it on the coffee cup,” he says, voice quiet.
You stare at him, wide eyed. “There was nothing on my coffee cup.” He shakes his head, opens his mouth, but you keep talking. “I’m sure of it. But there was writing on yours. I know because I wondered if the barista was trying to give you her number.”
Oscar just stares at you for a moment, his lips barely parted. “Shit. I gave you the wrong cup.”
Shit, you repeat in your head. He tried to give you his number. He thought he gave you his number, and then you never texted him. He thought you rejected him. No wonder he stopped coming in.
“You could’ve just asked me for my number, you know,” you tell him.
“Yeah, but this was cuter,” he says. “It was- it was my number and this cheesy ass pickup line that Logan helped me think of and I- I really thought you just didn’t…”
“Pickup line?”
“Looking back it sounds stupid,” he admits. “But yeah. I was trying to ask you out on a date. And so when you didn’t text me…”
You cross the room, walking right up in front of him. His hands have fallen to his sides. His eyes trace your face as you smile up at him. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, brows slightly furrowed. You can smell the coffee now- it reminds you of when he brought you the coffee weeks ago.
“You should ask me now,” you tell him, smiling brightly.
He nods. “Without the pickup line, though.”
You pout up at him. He grins. One of his hands comes up to the side of your face, fingers cupping your jaw. His thumb prods at your cheek.
“Will you go on a date with me?” He asks, voice low.
You pretend to think about it. Pretend it doesn’t make your heart melt just to hear him say it. “Hm. When?”
He shrugs, looks around. “How about now?”
“It’s raining,” you remind him.
“We can have a stay at home date,” he suggests. “Coffee, lunch, a movie, maybe.”
You tilt your head. “Sounds nice.”
“Yeah?” He says, sounding a bit like he doesn’t quite believe you.
“Yeah,” you agree. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me out since the day we met.”
Oscar laughs and leans closer. “I’ve got a lot of time to make up for, then.”
He presses his lips to yours, and your eyes slip closed. You reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair to keep him close. He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear- it’s still wet from the rain, and both of you giggle into the kiss. His hands drop to your hips, shoving the sweatshirt out of the way to hold onto you. You could kiss him for hours, you think. It’s all you’ve wanted for months now.
The coffee is growing cold on the counter. Suddenly, though, you don’t need caffeine.
He pulls away slightly, looks you up and down. “You look cute in my clothes, you know.”
You giggle and tug on the sweatshirt, pointing at the orange logo on the chest. “Thanks. Big McLaren guy, are you?”
Oscar laughs and brushes his lips against your temple. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Then he goes back to kissing you. You’re not complaining. You’ve got all the time in the world to learn all about him.
…..
Weeks later, you corner Logan at the British Grand Prix. Oscar’s distracted by interviews, but Logan’s not busy.
“What was the pickup line he wrote?” You ask, arms crossed over your chest.
Surprisingly, he needs very little convincing. He just laughs, eyes darting to where Oscar stands behind you in the media pen. His gaze is full of amusement.
“I be-leaf we’re meant to be,” he says in a teasing tone. “He was down bad.”
You laugh and turn over your shoulder to look at your boyfriend. He’s grinning watching the two of you talk. Later, you tease him for the cheesy line, for hiding behind coffee cups and scribbled pen when he could’ve just told you. He teases you for the same, for not telling him how you felt, for not making a move. And then you look at him, knowing your gaze is terribly soft.
“I believe it, too,” you tell him.
When he kisses you, you draw constellations between the freckles on his face with your thumb. Outside, it starts to rain.
a/n: can you tell I am a big plant nerd? anyways live laugh love oscar piastri I want to help him pick out plants :)
Summary: Today had been a complete disaster, not only were you involved in a car accident on the way to the race but Charles lost the race following another string of mistakes from the Ferrari team. Breaking point comes a lot quicker than you ever thought it would leaving you to make a very drastic decision breaking both yours and Charles’ heart in the process. The question is can the pieces be put back together again?
Part One
You had never seen Charles lose it like he did tonight, it was a side of him you didn’t know. But you never expect the evening to end like it did.
Part Two
Both broken and in pain can one phone call provide Charles with the glimpse of he desperately needs
Part Three
It was the last race of the season but there was one thing missing for Charles.
Notes: 11k words of Charles and y/n pinning for each other…your all (hopefully) going to love it xx
this is my first post in about 6 months and I'm so happy to be back! thank you all for the continuous love and support I fucking love this app. this fic hasn't been proof read but oh well, ignore some spelling mistakes, sorry. anyways... ENJOY!!!
Blurb: One where you have a huge crush on your best friend's brother, the one and only charles leclerc, since you were a teenager, with him continuously telling you he was too old for you and you had no chance. You eventually gave up hope and moved on. But did charles? (Best friends brother troop/ slight enemy’s to lovers troop/ Older boy and younger girl)
Warnings: lots of angst, crying, sad y/n and sad Charles. lots of arguments and slight nsfw? but not really. Small age gap.
11.1k words
Arthur leclerc, your best friend since nursery… Your favourite partner in crime, your favourite laugh on a bad day, your favourite person in the whole wide world. Best to be described as home, your comfort person. He was the voice within reason, all that was right in the world.
He's your best friend.
Y/n y/l/n, she was truly and utterly his favourite thing about the world. He counts his lucky stars he has her to help him carry his weight. Y/n was the only person Arthur let visit him when his dad died, and in his books, that made her alright. Sure she would make him want to scream and cry and punch walls, especially with her choice in men. But Arthur was always there for her, when she needed to laugh or to cry he knew what it was she needed at any given moment, he could read her like she was his favourite book.
She was his best friend.
—
How it started:
A little girl with puffy red cheeks sat at the bottom of the nursery playground. Her legs crossed on the green summer time grass as she sniffled again, gently plucking a daisy for the ground before adding it to the daisy chain she was making. She liked to say she enjoyed her own presence, but truly she was distracting herself from the lack of company. With the other young girls teasing her for her wild curly hair, she willingly chose to be sat on the grass of the playground alone.
“Hey! Can you teach me how you did that? I wanna make one for my mum!”
And with no regard for her personal space he sat down next to her on the grass, squashing half of her daisy chain, but she didn't tell him that.
He didn't care that she was crying or that she had poofy hair or that she was even a girl, he was eager to learn her talents and carry on with his lunch break.
But when Arthur noticed the signs that the girl was rather shy and sad he thought he would stay with her for the rest of lunch, keep her company.
Little did she know this company wasn't going anywhere any time soon.
And at age five, the pair promised to be friends for life.
It didn't take long for them to get their mothers talking, and after that it was set in stone, playdate after playdate. Arthur's mum became your mum's hairdresser, so there were many nostalgic memories for the two in the salon, especially when y/n would accompany her mother to her appointments. The pair's best memory is y/n letting Arthur cut her hair in the storage cupboard of his mum's shop. The horror on both parents' faces when one of y/n's pig tails were held in the hand of the young boy.
Their friendship only bloomed from there…
After spending almost every weekend watching Arthur and his older brother race in karts in the rain, to spending most afternoons around the leclerc residence playing with Arthur on his xbox, the girl felt like family.
When she was young she always found herself drawn to the middle leclerc. He was away a lot of the time, karting. He was slightly older so no doubt he found the pair childish and would always moan when he was made to spend time with them.
Charles' mother was the first to figure out your little crush on the boy. She first noticed it when you joined the family on a winter skiing trip, you were around thirteen. It was your first time up in the mountains, so when your arms started to wave and you felt your body lean way too far back Charles did the only morally right thing, dropping the glove he was putting on and outstretching his body to catch you in time.
He didn't catch you in time.
Instead his heroic act to save you turned into humiliation when he realised you had taken him down with you.
Pascal carefully watched as you turned around, her eyes glued to yours that were glued to her sons. She watched your tinted red cheeks as Charles scoffed and begged you to get off of him as his bare hands were now engulfed in the thick snow, causing him to suffer with a cold for the rest of the holiday.
Your eyes widened and sparked at the sight of him. You would gaze up at him like he hung the moon and the stars, an expression his mother would soon get used to as she watched you fall for her son over the next few years.
Charles was older, and very uninterested. He didn't find your little crush as cute as everyone else did, the thought it made him look uncool. He would roll his eyes when you would grab his arm or duck when you would try to kiss his cheek. He hated when your families would go out for meals and you would sit next to him, or how you would call him after a race to congratulate him, no matter his result.
Charles always saw you as his little brother's best friend, nothing more and nothing less.
That was until your first boyfriend. A three year age gap wasn't that big of a deal as they all grew older. Charles found himself having mutual friends with his brother and would occasionally bump into Arthur and you at a party.
You were 16, you thought you had met the love of your life, an older boy, he was 18, around charles age who was now 19 and worming his way into f2.
Arthur didn't approve of Joao. He knew you were trying to prove to charles that the age gap isn't that big of a deal after his brother had repetitively told you you were to young for him, but somewhere down the line you found yourself mesmerised by Joaos eyes and that was it for you, charles no longer rented the forefront of your mind.
Joao was great, at first. You knew he wasn't the love of your life, but for the moment he looked to play the role quite well, and you were happy. You just didn't expect it to end like it did, maybe age gaps do matter?
You were at some house party in the hills of monaco, some friend of Joaos. You were downstairs in the kitchen with Arthur as he watched you drink your body weight in alcohol. He could tell something was bothering you but he chose not to mention it. In all your years of friendship he knew you would come to him eventually.
“Where is the lover boy anyway?” he spoke up.
Your lack of response is when Arthur clocked onto your boyfriend being the reason for your excessive drinking. Him ditching you, yet again.
You slammed down your empty red cup, wiping the dribble from your chin as you decided enough was enough and you looked for the presence of your boyfriend.
Arthur bid you good luck on your travels as his attention was now turned to the girl he had been eyeing up across the room.
And with your liquid courage you stumbled around the party. The house was huge. Gigantic windows that draped around the whole house. Everywhere you looked was so picturesque, making you fall in love with Monaco more and more. From the kitchen window you could see the river of lights leading down to the beach front. From the other end you could see continuous hills leading up into the stary sky, tiny specs of light from homes probably just as big and fancy as the one you were currently standing in swarmed your vision, a far cry from the apartment you and your mother shared where your view was a brick wall to another apartment complex.
Your heels were rubbing the back of your ankles as your hands gripped the bottom of your dress pulling it down as it was miles too short as you made your way out to the garden.
And there he sat, on the steps leading to the lit up outdoor pool, your boyfriend. A skinny little blonde girl sat on his knee. She was older than you, clearly. She took the cigarette from his lips and placed it on her own as her other arm draped over his shoulder. It was like this week after week, it was like you were a ghost.
This isn't the young love you put out for, and you decided enough was enough.
You always forgave him, but tonight was different. This night changed everything.
Tears welled in your eyes as you turned back into the house, you were going home. Joao caught a glimpse of this as he jumped up and followed you back into the house, why he would always chase after you you still don't know.
“Y/n, baby stop.” you ignored the sound of his voice as you pushed through the crowds of people to get back to the kitchen in hopes that Arthur was still there. He wasn't.
You made it to the kitchen before he grabbed the back of your arm pushing you against the kitchen island. His hand came up to wipe away a fallen strand of hair as he tucked it behind your ear.
“Come on y/n i didn't even do anything-”
“She was on your lap.” your voice crooked, you so desperately didn't want to be the little girl everyone thought you was and cry, not in front of everyone anyway.
“It's not that big of a deal-”
“It is that big of a deal! I'm humiliated!” you shouted back, creating a scene you so desperately wanted to avoid.
“I just- I just want to go home.” you said in between sniffles.
“Baby, don't cry, let's just go back to mine, okay? I'll call a taxi-”
“No, I want to go home, my home.” you begged, the tears were falling now.
His grip tightened around your arm as you tried to wriggle out of his grasp.
“I need to find Arthur, and I need to go home.” you said, pushing his arm as he still had you pinned against the counter.
“Oh come on y/n, drop the act you know you want to come back to mine.”
You threw your head back dodging his fingers that were trying to touch your hair again, avoiding his eyes.
“Joao let go, you're hurting me.”
That only made his grip tighten around your arms, pushing you against the counter even harder than before. As he leant down to your ear-
“She said let go mate.”
Your vision was too blurry to focus on what happened next, but you felt joao grip loosen as he stood back.
“Yeah and what are you gonna do about it, leclerc?”
That's when punches were thrown and Joao was hunched over holding his busted lip. Joao was grabbed by another person before he could lunge back at who you assumed was Arthur, but as you turned your head you saw a different leclerc shaking his hand. His knuckles were red, and his eyes were darker than the ones you were used to, charles.
“y/n get in the car.” he said, you stood up, sniffing and nodding your head. But then you remembered your missing friend.
“Arthur-”
“I'll get him. Get in the car.” his tone was strong, not what you were used to from the middle leclerc.
You waited by his car in the cold for a few moments just before Charles came out the house, a stumbling tipsy Arthur under his arm. There was pink lip gloss smeared over his cheeks and lips, and at that moment you felt a small smile creep on your face.
However, the car ride home was silent, you sat in the front with Charles, as Arthur passed out in the back seat. Faint french music played from the radio as charles eyes were firmly gripped on the road.
As you rounded the street to your home Charles finally spoke up, “You really know how to pick them.”
You sniffled again, unable to reply to him mainly because he was right and you were embarrassed. As the car came to a stop Charles undid his seat belt mumbling that he would walk you to your door.
He balanced on the back of his heels as he watched the moonlight highlight your tear stained cheeks. Charles thought you looked beautiful that night even though you had been crying for the last half an hour, your hair hadn't been brushed and you were rummaging through your purse like a mad woman, he still thought you were pretty. He would never tell you that though.
“Don't tell me you've lost-”
“Got them!” You giggled, shaking your keys in the air before whipping your nose for what felt like the fifth time that night. You stalled as you pushed the key in the door, turning to look Charles in his eye for the first time since the party.
“Thank you-” but he cut you off, not wanting to hear it. You were his brother's best friend, Arthur wouldn't forgive him if he ever watched you in a position like the one that night and didn't do anything.
“Dont.”
“No really, thank you, charles.” You smiled, Charles smiled too, mainly because it was probably the first time you had called him Charles and not charlie.
After a moment you dropped your bag on the floor and wrapped your arms around the boy's waist, your head rested on his chest as he hastily moved his hand and rubbed your back.
“Just make sure the next one isn't a total dick, okay?” he whispered, his chin placed on the top of your head.
He didn't know how much that sentence broke your little 16 year old heart.
You smiled and entered the house, Charles didn’t drive off that street before you waved at him out your window.
On the drive home we looked back at his younger brother, drooling on the back seat of his car.
It was that night where he realised the both of you weren't all that different, but so far apart.
The first time Charles saw you after that night was a couple months later, a family day at the beach. You had turned seventeen in that time and joao was old news. But charles eyes were stuck on your body as he watched you sat in the sand on your own. Sipping from a bottle of beer that you most likely stole from his crate, your toes were dipped in the wet sand as you watched the sun set on your own.
Arthur had brought his new girlfriend with him and even though you were still as close as ever, Arthur's attention was stuck on the pretty blonde that was talking to his nan.
The rest of your families were distracted too, or so Charles thought. His mum watched him intently as he walked back to the car park, grabbing a spare jumper from his car before making way down the beach front to join you.
He spent so much of his life avoiding you, but after the night of the party he just wanted to make sure you were okay.
He crouched down in the sand next to you, aware of how your eyes were on him. He placed the jumper on your legs,
“You're going to get a cold.”
You scoffed but complied. Putting the jumper over your head and pulling at the sleeves, it smelled like him.
“How are you?” you asked charles, he could feel your eyes staring into his side profile, but he stared at the sun setting over the monegasque sea.
“I'm okay.”
The boys lost their dad a little under a year ago now, you hadn't really seen Charles since. But he knew you hadn't left Arthur's side for them few months.
“How you holding up, really?” you nudged his shoulder with yours, he did his little signature smile before looking down at his lap. Avoiding the question.
“Thank you. For looking after Arthur I mean, he's lucky to have you.”
“Charlie…”
He looked in your eyes this time, he looked so sad, so broken. So desperate for a hug. You didn't pressure him to answer your question, insted you gently placed your head on his shoulder looking along the coastline in silence.
Charles appreciated the silence and the way you didn't push him, moments like these he understood why Arthur loved you so much.
“It will be alright you know.” you hummed on his shoulder.
“I know.” Charles whispered back.
“Really, i can already see Charles leclerc, ferrari formula one driver. Your face will be all over Monaco, and we're all so proud. He'll be so proud.”
Charles hated how much you believed him, because in that moment a nineteen year old boy with dreams bigger than the world itself everything felt impossible.
“Don't forget about me when you're all big and famous, yeah?” you smiled up at him.
Charles looked down at you, his eyes were glossy but the smile on his lips was enough to melt your heart, he threw his head back in a laugh.
“I dont think I'm ever getting rid of you.”
Now it was your turn to laugh, “at least your self aware charlie.”
After all the laughing he noticed how your eyes shifted from his own to his lips, and then he remembered why he was avoiding you in the first place.
“y/n..” he whispered, oh how he whispered your name in his little broken accent, your heart melted as he backed away.
“I know, I know.”
You smiled and placed your head back on his shoulders looking at the sun that was nearly gone.
“You know I'm too old for you, right?” Charles whispered as he leaned his head on yours that was resting on his arm.
“I'm in it for the long game leclerc.” Charles giggled as he let his cheek get comfy on your head, pushing his side into you as you fully watched the sun disappear over the sea.
On the night of your 18th birthday Arthur had taken you out to your first club, you drank, alot…
Charles happened to be at the same club, so when your drunk body collided with his you couldn't help but wrap your arm around his torso, clinging onto him.
He gently placed hand on the small of your back smiling as you leaned on him.
Charles was 20 now, soon to turn 21 and had just signed a contract with alfa romeo, he was officially in formula one. Even Though you were proud of him you missed having him around.
You stood on your heels, leaning up to his ear as Charles met your movements and bent down to hear you better in the loud club and your heart fluttered at the small action of his ear hovering near your face.
“I'm eighteen now charlie.” he could hear the smile in your voice.
“I know, happy birthday mon amour.” kissing your forehead, this was the closest you had ever been to him before, and you craved more. He had never called you the nickname before, he was teasing you.
“I'm officially an adult nowwwww.” you longed out his ear before you hand palmed his cheek. You so desperately wanted to kiss him.
“Y/n.” His tone was serious as he caught onto your intentions.
“Y/nnn.” You teased him back, imitating his serious tone and rolling your eyes as you do so.
“I know you want to Charlie, come on…” you giggled at him, but you were drunk and a mess, so the arm around your waist was to stop you from falling flat on your arse not because he just wanted to touch you, you thought. You pushed his hand off you and stood up straight, Charles sighed as he placed his hand back on the small of your back, you looked up at him. The stupid little puppy dog eyes that he refused to listen to.
“I'm too old for you, love.” Charles' hand once again held you close as you started to lose your balance again, “and you're too drunk.”
“Drunk on love.” you exclaimed, Charles laughed, like really laughed and you couldn't help but admire the creases around his eyes. He moved your arm over his shoulder so he could hold you up.
“Let's find Arthur and get you home, okay?” but as Charles pulled away you pulled him back.
“I've waited eighteen years, Charlie, I'm sure I have the patience to wait a bit longer.”
Charles thought maybe you had forgotten that night, but you remembered the way his hand was filmy stuck to the small of your back most of the night, and how he lent down to hear you and how his stubble felt in the palm of your hand, and the butterflies only got worse.
You were falling harder everyday and you hated yourself for it, he didn't like you back.
Charles carried on with his f1 career with alfa romeo that year and you took up a journalism degree, following around arthur as he navigated the world of f3. You would occasionally bump into Charles when the boys had races at the same circuit.
But with his first Monaco race you obviously had to be there to support him.
Charles hated how his heart beat boomed in his ear when he saw you standing in his garage with your old ferrari cap on and an alfa romeo shirt with the number 16 on the back hugging your chest.
You truly had blossomed into a beautiful young woman and Charles found it harder to stay away. Your hair isn't frizzy anymore and you had for sure gone through puberty, he didn't like to stare but he found it hard not to sometimes. Especially on family boat trips when you would wear a bikini in front of him.
The worst part is you hadn't even openly flirted with him in a while, and he couldn't seem to figure out why, and that bothered him so much more than he liked.
The small little y/n that used to follow him everywhere, always latched to his arm, looking up at him with heart eyes. I mean, you weren't sixteen anymore that was sure, but Charles couldn't help but feel a sense of abandonment that you weren't head over heels for him anymore.
Charles needed to snake off that weird feelling in his stomach.
You were now 19 about to turn 20, it was the off season and you couldn't wait to soak up some sun on the leclerc yacht. Your favourite summer getaway.
You drove up to the small paddock on a little beach and climbed onto the grey boat, it was charles’, of course. The whole family was there, you were talking to pascal as arthur pulled you around the side of the boat, nearly causing you to break an ankle.
“Erm hello? Watch it.” you scolded him for pulling you so ruffly.
“You're over the whole in love with my older brother thing, right?” he asked, his hand running through his hair.
“I- i why?” you said, clocking your head to the side at Arthurs panicked manor. He knew you had been doing great this year, and he also knew why you declined every single boy that had attempted to ask you out on a date this year.
“Okay, erm,'' Arthur stood up straight and scratched the back of his head.
“Forget your stuff, let's just get off this boat. And er, don't turn around okay?” he tried to nonchalantly say, his hands gripping your shoulders were a dead give away something was wrong though.
You nodded your head and followed Arthur down the steps of the boat before stopping in your tracks.
“Since when have I ever listened to you? I going to read my book on the sun-”
Your mouth fell open as you turned around to be met with Charles, your Charles with a girl.
A pretty girl, beautiful actually, she was slim and perfect and her smile was enough to make you want to crumble in a ball.
She was leaning on him, grabbing his bicep as her hand brushed through his hair, he was laughing like really and truly laughing at whatever it was she had to say and you had never felt emotions like the ones you felt in that moment.
You felt like he had personally ripped your heart out himself, no remorse, and had just served it back to you on a silver platter.
He really didn't want you.
“y/n, i didn't even know he was bringing her i-”
“You knew?”
Arthur sighed before running his hands through his hair, “it's been around four months, mum really likes her, she's nice. I mean she's not you, but he's happy so i can't complain.'' Arthur shrugged his shoulders, not sure how to console you in that moment.
You turned away from the happy couple and sat on the small steps that lead down to the bottom of the yacht. Arthur sat down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wrapped his arm around you.
“What about me? When will I be happy?”
You hadn't realised you were crying until Arthur grabbed your arm and pulled you straight off the boat.
That was your wake up call, you had spent too much of your life waiting for someone that never wanted you. 19 years to be exact, a sad sad story to anyone that knew you. You were embarrassed and angry at yourself.
You needed to actually move on.
So that's what you did.
And that's when you met him, a young british boy, he was around your age and drove for a papaya team that shared the f1 grid with charles.
Lando norris.
He was 20, awkward, way too cocky for only his second year, and when you bumped into him in Bahrain of 2020 you chose him to be the one to make you move on.
He asked for your number a few races later and the two of you used to text all the time. He took you on cute picnic dates, asked if he could kiss you before he did, and overall was the kindest most respectful boyfriend a girl could ask for. You were actually happy, and it only took nineteen years.
It was imola when you bumped into Charles in the paddock, his brother wasn't here so he was confused as to why you were here, but then he saw the McLaren hat on your head and his eyebrows furred evenmore.
“y/n?”
“Hello, charles.” you gave him a tight lip smile before moving past him but he chased after you why you walked down the paddock strip. Past the ferrari garage.
“You're a McLaren fan now, huh?”
“Yep.”
Charles' heart hurt at your bluntness, he grabbed your arm so you would stop walking and talk to him.
“y/n.” serious charles. That stupid tone that usually made you freeze and obey whatever he had to say.
But this time you rolled your eyes and pulled your arm from his grip.
“Charles, I really have to be somewhere.” you lied, checking your watch.
“Like a journalism thing? Why didn't you tell me you were going to be here, you could have flown with me and Joris?” and Charlotte, but he didn't mention that.
You really tried to pull your eyes from the red drivers suit that was wrapped around his hips, he was a ferrari driver now and you had never been more happy for him. You just wanted to wrap your arms around him and tell him how proud you were of him.
But right at this moment, you had never wanted to create more distance between you both.
“y/n?”
Both of your heads snapped as Lando ran up to you, you coughed and took a step back from charles.
Landos arm wrapped around your shoulder as he put out a fist for Charles to spud. Charles' eyes were glued to landos arm resting on your shoulder and he could feel the blood pumping in his heart speeding up.
Lando kissed your temple and Charles' eyes were glued to yours.
“Charles.” Lando smiled nodding his head.
“Lando.'' Charles' voice was laced with venom, not that Lando noticed.
“So you guys are?” Charles' eyebrows furred pointing between you both.
“We havent you know, labelled it yet. It's still kind of new” you smiled, it had been months.
“But I'm happy, really happy.” Charles knew that was a message to him, you were happy and he needed to leave you be. But with Lando of all people, Charles couldn't seem to shake this one off.
Charles mumbled something about needing to be somewhere and walked away from you both. Lando again oblivious to the interaction as his arm stayed secured around you and he balabbed on about the race as you walked to the McLaren motorhome.
Charles hated him.
Charles hated himself for his feelings.
He didn't know why he was so bothered, he had never been this bothered, nothing gotten to him like you and Lando just did. Joris told him maybe it was because he had a soft spot for you deep down, he joked that maybe Charles liked you back and Charles ignored him for the rest of the weekend at that accusation. But that didn't mean he didnt ignore his words.
It was over, you grew up and he should feel relieved you've moved on, right?
He broke up with Charlotte a month later.
Charles scoffed when you first bought lando along to family night, he hated how your mum loved his accent and how arthur laughed at all his jokes. He hated that he hadn't caught your eye all night, instead your eyes were glued on the stupid little british boys. Charles hated it, he sat there like a toddler that hadn't gotten their own way all night. He knew it was wrong but he hated his feelings more than he hated lando being sat at his table.
Charles was in the kitchen, he was picking at the leftover pie on the table top as everyone else was outside fawning over one of landos stories, he had really charmed the family.
His mother walked into the kitchen as he was taking a bite of cherry pie looking like a caught child, she laughed at the cherry stains in the corner of his mouth and passed him a tissue.
The pair stood in silence for a moment before Pascal spoke up.
“That's definitely not allowed in your diet, my sweet.” she smirked knowing the driver's strict diet.
“But you won't tell on me maman.” Charles flashed his puppy dog eyes as his mum laughed at his actions. She sighed and moved closer to him as he stood up straight.
“You have a lot on your mind my boy, and don't tell me you don't because I gave birth to you, I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Maman.” Charles sighed.
“This is about her isn't it?” Charles' eyes refused to look at his mother at her words.
“I don't even need to say her name, it's her, it will always be her.” she smiled as she walked over to her son and placed a hand on his cheek.
“She's happy, Charles.'' he heard the sternness in his mothers voice.
“So everyone keeps telling me.” Charles scoffed again.
“So then you know you're being an ass, right?”
Charles' eyes widened at his mothers language but she just laughed and waved him off.
“After all the years she spent pining after you, Charles, it would be cruel for you to not let her be happy.”
“But what if I'm not happy?” he asked his mum, she just sent him a sympathetic smile and grazed his cheek once more.
“Do you love her?”
“I dont know.” Charles shrugged.
“See, it would be cruel to break her heart over this kind of uncertainty. Either you love her or you're just jealous. You have a lot of thinking to do my boy, but don't do anything until you're really sure. She's fragile when it comes to you.”
Charles nodded his head.
His mum was right, he really did have a lot of thinking to do.
And as if on queue there she was, walking into the kitchen, the widest smile on her face as she grabbed another beer from the fridge. She had started to let her curls rome free recently and it was sending charles’ heart into a spiral, with her stupid little shorts and crocs and no doubt she had conned lando into giving her his jumper.
She used to do that to him, Charles thought, remembering all the times you had tricked him into stealing his hoodies.
She smiled at Charles mum and told her again that the food was lovely, nodding at Charles, and she left just as quick as she came in.
“Maman, I'm so in love with her it physically hurts me.”
And there it was, the words you had so desperately wanted to hear your whole life, but you didn't hear a sound as Charles vowed to never say it again out loud. Your happiness came before his.
Charle suffered for a year, he knew he loved you, he had said it out loud once and the vulnerability he felt in that moment knowing you were stood just 15 feet away with the boy you were in love with was enough to make him swear to never voice his feelings again, he was embarrassed and wanted the world to swallow him whole. The worst part was the guilt, he could only feel like he had let one of the best things go, slip straight from his grasp all for a bit of pride. He didn't want to be seen with the young naive girl that had a crush on him, but now he just felt stupid. Stupid that he didn't recognise your love for him sooner, he had always thought you were one of the most amazing humans he had ever met, he found himself looking for you in other people when he didn't even know it. He was stupid, and he knew that for sure.
Charles dedicated the rest of the year to focusing on his f1 seat, with ferrari fucking him and sebastian over and over and after his wins at spa and monza he felt hungry for more and felt that the true love of his life should be formula one.
But his heart hurt when he didn't hear from you after his win in spa, and then it crushed him again when you didn't contact him after his result at monza.
No call.
Not even a text.
He had fully let you slip from his grasp.
It was a long year for Charles that year, and as summer break quickly approached he found girls and training were his favourite pastime. He stopped turning up to family events when he knew lando would be there and you were in love and happy. After a while it was a rarity he would even stay at an event for an hour.
He was 22 and as a new season started the only thing he was talking from lando was his teammate, not that charles was complaining. He liked Carlos, and he was ready to step up and take that 1st driver's seat. He was ready to make everyone proud just like you had promised him that night on the beach.
After a while charles mothers birthday rolled around, one he would definitely not miss as his mother requested a small family meal. Everyone was sitting, looking over the menu when Charles undoubtedly noticed the missing presence of you.
“Where's y/n?” Charles asked Lorenzo, who was sitting next to him.
Lorenzo just shrugged and turned his attention back to his menu, was it normal for you to not attend family outings? Charles hadn't been around for so long he didn't even think to consider that maybe she didn't turn up to these things anymore either.
“With Lando I suppose.” Charles murmured, he tried not to sound jealous but the older brother just laughed.
“Lando?” as he turned to his younger brother.
“Why would she- you really haven't spoken to her have you?” Lorenzo asked, his eyes widening at the thought of his brother being so dumb.
Charles just shrugged his shoulders as he urged his brother to continue.
“They broke up, a while ago actually.”
Charles didnt know why his shoulders felt lighter but he chose to ignore it and try to press some more information out of his brother.
“So? First break up, we've all been there, doesn't mean she can't be here for mamans birthday.'' Charles rolled his eyes as he tried to act like he didn't care.
“She's not even in the country charles.”
Charles' head snapped towards his brothers, “She's taking a gap year, last I heard she was staying in Australia for a while.”
Lorenzo could see the gears turning in charles’ head; he knew he wanted to ask more so he answered for him.
“Hey Arthur, where's y/n these days?” Lorenzo asked his other brother who was at the other end of the table with his girlfriend.
Arthur shrugged before answering, “Still in australia at the moment, she really likes it there, but i told her she cant like it to much because there's no way i'm sitting on a plane for twelve hours every time i want to actually see her face and not on a phone screen.” arthur joked, everyone else laughed along with him for a moment until charles countered up the courage to speak up.
“Why didn't she just travel with formula one? She wanted to be an F1 journalist anyway.”
Arthur's eyes narrowed at his brother.
You definitely hadn't meant to cause it, but there was a small crack in between the brothers' relationship within the last year. Arthur definitely blamed Charles and his stupid effects on you for you running away.
“She wanted to be away from f1 for a while.'' Arthur told his brother like it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world, hoping to squash this table subject, not really wanting to talk about his run away best friend.
“I mean I don't blame her, especially when her Lando ended like it did. She's living her best life.” Carla, Arthurs girlfriend chimed in. Arthur slightly winced at his girlfriend's words not wanting this to be the dinner conversation tonight, especially when Charles clearly knew nothing about y/n's life within the last year.
“What?'' Charles asked the table, but no one answered him, instead everyone's heads were down dead planted down at the table, everyone except for Carla who had no idea what she had just started.
“Why did no one tell me what's been going on?” charles raised his voice slightly, catching the attention from everyone else on the table.
Charles mother intervened knowing where this was going, “charles, not right now-”
“No, she's been going through something and no one even thought to mention it? What the fuck.”
Arthur was visibly turning red, Charles noticed as Lorenzo's head was shaking telling his little brother now wasn't the time, pleading Arthur to just bite his tongue.
“Say it arthur.”
The flame was lit.
“And who do you think upset her in the first place, charles?” Arthur tutted, picking up his menu pretending to scan it so he didn't have to pay attention to the conversation anymore.
“Drop it, arthur.” Lorenzo sternly interrupted.
“Considering no ones told me anything how the fuck am i supposed to answer that question?” Charles spat back at his brother.
Arthurs cheeks were a visible red now, he was about to blow up. Something he had been holding in for a while. He slammed his menu down and turned to look at his older brother.
“You know what Charles, you have no right! No fucking right, sorry maman for the language-” charles mum just put her hands up in defence as she let her youngest son get it all off his chest.
“She loved you, and you constantly broke her heart and told her no and then when she was finally happy in a relationship you had to go tell the world you love her so much that ‘it physically hurts you!” Arthur mugged his brother's words.
Charles was shocked, he had no idea what was happening.
No one knew of his feelings towards you, no one except- charles head snapped towards his mother who pulled a tight lip smile and just shaked her head in a no. Charles was about to deny deny deny when-
“Yeah, she heard it. And it fucking broke her charles. It was mean and it was selfish, and I've never despised someone more than you for what you did to MY best friend.”
“Arthur-”
“I'm not finished. Then you have the decency to finally come to a family meal for the first time in nearly a year, nearly a year charles! And ask about her like you didn't completely cut her and us out of your life? You're selfish, completely and utterly selfish charles.”
Charles sat at the table pale, he felt the colour drain from his face as he scrambled to find the words to say but his mouth didn't open.
“You really do pick and choose your moments brother, I don't know why I even came tonight, I'm sorry maman but I told you I wouldn't be able to sit in a room with him.”
Arthur stood up, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and took Carla's hand in the other.
“I'm really sorry maman, and everyone else, happy birthday, i guess.” Arthur gave his mother a hug and walked out of the restaurant with carla. Leaving everyone else at the table in pure shock.
Especially Charles, he had know idea what to say, he looked up at his mother opposite him who looked at him with sympathy.
“My sweet boy, I'm sorry to say it but there was some truth to your brother's words. I told you she was fragile.”
Charles felt awful.
Charles felt like he was going to cry at the table.
It had been a long year for Charles, he had groveld for the most of it, thinking you were happy somewhere while Lando flew you anywhere and everywhere around the world. Now he came to think of it, maybe there was a better reason for the young mclaren driver avoiding him.
He wasn't really friends with Lando, but his teammate, Carlos was close with the boy and whenever there was an offer for the three of them to hang out Lando magically had something come up and couldn't attend.
It all made sense now. Even the fact he hadn't seen you in the paddock, he thought maybe you were caught up in your studies, oh how he was wrong.
He sat at the table for the rest of the meal, and with every passing comment he didn't think he could sink more into his chair.
He was an awful person, he thought.
When the family were leaving the restaurant Charles hugged his family members, swallowing the anxiety and embarrassment down.
He looked over at Lorenzo who sent him a sympathetic smile, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Tonight wasn't supposed to go like that, i told arthur to just drop it i-”
“No, it's okay. I deserved it.”
“I dont know, you fucked up, but you didnt need to run, nether did she.'' Lorenzo, his older brother shrugged.
“What happened? With her and lando." Charles pushed.
“alot .” lorezono chucked.
“I don't know if it's my place to-” enzo sighed at that stupid little puppy dog face his younger brother was pulling.
“I'm pretty sure she cheated on him, Arthur said as she fell into a bit of a hole. So the only thing she really could do was just leave Monaco for a while. She seems good, Charles, healthy and happy." Lorenzo shrugged, watching as Charles' eyes widened and he latched onto every word.
“If it's any closure she's not mad at you, Arthur, well I'm sure he would be he loves y/n like a twin sister, but she's not mad at you. She was just confused and hurt.”
“If i call her-'' Charles started but his voice flattened as he realised it would ne dumb to contact you.
“Call her Charles, I'm sure she would be happy to hear from you.”
You knew what today was, arthur's molthers birthday. You had called her in the morning sending her your love and wishes, she told you that Charles was attending the meal and Arthur would be on his best behaviour, little did you know.
You wondered if Charles knew what you were up to, if pascal or lorenzo had been keeping him in the loop.
You were at the beach, cocktail in hand and book in the other, your earphones were in as you hummed to the faint sound of the music and read, but you were disturbed when the rigging was a call from your phone echoing through your earphones, charles.
Pick it up.
Pick it up.
You couldn't do it.
Your body froze in place, you pulled your airpods out, throwing down your book, not caring that you lost the page you were on. You took in a deep breath and picked up your phone, and just as your thumb hovered over the answer button, the ringing stopped.
He had called you?
You needed a moment to think about what you were going to say to him, what he would say.
You so desperately wanted to hear his voice, it had been a year, and you wondered if that was enough time for feelings to vanish.
You looked out at the calm seas for a moment, did you really want to fall back into a loop of pining for him like a puppy. You loved him, loved, past tense. You were a grown woman now, so you opened your phone and called him back.
Ringing.
“Hello?” his voice echoed through the phone.
“Charles?”
You heard his sigh of relief over the phone, and your heart melted all over again, he hadn't even spoken yet, but the closeness of his presence made it all too real.
“I'm sorry.”
He's sorry?
“Charles-”
“I'm sorry, okay. Arthurs right, I was mean and I was selfish and you deserved so much more than what I did to you. From the bottom of my heart y/n/n, I'm so so incredibly sorry.”
“It's- it's okay.”
You forgave him.
“It's not.”
There was a silence that lingered for a moment.
“What I said, what you heard, it wasn't supposed to happen like that. I really didn't want it to happen that way.” he pleaded over the phone, his breathy voice echoing through the speaker.
“I want to see you.”
More silence.
“Please, y/n.”
“Okay.”
More silence.
“Soon, okay.” There was promise to your words.
“Soon.” he repeated, as though it was something for him to hold onto.
Soon.
“When I'm ready Charles I'll come home, I'm just not ready yet.” you winced at your own words because you so desperately wanted to see him too.
“Then don't come home- i'll come to you, i'll catch the next plane if i have too just tell me where you are-”
“Charles, I'm not ready yet.” you interrupted him.
Silence.
Charles wanted to cry, hearing your voice and knowing you were just within reach he wanted to see you, hold you, apologise as much as you would allow him to. He wanted to kiss you and hug you and love you forever, but you weren't ready.
“I'll wait for you, okay? Soon or not.” his voice cracked, and god did it melt your heart.
“I'll see you soon charlie.”
This was feeling a little too much like a goodbye for charles.
“y/n?”
“Yeah?”
“Am I too late?’
“Time doesn't apply when it comes to you.” and Charles had hope. He hadn't fully let you slip, yet.
Charles would now spend every waking moment wondering how soon was soon?
But after a while he figured ‘soon’ was a little long, three more months to be precise.
You had left Australia, travelled around more like you wanted to, and you came back to Monaco just before the end of the f1 season.
Charles was already in Abu Dhabi by the time you landed back in monaco.You had asked everyone to not tell him of your arrival.
You were sitting with Arthur in his mothers living room, just like the old days. You told him about your travels while he updated you on his love life and gossip in the paddock.
You had missed this.
And it wasn't until pascal passed you a warm cup of tea and sat with the two of you, sharing her own gossip from the hair salon you realised how much you were ready to be home again.
Arthur had run to his room quickly to grab his trophies to show you and as he walked out of the room your eyes lingered on the suitcases by the door.
“You're going to Abu dhabi?” you asked pascal.
“Tomorrow.” she smiled at you.
Pascal could visibly see the gears turning in your head, she placed a hand on your knee and smiled up at you.
“I don't want to pressure you y/n, and i know you just got back but you should consider it.”
You knew what she meant and you nodded at her with a small smile, and Arthur came back.
You went home a few hours later and sat in your room, if you go you'll see him, but you're going to see him at some point regardless.
You felt vulnerable.
So completely scared, but that didn't stop you from texting Arthur that night telling him you were going to join him and his family tomorrow.
You were going to see him.
Your time was up.
You were ready.
You meet up with the leclerc family at the airport in the early hours of the morning, your suitcase gripped in your hand as you were mentally preparing yourself to sit on the plane and go over any and every possible outcome this weekend could have.
Arthur sat with Carla at the front, and Pascal was fast asleep. But the chair next to you suddenly became occupied when you looked up and saw the eldest leclerc.
“You look well, y/n.” he smiled down at you.
“Thank you.” you smiled back at lorenzo.
“I think the time away did you good, no?”
“yeah, i really needed some space, but now i'm back and just feeling a little..” you stumbled on your words, struggling to describe your emotions.
“Overwhelmed?”
“Yeah, exactly that.”
“Does he know you're coming?” you knew the ‘he’ lorenzo was referring too.
“I dont think so.”
“He's going to be happy to see you.” lorenzo nudged your shoulder.
“I hope so.” you nervously chucked.
You took in a deep breath and looked back at the eldest leclerc brother, “I'm just anxious, I have no idea how this weekend will pan out. The next time I'll be back on this plane going home I could be happy, sad, crying or planning to run away again. I just feel so lost.”
“Lost isn't a bad thing.'' Lorenzo shrugged.
“He's just as lost as you y/n, trust me. I just hope you both figure it out, you both deserve the peace of mind. And if this all goes to shit, you still got on this plane today and tried.”
“I just don't want to get my hopes up.”
“Then don't, sometimes things aren't just meant to be.”
That's what was worrying, you had loved this man for years, and now was the deciding day if he loved you back or not and you don't know if you were ready to give up the fantasy of him
being the love of your life up yet.
You weren't mentally prepared for the shit outcome of this story, you didn't know if you could handle Charles breaking your heart another time.
When the plane landed and the warm air hit your skin you took in a deep breath. Time to face the music.
You went straight to your hotel, it was a Friday so Charles was about to participate in fp1 by the time you turned up to the track.
The smell of burnt rubber and the sound of happy fans filled your ears, you had missed being in the paddock more than you knew. This place was your home.
You were walking with Arthur and Carla when your name was called, judging by the accent you knew it wasn't the monegasque, it was the papaya coloured boy running up to you.
You told Arthur and Carla you would catch up with them as you stopped and smiled at lando who had now reached you.
“Hey.” he smiled.
“Hey.” you smiled back awkwardly.
“Listen lando, you deserve an explanation-”
“It's okay y/n, we were young, it was a while ago you’re forgiven.” Lando chuckled as he poked your shoulder.
“But that doesn't mean what I did was okay, you deserve more than what I gave you.”
Lando gave you a sympathetic smile.
“Consider it done with, okay? No hard feelings.”
You smiled up at the British boy, he looked good, he seemed well and that made your guilt feel a little less painful.
“I erm, I have a girlfriend actually, she's great, her names luisa.”
You watched as he lips upturned at the mention of his girlfriend, he was smitten.
“I'm happy for you landini.”
You both laughed for a moment, the free air was nice. Seeing lando meant there was a weight lifted off your shoulders.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing, I didn't want things to be awkward.” he said.
“I don't think I could ever be awkward around you.” Lando smiled at your words.
“Are you still thinking about becoming an F1 journalist?” he asked, remembering how it was your dream, he had also hoped your disappearance in the paddock for the last year wasn't his doing, stopping you from reaching your dream.
You smiled as he remembered, “I'm working on it.”
“Well i hope i see you around more often then, you deserve it y/n, really.”
Lando was getting called from the other end of the paddock as he had to be in his car within the next 10 minutes, you both shared a hug and it felt nice to feel comfortable with him.
His hands squeezed your back before saying a quick bye and skipping down the paddock.
As he pulled away and walked past, your eyes connected with them all to familiar grey ones you were so nervous to see.
Charles.
He didn't seem too happy though.
He had just watched you smile and laugh with your ex in the middle of the paddock and then hug him bye, even though you thought nothing of it, Charles' mind was spinning.
There he was, a tight lipped smile right opposite you. He had grown out his stubble and he looked tired. You knew he hadn't had the best of seasons with Ferrari, you didn't keep up with it too much, it upset you that his childhood team had failed him massively.
He nodded his head and followed his press officer in the opposite direction, but you weren't going to let him go just yet.
“Charles, wait!”
And before you could process it you were running, sprinting down the paddock after him, but he had already disappeared into ferrari hospitality.
“Shit.” you mumbled as you jogged down to the garages in hopes of catching up with him.
You scanned your pass and walked into the back of the garage Pascal had walked up to you and grabbed your hand.
“You need to put some headphones on dear, it gets loud in -”
“Pascal, where did he go?” you asked her frantically, like a mad woman out of breath.
“Charles?”
“yes!”
A slight smile just appeared on her face as she turned around, “Be quick dear, I think I can see him putting his balaclava on.” She pushed your shoulder and you walked around the red barrer that clearly said ‘no public entry’.
“You can't be back here, ma'am.” a security officer grabbed the back of your bicep.
“No, I need to get through, it's an emergency.” you whined, pulling your arm from his grip.
“I'm sorry ma’am, it's a safety hazard.” the man's grip tightened on your arm as he pulled you away from the back of the garage. You pushed off him but his grip only improved as he swept you off the floor, lifting you up at your attempt to run. You kicked your legs like a child learning to swim and kicked arms that trapped you.
“If you refuse to cooperate, I'll have no choice but to remove you from the garage.” he said, trying to dodge your feisty little kicks.
“And If you don't get your slimy huge hands off me right now i'm going to-”
“y/n?!”
Your head snapped at the sound of your name, Jorris, Charles' best friend.
“Jorris, oh thank god!”
“She's okay, she can come in.” Jorris grabbed your other hand and wiggled you away from the huge security man's grip as he dropped you back to the floor. You brushed off your dress and gave the security man a dirty look before turning to Charles' best mate.
“Jorris, where is he?” your breathing was rapid and your heart beat feeling like it was thumping out your chest.
“y/n you really shouldn't.” he sent you a sympathetic smile.
“Please.” you pleaded with him. After seeing you try to fight a six foot five security man Joris really didn't want to feel the wrath of you right now, so he complied.
“You have five minutes, follow me.” he led you through the back of the garage.
Whenever Charles got in the car he liked to be left alone to his own devices, it was his switch off time, but you knew on some occasions he didn't mind the company, you just needed to talk to him, tell him you were here for him. You didn't want him getting in the car overthinking that you were here for lando.
And before you knew it, there he was, standing in front of you, you were painting out of breath with your hands on your knees as you looked up at him.
Charles giggled as you held up a finger to let him know you were still getting your breath back. He pulled his ear pieces out of his ear and zipped up the rest of his race suit.
“I hate to rush you, but I have to be in the car in four minutes.” Charles frowned, “and four minutes aren't enough for what I have to say to you, y/n.”
“Let's keep it short and sweet then.” you stood up straight and smiled at the boy.
“Im sor-” he started but you cut him off.
“That's not what I meant by sweet.”
Charles squeezed his eyes and winced at his name being called behind him, he opened his eyes and saw you beaming up at him and he knew he was in love, he just wasn't going to tell you yet, especially not if he had just witnessed you make up with lando. Lando made you happy, Lando didn't break your heart on multiple occasions like he had. Charles wouldn't blame you if you went back to the British driver.
You tilted your head to the left and smiled at Chris, Charles' manager. He was pointing at his watch and tapping his foot.
You looked back at Charles and took in a deep breath, you stood on your tip toes and placed your arms on his shoulders, gently placing a kiss to his cheek.
Your soft lips connecting with his ruff stubble is something Charles cherished, he couldn't wipe the Cheshire cat grin off his face.
“I know it's only a practice session, but good luck out there charlie.”
“Thank you.” he smiled, trying to hide his blush. He couldn't believe he was blushing and how the roles had reversed between the two of you.
“What about lando?” he had to ask, it was on his mind.
“I'm not standing next to Lando wishing him good luck right now, am i?” you smirked at him.
Charles smiled before looking back at his manager, he bent down and kissed your forehead like he had done a thousand times, but this time it felt different, electric, it felt like love. It was love.
“I'll be waiting for you, okay?” you told him.
Charles smiled to himself, he wasn't too late.
If anything was on Charles' side that day it wasnt timing. Charles finished fp2 with a few flying laps and a heavy heart, his first plan was to find you but his press officer had forced him to do interviews, and then he had a meeting and then he had checked his watch and it was way past nine and he knew you were probably back at the hotel by now.
He huffeed as he left his meeting, grabbing his jumper and keys and saying goodbye to the engineers that were going to work on the car overnight.
He had it all planned in his head, he was going to get some flowers on the way home, knock on your hotel door and ask you on a date.
“Charles!” called out his manager, he really hoped he didn't have to stay in this hell hole any longer, he just wanted to leave the track and get his girl.
“What?” he huffed.
“She waited.”
“What?” Charles repeated, his manager now having his full attention.
Charles caught the way his manager's lips turned into a devilish smirk, but he wasn't looking at Charles, yet something behind him. When he whipped his head around there you were, his heart thumped at the massively oversized ferrari jacket one of the staff must have given you to keep you warm while you waited.
You just smiled at him and waited for him to walk to you, but charles sprinted, he was a man on a mission and when he got to you his hands slipped around your waist, pulling you up in the air for a moment before he dropped you back down, his hands still remaining tightly wrapped around your torso.
He tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear before placing his forehead on yours.
“Take what's yours charlie.” you smiled.
Charles' thumb gently traced over your plump bottom lip before he placed his hand on your cheek, smiling like an idiot.
He slowly grazed his lips on your before gently adding pressure and connecting your soft lips with his in a quick kiss. A kiss that was full of smiles as Charles pulled you as close to him as possible. Towering over you as he kissed you unlike he had kissed anyone ever. The way your lips moved in sync with his was magic to him, it had never felt like this before.
He pulled back letting you get some air, before using that as leverage to stick his tongue in your mouth, he put all his power and passion into the kiss and it was just as you imagined him to be with you. Sensual and passionate.
Your hands ran along his shoulders and up to his head where you gently tucked on his hair. Charles groned on your lips and eventually pulled back, he giggled as he placed his forehead on yours again.
“All mine, finally.” He said through a wide smile.
“I've always been yours…”
Thank you for reading!! Here’s a gif of baby Charles because this is how i imagined him when y/n had her teenage crush. Bare faced and spiky hair🥹
"My name is Oscar. We will meet in exactly 5 minutes from now, and we will fall in love and get married. We will love each other so much and our life, it will hurt not to.''
pairing: timetraveler!oscar piastri x reader
word count: 9.1k
tags: time travelling oscar piastri, love at first sight, yearning oscar, historical setting, angst, major character death (but actually not, bcs time travel), depictions of a fire
a/n: this fic is literally me writing vibes. inspired by the best himym episode: time travelers.
In the 16th century, there really wasn't much to do.
Oscar had seen the birth of Shakespeare, attended his first plays, hell, he'd even seen the man on his deathbed (which was in the 17th century, but he's nitpicking). He had been among the crowd when Martin Luther pinned his 95 theses at the church door. The Mona Lisa had just been created, and Oscar was able to see the painting in its full glory, before the rest of the world caught up to its grandeur.
However, it really was a boring time in history. Too late for the exploration of the world, but too early for the development of modern ideas, of enlightenment. It was a particularly difficult era, as the middle class had only started to rise, while the rigid hierarchy of monarchs still clutched to their power with an iron fist. The mortality rates were still high, crime was on a rise due to religious infighting. The discovery of the Americas brought on more gold and silver to Europe, thus creating the first major instance of inflating prices.
All in all, Oscar would much rather exist in the big 2020s, where he could waste away his eternal life scrolling through short form content, rather than relive the 16th century again.
Or so he thought. He had been editing the Wikipedia page for Martin Luther when he encountered a mistake. A mistyping of the 81st thesis, a sacrilege to the church as well as the integrity of Wikipedia itself. Oscar clutched his chest at the audacity, and decided to refer to the original text for clarity. He dusted off the Cheeto crumbs off his chest and made his way to his massive closet containing his travel clothing.
That's how he found himself back in that forsaken century, scribbling on a piece of shitty, not mass produced, parchment. Sitting down on a deformed rock, he focuses all of his attention on not spilling the ink from his quill, not noticing a shadow covering the sunlight shining over him.
"So, you're back."
Oscar lifts his head to find you, cheeks dusted with dirt, holding a basket filled with fresh produce on your hip. A blue dress adorned your figure, woolen and soft, with fraying edges and loose threads weaving around the garment. Tied around your waist, the apron had turned yellowish from use, a fresh red stain wetting the edge. Oscar sees the fresh berries in your basket, slightly smushed from the efforts of your picking, he presumes them to be the source of the stain. You were barefoot.
The sun shines directly behind you, circling your head like a halo, lighting up the loose hairs from your braid. The strands turning golden despite your hair color, you seemed like a goddess of fire, or sun, or light. A small smile pulled at your lips, head cocked to one side as you readjust the basket at your hip. You seemed confident. Maybe even mocking, as one eyebrow rises at his silence.
"How are your lips so red?" Oscar blurts, cheeks turning scarlet. He had stared at your lips for the entirety of the exchange, a cherry color embellished on the plump, lush, glossy flesh. Inviting. Alluring.
Your eyes widen, but you do not seem offended. You blink a couple of times, long eyelashes caressing the tops of your cheeks, Oscar notes. Then, a small smile pulls at those wondrous lips. You take a blackberry at the top of your basket, Oscar notices it leaking its juice along your lithe fingers, and run it along the skin of your bottom lip. He watches, transfixed, as you spread the juice across your mouth, smirking knowingly at his (probably) dumb expression. Then, you wipe your fingers across your apron, deepening the red stain on the edge.
"What are you writing, m'lord?" Your voice, carried over the slight summer breeze, settles over Oscar like a waterfall, a sugary, warm, comforting waterfall. He feels like he is drowning and finally above water for the first time, encompassed in your presence, the clean smell of daisies wafting from your figure.
"You should not call me that, a fair maiden such as yourself deserves just as much respect." Oscar replies, internally cringing at his attempt to copy your way of speaking. And at his attempt of flirting.
You simply smile and shake your head, more strands coming loose from your messy braid. You tuck one behind your ear, revealing the soft skin of your neck. Oscar feels his throat constrict.
"You jest, but the color of your frock signifies you as nobility, kind sire." You slowly lower your head, showing slight submission before Oscar, but your stance remains mocking.
Oscar looks down at his clothing, a deep maroon, velvety garment he now realizes stands out among other working folk in the district.
"I am no nobility… I am just Oscar." He states resolutely, standing up to face you properly, a hand outstretched to shake your own.
You bow slightly, transferring the basket in front of you with two hands. Not taking his hand, Oscar notices, you answer, "I am Y/N. Just Y/N."
Suddenly, he remembers the parchment in his hands, the ink running across the entire page and staining his hands. He tries to shake off the liquid, wiping the rest across his chest, staining the front of his shirt. You widen your eyes at the motion, pursing your lips disapprovingly.
"You asked what I was writing?" You nod. "I am a scholar, see, I am documenting Luther's theses."
You laugh. "Why are you documenting the pages right in front of you?"
He quirks his eyebrow, a smirk pulling at his own lips. "Ah, you see, pages can be lost to time in seconds." He takes the ruined parchment and rips up the page, throwing the pieces to the ground. "I believe everything worthy of preserving."
"That seems like a noble, but futile effort." You conclude resolutely. "If time is a killer, then what of your work when you die?"
Oscar smiles, gently, sadly. He cannot die, he thinks. On this day, it's history books and monasteries, on the next it's Wikipedia. If he can be the only one to truly witness history, he will be the one to document it for the rest. It is the only thing he can do. As you say, it is a noble effort. It is the only noble thing, actually, he thinks.
"Knowledge cannot die, not if it is whispered across generations."
"What must you mean?"
"Well…" He points to the pinned paper on the church door. "You will tell the story of the 95 theses to your children, as I will write them down. In the same way, we are preserving the memory of this moment."
"Why should I preserve this moment at all?" You cock your eyebrow at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes.
"Because it- it is momentous. It will be remembered for centuries!" He raises his voice slightly, incredulity painting his words.
"What makes it so?" You ask.
"It will change religion forever." He sighs. "Martin Luther will change the order of the world. Starting with this moment."
Your eyes wide, mouth falling open. "What?! What does it say on those pages?!"
Then, Oscar realizes you cannot read. You do not know why this will change the world, because you do not know what it is. This shouldn't shock him so, as you seem to be a peasant in this day.
"Do you wish to know what it says, really?" He asks you, an idea presenting itself to him.
You nod, looking down at your feet. Ears reddening slightly, you grip your basket tighter. Oscar thinks you look like the most precious thing.
"I will teach you to read, and you will pass on every momentous occasion, just as myself." He grips both of your shoulders, beaming at you brightly. The touch startles you, snapping your head up at him, when a helpless smile paints your lips.
"That sounds wonderful…" You trail off. "Oscar."
His heart twinges, warmth spreading.
Then, you look at the sun in the sky, shoulders becoming rigid.
"Oh, I must leave. The sun is already low, I have duties to attend to!" You start to scurry off, berries jostling slightly at your haste. It is midday, Oscar thinks, a smile gracing his face.
"Wait! Where can I find you?" Oscar yells after you.
You turn your head back at him, slowing down, but still making your way down the path. Hair flowing behind you, skirt billowing in the wind, Oscar feels all air leave his lungs. "I am at Hastings house! You may come after sundown!"
He smiles as you pick up pace, tripping slightly over a rock in the road. You are a mess; a glorious, gorgeous, wonderous calamity. You look like all the joy in the world, Oscar thinks. Oh, but he already hates to see you go.
He stays there, in that square, dew seeping through his shoes. Oscar tears his eyes away from the spot you disappeared from and observes the sun. Despite you saying it is low, the sun is still desperately high. He sighs, slumping back onto the rock, resting his forehead in his ink-stained hands. Suddenly, overwhelmed by the urge to see you again, immediately, he cannot wait another second. Curling his shoulders into himself, he is overtaken by an uncontainable giddiness, but a despair of waiting so long to see you once more.
However, Oscar is a time traveler. He does not have to wait.
Walking towards the gates of the Hastings house, Oscar sees the sun dipping below the grand spires decorating the roof. He follows the ivy clawing its way from the ground to the roof, noticing your figure standing off to the side of the gates, beckoning him urgently with wild hands. He makes his way off the gravel path to you, separated by an iron fence. You come closer, hand curling on the bar of the fence, the other poking through the gaps to grasp at his lapel, still wet from the ink.
You pull your hand back, glancing at it with a disgusted face. "You make a habit out of ruining your frocks with ink? I thought once would be enough!"
He just smiles gently, and mirrors your position on his side of the property.
"It is my prerogative and I wish to soil my garments."
You shake your head, already strangely fond. "A jester, you." Then, you gesture for him to follow you along the path away from the gate. "There are guards, if you wish to keep your head, then you will come along."
Oscar follows you faithfully, to a small opening in the fence next to an apple orchard. He ducks through, a tight squeeze, but he manages. As Oscar straightens up, he finds himself inches away from you.
There is no longer dust on your face, which is strangely fine for a servant. Your hair is loose, flowing along your shoulders carelessly. He takes a strand between his fingers, running along the length. Soft.
You blush and push his hand away at the wrist. "Shall we?"
Leading him to the servants quarters of the house, you make your way across the garden, ducking behind bushes and giggling like children while you attempt to escape the watchful guards. On the last stretch, he takes your hand in his and runs across the gravel path into the side door.
You are flushed, your chest rapidly rising from the effort. Eyes, oh, those eyes, find his own and a laugh escapes you. Oscar cannot help to match it, watching you throw your head back and let your emotions spill across your face. Unguarded.
He brings the hand still in his to his lips, presses a firm, but gentle, peck across your knuckles. Then, he brings your joined hands back down and smiles unabashedly.
"You are so precious." He states matter-of-factly.
In response, your cheeks warm and you drop his hand, starting to make your way to your room.
It is small, the air is stale and there is only a tiny window above the bed. It is cruel to expect a person to live here, Oscar thinks, as you make your way to the small bed in the corner.
"I-I have no desk. Is this acceptable?" You ask, flexing your hands nervously.
He smiles, pulling out pens and parchment, settling next to you on the bed.
First, he teaches you the alphabet, which you take to easily. Side by side, Oscar and you fill pages with handwriting, his confident and clean, yours hesitant and messy. Writing words, however, proved to be slightly more difficult. You instinctively wrote down the words the way you said them, but Oscar had to inform you, regrettably, that English simply did not work that way.
At one point, the word 'thoroughfare' had frustrated you so thoroughly (another word you had issues with), that you decided to just toss the reed pen at the floor and give up.
"I cannot do this." You state, sprawled out on the bed, voice muffled from the hands you buried your face in.
He gently pries your hands away, twisting them around to hold them properly. You crack an eye open, meeting his gentle gaze.
"Yes, you can. And you will."
"But why?" You wail. "This is torture, Oscar."
"So you can write down your thoughts. Then, the world will know how smart you really are." He concludes, hand warming your own.
"However, we may have to pivot and try something else." You straighten up and raise your eyebrow at his words. Oscar rummages through satchel and pulls out a book. Shakespeare's Hamlet. A modern edition, he cringes, but worn down enough it doesn't stand out.
You settle into his side, as he opens the first page, beginning to explain each word and letter. Asking you first to try to pronounce the words you're reading.
After a few pages, you feel the weight of your daily work affect your body, your spine hurting under the pressure of sitting still. Turning to Oscar, you ask, "Could we settle in bed? Against the headboard."
He freezes. Nods, quickly, moving to the headboard. Shoulder to shoulder, both of your posture is awkward, legs spread out in front of you. Oscar takes the book in his hand and begins to read again. As time goes on, you begin to melt into his side, head slipping lower and lower until it is resting on his chest, hair settling down across his shoulders. He feels his heart rate rise steadily, hoping and praying to every God that you do not notice.
Then, as you bring your hand up to rest against his peck, he starts praying you do notice, losing his patience. The top of your head is resting right under his nose, your sweet smell gently overtaking the entire sense, distracting Oscar enough to lose his place in the book. Your body has shifted to your side, pressing itself to Oscar's side, one leg coming up to cover his own. He shifts, taking the book in one hand, the other coming up to hug you across your back. Gently whispering the words in the play, just reading the story to you at this point, he rests his cheek against your head.
After the first act, Oscar pauses for a bit. The night has deepened, cicadas overtaking the symphony, a breeze rustling trees outside the tiny window above the bed. There is a howl in the distance, further into the wilderness behind the Hastings house, and the footsteps of a lone guard crunch the gravel right outside. The air is cold, much too cold, the stone wall the bed is pressed against is freezing to the touch. However, Oscar barely notices as you press into him further, the closeness of your bodies burning him from within; cheeks, ears, nose, everything flushed from your touch. The silence reveals your even breathing, little sighs that could come only from a sweet dream. He glances down, confirming your eyes are closed, and settles the book down on the ground. Then, he brings his other arm around you and settles on his side, pulling you flush against his chest. The night folds your sleeping figures into its embrace, shared breaths and tangled limbs, until the day comes back to greet you, basking the room in its cruel sunshine.
Oscar had gone back after that night. Back to his apartment, scared to fully realize what he had felt. He glances to the coffee table to his right, seeing a horned viking helmet strewn haphazardly on its surface. On his left, a tapestry he had been given by villagers in Normandy, depicting the Battle of Hastings. Oscar sighs, resting his forearm over his eyes, his body tired, but still warm. His couch had been his safe space, a place where he could hide from the past, from the truth, from the things he had seen.
It's been decades, maybe even centuries, since Oscar had a normal life. The thought of normality, of intimacy, terrified him.
Oscar had been born God knows when in the town of who knows where. He grew up alone, one of dozens of boys in the orphanage, taken care of by nurses who were stretched far too thin on far too little salaries. He was normal, went to school, got a job, moved into the city. When Oscar left school, he was barely literate, as was the norm in that time. He was an orphan after all, left aside without a care, with no one to look out for him. He worked at the town factory, on the assembly line, withering away slowly. He doesn't remember what the job even was, or what town he grew up in, as time wasted away the memories. Insignificant. Dull.
Everyday, Oscar would come back home to his tiny apartment, a rental unit actually, which had been given to him by the factory. The building was divided into barely livable quarters, it was cramped, hot and cold at the same time, and infested by whatever crawled in. His apartment was squished between his coworker and a family of five (they had two screaming boys and a little girl who stole his clothing from the laundry room, but Oscar didn't mind as he saw his shirts sewn into the families tattered clothing). After work, he would open up a two-day old newspaper he took from the trash behind the printing house. Then, he would eat a small slice of rye bread and onion stew, with a glass of tea from leaves which had been reused a third time. When night fell, Oscar turned off the lamp on the table and fell asleep on the too-small, iron bed.
On repeat.
Until he turned 40. Or 37. Or later. Oscar can't remember when, but he remembers the day vividly. It was nearly a decade after he had broken the mirror above his bathroom sink, and not replaced, as mirrors were too expensive to purchase. He had walked through town, stopping by the city square, newly adorned with a massive gallery. Different men and women passed by him, wearing high top hats, gowns with puffy sleeves, carrying walking sticks that served no purpose. Oscar had rarely ventured to that side of town, knowing to keep himself hidden from the local wealthy population. The gallery had been donated to the town for reasons unknown to Oscar, but the Queen had decided to bestow this grand gesture on them. The paper had said it was to house artworks of French painters or Greek sculptors, maybe even the royal jewels.
The most impressive part though, Oscar noted, was the fact that the entire building was entirely made from glass. His curiosity peeked, Oscar made his way through the square quietly and quickly, stopping in front of the building, hoping to sneak a glance at the artwork inside. The only thing he had seen though, was his reflection for the first time in years.
Which had not changed.
He brought a hand up to his badly shaven cheek, noticing the unusual softness for the first time, the lack of wrinkles, and the full head of hair. He ran a hand through the locks, looking for at least one strand of gray, to make sense of his own reflection. It had to have been an illusion, right? It was made by the Queen, perhaps it had unusual, magical properties, which made your reflection different. It couldn't be, Oscar thought, rubbing the skin around his mouth, at the exact same spot his peers were getting wrinkles. He rubbed his eyes, opening them once more to enjoy the vision of a vibrant, 20-something man.
What a life, one of eternity spent working on an assembly line, living in rat infested buildings, eating onions for lunch and dinner because that was the one thing he could afford. His body couldn't even do him the favor of rotting, of decaying enough to put him out of his misery. Oscar remembers the fragile hands of the older nurses at the orphanage; he had spent years at this point praying and hoping his fingers matched theirs so he could finally, maybe, be free. Liberated, in poverty, in hunger, in the beauty of an aging body, one that will betray him at every turn. However, Oscar's body is not betraying him. It is perfect. His hands will continue to obey him, continue to repeat the same motions, continue to follow the melody of the factory.
He had bought a mirror after that, then spent the rest of the month living on scraps his neighbour put aside for him. Working at the factory, coming home, reading the newspaper, watching himself in the mirror and trying to will a single wrinkle to the surface. Checking his scalp for gray hairs, for balding, anything.
Oscar left that town soon after. He had finally noticed the odd looks he never understood before.
The world had changed a dozen of times since then, the most unimaginable horrors leaving deep scratches, incredible inventions changing lives and people and cities and nations.
With one man roaming the lands, the constant through it all.
The first time Oscar had figured out he could time travel, he was on a boat to the Americas. It was the 1920s, the world had just been ripped to shreds by a war so great, so vicious, so cruel, it had changed everything, forever. England had been left in ruins after the war, Oscar's house was nothing, but a stain on the frigid ground. His neighbours had disappeared months ago, only remembered a small note slipped under his door. They had left, for a better life. The flu had caught the other side of town, luckily, but his favorite pub owner was taken by the disease. The schoolteacher, always in gold-rimmed glasses. The butcher, who gave Oscar the best cut. The sweet girl who timidly baked Oscar cookies every Monday, the daughter of an aristocrat. All gone.
He had dreamed of the Americas for as long as he could remember, which was decades ago. Finally, he had boarded the ferry, along with other rosy cheeked, hopeful people. Months of travel, finally boiled down to this moment. The coastline, in sight, the glorious statue guiding the way, a woman with her hand raised high, a signal of freedom.
However, Oscar could not keep his stomach down. Mere moments away from the life he had dreamed of. Something was astray, something was missing, he kept telling himself. Leaning on the railing of the ferry deck, he pressed his forehead to his forearm, a cool sea breeze ruffling his hair. The boat rocked, left to right, right to left. The whiskey he had downed moments ago, sloshing around, left to right. Children running around, slipping on the wet floorboards, crashing into Oscar's legs. Right to left. Left to right.
Oscar felt a buzzing in his ears, a slight whistling noise. He was lightheaded. Knees buckling, goosebump-raising, finger tremoring. Right to left. Left to right. He was so close. Right to left. It felt so wrong. Left to right. He knew there was something he needed to know. Right to left.
Then, everything stopped. His feet planted firmly on the ground, nose filling with the familiar scent of smoke and asphalt, not the salty breeze. His hand was no longer resting on the lacquered wooden railing, but on a rough brick surface, a wall. It was quiet, all too quiet, no screaming children, no waves crashing, no engine brewing.
He raised his head, stomach settled, heart racing. In front of him, a grey, brick building, tall as the sky above, with rows of windows stretching high, no light emanating from them. Nighttime had fallen, and the sky was pitch black. Oscar could see that the smoke from the nearby factory had hidden the stars, even the moon. Above the massive steel door, a sign. The orphanage. Oscar's orphanage. That had burned down a couple of years after he graduated.
"This is impossible." He whispers, warm breath coming out in white steam.
Then, he heard the clicking of heels, urgently tapping over the cobblestone street. For no reason at all, Oscar had felt the overwhelming urge to hide, so he did.
Peeking around the brick wall though, he could see a woman, young with brown hair and furrowed eyebrows. She looked around her, clearly panicking, before setting a small, bundled blanket on the doorstep of the orphanage. Kneeling down, she presses a small kiss to the top of the blanket, then turns quickly, her heavy coat sprawling behind her, running frantically down the street.
"Wait!" He yells out, feet catching up to his mind. "Stop! Miss!"
She looks back, but doesn't slow down. Brown eyes, wide with fear. "Please, leave me alone! Haven't I suffered enough already?"
Oscar is taken aback, stumbling clumsily along the street, slowing slightly before stopping. She disappears, rounding a corner, hair billowing behind her wildly. Her eyes, it was something Oscar had never seen before, the utter fear. Wide, shaking, wet. They were the same as his.
He turns back, just in time to see the orphanage door open. It was the head nun, one Oscar had spent most of his life with. Her hair still had color, and her hands were smooth, without wrinkles. He watches her shaking her head sadly, before picking up the bundle. The blanket slips slightly, revealing a tiny, fragile, newborn baby, sleeping soundly. Unknowing of the anguish around him.
Oscar's knees give out, dropping helplessly on the hard cobble, his trousers ripping on the spot. The nun turns around, as Oscar sees her carry in his little self, helpless. He wants to scream, to cry, to track down his mother and ask her, why, why, why was his suffering the solution to hers? Couldn't she care for him, love him? Why? Why was he the one paying for her mistakes?
Then, he remembers her eyes. Shining. Terrified.
The whispers on the orphanage playground. The looks from the nuns, crossing their chests, mouths moving in silent prayer. The teasing glances from the cruelest of boys, saying his mother was a slut.
She was so young, he realized. Too young.
Oscar presses his palms to his eyes, salty tears slipping down his face. When he removes them, the Statue of Liberty is staring at him lovingly, the rip in his trousers letting the cold air blow on his tender skin.
Sitting in his dark apartment, he misses the way your body felt against his, the way your hair tickled his chin, the way you smelled. When you opened your eyes in the morning, plush lips parted, slight embarrassment evident from the nervous smile you put on. God, he's so utterly fucked.
Oscar hates the 16th century, he thinks as he finds himself in front of the Hastings estate once again. He watches you sweep the garden, kicking the autumn leaves from the pathway, shoulders covered with a heavy scarf. There's nothing more beautiful, Oscar thinks, as you wipe your forehead with your apron, glowing under the cold sunshine.
There's nothing more that confuses him more than love. Infatuation. Longing. He knows books, he knows history, he knows law, he knows politics. Hell, he even knows the modern day crypto scams. He's even had his fair share of romances, though mostly physical. Oscar's never felt this way before, hiding under grand pillars, feeling his heart race watching you do the simplest things.
He's never had the chance to feel it. Love.
It's been days since the night he slept in your bed and he's been replaying the event in his head for just as long. You, warm, soft, sweet, kind. Him, next to you.
Sweeping the leaves onto the already large piles, you drop the rake on the floor and take a deep, exhausted sigh. Resting your hands on your hips, you glance across the courtyard, gaze fixing on the spot Oscar is hiding.
"Hello, stranger!" You call out, a rosy tinge decorating your face, a saccharine smile on your lips.
Oscar sheepishly reveals himself, quickly climbing over the fence, making his way over to you.
"Pardon my intrusion, but I am looking for a maiden I might've slighted a few nights ago."
You cock your head to one side, eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. "You sleep in the beds of more maidens?"
His eyes widen, head shaking violently. "No, no! God, I am a dunce." He slaps a hand over his forehead. "I am here to apologise to you. For overstepping the other night."
You laugh at him, the sound of it reminding him of a beautiful sonata. "Then no apology is necessary, m'lord."
"Oscar." He reminds you fondly.
"Oscar." You whisper back, pulling the scarf over your body tighter.
You stand there for a moment, in blissful silence, as the birds that haven't migrated yet chirp a quiet song, the autumn sun beaming at the both of you. A leaf crunches somewhere far away.
He cannot begin to fathom how he got here. A lonely child, never feeling like he deserved love, standing in front of you. Born centuries before him, living in a completely different reality, it shouldn't be possible, it shouldn't work.
Then, the sunshine hits the corner of your eye, and a light breeze rustles your hair, cheeks rosy and pulled as a smile graces your lips. Oscar cannot be more thankful.
"Have you completed your duties for the day?" Oscar asks, hands crossed behind his back, clammy with nerves.
"No." A mischievous glint shines through. "It does not matter, though."
You grab his forearm, dragging him away from the pristine house and the newly-clean gravel pathway. Under the hole in the fence, onto a worn trail, into the woods next to the estate. The tree branches hunch over the path, obscuring the sunshine. Your hand has found its way into his own, clean and small, soft, curling over the scarred skin, etched from the days at the factory.
The air smells like pine, it is chilly, air biting into the tips of his fingers, nestled warmly over your knuckles. You pick up your pace, skirt swishing over the ground, picking up dirt. You've braided your hair again, uselessly, as the giddiness in your step causes it to come loose.
The two of you come to a small clearing, blue flowers spotting the green grass. Trees grow tall, the tops clearing to show the sun, high in the sky.
You let go of his hand, launching yourself on the grass, dirty skirts billowing underneath you, hair spread under your head. Eyes closed, blissfully breathing in the biting air.
Oscar watches you lay there for a moment, before carefully lowering himself next to you, a couple inches too close, but too far away. Your eyes are still closed, but you speak.
"Do you think time will erode this place?" You speak, softly, whispering.
Oscar is taken aback, turning to look at you, still laying peacefully.
"Why do you ask?"
You crack an eye, watching him carefully. "You are the keeper. Oscar, the scholar, you protect us from time."
He laughs, sheepishly, turning his gaze towards his lap. Fingering at the grass beneath him, he starts pulling at the flowers, gathering them in his palm.
"I am no protector."
"You are." Eyes closed again, your hand finds itself to his forearm, warmth spreading from the contact. "Remember this moment, protect it."
A pregnant silence falls over you. Him, pulling at the flowers, you, rubbing circles into his forearm.
"This is where my mother left me." You speak up, startling him.
"What do you mean?" Oscar asks, hands stilling.
"When my father died." You sit up, hand falling from Oscar's shoulder. "He was the duke before Hastings. Up to devious business, always. He owed money, so they came and… they killed him."
Oscar's mouth parts, looking at you warmly. Your thighs are touching.
"So my mother, to save me, left me here. Told me to run away. Never come back."
A small tear falls down your cheek.
"I couldn't be alone for a moment. I came back immediately. Just to see her… see them kill her."
He embraces you, sadness spreading through his chest. Your head rests itself on his shoulder, shoulders shaking gently. Pretty girl, he thinks, you did not deserve this.
"Why are you staying here then? With them?"
You pick your head up, Oscar wipes the tears on your cheeks. "I have nowhere else to go."
Your voice breaks, another tear falling quickly.
"My mother… she left me at an orphanage."
You look up. He continues.
"I grew up never knowing her, or my father. Later, I found out he raped her." There is no emotion in Oscar's voice. He had replayed the scene in his head dozens of times. It loops, why did she have to suffer?
"I grew up." He says, resolutely, holding your hand gently. "I got away."
"I can't." You whisper. "He will kill me."
Oscar looks at you, hair rustled, eyes red, nose flushed. He thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Run away with me." He states.
"What?" You pull your hands away, he grabs them immediately, resting your entertwined fingers in his lap.
"Leave. Come with me. I'll give you a house, a garden, a life."
"Unmarried?!" You screech, disbelief coloring your face.
Oscar takes one of the blue flowers resting in his lap, most of them partially smushed, blue liquid staining his trousers.
He gently loops the stalk through itself, then takes your cold hand in his. Sliding the tied flower onto your finger, he smiles at you.
"Then marry me."
An uncontrollable grin pulls at your lips, shining eyes filling with mirth for the first time. Pure, unadulterated joy. You glance at the flower ring quickly, then launch yourself at Oscar.
Lips meeting lips, both cold and shaking. Your hands come up to his cheeks, fingers curling into his hair. He shivers, from your freezing hands, and from the feeling of your body curling into his.
Hands coming up, he grips your waist, rough fabric bunching at your hips as he hoists you onto his lap. Running along your shoulder blades, pulling you impossibly closer. Your hair tickles his cheek and he savors every millimeter of contact with your body.
Everything is cold, but your lips. Warm, soft, honeyed. Moulded perfectly to his own. Cherry red, still, even with no blackberries. He can't help but zero in on the feeling, chasing your lips again and again, until your lungs burn and you laugh at his insistence.
He keeps his mouth on you, peppering kisses on your neck, jaw, cheeks, forehead, then back to your lips.
You pull away, grinning at him dumbly, lips even redder than usual. "My protector."
Oscar loves the 16th century.
He loves the little cabin in the woods, with the ever present scent of baking bread, the garden full of fruits and vegetables, the market on Mondays. He loves the slow life, lighting the fireplace in the morning and climbing in bed at night. Going to the garden before lunch, taking a few ripe tomatoes grown by hands much more skilled than his.
Hands that shake his shoulders when he wakes and ruffle his hair fondly. Hands that plant the garden and cook the food. Hands adorned by a silver ring, a flower shaped centerpiece. Hands that are soft and warm, lightly wrinkled, sun-spotted, calloused from the dirt.
Oscar wakes up, late in the morning, to the smell of coffee simmering on the stone stove. He brought the coffee from modern times, and lied to you he got it at the market.
You're already up, probably for hours, if your dirty hands and blackberry stained apron was any indicator. The blackberry bushes grew under your windows, smelling sweetly and attracting bees.
Oscar loves the 16th century because he loves you, he thinks, coming down to the kitchen, wrapping his hands around your waist.
You rest a calm hand on his own, continuing to stir the coffee in the pot. Your hair has a few greys now, and your eyes are adorned with little webs, a result of your ever-present smiles.
Oscar loves the wrinkles on your hands, as well as the lines forming around your mouth. You hate the streak of grey in your hair, but Oscar thinks it makes you a thousand times more beautiful.
Sometimes, your fingers shake, and you can't complete your knitting recently, and you get tired more often and Oscar needs to hold you closer so you don't shiver every night.
He loves you. He's scared.
All he's ever wished for was a body that could change. That could give in to his life force, to show signs that he exists. That he made a mark on the world.
You, you're full of marks. You have a scar on your forearm from resting it on the stove. Your freckles don't go away anymore, from the time in the sun. Your wrinkles, the greys, everything. Oscar loves you, because you exist.
It isn't obvious yet, but Oscar is scared of the day you realize how far you are, and where Oscar is stuck. When you call him a freak, and leave. God, he'll be lucky if you don't turn him over to the witch trials.
Right now though, he's resting his head on yours, warm breath fanning the top, as you pour the coffee into two, misshapen, matching cups.
You break away from his grip, turning with his cup in hand. He takes it, then takes your hand before you can pull it away, pressing a kiss to the flower on your ring.
"Good morning, beautiful." He grins, pressing another kiss to your cheek.
"Good afternoon, gorgeous." You tease him, meeting his lips for a quick peck, but there is no quick peck with Oscar as he chases your lips for a scorching kiss.
"Have you tended to your garden, dear?" He says, popping a blackberry into his mouth.
"Yes, it is truly boggling how much I get done before you awake." You scold him fondly, setting up the dining table with two plates, scooping up the blackberries and other fruits he hadn't noticed.
He cannot help himself, so he comes behind you once more, wrapping one hand around you tightly, while the other grips the coffee mug. Then, sprinkling warm kisses across your neck and shoulders, he turns you around in his embrace, pulling you in closely.
The breakfast is forgotten.
After you break away, resting your head into Oscar's palm, pressing into your cheek, you smile brightly, lines deepening across your eyes.
"Will you go to the market?" You ask. "We haven't got any fish for dinner."
He pecks your lips once more, for good measure, and nods. "Whatever you wish, dearest."
You smile at him, then turn to the neglected plate of blackberries, popping one in your mouth, juices spilling across your lips.
Oscar goes to the market, in town. Living on the edge of the village, it takes him hours by foot to get to the main square. At noon, the local farmers set up their stands, bright and colorful, fruits and vegetables stacked high.
He buys the fish and makes the slow trek back home. The sun is sitting low as he walks through the lush, green forest, the sky painted red as it sets. Oscar thinks back to you, probably baking bread for tomorrow, hair messy and eyes glassy, full of life and full of love. He picks up his pace, excited to meet with you once more.
As he makes it to the clearing in the forest, where you have built your little wooden cabin, an unmistakable smell fills Oscar's nostrils.
Smoke.
"No…" He whispers, the sound murmuring through the forest, for no one to hear.
Dropping the sack with the fish on the forest floor, he runs as fast as he can to the cabin.
Smoke. Fire.
He coughs, stopping a few meters in front of the house. It was lit up completely. Not an inch preserved. Ash flying, hitting him in the arm. Crackling, groaning flames, flowing higher and higher, until he could barely see the sky.
Oscar yells out your name. Running around the cabin, trying to find a trace of your figure, your hair, your nimble fingers.
The fire grows, roaring at him, as if to keep him further away. Biting. Trying to swallow him as well.
He calls for you, again and again and again. Until his throat is raw. Until his cheeks burn from the heat. Coughing, stomach rising, muscles tensing. Until the sun has completely set, but his eyes are scalded from staring at the fire. Oscar reaches out, touching the fire, trying to make it through, to get to the cabin. His hand burns. He pulls it back, staring at the now charred fingers.
He steps closer anyway, banging helplessly at the door, palms blistering. "No, no… Please! No!"
The flames lick at his jackets, catching his clothes. He does not give in, banging and knocking and yelling until he can't anymore. Until the fire almost swallows him. Until it hurts too much, so much to finally distract him from the possibility of losing you.
The blackened beams of the roof give in, collapsing into the house.
He screams.
Falling on his knees, he watches as the fire slowly fizzles out.
Breathing in smoke, his lungs are probably black, but he won't get away. Still trying to find a trace of you. However, he can barely see, as the black ash settles over him.
His throat burns. "Stop! Please! Haven't I suffered enough?"
The sound of his voice is so raw, so fried, so weak. Oscar can barely hear himself scream, the fire melting his cries away, so loud, so brutal. Metal taste curling on his tongue, setting in his stomach.
There is no response.
He hears the walls crumble.
Then, he falls to the ground, mere meters away, body finally giving in. As the smoke settles over the clearing, Oscar reaches one last time to the house, arm quickly falling limp as his vision gives out.
Oscar wakes up to the sound of songbirds, the feeling of the sun shining over him, the smell of sweet flowers tickling his nose.
The smell of ash sneaking it. Roasted wood, like you would add the blocks into the fireplace every night.
The taste of metal, like when you would make him eat liver meat when you were low on money.
The sound of creaking wood, like your rocking chair on the porch.
You. Where are you?
His body aches. Burns. Flexing his fingers, he hisses, stinging sensation spreading to his arms.
He needs you, where are you?
Trying to open his eyes, Oscar feels tears starting to fall. When he finally opens them, he has his eyes to the brightness filling his vision.
Then, he notices the house.
A house Oscar built for you. A house that was once so lively, wooden beams holding up the small porch you insisted for. A house that had flowers growing up the windows, maintained by loving hands. A house that always smelled like fresh bread and blackberries. Your house. You.
Urgently, he tries to lift himself up on his arms, quickly giving out and faceplanting on the floor. Arms shaking, palms raw, eyes filling with fresh tears. The tears, giving some relief to his scorched eyes.
You.
Where are you?
Somehow, panic filling his throat, building, forcing his stomach up, he manages to get up.
Running, the few meters between him and the house, now a pile of black, unrecognizable debris, he stops. The blackberry bush, your blackberry bush, it is gone.
You.
Your hand, black. Burned. Miserable. Frozen in time. Index finger pointed outward, stuck in that unnatural position, reaching for something that will never come.
Laying on the floor, beneath the charred wood of the cabin he built for you.
Oscar feels his breath quicken, faster and faster, he can't make it stop, can't tear his eyes away, can't stop looking at the only remnant of you.
Ironically, the thing he loved the most. Pointed at him accusingly. Your protector.
"What the fuck? What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck." He whispers, breathing not slowing.
Your protector, he thinks cruelly, who built the house that crushed you. Who left you alone, to get swallowed by the flames.
Desperately, Oscar starts clawing at the soft, roasted wood, trying to get you, maybe, hoping that you might be okay.
That somehow, this was a joke or a nightmare or a hallucination.
The wood won't give in.
Your hand stares at him. Finger pointed out. Mocking.
Eyes burning, tears falling down rapidly, wetting the already soft wood. The wood is not giving in, he can't get to you, can't save you. Frustrated, angry, guilty, he bangs on the wood. Like it wronged him. Like it killed you.
Killed you.
You.
It's been months.
Oscar took himself to a hospital. Travelling to the modern day, collapsing on the cold, sterile floor of the hospital near his apartment.
The apartment he hadn't been to in decades.
Decades he spent with you.
You, laying there, alone.
The doctors asked him questions, ones Oscar could not answer, as the smoke was still lodged in his throat, as the tears fell down his cheeks uncontrollably.
He tried to scream, tell them about you. You need them, he didn't deserve the help. Your protector, Oscar thinks, as he laid in the hospital for months, wrapped in bandages.
Oscar never left his apartment in the following months. Maybe it's been years. In bed, rotting away, just staring in front of him. The lights are off, they're always off.
Cheeks sunk in, eyebags, messy hair, Oscar can't recognize himself anymore.
Without you.
You, laying there, alone.
When he closes his eyes, he sees the fire.
When he opens his eyes, he sees your hand, pointing at him.
Hands, that were the bane of his existence for being so perfect, so unchanging, now littered with burn marks. Good, he thinks, flexing his hand and wincing at the pain.
Oscar brought a camera to the cabin, years ago. To take pictures of you. He spends his days just staring at the photos. In the garden. Eating blackberries. Just waking up, eyes half closed, hair in your face.
He remembers the day he met you. Basket resting on your hips, ones he left indents on countless times, hips he loved resting his hands around to pull you closer. Head cocked to one side, hair shining in the sun. Lips, red, as you swiped the half eaten blackberry over your lips, juices spreading. Blackberries, which Oscar planted in the garden, to relive that moment time and time again.
It was a sunny day, early October in 1517.
Early October.
Shooting up, Oscar realizes.
He lost you. He can meet you again. Early October in 1517.
Immediately, he finds himself in that street once again, not bothering to even change his clothing.
Hiding behind a wall, he watches as you make your way down the street.
God, you look even more beautiful than ever.
Eyes filling with tears, he sees you fiddling with the blackberries in your basket, sweet smile gracing your lips as you greet the other villagers.
He chokes up, throat constricting.
You, alive. Heart pumping, lungs breathing, hearing, seeing, feeling. A pep in your step. Blackberry basket loosely hanging in the crook of your elbow. Apron dirty, as it always is, he thinks.
A nimble, real, warm, soft hand reaches into the basket, and pops a blackberry into your mouth.
Alive.
You pass by him. He can almost smell the honey of your skin.
Skin he's spent night after night feeling, caressing, tasting.
Unable to help himself, Oscar reaches behind the wall, pulling you into his hiding spot.
You stare at him in disbelief, eyes raking over his disheveled appearance.
"Wh-?"
"I'm sorry, please don't say anything." He sighs, hand raking through his greasy hair.
"My name is Oscar. We will meet in exactly 5 minutes from now, and we will fall in love and get married. We will love each other so much and our life, it will hurt not to. You will tell me about Hastings and we will run away together. I will build you your dream house, with the porch, the rocking chair and the blackberry bushes." He takes a breath. You stare at him, unmoving.
"I'm here because… I'm a time traveller. I never told you. But… I need those 5 extra minutes with you, because I love you and I will love you until the day I die. All those minutes, I need them, each and every one of them, because every second I am not with you my heart burns." He takes your hand, pressing it to his chest.
"I will take those 5 minutes before the crowd comes in and sees me, because I love you. I will always love you and it will haunt me for the rest of eternity."
Your eyes soften, hand curling into his chest. He hangs his head, relishing in having you near. He cannot look at you though, because his heart will burst if he does.
"I know."
Oscar's head shoots up, gazing down at you with widened eyes. Hand gripping your own tighter.
"Oscar…" You continue, breath fanning his face. "I've been meeting you for the first time every few days. For years."
"Wh-what?"
"Yes." You laugh. Fingers intertwining with his, warmth spreading across his chest, curling into his heart. "I love you, too. Been in love with you for years."
Urgently, he pulls you in.
Teeth clashing, saltiness mixing into your mouths. His face is flushed, hot tears spilling down his cheeks, onto your own. His hands coming around your back, tightly pressing you in his chest, impossibly closer.
Savoring the moment, Oscar does not let you go, not an inch away. The basket of blackberries is squished between you, spilling juice onto your apron. Your mouths move against each other's feverishly.
God, he can't believe this is happening. That you're here. Alive.
Hand running down his face, you pull away, gazing at him sweetly. "I know I die."
His eyes close, exhausted, head falling down onto your shoulder. Behind his eyes, the fire keeps burning.
Picking his head back up, Oscar looks at you resolutely.
"You have to go."
Your eyebrows shoot up, disapprovingly glancing between his eyes and his lips.
"You have to meet me now." He continues, smiling wetly. "For the first time."
You laugh at him quietly, pulling away from his embrace. His hands reach out for you before falling again. "Okay… Come see me again."
Dusting yourself off, and shooting Oscar a teasing glance for the red stain on your apron, you make your way back down the street, glancing back only once.
He watches, as you come up to him, curling into himself, sitting on the rock in front of the church. Seeing himself gaze up at you, dumb expression taking over. Laughing, knowing.
Slowly, Oscar pulls himself away from the wall and decides to come back later.
He spends the next few months going back, meeting a younger you, each time more and more desperate. To feel you, again. You spend most of your life with Oscar, actually, tucked into his side. One day, he knows he has to move on. You're gone. You've been gone for centuries. He has no more days, no more free days in your life he can come back to. He loves you, he has to let himself fall in love with you.
One time, Oscar visited the clearing where your cabin was. Instead of the house, a gorgeous blackberry bush grew from the spot you used to bake bread. There, he decided to give you a proper grave. A small tombstone, with your name and Oscar's last name. Etched underneath, a small flower.
The final time he came back, somehow, you knew it was the last.
It was a couple of years before he really met you. You were sitting in the clearing where your house would be. Leaning against his shoulder, as he simply rested his chin on your head, breathing you in slowly.
Quiet.
"Is this goodbye?" You said, quietly breaking the silence.
He pulls away, looking you in the eyes.
"It might be."
Oscar presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering a moment too long. Moving down, he pecks your lips, still impossibly red.
"I'll miss you." You said, face inches away from his, eyes closed, contently.
"You won't." He laughs, sadly. Pressing another kiss to your lips.
"I will. I love you. I will love you differently later." Eyes still closed, looking impossibly happy, you state matter-of-factly.
God, he loves you, Oscar thinks as he grabs you by the hips, lowering you onto the grass gently, mouth catching yours hotly.
Later that day, he finds himself in modern London, walking down the street aimlessly.
Heart finally settled, he gazes up at the sky. Happy. Content. Oscar will love you differently now.
Not looking in front of him, he bumps into someone, smelling sweet.
Looking down, his breath catches. Red lips form a grin, teasing, knowing.
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lando + dealing with his gf after cheating scandals
note: i do not view lando as a cheater in any way, shape, or form. but, amidst the new lando and magui rumors, i thought, “hmmm, what if these rumors circulated while he had a gf, aka reader, and it was because of lando and said gf not being public. so, mclaren needed pr for lando to be responsible, so they told him to go out with magui, EUGH, and yada yada you’ll get it!” also i changed locations and shit for the plot lol.
important note: it’s not okay to hate on magui, don’t do it. i don’t agree with what she’s done, but hate def isn’t the answer, especially with neither she, nor lando, gaf about what we have to say. i just used her since they have pics together so, you can imagine someone else if you’d like. the focus is lando x reader here :)
type: this is a head-cannon, but there’s mixes of smau.
pairing: lando norris x secret!gf!fem
warnings: angst but there’s fluff, dw
۵ being landos secret girlfriend was difficult at times.
۵ when you were alone at your shared house? easy. you could talk as loud as you wanted, cuddle on the couch for hours, you could be a real couple.
۵ but once lando left for the races, it’s like he was a stranger.
۵ you felt like a fan watching her crush on television. not a girlfriend.
۵ a girlfriend would be there, in person, supporting her boyfriend. she would be there in the paddock, just like lily was. watching alex and hugging him after a race. or like rebecca, smiling up at her boyfriend like he put the stars in the sky as he won a race.
۵ but you? you watched your boyfriend from the couch, working and making sure that he hadn’t crashed between emails.
۵ yeah, lando would text you and call you, but that’s not the same. not when all you want to do is be there for him in person.
۵ but you couldn’t. unfortunately, last time lando had a girlfriend they broke up. they broke up because of the fans. lando felt pressured to move quickly with her, and he didn’t really even want to date like that. he just wanted fun at the time.
۵ not with you, though. you were different. he loved you and knew from the second you two met at the bar that you were meant for him. he loved everything about you. and neither of you wanted fans or media to ruin it.
۵ but nothing everything is avoidable. hearts get broken, even when- no, especially when you least expect it.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
Liked by: f1wags, f1updates, and 72,194 others
f1wagupdates: update!! lando has been spotted today with magui corceiro in australia after the grand prix! fans saw they saw magui attend the race as well, and now the two and being seen hanging out? do we hear a new wag coming? a new couple?
view comments…
user4: i mean…she’s messy but ok
user1: she’s prettyyyy holy shit
user77: isn’t she friends with kika??
user25: yes!
user3: he doesn’t look happy….
user90: meh
user41: looks forced
user2: my mannnnn
user0: honestly, he needed a new gf. he’s been single foreverrrrr
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
۵ and after those headlines popped up, you were done for.
۵ tears? flowing. tissues? everywhere. landos calls? declined.
۵ you frankly didn’t want to talk to him. the mere idea of him cheating on you made you suck to your stomach.
۵ but maybe it made sense. he wanted a public relationship now…maybe?
۵ lando knew he should have told you. he knew he should have told you that mclaren told him o hangout with her to help pr. to make him seem responsible after the grand prix.
۵ lando knew he fucked up. and after not answering his texts and checking instagram and seeing the gossip posts, he knew why. the tags were insane, and he was stressing.
۵ the only girl he loved didn’t want to talk to him, and he was thousands of miles away.
۵ all because of a stupid pr stunt.
۵ lando booked a flight home as he sent a text to magui:
lando norris: hey, magui. i know this pr thing was supposed to last, but i’m done.
magui: oh…ok?
lando: sorry. can you book a flight for yourself?
magui: i’ll ask kika
magui: tell your girlfriend i’m sorry
lando: ???
magui: you obviously have one, lando. it’s fine. i’m sure she’s beautiful
lando: she is
*lando has blocked this number*
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
Liked by: y/n.user, danielricciardo, and 1,925,105 others
landonorris: rumors are lame, so here’s the truth. i have a girlfriend, we’ve been dating for two years, and i love her with every fiber of my being. we’ve kept this relationship private for her safety and to go through everything as a pair, not in-front of the world. unfortunately, rumors spread, and they spread fast. but those rumors stem from mclaren pulling this pr move, one to make people think i was in a relationship to make me seem “responsible and mature.” whatever. i am, by the way. but i am in a relationship, not with magui though. i love you @y/n.user ❤️
view comments…
*only certain profiles can reply to this post*
y/n.user: oh my god. get home so i can smack you and then give you a kiss
landonorris: smack me??
y/n.user: you posted my TOES
oscarpiastri: double dates?
landonorris: well that’ll be thrilling
y/n.user: awwww that’s adorable yes
lilyzneimer: i just need to meet y/n too!!💞
danielricciardo: wow, he finally admits it
carlossainz55: i think everyone knew, mate. but ok!
charles_leclerc: congratulations! alex says she can’t wait to meet y/n!!
savnorris: bring her to christmas this year!!
landonorris: i will, don’t fret
olivernorris1: no one was “fretting”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
۵ lando loved you, and he had to prove it once his plane landed.
۵ cuddles for days, home cooked meals (to his best ability), movie nights, appreciation posts, etc.
۵ you moved on from the incident. you understood, especially after an explaining from zak, along with a run down of paddock rules.
۵ races were fun, you loved going and the fans loved you.
۵ oscar’s girlfriend, lily, was wonderful and you two got along perfect. so talking with her while lando and oscar races was nice.
۵ you weren’t fond of how you got here, but you were fond of being here.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
(reposts, comments, and likes are appreciated!^-^)
Request from @adriennebarnes - Hi there, I have been bingeing your lando norris one shots, they are so good! I don’t know if you have done it yet but can you write a one shot where Charles or Lando are dating Y/N and she decides to do that tiktok prank where she serves a lot of food on his plate but only serves herself a little but and she pretends there wasn’t enough food for the both of them? I think it would be adorable, thank you!
I'm doing this as like a multi driver fic. Just bc...well I can, but mainly bc I think it'd be fun to write about how I think my top 4 would react. Max's is the shortest but imo most accurate.
Lando
Y/n hardly has to hide the camera with Lando. He's usually so unaware of his surroundings so she isn't even sure he'll noticed that he plate has less on it. She can't think of a time that he's ever actively looked at her plate.
"Baby! Food's ready!" Y/n calls out while smiling at the camera then waiting for Lando to come in and sit down at the table, looking at his own phone before quickly placing it down and smiling as he looks at her when she places his plate down.
"Thank you, baby." Lando smiles managing to plant a kiss on her cheek in thanks to her.
"No problem-oh I'll just get cutlery." Y/n mumbles placing her own plate down opposite his own.
Lando smiles watching her walk away before he turns looking down at his plate.
"This looks good baby." Lando comments then as he looks up his eyes drag over y/n's plate and the lock onto it just as she places his knife and fork down then sits across from him. "Why is there nothing on your plate? did you eat already?"
"Oh...No. It's just there wasn't enough." Y/n smiles only for him to drag her plate towards his own and plop her serving onto his plate making her laugh. "Hey."
Lando then proceeds to take a mouthful and then slide it forward.
"It's really good. Thank you. I'm full." Lando states making her laugh and shake her head.
"No. You-"
"I'll pin you down and force feed you. Eat." Lando instructs making her almost choke on her breath at his love motivated aggression. "It's really good. You eat."
"But what about you?" Y/n asks softly making hum shrug.
"I'll find something else. It's ok." Lando states then picking up her fork, scooping some food up and holding it to her mouth forcing her to accept the mouthful. "Good. You eat."
"You're so cute...this was just for TikTok." Y/n laughs pointing at her phone which is actually on the table making Lando drop the fork onto her plate and groan.
"Ahhh...I should've known. You're too good to fuck up not having a enough for both of us...you'd just cook something else."
Y/n laughs getting up and moving around to sit on his lap and hug him.
"You passed the test though. You are so so cute." Y/n laughs kissing his cheek. "I love you, you're the bestest."
"I love you too. I am the bestest." Lando grins making her laugh again then pull the plate forward.
"Do you want this one or the new plate?"
"Will you have the same amount? Is there actually enough?"
"Yes and yes."
"I'll have the partially eaten one. You get the new plate."
Charles
Y/n not trusting Charles to make any pasta dish is just part of their deal. So she made sure to push Charles out the kitchen and suggest he get on his sim to pass the time.
That gave her the opportunity to set her phone up, making sure it's not the most obvious that it's recording. He'd probably not notice but sometimes the man has weird sixth sense for locating any camera lens that is on him.
"Charlie! Come eat, baby." Y/n calls out grinning at the camera and giving it a thumbs up.
She sits down waiting for Charles to appear and when he does, he smiles leaning over the table to kiss her quickly and immediately he noticed the 10 pieces of pasta in her bowl.
"Did you start eating without me?" Charles questions looking borderline offended by the idea that she'd not waited for him. "Are you going on a diet? Why are you not eating? You don't need to diet, you will get sick if you don't eat enough."
"No. No. Baby, god. Calm down. There just wasn't much pasta left and I can find something else to eat after." Y/n states quickly, flapping her hand in dismissal. Though she has to refrain from laughing at his panic over the idea of her dieting.
"I could've got us some more. Why did you not tell me? You can't just eat that." Charles rambles beginning to fuss over her as he pulls her bowl forward then lifts his own and places his serving on top of her own. "You eat, I'll get something later."
"No. You need to eat. You like pasta."
"I do, but I like my girlfriend eating a meal she made more." Charles declares then smiling and flashing those dimples at her as he rests his chin on his hand. "Eat."
"I can't eat while you watch."
"Baby, you had 10 pieces of pasta in your bowl. You cannot have a meal that is 10 pieces of pasta."
"But you're not even eating."
"Y/n." Charles frowns pointing at her. "You eat. You made a meal, a very nice meal. You eat it."
"Ok." Y/n laughs before watching him grin in victory that he won this one. "Are you sure? We could split it."
"You eat. I will go get more pasta and you can show me how to make it for myself." Charles shrugs earning a grin before she stands up and moves to the oven, pulling out the hidden bowl of pasta. "I-What?"
"It was just a prank baby. I'm sorry." Y/n laughs placing the bowl down in front of him while he looks at her in obvious shock. "I got you. You thought I was putting myself on a diet."
"I was worried. You went on that stupid diet once and it made you pass out."
Oh yeah. The juice cleanse. Charles was not happy to receive the news his girlfriend hit her head when she passed out onto Will Buxton while they were talking. The poor man had tried to catch her but she'd fell backwards.
"No diets-and don't scare me like that." Charles pouts earning a smile from the young woman.
"Ok. I promise to both. It was just a video for TikTok, I promise it's not to be mean." Y/n laughs then gesturing for him to eat. "It's going to be cold if you wait any longer."
"So you are putting it on TikTok?"
"Yeah, sorry. I can't not when you fell for it like that."
Oscar
Pranking Oscar was a challenge, the man is not very easy to break in terms of tricking into something.
He's already at the table, looking at some stuff on his phone that she has no doubt are work related. In fact, it'd be now surprise to her if it was Mark or Zak texting him. Maybe he's checking what has been added to his calendar since often the PR team just add stuff in. She's sort of grateful because it means he's bene just distracted enough for her to set up her phone at the right angle to captured them both.
"There you go-oh. I'll just get salt and pepper, one sec." Y/n smiles placing the plates down, kissing Oscar on top of his head as he smiles and tucks his phone away into his pocket.
She moves back to grab the condiments then frowns.
"Do you want any sauce or anything?"
"Uhhh...no, it looks fine without it." Oscar states making her hum and move back over to find that he's switched the bowls, not saying a word.
"Did you swap the bowls?" Y/n questions placing the salt and pepper down. "That's my bowl."
"No. This is my bowl." Oscar smiles making her try not to laugh.
"Baby, I know what bowl I gave to you. You took my bowl." Y/n states reaching for the bowl only for him to pick it up and hold it out of her reach. "Oscar Piastri."
"Y/n y/l/n. I did not take your bowl. Will you sit down?"
"You did take my bowl."
"Why does it matter?"
"Because-Because there's less in that bowl."
"Ok. Well that's fine because I'm not that hungry. I just want a little bit and I want to taste what you put time and effort into making." Oscar shrugs making her sigh and sit down. "Can we eat now?"
"You're so annoying." Y/n huffs with a smile but he just shrugs again. "I'm trying to prank you and you won't let me get away with it. Clearly you're too good of a boyfriend."
"Most people don't make that sound like a bad thing." Oscar smirks making her hum before she sighs.
"Here. At least give me that bowl so I can add more. There's not actually that little left." Y/n sighs then standing up only for him to stand.
"I'll get it. Where'd you put it?"
Y/n sighs telling him where to find the rest of the food before he moves back over, grabbing her hand as he sits down and kissing her knuckles.
"Nice try."
Max
Max stared at y/n's plate like she'd served himself something gourmet and herself raw chicken.
"What is that?" Max questions making her burst into laughter from the get go. Then it seems to hit him.
Max is actually fairly chronically online, despite his public dislike of social media in association to his career. The man watches tiktoks and knows trends just as much as the next Tom, Dick or Harry.
"This is that stupid trend isn't it?"
"You ruin everything." Y/n groans since she didn't even get to answer his initial question of why her portion was so small. "You could've at least played along."
"Did you make more food?" Max questions ignoring her whine and mainly asking because he knows his girlfriend a little too well.
"Oh...no."
"Good excuse to go out for dinner. We can keep this for tomorrow after we've been out for drinks. It'll make good drunk food." Max smiles earning a huff.
"Still ruined my prank." Y/n mumbles as she crosses her arms and Max begins to put the food away for tomorrow. "You just like an excuse to go out rather than eat my food sober."
"You are a very good cook, baby...but you've burned toast more than once."
Aka Max will eat her food, but it usually takes better after a few drinks because he can't taste the burned bits or under cooked vegetables. Crunchy rice was not something he knew he would try in his life.
"Come on, let's get dressed and we can go out for dinner."
Max even picks up her phone smiling at the camera before he ends the video and tucks her phone into his pocket, pulling her up and guiding her to get dressed for going out.
